#i just remembered he added more creaking to himself so i just wanted to draw something rq

[otterward]

it spreads

[tuberculosis-burger]

[ authors note: i went to bed early with a migraine last night, so since we missed out on the quirkyduo stargazing rp, enjoy a little fic of the moment instead :) ]

Far outside of Las Nevadas, the light of a starry sky gently floods a near-silent desert. The sounds in it are limited and muted, but Tubbo keeps track of each one.

The quiet click of his own keys in Wilbur’s hand. The crunch of sand under his feet as he steps out of the car. Wilbur’s voice, bouncing and dramatic as he bows low and addresses Tubbo with titles of royalty.

“You are such a goof,” Tubbo teases with a fond eye roll. He shuts the door behind him – quiet thump.

Wilbur opens the trunk – a swish, a clunk – and he pulls out a blanket. Lays it over the sand, smooths it out. It all rustles softly.

Wilbur says something else – another joke, an arm thrown in a wide gesture – and then he sits on the blanket. It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Tubbo to catch up to it. It takes long enough that Wilbur notices and repeats, a little less dramatically, “Tubbo?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says. Wilbur is still looking at him. His legs move again. He finds a seat on a corner of the blanket at Wilbur’s side. “Yeah, sorry. I’m coming.”

“Lost in thought?”

“Yeah.” He hurries for a quick excuse, something better than I don’t even know what I was thinking about, and settles on, “I was just thinking, I forgot to tell Ranboo I’m staying out. I have to remember to do that. He always worries when I don’t come home.”

There’s only a tiny pause before Wilbur says, “You’d better text him, then. We don’t want a Ranboo conniption on our hands.”

“Conniption,” Tubbo echoes. His communicator is in his hands and he’s tapping out a simple message. “That’s a fun word.”

He sends the message with a heart at the end – nothing elaborate, just a little white lie about staying with Quackity in Las Nevadas – and then he joins Wilbur. Ranboo doesn’t need to worry tonight at all.

Tubbo tips his head back and studies the sky above them. The stars here are brilliant, bright and visible with stunning clarity. Wilbur was right; this is a beautiful place to look at them.

Wilbur is pointing out the constellations. Tubbo follows along, reminding himself where each star is in the sky and pointing to a few he knows himself.

“Do you ever feel like Pegasus doesn’t even look like a horse?”

Wilbur considers this. “I mean, it kind of does. There’s the body, and the legs–”

“That’s half a horse,” Tubbo argues. “It’s not a whole horse! It doesn’t even have wings.”

That draws a laugh out of Wilbur, a full proper one. “Okay, okay. Fair enough. Go on, tell me what other constellations don’t look like the real thing.”

“All of them,” Tubbo says immediately. “Except for the dippers.”

“Maybe you have no imagination,” Wilbur teases.

“Tell me Cassiopeia actually looks like a person.” Tubbo looks at Wilbur, right in the eye. “Tell me she looks like a lady and not, like, a weird W.”

“Cassiopeia W,” Wilbur quips. But then, “I don’t know, actually. Maybe if you turn it on its side?”

Tubbo tilts his head. The stars are sideways. “Still a W. Cassiopeia W.”

Wilbur laughs, softly, rippling over the cold sand all around them like a gentle wave. Tubbo smiles along with it. “She actually did not get a lot of wins.”

“Maybe the constellation is shaped like that to make up for it.” Tubbo drops the angle of his chin, gently stretching out the creak in his neck. “One W to make up for all the Ls.”

Wilbur laughs. It’s soft, rippling over the cold sand all around them like a gentle wave. Tubbo smiles along with it.

“I actually don’t know about Cassiopeia,” he admits. “I think I missed that story. Is it too much of a bummer?”

Wilbur makes a noncommittal noise. The kind of sound that means yes, but I want to tell it so badly anyway. “Sort of.”

When they were younger, Wilbur used to do this. He’d read stories out of books, but more often, he’d make up his own or retell one he knew from somewhere else, with his own little Wilbur twists and flairs added on. During summer evenings outside in tall grass and cricketsong, or through winters under wool blankets and woodsmoke, Tubbo, little enough for the memories to be lined with a layer of fuzzy distance now, would listen to Wilbur, young enough to still have an adolescent’s squeak in his voice, spin his tales.

Tubbo, much older now, settles onto his side. One elbow props up his chin. Wordlessly, eyebrows raised, he waits for Wilbur to start.

Wilbur needs no other encouragement.

He launches straight into the story. The enthusiasm is familiar; a lilt to his voice, the way he uses his hands to illustrate and punctuate. He introduces Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Poseidon and Cepheus and Perseus. Dances through their tale, as if he isn’t rusty at all. As if he still tells these stories every evening.

Who knows, maybe he does. Maybe that’s the charm of Paradise Burgers – an impromptu storytime by the proprietor.

Tubbo fights back a smile at the idea and focuses on the story again. Listens to a queen’s vanity, a god’s wrath. Very quickly, the story does not even seem to be about Cassiopeia at all anymore, but Wilbur has very much gotten into telling it, so Tubbo doesn’t interrupt with even a single word.

“Cassiopeia’s vanity brings Poseidon’s wrath upon her family,” Wilbur says. “And even after everything, she still hadn’t suffered enough. A monster attacks her city. Her husband sacrifices their daughter to save his city. And at the end of it all, she has not suffered enough.”

“What happens to her?” Tubbo breathes, just loud enough to push Wilbur on.

“Poseidon casts her into the sky instead.” Wilbur’s voice fills, just for a moment, with an emotion just shy of wistful and bitter. It’s almost tangible. There is something between the stars and this story that takes up a place in Tubbo’s ribs and sits there, hollow and aching. “The seas are calmed, so he throws her to the depths of the stars instead, cold and lonely and empty. This is the consequence to her arrogance: elevation to the highest heavens, and isolation all around it.”

Quiet settles all around them in the fading notes of Wilbur’s story. Tubbo studies the constellation above them a little longer.

“You’re right,” he says. “That did seem like a lot of L’s.”

Wilbur laughs, but a quieter thing this time. Muted. “Greek myths are like that.”

Silence wraps around Tubbo’s shoulders, somewhere between summer cricketsong and winter smoke. He lays back on the blanket, shoulders flat, hands on his stomach. He looks up at a thousand pinpricks of light and the shapes they make between them. Wilbur’s story, the stars above, the blanket below – everything mixes together in a nostalgic swirl that runs the past and present together like wet ink.

“Do the stars make you feel weird?” Tubbo asks. He pulls his gaze away from them, puts it back on Wilbur. It’s like if he looks at them a little too long, they might start looking at him too.

…That’s a Wilbur sort of feeling. Tubbo is starting to have Wilbur feelings. There’s a new fear. He’s turning into his—

His—

Well, whatever Wilbur is to him. He’s becoming a Wilbur, whatever that means.

Wilbur hums his answer. “I suppose. Small, perhaps? Like the sky is so wide and infinite, it makes you smaller in comparison.”

“Maybe?”

“Phil always said that if you look at the stars long enough, it makes your problems seem inconsequential. The sky is so big and infinite, and all the things that bother you are pretty damn tiny when you think about them from the stars’ perspective.”

Tentatively, Tubbo says, “That’s wise.”

Wilbur snorts. “Sure. And it’s kinda bullshit.”

Tubbo laughs through an exhale. “Okay, yeah. I didn’t want to say it. Yeah, that’s bullshit.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be small, Phil. Maybe I like having big problems.”

“The stars are wrong,” Tubbo jokes solemnly. “Make your problems bigger.”

“Maybe I will!” Wilbur grins wide, and then he leans back. Sets his hands on the blanket behind him, tips his head back to stare directly up at the stars. “I’m sure not feeling particularly small right now.”

“Me either,” Tubbo says. “You know I’m taller than Quackity?”

Wilbur glances his way. Starlight plays on the wire of his glasses. “Are you, really?”

“Yep.” He is. He noticed it a few weeks ago when Quackity had stood in the kitchen of Tubburger next to him and reached for a glass up on a shelf, up on his tiptoes, and Tubbo realized he could get to that shelf just fine. After Quackity left, he stood in front of it and reached a hand up. Fingers around smooth glass. Heels still firmly on the floor.

It isn’t by much. He doesn’t feel taller in any way except that he notices it every time Quackity stands by him now. He notices when he realizes he’s looking down, just a little, to meet his eyes. Notices when Quackity’s shoulder bumps him and it’s Tubbo’s arm, not his own shoulder too, that it collides with.

Tubbo is taller. Not by much, but enough for Tubbo to be quite sure. He was not taller than Quackity two years ago. He is now.

“Quackity doesn’t know yet,” Tubbo admits. “I haven’t told him. I think he’d have a–what’s your word?”

“A conniption,” Wilbur says, smiling.

“A conniption.”

See, the thing is, Tubbo is not small anymore. He doesn’t fit under Quackity’s arm or behind his wings. And that’s for the better, probably, because it means Tubbo isn’t that kid now. He isn’t a kid at all anymore, he guesses, but he’s not sure exactly when that happened. He just knows it did, because he doesn’t fit anymore.

He doesn’t fit into the fuzzy memories of hearth and story, either. He’s someone else entirely.

The kids who told and listened to stories are someone else entirely from the two of them on a picnic blanket in a lonely desert. That kid is probably gone forever, swaddled safely in a fuzzy blanket and tucked away in Tubbo’s memory. The one who used to fit under Quackity’s arm is gone too. All that’s left is him, Tubbo, in a desert, in a car, in a kitchen, and taller than he ever thought about being.

He wonders if Wilbur thinks he’s still the same as he was back then. He wonders if something is gone for him too.

“Tell me another story,” he says instead. “What’s that star?”

Wilbur tells him. This time, Tubbo closes his eyes to listen.

[ghostie-gengar]

N childhood memory thing!! i'm back on my "N has a secret mom" crap (1200 ish words)

N hurried through the halls of the castle, stumbling to put on his shoes on the way. Since he was about to have an audience with his father, he figured he’d better at least put on a pair of shoes. Admittedly, he hated wearing shoes, but it was better than adding to the numerous screaming arguments that would spark if he didn’t

He turned a few corners, smiled and waved when the occasional maid bowed for him- he was a prince, after all- and found the entrance to his father’s office.

However, when he smoothed down his shirt and got ready to knock on the door, he saw it was slightly ajar.

N nervously shifted, then knocked three times. After a few moments with no reply, he called out, “Father? Are you there?”

No reply.

Brimming with curiosity, he peeked through the crack, squinting through at the warmly lit office. He began to pry the door open further, but stopped himself.

It had been expressly and repeatedly stated that N wasn’t allowed in there. And N wasn’t really in the mood to get hit or yelled at or grounded.

He stepped back and mulled over it for a few minutes, then decided. He opened the door with a creak, then slipped in.

He was at the age where he wasn’t one to follow rules, after all.

N had been in the office a couple of times, mainly for the odd brief discussion with his father. The floor was covered in an intricately embroidered carpet N would have loved to feel on his bare feet, and the walls were lined with bookshelves holding books on subjects from philosophy to art. N itched to flip through them, excited by the prospect of a whole room of books he hadn’t read yet, but figured he’d better not mess with anything. (At this point, he was risking having to wash the floors, too.)

“Father?” he called again, just so he could pretend he was still looking for him.

There was a large painting hanging above the desk. It depicted a cloudy, misty evening, where a Hydreigon clawed and tore away at a flower- a gladiolus, if N remembered correctly. What’s more, based on the tiny doodles he’d seen on the corners of his father’s notes, he could safely assume his father had painted it himself.

N stepped closer just to marvel at it. His father had never shown him his art, or anything personal, really. Maybe that’s why the concept of wandering into his forbidden office was so alluring.

He carefully turned around, ready to leave before he could get caught, but saw something very interesting on the desk.

There was a notebook (N didn’t even want to look at it, for he knew his father would likely kill him), as well as a few open books. One of the books was a sketchbook, where the open page depicted a near identical drawing of the vase of flowers nearby.

But most strikingly, was a small picture, in sunbleached colour, of two people.

One of them was his father. He looked younger and quite dapper in a dress shirt and slacks. His eyes were turned up in a smile, including the right eye N had never seen. 

N picked up the frame to get a closer look.

The other person was a woman around his father’s age, clinging to his arm and beaming with all the light in the world. Her hair was a light pink and tied up in a bun, and she wore a pretty yellow dress.

She kind of looked like N’s older sister. Her eyes were more like his other sister, though.

And of course, as he stared down at the window into his father’s past, that was the moment when the door creaked open, with his father on the other side.

“N? What are you doing in my office?” the man said with a frown.

N’s heart hammered against his chest, and his head began to feel fuzzy. “I’m sorry!” he quickly sputtered out. “I know I’m not allowed in here, but I was looking for you, but you weren’t here, and-” He bit his tongue. Excuses would only make things worse!

His father’s eyes fell to the frame in his hands. “What do you have there?” 

“I shouldn’t have looked,” N said, wincing as his father drew nearer, “but I was curious.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but his father didn’t strike him, or yell. Just placed a hand on his back and peered over at the picture.

“That’s an old photograph,” he simply said.

N went still, mustering the courage to even speak. “Who is she?”

He didn’t think his father would reply. Surprisingly, he was wrong.

“My wife. Your mother.”

Mother?

Of course, since he was fourteen, N’s first thought was, My dad gets girls??

He couldn’t say that, obviously, so he looked closer at the picture. Sure enough, he could see little traces of himself in her brown eyes, and her freckles, and her smile full of crooked teeth.

“She’s pretty,” N said, at a loss for anything else to say.

“She was very beautiful,” His father gently took the frame from N’s hands. “and very kind.” He set the picture back down on the desk.

Was.

Ah. 

N knew better than to inquire further, and his father knew better than to let him.

“Now, what did you need me for?” his father asked, voice edging on annoyance.

N’s mind went blank. In all his excitement and discovery…he totally forgot why he’d wanted to visit in the first place.

He bowed his head. “It slipped my mind. I’m sorry.”

His father rolled his good eye. The one that wasn’t concealed by an eyepatch. “Alright, then.” He patted N’s back. “Get out of my office.”

“Yes, sir!” N hurriedly shuffled out of the room, but paused at the doorway. “I like your art.”

“Out of my office.”

“Could I read your books sometime?”

“Out.”

N ran off, for he knew when his father was reaching the end of his short fuse. Still, it was a miracle he wasn’t in more trouble, but maybe his father was busy thinking up a punishment.

He kicked off his shoes and scooped them up as he ran.

He always imagined his father was hiding wicked, magical secrets behind the door to his office, like a Griseous Orb or maybe a Time Gear! (If confused about the latter, please consult N’s favourite book, Explorers of Sky)

But, everything in that office was so…normal. Why would his father feel the need to hide something so ordinary, like art or books or a picture of his wife?

Wife. N still couldn’t believe a lady would like his father.

He closed himself into his room and flopped over onto his bed, then thought about the woman’s smiling face.

He had a lot of questions, and he doubted they’d be answered.

“She was very beautiful, and very kind.”

…That’s what his father had said. He’d sounded uncharacteristically tender and forlorn, as well. He must have really loved her. It seemed hard to imagine, since he was always yelling and mad about something.

“She was very beautiful, and very kind.”

N wondered if she would have said the same thing about his father.

[lumiereandcogsworth]

Making Memories

Maurice/Maria (Belle’s parents)

Word count: 664

Tags: Domestic fluff, pregnancy

on Ao3!

—

The house creaked, that’s how Maurice knew Maria was home. “Up here!” he called as he continued his brush strokes on the canvas. He heard her footsteps along the floor below, even heard her sweet singing that never seemed to cease. Soon there was the steady sound of her climbing the stairs, her singing voice becoming clearer, until she was there in his studio, singing happily to his back.

“Auprès de ma blonde, qu’il fait bon dormir!” She sang, completing the note and getting a chuckle from Maurice. “Bonjour, my darling.”

“Bonjour,” he smiled as she kissed his cheek.

Maria rested her hands on his shoulders. “This is beautiful! Who is it for?”

“Paul-Antoine Archambault. He’s a banker. I think it’s a gift for his wife.”

“That must be a good commission, no?”

It is,” Maurice replied, concentrated eyes on the canvas. “But I don’t know how happy I am with it. The painting, I mean.”

“Why?”

Maurice shrugged, picking up more red with his brush. “I feel I’m rushing it.”

“Well then,” she kissed the top of his head as she walked around him to the window. “Take your time!”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” he smirked. “He wants it done by next week.”

“Plenty of time, darling. Don’t doubt yourself.”

Maurice nodded, adding more details to the painting. “Yes, dear.”

Maria smiled, then walked over and sat on the windowsill bench, watching their beloved Paris below.

“Are you hungry?” Maurice asked.

She shook her head lightly. “Not yet.”

Maurice continued painting, Maria continued humming. The artist looked up at her occasionally, he couldn’t help but admire her silhouette out of the corner of his eye. She was pregnant with their first child. It was nearly her time, if the midwives had estimated correctly. They were both certain it was a girl; no rhyme or reason for it, just some sort of feeling.

Maurice silently laid his brush and paint palette on the table beside him, quickly exchanging them for his sketchpad and a stick of charcoal. He adjusted himself ever so slightly so he could see her more clearly, then began quickly sketching out her form. At one point she leaned her head back against the window frame, but it didn’t deter the artist.

“Darling, do you think we could— What are you doing?” she said, noticing the pad in his lap and his entire posture shifted to face her.

“Don’t move, my love. I’m nearly done.”

“Well it is no wonder why you are worried about not having enough time! Distracted so easily,” she tisked.

“Distracted by beauty, yes,” Maurice replied, a smirk on his face.

Maria scoffed, blushing and rolling her eyes. “I should know better than to sit in here while you work. And how can you find me beautiful like this? I am the size of a house.”

“Hush,” he said, then blew on the paper to clear any remnants of charcoal dust. “You’re a work of art, Maria. And I won’t be scolded for making memories.” Maurice stood, taking the pad and stool with him, then joined her at the window.

Maria took the pad in her hands, smiling at the drawing of her.

Her husband leaned closer. “Before long, we’ll be far too enamored with our little one to remember any of this,” he said, wrapping an arm around her belly. He then kissed her shoulder, “I don’t want to forget a single moment.”

Maria leaned her head on his, humming happily. “Why are you so good to me, hm? I love you, silly man. And I think I am hungry now.”

“Then let us eat,” he replied, standing and taking her hands to help her up. He pulled her in for a sweet kiss. “And I love you too, amour.”

The couple left the studio and descended the stairs, leaving the sketch of her silhouette on the bench. Maria began singing again and Maurice laughed, singing with her as their sweet afternoon carried on.

[lebenspurpur]

AN: Helloo, wrote this because I spent today suffering through my post-drunk-vandalism hangover. Guess it's deserved but still, it sucks. After eating chicken broth my dad made, unsalted if I may add, for an hour straight I am now ready to be creative. I really don't know what this is.

Have the link to my Larry playlist while we're at it:

Pairing: Larry Johnson x reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of alcohol

Wordcount: 1744 words

🤍🧷💀⛓🔪🏁🕷🤍🧷💀⛓🔪🏁🕷🤍🧷💀⛓🔪🏁🕷🤍🧷💀⛓

Larry looks really, really stupid right now. Stupid and sick.

His tall form slumped over in defeat, big blanket wrapped around him but not too tight, otherwise he'd feel too hot, too feverish, he still needs some air. There are tissues scattered across the couch as well. Fucking hell.

Usually, this would disgust you but it's Larry, you think you've seen worse.

Small sniffles come from where he's laying, whenever he clears his throat hoarse croaking leaves his mouth and he cringes every time he hears it. He can feel your judging gaze on his body, hear your arched eyebrow without even lifting his head.

His radio is blaring some kind of metal music, you don't recognize the band. Technically, the music is useless since the TV in front of Larry's bed is playing an old horror movie, bloody screams only adding to the grimy ambiance in the room.

"I-", you start but Larry lifts his hand before you can even consider continuing.

On any other occasion, you would've noticed the rings adorning his slender fingers, the metal accessories leaving a trail of dark smudge on his hands. Damn, did he have some nice hands.

Thankfully today wasn't a normal occasion. The metalhead in front of you had worse problems than you drooling over his fingers right now, one of them being the sickness he caught.

"Don't you dare say 'I told you so.'", he croaks out while he finally lifts his head, bloodshot eyes meeting yours. He looks immensely tired. You can sense his annoyance at this sickness, this hellish treatment he's in and can't seem to escape.

You take a deep breath in and drop your bag next to his opened front door.

"Alright. I won't."

You close the door quietly and deposit your jacket as well as boots next to it.

His mom always screams at Larry to finally get something for visitor's shoes and bags but he never does. Too busy, too lazy, he figures his visitors get it. Who even visits him, anyway?

The floor is, as usual, covered in stuff he hasn't cleaned yet. Unfinished drawings, sketchbooks, take-out cartons, empty booze bottles, you keep wondering how he manages to create that kind of mess in a timespan of not even two days.

You tiptoe over them, careful as to not to step into something. Earlier experiences have taught you to never mistake one of these seemingly empty cartons as really empty. Just last week you stepped into a fucking pizza the man in front of you didn't finish.

You sigh as you sit down next to him and Larry tiredly raises an eyebrow.

"Dude, I know you don't want to move but Jesus, we really need to get you to bed.", you then state, voice comforting yet firm. You use the moment to stare into his eyes, adore the brown, thick, deepness of them.

Larry groans loudly, voice breaking from how raw his throat is. His head falls back and he closes his eyes, a pained expression on his features.

"Don't wanna.", he grumbles quietly and you involuntarily crack a smile. Larry always managed to do that, even in the most unbelievable moments.

"I'll join you if you do."

One of his eyes slowly creaks open, observing your face to look for any kind of sarcasm or irony. As soon as he doesn't find any, the other eye opens as well and he leans forward again, blanket clutched tightly in his fists.

"Alright."

You grin at his quiet answer, hand reaching over to pull him with you. He obliges, warm, slightly clammy hand tightly grabbing yours. He follows you through the messy room, his blanket leaving a trail of destruction behind the two of you.

You kick open the door leading to his bedroom. Immediately, the familiar images of various album covers greet you. The air in his room is colder and less damp and you hear him take a deep breath.

Turning around, you mention for him to wait while you walk over, grabbing the blanket on his bed. You shake it a bit, readjust the sheets as well the pillow, all while Larry's eyes never leave your back.

"There you go, sweets.", you add as you finish, quickly turning around to see Larry standing the same way you've left him. Tired, slumped, and emotional. The need to hug him starts boiling inside of you but you try and hold yourself back. First, you have to make sure he gets into bed.

Larry slowly stumbles past you. During the last few baby steps, he drops the blanket around his shoulder, faceplanting right into the freshly made sheets. He's not even wearing a shirt and you huff at his stubbornness.

Larry's back looks strong like this, muscles contracting beneath his skin as he tries to get more comfortable. Your eyes glide over his spine, his wide shoulders, the small bumps where his ribs encase his organs. His olive skin is sweaty and long, brown hairs cling to it.

You cringe at that, knowing the feeling all too well.

Softly placing a hand on his back, you move closer, forehead scrunched together.

"Larry, darling."

He grunts into his pillow, a muffled questioning sound.

"I got a hair tie here. Mind lifting your head real quick?"

Larry obliges and lifts his head quickly, taking a deep breath while he does so.

Your fingers find his scalp and start collecting all the strands, securing them afterward with the tie around your wrist.

The man beneath you hums in appreciation as the cold air hits his neck, sweaty skin finally being able to breathe. You kiss the small space beneath his neck real quick, a short sign of comfort before you stand up again, hands leaving his skin.

Larry whines the second you do so, all while quickly turning around, sending you a pleading look.

"You said you'd stay.", the whiny tone only makes his voice sound more hoarse and you can't help the small grin from appearing on your features.

"In a second, sweetie. You need some water and medicine first, alright?"

He whines again but the thought of something fresh and cold going down his throat is enough to soften the pleading look in his eye. You blow him a kiss and then quickly walk into the kitchen, which is right across from the brunette's room.

It's surprisingly clean but what did you expect? Larry never uses his kitchen unless he has to. Which isn't all too often.

Grabbing a water bottle and placing it on the counter, you keep searching for the small broth packets you'd bought exactly for this kind of scenario. You find them in the fridge, the only thing in this room that Larry actually uses.

Chuckling you get some water cooking, all while pouring the powder into one of the giant cups Sal has gifted Larry a while ago. According to the masked man, everything tastes better if it's being eaten out of a cup and so, everyone has their own sets of cups, a premium gift from Sal Fisher.

Soon, everything's done and you maneuver your way back into Larry's room. Said man is awaiting you, eyes still opened as he watches you creep towards his bed, hands full with water, soup, and medicine.

First, you feed him the medicine. Normally he'd do this himself but you know that he'll just ignore the bitter juice unless you force it down his throat. Stubborn motherfucker.

Larry's sitting up now, back propped up against one of the many big pillows he has. You hand him the broth and he inhales it in less than two minutes, apparently, this is the first thing he's eaten today. Shaking your head at the thought, you tug a few strands of hair out of his face, smiling at your lover's appetite.

Finally, after gulping down half of the water bottle, the brunette leans back and smiles, for the first time this evening.

"Thank you.", he croaks out and you touch his arm as an appreciative gesture, "Does that mean you're allowed to join me now?"

You're about to nod as you notice the faint traces of eyeliner on his skin.

"Did you take off your makeup when you got home?", you ask, throwing a teasing smile his way.

Larry clears his throat, embarrassed that you caught him. A faint blush raises on his cheeks and you feel your heart swell at the sight.

"I might have forgotten about it.", he answers, gaze slowly meeting yours again, "But please, let's just do this later, dude. I am so fucking tired."

Huffing, you roll your eyes at his answer but you nod anyway. He'd be fine with the makeup for a few more hours. You just have to remember taking it off tomorrow.

"You're lucky I love you."

Larry grins at that, the usual wide, blinding grin, that makes your stomach tingle with fuzzy feelings inside of it. His fingers find your arm and he tenderly pulls you down to join him. Soon, your head is placed on his chest, and his arms cradle your shoulders, pulling you into his body.

You can hear his relaxed breathing as he finally settles down, nuzzling his face into your hair.

His skin is warm against your cheek and you smile into it. It doesn't matter how often you've done it, laying on his nude chest always makes you flustered.

Larry's fingers start to draw stuff on your back, the feeling more than a delight for you. Humming, you snuggle closer and the metalhead next to you smiles.

His eyes already start to close slowly, lack of sleep finally catching up to him. The quiet sound of the ongoing movie in his living room, as well as the metal music, make for a great background sound and you both listen intently.

You notice the way his heart beats, slow and steady, beneath the tanned skin. Unknowingly, you start to synchronize your breaths with his. In and out. In. And out.

Soon, your eyes close as well. Damn it, you don't want to fall asleep. Though, you suppose it doesn't matter as the man next to you pulls you closer, his breath warm against your ear. He wouldn't let you leave anyway.

The thought makes you feel giddy, excited, in love. Smiling widely, you try to press yourself closer into him, and soon, you too, fall asleep, enveloped by the arms of the boy you love most. Your favorite boy.

[thepremedthatwrites]

The ABC’s of Peter Pevensie (Smut Edition)

Hi I jus wanted to say that I LOVE your writing and I was hoping if you could write a Peter Pevensie alphabet kinda kinky, smut edition or fluff is alright too I guess, pls consider it!

I’ve never done an alphabet post before so I am winging it as I go.  I did look up similar posts on Tumblr just to get an idea of what to do and I saw that they all followed a pretty similar format that I’ve adopted for this post.  I did make some alterations just to fit what I wanted to write.  I hope you all enjoy it!

warning: entire post contains smut and mentions of smut

A - aftercare

Peter loves to whisper sweet nothings into your ear right after both of you have finished.  Once you two have calmed down enough, he’ll draw both of you a bath and carry you to the tub before helping you wash up.

B -  body part

Whenever you want to drive Peter crazy, you know to wear your hair up to leave your neck exposed.  He just can’t control himself and will litter your neck with kisses and lovebites.  

Peter doesn’t spend much time fretting over his appearance but he would be lying if he denied that he chooses to wear shirts that are a bit tight on him to show off his biceps.  He likes how it shows everyone he is no longer the scared 13-year-old who wanted to protect his loved ones but didn’t know how to.  Now, he’s strong and won’t let anyone or anything hurt the people he loves.

C - cum

Peter loves to watch you cum, pure bliss taking over your face as you cling to him for dear life.  He especially loves it when you cum on his cock so he can feel your pussy collapse around him, squeezing and enticing him to cum as well.  

D - dirty secret

Although he would never admit it, he secretly hopes that people walking by his bedroom can hear you guys while you do it, especially when you’re moaning his name.  He wants everyone to remember that he’s the one who is making you feel as good as you do.

E - experience

Peter hadn’t been with anyone else before meeting you.  He had always been too worried about taking care of both his siblings and an entire nation.  So when you two started seeing each other, he had almost no experience but that didn’t hinder him as he seemed to be a natural.  He knew the right places to touch and the perfect pace that would leave you a moaning mess.  This was because he was an expert at reading people, something that he had learned for diplomatic meetings and fights on the battlefield but was also handy in the bedroom.

F - favorite position

He’s a bit old fashioned and prefers to do it missionary.  He loves to see the pleasure build on your face as you get closer to your climax as well as the feeling of you raking your nails down his back.

G - good girl

When I tell you this man loves to praise you, I mean it.  In the bedroom, he loves to remind you what a good girl you are.  He’s constantly encouraging you and telling you how good you’re making him feel.  Even outside the bedroom, he likes to praise you.  Partially because he wants to remind you how proud he is, but also partly because he loves the look you give him when he does so.

H - hand-holding

Peter loves to hold your hands while he pins them in place above your head.  He also likes to play with your hands afterwards, sometimes doing it absentmindedly while you two are cuddling in bed.  

I - intimacy

Being romantic is in Peter’s nature so it isn’t much of a surprise that he is super romantic in bed.  Before going any further, he always makes sure it’s alright with you and he never pushes you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with.  To him, sex is much more than feeling good.  It’s another way that he can worship you and he makes sure you know it.  He kisses every inch of you, reminding you how beautiful you are.  He holds you in his arms, making sure you understand just how loved you are.

J - jealousy

Although he hates to admit it, any time he sees you conversing with someone else who may show just the smallest hint of romantic interest, he gets insanely jealous.  This jealousy usually leads to long nights in his bed chambers.

K - kinks

While Peter may not have any prominent kinks, he does enjoy having you call him ‘my king’.  He also likes to be the dominant one in the bedroom but is always happy to have you take over once in a while.  

L - location

Peter likes to do it in the comfort of his bed where you two can go for as many rounds as you can without the risk of being caught or walked in on.  His second favorite place to do it is in his study.  The sight of you sprawled on the desk, open and ready for him, is enough to make him rock hard.

M - masturbation

Peter doesn’t masturbate that much since he has you, but when you aren’t available and his pants start to get a bit tight, he’ll go for a quick round in his bedroom, imagining you were there with him.

N - no

Peter would never do a threesome as he would get too jealous seeing another person touching you.

O - oral

Peter most certainly prefers giving it to you rather than receiving it.  While you are able to make him feel wonderful everytime you give him head, you are his goddess and he wants to be the one to worship you, including with his tongue.  He especially loves it when you start to get closer to your release and grind against his face.

P - pace

Peter loves to give it rough with the occasional slap of the ass and binding your hands.  He loves hearing the bed creak underneath you two and the sound of your desperate moans as he fucks you into the mattress.  He tries to go slow at first but he’s quick to lose control with you right underneath him.

Q -  quickes

Peter doesn’t mind having a quickie, especially if jealousy is coursing through his blood.  Usually when he does quickies, it’s when you two aren’t in his bedroom and are instead somewhere more public like his office or the library.

R - risk

Peter loves risks.  He thinks the added adrenaline makes it all the more hot.  He’s willing to do it in a public place where anyone can see.  He loves experimenting as well, whether it’s trying a new position or experimenting with foreplay.  Anything that might heighten the experience for you two is worth trying.

S - stamina

Due to his rigorous training for battles, Peter has insane stamina.  He could go all night if you let him although you two usually stop after two or three rounds.  Peter always makes an effort to not finish until you do, as you are always his top priority and he wants you to enjoy the experience entirely and fully.  This can be hard though when you are also doing your best to make him finish first but he usually has the willpower to hold out until you cum.

T - tease

Peter loves to tease you, whether that be saying an offhand comment that makes you heart race or kissing you everywhere except where his touch is needed most.  

On the other hand, he hates being teased.  You had decided to tease him once, tight clothes, sexual comments, and all.  This only led to him pinning you against the wall within an hour and him making you climax more times than you thought possible within the span of half an hour as punishment.

U - undergarments

Peter has a habit of ripping off your undergarments while in the heat of the moment.  This had led to your maids having a stash of undergarments ready at a moment’s notice.

V - volume

Peter isn’t the loudest in bed but he does let out the occasional moan or grunt.  The sounds he usually makes are praises, reminding you just how good you’re doing.

W - when

Peter likes to wait a while in a relationship before taking it to the next level.  It wasn’t until a few months into the relationship that you guys did it for the first time.  But after that, you two could barely keep your hands off of eachother.

X - x-ray

Peter is average when it comes to his length, but you don’t mind due to his girth.  Every time you guys do it, he fills you up perfectly.

Y - yearning

Peter would fuck you 24/7 if he could.  You never would have imagined the high king would have such a high sex drive, but you aren’t complaining.  It’s hard to hold back when the sex is just so damn good.

Z - zzz

Peter makes an effort to not fall asleep until he knows that you are.  He likes to brush the hair out of your face and plant gentle kisses on your forehead as you sleep soundly in his arms.  There had only been a few times where he was too tired afterwards and had passed out before you did.

[arrowflier]

Can you write Mickey be the whipped married guy in his friend group who always leaves early because he misses his husband 😂🥰

“Read ‘em and weep, boys,” Mickey said, smirking as he laid his cards on the table with a flourish.

The other three men groaned, tossing their own cards to the middle without even bothering to show them.

“That’s the third one in a row, Milkovich,” one of them complained. “You tryin’ to hussle us?”

“Ey! Shut up, Danny,” another hissed, whacking his arm with the back of one hand. “Kid’ll probably gut ya for sayin’ that shit.”

“Nah,” Danny said. “He wouldn’t dare, he’d get sent back to the can without his hubby.”

All three men broke out into raucous laughter, Danny making kissy noises until Mickey grabbed up a handful of cards from the table and smacked them right into his pursed lips.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up,” Mickey said. “Just remember that Joe knows what he’s talkin’ about—learned a lot of ways to kill a guy in prison.”

“Not much else to do there,” Joe agreed with a nod as the other two men started to wind down.

“Unless you got a man!” the third man, Timmy, chimed in, and they were off again.

“Sure, sure,” Mickey said, letting them laugh. “But there’s only so much an ass can take, fellas, and once that’s done…”

He mimed slitting his own throat.

“Ugh, Mickey,” Danny groaned. “We don’t need to know that shit, man.”

“You’re the maintenance guy, Dan,” Timmy said. “Don’t tell me you never walked in on the two of ‘em?”

“Fuck no!” Danny exclaimed. “If their stupid little ambulance is in the lot, I come back later!”

“Lucky,” Joe sighed. “I was up there cleaning the windows once before they got curtains, and—”

“Whoa!” Mickey interrupted, holding out a hand over the table. “Let’s keep that shit to ourselves, fuck you very much.”

Joe grinned.

“Why should I?” he asked. “Not like you cared at the time.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.

“At the time, I had a more important issue to deal with.”

His phone went off in his pocket, the shrill tone cutting through the room loud enough to halt the conversation.

“Speak of the fuckin’ devil,” Mickey muttered, digging it out. “Ian just texted, he’s heading back up. Sorry guys, guess that’s it for today.”

A chorus of groans met his statement, a chair creaking as Danny leaned back too far.

“You always abandon us, man,” he complained. “As soon as he’s done, you nope outa here, even in the middle of a hand.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows.

“We in the middle of a hand now, genius?” he asked. “No? Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go meet up with my husband.”

“Fine, fine,” Danny said with a sad wave. “But someday you gotta at least bring him down here to meet us when we play, so you can’t go runnin’ off before you lose.”

Mickey snorted.

“I don’t lose,” he said dryly. “And you’ve already met him.” He looked around the table, meeting every pair of eyes. “All of you fuckers have.”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “I have. And you know what?” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, let it go. “I don’t fuckin’ get it, man, I really don’t.”

“I’m with Dan,” Timmy said, sitting straight. “Guy’s an over-sized puppy dog, and you’re a badass, Mick. How’s he got you so wrapped around his little finger?”

Mickey waited a beat, then looked to Joe.

“Anything you want to add?” he asked the cleaner, but Joe just shook his head.

“Nah man,” he said with a snort. “I’ve seen exactly how he’s got you wrapped up.”

Mickey flushed.

“You shut the fuck up,” he demanded, pointing at the older man. “Or next time, I’ll open the window and shove you off your platform.”

“The windows don’t open!” Danny called toward Mickey’s back as he turned to walk away.

Mickey threw him a middle finger over his shoulder.

“And I’m not sure you’d get to them anyway if he trusses you up like that every time!” Joe added, and got the other finger added for his efforts.

The door to the basement slammed as Mickey left, and the three men were left alone in the pleasantly chilly employees-only room.

“Think he’ll ever bring him by?” Timmy wondered.

“Nah,” Joe answered him. “Only time he comes down here’s when Big Red is busy.”

They all nodded in agreement as Joe gathered up the cards again.

“Another hand fellas?”

—

Exactly a week later, Joe, Danny, and Timmy were down in the basement again, clustered around their little card table between the lockers that held their personal things.

“Too hot to be mowing, man,” Timmy complained, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “When I took this job, I thought it’d be cushy, but that Melanie bitch is demanding as fuck.”

“Your own fault for pickin’ such a stupid job, mate,” Danny told him with a heavy pat on the back. “It is hot as balls out, though,” he agreed a second later as he took a seat. "That weird lady on the third floor doesn't run the AC, and I was up there all mornin' fixin' her shower."

“Anybody know if Mickey’s joinin’ today?” Joe asked, shuffling the same deck of cards they used every week.

“Nah,” Timmy answered. “He only comes when his man’s at the gym, yeah?” Danny and Joe both nodded. “Well, Big Red was headin’ up to his place when I finished up; he must’ve decided it was too hot too.”

But before Joe could start dealing, the door above them creaked open, and they could hear heavy footfalls on the steps. From the sound of it, more than one person.

Mickey appeared first, a wide smirk on his face, followed immediately by Big Red himself.

“Hey losers,” Mickey greeted, making straight for the table. But instead of sitting, he just pulled out the chair, and motioned for his husband to take it.

“Uh, hi guys,” Ian Gallagher said as he obediently sat down. “I hope you don’t mind me joining.”

The three men just stared, then stared harder as Mickey, instead of finding a seat of his own, chose to plop right down on Gallagher’s lap.

“Figured you guys had bugged me enough,” he told them. “Might as well give you what you asked for.”

“Uh, yeah.” Joe was the first one to recover, offering a cautious smile to the newcomer. “Hey man, good to see ya. You know how to play?”

“Probably,” Ian said with a shrug, one arm wrapping around Mickey’s waist to keep him in place. “What are we playing? Five card draw? Texas hold’em? Seven card stud? High Chicago? Low Chicago? Follow the Queen?”

He looked around the table, and stopped when all he saw were stunned faces.

“Uh…or something else?” he added hesitantly.

“No, no, just…regular poker,” Joe answered, eyes wide. “None of that weird shit.”

“Oh, sorry,” Ian said with a little laugh. “My dad made sure we knew all the games, made it easier to help him cheat. I remember one time he tried to sneak me into a casino just to grab wallets while he played, but I ended up winning big at a high-rollers table until they found out I was only seventeen and chased us out.”

He sighed wistfully.

“Still wish I had managed to cash out first, would have set us up for a year.”

All the men, Mickey excluded, just blinked at him.

“Your puppy tellin’ the truth, Mick?” Timmy finally squeaked, but all he got from Mickey was a shark-like grin.

“Deal him in,” Mickey ordered with a nod to Joe. “And remember, you fuckers asked for this.”

[chasingpj]

𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

“Buen provecho, mijo.”

pairing: leo valdez x gn reader

requested?: yes!

warnings: a little angsty, discussing the death of a parent

category: fluff, one-shot, a slice of life

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts forever. i'm so excited to finally have it posted and i hope you guys like it!

Leo’s shivering body is engulfed in a soft duvet until the crown of his head. His brown curls sprawled on the stark white cloth are the only evidence of his presence, the sheets swallowing his body so well that it appears to be stacked messily and not holding a groggy Leo.

Despite your protests of wrapping himself up like this, he couldn’t help it. The chills that came with his fever were too much to ignore, which says a lot; Leo’s rarely cold. You’d be able to keep him warm, he considers, and there’s a deep urge to hold your frame against him. With a weak groan, he shifts in the tunnel of sheets.

Stupid Flu.

The last thing he’d want is to get you sick. Having your shared bed all to himself for the past few days as he persists through the discomfort of illness has been lonely. At first, it was a little fun. Getting a break from your occasional kicks and shifts that would wake him up throughout the night was nice, but he began to miss it after a while. Those pesky sleepy habits were worth it as they came with the comfort of your presence, the sweet scent of your body, and the softness of your skin. He ached at the absence of your company even though you were literally in the next room over.

He wondered what you could be doing having that this ache for you isn’t a new occurrence. Just a few minutes ago, he had called your name only to receive a “one second!”

So he waited, and well, it’s been much longer than a second.

As if he summoned you with his thoughts, the creaking of the door hinges catches his attention, drawing a soft hum from Leo’s lips. Feeling too weak to lift his head, he instead tugs down the duvet just enough to reveal his puppy brown eyes that sag with fatigue. “Lee, I have a surprise for you.” The ringing sound of your sweet voice makes his mouth curl up in a smile. Leo furrows his eyebrows, eyes averting from your pretty face as he notices your hands are hiding behind your back. “What is it, cariño?” He croaks, flinching at the dull soreness in his muscles as he pulls himself up to rest against the headboard.

“Close your eyes,” you demand with a giddy tone, and Leo complies with a short laugh. “Don’t peek!” A clinging of metal follows the sounds of pattering footsteps and a giggle of excitement before he receives the okay to open his eyes again.

Through thick eyelashes, he's met with stretched-out arms, presenting a deep blue bowl of soup on your palms. “It’s Caldo de Pollo!” The nostalgic aroma hits his senses the moment you confess what it is. He leans in, getting a better view of chunks of potato, carrots, corn, and chicken that peek through an orange broth. The sight makes his mouth water, and to your surprise, his eyes too.

The dish reminded him so much of his mother. Suddenly, he was a kid again. His small eyes watch Esperanza place a bowl filled to the rim of the familiar dish on the table in front of him.

“Buen provecho, mijo.”

Leo grinned, revealing the gaps of teeth that haven’t grown in yet. "Gracias Mama," he chimed, swinging his stubby legs in his chair. For a second, there is a look of caution across his mother’s face as Leo picks up his spoon and shovels the soup into his mouth. But as it becomes clear that neither the hot liquid nor the sweltering heat of the day bothered him, she relaxes and settles in the chair across from him.

His mother’s eyes filled with adoration, a soft giggle comes from her lips as Leo, too hungry to care, has dampened his shirt in the midst of eating. In his memory, the image of her is hazy, but he can make out the rosy tint on her lips as she smiles at him, her long nose, her silky hair that's usually pulled up in a ponytail, cascading over her shoulders.

The memory is more vivid than any of his dreams. He could make out the glow of the setting sun from the curtains. Under his forearms, he could feel the stickiness of the plastic cover over the table cloth. Every detail of his childhood home was exactly where he remembered it.

One of Leo’s biggest fears is that one day he’d forget his mother’s face, her voice, the little memories he had of her. Already, day by day, the recalling of his mother’s comforting scent becomes weaker. Sometimes, he’d get a whiff of it when he’s on a quest or when he’s alone. He’d like to think that those moments meant that his mother was watching over him, that she truly wasn’t all gone.

Though this soup, the one you’ve presented in your arms, confirmed that the remaining pieces of her existence didn’t solely live in his memory but in everything. She lives in the stars that she was always so fond of. She lives in the Tejano music she used to sing along to when she worked or cleaned. She lived in the running engine of everything he’d ever created. She lives in this soup, the same soup she made him when he was sick or often, to his dismay, in the middle of the summer.

He never needed a moment to freeze in time to remember all that was his mother.

Leo’s eyes glisten with tears. The silence, the bleakness of his expression, made you look down at the soup yourself. You didn’t think your soup looked bad at all, especially not bad enough to bring Leo near tears. You even plated it nicely, garnishing the soup with cilantro and a lime wedge.

"Is it wrong? Bad? I had to look up the recipe, and I-"

"No, no. It's just- it reminds me of my mom." He smiles sadly at you, and you frown, taking a seat beside him on the bed. His expression softens, eyes studying your face. What did he do to get so lucky? "You made this for me?"

You nod. "I thought I should make you soup since you're feeling so sick today." You balance the bottom of the bowl in one hand as the other reaches over, pressing the backside against his forehead. A tsk leaves your lips; the heat radiating off of Leo's forehead was much warmer than usual. "I was looking at soup recipes, and I came across a recipe for Caldo de Pollo. Try it; I think you'll like it!"

Leo reaches over with weak hands, grasping the bowl of soup before bringing it to his chest. He leans in to take in the aromas.

“I didn’t poison it,” you joke. A watery laugh comes from Leo, the vibrations sending a few tears down his cheeks. Your stomach flutters at the sound, but your heart aches at the sight of his tears. You hated seeing him cry. Your thumbs gently wipe away the stray tears on his face as he admires you. “I don’t know. I’ve seen you burn a lot of things in the past couple of years,” he teases. You cross your arms over your chest, not having enough times when you didn’t burn any food to defend yourself so you wave him off.

“Whatever,” you huff playfully. Leo chuckles as he brings the spoon full of broth up to his lips, and you shift in your place. You’re filled with anticipation, hoping that the recipe was authentic enough. “How is it?”

The flavors of the soup are almost the same as his mother’s, and he hums, a soft sigh of satisfaction leaves his lips.

“It’s amazing, mi amor.” The pet name you love rolls off his tongue slow and smooth. You sit up proudly at the praise, taking in Leo’s lovestruck expression. Before you know it, the other leans in for a kiss, and you scrunch your face. A scoff of playful offense leaves Leo’s lips.

“Why would you kiss me?” Leo whines with a cute pout. As much as you want to kiss him, you knew you shouldn't. “You’re sick,” you remind him, and he dramatically sits back against the wall, playing with his spoon.

“Kiss me, and then we can be sick together.” Leo wiggles his eyebrows, trying to convince you with a smile that drops the moment you shake your head.

“No way. Keep your cooties to yourself.” To your surprise, Leo sticks his tongue out at you. The action makes you snort as you rise from the bed. “I won’t kiss you, but I’ll sit and eat with you.” Leo shrugs, the solution is not as satisfying as a kiss, but he’ll settle with spending time with you. With a nod from him, he watches as you disappear past the doorway to get your bowl of soup.

In your absence, he takes a few more sips, the memory of his mother flickering in his mind. There’s a familiar gloominess that lingers at the fact that he will never be able to hug his mom or see her face again but being aware that her presence will always remain brings a sense of closure that Leo didn’t know he needed.

In his darkest hours, there was always a glimmer of hope that kept him moving forward. There was always a feeling that things would get better in time. This dull light, the voice that told him to pick himself back up, perhaps, it was his mother being true to her namesake all along.

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[helloalycia]

The Wrong Lifetime – Eight // Wanda Maximoff

chapter seven | story masterlist | main masterlist | wattpad | chapter nine

author’s note: Y/C/N = your cousin’s name, also this is later than I wanted today but i’ve been super busy so sorry for that! Also, I’ll be responding to comments from the last one as soon as I’m free. Enjoy 😊

"...okay, so now use the water to dilute the colour."

I did as Wanda said, dipping my brush in the glass of water and diluting the watercolour I was using, but I must have used too much because it made the paint run and then the paper started to get too damp to hold together.

Wanda facepalmed, sighing as I smiled sheepishly.

"My bad...?"

She glared playfully before ripping a page from her sketchbook. "Try again, milaya (darling). And use less water this time."

I squinted in the sun as I glanced at her. "Can't you just accept I'm not very good at painting? Or art in general?"

She shook her head, taking the torn page from my grasp and replacing it with a new one. "No way. You're not getting out of it that easily. It's not hard, I promise!"

I groaned lightheartedly. "You said that about drawing. And about using acrylics. And about using chalk."

"And I'm saying it about this, now c'mon, try again," she encouraged with an amused smile before returning to her own painting.

We were sat in my garden, hanging out and making the most of the lovely day we were having. The Spring breeze was getting warmer as we transitioned into Summer and it was a nice change of pace from the usual bad weather we had. So nice that Wanda wanted to do some painting and also teach me how to. But art was never my strong suit and I'm sure she knew that but still proceeded to try anyway.

Sketching out the tree before us for the third time today, I attempted to provide an outline that I could eventually fill in with green watercolours. Unlike Wanda though, it wasn't fun. My eyes veered over to her and I smiled to myself as I admired the look of concentration on her face – her 'art' look, I dubbed it. It was this very specific expression she got whenever she worked on a painting or drawing, and it always reminded me of that first time I saw it, after we met in the stationary store and when she took me back to her room. Absolutely wonderful.

"I don't hear a pencil moving," she said, not looking up but beginning to smile.

"That's because I'm looking for... what did you call it?" I racked my brain, thinking back to the day in the store when she talked about inspiration. "Vdokhoventi?"

A sharp exhale escaped her lips as she finally lifted her gaze to meet mine. Attempting not to laugh, she tilted her head adorably. "Vdokhnoveniye."

I quirked a brow. "Is that not what I said?"

She giggled, shaking her head. "Definitely not."

I grinned, shrugging. "Well, that's what I meant."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "I'm not it, so eyes on your page."

"Oh, how dearly mistaken you are, love," I said quietly, leaning close and giving her a knowing smile.

She looked up, expression softening with a smile. Her eyes were heavenly, pupils dilated as she squinted in the sun, and they flickered to my lips before she settled on nudging me in the shoulder slightly. I snickered, leaning my head on her shoulder since everybody thought we were as close as best friends, so it wouldn't look suspicious. She sighed contently, letting me watch as she moved her paintbrush, painting a flower that was peeking through the grass we were sat on.

I could have stayed there forever, in that moment, sitting with Wanda and watching her paint under the sun. But of course, all good things come to an end when you don't want them to.

"Y/N, dear," I heard my father call, and when I looked up, I saw him approaching Wanda and I from the direction of our house.

Straightening up, I watched as he attempted to sit on the grass, but his legs were too long and he struggled to cross them. With a hearty chuckle, he stretched them out, slightly bent, and leaned on his hands.

"I'm getting too old for this, ladies," he said humorously, making Wanda and I smile.

"What d'you need, dad?" I asked, raising my brows.

"I just wanted to check in and see if you were ready for tonight," he said casually, making me furrow my brows. He seemed to notice my confusion, prompting, "Tonight? Your cousin's birthday party?"

"My cousin's what-now?"

He sighed, massaging the point between his brows. "Y/C/N? They organised this months ago. We're all expected to be there." His glanced to Wanda. "You, too, dear."

Wanda hummed, pulling her gaze from her painting and looking to my dad. "Yes, I'm aware. Got my dress ready and everything."

My eyes snapped to Wanda's with surprise. "You knew about this?!"

"You should be more like her," my dad muttered, as Wanda smiled with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

I looked back to my father. "I was planning on helping Y/B/N with his manuscript tonight."

My dad waved his hand. "I've already talked to him. He's agreed to work on it before the party starts so you're both on time."

I groaned, already tired at the sound of yet another party. Did it ever end?

"Don't be late," he ordered, though his voice was anything but stern. Cue another groan. He smiled before looking to Wanda's painting. "Wow, that's great, dear. Apparently you've got Y/N here attempting to do the same?"

Wanda chuckled as she handed him my several failed attempts. "Key word being 'attempting'."

He accepted the pages and stifled a smile of amusement. "Wow... maybe you should stick to writing, Y/N."

I ripped the pages from his grasp. "Cheers, dad, really."

He laughed before leaning forward and kissing my forehead. "It's all in good faith, dear. Now remember. Don't be late tonight, okay?"

I sighed, which he took as my response, before pushing himself off the grass with a grumble. Dusting his trousers, he nodded to Wanda and I before leaving us be.

"You could've told me I had yet another party to attend tonight," I told Wanda with narrowed eyes.

She shrugged, smiling helplessly. "I thought you knew."

I laid back on the grass with a dramatic sigh. "I just don't understand why our life revolves around extravagant parties, balls and dinners."

"That's just how it is, moya lyubov' (my love)," she said with a warm smile.

I looked up at the sky, raising my hand to shield the sun from my eyes, though my heart fluttered at one of the many nicknames she called me in Russian. "I'd rather live in the middle of nowhere. Where nobody expects anything of me and there's no stupid parties to attend."

She rested a hand on my leg before laying beside me, leaning her head on my shoulder. I relaxed my head on hers, appreciating how well we fit together.

"Same here," she agreed, making me gasp playfully.

"What? Don't you love the glitz and glamour?"

She laughed quietly. "I do, but I like the peace and quiet more."

I breathed out, fingertips brushing hers. "Maybe I can be a little late tonight... accidentally run over time so I don't have to stay as long."

Her fingers tugged on mine between us as a warning. "No. I'll be left alone and I'll be bored. And when I'm bored, I drink."

It was my turn to laugh. "You won't be alone, Wanda. You'll have Pietro."

She shifted so she was no longer leaning on my shoulder but instead tilting her head to look my way. "I want you."

I turned my head and gave her a small, promising smile. "I'll try to be on time."

She quirked a brow. "Try? You will."

My eyes flittered away, ready to argue otherwise, but she sat up and grabbed her paintbrush. I sat up, too, ready to tell her I would try, but I flinched when she flicked water towards me from the tip of it.

"Are you serious?" I asked, wiping the water from my eyelids with tongue-in-cheek.

She chuckled and I grabbed my paintbrush and did the same, watching her squirm when it flicked on her face.

Suppressed smile on her face, she wiped away the water and glared with dazzling eyes. "You shouldn't start what you can't finish, milaya (darling)."

Smiling from ear to ear, I quirked a brow devilishly. "Oh?"

"You're so lucky we're in front of people," she said lowly, leaning close enough to be platonic, but her hand slipped under my dress and creeped up my leg, making me involuntarily shiver. "Or you would be in serious trouble."

I stopped her hand from going any higher, the rings on her fingers cold enough for me to not melt under her touch. "I highly doubt that, love."

She held my gaze, intoxicating and mesmerising all at once. A sly smile tugged at her lips as she said, "Don't test me then. You heard your father. Don't be late."

I exhaled, licking my lips. "Fine. I won't be."

—

Later that afternoon, I found myself sat in my brother's study as the two of us worked on his latest manuscript together. It was a love story, his (my) specialty, and I was helping him to sort out his sentence structure when he decided to question me.

"Will you entertain me for a moment?" he asked randomly, making me look up from the pages.

"I'll probably regret it, but go on," I said jokingly, before looking back down and adding some notes to the paper.

His chair creaked as he leaned back, eyes watching me thoughtfully. "Are you in a secret relationship?"

I almost choked on my spit as he asked this, heart dropping to my stomach with panic. He couldn't know about Wanda, right? We'd been so careful.

Thankfully, I played it off well as I merely glanced his way before distracting myself with note-taking.

"Why would you think that, Y/B/N?" I asked like he was insane.

He shrugged in my peripheral. "I don't know... I've been wondering for a while. You've just loosened up so much more. And you're not as uptight as you usually are."

"Cheers," I said sarcastically.

He leaned forward, head resting in his palm. "This all happened right about the time I met Wanda..."

I swallowed hard, quirking a brow at him to play down my panic.

"I saw you with Pietro the other week," he continued, and I could finally breathe when I realised what he was insinuating. "I'm happy if you're happy, Y/N, but I'm not a fan of you sleeping with my publisher."

At that thought, I shuddered and proceeded to shove Y/B/N on the arm. "Don't say that. And I would never."

Just your fiancé, I thought guiltily.

"Good," he said with relief, straightening up. "Because you're not supposed to do that until you get married."

I rolled my eyes dismissively in response, but wondered if that still applied in a world where one was not allowed to marry the person they loved.

Y/B/N gave me a reassuring glance. "Look, I'm okay with it, I guess. But I'd appreciate the heads up so I can give him a stern talking to."

Realising there was a hint of mirth in his voice, I looked up and gave him a warning look. "Don't you dare."

He laughed, patting me on the back, to which I shrugged off with annoyance.

"It's the Maximoff charm," he commented knowingly. "The twins have that effect on people, don't they? Wanda sure has it on me."

A short silence fell after he said that and I chewed on my lip curiously, unable to stop myself from speaking until it was too late.

"Is her love reciprocated?"

He looked down to me from his daydream, no doubt of Wanda. "Pardon?"

Knowing there was no backing down from the conversation now, I avoided his eyes. "The engagement between you both was arranged... you're clearly in love with her, but is it returned?"

His lips twitched into a frown. "I'd hope so."

I hummed, diverting my attention away from him and to the pen in my hand.

"Why? Did she say something?" he asked, voice laden with worry.

"Of course not," I reassured him.

"But you'd tell me if she did?" he asked eagerly.

I looked his way and saw him peering down at me, hanging onto my response. I nodded lamely, which seemed to put him at ease as he sank into his chair with relief.

We spent the next few hours working on the manuscript without a hitch, but I noticed the time and realised the party was already in full swing. Wanda's words came to mind and I hoped she wouldn't be too annoyed at my lateness.

"We're wrapping it up now, don't worry," Y/B/N said, noticing me check the clock. "Thanks for the help. I'm gonna get this to my editor tomorrow. Your amendments should help make the process go a lot smoothly."

I hummed in response, feeling a heaviness settle on my shoulders as he mentioned his editor. It was always the same routine – I helped him with his manuscript, he got it edited, got his book published and got all the credit. And I was stuck in the same position, wishing I could do the same.

"What is it?" he asked with a sigh, sensing my mood.

Playing with the corner of the manuscript, I met his gaze. "I help you with your writing, but I never get anything from it."

"You get to help me," he pointed out, not seeing the issue. "Isn't that enough?"

Pietro's offer came to mind as I said, "What if I wrote my own book? And got published with my name on the cover?"

He squinted as he studied me, trying to find the humour in my words. Letting out a laugh, he shook his head.

"Y/N, that's absurd."

I raised my eyebrows hopefully. "I mean, is it? Would that be so bad?"

He pressed his lips together and breathed out through his nose. Resting a hand on my shoulder, he gave me a condescending look.

"I'm saying this because I care," he said, making me feel like crap. "But yes."

As if I didn't already know the answer, I asked, "Why?"

He motioned with his hand like it was obvious. "Because. People would look at you differently. You'd be undesirable. You know men don't like smart women. I'm just looking out for you as your brother."

I looked away, the bitterness at his words stinging more than usual. "Well, I like smart women."

Thinking I was joking, he chuckled. "Don't go saying things like that. One might misinterpret."

My teeth pressed into my lower lip hard, trying to contain my frustration.

"You can do this every now and then," he said, referring to the manuscript, "but any more isn't possible. Besides, two authors in one family? That's insane."

I forced a smile, but I wondered if his last comment was the real reason he wouldn't let me at least try to get published.

"Anyway, never mind that," he said indifferently. "We should probably head out. Dad is not going to be pleased. Especially since I promised we wouldn't be late."

I nodded, sliding my chair out and wanting to be anywhere but here right now. "Yeah, come on."

He gave me a sneaky smile. "Can't wait to see Pietro?"

I slapped him on the arm before standing up, ignoring his laughter. Nothing to make an already-depressing night worse than going to a party you didn't care for.

—

Wanda Maximoff was a very difficult drunk to be around, I'd learnt that the hard way.

As soon as Y/B/N and I rolled up to my cousin's house, a third of the guests were drunk and the rest were tipsy. A typical Y/L/N get-together. Y/B/N was instantly dragged away by some family whilst I was quick to make myself scarce, attempting to find Wanda. But the place was bustling with people and there were way too many rooms to check.

I found Pietro before I found his twin, as he was poking around party favours on a table in the corner, attempting to make out what were in the bags.

I found Pietro before I found his twin, as he was poking around party favours on a table in the corner, attempting to make out what were in the bags.

"If you're expecting a brand new fountain pen, you won't find it in there," I teased, making him jump.

He sighed when he looked my way, realising it was me. "I know that. But there's nothing better here to do, so I may as well know what freebies we'll be getting by the end of it."

I smirked. "Anything good?"

He shrugged, seeming disappointed. "Just some chocolate and perfume samples."

Holding back a smile, I said, "How tragic."

"If you're looking for my sister, she's over there," he said, nodding behind me. "You'll love this one."

"What do you mean?" I asked, brows knitted with confusion, before turning around and following his gaze.

Wanda was indeed stood on the other side of the dining room and I could just about make her out between idle guests. She was chatting to some woman, hands moving erratically and with expression, a grin on her lips.

"What is she doing?" I asked unsurely, tearing my eyes from her and looking to Pietro.

He was withholding laughter as he answered, "Sometimes, dear Y/N, my beloved twin sister gets drunk when she's–"

"Bored," I finished, remembering what she told me this morning. My face dropped as I mumbled, "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh indeed," Pietro said, grinning at his sister's dismay. "Drunk Wanda is a very truthful Wanda. So, any secrets of hers will most definitely be revealed tonight."

Pietro was too caught up in his own amusement to notice my eyes widening.

"One of our servants made me a platter a few years ago," Pietro explained, oblivious to my panic. "It was a delicious cheese platter, the cheese having been imported from France. Then, Wanda proceeded to eat it without telling me. When I asked if she did, she lied. And I only discovered she lied because she got drunk a few weeks later and bragged about how good the cheese was."

Continuing to ramble, though this time in Russian, Pietro complained about said incident, though I wasn't listening as I watched Wanda talk to the woman enthusiastically. I could only imagine what secrets she was sharing.

"Pietro!" I cut him off, earning his attention. "Shouldn't you do something? To stop Wanda?"

The cheese platter story long forgotten, his grin reappeared on his lips. "Nah, it's funny watching her make a fool of herself."

I gave him a look of disbelief before looking back to Wanda, who was laughing at something by herself. The woman she was speaking to seemed partially confused, but smiled to be polite. I gulped, before shaking my head.

"I'm not that mean," I said to Pietro before making a move to stop her.

Pietro booed me playfully, but I ignored him and approached the drunk brunette, managing to catch her conversation.

"–and they're usually such catty bitch–"

"Wanda!" I immediately cut her off, bumping into her side slightly to get her attention. "There you are!"

Green eyes widened with excitement as they met mine. "Y/N! You're here!"

Ignoring her, I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her close before looking to the guest she was talking with.

"My apologies for her behaviour," I said with an awkward smile, hoping Wanda hadn't revealed anything suspicious.

"No need to apologise, dear," the woman said with an amused smile. "Wanda here was telling me all about how lovely of a sister-in-law you are. Or will be."

Wanda grinned, looking to me and leaning in so close that her nose brushed my cheek. "Yeah, she is," she continued to the woman, though her eyes were on mine. "She's sweet, not like other people make out their sister-in-laws to be."

My face was warm as I cleared my throat and smiled once more to the woman. "If you'll excuse Wanda and I."

The woman barely got out a nod before I dragged Wanda away, trying to keep her lips away from my neck (she was also an extremely clingy drunk). Tugging her into the bathroom down the hall, I closed the door behind us and released a breath of relief, grateful for the escape from guests.

"You look very sexy when you're worried," Wanda complimented, stepping forward and smiling dazedly.

"Wanda–"

She placed her hand on my jaw, moving closer so that her lips were grazing mine as she mumbled, "You came late, milaya (darling). But I still love you."

I'd like to say that I had the willpower to push her away and scold her for acting so obvious about us before, but my lips went numb as she captured them between hers. I could taste the alcohol on her lips as she moved them against mine, making me dizzy and forgetting what I was going to say. Her thumb caressed my jaw and I relaxed under her touch, hands resting on her chest. When she tried to part my lips with her tongue, I seemed to come to my senses.

"Wanda, you're drunk," I muttered, pushing her back gently.

She chased down my mouth again, sucking on my lip and tilting my head back so she could have better access. I tried not to let her win as I kissed her briefly before pulling away. Clouded hazel eyes met mine with a matching smirk.

"You're such a tease," she whispered, her accent thicker than usual and making my stomach flip uncontrollably. Her thumb traced my lips as she continued, "You shouldn't do that when I already know how you taste, moya lyubov' (my love)."

The way she was staring at me made me flustered in place, and she seemed to notice her effect on me as she winked my way.

Shaking my head and trying not to let her win, I said, "Look, Wanda. I'm sorry for being late. But did you really have to get drunk?"

She shrugged, leaning her weight on my shoulder with her hand. "If you hadn't kept me waiting, then I wouldn't have."

I sighed, looking to her apologetically. "I didn't realise the time."

A permanent troublesome smile was fixed on her lips as she watched me.

"Your brother told me how you can be when you get drunk," I said with mild concern, hoping she'd register my seriousness. "You need to be careful, Wanda. We can't have people finding out about us."

"It seems to me," she began agonisingly slowly, lacing her arms around my shoulders, "that you'll have to watch me all night to make sure I don't do anything out of line."

Determined not to play into her teasing, I maintained her gaze with a stern stare. "It seems I'll have to."

She bit her lip, eyes flickering between mine, before leaning further into my ear. In a whispered voice, she said, "That means you can't leave my side, printsessa (princess)."

I clenched my jaw, ready to agree, but a gasp escaped my lips as hers sucked on my earlobe, teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin. Stupid Wanda and her stupid flirting and stupid attractiveness.

"Wanda!" I scolded, though my cheeks were flushed as I pushed her away gently.

She laughed adorably, the sound making my heart skip a beat. "What?"

"You have to behave," I told her, swallowing hard and trying not to let her teasing smile get to me. "You can't do this out there. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed in a way that wasn't reassuring in the slightest.

I rolled my eyes before grabbing her hand and leading her back outside the bathroom, returning to the party. I wasn't planning on leaving her side for the rest of the evening, even if Y/B/N wanted to be with her. The last thing I wanted was for her cute drunken self to reveal something she couldn't take back.

To my relief, she kind of behaved after that. There were times when she would get a little too touchy to be platonic, but a quick stare set her straight. Y/B/N wasn't around much, as when he did join us, he was immediately pulled away by some family friends who wanted to discuss his books. For once, I was glad he was an author, afraid of what would happen if Wanda got too comfortable in his presence.

At one point though, he was able to join Wanda, Pietro and I at a standing table, relief flooding his expression when nobody called after him. His arm wrapped around Wanda's waist and he kissed the top of her head, making me look the other way with distaste. She scrunched her nose up at the action before distracting herself with a drink. I gave her a knowing look, having told her earlier to stop with the alcohol. She pretended not to see me.

"Sorry I've not been able to spend time with you tonight," he said to Wanda, oblivious to her tipsy state.

"It's almost like it's your birthday and not your cousin's," Pietro joked, smiling at him.

My brother chuckled. "I guess. They just all wanna talk about my manuscript."

"Ah, yes, the reason you were late, right?" Wanda asked, eyes falling to mine.

"I'm sorry," my brother apologised, assuming it was him she was speaking to.

"You were helping him, too, right?" Pietro asked, looking to me curiously. "Maybe I'll finally get a glance at your work."

I narrowed my eyes at him, having figured he'd put the subject to rest after last time. He merely grinned in response, finding joy in messing with me, just like his sister. Before I could say anything, my brother beat me to it.

"Don't be getting any ideas. It's just a hobby." He smiled forcefully, before glancing at me. "Isn't it, Y/N?"

"Don't be getting any ideas. It's just a hobby." He smiled forcefully, before glancing at me. "Isn't it, Y/N?"

So he was jealous. Wow.

"You don't need to hide your relationship, y'know," he continued when I didn't respond, looking to Pietro.

The silver-haired publisher choked on his drink as he looked to my brother, clearly very amused.

"I know you're together," Y/B/N said with agitation. "Everybody does. And don't get me wrong, Pietro, I respect you as a publisher."

I groaned quietly, closing my eyes with embarrassment. When I opened them, Pietro was watching my brother with an entertained smile, meanwhile, Wanda was looking between them with a twitching frown.

"But if you're going to date my sister, you should do it the right way," my brother continued stupidly. "It's not appropriate to have whatever this is." He motioned between us with his hands. "It's wrong."

I jumped when Wanda's hand slipped to my arse, squeezing it gently. Thankfully, our backs were to a wall so nobody would have noticed behind us, but I instantly glared at her and removed her hand. She gave me a cunning smile, not bothered by the consequences.

"...and if you're sleeping together like I suspect," Y/B/N was saying, making me flush with humiliation, "know that our friendship is at breaking point. I can't have that blatant disrespect in my life."

Wanda continued to attempt to grab my arse, making me slap her hand away several times, all whilst trying to manage whatever conversation was happening right now.

"I can't believe you just said that," I finally spoke up, managing to keep Wanda at bay long enough. "You're such an idiot, Y/B/N! I told you I wasn't with Pietro!"

Pietro tried not to laugh as he met my brother's intimidating stare. "I value our friendship, too, Y/B/N. Which is why I can promise you I have no... relations... with your sister. I don't like her like that, I can assure you."

Wanda snorted with amusement, before hiding behind a glass of wine when everyone looked her way.

Y/B/N seemed embarrassed as he cleared his throat. "Oh."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, oh!"

"I guess I should apologise," he said awkwardly, looking to Pietro. "I–"

"No apology necessary," Pietro cut him off, raising a hand. "I am thankful for the entertainment however."

"I'm gonna go literally anywhere else," I dismissed myself, unable to take the uncomfortable situation any longer.

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and walked away. To my surprise, Wanda trailed after, falling into step with me.

I glanced at her unhappily, quirking a brow. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, don't be mad at me because your brother's an idiot," she said with a wag of her hand.

I gave her a suggestive look. "I told you to behave."

She pressed her lips together in a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry... Y/B/N was talking about you and Pietro and I– well, I don't like sharing, remember?"

The improper glint in her eye as she stopped before me, watching with amusement, made me feel warm all of a sudden. That day when she first told me that and we proceeded to make love flashed to mind, and she seemed to know as she had a mischievous look on her face.

Clearing my throat, I pointed a finger her way. "Behave."

I should have known by the devilish look in her eyes that she wouldn't.

[kim-monsterlings]

Cathair - M Kelpie x F Human (Reader) // NSFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: NSFW/Lemon; childhood friends, mentions of inflicted harm to reader (near drowning, scar on left upper arm), minor angst, allusions to death, growing fluff, hugging and intimate embraces, kissing, receiving oral, fading out/allusions to more NSFW - if there is anything else anyone would like added, let me know <3

Wordcount: 5292

Faebruary Summary: after abandoning your childhood home, the memory of your kelpie and your feelings for him draw you back

Notes: apologies for this being so delayed! I had some time off at the beginning of the year, but the lovely Cathair is finally here. I hope you love him! <3

Masterlist // Faebruary Masterlist

Gentle embraces left dark impressions on your back from grieving family; grieving in anticipation, as you travelled the miles to your hometown. Their farewells - certain they would be an eternal goodbye, rang as your only company the closer you came to your abandoned house near the valley.

 Crowded by the creeping tree line, it rested abandoned for years. Only faint memory beckoned you through brambles to the smallest clearing, a far way from the closest bus stop, that itself farther from the train station.

 Packing light hadn't eased the burden of returning, though you wouldn't stay long. The guise of wanting to pack up your old things would wane after several days, and if that hadn't yet exhausted you, the trial of rekindling what you remembered as more than friendship with the woodland kelpie would.

 If he hadn't drowned you by then.

 Somehow, your home still stood. Neglected and damaged but there all the same. Untouched without your needing to check: this land cursed by folk wasn't sought after. It had always been your family's, no matter how disputed by the creatures rarely emerging from their murky rivers.

 Yet you went in the hopes of finding the kelpie. Your sister's wishing for your wellbeing manifested in delicately crafted charms. Blair's wards were useless against the likes of man-eating creatures, and only somewhat effective against true fae. It hung all the same, like the silver bridle fell at your kelpie's throat across the clearing.

 It was only right for Cathair to guard his territory.

 Standing before you like a daydream, the dark horse pawed with gnarled hooves before your old home. Too far to see the unforgettable glow in his blackened eyes, the glinting moss tangled in a thick mane danced in the soft wind. The sense of unease at being so close to him twisted your navel, though not from fear like it once had; from pain at seeing him after so long, and now wanting to flee.

 With a deep dig at the damp earth, Cathair moved. Faint sunlight glinted along his flank, an eerie sheen forcing your stare down. Today, you wouldn't challenge him. Not so soon, with a low breath close enough to chill through to your bones.

 Jagged teeth snapped not far from your shoulder: a warning, and one you wouldn't heed. He passed with a scent so familiar you nearly reached out, desperate for the rush of warmth his thin frame could bring when curled around you.

 Instead, you settled for looking back when he left to the trees. "I missed you, Cathair."

 With the swish of his tail, the faint scar on your left arm ached. The light of the clearing vanished into the woods too, away from you and nearer the body of deep water a short walk away; close enough someone could run off unnoticed. How cold it was rushed back to you. The emptiness beneath the surface drove you into the untouched house, onto old floorboards creaking with every step.

 You had given yourself three days. Optimistic, Blair said. She gave you an hour, whispered onto your shoulder as she saw you off.

 If he came near enough to question why, after so long hiding, after years of silence from disappearing late in the night, your excuse would be the same you told your family, though nobody believed it. You wondered if he would cling to the lie and hope you left again.

 The same mess waited indoors, of scattered possessions too insignificant, left behind while the mark of a kelpie stung fresh on your arm, and his kin, your friend, chased you away as you ran.

 If he came closer again, you would tell him the truth. That Cathair's brutality in defending you as you nearly drowned hadn't forced you away, but his family had. It was the fault of his brother for seeking you out and dragging you down the banks into cold water. Cathair saved you.

 The fresh bedsheets almost smelled like him.

 Coming home brought a sleep long into the morning. Even as a lie, you still began sifting through old diaries, some with handwriting far harder to read than the delicate script from your family. This curled and looped inconsistently, signed by the little boy with dark hair, always your shadow in photographs pinned to the pages.

 The photos told the same stories of the friendship you remembered, while your sister preferred the safety of indoors until night, when the child with a smile wider and brighter than yours returned to the woods. They told of you both growing up, just out of reach of Cathair's family - before his brother came from the waters in his footsteps.

 By the time your back ached from leaning over faded pages, it was late afternoon. The groove deep outside the threshold hadn't been crossed. Even left untouched, the figure lurking in the forest darted closer. Out of view, but there.

 Here.

 The empty bag on your shoulder swung when you reached for your phone, unsurprised to find the call from Blair. You'd told her of your arrival, reassuring her - and everyone she would then turn to, that you hadn't yet been stolen by fae folk.

 Surviving the night was different, and her breath caught on the other end when you answered with, "I'm alive and unharmed. You can stop checking on me."

 "Never," she said, her small, light laugh rushing over you. "Is it still standing?"

 "Barely."

 The doorframe held beneath your shoulder. Blair replied, something quiet and nonsense. This was all padding until she could pester for more and as she fretted, you looked to the sheen of moss along the kelpie's mane, cautiously stepping from the trees.

 "Hello?"

 "Sorry. I'm here," you said, and your sister cleared her throat.

 Blair spoke softer, as though knowing where your focus drifted in the pause. "His necklace," she said and even through the trees, the slight reflection of the bridle glinted low on the kelpie's chest. "Have you broken him?"

 "He doesn't need breaking. He never has." Her sigh followed yours. Cathair held steady among the trees as you came to stand further from the door, and a part of you hoped he heard as you said, "I trust him."

 "You trust the kin of the kelpie who tried to drown you?"

 His ears twitching may have been coincidence before, but the rising of his head couldn't be. Your stare held. "With my life."

 There was little more to say to one another. They disapproved and you didn't care. The impasse was as old as you, so you promised to speak later - to reassure her that you were still alive with a promise you would be home soon, before shrugging your bag right and drawing in a breath.

 "Cathair?"

 Hooves stepped forth. Still not the form you wished for - not the sweet embrace, the lilting charm inherent in folk - but the dark horse revealing himself completely now still tripped your pulse.

 "Hi," you whispered, quiet, but he heard as well as he heard your call, his tail whipping. "Is it just you? Not... not your family?"

 His muzzle twisted. With the inherent threat, you had to swallow a laugh. It only lured you further from the safety of your home. This creature, this gentle kelpie responsible for saving your life, wouldn’t harm you, and still, the land hadn't disturbed your rest. A family of kelpies would've sought the first trespassing human out in a night, or less.

 Cathair's head fell low. Yes. Only him.

 Nothing betrayed the fate of his family, even as his ears continued twitching back. However they came to leave their land, whatever chased them or otherwise, it was well-deserved. Your deep scar ached as you reached to scratch it, drawing sharpened eyes before the shadows embraced enshrouded again.

 Branches parted for his wide form and created a path you followed. It veered down to the water, the path well-trodden - one you remembered clear enough, from only one journey down - but you turned away.

 Unfamiliar faces watched you walk through the town you once called home. The few you remembered, friends you thought of as family, like distant cousins, had followed yours in moving away from land plagued by folk, and you busied yourself in buying the supplies you needed for the rest of your stay, if not a little extra, too.

 You were home within the hour, bag weighed down by fresh food, a small first aid kit - as a precaution, and a heavy bundle of meat in your arms. If there hadn't been a curled horse before your home, the fresh scent would've enticed him from the water.

 "Did you miss me?" His head lifted, only enough to narrow at the bundle. The trembling energy tight in your stomach pulled you closer. "Did you think I'd leave so soon?"

 Cathair rose, though you held steady; you had to. Muscles locked as the creature with unnatural jaws crept closer, your throat tight. Hot breaths fanned across your face, the kelpie standing well over you. Like this, the allure of his bridle made your fingers twitch.

 If he were human, nothing would have stopped you from leaning into him.

 Instead, you lifted your chin. "Want an apple?"

 Dark ears twitched forward, a faint green to his coat enough for your fingers to curl against reaching for him. This close, even looking at his chain was a feat itself; any other kelpie would have reared back from the looming threat of subjugation. Extending your hand never made you fear an extra nip to your fingertips, but still, your breath caught. Only a slight lean closer and you would be near enough to snatch the bridle away, trapping him as he was now.

 You wanted him back, not trapped.

 One huff and the apple lifted from your palm, snatched by a jaw opening too far, flesh jagged like his teeth.

 "You're welcome," you teased. His tail twitched but he didn't move. When his head lowered, you couldn't help smiling. Cathair nudged his muzzle against your empty palm, nickering softly. "If you come back later, there may be spare meat for you."

 Reaching out had been ambitious. Cathair darted back before you could stroke his long mane and when he faded without turning, the constriction in your chest drew tighter.

 Banishing him from your thoughts wasn't so easy now you were no longer far from him. Out of sight perhaps, but only minutes from where you fretted over long-settled dust. It passed the time, to trace old etches into walls from hours playing with your sister, until it darkened enough outside that a faint glow from beyond the door beckoned you.

 That same glow haunted your nightmares after leaving, but soothed you again when you woke, finding comfort in the kelpie who had drawn you from the murky waters rather than sacrificing you to his kin.

 That need for comfort ached through you and it had been long enough after forcing yourself to eat something that you reached for a jacket. Not one breath from closing the door at your back, Cathair distanced himself. Water clung to his coat with a tangling of water reeds, knotted and thick. His tail swished at your approach but the unmistakable flaring of his nostrils brought you closer, beginning to smile.

 "Sit with me." Without looking to affirm what the coil in your stomach told you - that every scuffle of hooves was another further from you, the two wrapped bundles captivated him. "Please."

 Before you, he wouldn't eat. Not like this and not the meat remaining bundled in its wrapping. Cathair joined you, though. Remaining a fair distance and so far your fingertips tingled, forced into your lap and busied by reaching for your snack, in the hope he would join you not like this.

 Faced with a kelpie now, heat crept along your cheekbones. That Cathair came at all held you from retreating.

 "My sister says hi," you began, picking at one half of the sandwiches, the one intended for you. His ears flicked. "They all do."

 And it wasn’t a lie so much as a twisted truth. They missed being here, not necessarily him. Had the rush of hot air not been enough to signify his irritation, the short whinny was plenty. Best not to inform him of their predictions for your improbable journey home.

 You pushed the bundle to your back and inched closer. "Have you been alone all this time? Is your family... are they gone?" Head lifting, he nickered as he had that afternoon and even quieter than him, you whispered, "thank you." For saving me.

 Whatever laid at the bottom of his territory - whatever was left to, was none of your concern. The kelpie unsettled was, who only shivered worse at your nearing again.

 "I wanted to visit. Often. If you had chased me away again," your jaw locked against the words. "It would have broken me, Cathair. Did you miss me, too?"

 Not one twitch appeased you. Not one turn to his ears nor stretch of his torn muzzle eased the pang in your chest, thudding like a rib had cracked. The press of your fist into your stomach didn’t lessen it, either.

 The curl to your lips wasn't much a smile, reaching your cheeks but not your eyes. Every forced breath scratched your throat. "It's late. Don't you ignore me, okay?"

 He remained still while your muscles barely held beneath you. The bundle rested nearer him with every step towards the cabin.

 And with every breath taken further from him, the truth in Blair's pleas for you to stay throbbed in your temples. How could you know if Cathair had wanted you to return? If the same kelpie who ensured you left his land longed for you, too, then his snapping jaws wouldn't have mirrored the jaws of his kin when dragging your drowning body under the surface.

 If it was nothing more than a wilful fantasy, the soft groan at your back was a hallucination. Rougher pants and deeper grunts spurred your heart into a flurry. While he underwent a change so torturous you could only imagine, you clutched the doorframe with white knuckles for support.

 Without an audible footstep, heat pressed to your back. Hastened breaths nestled against your hair, lips pressing to your crown. It strained your senses when he whispered your name, with his arms creeping around your waist and drawing you to him, back from the door.

 Grooves to his palm tickled brushing to yours. Cathair slid his fingers down, and swayed when you softened to his chest. Turning as far as his shoulder, your kissed the pale skin, gently first, before returning the favour and stealing a breath of his scent.

 Kelpies hardly changed far from humans, and he had been so alone. The embrace eased your tremors to little more than a whisper at his chest. "Will you come inside?"

 He only hummed low, breathing, "no."

 So simple, yet one syllable broke you. He held you from turning completely, his fingertips stroking the backs of your hands. "Why not?"

 "No," he said. Large palms fell to run down your thighs and against your hips, binding you to him. Familiar muscle from his bare frame tensed and the press of a chain dug into your back. "Not alone with you."

 Before you asked again, his touch flitted against your upper arm. The tracing of your scar left you paralysed long after his return into the woods.

 No matter how far you dared venture along the same path he followed, no flitting shadow rose. No prints from hooves or bare feet led you to him but that scar ached how it never had before.

 The softest touch from a window left open along your arm cradled you in your sleep, tricking you into believing he finally came to you. Old nights of the window opening wide enough for a slender frame to sneak indoors came to mind and the wind mimicked his embrace, careful, and always cold.

 But he hadn't come inside. He wouldn't.

 Little remained to sort through. Meaningless and pointless now to complete, yet you wasted the day sifting through them. Some - sketchbooks, usually - settled with smeared prints, like someone had traced where you had before leaving. You ran over the jagged edges left from torn pages, matching the paper you had rushed to carry away; portraits of him, old messages passed in notebooks. More pages were missing, though.

 Maybe the faint scent lingering on old bedsheets hadn't been just wishful thoughts.

 Only for fresh air, you cracked the door open late that night. To find bright eyes fixated on you frightened you back, staggering against the frame, forgetting in that second who watched.

 He never faltered.

 Guilt gnawed at you the longer you stood in the doorway, but you wouldn't go further with his heavy tail swishing, no doubt his sharp teeth bared if you approached now, so late.

 "Cathair," you whispered, and his dark form moved with a trembling shudder. "I'll leave soon. Just... just come in, and sleep warm. I feel bad enough as it is." When fae folk made no move to come closer, you sighed and let the door close, calling, "goodnight."

 Collapsing onto the cushions in the dark living room was followed by chills creeping over you. With the land of a kelpie came an unease, a familiarity haunting every sight. Not every night could be so peaceful and you tossed restlessly, until the first rap of the door felt more like your thoughts taunting you than reality.

 For one, slow step indoors, your intended bed for the night hadn't been within his line of sight, but Cathair turned only to you. The door closed at his back and he crept closer, bare from the hips up - clad only in torn fabric hanging from his thighs, hardly covering him. Soft light cast a gentler glow on him now, along the dark hairs of his chest, the impression of bone ghosting his thin frame. You longed to touch him where you used to, along the curve of his collarbones, where you once toyed with his necklace without ever contemplating breaking him.

 Blair would tell you to snatch it from him, to bring him to his knees. You would have him, your Cathair, then, but he wouldn’t be the same - not trapped and enslaved.

 You couldn’t move. When he fell before you to his knees, a hand rising slowly, you relished in the familiar heat leaning over you. Moss-thickened hair framed sharp features, clinging to his pale flesh. Beneath that silken hair, thin slits to his neck flattened now on land. He touched your cheek with slow, deep breaths.

 Then he softened, fingertips running down your throat. "You are too comfortable around me."

 It was too late for an argument, any debate - and it would be a fight. You wouldn't stop until Cathair welcomed you like he used to, with his smile unnaturally wide and long arms curling you close, but now was too late, too dark in your moon-lit lounge.

 This may have been the first time Cathair came through the door in your presence. It was unheard of for a kelpie to pine after a human, but to follow through; to slip into your bed and kiss you, careful to hide his daggered teeth, only enticed his family. It made you a challenge.

 The cushion became your pillow after you kissed his palm and his touch fell back. With the room dark and your trust implicit, you closed your eyes. As hesitant as to your cheek, his fingertips fell down your waist.

 "There is room for two here," you whispered. "Room for two in the bed. In our-"

 His chest warmed beneath your cheek and with each careful stride nearer the bedroom once shared in secret, his heart beat harder under your temple. The weight of his bridle tucked near your crown, hanging heavy from his throat but you rested by his shoulder rather than risk hurting him.

 "I do miss you," you said quietly. Your hand stroked down the slope of his chest, hugging him closer. “I really do.”

 His breath warmed your cheek. "You're tired."

 "Tired of wishing you stayed."

 Cathair stiffened around you for the slightest moment. "I never left."

 The first bend to his knees came and you made to lean back, only for a rough grunt to choke in his throat. He held you close until the bedsheets made space before laying you back, lingering only to tuck back your hair.

 "Cathair-"

 "Goodnight."

 The lithe muscles to his back rippled at your fingers on his wrist. His arm to your lips made him swallow hard, the kiss softening just below his elbow, where the scar forever wounding your arm rested.

 "Will you stay? Stay on the sofa."

 He turned, a kiss returned to your palm, a hint of a small smile, before the bedroom door closed. The fleeting skim of teeth warmed your stomach in a rush of everything but fear.

 You woke at the front door closing.

 Blair, in the least, didn't approve. Your parents wouldn't be told of your late night visit, and you couldn't promise your sister it wouldn't happen again. Not as you tightened your coat around your chest and followed the path laid by hooves.

 Thick boots couldn't steady you over damp earth and fallen leaves. With every step from your home, the woods quieted. Bird songs softened until your steps alone rang in the air.

 That pool left you frozen, the creature within looking so much like another pale-bodied being that strength escaped you. Several years before, that cold water rushed into your lungs. How he could swim in it, live in it, reminded you of the nature of the man wading deeper.

 And still, you would give anything to be with him again.

 The figure waist-deep tilted his head. Thin hair floated with the murky water, rippling against the shadows of his lithe muscles.

 "When will you leave?"

 The invitation back indoors fell silent at your lips. Cathair held his palms where water ran, a glimmer from his chain against the surface. He strode deeper in your silence, up to his shoulders blades. Following him even into deserted waters, no matter your trust, couldn't happen today, and he crept to his throat.

 "You said you would leave me again. Soon. So," he murmured, head tipping back, moss clinging to his crown. "Go."

 Before he fell, before he returned to pretending you weren't here, you dug your feet deeper into the ground. "I'm here. You forced us out, too," you called, harsh and unsympathetic to the sudden locking of his muscles. "I wanted to be with you, Cathair. I want...” When your words trembled, the sting rose to blur your vision. "Send me away. I won't come back again."

 Halfway home, your foot fell from a loose stone. The soft whisper of your name on the wind beckoned you back, though you continued until you could collapse on a bed he used to lay beside you on, aching to call Blair, though her patronising would worsen your suffering. Either you drowned or returned miserable and all you wanted was the kelpie hiding from you.

 If he wouldn't come to you within the next days, you would be home in less than week. The fresh air walking to town spared you the time to torment yourself with thoughts of him, busy feigning passing smiles, hoping nobody would recognise you as the girl who nearly became a kelpie's prey; the girl who still wanted one.

 Before dark, you rested surrounded by disorganized possessions that ought to be burned, lest you turn to them again for comfort. Some things you posted home that day, old scraps and photos, but there was nothing more you could do to busy yourself.

 Nothing more to do than close your eyes against the trick of light nearing your home.

 Still, he knocked, as though you would refuse him. You didn't answer, either way.

 "Bags?" Hardly a step through the open bedroom door, he whispered and stilled. Careful touches flitted over the straps, following the abandoned pile of clothes for the journey home beside them. His body fell with all the grace of something other, cradling your loose scarf and bringing it to his face. When his eyes closed, your heart lurched.

 "You're forcing me away again."

 His shoulders hunched. The scarf muffled him before he clutched it in a tight fist, stroking the material. "This coming morning?"

 As you intended, he flinched when you said, "I have no reason to stay."

 Cathair came closer in the dim light, and you struggled to sit up faced with his sudden decision to cross the distance. He was bare, the pale of his body tinged, bar the necklace dangling down his chest. Your scarf fell now you were within his hold. When he reached out to you, his fingers were cold on your cheek, slender and running back to lift your head.

 "I wanted you to have my bridle." Breath left you on a sharp rush, and Cathair pressed himself closer. He cradled your face and when his seemingly empty eyes found yours, he held you there. They glistened. "Before you left, it was to be yours."

 The last time you had seen him, in the thick of night and holding back a cry, he hadn't spoken. You told yourself it must have been the same pain at being apart, that he would miss you just as much, then he never reached out, never replied to letters delivered here, so you fought to move on, too.

 But looking at him now, fallen onto his knees and offering servitude, your heart broke for him. Cathair curled his fingers at your waist and clutched the thin slip when you turned, and he bowed his head to lean against your thighs.

 "I don't blame you for that night," you said quietly. His shoulders rose with a sharp breath. His raven hair had the same shimmering to it as his body when you brushed back the thin strands, careful to avoid jostling him. "I trust you. I chose to befriend you, Cathair, and you saved me when your brother-"

 "You left."

 The scar on your arm throbbed with a phantom pain at the memory of sharp teeth catching at you. No human could dismount a kelpie, and Cathair swung to help, to fight off his brother, but dislodging you would leave you helpless again in a river of kelpies unable to swim with a wound so deep. Saving you from drowning first then protecting you, he had nothing to guilt himself for.

 Then you left.

 That same night he whinnied and rose from the riverbed as you ran. He followed not far behind, tail swishing fast until he turned and left you fleeing.

 Cathair hardly reacted when you touched the thin bridle, but he lifted his head, eyes round and shadowed. "It is yours. Take it."

 "I don't need the bridle to trust you. Unless you... unless you want to leave, to live out your life in that form, then I won't take it."

 "Why?"

 "I don't want to enslave you!"

 His thin lips rose in an eerie semblance of a smile. "Why do you trust me?"

 "Cathair," you whispered, and it was you reaching to frame his cold face, brushing your thumbs beneath his eyes. His lips turned to your wrist. "Why wouldn't I? I've loved you my whole life, and you've never once abused my trust. You've never once hurt me, tried to drown me or eat me-"

 His teeth nicked at your wrist, though he was fast to kiss the soft skin again, a warmth in his voice when he spoke. "I could."

 "You could. Do you want to?"

 His body rose, leaning on his knees with large hands gentle on your thighs, before pressing his lips to yours. Tenderly, without moving for a breath when you held still, desperately trying to hold yourself back from scaring him away.

 Cathair fell back with a soft thud. The brush of his hands upwards made you soften, but you mistook it for a way to hold you, not the question it was when his thumbs dipped and pressed your legs to part. He bowed low and brought his lips to your inner thigh, drawing in slow, steady breaths, before his lips softened on the thin fabric barring him from your body.

 "Do you trust me?"

 "With my life."

 "I want to taste you."

 With his touch guiding you, Cathair laid a warming hand to your stomach. He ushered you back, fingers tugging at your underwear until you were bare, your slip thrown away.

 He trembled and lifted your thighs up to his shoulders, breathing deep, and the first kiss was experimental. He watched you tighten, your legs coming to press at his head until he returned low, guiding his hot kisses down before letting his tongue slip against you, and you cried his name. As you gasped now, it came different to when you spoke to him in the woods, with such power he himself groaned, and when he tasted you again, ran his nose up to nudge against your flushed nerves.

 "You taste divine."

 Rougher breaths flushed against your bare heat, awakening the heat molten in your navel. Like he knew, Cathair looked up, holding your desperate stare before his lips came around your flushing clit. Your hips bucked and he sucked, drawing a rough cry from your throat.

 "That's it," he murmured. "Let me have you on my tongue."

 Too flustered, too lost in the gentle touches, his hand running up your stomach to run against your breast made you arch into him. Cathair's soft laugh made you keen, his fingers teasing your nipple and rolling it beneath his thumb. The other hand, though it slipped your attention, too, began to stroke low, and his middle finger curled itself to the knuckle. Each crook of it had your stomach flipping, and he eased another, stroking against your tight walls until you whimpered.

 "Please- I'm close-"

 "I know, love," he whispered, and his fingers pressed you wide for his thick tongue to dip up, to taste you there. Tension tangled heavy in your stomach and he curled his fingers once more, the cold touch of a chain against your thigh a stark difference to how hot his breaths were, lapping with fire. "Show me how much you love me," he murmured, and his lips caught your bud of nerves as you screamed his name and your vision blurred. His sharp teeth grazed where you were most sensitive before chasing your release, kissing up your thighs and still moving his fingers in a way that had you unable to breathe properly. Cathair settled back and with your eyes on him, brought his slick fingers to his mouth, groaning. "You taste like heaven."

 You fell back with a heavy head, and he came to lay by your side, soft lips to yours. The taste of you was thick on his tongue, and he laid over you with a hand smoothing back down your stomach. He held you close, his own body hot and pressing into yours.

 "I want to stay," you whispered, and reached to bring him impossibly closer. "I want to stay here and be with you again."

 Cathair's small smile warmed your heart. As you both curled back against the bed, the kelpie lost in touching your smooth skin, he took your lips again and promised, "I'll always stay with you."

[aetheternity]

Hello! I’ve read your work and fallen in love! I don’t know if your requests are open, but I really like the Armin x you x Levi post you wrote🥰 may I please request a smut of this? Thank you!

First of all thank you! I'm so glad you're in love with my work. 😊 Second of all I'm sorry this took a while I got sick and writing smut while being sick is honestly disgusting. Plus I recently fell in love with Saiki K and have been binge watching it . 🤭 N e ways! Hope you enjoy this.

Warnings: Polyamory, threesome, Nsfw content.

Ok you'll be honest with yourself four years ago you didn't expect to be as happy as you are now. 

After you'd grown sick of your living arrangement with your parents. You'd left that life behind. Moving into the small empty bedroom your best friend since your last year of middle school had open in his surprisingly tiny apartment. 

And when you said tiny. You meant tiny. 

Some rooms in the apartment weren't even big enough for someone to stand in with their arms outstretched. Not to mention a couple of your nights were spent huddled next to Armin on the couch with a huge blanket around your bodies because the heat randomly shut off. 

You'd think a situation like that would be worse. But weirdly enough it had been the best for both of you as your relationship had always had a sort of looming sexual tension that went unexplored. 

Long lingering touches to your waist got just a little bit longer while trying to squeeze past you in the bathroom. "Sorry I just need my brush." Armin would whisper. Warm palm against your hip. The ghost of his pelvic bone so close yet so far away. Just the realization making you arch in his grasp. You'd hold his gaze and in the back of your mind you could watch the soft slither of his tongue as it wet his gorgeous pink lips so many times over. 

Of course it escalated with neither of you ever saying a word about your feelings. You spraying water from the sink on a shirtless Armin during a heat wave that just wouldn't let up as he walked into the kitchen wearing only grey sweatpants. (Yup.. only sweatpants.) The way they hung so low on his hips practically begging for your tongue to stretch across the expanse of his pelvis. 

Him hugging you tight around the waist for literally any reason he could think of. (And he found a new reason everyday.)

And then it escalated a little further.. you pulling back the shower curtain to "complain" about him eating your leftovers. Him pulling you into his lap while the two of you watched tv. 

And one day it just ended. And by ended it meant you two opened a bottle of wine on New Years and the ball wasn't the only thing that dropped. He had you laying ass up, legs spread and pussy sobbing as he rocked your hips for eight fucking hours with no stop. Did that table break? During hour five but Armin managed. 

And then you guys moved. After a mutual agreement that the two of you were aware of each other's feelings and wanted to be together. You'd both managed to pool enough money together to afford a bigger place with two bedrooms. One unused and one that was immediately broken in with Armin over stimulating you the second the boxes were halfway unpacked. 

Fast forward to a man named Levi moving in across the hall, him developing feelings for you over a long period of seeing you daily thanks to his best friend absolutely adoring you and constantly inviting herself into you and Armin's home.

After a while you'd started picking up on the signs of his affection too. His long glances that sometimes didn't even break when you looked back at him. The little gifts that began to show up at your door. The way he'd bring over food when he knew Armin wasn't home. 

Once you'd started to develop feelings too Armin allowed you a night. One night to see if those feelings were actually real and what they might mean. Cue a night of carriage rides, roses (lots and lots of roses), stargazing and a kiss that damn near floored you and it was more than one night. 

Two nights and Levi had had you on his couch with him snuggled in what would soon become your favorite blanket. Three nights and Levi had you eating his mom's homemade spaghetti. And by a week you were begging for Levi to fuck you harder, fingers shaking on his white tiled kitchen floor. His relentless thrusts still causing your thighs to tremble hours after. 

He looked so lost in bliss in a way you'd never seen him before and you hugged onto him so tight you didn't even go back to Armin that night. Just curled up under your favorite blanket on his couch with his cock nestled deep inside you. His kisses littering your face till the moment you fell asleep. 

It was definitely a cause for fear. An unrelenting kind and you sat down on the couch with Armin the next day explaining how deeply you loved them both. Only to be shocked when he brought up the topic of polyamory. It definitely shocked you a ton when Armin agreed to it after some explanation of his own feelings but the real surprise was Levi explaining how he'd also thought about it and would be up for it. 

And thus began the beautiful bloom of a poly relationship after him and Armin had gotten better acquainted. You know after you guys all moved because Levi hated living in the apartment. 

The three of you left to live in a gorgeous house. (For once you were living in a place with more than one floor and an island in the kitchen.) A place you'd been calling home for over a year now. 

~~~~ 

Your breath hitched soft moans stuttering off your lips. You don't even remember who started it but here you and Armin were, his breath tickling every bit of your face with sweet languid kisses. One hand brushing over every curve you possessed while the other was softly brushing in between your pussy lips. 

Your body perched in his lap as he sat against the headboard. Pillows scattered around the two of you as you writhe and begged for more of his touch. 

You were probably drawing blood where you were grasping his shoulders but you couldn't even begin to think about it. Armin's warm breath tickling your lips in a soft chuckle. The tips of his fingers softly caressing your clit as you let out little whimpers of pleasure. 

"You promise you'll moan nice and loud for daddy's fingers?" He asked, closing the distance between your lips with a much slower kiss. 

"Yes." You could feel his nail brush inside and you almost buried his fingers but his harsh grip on your ass paused your movements. Your thighs shook and you rubbed your forehead against his. Leaned into his broad chest with both hands. "Please daddy.." 

"Good girl." 

With one more small kiss he laid you out flat on the bed free hand coming up to squeeze your areola. With a tap of your outer thigh you spread for him watching the way his spit dribbled off his lips and directly onto your already wet hole. The mixture making a much wetter sound as he pumped two fingers fully inside. 

With a gasp you yanked the sheets hard, almost squeezing your thighs together. His fingers curling, snatching your breath away. The bed creaked a little as he repositioned himself, stomach flat against the sheets with his mouth on your thighs. Spreading a soft array of little open mouthed kisses. 

"A-Armin.." 

"Keep your ankles in the air, love. I don't wanna punish you tonight." He breathed 

You sucked in a breath, reaching out to hold your ankles. Almost immediately you felt embarrassed by the high pitched moan that fell off your lips at the first long slide of his flat tongue over your pussy lips.

And then right in between them in a beckoning motion over your clit that had you biting into your lip. The smile on his lips so evident over your core. 

You lifted your head in time to watch the slow drip of more of his saliva stretch between your clit and his bottom lip. Tongue immediately outstretched with eyes drawn to your features as he lapped it back up again. 

With his free hand he spread apart your pussy lips a little further giving your clit an almost harsh knead with his thumb. The friction making you cry out and almost drop your legs onto his back. 

His fingers carefully slipped out of you to your own dismay. The slow drag against your walls almost painful, that is until his tongue was sliding in to replace them. Giving your inner walls a massage that made your gaze fall white. 

You felt him hum. Sweet vibrations flowing through your cunt as he slurped down every bit of your juices. His arms snaking around your legs to yank you so much closer as he pushed his tongue impossibly deeper. 

"Daddy.." You begged 

"Shh, keep moaning for me baby.." He hummed, flicking your clit with his thumb. 

You obeyed with an arch that probably could've launched you off the bed if not for Armin's tight hold. Your eyes squeezed shut, brain going completely empty. 

"Such a good girl." He breathed "So good for daddy." 

The pad of his tongue stretched over both sides of your lips with little nibbles. Sucking the skin into his mouth roughly. You could feel his eyes on you, practically see those bright blues pop with lust as he pressed his tongue back inside with languid thrusts. 

Your heartbeat pounded in your ear and you felt the hold he had on your legs loosen. His two fingers delving and sliding back into your warm fluttering cunt. The overwhelming pleasure forcing your hands back on the bed holding out for dear life. 

"Daddy.. daddy please.." You cried 

"Getting close baby?" When you nodded vigorously he smirked. "Come on baby almost there." He hummed 

He sped up his tongue, fingers stretching you open quickly adding another. Your breath caught with a high pitched cry that left tears  flowing over your cheeks. An endless chorus of his name flooding off your lips. His own moans sending vibrations through your core. 

Your stomach tightened, toes curling in the air as you tried and failed to steady your breathing. One of your hands unfurled itself from the sheets now sticking to your sweat soaked body. Carding it in the beautiful blond locks between your legs. 

"Baby.. baby I'm about to-" He sucked your clit into his mouth and your eyes went hazy, head falling back. 

"Finish baby, come on.." He whispered 

Your lips spewed curse words between every breath lost. When his fingers tapped smoothly against your g-spot you knew that was it for you. And with one last shudder you came around his fingers, screaming his name as your orgasm racked over you in a loud burst. 

And he licked up every drop, nose buried to collect it all like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. 

"A-Armin.." You shuddered body flush and hazy. 

His fingers feel wet, a combination of your pussy juices and the sweat between both your bodies. You slowly blinked in the darkness combing strands of his hair back as your lips made contact. The mixture of your taste and his on your tongue, in an almost overwhelming way. 

You tensed under him. Hands stretching over every part of him you could reach only for him to back away a bit. With your nails still gently grazing over your back he pressed his damp forehead into yours, fingers sweeping over every bit of bare skin. 

With barely any warning he hoisted you to your feet next to the edge of the bed. And you reached out for his shoulders as he slipped his boxers down his legs. Inching himself back up to the headboard. 

"Take a seat." He gestures, laying back. 

He's got a hand around your waist in seconds. His cock soon just below you, so so close to where you wanted it. Where you needed it so badly. 

Your knees came down on both sides of him, carefully administering your weight evenly until every inch of his hot cock was stretching you open. His tip soon resting firmly against your cervix like it always did and you both relinquished a sweet gasp. 

"F-fuck.. so full.." You huffed 

It felt like it had been so long when in reality it'd probably only been a week. And yet you were moaning like you'd been starved of him. Rocking your hips like he'd punished you with no cock for months. 

Suddenly his arm wrapped itself around your waist again. He hoisted you up with a strong hold moaning directly in your ear as he thrusted up into you like it was the first time. His knees pressing your thighs open.

A hiss falling off your lips as he kissed over your shoulder and collar. Hands squeezing both your breasts like they were his personal stress balls. 

You hadn't been aware of how hard Armin was going until the rough knocks of the bed hitting the walls finally began to settle in your ear. But you could barely care Armin's cock was hitting every spot inside of you and your leg was starting to twitch where it was forced outward. 

His breath grew more ragged with every thrust. Sweat dripping off your forehead onto his. His sweet murmurs of praise turning you on even harder.

"Love, you take me so well.. You're doing so amazing…." He moaned 

You leaned your head into him, feeling that sweet familiarity deep in the pit of your stomach. You reached around to the back of his head, yanking a little rougher than intended on his scalp. 

The uneven slaps of your skin meeting managed to keep the two of you distracted  until the sound of the door practically slamming into the wall shook you both to a halt. 

Levi's dry sigh filled the once noisy bedroom. "Do you two have to make so much noise? I'm busy with a work project." 

Despite Levi's gripes Armin angled his cock back towards your g-spot barely grazing it but it was enough to force a little mewl from your lips. 

He laughed, pulling you a little closer. "Mm sorry Levi. Didn't know we were being so loud." 

There was a small glint in Levi's eyes. The quick dart of his pupils to where you and Armin were joined and then back up to your face putting a devious grin on your face. 

"You should take a break, daddy." You said 

"Tch." Levi huffed, "This thing needs to be done by tomorrow. I don't have time for this." 

You reached out for him with one arm. An arm that unsurprisingly didn't even reach close to him from his stance near the bedroom door. By this point Armin's thrusts were going at almost the same pace as before. Not as rough but enough to resume the gentle rock of the bed. 

You let out a soft moan as Levi took the bait, slowly walking over to the bed. His finger carding affectionately through your tousled hair. He leaned in, pecking your kiss swollen lips. 

If there was anything you knew for a fact about Levi it was that he always had a hard time saying no to you. 

To be completely honest it didn't surprise you that Levi was already more than a little hard. Though it did surprise you how easily he gave in today. Watching with unchanged expression as you pulled his belt from the loops and buckle, undoing it with a light clatter which quickly followed the almost inaudible sound of his zipper being pulled down.. 

You let out a relaxed hum, lip pressed between your teeth at the sight before you. His thick cock poking out over the hem of his underwear. You grasped at the sheets with one hand a little shaky as you slipped his boxers down over his ass until they pooled at his ankles. 

Armin slipped his hand under you right up against your stomach. Levi immediately followed suit already knowing what he was doing. He stepped over to the edge of the bed as Armin laid you down on your stomach. Levi's wet tip dangling in front of your lips. Before you could even register it Armin had your hips in the air slipping all the way back inside with a loud gasp. 

Meanwhile you were wetting your lips. Hand curving up and down the length of his dick. You inched forward on your elbows to slowly surround Levi's dick in the warm confines of your mouth. The hiss he let out sending shivers over your spine.

"How's it feel? I know how much you love taking two dicks." Levi grunted 

Armin reached forward, tugging your hips in close with one hand. The other hand on your ass as leverage. Allowing him to ease out to his tip before slamming back inside. Your eyes rolling back with pleasure. 

As if it wasn't already difficult enough to take Levi he wasn't even fully hard yet. Just expanding in your mouth as you coaxed your throat into relaxing enough to slide every thick inch down. 

"I know that pretty mouth can do so much better than this." He reaches out with zero warning to grab a fist full of your hair. Yanking you forward with barely any restraint. 

Though you must admit the sound that leaves his throat when he does is almost worth the tears pricking over your hollowed cheeks. 

"Baby I'm so fucking close.. I'm gonna fill your pussy." Armin sighs, his hand comes down to wrap around the base of your throat angling your mouth into Levi's rough thrusts. 

Your heart is hammering but you close your mouth as best as possible without biting to take Levi's cock. Already feeling the effects on your jaw as he presses in a little harder with a deep moan. 

By now his cock is fully hard rocking you back into Armin with deep rough thrusts that almost make you gag. 

"That's my g-irl.." Levi grunts, even though they're small his nails dig into your scalp so roughly you could swear you felt something trickling down to the back of your neck. 

You grip the bed sheets with both your toes and fingers, the creaking around you unmistakable. 

"I'm cumming.. I'm cumming!" Armin cries out and you'd honestly give anything to see his gorgeous blue eyes roll back and the little smile that curves against his lips as he climaxes. 

You finish just a couple seconds ahead of him. Eyes unfocused where they roll into shut. Little sounds muffled by the thick dick stretching open your throat. The feeling of Armin's cum flooding your walls makes you whimper and he lets out the softest moan as his orgasm slowly whittles away. 

Your gaze soon fixes on Levi only to be met with the prettiest tint of pink brushed right up against his cheeks. His eyes pressed tightly closed, lips parted over every harsh breath. 

It didn't take long for the sweet drag of Armin's cock to begin again. His light touches to your spine making you arch a little higher. 

"You look so fucking pretty, you know that?" Armin mummered, cock slamming into your g-spot. "Doesn't she look gorgeous, Levi?" He asked with a little whimper. 

Levi's eyes fluttered open a hint of a smirk cresting on his lips. "Like she's gonna.. pass out.." He combed your hair back again gripping it a little tighter forcing your head up. He paused at the back of your throat. "Can't take it baby? Want me to pull out?" 

You grunted at every slam of Levi's dick until that all too familiar sound flooded your ears, followed by almost every curse in the english language. 

"You're doing so well.. f-uck.." He moaned "Swallow my cum.. swallow it. I'm almost there.." 

Levi hoisted his leg up against the already shaky foot of the bed using as much leverage as possible. His fingers tugging your head forward on every pump of his thick cock. Mixing with the loud gasps of Armin behind you as he also neared his end. 

And with one more deep thrust Levi was spilling down your throat with a choked groan. Cock head nestled deep in your tired throat holding you still as his orgasm flooded from his body. 

You were a little relieved when he stepped back allowing your jaw to relax. The still wet tip pressing sweetly against your lips. 

"Such a pretty girl.." He said, so low you thought you imagined it. 

"Switch with me." You heard Armin say 

You sighed as his cock left you, feeling yourself immediately being flipped onto your back. His large hands coming down from where he now stood over you to perfectly envelop your breasts. Meanwhile Levi was pulling your hips close and sliding in as effortlessly as he always did. 

"Levi!" You threw your head back 

Armin smirked over you, his hands kneading a little rougher. You arched into his touch pressing the balls of your heels into Levi's back, pushing him just a little deeper- 

God it was perfect. The feeling of his dick so much different from Armin's but honestly just as perfect. The moan you let out was downright pornographic and you pressed your head back into Armin's thigh. 

One of Armin's hands came up to your face brushing aside your hair soaked in tears. "You look perfect. But I wanna make you more perfect." 

He pulled himself off the bed, sliding a hand over your cheek. "I wanna paint your face baby. It's so perfect.." He mumbled already pumping his long dick over your face. "You'll let me right.." He whimpered 

When he leaned in again it was to press a little kiss to your lips. "P-please.." 

The curve of his lips made your heart flutter in your chest. "Mm.. let Levi see when I'm finished." 

One of Armin's hands sat rather aggressively on the edge of the bed. And you could see the way every vein in his hand moved. Grip tightening a little with every pump of his cock, back and forth his knuckles practically ripping through his skin. 

You gasped as Levi leaned over you, fat cock pressing into your G-spot. "Stop ignoring me." He grunted 

He slid his teeth beneath your earlobe administering a barrage of sweet nibbles mixed with more aggravated bites. 

"Levi.. Levi!!" 

Armin gasped above you, "Almost there.." He moaned 

A bright white was starting to take over your vision as you shut your eyes, mouth hung open for Armin's cock with absolutely no sound coming out as Levi continued to use your tired pussy. 

Small huffs of fuck littering the air. You bore your nails into Levi's back and chest. His leg shaking against you as he pushed through his last thrusts. 

"I-I'm.. I- shit!" Armin came first, missing Levi's head by a hair (literally) as ropes of hot cum plopped onto your face, you barely registering it as your own orgasm hit you like a two ton truck. Levi's thumb coaxing small spasms from you through your clit. 

Levi huffed, face scrunched, lip bitten and eyes shut as he came for the second time with a hard gasp. 

The room went quiet for what couldn't have been any longer than 2 minutes before Armin was pulling himself up from where he'd slumped over the bed. 

"Levi, look how sexy she looks with my cum all over her face." He cooed 

It stuck to your eyelids as you blinked though ultimately chose to keep your eyes shut. You felt Levi's small chuckle and the brief feeling of him slipping out of you to your own disappointment.

"Open baby." Armin said 

As soon as you did his fingers slipped into your mouth. The salty/sweet residue of his cum littering your tongue. Quickly joined by Levi who swiped his thumb across your eyelids before pressing it into your mouth. 

"How're you feeling?" Armin asked as you opened your eyes slowly. 

You blinked in their faces standing above you with a small smile. "Tired." 

"You can't sleep until you've washed off. It'll be better for you anyway." Levi replied, heading into the bathroom. 

Armin quickly followed after carefully lifting your fatigued body off the bed. It took a couple minutes for Levi to get the temperature to perfect but once he did you slowly felt yourself sinking into perfectly warm water. 

The soreness in every part of your body already beginning to dissipate as you leaned back against the edge of the tub. 

"We did a number on you hmm?" Armin asked, carding your hair back. 

"I'll make you some tea once you're cleaned up. Then we can cuddle under your favorite blanket." Levi said 

"Thank you guys but I feel like I could fall asleep here." You say lifting your thighs for Levi to clean under. 

"I promise I'll pay you back big time tomorrow." Armin replied, rubbing your arm with soap. 

Your lips curled up deviously, "Now that I look forward to." You grab his chin pulling him into you, pecking his lips. 

[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

Could you do a part two of the Ben chilwell one with the baby please!!

BEN CHILWELL ONESHOT ( 2 part series only )

WHO'S BABY // Pt. 2

( WARNINGS: fluff, swearing )

word count: 1.9k

It was the thundering of small footsteps running across the hallway that woke you up. It was the familiar sound of trouble and sleepless nights.

You sighed, not bothering to open your eyes before searching the other side of the bed for Ben, poking his side in a weak attempt to wake him up.

“What?” He groaned, rolling over and throwing an arm over your waist, drawing you closer, still drowsy from sleep.

“They’re awake.” You mumbled groggily, unable to help yourself from nearing his body heat.

“What? Fuck.” He complained, sitting up in bed and slipping out of your embrace, letting a whoosh of cold air under the covers.

There was no light peeking out from the curtains yet, so he knew it would be quite an early morning. He'd gotten home late last night so he hadn't had as much sleep as he'd originally bargained for. It was hard to fight the urge to curl up in bed and go back to sleep, pretending you never said anything.

“What time is it?” You asked, and Ben reached over you, picking up your watch and watching the small screen light up in the dark, squinting at the sudden brightness.

“It’s just past 7.” He winced, placing the watch back down and collapsing on top of you, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion as he buried his head in the crook of your neck.

“It’s your turn,” You whispered, attempting to push the deadweight off your body, but to no avail. You resorted to threading your hands through his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead hoping it would wake him up.

“But—”

“They’ll want you more than me—”

“Why do I have to be the favourite?” He groaned, pushing himself off you and back to his side of the bed, throwing his legs out of the side and feeling the cold air shock him. He shivered.

“You’re not the favourite—” you insisted.

“Then why do they want me?”

“Because you’ve been away for two days and they’re probably sick of me by now.”

“If they’re sick of you by now, they’re not my kids.” He reopened the covers, entering the warmth, now significantly more awake then he previously was.

You rolled your eyes at his comment.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“I’m getting back into bed.” Ben answered, pulling the covers back up to his chin.

“But—”

“5 more minutes.” He insisted, and you sighed, knowing what was about to happen. It was like clockwork.

Within seconds, your bedroom door creaked open and at the sound of whispers and giggles, you slammed your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep in hopes that you'd be able to sneak a little more sleep before you needed to get up.

“Remember what we planned?” A small voice whispered loudly in the dark, and you knew there would be a nod on the other side of that answer.

You didn’t know if Ben had actually fallen asleep or was pretending, but before you could nudge him, a body had launched itself on top of him, dark curls wild and eyes ablazing.

Ben groaned at the sudden impact, and peeled open his eyes.

“Boo!” The voice yelled, and Ben pretended to be scared, letting out a poor scream that had you covering your ears and cringing at the assault to your ears.

It seemed to work though, for your daughter erupted in giggles and planted herself in the tight gap between you both.

“Is that you, Erin? I can’t remember what you look like.” Ben said, using one hand to cover his eyes and the other to pat her face, pretending to feel for her features.

She giggled once more, taking his hand off her face.

“That’s because your eyes are closed.” She insisted, trying to pry his hand off his face.

“They are?” He asked, taking his hand off from over his eyes and blinking rapidly, adding to the comical feat.

You furrowed your brows, eyes searching for the other little troublemaker that usually wasn’t far from his sister.

There was a tug on your corner of the duvet, and you rolled over, peering down from your mattress, to be met with a significantly younger little boy, his bottom lip trembling in frustration as he tried to lift himself up on the bed.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, and his blue eyes peered up at you, one hand clutching his beloved teddy.

He said nothing, but put his arms up and grinned when you lifted him onto the bed and next to you, behind Erin, settling himself in comfortably.

“I feel like I’m missing someone,” Ben said, pretending not to have noticed you lift his son into the bed.

Your son giggled, placing his finger over his mouth to try to silence himself as he waited with wide eyes behind Erin for Ben to find him.

Ben took the liberty of ‘searching’ everywhere, by which time you’d managed to smuggle Seth under the sheet, his little body shaking with silent laughter.

When Ben did finally check behind Erin, he froze, eyes flicking to yours as he eyed the empty space with confusion, adamant that you were messing with him.

You shrugged innocently, a smile on your face as you gave Seth the signal.

To Ben’s surprise, the covers were thrown back and his little boy was the centre of the chaos, laughing as he revelled in the shock on his father’s face.

“Seth!” Ben exclaimed, opening his mouth and placing his hands on his cheeks in shock, “When did you get so big?”

“Yesterday!” Your son placed his hands over his mouth.

Erin laughed with the two of them, finding her little brother too adorable to correct.

“Yesterday!” Ben repeated, “You grew and I wasn’t there?”

Seth nodded, his eyes lighting up.

Ben always felt like he missed so much when it came to milestones and adventures with the kids. You'd reassured him on multiple occasions that neither Erin or Seth thought any less of him just because he spent days training or evenings at matches. It made moments and mornings like this all the more special and memorable. But there was something about the way the two little ones would watch him when he played on TV; he didn't see it, but they completely adored him.

Erin suddenly gasped, grabbing Ben’s arm.

“Dad, we saw you and Uncle Mason on the TV yesterday,” she said, a bright grin etched on her lips.

Ben turned to her, pleasantly surprised, “You did?”

“Mummy made us watch it,” Seth whispered, avoiding your eyes.

“Did she?” Ben tilted his head, looking at you over the pile of kids.

“She was shouting at the TV…and she said a naughty word too,” Seth said, ignoring the way Erin tried to get him to be quiet.

“Which word?” Ben asked, trying his best not to smile as you rolled your eyes and pretended to check the time again.

“The A-word,” Seth whispered.

Ben knitted his brows together, trying to figure out what the A-word actually was. He turned to you, raising one brow in question, and you mouthed the word at him.

He smiled.

“Why did she say the A-word?”

“Someone tackled you against the rules,” Erin piped up, the plan to protect you long gone from her mind.

“I think Uncle Mason said no too, he was on TV and he said a word too and he looked angry.” Seth said, and at his words pursed your lips and looked at Ben, who had frozen, his mouth hung open to say something, but stopped.

“I’ll have to have a word with Uncle Maso—”

“Oh, I remember that. It looked like he said fu—”

Ben covered Erin’s mouth with his hand, his eyes wide with alarm. A seven year old shouldn’t be learning language like that just yet.

Seth jumped, the sudden movement having startled him slightly, and he flicked his gaze between Erin and his Dad, confused by what happened.

“Is Uncle Mason in trouble?” He asked.

“Is he in trouble?” You repeated, directing the question at Ben.

The man spluttered, carefully removing his hand from Erin’s face, and by the knowing smirk on her face it seemed like she knew exactly what she was about to cause.

“No, no. Uncle Mason isn’t in trouble, I promise.” Ben said.

“What are we doing today?” Erin asked, turning to you.

“Well, it’s Uncle Sam’s and Uncle Jake’s anniversary today, so we are going to go pick up Ro in about three hours.” You said, watching as your kid’s faces lit up in excitement.

“Ro’s coming?” Erin asked, ready to jump off the bed and start getting changed already.

“We’re going to have a picnic in the park,” you added, this time watching Seth perk up at the mention of food.

“Can I bring ball?” He asked, his four year old self desperate to be able to play like Ben.

This time, even Ben turned to look at you, the question blazing in his eyes too.

“If I said no, I think your Dad would cry—” you whispered to Seth, heart melting when the little boy let out a squeal and covered his mouth with his hand as he snuck a quick glance at a rather offended Ben.

“Me too,” he giggled.

The park was probably your favourite place besides the house. It was fairly local and it was never too busy.

There was a playground, a small cafe, gardens and a pond, tennis courts and a huge grassy area in the centre of it. You picked the usual place; it was hidden under the shelter of some trees but you were still able to see the playground and you were close enough if anything were to happen.

You’d been at the park for about an hour and a half already, everyone had eaten and you took to reading whilst the girls were playing on the swings. Even despite their four year age gap, Rosie and Erin both got along brilliantly. It had gotten to the point where if Erin hadn’t seen Rosie for a certain amount of time, all you’d hear was Erin talking your ear off about wanting to go see her, and Sam had told you multiple times about Rosie doing the same.

You thought it was cute.

Ben had already exhausted Seth out after twenty minutes of crazed running around and playing football, so he’d fallen asleep curled into your side not so long ago.

You’d originally thought Ben had dozed off too, but after a kid started crying in the playground and he'd woken up, he’d claimed he was ‘resting his eyes’. He’d been watching the scenery around him for a while now, his attention going between the girls and Seth and back again.

“I want another.” He spoke up, and you closed your book, not entirely shocked by the revelation. He’d been hinting at another baby for a while, pointing out small baby trainers each time you went shopping and going out of his way to walk past Mothercare on several occasions.

“Yeah?” You ran a hand through Seth’s hair, looking up at Ben from where he was leant against the tree.

“Yeah,” he echoed, his eyes fixated on Seth’s sleeping form.

“Okay,” you said, seeing him snap his head up to look at you out of the corner of your eye.

“Okay?” He repeated, moving to lay on the other side of Seth.

“Yeah, you seem shocked,” you commented, unable to help the smile creeping onto your face.

“I didn’t think you’d want another. I mean—now?” He stuttered, stumbling over his words.

“About two months ago,” you said, avoiding his eyes.

He furrowed his brows, trying to put the pieces together.

“You’re pregnant?” He whispered, his eyes wide and heart hammering in his chest.

You hummed, nodding as you met his gaze.

“When did you find out?”

“A couple of hours after you left the other day,” you answered.

He seemed to think for a second, his eyes calculating, “But you haven’t been throwing up?”

You shrugged, “Third time lucky, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He complained, reaching an arm around Seth and twirling your hair between his fingers absentmindedly.

“I wasn’t about to ring you and tell you, was I? That would be a pretty,” You covered Seth’s ears, before mouthing, “shitty…thing to do.”

He mumbled to himself, agreeing with you.

“But why didn't you tell me earlier?”

“I forgot.” You shrugged.

“You forgot you were pregnant?” He asked, tone disbelieving and his hand froze in your hair.

“I haven’t exactly had time to think about it, I've been juggling children and work all weekend.”

“Fair enough. Do the kids know?” He asked.

“I was kind of hoping you’d tell them.” You said, cringing slightly.

“Me?”

“It’s only fair, I told Erin last time—”

“But she’s older now, she’s…curious about things—”

“Just remember who’s carrying your child.” You said, and he sighed in defeat, grumbling under his breath.

There was a smile on his face as he turned away.

[cafeacademia]

Belonging

Draco x Muggleborn!Reader

Summary: While you and Draco share a sweet friendship, you’re not sure he’ll ever feel the same way about as you do about him.

Warnings: Worry of unrequited love, lots of gentle soft fluff, Draco being a sweet boy.

Word count: Approx 3600

Masterlist

NOTE: This fic works with any house except for Slytherin purely for the nature of the storyline

A/N: Hi loves! I took a little while to write this one, it’s kind of been in the works for several days because I just had some trouble getting some of the scenes in this right. I hope you enjoy some soft Draco 💖 Gif is my own

It was warm under his gaze, the soft smiles he would give you, the way he would look at you as if just being with you put the whole world right again and things in your presence were perfect.

His touch was even sweeter, the way his fingers brushed carefully against your cheek, his smile widening as he caught a glimpse of your shy smile, unable to hold his gaze as he shared a moment with you, because as much as you adored him, you could never admit it. And even if you did, would Draco Malfoy even want you, a muggle-born witch that did not share his house? As much as you wanted to believe that he might, you knew at the very least that his father would not accept you, not to mention the people who aligned themselves with him that Draco was around often and so you hid your feelings beneath your shy smiles and soft laughs, hoping you were not too obvious.

“What are you thinking about, love?” Draco asked as you shared a sweet moment together, standing on the bridge, overlooking the school grounds and the lake while you waited for your next class. Glancing over at him, your gaze was tender as you looked at him, his soft, slightly tousled ashen hair and light grey eyes, contrasted with his dark robes and the thick green and silver scarf that was draped over his shoulders. “Not a lot, I’m just enjoying it out here.” You lied, looking back towards the view ahead of you before Draco could catch you looking, but really he had already caught you and he couldn’t help the little smile that felt so uncontrollable after seeing that look in your eyes when you looked at him.

“What’s on your mind?” You turned the question back around on him, the Slytherin smiling to himself as he drew in a breath to speak. “How beautiful the view here is.” He replied, chancing a quick glance at you. Draco liked you. He knew he did and nearly from the moment he’d first seen you he had developed a liking for you, though he couldn’t quite tell if it was a crush or a soft spot he held for you. Either way, he adored your company and out of everyone else in the castle, you were the most accepting and the most calming person he had come across.

And had it not been for Professor Flitwick pairing you both together on a class project a few years prior, Draco never would have gotten to know you and he was always thankful for the bond the pair of you had formed over your years at Hogwarts together. Looking at you in the cold winter sunlight, Draco watched as the gentle rays of light cast a beautiful hue over you and as he admired you, he found himself deeply captivated, every bit of tension or stress that had bothered him earlier in the day seemed so far away now that he was with you.

But as the low, heavy ring of the clocktower bell broke the peace of your shared moment, Draco found himself wondering what it was that he really felt for you. “Come on, we’ve got potions.” You said softly, turning away from the beautiful view before Draco joined you in walking to class.

Despite the sweet moments the pair of you shared, the lingering looks and the soft, accidental touches that last only a second before you shyly pull away, you knew that even if you did tell Draco about how you felt, that he wouldn’t reciprocate those feelings back.

Walking into the potions classroom, you walked towards your usual spot with Draco stopping to talk to Blaise Zabini on his way in. “C’mon Draco, sit at the back with us.” Pansy Parkinson called him over with Daphne Greengrass sat with her, an empty chair between them and the ashen haired boy looked over in their direction, casting them both a stupid grin before he crossed the classroom to sit between the two girls. And that was the reason why you knew he wouldn’t feel the same way, because even if he held no prejudice towards you for being a muggle-born witch, he had at least two girls that surrounded Draco with every chance they had, both being very pretty and probably very likable and shared the same house with him.

And to be quite honest, part of the reason why you were sure he didn’t feel that way about you was because on several occasions you had seen Pansy cosy up to him, leaning against his side or standing rather close to him and in one instance, you had seen her kiss him on the cheek, though you seemed to remember at the time that he hadn’t looked best pleased about that.

It was halfway through a practical in your double potions class, having been partnered with Lavender Brown, who for the last half hour had been discussing all of the happenings around the Gryffindor common room with you, that you overheard Daphne Greengrass talking on the next table over from you. “You’re going to Hogsmeade this weekend, aren’t you Draco?” She asked as she weighed out a portion of Billywig wings to create the laughing potion Professor Snape had tasked you all with. “I was wondering if you’d go with me?” Daphne added.

During the pause that followed, you carefully put in three Knarl quills, one at a time and stirred quickly while Lavender held the recipe book and passed you things as she talked. “I don’t know. I did have other plans this weekend.” Draco said blankly and for a moment, his eyes sparing a quick glance at you, though all he could see was the look of sheer concentration on your features as you stared down at your potion. “Well I can join you, I’m not going to Hogsmeade this weekend.” Pansy cut in.

But before you could listen any further, Lavender grabbed your arm with enthusiasm. “The recipe says we have to giggle at it.” She told you brightly. “Giggle at it?” You asked and as if your question had been heard, the dungeon was quickly filled with the sound of Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter laughing together at their potion.

Saturday came around faster than you had expected and before you knew it, the trip to Hogsmeade commenced. Hermione, Harry and Ron were in high spirits as they stopped for butterbeer, Luna and Neville quickly joining them. You were stopped a few times, laughter filling the air as Fred and George messed around with flying sweets, George passing you some self inflating bubble gum, which according to the side of the packet, the bubble would get to at least three times the size of a normal bubble gum bubble.

Meandering in and out of the different shops and spending money on things that caught your eyes, you made your way out of the main part of the town and towards the edge of the treeline where it opened up into a clearing that overlooked the Shrieking Shack.

The recent snowfall had blanketed the whole town in several inches of snow, adding to the eerie, yet calm atmosphere that seemed to fall over the shack in the distance. “Mind some company?” His voice broke the silence and you looked back over your shoulder to see Draco standing at the edge of the trees at the end of the pathway that led to the lookout from the village. You smiled at him, perhaps more brightly than you had intended and while you tried your best not to give away how you really felt, Draco was starting to see it.

And as you invited him over, the Slytherin took slow steps towards you, each footfall followed by the soft crunch and creak of the snow beneath him until he was at your side, his eyes meeting yours. “I was looking everywhere for you.” Draco said softly, as if he didn’t want to disturb the gentle quiet that the snow had created. “You were?” You asked, a little bit taken aback by the idea that Draco had been seeking you out. “Of course, as much as I like spending time with the others,” He paused, looking down at you as he reached up to gently move some of your hair out of your face. “It isn’t like spending time with you.” His voice dropped to a soft whisper. Draco didn’t know how to even describe how you made him feel, but whenever he saw you, whenever he was at your side, Draco felt nothing but calmness and warmth and there was another feeling that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that seemed to escape him.

His words made you break out into a little smile and Merlin, Draco thought you were the sweetest. He’d never known someone to be so shy and sweet in his presence, to be so accepting of him in every way and somehow it felt as if you didn’t quite know what it was you did to him, how you made him feel.

You wondered what made him seek your attention, rather than that of Pansy or Daphne, or any other girl for that matter, and as you wondered, it was as if Draco knew what you were thinking. “The other girls - Pansy is nice, she’s my friend but,” He sighed looking down at his hands for a moment as he gathered his words. “She can be very intense. And I suppose Daphne can be too.” “I like the way it makes me feel when I’m with you.” He added. Your eyes almost widened at that and you quickly looked up at him to see that Draco was smiling softly at you and your heart near melted. “How does that feel?” You asked quietly. He smiled, drawing in a breath to respond, eyes shifting into the distance as he thought about it for a moment.

How was he supposed to describe that fluttering he felt every time he so much as saw you? How was Draco meant to put into words the indescribable longing he had to be with you each day and how much he wished he could work out what it was that it meant? And then there was that heart fluttering feeling that Draco had never felt before but it warmed him like nothing ever had.

“Like I belong.” He finally replied in a dreamy tone, the Slytherin deep in thought as his eyes looking down from the horizon to catch your gaze and his smile widened, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek. You felt yourself warm, not just at his words but his touch too and your words escaped you, lips parted, wanting to say something, but a comfortable silence overtook you. Draco smiled sweetly at you, he didn’t expect a response and the flustered look of flattery on your features was more than enough to tell him how you felt.

“Draco!” His name was called from nearby and he muttered a mildly annoyed bugger under his breath. “I’ll see you later, won’t I?” He asked in a softer tone. “You always manage to find me.” You nodded, giving him a sweet smile, Draco giving you a bright, lopsided grin as he reached forwards and took your hand in both of his. “Meet with me later?” He asked softly, his thumbs gently rubbing the back of your hand. “In the owlery before dinner.” He added, eyes fixed on yours as he waited for an answer. “I’ll be there.” You nodded, giving him an almost uncontrollable smile and Draco’s grin widened at your answer before he leaned over to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.

And with confidence in his stride, Draco let go of your hand and backed away from you with that dreamy lopsided grin of his before he turned away and took a quick jog back towards the village, Blaise Zabini calling out for him again before he even reached the pathway.

It wasn’t long before the trip to Hogsmeade came to an end and you all made your way back home to the castle. Though, while everyone else was enthusiastically discussing everything they had bought and things they had seen, chatting among themselves and while Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood walked alongside you, talking about Hogsmeade, your mind wandered to Draco.

He had never asked you to meet him before, except for that one occurrence when you had been working on an assignment together, but this was different. There wasn’t a school related purpose and the way he had asked you had completely melted your heart and left you with your heart beating fast and cheeks that felt hot to the touch. The kiss on the cheek was rather what had caused that reaction though and for the remainder of the trip, you had worn a positively dreamy, uncontrollable smile.

The walk back to Hogwarts seemed to fly by and before you knew it, you were walking up the icy steps to the owlery. It was much colder as the sun hung low on the horizon, twilight drawing in as the last warm pink hues of light streaked across the few clouds that were in the sky.

You gripped the stone stairway tightly as you walked up the steps carefully, the ice making the steps particularly difficult to walk on. “Careful not to slip, love.” Draco seemingly came out of nowhere and you jumped when you’d heard his voice behind you, losing your footing on the icy steps, but Draco was quick to take hold of you and stop you from stumbling or falling.

“You won’t fall love, I’ve got you.” He smiled, stepping up to your side, the ashen haired boy chuckling softly at the look of mild embarrassment on your features. And to make it worse - or perhaps better, Draco had kept his hold on you and you realised just how close to each other you were. “Thank you.” You managed to get out in your flustered state, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that his touch seemed to make your heart skip a beat, but you had a feeling that at this point, there was very little point in hiding your liking for Draco, because you were pretty sure you had outed yourself at least more than once.

Taking your hand in his, Draco led you up the last few steps before you both reached the top of the stairs to find a beautiful view of the grounds. “I’d take you up to the top, but it’s a bit too icy.” Draco said, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to the owlery. The door was shut, but you could still hear the owls hooting and chattering and moving about their roosts, the odd one here and there coming in to land and climbing into the tower by the little owl sized holes around the entire perimeter of the building.

Giggling, you cast your eyes down at your hands, yours fitting perfectly in his. “I don’t think going up is a good idea, I’d probably fall down the first step.” You joked, and while you said it in a playful manner, you knew you were more clumsy when you were around Draco, his presence always making you a little too flustered to fully concentrate on what you were doing. “I’d catch you if you did, sweetheart.” Draco replied, the name he used for you giving you butterflies while your heart fluttered in your chest and you wondered if he knew what he did to you.

“I’m sorry for asking you to come all the way out here, I would have asked you to meet me in the castle, but it’s hard to get a moment alone.” He told you, shifting a bit closer to your side. “It’s okay, the company and the view are certainly worth it.” You smiled, relaxing against him without realising at first, but as you leaned your head against his shoulder, you suddenly pulled away and looked away from him shyly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” You rushed your apology out, but Draco shook his head, smiling as he let go of your hand to put his arm around your shoulder and gently pull you back against his side. “You never need to apologise to me, darling.” Draco reassured you calmly. “Besides, I never said I didn’t like it, did I?” He asked in a teasing tone, making you smile. “I suppose not.” You giggled softly.

And as you relaxed against him, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you had been holding in, you felt yourself melt into his side, your head resting on his shoulder again as you watched the last rays of sunlight disappear and the twilight grow into a cool deep blue hue.

A soft breeze rustled the trees, the gentle patter of snow began to fill the air as the clouds came back in, casting a deeper grey blue across the sky and you shivered, Draco smiling as he tugged you even closer to your side.

“You know, earlier when I told you how I feel around you,” Draco paused, his breath swirling up in the cold air as he let out a breath. “You really do make me feel like I belong.” He smiled, looking over at you as he gently squeezed you against his side. “But there’s something else too, like this overwhelming feeling of-.” Draco stopped himself, eyes meeting yours, though his grey eyes held an air of deep thought. “A feeling of what, Draco?” You asked quietly with an edge of intrigue to your tone.

What was it really? It was more than a sense of belonging. It was deeper than a good friendship. It was more than just knowing the other person. It was as if, despite your different personalities, you were just meant to be. Perhaps the butterflies and the fluttering in his chest and the way his heart skipped a beat whenever you smiled or giggled or even looked at him was more than just a little crush.

“Love.” It came out as a whisper and for once, you watched as a soft pink blush blossomed on Draco’s cheeks and for a moment you were sure you were daydreaming this all up in the silence between you, but the longer you held his warm gaze and Draco looked at you with nothing but love in his eyes, you knew it was very much real. “You love me?” You whispered, your smile almost uncontrollable, but your eyes told him you were in disbelief, because throughout the years of knowing one another and becoming as close as you had, you told yourself time and time again that there was no way Draco Malfoy would like you that way, let alone love you.

“I love you.” Draco told you, his voice sincere and his smile soft and warm. “I love you too.” You replied, a little blown away because in all of the years you had known the Slytherin boy, you hadn’t once thought anything like this would ever happen. And without sparing another moment, Draco pulled you into his arms, his hands coming up to gently cradle your head as he leaned in to kiss you. He was tender and sweet as his lips moved against yours, warm and loving and you quickly melted against him, your fingers slowly brushing over his chest and slipping beneath the lapels of his long black coat to rest against his warm jumper. Draco held you with one hand resting on your lower back, while he gently held your cheek with the other, his lips soft and warm against yours as he kissed you slowly.

The snow fell in a gentle flurry around you as Draco deepened the kiss, your hands moving up to meet at the back of his neck, pulling yourself even closer to him. You felt your heart flutter and it was impossible not to smile into the kiss.

As he parted from you, Draco looked down at you with warmth and love in his eyes. Looking back on all of the moments you had spent with Draco, even from the very beginning those years ago when you had been paired together on that class project, there had always been something between you. And between the longing looks and the lingering touches, the secret meetings and the times he’d sneak up on you while you walked alone to get a giggle out of you. All of those times he came to comfort you and rest his hand gently on your shoulder or gently wipe away your tears with his thumbs and embrace you when you needed someone the most. How had you not seen it? How had you not seen the unconditional nature of his love for you? And you supposed in some ways you had seen it, but you were too busy trying to hide your own adoration for Draco and trying not to run away with the idea of being in love with him that it just didn’t quite occur to you.

“Come on darling, let’s head back and warm up with dinner.” Draco smiled, holding his hand out for you to take. “And perhaps you can tell me what you want to do for our first date while we eat?” He added as you placed your hand in his and looked up at him with a bright smile. “That sounds lovely.” You replied. “Not as lovely as you.” Draco grinned, teasing you a little bit. “How romantic of you.” You giggled, shaking your head as he started to walk you down the steps. “Only for you, my sweet girl.” Draco said with sincerity, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.

Taglist (OPEN):

@kitkatd7​ @paintballkid711​ @thesewaywardskies​ @coldlilheart​ @victorialynn7​ @pandaxnienke​ @megantje123​ @loving-life-my-way​ @chaotic-fae-queen​

[sarahwroteathing]

JOK Epilogue Piece: Better or Worse

Word Count: 1795

Warnings: None

Just One Kiss Masterlist

For a while, Bucky thought his nightmares were finally over, left behind as a relic of his old life when he married you. It was an attractive idea, a hopelessly romantic one. And for weeks, it seemed to fit. The happiness of his waking life, the love you gave him, the peace he found in your arms each night left no room for ugly memories and past trauma.

But the dreams caught up to him, as he should have expected, and sent him lurching out of bed in the small hours of a Tuesday morning. The sensation of wood against his knees - hardwood, not concrete, metal, or mud - jerked him back to awareness, and he drew in a shaky breath. The room was dark and still, a little drafty despite the best efforts of the radiator in the corner. He stayed there a little longer, kneeling beside the bed. As he calmed his breathing, his eyes traced over your shape, softened by layers of sheets and blankets but still beautifully familiar, even in the dark. You were on your side, facing him, but your face rested in shadow.

Unsure whether the sound and movement of his abrupt awakening had pulled you from sleep too, Bucky stayed quiet, fingers uncurling from their tight grip on the bed frame to smooth reverently over still-warm sheets instead.

Home.

Safe.

Loved, he added as your hand reached out to collect his.

“Are you alright?” you whispered.

Bucky pressed his lips together, gave a stiff nod before remembering you probably couldn’t see it.

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

There was a pause, a rustle of sheets, a voice made delicate by interrupted sleep.

“Did the dreams come back?”

Bucky squeezed your hand in silent affirmation before letting go. He turned, settling more comfortably on the floor with his back against the bed, staring towards the covered window. There was more rustling behind him as you moved, shifting to lie sideways across the bed, your chin resting on your folded arms on the edge of the mattress.

“Tell me how to help,” you requested in a much clearer voice than you’d managed before.

His heart gave a faint flutter at the gesture, but he could only offer a helpless shrug. Was there any help for this? He’d thought so before and been wrong.

“What did you do before? To help you feel better?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he thought back. The apartment he’d shared with Steve when they got back. How smug they’d felt about finally being able to afford separate bedrooms, even if they did sleep on the living room floor more often than not in the beginning. It had been a relief to have Steve nearby. They’d limped their way through their first months home together.

And though Bucky was reluctant to let you see the rough edges war had scraped into him, he’d found himself more and more willing to open up to you as time went on. Still, there were some truths he’d do anything to protect you from, and to your credit, you always seemed to know when to ask questions and when to offer distractions.

Like now, with your fingertips tracing a feather-light pattern on his bare shoulder, drawing him gently back to you.

“Coffee,” he finally answered with another shrug, lopsided to avoid disrupting your touch. “Going for a walk. Or sometimes Steve would be awake too, so we’d - ” He gestured vaguely. “- talk about things.”

You have a decisive little nod and sat up.

“I can do coffee. Can I turn the lamp on?”

“Yes.”

Bucky blinked harshly a few times as the lamp clicked on, filling the room with a warm glow and tracing your silhouette onto the wall in front of him. He watched your shadow don your robe with a flourish and adjust your hair before melting away into the black mass of the quilts you pulled from the bed.

Moments later, the warm weight of them draped around his shoulders, and he peeked up at you as you patted them into place with affectionate precision. You met his eyes with a soothing smile.

“It’s a little cold for a walk, but I’ll open the window for you. Let in some fresh air.”

Knowing how easily you caught a chill, he was quick to protest.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you said, smoothing back his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “But if it helped you before, then I want to try. I’ll be at the stove anyway. I doubt I’ll feel it out there.”

You crossed to the window, pulling the curtains aside before pushing the window open in one smooth motion. Your fingers brushed through Bucky’s hair again as you retreated from the sudden influx of winter air.

“I’ll bring you some coffee as soon as it’s ready. And I can call Steve too if you want? He might be awake.”

“Don’t call Steve,” he answered quietly. “I’ll be alright.”

You nodded, flashing another small smile before leaving the room. The door clicked shut behind you.

Bucky sighed, gathering the blankets more securely around his shoulders as he moved to the window, bracing his arms on the sill. As the night air bathed his face, damp and cold driving away the last lingering shreds of his nightmare, he fixed his gaze on the floral fabric covering his arms.

Soft ivory adorned with tiny blue flowers and sprays of pale ivy. The quilting stitches were tiny and precise, made by a hand stubbornly focused on a bright future during times that promised no such happy ending. Your hand. The same that had dripped ink onto one of the corners while writing him a letter, a dark splotch you still rub your fingers over ruefully every time it catches your eye. Bucky adored it.

He dropped his head onto his arms, burying his face in the soft fabric and breathing in the faint scent of your soap. He didn’t know how long he’d been that way by the time the door creaked quietly behind him, signalling your return. When he raised his head to look at you, your free hand reached for his cheek, cradling it sweetly as you knelt beside him.

“You’re sure about the coffee? Don’t want to try sleeping some more?”

“Not tonight.”

You handed him his mug, hovering anxiously as he took a sip. Your eyes looked a bit lost, flitting about the room for something to do, some way to be helpful.

“When…” you trailed off uncertainly before trying again. “Did you sit up with anyone? Before? Or…?”

“Usually just found a spot to be alone.”

You nodded quickly, pushing up to stand again.

“I’ll just be in the other room then. Let me know if you need anything. I…”

You hesitated again before abruptly dropping to your knees. Your hands found his face, sweeping your thumbs along his cheekbones before drawing him in for a kiss. Unlike your other touches tonight, this was neither delicate nor fleeting. Your lips, though warm and soft, met his with firmness, with a fierce and loyal love that you always felt but rarely channeled this way. When you pulled away, Bucky’s lips tingled faintly, warmth blooming in his chest when you dipped back in for a final, tender brush.

“I love you,” you said quietly, looking intently into his eyes for a few moments as if willing the message to sink in before rising to your feet and turning to leave.

Bucky caught your wrist.

“I love you,” he whispered back. “You can stay, you know. You don’t have to leave.”

“You’re allowed to need time alone, Bucky. I promise, it doesn’t hurt my feelings.”

His hand slid down to grasp yours, tugging you to his side again.

“Maybe it’ll be better with you,” he murmured, leaning his head against your hip with a sigh. “Most things are. Being with you was never an option before.”

Your fingers combed gently though his sleep-ruffled hair, and his eyes fell closed at your touch.

“I just don’t want you to feel obligated to say I’m helping to appease my pride. I’ll stay if you really want me to, but you have to promise you’ll send me away if that’s what’s best for you.”

“Promise,” Bucky said with a nod, opening his eyes again to look up at you. “Stay with me? Please?”

Your eyes softened, and Bucky set the coffee down on the window sill as you settled on the floor beside him. He reached out for you, folding you against him with blanket-draped arms and fussing with the quilts until you were both adequately bundled in the warm, soft cotton.

You sit in silence for a long time, cuddled together, staring at the small patch of sky visible through the window. The coffee steaming on the window sill left a small patch of fog on the upper pane. You braved the cold air outside the blankets long enough to draw a small heart there while it lasted, and Bucky kissed warmth back into your fingertips when you leaned back into him again.

When his eyelids started to feel heavy, he took up the coffee again. It’s nearly cold by then, but that only let him drink it faster, allowed his hand to retreat back under the blankets more quickly.

The click of ceramic on wood pulled you from your light doze against his shoulder, and you tilted your head up to meet his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

Bucky offered a soft smile.

“Better,” he said, kissing the tip of your nose before guiding your head back down to his shoulder. “Get some more rest, honey. I’ll be alright.”

“You’ll wake me if you need anything?” you asked, sleep already smoothing a slur into your words.

Bucky let out a low hum, rubbing his hand over your legs soothingly as you went soft and still against him.

And it wasn’t a comforting lie. He did feel better.

There was a warmth glowing gently in his chest that did not draw its strength from the coffee or blankets. It was in the way you touched him, kindly but not cautiously. In your determination to help, to learn how to help, without making him feel damaged or self-conscious. In the way you’d kissed him, steadfast, permanent. And when you’d told him you loved him, it didn’t feel like a pretty thing to say or a sweet consolation. It was a simple, honest statement, a resolute fact of life that welcomed no arguments or second opinions.

You loved him. Full stop. For better or worse, no matter how bad “worse” could be.

And that, Bucky thought, was something to smile about. That warmth was something to bask in.

-----------------------

I got really in my feelings writing this. Wow.

If you enjoyed it, please do let me know. Replies, reblogs, and asks make the world go round!

And if you have any questions about their life together, kindly drop it in my inbox to be answered in a bonus drabble or oneshot like this one.

Thank you for reading!

[alittlebitmaybe]

tying you to me

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: crafting

Pairing: Geraskier, implied Geralt/Yen in one line

Rating: T for language

Warnings: None

Summary:

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

Or: Geralt doesn't know about the boyfriend sweater curse.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt learned to knit out of necessity. Winters in Kaedwen, especially up in the mountains, are bitter cold, and require not only animal skins but woolen socks, hats, scarves, blankets. They keep a flock of sheep for the very purpose. And before—when there were others, even occasionally a proper staff—it would be part of the normal workings of the castle to have several sets of hands dedicated to knitting up useful garments to keep them from freezing their balls off when the frost came.

There are fewer hands now, but also fewer balls in danger of freezing. Geralt and Vesemir handle the bulk of it, these days—Eskel with fingers too big and clumsy to be much help, Lambert too fidgety and quick to rip out all his progress into a tangled mess of wool in a fit of frustration. In the evenings they sit by the great hall fire in mostly silence and take turns spinning the roving into yarn, winding skeins, chipping away at the endless miles of plain stocking stitch, and seaming panels together. (Sometimes Geralt will embellish the design with cables, or a moss stitch—unconventional patterns he’s started to see in the larger cities, sold by the fancier merchants. He may have paid a few crowns for the scroll describing the pattern for one particular sweater he saw in a shop in Novigrad. He has not mentioned this to Vesemir.)

It may be necessity, but Geralt would choose it even if it wasn’t. These are the things his hands are good for: wielding a sword; harvesting various glands and organs; curling into fists; crushing windpipes; skinning rabbits. Bandaging Ciri’s scrapes. Bringing Yen’s pleasure. Curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing their lips together. And, when it’s over, when there’s nothing to kill and no one to care for, he can create. He can put it all to the side and count off to himself, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit, knit, knit, around and around, back and forth, and this thing will grow from the rhythm of his fingers, from the steady loop and pull that he’s done thousands of times, taught by some witcher instructor decades ago whose name he no longer recalls. He had bushy eyebrows that waggled as he worked. That’s all the memory that’s left of him.

Anyway, it’s easy to allow the hours to pass until Vesemir excuses himself to bed and the fire burns down and takes the light with it. One such night, just as Geralt is squinting at his work to finish this one last row, the hall door creaks open.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says sleepily, “are you still in here? ‘S late, love.”

Knit, knit, knit. “Mm,” says Geralt. “I’m here. Just finishing up.”

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Jaskier pads in his sockfeet across the stone to the armchair Geralt occupies. He sits himself on the rug with his back against Geralt’s legs, knees pulled up to his chest. “Brr. ‘S chilly, too.”

Geralt drops the needle in his right hand, maintaining tension on the working yarn with his left. He runs his free hand through Jaskier’s bed-mussed hair, brushes against his cold ear, down to the soft skin behind it. “Not wearing a coat.”

“Well I wasn’t heading outside, seemed like a—” He yawns, jaw cracking. “—a lot of trouble just to come downstairs. But I now see my mistake.”

“Always have to wear a coat at night,” Geralt says. “Or be under blankets. Or both.”

“Or acquire a personal witcher furnace, unless he’s down here ‘til gods know what hour making yet more mittens for the princess.”

Geralt looks down at the large rectangle he’s been working on. “Lap blanket,” he says. For Ciri, when she’s studying in the library. It gets drafty in there even with the fire blazing.

“For the library?” says Jaskier, tipping his head back to see Geralt. “Good thinking. She’ll love it.”

Geralt releases him and goes back to his work, but knits at most ten stitches before Jaskier shivers again, his teeth chattering before he gets himself under control. Setting the blanket aside, middle of the row be damned, he concedes, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“No, you’re—you’re not done with—” Jaskier cannot finish his sentence for the yawn that overtakes him. “M’kay. Let’s go.”

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

*

The next evening, after dinner has been consumed and cleaned up, Vesemir and Geralt move to the fire as usual. Vesemir is working up a new hat for Lambert, who has the shortest hair among them and has one practically pasted to his head all winter long.

Geralt spares a glance to his blanket-in-progress, and then veers toward the wooden chest that stores their yarn stash. He puts aside plain ball after plain ball, until finally he admits defeat and turns to Vesemir and asks, “Do we have any dye?”

“No,” says Vesemir, not looking up. He knits with the yarn looped around the back of his neck to keep the tension, instead of around his fingers. He says it’s easier on his old joints. Geralt thinks it looks preposterous, but it gets the job done. “Not a drop. And that’s never bothered you before.”

“I’m thinking of making a gift,” says Geralt. “I think they’d prefer it to be dyed.”

“Ah, the bard. Yes. I suppose he would.”

“I want him to actually wear it.”

“Indeed.”

“He says coats are too bulky and ponderous, and they dampen his spirits.”

“Foolish boy. He’ll learn.”

“So we have no dye? Of any color?”

“None,” says Vesemir. “Though it may be that there are some old skeins in the back of the cupboard by the linens. I recall that some of our forebears had rather expensive taste, for witchers. Quite wasteful of them. If you ask me.”

Geralt murmurs his thanks, pulls on a cloak, and makes his way through the frozen corridors to the cabinet in the laundry. Along the way he passes the study, and overhears Eskel dominating Jaskier in another round of Gwent.

“Eskel, you dirty cheating bastard, there is no way you just had that card.”

“Where d’you think I kept it, bard?”

“Up your sleeve, behind your ear, under the table, I dunno—”

“Down your pants,” Lambert chimes in, and Geralt hears Ciri giggle. She’s been spending too much time with the witchers now that Yen has departed for the season. Geralt should probably intervene more often.

“—maybe you magicked me with a sign thingy so I wouldn’t notice, but I’m sure you didn’t have it in hand a turn ago, I’ll swear that on—”

“Yes, Lambert, I’ve got Gwent cards lining my codpiece, naturally, even a few stuffed between my—”

Geralt rounds the corner and their voices fade away.

As Vesemir said, there is a small box pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard in amongst the linens. He opens it without much hope, but is surprised to find it full to the brim with yarn of deep reds and blues, all of some soft texture very unlike the itchy wool they’re accustomed to. Sniffing it, he decides it is from some type of goat. He also decides, based on its lack of musty odor, that it is not nearly old enough to have belonged to one of their forebears.

Well, in exchange for the use of the yarn, he’ll allow Vesemir his secret.

He carries the whole lot back to the great hall.

“You found it,” Vesemir remarks, now nearly done with the hat.

“Right where you said,” says Geralt. “You don’t mind if I use it?”

“As much as you like,” he replies disinterestedly, “if you’ll leave me the fuck alone while you do.”

Fair enough.

Geralt selects the red—a deep burgundy that will pair with the blush on Jaskier’s cheeks after a few glasses of wine. He pulls the scroll from his trouser pocket, and begins casting on as the pattern instructs.

*

When he hears Jaskier’s tread in the hall, he hastily pulls the half-finished lap blanket over his new project.

“Bedtime, Witcher,” says Jaskier, peering over his shoulder. “Didn’t make much progress on that tonight, did you?”

“It’s a big blanket,” Geralt grunts. “Eskel’s been practicing sleight of hand since we were boys. Don’t play him for money.”

“I bloody knew it,” Jaskier exclaims. He wheels around and stomps back out of the hall, suitably distracted. “Eskel! You’ll never believe what Geralt’s just told me!”

*

The sweater is slow going, since he does have to put real work into the blanket every once in a while to keep Jaskier’s suspicions to heel.

Over the next few weeks, it becomes near an open secret in the keep what Geralt is up to. Lambert catches him cursing late one evening as he is ripping back several rows to fix a cable he’d mistakenly crossed the wrong way.

“Whazzat,” Lambert says, crunching on a mouthful of tree nuts.

“Fuck off,” Geralt says. He squints and carefully tries to secure a dropped loop back on the needle. If it ladders down, he’s done for—there’ll be no fixing it while maintaining the pattern. He’s not nearly good enough for that.

“Looks like you’re fucking it up,” Lambert chews.

“I am. That’s why I told you to fuck off.”

“Thought that’s just how you decided to greet me now. That’s what Vesemir does.” He shoves another fistful of nuts into his mouth, though Geralt isn’t sure he’s swallowed the first.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

He manages to pick up that last loop before disaster strikes, and moves the stitches around on the needles to make sure they all look right. Then he shoves the left-hand stitches all the way up to the tip so he can continue.

Lambert leans down to examine the fabric, then runs his finger down the pattern with his eyebrow raised. “This is some fancy shit, Geralt, you giant poof.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

Lambert swallows, belches, and says, “My point exactly. ‘S for Jaskier, innit.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering as he approaches the cable he’d made a mess of the first time around. Lambert claps him on the shoulder with the hand he’s been using as a nut-to-mouth delivery tool, which leaves salt behind on his tunic.

“That’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” says Geralt wryly.

“Anyway, I’m outta here. This boring bullshit still gives me hives.”

He exits the hall and the door shuts heavily behind him. Geralt finishes recrossing the cable and, turning to check his pattern, finds it covered in greasy fingerprints.

Eskel, on the other hand, sits himself in Vesemir’s usual seat one night and sets to quietly whittling a whistle. After several hours, Geralt holds up the near completed front panel of his sweater and says, “Do you think Jaskier will like this?”

Eskel doesn’t even look at it. “Geralt, you could spit on a log and hand it to him and Jaskier would love it.” His knife stills. “Maybe don’t do that, though.”

To their credit, none of the other witchers say a word—possibly for lack of caring—and Geralt is able to rely on them to keep Jaskier occupied most nights while he finishes the front and back panels and seams them up.

Before he begins work on the sleeves, the pattern warns, the wearer should try on the body to ensure proper fit.

“Well, shit,” he says aloud. He can’t ask Jaskier to try it on and ruin the surprise. He holds it up against himself, trying to judge if they are similar enough size to judge whether it will fit Jaskier. Geralt, certainly, is wider in the chest and shoulders, but as long as he can get it on without stretching it too much he should be able to check the length. And, if it fits Geralt or is loose, it will certainly be too large on Jaskier.

It will have to do.

The next morning he rises early and takes the sack in which he’s been storing his project to Ciri’s bedroom. He knocks softly.

“Ciri?” he calls, mouth close to the door. “Can I use your mirror for a moment?”

“Mnnngh,” he hears. He takes this as an invitation.

The only visible part of her, when he lets himself in, is a tangle of hair escaping from under the pile of furs on the bed. He sets his sack delicately in front of the only full-length mirror in the keep and says, “Morning, Princess.”

“F’ off,” the fur pile groans. “No it’s not.”

“You really have been spending too much time with Lambert,” Geralt comments mildly as he pulls the unfinished sweater out and checks it for damage in transport, though he knows it was safe in the bag and only traveled up some stairs. “He’s a bad influence.”

“I’ve always been like this when rudely awakened at the crack of dawn,” Ciri says, muffled. “Don’t think any of you are special.”

“You cursed at the royal servants?”

“Quite regularly.”

Geralt shrugs the layers off his top half down to his undershirt while she continues to stretch and grumble wordlessly in the warmth of her bed. He pulls the sweater over his head; the neckline snags on his ears but otherwise he should be okay to try to get his arms in. He squeezes his right arm in and up, aiming for the proper hole—

“Geralt,” Ciri says icily, “what, by the gods, is that?”

He turns around, contorted in the confines of the too-tight sweater. She’s sitting up with her hair a wild tangle and her eyes wide in horror. “What’s what?”

“That garment!”

“It’s…a sweater? I’m making it.”

Geralt thinks he may be missing something very important.

“For yourself?”

“…No, for Jaskier. He needs another—”

“Don’t you care about the curse?”

Geralt finishes fitting himself into the sweater and tugs it down over his stomach while Ciri continues to stare at him in expectant horror. Thus no longer trapped, he decides to engage. “The what?”

Ciri slumps forward, briefly puts her face in her hands. “Good gods, Geralt, you really can’t be helped. But I also cannot allow you to give Jaskier a handmade sweater. Despite your…personal challenges”—at this, Geralt tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask exactly what the hell that means, but she barrels on—“I really have become fond of the two of you, so I cannot let you carry on with this foolish nonsense.”

Her voice goes more posh the longer speaks. Geralt thinks she will make a fine queen someday. “Ciri, I—”

“And really,” she continues, “it’s like you’re trying to sabotage a good thing. He does nothing but care for you, and this is how you repay him? Honestly. Melitele’s tits!”

“Melitele’s—? Where did you learn that one?”

“I’m hardly sheltered. And you’re one to talk, caring about my language when you’re about to lose Jaskier for good!”

“For good? Lose Jask—okay, Ciri.” He sits down at the foot of her bed, probably looking downright silly confined to a sleeveless sweater that is at least one size too small for him. He can feel it constricting the rise and fall of his chest and stretching tight in his armpits. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What curse?”

The expression she aims at him is sharper than at least four of the blades in the armory. “The sweater curse, Geralt. If one makes a sweater for a person one is interested in romantically, that person leaves within a fortnight. Everyone knows this.”

“Oh, of course. How stupid of me,” Geralt says.

Ciri raises an eyebrow that says Yes, obviously.

“So you’re telling me that if I finish this sweater and give it to Jaskier, he will suddenly no longer be able to stand the sight of me and will stomp off on down the mountain, even with the good foot of snow and ice blocking the path.”

She sniffs. “Indubitably.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He claps his hands on his knees as he stands and moves back to the mirror to inspect the sizing more closely. The armholes are definitely a bit small—he’ll have to let out the seam to increase the circumference—but the rest, if he tries to overlay Jaskier’s body onto his own, seems like it should be about right.

Ciri leaves the bed with a fur wrapped around her as a cape and comes to his side. “You’re impossible,” she declares, though the royal snootiness is diminished somewhat by her morning breath and tangled hair. Then she reaches out and touches the textured pattern between the cable running up the front. “Though, you know, it is quite beautiful, if horribly misguided.”

He grins indulgently at her. “Thank you, Princess.”

*

“Have you heard of the sweater curse?”

Vesemir snorts. “Poppycock. Who told you about that old superstition?”

“Just came across it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Vesemir looks at Geralt over his spectacles. “I hope that it’s not bothering you.”

“No,” says Geralt. “Of course not.”

*

He has fuck-all in his hand of cards, but he stares down at them like they might contain the secrets of the Continent.

“It’s your turn, Geralt,” Eskel says.

“I know,” he replies, absently rearranging the cards.

“So…you gonna play or pass?” Lambert asks. He digs his hand into the bowl of nuts at his elbow.

“Not sure.”

“Is something on your mind?” Eskel, again.

“No. Well…do either of you believe in the sweater curse?”

They both look at him blankly.

“Nuh uh,” says Lambert with his mouth full.

Geralt says, “Pass.”

*

He speaks clearly into the xenovox. “Yen? Are you there?”

“Geralt?” comes the reply, as if she were beside him in the room. “Is Ciri all right?”

“We’re all fine. It’s good to hear from you, too.”

“If there’s no trouble, then make it quick.”

Now he hesitates, but he chokes the question out anyway. “Do you know about the sweater curse?”

There is silence.

“Yen?”

“For the love of the gods, Geralt, please don’t bother me with frivolous garbage. I’m much too busy. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Geralt says, suitably shamed.

*

The finished, washed, and blocked sweater rests folded at the bottom of his wardrobe for more than a week before he works up the nerve to bring it down to dinner with him in his knitting sack.

Even with the flaws that Geralt, as the creator, inevitably notices—a few loose stitches three quarters down the back panel, the right sleeve is slightly longer than the left—he has to admit that it turned out well. He could fetch a pretty penny for it in a large city. Silky soft, thick, and vivid burgundy, it would be a stand-out piece among any merchant’s wares even without the detailing that stretches collar to hem and even down the outside of the arms.

Knitting it was a nightmare. He will never do anything like it ever again, so Jaskier had better appreciate this one.

Still, every time he resolves to finally gift it, Ciri’s words echo in the back of his mind. You’re about to lose Jaskier for good.

On the ninth day, he shushes that voice, takes the sack, and marches straight into the hall for dinner. After all, if Yen and Vesemir aren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.

Everyone but Jaskier is there already. Eskel looks up from pouring ale into each mug and says, “Hullo, Geralt. What do you have there?” and Lambert says, “Ooh, didja finish it?” and Vesemir digs wordlessly into his mutton.

Ciri’s eyes zero in on the sack.

“Hello,” says Geralt. “Is Jaskier still washing up?”

“Yeah,” says Lambert. “He fell in a pile of snow.”

“Lambert pushed him into a pile of snow,” Eskel amends.

Geralt glares at the accused, setting the sack on the bench at his usual spot.

“He asked for it. Bloody said ‘Lambert, throw me into that snow over there!’ didn’t he?”

“Since you were alone with him at the time, I don’t think I can confirm or deny—”

“Geralt,” Ciri interrupts, “tell me you’re not still planning what you said.”

“I am,” he tells her.

“You were standing not ten feet away.”

“My back was turned—”

“You’re a godsdamned witcher! Or have you gone deaf?”

“Even after what I told you! I thought you were going to think about it!” Ciri pushes back from the table. “I forbid you from giving that to him.”

Geralt snorts. “Or what, Princess? Look, I don’t think Jaskier is planning to leave—”

“Of course he’s not planning to, the curse will make him! Why are you tempting destiny this way?”

“I’m just saying, Lambert, that it wouldn’t be out of your character to shove an unsuspecting bard into a snowbank.”

“Oh, and hustling him at Gwent wasn’t out of your character, so maybe you’re actually the one who shoved him. Thought about that one, Eskel?”

Geralt says, “If he tries to leave, I’ll tie him to the bed until the urge passes.”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but then moves past that comment. “At least let me give it to him. I’ll say I brought it from Cintra, or bought it on the way here.”

“And let my hard work go unacknowledged? I don’t think so. And why would you have bought a man’s sweater?”

Among the arguments, no one notices Jaskier enter the hall and come up behind Vesemir, wide eyed. “What did I miss?” he stage whispers.

“Just open your present, bard,” Vesemir mutters, gesturing to the sack at Geralt’s knee.

“Ooh, a present? For little old me?”

He picks up the sack and tests the weight curiously, before opening it and drawing out the most marvelous sweater he has ever seen.

“Jaskier, no!” Ciri cries, and everyone else falls quiet.

“What, why?” he says, looking between Ciri’s stricken face and the furrow between Geralt’s brows. “What is this?”

“It’s for you,” Geralt murmurs. “I made it.”

“You made it?” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes. For you. Because you were…cold.”

“Because I was cold?”

Geralt gently takes it from him and holds it up so he can see the full design. “That night, you came in when I was knitting, and you were cold. I wanted to make you something warm to wear that you would like.”

Jaskier squishes the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you,” says Geralt, “like it?”

“It’s stunning,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt may as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.

“I cannot believe you, Geralt of Rivia,” Ciri cuts in. “You never listen to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the hall.

Geralt grimaces. “Do you, er, have any particular desire to leave me?”

“Leave you? Why would I—Geralt, is this a breakup gift? Is it pity?” He panics, pushing the sweater back into Geralt’s hands. “I don’t want your gorgeous pity breakup sweater, Geralt. I’ve played that game before.”

Geralt steadies him, as ever. “No, it’s—Ciri thinks there’s a curse, or something. And that if I made you a sweater, you would leave.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier. “Well, I assure you I will not. And in that case I do want the sweater.” He shucks off his coat right there at the table and pulls the sweater on over his tunic. “There!” He spreads his hands wide. “How does it look?”

The smile Geralt gives him is answer enough. “Perfect,” he says. “You look perfect.”

“Not bad, bard,” Eskel says.

Lambert shoots him a thumbs up. Vesemir does not appear to be paying attention.

Jaskier leans in and kisses Geralt on the lips. “Thank you very much,” he whispers. “I adore it and promise to thank you more appropriately later tonight. For now, shall I go after Ciri?”

“That may be best,” Geralt says. “I don’t think she likes me much right now.”

“My pleasure. Say,” he says louder, “while I’m gone, don’t let my food get cold.” He opens the door and barely feels the usual chill of the drafty hallways at all. Over his shoulder, he adds, “You can get Lambert to tell you all how he threw me in a snow pile today! It was great fun!”

“I told you—” he hears, but then the door closes behind him.

[lloydskywalkers]

heirloom

first things first, this is entirely the product of the lovely @ninjawhoa‘s artwork, which you can find here (if you haven’t seen it already please give go give them love it’s sO good!!) so full credit to that piece for the inspiration :’D

second things i have a lot of feeling about lloyd. as always. happy birthday green boy i promise this is not entirely angst T-T

Forgotten

Lloyd is six years old and a child, and he cries more than all the other boys at Darkley’s put together.

He cries the first time he skins his knee, the first time he breaks his wrist, the first time the older boys crush the little frogs that live in the pond, the first time someone tells him he’s been forgotten by his family and every time after.

And that’d be okay, maybe. Like Brad putting fire ants in his bed the first night, it was only that first time. Lloyd learned to expect pranks after that and everything was fine. He learned how to act like a Darkley’s boy and eventually everyone forgot about it. It’s lame that Lloyd cried the first time, but at least it’s just the first time. If he learns to stop after that, then eventually, everyone will forget about it.

But Lloyd, six years old and brimming with his own ocean, doesn’t stop.

“What’s wrong, Garmadon? Gonna cry again?”

Lloyd stares at the frog, its eyes bulging just where its head sticks out from beneath Finn’s shoe. His lip stings, too-sharp teeth biting too tight. Lloyd hates his teeth. They always hurt, like all the times everyone tells him he’s nothing like his father.

“You should’a killed it slower,” another boy chimes in. “He always cries when they start croaking.”

Lloyd’s nails bite into his palms. He likes the frogs’ croaking, usually. It’s why he ended up over by the pond today, ‘cause they’re small and green and he likes how soft they are when they climb all over his hands.

His eyes burn, and one of Lloyd’s sharper teeth breaks through the skin of his lip. He shouldn’t’ve gone to see the frogs today. He shouldn’t’ve ever gone in the first place. If he hadn’t, the other boys wouldn’t’ve come over, and the poor frog wouldn’t be under Finn’s shoe right now. All Lloyd ever does to nice things like frogs is get them killed.

“Huh,” Finn squints at Lloyd, flinty eyes narrowing. “Maybe if I…”

His shoe comes down hard, squashing the frog flat with an ugly squelching sound. There’s a horrible echo of silence, and Lloyd hiccups.

“There we go,” Finn grins. He doesn’t have sharp teeth like Lloyd, but they always look so much crueler than his own ever have when he smiles like that. “Crybaby Garmadon. Can’t believe you’re still at school with us, all you ever do is blubber. What kinda villain are you, anyways?”

Lloyd wants to snap back. There’s not just tears in him, there’s fire too, and he’s the son of the Dark Lord. His blood boils, and for a second he thinks of vengeance—

Then it’s gone, lost in Lloyd’s overflowing ocean, and hot tears streak down his cheeks.

And that’s how it always goes. It’s awful, because Lloyd doesn’t even like crying. It doesn’t make him feel better, and it certainly doesn’t help anything. All it does is get him made fun of — son of the Dark Lord and grandson of the First Spinjitzu Master, and the best Lloyd can be is an embarrassment, crybaby Garmadon with no real friends.

He tries, of course. He tries, he tries so hard, but Lloyd can’t learn to stop. He bruises and breaks inside and out, bleeding but never scarring over. The scrapes on his knees heal up faster than any other boy’s, but inside Lloyd never toughens. He learns to spit fire and venom and pull up a mask, but his skin heals soft and Lloyd’s heart never gets any harder.

Even after he’s left the gates of Darkley’s, anger burning in his gut like a disease, he never stops welling up and running over, spilling out like an unending fountain of misery.

Chosen One

It’s the first time in Lloyd’s life he can remember wearing a color other than black, and he should be happy. He should be excited, ‘cause green’s always been one of his favorite colors and now he gets to wear it all the time, and ninja gi’s are so much more comfy than the stuffy Darkley’s uniforms.

Instead, he just wants to cry.

And he’d though the weapons lighting up were pretty, at first.

The first thing Lloyd does, once the others are distracted enough and there aren’t anymore eyes on him, is bolt. It takes longer than he’d thought, and his eyes nearly burst from pressure, but he probably should’ve expected that. He’s the Green Ninja now, after all.

Lloyd sinks his teeth into his lip, trying desperately not to let the burn in his eyes overflow. He can’t cry now. He’s the Green Ninja, he’s got a destiny, and people with destinies like that don’t cry. The ninja have been talking about the Green Ninja for weeks, Lloyd knows what they expect. They expect a hero, a savior, and now they’re stuck with Lloyd. It’s the least he can do not to cry.

Well, not in front of them, at least.

Lloyd squeezes himself between the pipes in the engine room, crawling into one of the corners as he sniffs thickly. If no one knows he’s crying, then it doesn’t really count, right? If none of the ninja, or Nya, or Uncle Wu, or his dad — if they don’t see him cry, then it doesn’t count. They never have to know. Lloyd will just — he’ll just make sure to be extra quiet, and no one will have to know that the Green Ninja’s a stupid crybaby.

Something hot trickles down his right cheek, and Lloyd bites his lip furiously. He goes to wipe angrily at it, then freezes. The sleeves of the gi he’s wearing are a deep green, soft but sturdy and nicer than anything Lloyd’s ever owned in his whole life. He’s immediately horrified with himself. This is the green gi, everything everybody’s ever wanted, apparently, and Lloyd’s gonna go wiping his tears all over it?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Lloyd scolds himself, sniffing wetly again. He’s only been the Green Ninja for a day and he’s already ruining it.

The pipes creak loudly as someone’s footsteps echo from above, and Lloyd sucks in a breath, drawing his knees up to his chest. He feels a little sick to his stomach, and his heart feels like it decided to start running laps in his chest.

Green Ninja. He’s supposed to save Ninjago. Lloyd can’t even save one tiny frog. How in the world is he supposed to save everyone from his own dad?

The sick feeling grows worse, and Lloyd’s eyes grow blurry. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, refusing to let them well over. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—

“Hey, Lloyd, you in here?”

Lloyd’s eyes snap open, and gasps out a sharp breath of surprise. He immediately claps a hand over his mouth, cursing himself, but it’s too late. Kai’s already tracked him down, squinting at him through the mess of pipes.

“Seriously, you pick here to hide?” Kai frowns. “I could’ve sworn you were claustrophobic.”

Lloyd has no idea what that means, but he wasn’t planning on saying anything back anyways. He buries his face in his arms instead, before Kai gets any ideas about what Lloyd’s doing down here.

“Hey, you uh — you wanna come out, so we can talk about it?”

Lloyd pulls his arms around his head tighter, and doesn’t look up.

Kai groans, sounding defeated. “Fine, I’ll do it your way. Just — gimme a sec.”

Despite himself, Lloyd peeks over his arms, watching as Kai gingerly squeezes himself around the pipes.

“How did you — ow — even get yourself in here — ow, son of — in the first place?”

Lloyd stares with wide eyes as Kai wrenches himself through the last of the pipes, scowling as he brushes his hair back into place. He shakes his head, then sits next to Lloyd with a huff, clearly uncomfortable in the cramped space.

“So, um. You want to. You want to, uh, talk about it? The whole ninja thing?”

Kai winces the moment he finishes speaking, but Lloyd’s too busy biting his lip to care much. Why did Kai have to come now? He’s just starting to think Kai might like having him around, and now he’s gonna see Lloyd crying, and he’s gonna — he’s gonna—

Kai’s eyes widen as he meets Lloyd’s own. “Or, uh, you don’t have to talk. We can just sit here, if you want, but—” He blows his breath out, messing with his hair again. “You’re not alone, okay? And it’s okay to be scared, but you’ve got us, so…maybe you can be…a little less scared.”

Oh. Kai looks pained as he trails off into silence. Lloyd swallows. He can feel the familiar slip of tears down his cheek, but he doesn’t sob. He doesn’t buckle over, or hiccup, he just gives a shuddery little breath and blinks away the blurriness. Kai’s eyes go even wider, and Lloyd watches him scramble for his pockets.

“Aw, kid — um, hold on, I think I’ve got a — wait, no, Zane’s the only one who ever has tissues, um—”

Clearly at a war with himself, Kai finally tugs the edge of his gi sleeve over his hand, and gingerly dabs at Lloyd’s cheek. Lloyd sits frozen, eyes still wet. Despite the awkward way Kai cringes, he’s still gentle as he wipes the tears away. He doesn’t laugh at Lloyd, or call him crybaby, or an embarrassment. He doesn’t even mention the Green Ninja.

Lloyd’s eyes still overflow, but he can’t help but think that maybe — maybe Kai is the kind of person he’d trust with the little frogs. He seems like the kind of person who could get it, maybe.

Leader

Lloyd’s been figuring he’d learn how to stop crying when he gets older. He hadn’t been figuring it’d be so soon.

He grows up, just…much quicker than he thought he would. He also gets taller, and his voice gets deeper, and his legs are too long and his arms are too strong and everyone treats him like he’s the most grown-up kid in the whole entire world.

Well, except for the times the guys and Nya treat him like he’s five, but — those are getting less irritating, the further he gets. But Lloyd’s undeniably older, and he could be alright with that. He’s the Green Ninja, and he is alright with that.

He just wishes he’d gotten used to being the Green Ninja a little longer, before the Golden Ninja got added on top of everything else too.

“You’ve inherited the power of your grandfather,” Uncle Wu — Sensei, when in training, and around important people — tells him, his eyes shining. “It’s an incredible gift, Lloyd. The power of the Ultimate Spinjitzu Master — few have even dreamed of possessing such a thing.”

Well Lloyd’s definitely not one of those few. He’d known about the First Spinjitzu Master, but everything he knows about the Ultimate Spinjitzu Master is a lot more…hand-wavy.

“Hand-wavy is hardly the way to talk about it,” his mother scolds, even as she frowns at his ankle. Things had finally calmed down enough for the others to drag him off to a doctor for it, even though Lloyd had argued it was fine. And it should’ve been — the golden power’s gotta be good for something, and if it can’t even fix the ankle you snapped fighting to get it in the first place then what’s the point?

His mother finishes tying the wrapping off, and Lloyd flinches as his ankle throbs, the thick bandages pulling tight. The reminder of how it had first cracked on the Dark Island still makes him nauseous, but it’s not nearly as bad now. He swallows it back easily, just like he did back when he first woke up with it. This is nothing, compared to climbing the tower. And even then, he barely noticed.

At least broken bones are easier when you’re older, he thinks, dully listening to his uncle and mom argue about the golden power again. He slips out of the room as quietly as he can, hurrying back to where he last saw the others. It’s not like he’s ever really involved in the conversation, anyways. Lloyd gets the golden power whether Lloyd likes the golden power or not, end of discussion. It might’ve been nice to be part of the discussion, but he’s…he’s okay with it. Most of the time.

Lloyd swallows, then shakes his head, trying to smile instead. It’s not that he’s ungrateful, and he doesn’t understand how he’s still so selfish — he’s got a family now, more than he’d ever dreamed of having. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and a few more titles should be easy price to pay.

They just — they feel so heavy, sometimes, all piling on top of each other. Lloyd’s barely began figuring out how he’s supposed to be the Green Ninja, and now he’s got all these other titles to figure out, too?

He kicks dully at the ground. He thought things were supposed to make sense, when you got older.

They don’t, though, and it drives him crazy because they never do. He’s the Golden Ninja then he’s not the Golden Ninja, he’s the Green Ninja but also the elemental master of what’s-it-called, and now Uncle Wu’s calling him leader during training, and Lloyd nearly breaks his neck tripping over his own feet.

It’s not a pretty look, judging by the concerned expressions the others are wearing. Lloyd passes it off as exhaustion, and begs off training for the day instead. There might be a look of concern that passes across Uncle — Sensei Wu’s face, but Lloyd misses it if there is. He’s too busy reeling, spiraling in a dizzying loop as his footsteps take him aimlessly away from the training grounds.

It’s okay, he tells himself. He’s come this far. He’s got so many titles already, what’s one more? And really, compared to Golden Ninja, leader is—

Lloyd’s stomachs turns, and he bites his lip. Well, maybe he’s more frightened than he’d like to admit.

He sucks a breath in, steadying himself. Leader. It can’t be such a scary word forever, right? He can make it work. This is Kai, and Cole, and Jay, and Zane. They’re his family. If he can’t lead them, he may as well hang up the green gi now.

And that’s obviously not an option.

Lloyd takes another steadying breath, and blinks. His eyes sting, but it’s not with any kind of tears. It’s an odd, tinging kind of sting, like the kind that pulses through his fingertips, that sings through his veins. He’d say it’s strength, but it feels more complex than that. Either way, he takes strength from it. Lloyd blinks again, looking back up to the monastery, and his eyes are dry.

He’s older now. He doesn’t cry anymore. His heart might refuse to harden, and he doesn’t doubt it’ll ever stop breaking, but Lloyd’s ocean, overflowing and bleeding over, has finally run out.

Or that’s what he likes to think, at least.

Hero

At this point, Lloyd doesn’t think he’ll be surprised by anything. There’s a benefit in growing his hair and having his voice finally change, other than the obvious — it’s a lot easier to just despair internally now, and hopefully still look like he’s cool and composed.

Not that anything about what Harumi and his father’s done to him is cool, but…Lloyd is better at resigning himself to these things. At least he’s old enough to start the conversations himself, now.

Lloyd still doesn’t know how old he is. He supposes it doesn’t matter as much, now that he knows what’s running through his blood. The days he used to fear it was venom are long-gone and laughable — is the blood of an Oni worse? The blood of a dragon, surely, has to mean something good, but Lloyd is made up of so many pieces he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be now.

He could be bitter, maybe, that he’s gone his whole life not knowing what he is, but bitterness is something that’s never rested long in Lloyd’s heart. Even before the city’s stopped burning and his father’s locked away, it’s hard to hold onto it. He’s never quite been able to shake that. He’s got more scars than he can count now, but his heart still heals soft. Anger isn’t something he can hold onto for very long, and resentment doesn’t work that well when you’re the one that ends up feeling bad.

He doesn’t cry anymore, though. Not after the sky tram. Not when his bones break, not when his father spits in his face, not when Zane freezes the better part of him with hateful eyes. Harumi and her downfall may have scarred him, but part of Lloyd can’t help but be grateful that she’s finally done what Darkley’s never could.

Lloyd’s scarred over, his skin finally toughened.

And yet—

Lloyd hurries away from the streets, sparing the car that’s honked at him a dirty look before tucking his hands against his rain jacket, sheltering his cupped palms from the misting rain. It’s not a bad storm, but it’s enough to turn the sky a silvery gray as he climbs the steps to the monastery, his pace quicker than usual as he cuts a path to the ponds.

He skids a few feet on the wet grass as he goes, biting back a curse as his shoes slip wildly before he catches his balance again, hands still held close to his chest. He breathes a quick sigh of relief, before picking his way over to the nearest of the small ponds that dot the monastery gardens.

“Here you go, little guy,” he murmurs, finally pulling his hands from his jacket, revealing the tiny frog cradled gently in his palms. The poor thing trembles in his hold, still shaking from the near-miss when Lloyd fished him from the worst of Ninjago City’s rush hour traffic. He might’ve missed it himself, had it not been for the slight flash of green along the worn grey pavement.

He lowers himself carefully near the pond, dipping his hands in the shallows of the water. The frog doesn’t move at first, it’s eyes wide and buggy as it shelters in Lloyd’s palms.

“It’s alright,” Lloyd assures it quietly. “It’s safe, here. Promise.”

The frog considers the pond before it, big eyes blinking. Then, in two short hops, it splashes into the water, swimming a few feet before nestling at the edge of a water lily. It lets out a single, happy croak.

Lloyd watches it for a moment longer, his hands still half in the water, raindrops splattering over his jacket sleeves. Finally satisfied that the frog is content, he stands, shaking the water from his hands before remembering he’s soaked from the rain anyways. Sighing, he spares the frog one last glance, his lips curving into a smile as he turns away, wiping rainwater from where it drips down into his eyes.

Lloyd is older than he’d thought he’d get to be and still a child, and he doesn’t cry at all.

Then again, he’s gotten better at finding the bright sides, these days.