#i think i thought that i was better with it now than before and i could look at it objectively

[beloveds-embrace]

Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

[luveline]

𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Spencer gets a bad bout of amnesia. Or, your boyfriend forgets he’s your boyfriend, but he still has a crush on you. [3k]

c: fem, bombshell!reader, head injury, hospitals, amnesia, fluff, spencer can’t believe he bagged you, requested here 

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Spencer wakes to an empty room. 

He lays on a pillow too flat, neck twinging, the back of his eyes throbbing when he moves them.

He takes a deep breath. He struggles to breath through his nose and lets his mouth open for a few big, achy breaths, his mouth dry like he’s been sucking on cotton balls. 

Spencer’s alarmed, without a clue what it is he’s done. He wonders where Gideon is, if the older man came to see him yet. He hopes somebody told his mom he’s okay. 

Maybe Hotch will come to see him. He and Hotch have grown closer while Gideon was on his mandated recovery time; Gideon spends less time in the office now, sticking to lectures, seminars and consults, while Hotch, Morgan and Spencer handle the away cases. Spencer might go as far as to say Hotch likes him. And Morgan can tolerate him now, less grudging when Spencer offers a random fact or statistic to further the case. 

A stab of pain at the back of his head makes itself known.

Spencer doesn’t want to move, but he needs to assess things. He frowns at his arms, naked as they are. His silver watch is missing. A t-shirt that he doesn’t remember buying stretches over his chest. What state are they in, and who dressed him? 

He’s scowling at the window with it’s wide-open blinds and all the sun when the door opens. 

You’re looking at the bags on your arm as you come in. Spencer startles in his blankets —what are you doing here?  Agent L/N, Morgan’s friend and a candidate for the open position on the BAU team. You’re from the Sex Crimes Unit, like Greenaway. 

Spencer flusters every time he sees you, not just because of how kind you’d been the first time you met, or even the easy flirtation you send his way when you cross paths. It’s because you’re possibly the prettiest woman he’s ever met. It’s better when you notice he’s awake and light up like he’s the winning numbers for tonight’s lottery pull. Everything about you illuminates. 

“Hey, babe!” you say, not not yelling as you drop your bags in the seat by the bed and reach for him.

He doesn’t think to move away as you take his face into your hands.

“I’m so glad you’re finally awake, you almost slept for the full twenty four hours.” Your hands are soft. They smell like neroli. When you stroke his cheek and lean down to give him a chaste peck, he almost passes out there and then. “It's a good thing, obviously,” you say, and then kiss him again distractedly. “You heal more when you’re asleep. Or so I’ve heard.” 

You pull away. You have such a nice mouth, but Spencer’s never thought about what it might feel like on his. He doesn’t have the audacity: in what world would you ever kiss him? That’s the joke, right, when you flirt with him in the office? It’s funny because you’d never date him. 

“How are you feeling?” you ask, losing some of your pep. “How’s your head, handsome? You know, there are easier ways to get a haircut.” 

“They cut my hair?” he croaks. 

“Shaved it at the back to stitch you up. Not much, don’t worry. They were pushing for a buzz cut but I put my foot down on that one,” you joke. You nudge his legs aside without worrying about sitting on him as you get comfortable. “It’s not much. You can’t tell.”

“I…” 

“You feeling okay?” you ask softly. Your nice mouth purses. Your eyebrows pinch. They’re cute eyebrows. 

“You look different than the last time I saw you.” 

He doesn’t mean to say it aloud. He’s noticing things now. You’re wearing less powder under your eyes than you used to. You seem to have gained a little weight, and you look good. You didn’t look bad before, but this is different. Your hair isn’t too different, nor your brows, but you’ve begun lining your lips in a new way. Your blush is a subtler hue. Spencer doesn’t claim to know everything about you, but he can say that you look neatly the same each time you visit. 

“It’s hard to sleep when your favourite person in the entire world gets his head cut open,” you say, taking his hand where he’d left it loose in the blankets. 

Your fingers slip into his with ease. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, attempting to swallow his nerves. 

“Of course you can.” 

He licks his lips. “Uh, I think I’m confused. I don’t– I don’t remember what happened, and…” 

“Oh, right. They told me this might happen.” You draw yourself up with a breath. He’s fascinated by the movement, an air of heat around him as you begin rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. “You got hit in the back of the head with a cinder block, honey. Went down like a lead balloon.” You turn your face to show your cheek. “We’re even now on good scares, yeah?” 

You have a scar on your face he’d missed, carefully concealed but yet not invisible. Your hand in his feels so alien he holds it wrong, fingers twined but palms apart. 

“What happened to you?” he asks. 

Your brow crinkles. You go very still. “My cheek?” you ask. 

“What…” 

“Spencer, what’s the last thing you can remember, honey?” you ask, all the horror in the world to be found in your eyes. 

“Uh…” 

“Spencer?” 

He feels sick to his stomach. Without having to be told, you slip off of the bed with two taps of your shoes and reach for the bedpan, thrusting it into his lap. 

His mouth fills with spit. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“No, I don’t think so. Let me get a doctor.” 

“Wait,” he says, clutching the bedpan and pushing his wave of nausea as far down as he can. “Please don’t go.” 

“My face was months ago, honey. I got hit in the face with a hammer, you don’t remember?” you ask incredulously. 

“Why do you keep calling me honey?” he asks. He knows the answer, but it’s not computing. 

Your face drains of any happiness. “I’m going to get a doctor,” you say, shoulders rigidly tight as you exit the room, leaving Spencer in your wake wishing he’d just pretended he knew who you were, just until you kissed him again. 

—

“And he really can’t remember you at all?” Morgan asks. 

You’re a little less startled than you had been, and you’re trying not to punish poor Spencer, but realising your boyfriend forgot years of flirting, and yearning, and friendship —years of kissing in secret and otherwise, years of holding hands, and staying at each other’s places to get that extra time together, even if it was just getting to sleep in the same bed between cases— was a slap. 

“He remembers me,” you say, leg crossed over the other, arm over the railing of Spencer’s bed to hold his hand. “He just doesn’t remember a thing after Gideon came back, after Boston.” 

“I remember when you had hair,” Spencer says to Derek. 

Derek glares at him, “This Spencer doesn’t get to sass me.” 

“But I do eventually?” 

“How come you’re holding hands if he doesn’t know who you are?” Derek asks pointedly. 

You shrug. “We talked about it, didn’t we?” you ask Spencer, who perks up every time you talk, which isn’t unlike your usual Spencer, but whenever he catches himself doing it he flusters. Every time you call him baby he loses his mind. “He doesn’t remember me, but he wants to. And I remember him.” 

“This must be pretty weird for you, kid,” Derek says. 

“Sort of,” Spencer says. 

It’s funny. Now you know Spencer thinks he’s twenty three again, you can’t not notice his shyness and his awkward tries at casualness. You’d forgotten what he was like back then. 

“Wait, does that mean you don’t remember Emily?” Derek asks. 

Spencer frowns. “Uh, no?” 

You sit up in your chair. “Emily’s one of your best friends, honey. She joined the BAU when Greenaway left.”

“Not you?” he asks. 

You dramatise your pain as Derek laughs. “Not me. I didn’t transfer for a long time, unfairly. It’s okay, though, you’ll remember Emily eventually.” 

When you realised Spencer wasn’t as okay as you’d thought, you gathered a gaggle of agitated doctors to assess him. He knew his name and birthday. He was wrong about the date, the president, and the state. You’re in Arizona where he’d thought Indiana. Your bag talks to the heat: Spencer’s fan, his sunblock, his antihistamines. He couldn’t believe it when he asked where his stuff was and you passed him your handbag. 

You’re trying to drive home to him that you’re not just dating, you're common-law partners, Spence. He adores you. You’d spend life in his lap if you could afford it. 

“How’d she get you to believe her?” Derek asks Spencer. 

“Uh.” 

“I kissed him a couple of times before he came clean about the amnesia,” you say. “So I didn’t have to explain.” 

“I didn’t mean to lie,” Spencer says. 

He’s looking less haggard now you’ve brushed his hair. It was sweet to watch his shoulders relax. He shuddered when you tucked a strand behind his ears, and didn’t flinch when you asked if you could kiss his cheek. It’s hard to have him vulnerable here and not be allowed to lick his wounds for him. You feel better the better he feels. You’ve fluffed his pillow, wrapped him tighter in blankets. When he got up to pee and you offered to help, he gave a resolute No Thank You, which in hindsight is hilarious but at the time made you wanna squeeze your eyes out. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly, “I don’t mind kissing him, even if he doesn’t remember me. Just so long as he doesn’t mind it back.”

Spencer manages to squeeze your hand. It’s a soft one, but it’s real. “I don’t mind.” 

“You dog,” Derek says. 

“Stop, stop. He’s not doing anything wrong, is he?” you ask. “I’m the evil one, forcing kisses on him when he doesn’t know me.” 

“I do know you,” Spencer says. 

“What’s it like to have a crush on your own girlfriend?” Derek asks, unwilling to quit his teasing where he’s crossing his arms in the chair opposite, his cup of coffee drained on the side table. 

Spencer swallows. “Uh, nerve-wracking.” 

“Believe it or not, that’s not so different to now,” Derek says. 

Spencer looks to you for confirmation, which you love. You slide your chair closer to him and clasp his wrist with your free hand. “Sometimes you're still a little shy, but it’s not so bad. Full of myself I may be, Spencer Reid, but you do love me. It’s easy with us.” 

“Do we really live together?” he asks. “You said common-law.” 

“Not technically. I stay at your place four nights a week. You stay with me for the weekends.” 

“Every week?” he asks.

“Yeah.” 

“We’re never apart?” he asks. 

His face is turning pink. You could kiss every bit of colour on his cheeks. 

“Derek, would you get Spencer something to eat from the cafeteria? Please?” you ask, levelling your friend with a pleading gaze. 

Derek gathers himself up. “Sure. We gotta feed the string bean something, don’t we?” he asks. 

Alone again, you draw lines up and down Spencer’s arm with your nails. You’re going to be indulgent in yourself, and ask him everything you’d ever wanted to know. And then a little extra, too. 

“You’re not as skinny anymore, have you noticed? You’re quite lean.” You stand to sit where you’d put yourself before he confessed. Your hand falls to his knee. “Solid, sometimes. You and Derek go for walks occasionally.” 

“We do?” 

“Mm-hm. And me and you do yoga in the living room when we can be bothered. We tried couples Pilates, but Pilates is hard.” 

“We did?”

You smile warmly. “It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves in the same way.” 

“How do you love?” 

His ears are bitten-red. “Oh, you know. I’m too affectionate. It’s hard not to be with you. Everyone used to think we were… I don’t know, playing a game.” You slide your hand up his thigh, leaning on him to watch his pupils blow. “But I love you for far more than your propensity to blush. You get me flowers every time you see my favourites, and you never let me go to sleep without a kiss. Usually here.” You poke the skin beside your eye. “But sometimes you’ll surprise me and kiss my nose.” You're going lax with love, remembering things he’s done, and does every day.  “On a Saturday morning we make tea and I put my hands in your t-shirt. You do the crosswords for fun. Sometimes we time them.” 

“That’s not how you love, that’s what you love,” Spencer says. 

“Oh, you want a play by play of things?” He ducks his chin, but he smiles when you laugh. 

“I just can’t believe this is happening.”

You try to think of things you don’t think about anymore. “You love my sugar lip gloss, so I always wear it.” 

He reaches out tentatively. Shy as a wren in a hedgerow. You let him curl a hand over your elbow, feel the crook of it with his index finger. 

“I buy you stamps, and t-shirts for bed, and stupid stuff you wouldn’t get yourself. We’re… it’s like, it doesn’t feel like gift giving anymore because we’re always getting stuff for each other. You’re just as sweet, you know? When I first started sleeping over you bought me this huge pack of socks ‘cos yours are all odd,” you laugh. “I knew I loved you already, but…”

It’s a little sad, actually. He can’t remember all the stuff that makes you the couple you are. It’s not what you’d meant to get into. 

“Can I ask you something?” you ask. 

“Anything.” 

He’s slept-in and breathless, like he ran laps in his dreams. 

“What do you think of me now? I always wondered if you liked me back then, or if I just caught you off guard.” 

“Who wouldn’t like you?” 

“But did you?” 

He looks away hurriedly, his hand dropping from your elbow. “I guess so. But it’s not– not real. I have a crush on you.” His mumbling is sweet. “I have no idea why I’m telling you that.” 

“I had a crush on you, too, back then. It wasn’t anything serious, but it was real. And the more time we spent together, the more I thought we could fall in love,” —you take his hand and put it back on your arm— “and we did.” 

You toy with his fingers. Without looking, ashamed of your own self-indulgence, you ask another question. “What do you think of me now?” 

“I can’t remember,” he says sorrily. 

“What do you think?” 

“You feel like a dream.” He shakes his head. “You’re, like, the most beautiful girl in the world. I don’t really get how this is real.” 

You shouldn’t be surprised that he’d say it, you practically begged for it, but you can’t stop yourself from sitting up to kiss his forehead gently. “It’s real. Promise. And for the record, you’re handsome. They stopped saying ‘aged like fine wine’ a while ago. Now they just say ‘aged like Spencer Reid’.”

He gives a choky laugh. 

The door opens again. You lift your head expecting Derek and find a weather worm Hotch in the doorway. “Reid, you’re awake,” he says, not bothering with a smile. “Morgan said you have amnesia?” He directs it at both of you. 

Spencer’s looking at Hotch in clear shock. 

“He hasn’t aged that badly,” you chastise teasingly. 

“Hotch, you’re– I thought you would’ve–”

Hotch squints. “You didn’t think I had the stamina for it?” 

Spencer squirms under his gaze. “No, sir, it’s not that–”

“Sir,” Hotch says, and then he smiles. “I forgot when you both used to respect me.” 

“I have the utmost respect for you, sir,” you say through your own smile. 

“Has she been kind to you, Reid?” 

“Uh, yes? Is she not usually?” 

Hotch presses his lips together rather than answer. There’s a sympathy in his expression you resent.

—

It’s a thankfully quick bout of amnesia. The memories start to draw in like a dusting of powdered sugar, his head finely silted, one particle at a time. He finds that the more you talk, the quicker his memory is jogged. You tell him about your first kiss —I tried to kiss your cheek but you moved, it was the funniest thing— and your second. You spin stories of cases, the worst ones and the best, all the times you held hands without people knowing, the times you’d been caught. He can’t imagine it, goes hot with the memory, picturing kissing you as you’d described and the mortification of being walked in on. 

You tell him about your vacation to Nevada a few months ago and he thinks about how you’d fallen asleep on the plane. Your nose in his arm, your unhappy sigh at the tight leg space. 

Remembering you is more than half of remembering himself.

Your hands —his hands. Your smile —his laugh. The way you fold his hands in your lap —the urge to catch your chin for a kiss. 

He doesn’t know how to deal with it, and then suddenly he feels like Spencer. Your partner, your love, his proudest title for years. You’re standing at the end of the hospital bed in pajamas folding your clothes, allowed to stay the night while he’s so urgently confused and upset, you can’t make him stay here alone, please, I know you guys have those little cots for the kids ward, and he just knows you completely. 

Hours of diligent if embezzled storytelling gives it all back to him. 

“I like the lipgloss because you used to wear that perfume that smelled like sugar donuts,” he says, scratching a hand through limp hair. “And every time I crossed the square by the station–”

You let out a surprising squeal of joy. “Spencer!” you say, racing to take his hands, “Yes! The donut truck!” 

You go in for a kiss he gladly returns. “Oh, you remember,” you say, softening as he takes your neck into his hand. “I was getting worried.” 

“Some of it’s still hazy. But not so much you.” 

You wrap your arms around him for a hug, careful of his sore head. “I missed you, Spencer. I still loved you when you couldn’t remember me, but I missed you. Do you remember you?” 

He traces the scar on your lower cheek with his thumb. He’s genuinely relieved to be able to say he does. He’s not scared of what you think of him anymore, ‘cos he knows that everything he feels for you is mutual. “I remember you telling me my bad feeling was just a case of the heebies.” 

You bend into his touch. “Honey, I’m sorry. How was I supposed to know you’d get your skull whacked with a cinder block? It was a bakery.” You kiss his nose quickly. “I’m so glad you’re you. Now I can sleep in the bed with you, and not that collapsible camping cot.” 

He shushes you. “Don’t give us away. They’re not gonna let you stay if they think I’m fine.” 

You giggle excitedly, arms around him again for another squeeze. “I missed you so much. You’re so tricky now.” 

He rubs your back. “I missed you too. And I still have a crush on you, I swear.”

“Thank you, honey, that means a lot to me.” 

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thanks for reading!

[no-144444]

sweating- o.piastri

summary: oscar has been acting strange

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! Brown! reader

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Zak had been worried about Oscar for a while. The far-off looks in meetings, the silence at dinners, the constant stares he was getting, all of it. He’d even been so worried, that he came to you, and you’d told him that Oscar had been just fine at home, so it must be something to do with work. 

It was a strange thing, to be dating your boss’s daughter. Oscar had in fact fallen for you within seconds of meeting you back in 2022, his first visit to MTC, before everything else happened. You, a legal trainee on the McLaren legal team, was the one running him through his contract, and he was very thankful that his lawyer was there to ask questions, because he was just focused on you. As he joined the team, you two got closer. About half way through his rookie season, he finally plucked up the courage to ask you out, and you had said yes. What ensued was a few months of sneaking around until you finally told your dad, who supported you two, but from afar. He liked Oscar, would he have preferred you pick someone that wasn’t his driver, yes, very much so, but he didn’t have a say in your life. You were an adult and if you wanted to go get your heart broken by an F1 driver, that was up to you. The one thing Zak hadn’t accounted for was the fact that Oscar was a sweetheart who was genuinely head over heels for you. He saw it when you were in the paddock, how Oscar smiled a little brighter, how he made you a priority all weekend, how he performed better. 

So what the fuck was going on with Oscar now? 

Zak was worried that he was planning on breaking up with you, or maybe he was just going through some mental roadblocks at work, so he called him into his office. 

Oscar awkwardly took a seat across from him, waiting to be addressed. 

“Are you alright, Osc? You seem a bit… off lately,” Zak asked, nothing but concern in his voice. 

Oscar shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, but even he knew it sounded wrong. This is really not how he wanted this to go. He was insured of Zak’s worry by the way his brows furrowed. “You can talk to me kid, you know that right? If it’s about Y/n or-”

“It’s not about Y/n,” Oscar assured him. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Oscar, talk to me, I’m here for you. If you’re going through something-”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask for your blessing!” he admitted, speaking far too loud and far too fast. Oscar looked up to see Zak’s face blank, his jaw slightly dropped. “I’m so sorry-”

“You have it,” he said. Now it was Oscar’s jaw that dropped. “Of course you have it,” Zak’s lips turned into a smile. “She adores you. You clearly adore her. I love you, my wife loves you, my sons love you. Of course you have my blessing.”

He took a deep breath and smiled. “Thank you,” he chuckled. “God, I was terrified.”

“You thought I’d say no?”

Oscar shrugged. “Maybe?” 

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Zak was very happy when he woke up to a call from the two of you, engaged, a few weeks later.

oscarpiastri

liked by pierregasly, zbrownceo, landonorris and 348,928 others

oscarpiastri: awesome season, can't wait to marry this girl though :)

comments

landonorris: OMFG YALL ARE YOUNGER THAN ME PLZ SLOW DOWN -> oscarpiastri: no more papaya rules 🤷

pierregalsy: too young -> kikagomez: bitch -> user92: lmao he's never said that before

zbrownceo: Congrats guys! Can't wait to walk you down the aisle!

charlesleclerc: MY SON IS GETTING MARRIED!!!!!! -> oscarpiastri: thank you adoptive father :)

user93: god she is GLOWING

user12: these are the cutest photos ever!!!!!!!

user8: THE RINGGGGG

lilymunihe: OMG I'M SO EXCITED!!!! ->youruser: OMG LOVE YOUUUUU

user98: they're so in love it's actually sickening

logansargeant: no ring picking creds? -> oscarpiastri: I don't think grimacing at every ring I chose was very helpful -> hattiepiastri: nah, but it was funny

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[cressidagrey]

Holy Ground - Chapter 5

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

“You want to talk about it?” Her mate asked her flatly and Mor couldn’t help but grimace.

"No," Mor said simply, her tone clipped. She had been hoping to avoid this conversation, but it seemed as though Emerie was not willing to let her off that easily. "There's nothing to talk about."

Her mate just snorted. “Yeah, absolutely nothing,” she said sarcastically. “How about the fact that the male that spend 500 years being in love with you, met his mate 2 years ago and hasn’t said a single thing about it to any member of his family?”

"What do you want me to say, Em?" she asked with a sigh.

At the start…before Nesta had forced her to actually confront what she was feeling…Before she actually thought about the fact, that no…it wasn’t actually funny for Azriel to keep their mate from them…and it also wasn’t normal for him. Of course, Azriel liked his privacy, it was something that he fiercely guarded, but he was also…he wouldn’t have actually hidden away his mate from his family. He would have introduced her, would have invited her to birthdays and Winter Solstice and Starfall…

But he hadn’t. 

He had rather hidden away every trace of that relationship than actually talk to any of them about it. 

“Nesta told me that she laid into you,” Emerie said with a shrug. “You did use Azriel, you know that, Mor.”

Mor's expression hardened at Emerie's words. 

Emerie was right. She had used him. 

Of course, at the time…she had been desperate, afraid of the feelings that she had been having…willing to hide them… but the way she had gone about it hadn’t been…It hadn’t been fair. 

She just didn’t like to reflect on that. 

"It doesn't matter now, Em," she said flatly. "It's in the past."

“Is it?” Emerie asked, sharply. “You never tried to actually talk to Azriel about it. You just expected him to be alright with it. Alright with us,” she continued. “He has never once been anything but polite to me, but quite frankly he would have had every right to be pissed off.”

Mor just so managed not to grimace. 

Not a single word. Not a single gesture. Nothing but politeness and kindness had come from Azriel after her and Emerie’s mating bond had snapped. Nothing. 

"You don't think I know that? You don't think I'm racked with guilt every damn day?" she asked her mate, turning away from from Emerie, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "I know that I hurt him, Em. I know that I used him. But what do you want me to do about it now? It's in the past, it's done. I can't change it."

Emerie was silent for a moment, her expression softening slightly. "You can apologize," she said softly. "You can try to mend what you broke. And maybe, just maybe, he'll forgive you."

Mor let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Apologize? For what?" she asked, her voice dripping with self-mockery. "For using him? For making him think he had a chance with me when he never did? For breaking his heart when I knew damn well how he felt about me?"

Emerie's expression hardened again. "Yes," she said firmly. "For all of those things. Because at the end of the day, Mor, you used him. And he deserves better than that."

Mor's shoulders slumped, the fight leaving her all at once. She knew that Emerie was right. She knew that she had been selfish, that she had hurt Azriel in a way that could never be undone. But the thought of facing him, of admitting her mistakes and opening herself up to the pain and rejection that surely awaited her…it was terrifying.

“I imagine he had a few very good reasons to keep Irena a secret from all of us,” Emerie said softly. “Regardless of what feelings he once harboured for you…he was always your friend, Mor. And he kept his mate a secret from you.”

Mor sighed, her shoulders slumped. "I know," she said softly. "I know. I thought it was jsut Az being Az but it’s not, is it?”

Emerie reached out, placing a gentle hand on Mor's arm. "No," she said softly. "It's not. It's him protecting something that he loves. And I don't blame him for that."

***

“Are you hungry?” Azriel asked his mate softly.

Madja had checked on her the evening before…had told her to keep off her leg for a few days and plied her with more potions, bandages the bruises again… given her more sleeping draught. It hasn’t stopped Irena from waking up twice with nightmares.

"No," Irena said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't have much of an appetite." She looked pale, her eyes dull and lacking their usual sparkle. It was clear that she hadn't slept well, and his heart ached at the sight of her discomfort.

Shock had dissipated and left his mate…grieving and sad and Azriel curled himself tighter around her.

He could feel the weight of her sadness and grief, and it broke his heart to see her this way. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, holding her close and hoping to offer some comfort and support.

“You need to eat something, love,” he insisted softly. “Whatever you want.” 

He really didn’t care if all she had in her stomach were her favourite cookies, at least that would be something. 

Irena shook her head, burying her face in his chest. "I don't want anything," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. "Just...just stay here with me."

Azriel's heart tugged at her words, and he pulled her even closer, cradling her against him. "Of course," he whispered, his lips brushing the top of her head. "I'm not going anywhere, love,” he promised her fiercely. “But you still need to eat something,” he whispered. “How about the shadows get you one of those blueberry pastries you like?”

Irena sighed, snuggling deeper into his embrace. "Alright," she said softly. "I do love those pastries." She looked up at him, her eyes still dull but a small hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He didn’t even need to order the shadows to do anything, they had one of her favourite blueberry pastries on a plate on the bed side table in a breath. *Please tell me you left the money,* he told them mentally.

The shadows seemed almost indignant. *Of course we left it. Do you think we're thieves?* Azriel smiled at their tone."

"Of course not," he said aloud, reaching for the pastry and offering it to Irena. "You're just very efficient." The shadows swirled around him almost smugly at the praise, and he shook his head with a chuckle.

“Thank you,” Irena thanked them softly. The shadows preened.

Azriel chuckled again, watching as the shadows swirled around Irena, as if basking in her gratitude. It was cute how they seemed almost puppy-like in their desire for her attention. 

He was amazed, as always, by how much the shadows adored her.

He had never expected them to warm up to anyone else, especially not as quickly as they had to his mate. 

Suddenly…as soon as he had properly introduced his shadows to her…as soon as it was clear that she wasn’t going to start flinching away from them or from him if they showed up to badger her…as soon as that was clear, they had started to dote on her. Seemingly so pleased that there was another person that wasn’t scared off them. 

The shadows and Irena had formed a bond that defied explanation, and it made Azriel so happy to see the two things he cherished most in the world getting along so well.

(Even if he sometimes got jealous that the shadows never had doted on him like they did on Irena. He got porridge for breakfast but Irena got the ridiculous expensive pastries from the newest high end bakery. Irena got bubble bath, while he only got salt dumped into his bath water and got told that it was good for his muscles.) 

He watched as the shadows swirled around Irena, nuzzling against her like cats seeking affection. Irena laughed softly as they tickled at her ears and played with her hair.

He knew that his shadows were often feared and misunderstood, but with Irena they were playful and affectionate. It was like she had unlocked a whole new side of them, and he couldn't help but smile at the sight of them interacting so sweetly with her.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "I never thought I'd see the day when my shadows would be so smitten," he teased, his lips curving into a small smile. "I should be jealous, but I can't help but find it adorable."

Irena laughed, her eyes sparkling for the first time that day. "They're so sweet," she said, reaching up to brush her fingers through the shadows that surrounded her. "It's like they're a different side of you."

Azriel chuckled, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "I guess they are a part of me, in a way," he said. "And they seem to have a mind of their own, especially when it comes to you." He watched as the shadows nuzzled against her cheek, almost vying for her attention.

"They're quite taken with you," he said with a grin. "I don't blame them. Still, it's strange to see them so affectionate towards someone else." He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

"But it makes me happy to see them like this," he said softly, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "It's like you're bringing out a side of them that I never knew existed. And it's a beautiful thing to witness." He leaned in, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead. "Just like you."

There was a knock at the door.

*The High Lord and the Ancient One,* the shadows offered. *And the healer.*

*I’ll deal with them,* Azriel said with a snort.

“Finish your breakfast, alright?“ he told Irena softly as he slid out of the bed. Irena nodded, a small smile on her face. 

"Thank you," she said softly, watching as he got up to answer the door.

“Madja,” he greeted the healer drily. “Irena just had breakfast. The bruises are already lightening,” he reported.

Madja nodded, her expression softening slightly. "Good," she said. "Keep an eye on her for the next couple of days, make sure she takes it easy. The leg needs to heal properly." He opened the door further, letting Madja slip in, and could just hear, "How are you feeling, my dear?" From Madja and Irena’s soft answer.

Which meant that Azriel turned towards his brother. “What do you want?” He demanded from Rhys, his voice sharp. 

Rhys held his hands up in surrender. "Calm down, Az," he said, his voice low. "I just wanted to check on Irena. Amren looked at the spellbook that Merrill was using,” Rhys explained.

“And?” Azriel asked flatly.

Did it actually matter? Merrill had been stupid and arrogant and a thousand other things. The spell didn’t seem to have done anything to Irena…her injuries had been thanks to the debris that had resulted in the spell going absolutely haywire, killing Merrill and seemingly exploding her office. 

“It was written in a language I do not know, but the best match is ancient Illyrian,” Amren gave back drily. 

Azriel's expression darkened at Amren's words. "Ancient Illyrian?" he repeated, his mind racing. "That can't be good."

Not at all. He didn’t even want to think about what his ancestors had come up with. 

"It seems to be a very old dialect," Rhys explained. "One that hasn't been spoken or written in centuries. It'll take some time to decipher it, but we're working on…”

“It seems to be a healing spell. Probably used in childbirth,” Amren cut him off. “When it didn’t find a pregnant female to latch onto, it redoubled back onto Merrill.”

"So Merrill's own spell backfired on her," Azriel mused. "And Irena got caught in the crossfire." He rubbed a hand over his face. “Has the spell done anything to Irena?” He demanded.

“Madja didn’t think so,” Rhys said carefully. “I wanted to check on Irena if that’s alright with you.”

He crossed his arms, not willing to entertain that even for a moment. 

“No,” he said flatly. 

“Let him in, Azriel,” his mate said softly, and he turned towards her, staring at Irena. 

The shadows were already dragging a fur around her shoulders, fluffing the pillows behind her, as Madja bandaged her leg.

Irena met his gaze, raising an eyebrow at him. 

He didn’t want Rhys anywhere near her, Azriel was certain of that. And still…an still…

“Fine,” Azriel growled, stepping aside to let Rhys through. "Don't overstay your welcome," he warned Rhys. 

Rhys nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips at Azriel's protectiveness. He clapped a hand on Azriel's shoulder reassuringly. "I won't stay long," he reassured his brother. "I just want to make sure she's alright."

Amren rolled her eyes, but for once didn’t say another word as Azriel closed the door. 

“High Lord,” Irena greeted Rhys, every inch the perfect lady even while she was laid up in her bed.

Rhys inclined his head, smiling gently at Irena, while Azriel already crossed the room to sit at her bedside, taking her hand in both of his. She reassuringly squeezed it. 

"How are you feeling?" Rhys asked her. 

Irena gave him a small smile, shrugging her shoulders a little. "I've been better," she admitted. "But I'm healing, I suppose." She gestured to the leg, Madja was bandaging once again.  "Madja says I'll be good as new in a few days. And I’ve had worse,” she added flatly.

Rhys chuckled softly, his eyes softening with concern. "I don't doubt it," he said. "But still, it must have been quite a harrowing experience." He paused for a moment, looking at her intently. "I wanted to speak to you about what happened," he said gently. "If you feel up to it, of course."

Irena nodded, steeling herself for whatever questions Rhys might have. "Go ahead," she said quietly.

"I just wanted to ask you about what you saw when the spell hit you," Rhys said carefully. "Do you remember anything after the initial blast? Could you show me?”

“No.” Azriel snapped. “You are not going read her mind, Rhysand.” Not in a million years. 

He nearly bared his teeth at his High Lord in annoyance, already regretting letting him into their room. 

Irena was healing.

Rhys held up his hands in surrender, his eyes flickering to Azriel for a moment. "I wasn't going to do anything without her permission,  brother," he assured him calmly.

“It’s alright,” Irena agreed with him. “It’s fine, Azriel,” she assured him softly.  Azriel tensed for a moment, torn between wanting to protect her and respecting her wishes. "I want to do this." She turned her attention back to Rhys. "Go ahead."

Rhys nodded, his expression serious. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice low. "It might be difficult to recall the memories, but I need you to try."

Irena just inclined her head. "I'm sure," she said firmly. "Just...just go ahead."

Azriel watched, holding her hand tightly. Rhys was well trained at using his daemati abilities, but that didn’t mean that…

A moment later a soft shudder run through his mate, and Azriel growled. 

“Thank you, Irena,” Rhys said quickly, clearly already withdrawing from her mind.

“What kind of spell was it?” Itena asked her voice hoarse. 

Rhys sighed, "The spellbook was written in some kin of ancient language, we think some dialect of Illyrian. The spell itself was healing spell, probably used for childbirth," he explained. "The magic was searching for a pregnant female to latch onto, but when it couldn’t find one, it became more volatile," he said, his expression grave. "And that's when it found you, Irena. It was a complete accident, but the effects were still devastating."

“Did it do…anything to me?” Irena asked Madja quietly.

Madja looked up from the bandages she was applying to Irena's leg, her expression softening as she took in Irena's worried expression.

Madja studied her for a moment, her eyes flickering over the various scrapes and bruises on Irena's body. "Not as far as I can tell,” Madja said finally. "You're healing nicely, and there are no lasting effects to your body that I can see.”

It was something. It was reassuring to know that her physical injuries were being healed, and that there were no lasting effects.

Azriel squeezed Irena's hand, relief flooding through him at Madja's words. 

It was good. Some form of healing being found…

And the last thing Azriel had expected, where Irena’s next words, as she addressed Rhysand. 

“I’ll hand over my duties to Madja, as soon as I can,” Irena said softly. “I am aware that after what happened I am no longer suitable to make any more research involved decisions. I take full responsibility for what happened.“

Her voice was even, measured. Calm. 

Even when he could see the storm in her eyes…even when he could see…

She loved her job. He knew that she loved her job. She adored it in fact. And she excelled in it too. Irena seeme to be made for her job in the House of Wind. And to hear her contemplating giving it all up, just because of an accident that hadn’t been her fault at all…

Azriel opened his mouth to protest but Rhys spoke before he could say anything. "That won't be necessary," Rhys said firmly. "Irena, what happened was a complete accident. You had no control over what happened, and we all know that." He shook his head, his expression serious. "You can't blame yourself for what happened."

Rhys leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent on Irena. "If anyone is to blame, it's Merrill," he said softly. "She was the one who was messing with magic beyond her understanding, she didn’t follow your orders and she was the one who unleashed that spell. You were just an innocent bystander in all of this."

He paused, looking between Azriel and Irena, his expression softening. "We will need to take precautions going forward, so nothing like that can ever happen again." he said carefully. "But we can figure that out together. And you do not need to give up your duties, Irena. We need you."

Irena looked down at the blankets in her lap, her fingers fiddling with a loose thread. "But what if something like this does happen again?" she asked softly.

Rhys shook his head, his expression firm. "It won't," he said, his voice filled with conviction. “None of what happened was your fault,” Rhys repeated firmly.

Azriel nodded in agreement, his grip on Irena's hand tightening. "He's right," he said gruffly. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, love. This is on Merrill, not on you. "

“And you can’t quit because otherwise we’ll all drown under paperwork. Well, more than we already do,” Rhys said with a sigh.

Irena chuckled softly, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "Well, I suppose I can't let that happen," she said wryly. "I can’t let the high Lord deal with even more paperwork, can I?“ she said drily.

Rhys moved to stand but then he suddenly froze. “You have been doing this on purpose,” he suddenly said, staring at her.

“Doing what?” Irena asked, cocking the head to the side. “Make sure that the library generates plenty of paperwork that needs the High Lord’s personal attention?”Rhys stared at her for a moment, his expression a mixture of surprise and awe. 

"You really are quite devious, aren’t you?" he said with a small laugh. "I never would have thought you’d be using your job specifically to ensure that I spend even more time doing paperwork."

“I don’t.” Irena said flatly. “It was petty revenge.”

Rhys chuckled, shaking his head. "Petty revenge?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "What on earth did I do to deserve such punishment?"

Irena just stared at him for a moment. “Maybe you should think a bout how you have been treating my mate.”

What? 

Azriel had had no clue that…

Azriel hadn’t known about that. Hadn’t had the faintest inkling. 

Irena had been making sure that Rhys had more paperwork to go through?!

Rhys looked at him for a moment before sighing, rubbing a hand over his face. "I suppose I deserved that one," he admitted. 

Azriel just grunted, his expression flat. "You deserved a lot more than that," he muttered. But there was no real anger in his voice. He was too tired for anger at Rhys. All he cared about right now was Irena. 

“You really are a perfect match,” Rhys said with some amusement. “And I do owe Azriel an apology,” he said simply. "I’ve been harsh on you, Azriel. And I haven’t been fair. I’ve been treating you like a tool, instead of like a brother, and I owe you an apology for that.”

Azriel was taken aback by Rhys's words. He had grown used to the way Rhys treated him - as a weapon first, and a brother second. Hearing Rhys acknowledge his mistakes was…certainly unexpected, and it left him feeling a little off-balance.

He paused for a moment, his mind racing as he tried to figure out how to respond. Finally he looked up at Rhys, his expression serious. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate the apology."

Rhys nodded, his expression sincere. "I mean it," he said quietly. "I'll do better moving forward."

[goldfades]

HER PRINCESS ─── PAIGE BUECKERS

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫�� 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | request: P taking care of the reader and being extra sweet to her, like reader is being a pouty whiny baby and p is just laughing and teasing her ab it but also being the sweetest most caring gf doing everything her princess asks for) for @wanderlusturous

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | mentions of period cramps, paige being the sweetest gf ever, reader being dramatic, friendly teasing, nothing else but sweetness!

The soft click of the front door opening pulls you from your half-asleep haze. You’re sprawled out on the bed, face buried in the pillow, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets like the pouty, neglected girlfriend you are. Paige’s practice ran late—again—and even though you know it’s not her fault, it’s easier to sulk than to be reasonable.

“Baby, I’m home!” Her voice carries through the apartment, light and a little breathless. There’s a shuffle of sneakers being kicked off and the familiar jingle of her keys landing in the dish by the door.

You don’t answer. Not because you didn’t hear her, but because being dramatic feels like the only appropriate response to spending all day missing her.

Seconds later, the bedroom door creaks open, and there she is. Paige stands in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, her hoodie a little damp from sweat. Her hair’s pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her cheeks are still pink from exertion. You catch her grin the second she spots you moping on the bed.

“Oh no,” she teases, voice dripping with mock concern. “It’s worse than I thought. My princess is in full-on pout mode.”

You groan, rolling over just enough to glare at her. “Don’t call me that.” The words come out muffled through the blankets, hardly convincing.

Paige just laughs, dropping her bag on the floor before walking over. She leans down, resting her hands on the mattress, her face hovering inches from yours. “You’re right. Maybe I should call you grumpy-pants instead.”

“Paige,” you whine, turning your head away, which only makes her laugh harder. Her familiar scent—something clean and faintly floral—follows her as she crawls onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.

“You missed me, huh?” she says softly, tugging gently at the blanket wrapped around you. You try to swat her hand away, but it’s useless—she’s persistent. “Come on, don’t be mad. I’m here now.”

When she finally manages to pull the blanket down far enough to reveal your face, she looks at you with such a warm, adoring smile that it’s hard to stay annoyed. Paige Bueckers, MVP of making you feel like the most loved human on the planet, even when she’s being a total pest.

Paige’s grin widens when she catches sight of your pout. She’s so close you can see the little flecks of gold in her blue eyes, and the way her damp lashes stick together. Her cheeks are still slightly flushed, not just from practice but from the effort of teasing you into a better mood.

“You’re so cute when you’re all grumpy,” she coos, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. Her fingertips are warm against your skin, and despite yourself, you lean into her touch ever so slightly. She notices, of course, because she notices everything, and her smirk turns smug. “Aww, see? You can’t stay mad at me.”

“Try me,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest in a last-ditch effort to look unbothered. It’s a weak attempt. Paige knows she’s already winning.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she says, voice dropping into that playful, teasing tone that makes your stomach do flips. She shifts to sit cross-legged beside you, her body radiating warmth, and pulls your blanket fortress down further, exposing your pajama-clad form to the cool air. You squeak in protest, trying to grab it back, but Paige just laughs, easily dodging your attempts.

“Paige! I’m cold!” you whine, dragging the syllables out as dramatically as possible.

“You’re not cold,” she counters, leaning down so her face is level with yours. Her lips are barely an inch from your ear when she whispers, “You just want attention.”

The accusation makes your cheeks burn, but you refuse to admit it. Instead, you turn your head to glare at her, only to find her looking at you with such fondness it makes your heart squeeze. Her teasing may drive you crazy, but it’s never mean—always laced with that endless well of affection she has for you.

“Okay, okay,” she relents, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll stop being annoying. What does my needy girl want?”

You hesitate, biting your lip as you try to decide between staying stubborn or giving in. Paige raises an eyebrow, waiting patiently like she has all the time in the world, and you know she does. No matter how busy her day has been, Paige always makes it clear that when she’s with you, she’s with you—no distractions, no half-listening, just you and her.

Finally, you mumble, “I want cuddles. And snacks.”

“Snacks, huh?” Paige chuckles, but she’s already sliding off the bed, her socked feet making no sound against the floor. “Anything for my princess. Stay here—I’ll be right back.”

This time, you don’t protest the nickname. You watch as she disappears into the kitchen, humming softly to herself. Her hair bounces with every step, the ponytail swinging as she moves with that effortless grace she always has, even when she’s been on her feet all day.

Moments later, she returns with an assortment of snacks balanced in her arms—your favorite chips, a chocolate bar, and even a glass of water because, as she always reminds you, “You need to stay hydrated, babe.” She sets everything on the nightstand with a satisfied grin before crawling back onto the bed.

“Okay, princess,” she says, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Snacks, check. Cuddles, incoming. Anything else?”

You pretend to think for a moment, then look up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Maybe... a massage?”

Paige groans dramatically, throwing her head back as if you’ve asked her to climb Mount Everest. “You’re so high-maintenance,” she teases, but her hands are already reaching for your shoulders.

And just like that, the annoyance of her long day away melts into the warmth of her presence, the comfort of her touch, and the steady rhythm of her laughter filling the room.

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[pfaugh]

From "They Thought They Were Free" by Milton Mayer (1966)

A chemical engineer by profession, he was a man of whom, before I knew him, I had been told, “He is one of those rare birds among Germans—a European.” One day, when we had become very friendly, I said to him, “Tell me now—how was the world lost?”

“That,” he said, “is easy to tell, much easier than you may suppose. The world was lost one day in 1935, here in Germany. It was I who lost it, and I will tell you how.

“I was employed in a defense plant (a war plant, of course, but they were always called defense plants). That was the year of the National Defense Law, the law of ‘total conscription.’ Under the law I was required to take the oath of fidelity. I said I would not; I opposed it in conscience. I was given twenty-four hours to ‘think it over.’ In those twenty-four hours I lost the world.”

“Yes?” I said.

“You see, refusal would have meant the loss of my job, of course, not prison or anything like that. (Later on, the penalty was worse, but this was only 1935.) But losing my job would have meant that I could not get another. Wherever I went I should be asked why I left the job I had, and, when I said why, I should certainly have been refused employment. Nobody would hire a ‘Bolshevik.’ Of course I was not a Bolshevik, but you understand what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I tried not to think of myself or my family. We might have got out of the country, in any case, and I could have got a job in industry or education somewhere else.

“What I tried to think of was the people to whom I might be of some help later on, if things got worse (as I believed they would). I had a wide friendship in scientific and academic circles, including many Jews, and ‘Aryans,’ too, who might be in trouble. If I took the oath and held my job, I might be of help, somehow, as things went on. If I refused to take the oath, I would certainly be useless to my friends, even if I remained in the country. I myself would be in their situation.

“The next day, after ‘thinking it over,’ I said I would take the oath with the mental reservation that, by the words with which the oath began, ‘Ich schwöre bei Gott, I swear by God,’ I understood that no human being and no government had the right to override my conscience. My mental reservations did not interest the official who administered the oath. He said, ‘Do you take the oath?’ and I took it. That day the world was lost, and it was I who lost it”

That feels like a good, self-contained thing. But if I haven't lost you yet, there's some more afterwards that I think is about as relevant.

“Do I understand,” I said, “that you think that you should not have taken the oath?”

“Yes.”

“But,” I said, “you did save many lives later on. You were of greater use to your friends than you ever dreamed you might be.” (My friend’s apartment was, until his arrest and imprisonment in 1943, a hideout for fugitives.

...

“Of course I must explain. First of all, there is the problem of the lesser evil. Taking the oath was not so evil as being unable to help my friends later on would have been. But the evil of the oath was certain and immediate, and the helping of my friends was in the future and therefore uncertain. I had to commit a positive evil, there and then, in the hope of a possible good later on. The good outweighed the evil; but the good was only a hope, the evil a fact.”

“But,” I said, “the hope was realized. You were able to help your friends.”

“Yes,” he said, “but you must concede that the hope might not have been realized—either for reasons beyond my control or because I became afraid later on or even because I was afraid all the time and was simply fooling myself when I took the oath in the first place.

...

Shall we say, just to be safe, that three million innocent people were killed all together?”

I nodded.

“And how many innocent lives would you like to say I saved?”

“You would know better than I,” I said.

“Well,” said he, “perhaps five, or ten, one doesn’t know. But shall we say a hundred, or a thousand, just to be safe?”

I nodded.

“And it would be better to have saved all three million, instead of only a hundred, or a thousand?” “Of course.” “There, then, is my point. If I had refused to take the oath of fidelity, I would have saved all three million.”

..

“I don’t understand.”

“You are an American,” he said again, smiling. “I will explain. There I was, in 1935, a perfect example of the kind of person who, with all his advantages in birth, in education, and in position, rules (or might easily rule) in any country. If I had refused to take the oath in 1935, it would have meant that thousands and thousands like me, all over Germany, were refusing to take it. Their refusal would have heartened millions. Thus the regime would have been overthrown, or, indeed, would never have come to power in the first place. The fact that I was not prepared to resist, in 1935, meant that all the thousands, hundreds of thousands, like me in Germany were also unprepared, and each one of these hundreds of thousands was, like me, a man of great influence or of great potential influence. Thus the world was lost.”

[lovegalor333]

can you do a short little smut when paige is overstimulating the reader??? i would love that and also i love your writings

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

i can do it better

summary: paige finds your vibrator and asks you to show her how you use it

content warnings: nsfw smut overstimulation sex toy fingering munch p squirting

“Care to explain this?” You hear your girlfriends voice call out to you from your bedroom. You’re in the bathroom getting ready for bed, you were exhausted after a long day of classes and wanted nothing more than to close your eyes and fall into a deep sleep. “Explain what, baby?” You call back with a roll of your eyes, Paige couldn’t see you thankfully, you’re sure she’d have a few choice words for your brattiness but you were tired and didn’t want the hassle of whatever Paige was talking about.

“This.” Paiges voice is closer now and you flick your eyes up to the mirror in front of you, to see your girlfriend leaning against the bathroom door frame, a cheeky smirk on her face and to your dismay the small purple, bullet shaped vibrator that lived in your nightstand, in her hand.

Your cheeks flushed a deep claret as you spun around, reaching out the snatch the toy off Paige but she has great reflexes and she’s a lot taller than you, “Uh uh.” She shakes her head, holding the vibrator up and and out of your reach. “Were you snooping in my drawers?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “No, I was looking for melatonin. Now tell me why you have this? This can’t do what I do.” Paige says and she presses the small button and the bullet begins to vibrate in her hand and you feel your temperature begin to rise.

Sex wasn’t a taboo subject for you and Paige but you’d never spoke about masturbation and the fact she had your toy in her hand made you feel slightly dizzy. Truth be told, since you’ve been together you’ve hardly used that thing but sometimes Paige plays away and this summer she was hardly in Connecticut and a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

“Can you turn that off?” You ask seriously, now frowning at Paige, embarrassment more than anything creeping in. “Tell me why and how you use it?”

“Paige-”

“Just tell me.” And she places the vibrating toy against your left nipple, the thin material of her t-shirt you wear to sleep not doing much to buffer the sensation. “When you’re away…and I…” You struggle to speak between Paiges intense eye contact, your nipple being attacked and the awkwardness of the subject you don’t know what to say. “Don’t be embarrassed baby.” Paiges voice is soft and sensitive, a stark contrast to the look on her face. “When you’re away and I’m horny, I use it sometimes.” “How do you use it?” “For Gods sake Paige, how do you think?” You’re losing patience now and suddenly you’re no longer tired. Paige is being a tease and it’s pissing you off.

“I don’t know. Maybe you’d like to show me.” Paige taunts with a raise of her brows and before you can detest, you’re over her shoulder, hand on your ass.

Paige throws you down onto your bed and hands you the vibrator, “Show me how you make yourself cum.” The husk of her voice and the stance she was in, looking down at you on your back made you ache.

You pressed the vibrator to your clit, over your lace thong, the initial sensation making your thighs shudder. Paiges gaze doesn’t falter for a second, you can practically feel her eyes burning into you, “What do you think about when you’re doing this?”

“You. Your fingers- shit- how they feel inside me.” The wet patch inbetween your legs is growing with each buzz of the toy and you need more. You pull the lace material to the side but before you can reposition the bullet, Paige is on the bed, her hand on top of yours, stopping you from pleasuring yourself. “I thought you wanted me to show you.”

“I did but it’s pissing me off. I’m gonna show you just why you don’t need this thing.” She rasps, taking the vibrator from your hand but she doesn’t turn it off. Instead she uses one hand to hold your panties to the side before dragging the toy through your damp folds. You buck your hips up, desperate for more. More of Paige. Fuck the vibrator.

Paige continues to tease and taunt your dripping cunt, pressing the vibrator to your clit before dragging it down to your hole, “Paige, please. Stop teasing.” You groan but with the way she’s looking at you, eyes hooded and determined, you know for a fact she’s not going to listen to a word you say.

“Just be a good girl for me, yeah?”

You whimper as Paige turns up the intensity and you jolt in shock, “You can be a good girl, right?” Paige asks as she circles your clit causing arousal to drip out of you. “Y-yes.” You choke out and Paige spreads your legs, a knee on each of your thighs, holding them in place.

“Fuck, you look so good spread out for me like this baby.” Paige grunts and she lets a blob of spit out of mouth and it lands on your cunt, you whine at the feeling. “Ne-need more, P.”

Paige misinterprets your pleads for her…or chooses to ignore then and further increases the intensity of the vibrator, pressing it hard and firm on your swollen clit. The band in your stomach tightens and your legs begin to shake beneath your girlfriends knees, “Fuck Paige, I’m about to- ugh shit- I’m about to cum.” You moan, eyes rolling back in your head as the band threatens to snap but the soft buzzing and intense vibrations come to a halt, “I’m not watching you cum with something that isn’t me.” Paige says matter of factly and your words are lodged in your throat as she pushes two fingers inside of you with ease, “Oh fuck!” You gasp as she hammers in and out of you, her long fingers knocking into the gummy spot with each inward movement.

Without warning, Paige adds another finger into the mix and you bite down on your lip as she stretches you out, “Shit Paige, don’t stop.” You beg, reaching down to grab onto her wrist to ensure she doesn’t rob you of another orgasm. But Paige simply bats your hand away, linking it with her free one.

You feel yourself contracting around Paiges fingers and know you’re close so you move your hips in circular motions, guiding her hand to hit all your favourite places. Paige brings her thumb to your clit, starting off in gentle swipes before she’s full on pressing and pinching your sensitive spot.

“Shit Paige, right there!” You cry out as the feeling overwhelms you and your body writhes and jerks beneath her and you come undone all over her fingers. Your heart rate is rapid as Paige pulls her fingers out of you and you whimper as she slides them across your folds and over your clit, spreading your slick as she goes, “I love how messy you are.” She purrs, taking her fingers into her mouth and sucking on them, moaning at the taste of you on her tongue.

You watch in awe as her tongue flicks and swirls around her sticky fingers, “You’re so hot.” You breathe out and Paige just smirks before she leans down, mouth inches away from your soaked cunt and she blows out two sharp breaths making you shiver.

Still sensitive from your orgasm, your moan is throaty and rough as Paige buries her face into your cunt. She’s devouring you like a woman starved and you’re her favourite meal. With every flick of her tongue, your back arches of the bed, just pushing her face further into you. Her nose nudges your clit as she slips her tongue inside, “Fuck Paige! Pleasepleaseplease!” You babble, not sure what your begging for, your head spins at every sensation and when her teeth graze your clit and fingers slip back inside, you damn near lose it.

Her movements are insatiable and unrelenting and you squeeze her hand in yours as it all begins to feel too much. “I- I can’t Paige.” You choke out as tears begin to fill in your water line. “You can.” She mumbles against you and the vibrations from her voice sent jolts of ecstasy through your body.

This feeling was different from any you’ve felt before, Paiges fingers driving into you at a pace so fast, all you could hear was the sordid sounds of your wetness. Her tongue and lips working overtime as they sucked and swirled at your clit. The ache between your legs was crushing and your head tipped back, jaw going slack as a sudden surge soared through you, from your core to your feet, toes curling and you felt an unfamiliar gush as everything went black.

Just as quick as your eyes closed, they opened again and Paige was pressing kisses to your inner thigh. She looked up at you, chin dripping and realisation hits you, “Did I squirt?” You ask, voice hoarse and breathless. “Damn right ma. This girl loves me.” She smirks sending a light smack to your pussy and your legs clamp shut, “That’s enough. You just destroyed her.” You chuckle and Paige leans over you, pressing her lips to yours and you get a taste of yourself. “That was so fucking sexy.” She whispers into your ear before trailing wet kiss down your neck.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

a/n: yall!! i know the request said ‘short little smut’ but i got carried away 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 this was rushed and barely edited and im writing this with a glass of wine so apologies in advance for any mistakes, i know i could have done better 💋👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 anyway! love yall, send gays vibes to me tonight, im on a mission x

tag list: @paigeluvvr

[ddarker-dreams]

Can you spare us some Scara crumbs for this starving pigeons pls?🥺🥺🥺 I miss the way how you write that shortass gremlin so much (I miss my wife, tails... I miss my wife)

There comes a point where even you, one of the few species capable of withstanding long-term exposure to a certain Harbinger, find yourself exasperated. Beneath his apathetic façade lies a volatile ego, poised to misinterpret the most innocent acts as a knife through the heart. Scaramouche's treated you coldly since you both retired to your personal quarters. You'd like to claim ignorance, but you know better — know him better — which makes remedying the issue harder.

"You had a fun evening, I take it?"

His voice shoots across the room, releasing the taut string that's had you in the crosshair for hours.

"It was fine," you accentuate your indifference with a shrug. Then, a counterattack of your own: "Why?"

He puffs his cheek to the side, looking more like an indignant child than one of the most feared forces at the Fatui's disposal. "Oh, no reason. I just couldn't help but notice how eager you were to fawn over my co-worker."

And there it is, you think. Why did we have to run into Childe, of all people...?

"I was just being polite."

"'Polite?'" He repeats, barking out a hollow laugh. "That smile, those sweet expressions were polite? Are you sure you weren't auditioning to be a courtesan?"

You offer him your most unimpressed look. Scaramouche returns it tenfold, narrowing his eyes and closing the gap in distance between you. You take it as an opportunity to examine the finer details he works so diligently to hide. The trembling of his lower lip, curling of his fists, and the watery sheen coating his eyes.

Although he doesn't require oxygen, his chest heaves like he's been deprived of it.

Or something of equal significance.

"I can't stand it," he admits, raising a shaky hand to cup your face. "You— that... nauseating charm. You're bound to attract pests everywhere you go. I thought by now, it'd be clear that you're off limits, but..."

Electricity crackles in the air.

Then, he freezes when you lay your hand on his.

"No one's going to try anything," you reassure. You leave out the part that they might as well be bringing about the end of the world. "Let's just call it a night before we get more worked up, okay?"

His fingers twitch.

Eventually, he averts his gaze, a rosy blush dusting over his cheeks.

Scaramouche clears his throat, then grumbles, "... I'm not worked up."

Regardless of his complaints, he silently acquiesces to your wish, slinking his way over to your wardrobe to contemplate what he'll have you wear the following day.

[gloomwitchwrites]

i’ve only recently found ur acc and i’ve fallen in love! ur def becoming one of my inspo’s in writing my own fics!:D

now, what about t141 with an alt s/o who’s always dying their hair or piercing themselves? maybe it’s the first time they find reader doing said shenanigans, what would their reactions be? 🤔 i think soap would have the best one lol, but i’d love to hear what your thoughts about it! <3

Well, hello! Welcome! Now, I had multiple people request this very thing. I am answering one of those asks and the others will simply fall under this one (since they are all very similar). I did go with some variety here since being "alt" can mean a lot different things. I do have one with hair dying, one about showing off their taxidermy/skull collection, a metal concert, and forcing (Gaz) to have a makeover. I had lots of fun. Enjoy!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings: established relationship, humor, fluff, swearing, hair dying, taxidermy, concerts, makeovers

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Jesus bloody Christ. What happened?” John stands in the doorway of the bathroom, his eyes wide as he surveys the scene. “Did you murder someone?”

You stand hunched over like a gremlin in the shower, holding the handheld showerhead. The dye in your hair is circling the drain, but that’s not the only place is stains. The shower is going to need a good scrub as is the bathroom sink.

“I’m changing my hair?”

John blinks. “You told me you were going to a salon.”

“This is cheaper.”

His mouth opens and then promptly closes. You see the gears turning. John is reigning in the panic.

“It’ll come out,” you insist.

“Everything is red,” murmurs John.

“Only temporarily,” you insist.

“Are you talking about your hair or our bathroom countertops?”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” he says firmly, hand on the doorknob. “I’m going to shut the door and pretend that our bathroom doesn’t look like a crime scene.”

“I love you!” you call out as he starts shutting the door.

“I love you, too,” he sighs heavily. The door is nearly shut before it suddenly opens again. “Do I need to grab bleach from the store?”

“That would be great.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Stop moving,” you mutter.

“You’re gonna poke me in the fucking eye, love.”

“It’s just eyeliner. Calm down.”

“You’ve poked me already.” Kyle points at his eye. The white is slightly red with irritation.

Kyle’s gaze narrows, but you only tut, grasping the bottom half of his face with your hand. Squeezing his cheeks a bit, you tilt his face from side-to-side, observing your work. About half of his face is done. You’ve even added face piercings to his lips and nose.

The clothes were the easy part. Kyle was more than willing to put on what you picked out for him. It’s completely different from his tracksuits and jeans. He looks like he walked right out of the punk scene.

“You promised I could do your makeup.” You put a little whine in it, pouting your lip.

Kyle lightly grasps your wrist and tugs, removing your hand from his face. “I did,” he agrees. “But all this? Really?”

You’ve set out nearly every product you have, nearly covering the entirety of the bathroom counter.

“We have to match,” you insist.

Kyle’s mouth twitches slightly but he settles. “Fine. But you better make me the best-looking bloke in the joint.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“This is June.” You present the racoon skull to Johnny.

His eyes widen slightly. “Hello, June,” he greets.

You wait for the eventual frown, for the brief flicker of disgust, but it doesn’t come. Johnny isn’t drawing back or judging you at all. His attention is rapt—focused.

You gently return the racoon skull back to the shelf and point to a collection of preserved butterflies. “These were a gift from a friend.”

“They’re beautiful,” murmurs Johnny. “Do they have names?” He leans in, observing the display of colorful wings.

“No, but they do!” You enthusiastically gesture toward the rest of your collection. There are skulls and bones from all sorts of animals, preserved beetles, tentacles in jars, and even petrified fish bones.

Men say they want quirky, but when they get quirky, they run. Johnny though is entirely fascinated.

“Can I touch this?” he asks with an excitement that surprises you, pointing toward a beaver skull.

“Yes. It’s delicate though. I’m always fixing the jaw.”

Johnny lightly lifts the skull and brings it close to his face, slowly rotating it.

No. Johnny isn’t disgusted. He isn’t shaming you for your special interest. If anything, he’s fascinated.

You’re keeping him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

The shredding of the guitar reverberates in your chest. It stirs your blood, sending waves of adrenaline through your limbs until even your fingers and toes twitch with anticipation.

The breakdown is coming, and with it will come a sea of bodies. They’ll crash against each other like a massive wave before descending into chaos, nothing but flailing limbs and gnashing teeth.

Already, the energy is pulsing, becoming a frenzy that will eventually burst.

You’ve never been in the middle of the pit before. You usually stay off to the sides or well out of the way, not wanting to receive an injury.

But now you have protection. Now, you have a bodyguard.

Simon stands right behind as your support and your shadow. This isn’t his scene, not that he doesn’t enjoy a metal show, but he could care less about throwing himself around in a pit. When you expressed the desire to do so, Simon agreed, but only if he joined you.

Sure, it might scare some people off, or deter others from getting too close, but Simon is supportive anyway.

He’s just a bit vicious. A bit protective.

The shredding rises. It’s time.

A pause.

Then everything crashes.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @unhinged-reader-36 @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307

@itsberrydreemurstuff @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[somanystars]

"Well...this explains a lot."

A blinked, gun wavering for a moment before he tightened his grip. In response, B raised his hands higher, resting his palms on his head.

"What?"

"I mean. My guess was ADHD. For all the...random knowledge you've got."

"Why would that explain it?"

"Well, why do you think I know so much about mushrooms?" B asked, waving to the one "Types of Mushrooms" poster that had looked nice enough to come with him to college despite the hyper fixation fading years ago. A, astonishingly, did glance at the poster. B shrugged. "Figured you had a phase like that for lockpicking."

"How do you know about the lock picking?"

"I lock the room every night before I sleep?" B said. "Yet you're still here the next morning."

"I use my key."

"No, you don't," B said. "Switched the keys a while ago. I wanted to test my hypothesis."

Before I knew you had a gun, he didn't add.

A kept blinking at him. B could practically the cartoonish plink-plink sounds from his childhood TV shows.

"So, are you really just trained? Or do you also have ADHD?"

"Is that really your priority right now?" A demanded, waving the gun a little as if to reemphasize what he thought B should focus on.

"I mean" B began, "I guess - I thought I'd just startled you when I walked in, and once you relaxed, you'd put the gun away. I mean, I don't see how I could be your target. The only person who might want me dead is Nancy Cordez since I rejected her Valentine's Day offer. That was in like, 4th grade though. So probably not."

A cracked an incredulous smile and lowered the gun. B grinned and lowered his arms.

"So."

"So?"

"Do you have ADHD?"

A's eyes darted away. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean. I guess I suspect sometimes. I dunno."

"So that's a yes then," B said, clapping his hands together. "I knew it."

"Dude."

"What? No one else here has it. No one I've met anyways. It's nice knowing you're not the only one"

A scoffed. "Yeah. I'm great company."

"Better than nothing."

His eyes darted away again. For an assassin, he was shy as hell. Another reason to suspect ADHD rather than assassin.

Oh well. He'd still been half right.

Today you just found out your roommate with strange hobbies, like knowing how to pick a lock, knows how every puzzle and cipher by heart, or how to commit tax fraud, and so many other things, wasn't a guy with ADHD, he was an ex-assassin and now you have a gun pointed at your face

[thesacrificialdove]

THE BITCHING PROJECT

[ patreon | masterlist | inbox | taglist | home | req. & comms ]

— it's like you were secretly asking for this !! degration kink, rough sex, dubious consent, deflowering, light dumbification, semi-public sex, manipulation ✧ ft.: yandere student council ✧ cast: nerd f!reader

His hand grasps your hair as you choke around his girth. There's tears brimming in your eyes. Anxiety and confusion are washed away by the growing arousal in your stomach—this isn't normal. You've never been treated like this before. He's using your mouth like a ragdoll.

"Fuck," he moans, obsessing over the way your unexperienced tongue lays flat on the underside of his cock. "Such a good fucking bitch. How does it feel with your nose buried in my cock and not some books, huh?"

Nothing prepared you for the way this man is in the dim light: he's unlike his smile like a warm setting sun, hands tender to the brief passing touch, and voice an echo of hope and cheer.

He's fucking your throat like it's his newest assignment. Studiously, he memorises the plump of your lips and the heat in your throat. There's something primal yet meticulous about how he thrusts into your mouth. It's like he's thought this over and over again.

Your hands struggle for grip on his hips; he won't relent in his pace. Dizziness presents as you can't think straight—his cock the only thing that you can think of.

A guttural moan leaves him. "Can't believe you'd fall for some s-stupid shit like this. Now you're all fucking mine—" he pulls out, the head of his cock on your lips—"you like that, huh? Like belonging to me? I'll make you forget about your classes and I'll keep your cunt strapped on my cock instead."

There's a string of saliva that connects his cock to your lips. He plays with it, having fun smearing it all over your chin. The humiliation is tattooed in your brain.

You agreed to meet him because the Dean planned to give you the scholarsip—something you've been working so hard for. It's a lie. How could you have known someone from the student council would lie to you just to get their dick wet?

"Hey, hey," he pulls you up, sitting you on a desk. "What are you thinking about, baby? You're thinking too hard. Come on, I know you feel good."

And you do. Because after all of this, you still got a big fucking crush on him.

"S-stop it, please," you try to say. "I'm... I'm sorry if I did anything wrong but—"

He laughs. "You did nothing wrong. I love you, I do. But you're just to gullible. You have to know how adorable you look when you think everything you want is going to be handed over to you on a plate."

Red paints your face. Your heart churns at his words but he's standing between your legs with his cock wetting the inside of your thighs. Your cunt is being exposed with an easy pull of your panties to the side. The conflict of arousal and humiliation is too much to handle.

"How about this, hm? I'm going to fuck you better and tomorrow, let's see you beg for the Dean's cock to get that scholarship?"

There's contradictions on your tongue. It's taken out of you when he pulls your hips—his cock sliding between your folds and fucking you raw.

"F-fuck!" You cry. It's too big. His cock stretches you more than your fingers ever had, easily breaking the littlest resistence your hymen had. It makes you cry. Your heart hammers against your ears. It pulses in time with your cunt convulsing around him.

He's breathing against your cheeks; with the way he's out of breath, it's like he's enjoying taking your virginity like this. "Holy... fuck—did you never have a guy in here before?" he asks, as if he needs confirmation. "You're so fucking tight. I need you to loosen up for me, babe."

Not a single effort was made to get you to relax. He pulls back and fucks you right in, ignoring your pained little whimpers as it's being overshadowed by your moans. You're conflicted but he's so assured. Though your brain runs wild, your pussy sucks him in and is getting wetter by the second.

"So fucking good," he moans. "Tight fucking slut for me."

"I've never—agh! Never... had—!"

He chuckles as he bruises your hips with his hold. "I can fucking tell, baby. Shit. I can feel your cute little pussy hug my cock so tight. You love it so bad, don't you? I bet you fucking waited to be defiled by a cock this big."

You can barely muster a breath, nonetheless a word to deny him. It’s cruel how he pistons his hips. Your legs are in the air, toes clenching as half of his cock barely breaches inside of you. You’re gripping him with a vice, the pain dulling with the hot moans he breathes through your skin.

“God, that’s it,” his mouth instinctively opens as he spreads your folds open. Your pussy is spread. on the girth, his eyes trained onto where his cock disappears inside of you. You can tell he’s lost himself in the sensation when he has to swallow down his own spit.

He’s moaning, a growl emitting from him when you squeeze him. “Loosen the fuck up!” His hand presses against your stomach, trapping you on the wooden desk. “God, shit. For someone eager to take a cock in you’re so not prepared.”

The new angle just rubs your g-spot. A strangled moan involuntarily leaves you, his response being a dark grin spreading on his face. Knowing now, he continues to rubs up that spot. You want to pull your legs together but it’s tightly locked in his grasp. Toes curling, you tense up as he thrusts faster inside of you.

“S-so…” you gasp, hands gripping the edge of the table as you move with the force of his thrusts. “So fucking—so fucking good, haaah..!”

With each thrust, you lose yourself to the pleasure. Your cunt perfectly welcomes him in, even sucking him inside just to keep it rubbing against those nerves. You don’t remember a time feeling this good. The stretch is almost gone. Broken cries of pleasure are being punched out of you. He’s merciless and chases his own high, yet you’re being dragged along as you feel yourself soak and leak.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “I knew you’d love being fucked by me. I’ve been…. shit! I’ve been seeing you shake your cute little ass since you came. here. Knew you were so desperate to be claimed by me.”

He groans low in his throat. Swiftly, he throws your legs together on one side of his shoulders, fucking his cock deep inside of you. The new angle reaches further, your legs shaking from the intense feeling of being used like a toy for him. Your pleasure is undeniable. If you could see yourself, you would see your wet cunt drooling as your face is molded into a face of intoxication.

You can’t help it anymore. The slow yet deep thrusts spreads tingles from your pussy to the rest of your body. “‘m close…” you mutter, struggling to find diction. “So close—hng!”

“I didn’t hear you, “ he pulls on your hair from the roots, tugging it with enough force to electrocute your nerves there. “I can’t fucking hear you with your pussy gushing all over me.”

Cheeks turning a bright red, you try to cover yourself as he thrusts deep and short for emphasis. You can hear yourself make wet sounds with each movement. His words only make you wetter.

Trying to gather yourself, you take a deep breath with a hand over head your head. “I wanna cum, I need it so bad please… Need to cum on. your cock so b-bad!” You cry, surprised you could even form words when all you can think. about is that hot rod inside of you.

He’s forgiving. “Good fucking girl,” he sighs in relief as he continues his animalistic thrusts. The desk creaks each time and you would be worried for its durability if not for his hand lowering to play with your clit.

“Cum for me, cum for your new owner.”

The cock breaching your once-virgin pussy and the your clit being fondled only ushers you closer and closer to an orgasm. You couldn’t even warn him. With both hands reaching for his shoulders, a moan leaves you so loud you’re so everyone in the hallway could hear you.

You’re shivering. Your body is worn out and his cock pulls out of you—your orgasm flowing out as his own spurts on your face to your neck. He had clumsily aimed at your face, the angle awkward with your body half sat on the table. But the liquid splashed to your a bit of your lips, the taste of his release odd yet so erotic.

“Shit,” he mutters, the relief washing over him. You can see the satisfaction in his face; the slight upward tilt of his smile, the heavy breathing, his eyes examining every part of your body, all of it a testament to his amusement to having just defiled you.

There’s no need to speak. Finally, for the first time, he pushes his lips against yours.

In your years living, you haven’t given away your first kiss. In this moment, he had successfully taken two first times with you. His kiss reflects his previous desire to make his mark in your cunt. Breath hot, he pushes his tongue inside your mouth and is determined to lick every part of it.

You’re weak in his grasp. Every limb is numb and your pussy is still tingling. He’s kissing you how he wants as you simply struggle to breathe correctly. Your head is dizzy. There’s a cloud within your thoughts, simply unable to comprehend anything that is happening.

With a bite to your lower lip, that grounds you back to reality. He laughs into the kiss before placing his lips on your neck.

“So fucking dumb now,” he laughs, “don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you’ll get a reward for servicing my cock.”

Being his broken-in slut doesn’t seem so bad.

UPDATE ! 📢 @wiltedpoison @elloredef @alureasoley

@ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄 this story is original and is not allowed to be shared without credits. do not plagiarise, feed to ai, or claim as yours.

[nyrasproblm]

The uncertainty of coexistence

Ambessa Medarda x fem!reader

Summary: Can a warrior become the object of her general's affection?

Warning: mentions of war, typical canon violence, big age difference (reader is in her 20s and Ambessa is in her 50s), power imbalance

Word Count: 1,5K

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

To be born in Noxus was to be certain that one way or another you would end up on the battlefield. Without knowing the reason or purpose, a Noxian would do what your generals told you to do. To honor your blood and ancestry. It was better to be a warrior than a slave or a prostitute. That's what you think, at least.

You had never been to war, though. It had been less than three years since you had become a warrior. Because you were inexperienced, the higher-ranking officers were more harsh on you and the younger ones.

The training sessions led by Rictus were tiring, but they were intended to prepare you for the imminent war that your general was preparing.

Your general, Ambessa Medarda. Lady of War. You had only seen her up close a few times, but it was enough for you to know that she was impressive.

You turned your attention back to what you were doing when you felt a strong blow to your ribs, making you gasp and fall to the ground. Shooting a irritated look at Carissa, your friend and training partner, you stood up, grabbing your stick.

"We're not at war yet and I'm not the enemy, you don't need to use so much force." you complained.

"I didn't use much force." she smiled smugly. "You're weak."

You almost raised your eyebrows at her teasing, then looked out of the small training cabin, seeing Rictus distracted with his runic tablets. Taking the opportunity, you ran and threw yourself at Carissa, making a dry noise on the floor, then tried to grab her hands, which proved difficult as she began to struggle, the smug look still present on her smiling face.

"Do you surrender?" you asked, letting out a low chuckle. She let out a louder chuckle when you managed to grab one of her hands.

Distracted by your play, you didn't notice the familiar sound of heavy boots behind you, at the entrance to the cabin.

"It gives me great pleasure to see the youth of Noxus rejoice in being a part of my army." the authoritative voice spoke, causing both of you to freeze momentarily.

Quickly standing up, you lowered your head, looking down at your bare feet on the wooden floor, you saw Carissa doing the same out of the corner of your eye.

"General." you both spoke at the same time, your voices sounding shaky.

Ambessa walked in, approaching and stopping near the two of you, her heavy presence silencing the entire room. She exuded a dark power without having to do anything.

"Don't stop, go back to playing, we have plenty of time." she spoke again, her voice vibrating closer. "Isn't it?"

You swallowed hard, your hands starting to sweat. Ambessa was known for her determination and violence, she had no patience for mistakes and distractions. A thought about that ran through your head and made you breathe heavily.

She walked a few steps, starting to circle around the two of you. She stopped next to Carissa and tilted her head down.

"Out," she ordered, her voice sounding colder.

Carissa swallowed and nodded, leaving without another word. Ambessa walked a few more steps, stopping in front of you, making you feel smaller than ever, in every way.

You felt your face being held and lifted by a large hand, Ambessa looked at you for a moment before letting go of your chin.

"You looked intimate the way you were riding her." she spoke again. "I suppose I don't need to advise you on the hazards of professional entanglements."

"I sincerely apologize, General. It won't happen again." you said, your voice sounding small.

Ambessa looked down from above, let out a satisfied sigh, and left.

You grunted as you delivered two consecutive blows with the blade to the inanimate doll's neck. Carissa was no longer your training partner. Now you trained individually in the training room that had the worn-out wooden dolls.

Sighing, you pulled out the large blade of the knife that had stuck in the wood. As you stepped away to stab the doll in the stomach, you heard the door open and heavy footsteps enter the training room, followed by the deep voice you had heard from very close by a few days before.

"Haven't they ever told you not to stand with your back to the door?" Ambessa asked and you turned in time to see her pick up one of the large knives that was laid out on a table in the corner.

She wore her training clothes, the sports bra that showed off her toned belly, her arms covered by cloth armbands.

You straightened your posture and tilted your head slightly, "General."

"Leave the doll alone, let's see if you can land your blows on me." she ordered, approaching you.

"Pardon?" you frowned, confused.

"I don't like repeating myself, child," she said, her voice heavier this time. "Fight me."

You swallowed hard, knowing you couldn't disregard her orders. Biting your lower lip in insecurity, you advanced on her, moving the blade in the strokes you were used to making.

All to be knocked to the ground in almost the same second, the blade being ripped from your hand.

"You’re sloppy and predictable. Everything the enemy expects.” Ambessa hovered above you, holding both blades in her hands. “You’ll die the second you step foot in the war.”

She threw the blades to the ground and pulled you up by your arm, before starting to randomly strike you with her hands, making you put your hands in front of your body to defend yourself.

She pulled one of your arms and raised her body, passing her legs over you, hitting your face with her right foot. You fell again, feeling your nose bleed.

Training with her continued for weeks. Weeks where you felt anxious whenever the time to see her approached. At one point, you longed to be near her, her body heavy on yours when she pinned you to the ground while teaching.

Learning from a war veteran proved to be rewarding, as you improved and improved a lot. But no reward compared to seeing her almost every day.

As unbelievable as it may seem, Ambessa was patient at one point, her voice softening as she taught you something you didn't already know.

This made your heart beat faster.

Your breathing was faster and you could feel your lungs burning, but you couldn't stop. Ambessa's blows didn't slow down, she advanced violently towards you. Using one of your legs to unbalance her, you used the tip of the spear to make a tiny cut on her cheekbone, making her freeze for a moment.

Realizing what you had done, you opened your mouth to speak and reached out your hand towards her, who stood up on her own and walked towards you, leaving almost no space.

"General, what-" your words were cut off as she brought her large hands to either side of your face and bent over you, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss.

You brought them to her shoulders, sliding them down to the sides of her face. She gave light bites to your jaw and chin as she pulled away from your lips.

"You have a lot of courage for someone your size," she said without pulling away. "You've proven yourself worthy."

"I want you to be proud of me." you blurted out without thinking properly.

She let out a deep laugh and pulled away, taking the heat of her body away from you.

"You left a scar on me, that is honorable," she said, pulling the gold piercing from her lower lip. "Someone honorable should wear a symbol, a symbol that shows they are on my side."

She approached you again and fitted the gold piece to your lower lip, running one of her thick fingers over it.

After that day, you no longer stood among the other warriors. Ambessa allowed you to walk beside her, as Rictus. You proudly wore the gold piercing on your lower lip.

At the moment, on her orders, the army was moving from the fixed base to Viktor's hideout, crossing the unguarded bridge that connected the Noxian installations to the rest of Piltover. Of course she wasn't going to blend in.

You turned your face and looked down, seeing how far the bridge was from the water. A fall wouldn't kill, but drowning was imminent.

You turned your attention forward when you felt Ambessa's large hand on your waist, making you look at her with a frown, to which she continued with the same stoic expression as always, looking forward.

Suddenly, you felt the thud on your legs and your body being thrown out of the limits of the bridge, the only thing that kept you from falling was the large hand that held only one of yours.

Eyes wide with surprise and despair you looked up, finding Ambessa's sharp eyes staring at you coldly. She didn't say anything for a moment, the sound of the water below was the only thing present, as the army had stopped marching.

"What-" you groaned, feeling your arm start to ache, your legs swinging slightly. "Please."

"I warned you of the hazards of professional entanglements." she said simply, her voice devoid of any emotion.

You froze, feeling your chest hurt. But of course. How could you have been so stupid?

A warrior does not grow like this in the eyes of their general.

With your delay in responding, Ambessa stared at you for a while longer before pulling you up, leaving you hanging on your own, struggling to climb up the bridge.

When you managed to get up, you were breathing quickly, your heart was beating fast and she had already started walking again, with her army following her.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Viktor’s journal.

How can you mourn someone that you weren’t quite sure was dead? You couldn’t simply afford to make funeral arrangements just to bury an empty coffin six feet underground when you yourself were unsure of what has become of your beloved Viktor.

You didn’t exactly know where the arcane had taken him. So should you even at all assume him as dead or just more so in another plan of existence far beyond your reach? And if so would he ever find his ways back? or did he think that where he was currently was a suitable place for his misguided and misconstrued ideologies of perfection? Seeing no point in returning to you after all he’s done?

You weren’t quite sure what to make of all of this but that didn’t ease the ache in your heart as you found a journal of his laying nearby, a thin layer of dust covering it, clearly showing the passage of time of the last viktor stepped foot in this room becoming more painfully evident as you brushed it clear before opening it. It was a rather standard journal filled to the brim of notes, sketches and annotations belonging to Viktor throughout the ever evolving stages of understanding the hexcore, nothing new as it was the only thing he talked about so passionately with a gleam in his eyes.

He wanted to use it for good and for the betterment of others but as you look at the notes and recall the memories of Viktor telling you the advancements they could make with hextech, it felt all but painful now knowing and experiencing what you have at the hands of the hexcore; you and everyone else almost became one of those weird sleek white and gold plated humanoid creatures not too long ago. So it was needless to say that your feelings towards the hexcore weren’t the same as they use to be, though then again neither was Viktor’s when he changed.

‘I want to use it to better the lives of others.’ He once said as his amber eyes gleamed brighter than you’ve ever seen before.

You wished that was the case but as the old saying went: evil deeds are paved with good intentions.

Viktor’s heart was in the right place but the hexcore corrupted his mind into ignoring it, ignoring his humanity in his pursuit in perfecting the imperfect. You had lost Viktor to the hexcore on multiple occasions way before his physical and mental change after the attack upon the council, an attack he was meant to die in. You had lost him and thus didn’t know where you were qualified to mourn a man who could potentially still be still living in another plan of existence.

The further you delved into the journal, mind lost in the memories as you tried to use to make sense as to where everything went wrong, that you didn’t notice that you had reached the very end of the journal and notes regarding the hexcore had become notes regarding yourself. The chicken scratch writing of a scientist had become notes written in the most beautiful and eloquent handwriting you’ve ever seen.

Notes such as;

‘The initial reaction i had towards my newfound feelings towards y/n was to deny them. They were my friend and I thought as such for a long time until I began to think about them on a regular basis, almost as though I need to have them close to properly function. it’s distraction but it’s a distraction that I welcome without annoyance, an distraction that I want to have near me all the time just to claim I had a good day.

‘They didn’t come by today, which is something that I shouldn’t let affect me as greatly as it does. However I couldn’t help but keep looking back towards the door to the lab in hopes that I would see them. I was told that I was looking as though a love sick puppy dog, waiting for them to come through those doors as per usual and yet I couldn’t help but feel a little sad when more of the days pass and I didn’t see them. Maybe they’ll come back tomorrow?

‘The feelings have a name as I’ve found as of recent, love. It’s love that I feel for them. They’ve consumed my thoughts and I’ve found myself tinkering with spare parts in hopes of making things that they’d like, all of which I have locked away in a box beneath my bed that I’d open sooner or later in hopes of improving them. Will i ever give them to y/n? Perhaps after I crack this equation for the hexcore, I’m so close to a breakthrough and feel as if the excitement I’ll feel will bring me to confess to them in a heat of the moment type scenario.

I hope they reciprocate my feelings.

That was the last entry of his notes and it was dated as the day before the attack on the council and you softly closed the journal, holding it close to your chest as you closed your eyes, breathing deeply as the idea that things could’ve been extremely different had things not escalated the way they did.

So once you had composed yourself enough to go to Viktor’s house in order to find the box he spoke of in his notes, finding that it had already been opened, almost as though his spirit knew you were going to come here afterwards and made it more accessible to you; and within it was a plethora of beautifully wielded masterpieces in the form of mechanical birds, flowers and even smaller things for you to fidget with should your nerves get the best of you.

Viktor was so thoughtful and you couldn’t help but let out a pained whimper as you cradled the box in your arms before finding yourself falling asleep in Viktor’s old bed with dried tears upon your cheeks. Life was cruel to take Viktor away from you but for some unexplainable reason, you’ve never felt closer to him than you did as you held his journal and gifts close to your chest.

Unaware of how one of the Birds eye’s glowed blue and the petals of the flowers blossomed in a similar colour.

[moon-riptide]

Harry *is* extremely repressed, yes. But I personally don’t see it as “going right back into the closet”, I think it’s more like putting that thought on the shelf for the moment, as in “Okay this is not something I can actually *solve* just by thinking 8 hours about it. You know what can I try to solve right now? The fucking case.” Some things need to marinate before you can deal with them, and sexuality is one of those things. Someone in another post mentioned that one of the skills said it would take him at least 20 hours and since the thought took 8 it seems like he discarded it because he knew where it was going. I do agree with this but I don’t see it as something negative, rather than a realistic scenario of what questioning your sexuality is about.

Ideally, after the case is solved and (hopefully) Harry gets sober and develops better coping mechanisms, he will reach enough emotional maturity to deal with his feelings. It can be disappointing to see in the game because you expect some breakthrough, of course, but I think it was the right choice and it unironically helped me feel better about my own sexuality questioning. It is not pretty, or satisfactory, or wholesome, but it’s real.

It's actually quite interesting. It occurred to me that Harry spent 8 hours trying to figure out whether or not he was a part of the Homosexual Underground, and then at the moment when you finally hear "Breakthrough Imminent" (the moment when, usually, the game rewards you in some way for taking steps to figure out what makes Harry tick), instead of some grand revelation of Harry lore, or skill perks, you get nothing. Because Harry's repressed, closeted brain literally went "no actually lets not think about this, it's unprofessional to contemplate your sexuality on the job and thinking about this is going to make you slip up and get Kim killed."

He just...went right back in the closet. He refused to make progress on that mind project, and decided not to know that about himself, so he didn't get to reap the rewards that come with knowing yourself better.

This makes so much more sense now.

[red-doll-face]

Getting caught in the rain with Arthur leads to him finding creative ways to warm you up.

(high honor) arthur morgan x fem. reader

I love this trope! prob been done before but I cant resist... 😔Can you believe I wanted this to be a short head canon post?? LMAO it ended up way longer than that. That's why it has a more casual thing going on despite being super long 🥲Happy thanksgiving! This is for the girlies who are stuck with family and need something absolutely filthy to read !!! 💕💕💕💕💕

Warnings: NSFW content, vaginal sex, while honor isn't too relevant, arthur is very sweet and hes kind of a weenie here, in a good way! arthur does not have bad intentions here, he's genuinely a sweet little man...

-

Thinking of begging Arthur to take you away from camp for a while. Maybe you haven't had a bath in a bit or you're sick of hearing Swanson drunkenly parade around camp. But you've decided to ask Arthur, he's always so sweet to you and you know he won't say no. And Arthur and his stupid bleeding heart (the one that bleeds so much more for you) grumbles and pretends he's thinking about it but really he'd probably say yes to anything that came from your lips. He has no regrets when he sees the smile you give him. You're hoisted up onto the back of his horse, holding onto his waist so you don't fall. Arthur is desperately trying to play it cool. 

Then the rain starts coming down, you're soaked through very quickly and Arthur, such a gentleman, sheds his coat to give it to you, except now he is soaked through as well. The both of you are freezing and he tells you that you have to stop until the weather clears. He’s cussing up a storm worse than the one you're in. You nod, just wanting to be warm, wracked by shivers. He comes up on an abandoned shack and guides you inside, shutting the rain out. You're standing in the center of the room, looking like a wet cat after a miserable bath, Arthur is kind enough to take his coat off of you, giving you a ratty old, moth bitten blanket but it doesn't do much of anything for the cold. Trying to get a fire going proves fruitful but it's a small one and the wind blowing in from the flue almost puts it out several times.

Arthur feels so helpless, sitting there watching your teeth start to chatter as you sit in front of the pathetic little fire. He's trying to apologize (Ah, I’m sorry, I didn't know it was gonna come down like that,) but you only tell him it's not his fault. He has to help, all he wants to do is help. Things aren't getting any better and he doesn't want you to come down with something on account of him being an idiot. And then he gets an idea. He’s red all over flushed at the thought but he knows taking your soaking clothes off would help. And he's standing there, awkwardly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck while he tries to hide under his hat. He’s gently clearing his throat, trying to get your attention. 

“Maybe we could try… I…could…” he's nervously stumbling through his words and he's looking at you, sitting on the floor, desperately trying to warm your hands by the fire. You look up to him but he can hardly speak, so enraptured by the look of utter trust, reliance on him. His mouth hangs open but he swallows the lump of spit in his mouth. He tries to shake off these boyish jitters he gets around you. “Uhhh- I mean, it would be better if we weren't sittin’ round in these clothes, I guess, can’t be doin’ you any good...”  

“Really, you think so…?” Your voice is quiet and meek, struggling to say anything past the clicking of your teeth and the shivers. “Well then, turn around, Arthur,” at your obvious attempt to be modest, he nods stiffly and turns towards the wall, listening to you take your dress and your underskirts off, landing in a wet plop on the floor. You whine, peeling yourself out of your undergarments before a quiet ok leaves your lips. He turns and you're desperately covering yourself with that dusty blanket, legs bare, fabric hardly long enough to cover the soft mound between your legs, the fat of your inner thighs squished together. Arthur has a hard time keeping his gaze from locking onto any of the inviting bits of skin you show him. You're embarrassed, biting your lip, squeezing your arms around yourself. 

“Aren't you gonna- Arthur, you're gonna do it too, right?” Arthur has a hesitant nod and a course even though he just now thought he should probably follow along to help make you more comfortable. He’s removing his hat first, nothing to hide under now and he notices that you watch him take his gun belt off, unfastening his suspenders from his pants. You finally look away, his boots and his pants are peeled off and his shirt is unbuttoned. He’s breathing heavily now, naked as the day he was born. But you won't stop shivering. Your hair is still wet. And the fire is struggling to warm you from the bitter cold that clings to the dusty air. There isn't much left to burn for the fire. 

“You want me to hold you?” It's out of his mouth before he can stop it, trying to smack away these thoughts about the glimpses he’s getting of your naked figure underneath the blanket. He swears it's only out of necessity, that you're just not warming up fast enough. “Don’t want you gettin’ sick on me,” He really does only want you comfortable. Unrealistically hoping this won't change what you most likely consider a friendship. You nod, vigorously. 

“I think it would be ok, maybe if you just didn’t- didn’t look. Just- don’t look,” and you're desperate, curling up in his lap in front of the wavering fire. You're unable to look at him, but you still rub into him, enjoying how his body warms up a lot faster than yours. And both of you make some excuse that things would be better without that old blanket between you two. And suddenly you're pressed into him, his arms tight around you while he looks at the ceiling to avoid staring at things he shouldn't. Arthur struggles hard to keep from rubbing upwards into you, trying to keep you from sitting directly between his legs, afraid the way his body reacts to the feel of your body will scare you, scandalize you. But you only seem to want to be there more, getting comfortable with him. His chest hair tickles you, the hair creeps all the way down his torso. You giggle softly as it tickles you. His heart beats fast at the feel of you, so soft compared to the roughness of him.

As if all of the blood hasn't already rushed down to the very center of him, you just have to sit squarely on his lap. He tries to readjust you but it's too late and you've felt him, hard as a rock, pushing at you. He's so embarrassed, stumbling over an apology, “Shit-I-I’m sorry, I-” in that surly voice, all rough and low. you gasp and look over your shoulder. You see how he can hardly stand to look at you with his pretty blue gem-toned eyes. Instead he shows you his profile as he turns away. 

“It's ok”, Arthur has no idea how he's supposed to look at you after this, he can't see himself looking you in the eyes for a long while after you've felt his cock nudging the swell of your ass, unable to deny his own reaction to you. Hopefully he’ll be able to dismiss it as a fluke and not a devastating hope that you’d be interested in him that he's been crushing down for months now. He's trying to will away the burgeoning desire just under his skin, tamping down fires that rage on. And you look up at him again with that look of trust in your eyes, too ashamed to continue touching you, wholeheartedly convinced you don't like him. 

But then you're only closer than you were, looking up at him, so close, he's breathing in your scent, sweet and like fresh summer rain. His eyes search yours for any inclination and all you have to do is put your hand on his prickly cheek for him to lean and kiss you, hands on his broad chest, rushing over the warmth you can feel. How he ends up with you on his lap, tits pressed up against his hairy chest, his big hands squeezing at your hips, he's not too sure. Your arms are over his shoulders, playing with his light brown hair sweetly, rubbing the sore muscles in his back. And the glide of his tongue over yours is heaven, he swears. You whine into his kisses, the heat between the both of you licks over your skin, noses clumsily bumping into each other. 

Then he’s on top of you, tucking you over the blanket. “You gotta tell me you want this, want me,” and all you can do is say “Yes, please, Arthur, please,” features showing your ecstasy, anticipating his hands on you.

His hands are rough; petting down your sides. Any worries he had about being too old, too ugly and too brutish for you are forgotten when you kiss him, spread your legs for him to fit between them. When you push your breasts in his hands when he goes to touch them. Your nipples are hard from the cold but his hands start to warm them up when he gropes at them, squeezing languidly at your breasts, grabbing handfuls.

It's not long before he’s pinning your thighs up with his hands, spreading you and licking eagerly between your legs, so selfless. Letting you moan as loud as you like, telling you how good you taste, the roughened pads of his fingers circling at the sensitive button at the top of your slit. And he's so strong, doesn't put much effort into keeping your legs up. He has dulcet praises for you, “Such a pretty girl, darlin’, jus’ beautiful,” making you soften and ease.

He’s so warm, holding you, like you wanted him to, messy kisses that taste like you. The very tip of him catches on you, dipping softly between your folds. Your nails dig into him, thighs clench tight. He's sweet talking to you, shushing you, rubbing hard at the delicate little nub, getting you as wet as possible. Saying how good you look. How he must be dreaming. That’s my girl is what he says when you soak his fingers with your own arousal, heat rising to the apples of your cheeks. Even more when he's working his cock inside of you, panting, he seems overwhelmed, mumbling and groaning praises to you, his sweet girl, perfect in that slow easy voice of his. You feel him carefully easing you open, hissing at the feel of you wrapped tight on him and leaking down his shaft. You can't say much but his name, begging him not to stop, feeling his fingers almost bruise the tender softness of your hips. 

Arthur pushes so deep, a growl of pleasure leaking from his lips. You didn't think he would feel so big. Telling him how big he is and feels; “You're so big, Arthur,” in a wispy moan, makes him groan. He just wants to hear how much you like him. The rhythm he was trying to keep slow and careful speeds up. And he doesn't last very long, poor thing. It's been a while for him and he's flushed bright red, embarrassed and feeling a tad emasculated. The disappointed son of a bitch he lets out has you petting his hair back tenderly.

But all you have to do is give him a minute, kiss and nip gently, lock your legs around him so he can't pull away, until he's pushing his own seed deeper, mindlessly pinning you under his weight. He loves feeling so close to you, so small underneath him. 

The way you feel clenching down on him, moaning for him, begging him to keep going has him rutting into you, following his instincts, brain feeling like it's melting. He's harder than he has ever been, listening to the sound of your wetness slide on him, the mess he’s left between your thighs sounding dirty and sticky. You don't have to tell him to keep rubbing you, grinding your hips into his so he can press into the perfect spot. 

His thumb is rubbing at the very center of you, that tender bud, so sensitive, has you pushed to the edge and falling over, legs locking up behind him, bucking and moaning much too loud. You sink your fingers into the layer of fat over his broad muscles, arching your back, feeling so complete. Seeing you so relaxed, feeling so good because of him makes him push as deep as he can, making your toes curl, forcing more of his cum even deeper, a sloppy wet mess that drips out of you when he pulls out. But he revels in those few moments where he's catching his breath, still so deep inside of you, feeling you pulse on him. 

Arthur can’t not hold you afterwards, unsure what to say. He thinks it might be too soon for I love you, maybe you’ll be scared away by his raw sentiments and his lovesick words. But you stare into his eyes; his heart jumps when he blurts it out in the silence, too late to shut his damn mouth. But you only smile and say you love him too. You're the farthest thing from cold, tucked into his chest, not even noticing that the rain has stopped.

Thank you for reading! SO sorry this ended up being so long. Excited to write more for high honor arthur, this was more fun than i thought... I love him 😔😳

[postm0rt3m]

writing this so fast because if i dont ILL FORGET IT PLEASE

(insp by that super SEXY IMAGE posted by @simonz-angel !!)

bzzt.

your eyes jolt open at the sudden feeling of your phone buzzing, the vibration under your pillow prompting a soft, groggy groan from your lips.

you’re not sure what time it is, but when you open your eyes, it’s still dark outside. riley, your retired bomb-sniffing german shepherd, is still fast asleep at the foot of the bed. and your two little kitties are seemingly no where to be found.

you finally roll over, the time on your little bed stand alarm clock reading 2:28 AM. ‘who the hell is texting at 2 in the damn morning??’ you wonder with another groan, this time an annoyed one. although one person pops in your mind. specifically, a big beefy man, who is currently out on deployment. your annoyance washes away instantly.

you can’t help the giddy smile that spreads across your face just at the thought of him. simon riley. your big beefy man.

he’s been gone for a little under a week now, although its felt like years. the same as it always does. you miss your warm, brick wall of a man! you’re currently bundled under three different blankets, and its still not the same! you miss his big, plush pecks and biceps that feel like pillows under your head, the rough skin of the burn scar across the entire right half of his torso that you could just run your tongue over for the rest of your life, and just don’t get me started on that tattoo sleeve.

of course.. you also just miss him. the way he yells at riley then immediately feeds him a treat because he feels bad, the way he looks at you when he finally does arrive back from his harrowing work, the way he whispers sweet nothings into your ear when he thinks you’ve drifted off.

simply put, you miss your simon.

you’re brought out of your thoughts when riley stirs at the end of the bed, a soft giggle escaping your lips as the dog lies on his back with his tongue flopped out and each of his limbs in the air, like a possum playing dead.

you decide to finally open the message, although that small pit of worry is in your stomach, as it always is when you receive a message from him.

is he hurt?

did something happen?

please be okay.

the same thoughts always run through your mind when you get these random texts, but as soon as you open the chat, your mind instantly freezes. well.. maybe blanks is a better word.

there’s no caption, no words. just a single image attached. and holy shit, is it better than anything you could’ve asked for.

he looks to be lying in his bed, the familiar military-approved white sheets tucked in neatly behind him. the camera is angled high above himself, and it looks as if he still has his gloves on. you can also see the waistline of his pants, and of course that sexy mask (you could bust just from thinking about it), and the dogtags you were just wearing when you bounced up and down on his cock, but.. thats it. he’s completely shirtless.

his muscular, toned abs and pecks are fully on display. for you. only for you. his beefy biceps are on either side of the frame, and that tattoo sleeve you remember tasting just a week ago is sitting deliciously in view. the way his shoulders barely fit in frame, the way the muscle connecting his shoulders up to his neck sits so perfectly high, the way his collarbones. THE WAY HIS V-LINE.

god.. and his scars? you can remember leaving a rather large hickey over that old bullet hole. giggling over the stab wound stretching over his ribcage. licking a stripe all the way from his v-line to his shoulder over the jagged skin of his burn scar. although there is a new one, one you can only presume he got in the last week. no matter, it will be tasted as soon as he gets home.

you end up staring at the picture for a good ten minutes (12, but who’s counting?) before you actually respond. you.. really aren’t sure what to say. it’s not uncommon for him to send images while hes out on deployment, but at 2:30? on a random tuesday? he must be horned up.

but you can’t just leave your man hanging! so.. you decide with a simple text.

> oh

you can already imagine the deep chuckle as he reads the message, the way he’d palm over his painfully tight bulge just thinking about you before unbuttoning his pants, his hard and leaking cock springing up against his lower abdomen and his big, veiny hand wrapping around it-

obviously, you’re feeling the same as he is, considering just how quickly you rush riley out of the room (don’t worry, he’ll get a treat later to make up for it) and plop back down in bed, your phone in one hand as the other lazily circles over your clit.

like i said, you miss your simon.

and you’ll definitely be getting him back for that little tease.

tumblr STOP DELETING PARAGRAPSH WHEN I TRY TO SPSCE THEM. hi i wrote this within like thirty minutes at 3 in the morning and its not proofread so.. enjoy!

ft a lil msg 😜 (BCZ WTF WOULD YOU RESPOND TO THAT my hand would be PREOCCUPIED)