#if anyones wondering hes holding those dust mops

[mylas-stash]

HIIII I CAVED IN AND MADE A WATCHDOG OC

This is larry!!! he/him, has coloboma (i like to think he's not the only one with it lol) and the tallest watchdog in the hater empire so far. (hes like 2 inches taller and has longer legs)

he works full time as a janitor and he sleeps in the janitor closet because they (Hater and peepers) couldn't find him a place to sleep in. that doesn't stop him from being sooo dedicated to his job to the point where some watchdogs actually think he's weird.

[wri0thesley]

omg wait no hold on I just requested overhaul but then I remembered your overhaul thirst post about him pulling a "curing hysteria~" as an excuse and thought I'd request something along that vibe (no oun intended). I think that'd fall under orgasm control, overstim? (hope this is okay!)

hysteria antidote - overhaul x fem!reader (4k)

seeing nothing but the same four walls every day of your life is playing havoc with your brain. overhaul thinks perhaps you're suffering from hysteria. he has the perfect cure for that.

cw: not sfw/minors dni. dark content!!! dubious/non-consent. captive reader. talk of death, blood, etc. medical kink, gloves, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm control. misogyny. mentions of pregnancy/breeding. afab reader, fem pronouns.

[a/n: idk the internet said the 28th of may was his birthday so consider this both a birthday fic and a fic to celebrate 6k followers, sorry that i am gross and horrible but tbh im having a great time <3]

You really don’t think it’s unreasonable for you to be going out of your mind.

Since the Boss was taken ill, and Kai – Overhaul, you remind yourself, though he’s always just a little less sharp with you when you trip over the new name than he is with anyone else – took over leadership of the Shie Hassaikai, you’ve been pretty much stuck indoors.

Considering that you’re pretty sure he only has fond feelings towards maybe three people in the entire world, including you, you guess you ought to feel special about it – but all it actually does is make you feel like a trapped bird, caged and restless. It doesn’t help that all of the other members of the organisation have started being weird around you; people who you’ve known most of your adult life, people who you’ve worked beside and killed beside and done other horrible things beside (for the good of the organisation, of course)--

But now, they look at you like you might break at any moment. They treat you like an invalid. Their brows crease when they see you out and about, quietly murmuring; “Shouldn’t you still be in your room?”, avoiding touching you at all costs. There’s a kind of fear in their eyes, that they’re going to be told off for even speaking to you, that they’re afraid of being caught close to you.

And you know exactly who’s to blame for that.

You’d tried to speak to him about it, once; you’d thought that perhaps he might be amenable to your desire to do something to help the Shie Hassaikai. He’s always wanted to restore them to their former glory, after all! But after you’d let out your little impassioned tirade, his eyebrows had creased over the bird-mask.

“You don’t sound well,” he’d said to you. “Go back to your room. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

You had missed, at the time, that he hadn’t said ‘we’ll talk about it later’. He’d just said ‘I’ll’. When he had come, that is how it had been; the reassurance that he was keeping you safe. That he didn’t want you to be tainted. That he was keeping you well.

Your quirklessness has never been an issue before, but it certainly hasn’t been a boon. Still, for Kai--

“It’s disgusting,” he’d said, agitated by the discussion. You’d stared at his hands, thinking about the destructive power he himself wielded. “Quirks are a curse, and you not having one is just proof you’re not infected.” He’d looked up, golden eyes piercing directly into yours. “I’m going to keep you perfect.”

Overhaul is not a doctor, for all of his talk about illness and disease and plague. You think he could have used his quirk for something meaningful, once; but you also know that his burning curiousity, his disgust of anyone who deems tainted, his utter lack of morality . . . those are all things that would not have been welcomed in the medical profession. So instead, he deals in needles and pills and altering drugs in the underground labyrinth of the compound.

Sterile rooms, with examination tables and scalpels and impersonal, silver-grey equipment. Pill boxes that rattle when he passes them to you and tells you to take three of those a day, one of those, that one has to be taken to with food--

The idea that you won’t take them doesn’t enter his head, and though he has never . . . overhauled someone in front of you, you have walked past other members of the organisation mopping and disinfecting blood and gristle from sterile flooring.

It is better to go along with him, so you take the supplements and the pills and submit to the way he grabs your chin in gloved hands on the doctor’s chair, tipping your face up to shine a light into your eyes and watch your pupils dilate. But inside, you are screaming.

You’re not made to be locked in one room, occasionally allowed out to pace the hallways of the upstairs – never the underground ones, not any more – with restless footsteps and your muscles fizzing with desire to taste fresh air. You’re not made to stare at the same walls and breathe the purified air and think about how empty the compound is, now that Overhaul is in charge of everything--

(Too many knick-knacks attract dust. Pollen allergies act up, if there are too many plants, and he hates hearing people sneeze. Furniture should be easily movable and barren, to assist in the twice-daily cleanings of every room that people walk through.)

But it’s getting too much for you. Suffocating. You feel like you’re choking on air all of the time; you take the pills, because the thought of what he could do to you is terrifying, but sometimes you wonder if perhaps it would be better if you didn’t.

You’d woken up that morning to the sound of rain hitting the high windows in your bedroom, and you had longed to go outside in your thin nightwear and spread your arms and taste the air, smell the rain, feel it hit your body in fat droplets. Your entire being had ached. You’d tried to distract yourself, with what little there was in the barren prison cell that you called a bedroom – but when the door opened at four thirty exactly, and Kai had stood there with his face as impassive as ever, you had not been able to stop yourself.

Hand fastening around his upper arm (you shouldn’t touch him, you know you shouldn’t, but the same four walls are getting to you), you’d begged him;

“I want to go outside.”

If anyone else had touched him like that, they would already be splattered against the walls and floor. But all you get is a furrow of his eyebrows, careful fingers (gloved, of course; the latex against your skin always makes you shudder) pinching at your hand to get you to let go of him.

“No,” he says. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“I don’t care,” you’re petulant, you know, frustration bubbling up in every cell of your body. “If I stay in here for one more day, I will tear myself into pieces.”

“You’re being over-dramatic.”

“Kai—”

“Don’t call me that.” His rebuttal is sharp. “You know I’m doing this for your own good.”

Your face twists into something ugly. Overhaul hates it when you do that; hates the way your brow wrinkles, your mouth moves, your normally lovely face (one of very few he can bear to look at unmasked and not feel as though he is going to get sick from merely breathing the same air of you) marred.

“You’re not,” you hiss at him. “You’re doing this because you’re fucked up! Because you’ve got some weird fucking ideas about what’s clean and what’s unclean, because you’re on a power trip, because you don’t care about other people--” Your voice is pitching and modulating, all of the things that you usually try and keep balled up inside of you spilling out that the floodgates of how unhappy you are is open.

You’re breathing heavy as Overhaul, clearly irked by what you’re saying, tugs at the wrist of one of his surgical gloves. If he’s going to kill you, good – at least it will be better than this, you think, your breath coming in short sharp pants after the outburst.

He lets go. His hands fall to his sides. His golden gaze on you is very level.

“You’re hysterical,” he tells you. An exasperated laugh falls from your mouth.

“Yeah?” You ask him. “Of course I am. Do you know the last time I breathed fresh air?”

“Seven months, two weeks, three days.” He says it without blinking. Your shoulders tense. Has it really been that long? “You haven’t been ill once in that time. The world out there is filthy.”

“It’s normal to get sick,” you try and tell him, but Overhaul is moving forward; past the doorway, and into your room. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound of a lock ominous. You don’t think you’ve ever been alone with Kai in your bedroom.

In the medical examination rooms, sure. In his office. In common areas, back when he was just the boss’ troubled protege and not the boss himself--

His eyebrows twitch in disgust as he notices the dust on your bookshelves. You’d stopped letting any of the cleaners in here a month ago; you’d refused to clean in the mean time, taking whatever small victory against your captor that you could.

“You’ll give yourself respiratory issues,” he says.

“Good,” your voice is cold, but you realise you’ve backed away from him. For all of your attempts to stand up to him, you’re terrified. Everyone knows what he can do. “Better dead than here--”

Gloved fingers around your wrist, so tight you can practically feel them bruising.

“You don’t mean that,” he says. His voice has gotten softer, cajoling. You’re trembling in his grip. “I told you. You’re hysterical.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you say, but your words feel like you’re spitting them out around a mouthful of gravel. “I—I’m calm--”

Your knees knock against your bed, but Overhaul is still clinging to you; still too close. Your heart is beating so fast that you can hear it pounding in your ears.

“You’re not. You’re hysterical.” He repeats it, calmly. The hand not on your wrist reaches up and cups your face, a gloved thumb stroking across your cheek as if you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. The scent of the latex is overwhelming. “But that’s alright. It’s not your fault.” He clicks his tongue behind the mask. “It’s mine. All of this checking for the physical sickness, and I didn’t think about checking your head.”

You fall onto the bed as his knees knock against yours, your back hitting the wall. It’s just a plain, single bed; rumpled sheets, because you’d fought against any attempt for someone to come in and collect your laundry, too. Overhaul looks silly in your room, you think dimly; like a huge black crow in the nest of a small, frightened wren.

“If you fight,” he tells you, “I’ll disassemble you. I’d rather not. I don’t want to taint you by using my quirk. But . . .” He’s sinking to his knees in front of you, those same methodical hands pushing up the skirt of your dress. “If I did, I’d get a blank mind to work with. I won’t hesitate. But I’d still rather simply fix you without having to break you into pieces first.”

You know him too well to think that he’s bluffing.

After all of the vitriol you’ve spat at him, he’s unwilling to kill you. Would it be worse, to be mindless and brainless under Kai’s quirk? You’ve heard some of his failed experiments before; babbling, drooling, broken things. He’s killed them sometimes just to put them out of their misery.

What if he did that, and your mind remained perfectly capable – just utterly unable to communicate with your body? A prisoner in your own skin. Worse than even now. You swallow back the lump of fear.

“H-how are you going to do that?” You ask him.

You start at how cold the gloved fingers are on your bare thighs, as Overhaul pushes them apart. Cold fear prickles down your spine. You’re too scared to fight back, but everything he’s doing is making you want to run.

“Did you know,” Overhaul says, those same hands sliding higher, to tug at the waistband of your underwear. “In the past, there were rumours that doctors would cure hysteria by genital massage and stimulation?”

His words are very clinical, but there’s a thickness to his voice behind the mask that fills you with revulsion.

“It might be nonsense, of course,” he says. Your underwear is being tugged down, pulled around your thighs, your knees, your ankle. “They theorised that the best cure was regular intercourse, male semen, pregnancy and childbirth--”

“Kai—” Your voice is a soft whine, fear-filled. This time, he doesn’t snap at you for calling him by the name he’s left behind. He simply says;

“Spread your legs.”

You don’t want to. But you want to risk what he’s threatening you with even less, so you tearfully open them as wide as you can go. He shifts forward, and the tip of the beaked mask digs into your inner thigh as he studies you like you’re nothing more than a diagram, not a living, breathing person--

“Next time I’ll have lubricant ready,” he says, under his breath, and your heart seizes up at the implication that whatever he’s going to do to you, there’ll be a next time.

You start at the sensation of gloved fingers gently parting the lips of your sex, Overhaul’s golden eyes drinking in the sight of you spread open and bare. You’re shaking, but for some reason the way he’s looking at you – the utter concentration in his eyes – makes a curl of heat flare deep inside of you.

“Don’t,” you breathe, trying not to squirm. “Please--”

“I don’t want to have to,” he says. His tone remains calm, unbothered. “I’m doing it for your own good, you know that. Just helping you along.” One finger slides through the slit; the sensation of the gloves against your most intimate, heated parts makes the muscles in your thighs clench. It’s . . . not exactly unpleasant, but neither it is pleasant. “Do you think I’m getting any pleasure out of this?”

He doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. You know this; everyone knows this. If this particular thought was so unpleasant to him, you don’t doubt he’d have found somebody else to do it (the thought of one of the other members of the Shie Hassaikai doing this to you fills you with even more revulsion than the idea of Overhaul himself). But you can’t say that out loud. Not after what he’s threatened. So you press your lips together and shake your head, gasp dying in your throat as one of Overhaul’s latex-covered fingers prods gently around your opening.

“You’re getting wet,” he tells you, as if you can’t feel the shameful slick beginning to leak from you. “That will make this easier. Good.”

You hate that the praise makes another jolt of arousal go through you. You don’t want to like the feeling of his gloves, rubbing at your heated cunt; the sensation of a fingertip circling around your entrance, brushing the bud of your clit and making you want to clamp your thighs around his hand.

He sinks the tip of one finger inside of you and you jerk, your hips out of your control as you try and sink away from the intrusion. Overhaul clicks his tongue again in annoyance at you. The hand holding the lips of your cunt open moves, to land on your hip and pin you between the bed and the wall so you can’t squirm again.

“I’ll sedate you next time, if I have to,” he says. “I’m not getting anything out of this. I’d prefer not to have to do it at all--”

He’s lying. You know he is. But you can’t call him out for it, so you press your trembling lips together and try to stop tears spilling out from your lash line as the finger inside of you sinks further and further inside, past his first knuckle, right down to the base.

He crooks it inside of you and your hands curl into the bedsheets, nails digging into your palms through cotton. His touch is curious, exploratory; has he ever actually done this to anybody before? He slides over a rough patch inside of you with the latex-tipped finger and a moan escapes your mouth against your will, your head falling back against the wall. Narrowed golden eyes look up at you as he repeats the motion; taking in the gloss of your lips, the widening of your eyes, the way your shoulders are shaking up and down.

You can feel yourself pumping more slick out; helping the glide of his finger inside of you, as he begins to carefully thrust it in and out of you. His touch is made all the more impersonal by the mask obscuring everything but his eyes and eyebrows; you can’t even hear him breathing.

Your cunt is fluttering around him, pleasure swarming you in breathless waves as he withdraws his finger entirely. He lifts the glove to his eyeline, looking only vaguely interested in how the white latex glimmers with your arousal.

“I’m going to use two now,” he tells you – and that is all the warning you get before two fingers beside one another are opening you up, scissoring your tight channel apart with an ache that you feel up to your hips. You bite back the whimper, but you’re unable to stop the choked breaths that are falling from you as he fucks you with them in steady, constant thrusts.

A covered thumb brushes your clit; swollen, now. Sensitive. Standing to attention. Your hips attempt to jerk in his hold once more, a strangled noise that’s neither pleasured nor pain falling from your throat. You’ve touched yourself, of course you have – even recently, just to try and assuage some of the boredom that fills your exactly-the-same days – but Overhaul’s fingers and thumbs and touch on you are so entirely different from that.

He continues his assault over your clit, those same eyes watching you with that same detached, clinical disposition that he’s had most of the time. There’s a cast to them that suggests there’s something more, but whatever emotion – if, indeed, he’s still capable of that – he’s feeling about having you at his mercy in this way has been pushed to the back of his mind as his thumb rolls and pinches at the bud.

Your body goes all-over heat, Overhaul’s fingers still pumping in and out of you, the slick noises of your shaming wetness echoing around the prison of the four walls you’ve spent seven months in. You’re teetering on the edge of something, hot and needy and wanting – and as Overhaul’s thumb sweeps over your poor aching clit again, you tilt your hips forward for as much stimulation as you can--

And he pulls his fingers out of you.

The heat fades into nothingness as you let out a noise of disappointment. Overhaul’s head tilts to one side, considering.

“What do you want?” He asks you. “Say it.”

No. You don’t ‘want’. He’s wrong. You keep your mouth pressed tight now that the damning noise has fallen out of it; you have managed to not let the tears trembling in your eyes spill forth. Your gaze meets his, defiant and tired and afraid all at once.

“Alright,” he sighs. “If you’re going to carry on being difficult.”

He does it again; his fingers plunging into you, scissoring you apart, rubbing against your folds with a practised agility now that he’s done it for the first time. He has always been a fast learner; always been observant. His thumb is back on your clit with ceaseless assault, and all over again you feel heat begin to build up; tension that crawls into every crevice of your being and worms its way deep inside you despite how badly you don’t want this.

The hand holding your hip loosens somewhat, allowing you to messily thrust your hips into Overhaul’s stimulation. You’re torn; you shouldn’t want to hump against the gloved fingers stimulating you, you should be wriggling and squirming away. But it feels so good; even with the skin-tight covering of rubbery latex, Overhaul’s fingers seem to find every one of your weak points and exploit them.

There it is again, building up on you; a ball of tension in your stomach being gradually wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. Your hips flex against his hand, your fingers clenching and unclenching on the bedsheet--

He denies you the peak of your orgasm for the second time.

And a third.

And a fourth.

“Kai--!” You’re too far gone to even think, after the pleasure has been pulled from you so cruelly, over and over again. The tears spill over your cheeks., rolling down in fat, shaming droplets. Overhaul’s eyes narrow.

“No,” he says, vehement – more emotion in his voice than you’ve heard all day. “You know what to call me.”

You know what he wants you to call him. You know that he wants to leave his old name behind, start again, be someone who can drag the Shie Hassaikai out of the shadows and into light and power once again – and he thinks that the name will help. You gurgle out a sobbing, strangled noise;

“O-Overhaul, please--”

Three fingers are plunged as deep inside of you as they can go, crooked to rub against your sweet spot; as Overhaul murmurs, detached but soft;

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

They thrust into you, his thumb rubbing your clit with firm, certain strokes – and this time, as the orgasm rushes up on you all at once, he doesn’t stop. He fucks you with his fingers through it, his thumb not ceasing the circling. Pleasure washes over you, finally, in great waves and crests. You feel yourself gush on his fingers, soaking him in your wetness (his eyebrows furrow again, at how close your fluid comes to spilling over his bared wrist; but you are too relieved to think about anything other than finally getting what you need).

Your hips flex, gasps falling from your mouth with every thrust of them – and you expect Overhaul to pull his fingers out of you. To stop touching you. Perhaps to strip off his gloves and put on a new pair – you know he always carries spares – and sneer at you as he walks out of the room.

But Overhaul’s fingers do not move from inside of you. The fierce rhythm of his fucking and petting and rubbing does not stop, even as the final aftershocks of your orgasm clench loosely about him and his constant stimulation becomes more of an annoyance than anything else on heated, sensitive skin.

You squirm, trying to push your thighs together to get him to stop touching you – but the hand not fucking you forces your thighs to stay parted with the curl of fingers into supple flesh, leaving you helpless to do anything but let him carry on touching you. Carry on fucking you.

A short, sharp shock of an orgasm rips through you as he swirls his thumb over your clit just so, and you realise that you’re drooling down yourself as well as panting; helpless and sloppy, utterly unable to do anything except lie there and take it until Overhaul decides he’s had enough of touching you.

You come, what? Twice more? Thrice? Until the pulsing of your channel is painful, your skin feeling red raw, your whimpers into the ceiling dry and broken. Only then does he pull his fingers out of you with a lewd pop.

A gush of your fluid that his fingers were stoppering soaks your bedsheets, and you watch, dazed, as Overhaul stands up. He looks down at you for just one moment, that stretches unbearably long in the heat-and-sex soaked atmosphere of the room.

He strips his gloves off of his hands, eyebrows twitching in disgust as he leaves the crumpled latex on your bedside table. He’s sliding on another pair as he speaks;

“Feel better?”

No. No, you don’t. You feel worse. You feel disgusted and violated and aching, your body over-stimulated and exhausted, sweat and drool and bodily fluids clinging to your skin. But if you tell Overhaul that--

“Yes,” you say, voice very soft and small and weak. You cannot see his mouth, but you see the way his eyes flash happily, the overall sensation of him smiling.

Why does Overhaul’s smile make you so scared, when Kai’s smile used to just make you feel warm?

“We’ll need to do it a few more times,” he tells you, as your blood runs to ice in your veins. “Such maladies aren’t cured in a day, after all. But . . .” He turns, rearranging himself carefully, his mask readjusted. You can’t see him as he speaks the next words. “I’d like to try some of the other suggested remedies, too.”

You think of his earlier words.

‘They theorised that the best cure was regular intercourse, male semen, pregnancy and childbirth.’

You’re never going to escape, are you? You’re going to be trapped in this compound until the day you die, and Overhaul is going to think that he’s keeping you safe--

“Take a shower,” he says to you, as he opens the door. It is not a suggestion. “And stop not letting the maids come in here to clean. I’m not having you get sick.”

You think he might be the sick one.

[i-need-entertainment]

Haikyuu!! Boys getting accidentally hit ‘where it hurts’ by their kids

Characters: Akaashi, Washio, Konoha, Kita, Suna, Ushijima, Yahaba, Iwaizumi, Futakuchi, Daishou, Numai and Iizuna

Happy Easter if you celebrate it!! I thought a fluffy little hc’s of the Haikyuu!! Boys with their babies would be cute for today so here we are~

Warnings: Uh- just our favorite boys getting hit in the balls, I’m seeking more therapy I laughed way too hard while writing this uHm, mentions of grabbing the crotch cause what else you gonna do??, I do reference the Bad-dad moments and being flashed posts. 

**POST TIMESKIP CAUSE CHILDREN!! YOU AND THE HAIKYUU!! BOYS ARE MARRIED~ ALSO THE NUMBER OF KIDS THEY HAVE CAME FROM THE BAD-DAD MOMENTS!!**

@foodacoochie I thought you might want to see this~

Akaashi Keiji: 

Today was Akaashi’s day off, so naturally he wanted to spend it with his family!

You were all situated in the living room, your youngest who was a little over 1 sitting on your lap, and your oldest, who was about 3 was sitting across from Akaashi.

Akaashi was on his knees, throwing a tennis ball like thing back and forth with your 3 year old son, who was standing.

Everything was going great, just some wholesome family fun.

Until Akaashi said ‘give it all you got!’ his child smiled, wound up, and-

‘OOF-’ you watched as your husband immediately hunched over, falling to his side as his hands flew to his crotch.

Your eyes widened as you tried not to laugh, your son however started giggling when his father groaned, your baby following suit.

“K-keiji? *snicker* are- *ahem* are you okay?” You barely got through the sentence before you started laughing, Akaashi just slowly nodded, eventually returning to his knees.

He was much, much more conscious of his lower region from that point on.

Washio Tatsuki: 

It was Halloween time, and you and Washio had taken your 3 kids to a pumpkin patch!

You guys have 3 kids, the oldest two are 5 (fraternal twins, 1 boy 1 girl), and the youngest is 2.

The farm had made several ‘haunted houses’, one for little kids and one for teens+

Your twins had decided they wanted to go in the haunted house!

Well, your son did. Your daughter was not thrilled.

But! When her daddy offered to hold her hand the whole time, she decided she could brave it out, after all it is Washio we’re talking about.

You stayed by the entrance with your 2 year old, while Washio took the twins inside.

Everything was fine for awhile, your son was very excited, giggling at the jump scares and all in all having a good old time.

Your daughter...not so much. Poor thing was just about shaking, but she wanted to do this!!

They were about 2 scares away from the exit when someone dressed as a werewolf came from no where, your daughter screaming and turning into her father, her elbow at the perfect height to connect with his groin.

Sucking in a quick breath he ever so slightly tightened his hold on his children's hands, walking them through the last few jump scares and out to you.

You immediately grew concerned as the first thing your husband did was take a knee when he got outside, hands coming to grip at his face as he just slowly let out a breath, nodding when you asked if he was okay.

But even after getting elbowed in the balls, he never let go of his daughters hand😤

Konoha Akinori: 

You had just finished drying your son off from his bath when you heard giggling coming from the living room.

You sighed as you saw your husband, relentlessly tickling his oldest daughter, right after you had gotten her all settled down for bed.

Despite the irritation you felt knowing it would take at least 2 more stories for her to be sleepy again, you couldn’t help but smile knowing how much he loved being a dad.

“D-daddy *giggle* st-stop it!! It-it tickles!!!” Your husband smiled, continuing to gently tickle your daughter as she continued to laugh.

“No-can-do missy! Your laugh is just too cute!” 

Your daughter, despite her laughing, started to squirm, small arms pressing down on her fathers forearms, and little legs and feet pressing on his shins and thighs.

Until one particularly ticklish brush of his fingers caused her foot to slip, ending with her heel hitting him right in his crotch.

He shrieked as he let go of his daughter, hands flying down to his groin as he fell on his side, all the while his little girl laughed as she crawled up towards you, who was hunched over ugly laughing/crying as your husband continued to whine.

Kita Shinsuke: 

Today was the first day of your spring cleaning, and your 4 year old daughter insisted on being a big help!

You were working in the living room while Kita and your daughter worked in the kitchen.

Kita was teaching his daughter how to use everything, and helping her when she needed it, she was of course a wonderful listener and was having the time of her life.

They had just finished dusting, and now it was time to do the floors.

You guys had linoleum in the kitchen, so all they had to do was sweep and mop.

Kita got the broom from the storage closet and came back to the kitchen.

He sighed when he realized he had forgotten the mop, setting the broom up against the kitchen counter and telling your daughter he’d be right back.

Now, she may more responsible than most kids her age, but she was still 4. And very curious.

Picking up the broom, she started to play with it, completely oblivious to her father rounding the corner.

Before he could so much as blink his daughter turned, the top of the broom catching him right in the balls as he very narrowly avoided cussing, choosing to grip the counter instead.

Gasping your little girl ran to you, on the verge of tears as she grabbed your hand and started pulling you towards the kitchen.

“Mommy help! I think I killed daddy!”

When you got to the kitchen, you saw Kita, head down on the counter as his hands wrapped around his head, small groans coming from him.

He made sure to be out of his daughter reach when teaching her to sweep.

Suna Rintaro: 

Suna was in the living room, your 2 oldest in there with him as he was ‘rough housing’ and doing stuff dads do with their kids.

You were in the youngest 2′s room, putting them down for a nap.

Suna gently held his daughters legs as she planted her palms on the floor, him lifting her up when she was ready.

That’s right, Suna was teaching them to do handstands.

Giving her a high five he turned to his son, telling him what he needed to do, completely oblivious to his daughters concentrated look.

Keep in mind, Suna was standing, with his knees slightly bent and his hands on his knees.

Your daughter gave herself a firm nod, putting her hands above her head as she dipped down.

You had just finished putting the littlest ones down for their nap when you walked into the living room, watching almost in slow motion as your daughter leaned her upper half down, and watching her her leg came flying straight up.

Straight up in between her father’s legs.

You watched as his eyes widened, the air being knocked right out of him as he practically folded in half, forehead resting on the carpet as your son just looked at him and your daughters hands came up to her mouth.

You were of course dying in the doorway, him shooting you a glare as you gave your poor daughter a hug, her giving her daddy one as soon as he unfurled from the fetal position.

Ushijima Wakatoshi: 

Ushijima had taken his 3 oldest sons to the Schweiden gym.

He was putting in a little extra practice time, but wasn’t going to give up time with his children!

So, he figured it would be good to take them with him, they always loved going with him anyhow.

Right now, he was with your oldest son, Ren.

Your second born was whisked away by Romero and his son to play, and your youngest was whisked away by Hoshiumi and Sokolov.

Ushijima had been teaching his son to spike.

Nothing crazy, the kid is only 5, so they were spiking from the ground.

But there’s still a lot of power that goes into those spikes!!

Ushijima had taken his eyes off of his son for not even a minute, distracted by the giggles he heard from his youngest as he sat on Hoshiumi’s shoulders.

He really should have been paying attention, because right in front of him his son was winding up for a spike.

He didn’t notice until the *SMACK* on the gym floor echoed, the volleyball being shot right into his groin.

He cursed under his breath as he dropped to his knees, hands holding his crotch as Sokolov and Romero cringed, Hoshiumi and Ren laughing at his misfortune.

Yahaba Shigeru: 

Yahaba had taken his 2 sons outside to play with a model airplane they had just finished putting together!

It was one of those thick-foam nice ones, so it was going to fly nicely.

He stood a good 15 feet away from his oldest, his youngest about 15 feet away from him so they formed a triangle, You watching with your phone ready for memories!!

Your oldest, Hayato, waited for the wind to come before thrusting the plane up and into the air, it glided for a good few seconds before doing a loop and coming back to the ground at a sharp angle.

For a foam plane, it moved quite efficiently, and at this speed it was moving quite quickly.

Before anyone could react, the plane had nose dived right into your husband, his face blanching as his hands shot downwards.

You laughed, your sons cringed, and Yahaba just about cried.

“At least the plane’s okay! It would have actually been bad if it broke” Your youngest walked away after picking up the plane, Yahaba looking at him in disbelief. 

“Yeah, well don’t go asking me and your mom for anymore siblings, *cringe* I don’t think that’ll be happening.”

He cringed even more when you revealed you had gotten everything on video~

Iwaizumi Hajime: 

With it being the off-season for volleyball, Iwaizumi was spending more time at home with his family!

But, keeping in good shape was also important, so one of the things he would do is while he worked out in the home gym, your 3 sons would be in there with him.

You guys had a pretty good set up, one of the newer additions being a punching bag and gloves. (any other boxers out there?)

Iwaizumi was working with weights, currently doing bicep curls while his sons wreaked, albeit controlled, havoc.

His oldest had found the gloves, slipping on on his hand as the middlest took the other, the youngest slipping on a mit instead.

Poor man was so focused in his workout, he didn’t even notice his middlest son come waking towards him.

When he did notice, he was too late, his son had already wound up and launched his gloved hand into Iwaizumi’s crotch.

Iwaizumi grunted as he just about dropped the weights, falling onto his hands and knees as he tried to steady his breathing.

All 3 of your children bolted out of the room, the little brats laughing before they ran into you.

You walked in to see Iwaizumi, who was now on one knee, eyes still closed as he seemed to be meditating.

For those who are wondering, “padded boxing gloves” do  n o t h i n g  to subside the pain of being punched😢

Futakuchi Kenji: 

Futakuchi’s parents had been over for dinner one night, his younger sister and her fiancé were there too!

You guys had just had a nice dinner and were now sitting in the living room, bringing up old memories and laughing about things that have happened.

Your oh so loving husband had decided to bring up how you had “flashed” him in high school, you rolling your eyes as you hit his arm with a pillow you threw, him being on the couch and you cuddling with your youngest on the floor.

Now, you guys have 3 little girls. 

Your oldest is 6, middlest 4 and your youngest is about 3.

Your youngest was very much a mommy’s girl, and would actually glare at Futakuchi for no given reason, then turn around and giggle and smile at you. (lol my little sister went through a phase like this when she was, like, 2)

She had been sitting on your lap, so when she saw you ‘in danger’ and it was from ‘the enemy’ aka dad, she stood, chubby little cheeks forming a pout as she marched towards her dad.

With the whole family watching, she pulled her fist back and swung, catching him right in his balls as she scurried off and back into your arms, you not knowing how to respond to the situation and your husband doubled over in pain.

Daishou Suguru: 

You and Daishou had 2 kids, 1 girl (oldest) and 1 boy.

Daishou was a good dad!

He cared for his children, gave them endless amounts of love and affection, and was never late to any event big or small.

But he was still a dad, and dads all have those things that they do.

For him, it was popping out of random places and (lightly) scaring his daughter.

Currently, he was hiding behind the wall right at the top of the stairs, smirking as he knew his daughter was on her way up them.

He got his hands ready, feet in a good position to jump out as he watched her little shadow grow closer and closer to the top.

As soon as she hit the floor of the 2nd level he jumped out.

“BOO!” Screaming she kicked, landing a strong kick right in between Daishou’s legs, causing him to yelp as his hands gripped his crotch, sinking to his knees as his daughter gasped.

She felt bad for a whole of (2) seconds before sighing, hands coming up on her hips as she pouted, “Daddy, that’s what you get for scaring me!!”

Numai Kazuma: 

You guys had 3 sons and 1 girl, your baby girl being the youngest of the 4.

Right now, you guys were in your backyard, having an outdoor day and playing a variety of sports and games.

The game they were currently playing was baseball.

You sat in the shade with your youngest son and baby girl as they played in the sandbox, your oldest two with their dad as he set up the little stand and put the ball on it.

He had put on the catcher’s mit and stood a good 10 feet away from the batting station, his oldest son ready to hit, and his youngest son a safe distance away.

“Alright, come on buddy, you got this!”

Steadying his stance, your son swung with all of his might, the ball going fast and low to the ground, and right towards Numai-

“uGh-” Your hand came up to your mouth when your husband dropped to his knee, hand coming up to wave off his son, forcing out an “I’m okAy-” as he struggled to regain his composure.

For the remainder of the time they played baseball, he kept the mit a little lower than he originally planned.

Iizuna Tsukasa: 

Iizuna had been away for a game for the past 2 weeks, and your 3 year old daughter was very excited to see him again.

His arrival time was in the afternoon, so you were able to bring your daughter with you! Which Iizuna was thrilled about.

Your little girl was practically bouncing with excitement, little pigtails jumping as she looked up to you with a toothy grin.

You gently ran your fingers through her hair, as she clutched onto your leg, both of your eyes searching the gate for your husband.

As soon as you saw him, you crouched down to her ear, “There he is! There’s daddy!” Squealing she ran, and I mean she ran full force towards her father.

Iizuna, seeing his incoming 3 year old barreling towards him, dropping his bag, kneeling down so he could catch her.

Which he did, but he didn’t account for just how much force she had carried, so he didn’t expect the little foot that kicked him right where it hurts.

Careful not to impulsively squeeze the life out of his toddler, he shakily sighed as he gave her a kiss to her head, her nuzzling into his arms.

He may have been in an extreme amount of pain, but nothing was going to stop him from hugging his little girl.

[get-shiggy-with-it]

Just My Type Pt. 2

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: dom/sub undertones, dom reader, subby shig, light mommy kink, anal fingering, blow jobs, smut ahead so ya know be prepared, shigs is kinda an incel but we love him anyway, 18+ MINORS DNI

Summary: Shigaraki is a full course meal that showed up on your doorstep and you are more than a little inclined to devour him whole.  

Part 1

AO3 Mirror

You liked to think you understood Tomura Shigaraki. 

Probably a bit better than he understood himself if you were being honest. 

It wasn’t that you were particularly adept at reading people, but you paid attention and he was generally a lot more obvious that he realized. You started to get the feeling your client-turned-sometimes-boss had a bit of a thing for you not too long after you started working for him. 

Mainly because he stared. 

All the time.

You weren’t certain if he was completely conscious of it, and at first you sort of assumed it was just a weird, somewhat unnerving habit. It took you all of a week to figure out, though, that his one visible eye did not seem to focus on anything other than you. 

Initially, you had been wary of him. This was a slightly more dangerous clientele than you were used to, but the rest of the League warmed up to you quickly enough. The true realization came with the little, silent fits of jealousy—nails raking down his neck and scowls so harsh they were nearly audible—whenever anyone else, usually Dabi, showed the same interest.   

And being the type of person you were, it was hard to resist pushing those newly revealed buttons just once. 

Well. 

More than a once. 

But! 

All that pressing and goading had finally culminated to this. 

Needless to say, you felt more than a little thrill when Tomura had finally taken the bait and let you drag him all the way back to shore like a fish on a hook. 

And now here he was, beached and floundering, as chilled air like ocean waves rocked against your ankles. 

So yes, you understood Tomura Shigaraki. 

He wanted you, as much as loathed to admit it. 

And you wanted him too, but not so much that you were willing to go down without a bit of a fight. 

“Are you just gonna stand there?” you asked. 

You could see the shiver your voice sent through him, like lungfuls of sweet spring air after a lifetime underground. 

“What?” he mumbled, one hand holding the clasp on his pants closed and the other reaching up to tear at his neck. 

Always so predictable. 

You hummed at the gesture and leaned back to pull the door open a bit more. “Come on, you’re letting all my heat out.” 

His eyes narrowed significantly, not so subtly flicking down to your chest before meeting your eyes—suspicion clear as the tent in his pants, but a good amount of cautiously pleasant surprise as well. 

You dipped your head down, trying to get a better look under the mop of his hair and dark hood to see the dusty rose blush creeping up his neck. His scarred and cracking skin grew pinker with every passing second. The smile on your face was impossible to hide.  

“I caught you in the window of one of the shops like six blocks in,” you said by way of explanation and waved him forward once again. “You can stand out there and freeze if you want, but something tells me you might be a little more comfortable if you came in.” 

This was a calculated game, but no one ever got anywhere without taking a few risks.  

Your stress on the last two words and the way your tongue peaked out from behind your teeth was thankfully not lost on him. 

“Fine,” Tomura swallowed once as if this really was the last thing he wanted to be doing, and you watched his throat bob as he finally shuffled over the threshold.  

You liked the way he looked here, harsh but not out of place in the domestic setting. Surrounded by the scent of crisp air and clean laundry, you breathed deeply to catch the faint hint of cheap hand soap and dust and that strange, sweet smell that always tickled your nose when he got close. Tomura took a long breath of his own when you pressed closer, the top of your leg brushing just enough at the front of his jeans to feel his dick twitch. 

Yeah, he probably thought you hadn’t noticed him lifting your coat to his face when you left for the bathroom. That you hadn’t overheard Kurogiri chewing him out for all the different bottles of detergent littering the backroom like he wasn’t scouring convenience stores to find the exact one you used. Didn’t know you knew where all those ‘lost’ gloves or elastic ties or even your socks once when you’d taken them off to dry after a storm had ended up. 

It was hard to tell with him whether those strange behaviors meant he liked you or really wanted you dead. But you’d dared to assume the former and god it felt good to be right. 

“You like to watch, don’t you?” you asked, letting the words cascade from your lips. 

“Maybe. You like to be watched, don’t you?” he rasped, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of control but your chest was brushing against him and you could hear his mouth going dry. 

You raised your brow and leaned just a fraction closer, ready to let the last of the chips fall.

“Maybe,” you mused, your lips just barely grazing his. “I don’t mind if it’s you.” 

And finally, finally you saw the little glimmer you’d been waiting for. 

Tomura Shigaraki was beginning to understand. 

You could see it in his eyes, the dawning realization. Reluctant still and forever mistrustful, but coming around. All those nights he spent observing you when he thought you weren’t looking—shrouded in smoke and keeping a safe distance—you’d never been aiming to get away. You’d never been hiding or ready to run. 

You were always trying to get closer to him. 

The way you left so soon when he sequestered himself away in his room or how you let Dabi’s hand creep just far enough up your thigh before making your escape—all of it, was just to catch his eye. 

Just playing your cards—working with the hand you were dealt.  

Tomura might have been watching you, but you had always been watching right back. Really, it was a wonder how he ever missed the way your gaze was trained on him nearly every second from the time you set foot in the bar to the ever unfortunate moment you slipped back out into the cold, lonely street. 

How many nights had you been waiting for this? 

Laying awake, thinking of the way his scarlet gaze warmed your skin like the cinnamon in Kurogiri’s nightly cocktails. You’d seen what those hands could do, watched them turn glasses and tables to ash, but that only raised the stakes. And wasn’t it so much more fun that way?

“Well,” you leaned in, tilting your head so that your mouths were centimeters away from touching, “do you want to see more?”

You were watching the levee break. Cracks forming up that skeptical and distant outer shell and letting desire leak out from every line and scar. The air was silent and heavy in the way it often is before a storm. You wondered if you’d be struck down by errant lighting before you got a chance to suck his tongue like you’d been dreaming of. 

His fist closed around your wrist, pinky poised threateningly over the skin. You let him hold you, not struggling in the slightest under his grip. Tomura could have you like that if he wanted. Could believe this was forceful, that he wasn’t giving himself away. You would gladly let him, but you had something else in mind. 

Something you were almost certain he’d enjoy more. 

All the deliciousness of the torture you planned to drown him in was completely dependent on him offering you the reigns. If he wouldn’t, well, you’d take what you could get. Encouragingly, he didn’t move further than his grip on your arm. 

Instead, he stared blankly and tugged you closer grunting under his breath, though never fully closing the distance. It took a second before your brain processed the slight pout of his bottom lip, the catch in his breath the way he subconsciously ground against your thigh. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You’d said it before and you’d say it again: god, it felt good to be right. 

Coming to your door was his first move tonight, and now it was your turn to up the stakes. 

Grinning, you closed the small gap between your bodies and let your mouths slip against each other, filling in the cracks of his lips with your tongue. Tomura groaned when the weight of it slipped across his teeth just once before you pulled away from him altogether. 

There was barely an inch between you, but that would always be too much now. 

“You never answered me, Tomura.” Saying his name made you shiver. You wondered what it would feel like when you screamed it too. “Do you want to see more?”

“Yes,” he nodded and surged forward, knocking your teeth together and nipping sharply at your lower lip. “More, now.” 

Your grips switched, his fingers going limp around your wrist while you took hold of his and led him towards the door at the end of your hall. The soft bedroom light leaked out and illuminated the halo of baby hairs at the crown of his head. You longed to run your hands through it. By the time you got him safely inside—sat cornered on the edge of your mattress—you realized there was nothing stopping you from doing just that. 

So you did. 

Tugged his hood down and ran your fingers across his scalp, grabbing a handful and pulling firmly. The noise it earned you had goosebumps erupting down your arms. 

With his pretty face revealed, you took a moment to drink him in. The small lamp lit him from the left, leaving one side in shadow and those red eyes were so dark you could have drunk them down like expensive wine. Slowly, you lowered your lips to his scarred forehead and pressed them softly against the rough skin. 

“What would the others say, hm?” you hummed, stroking his cheek as you leaned back to look into his eyes again. “If they knew their boss was tailing around the new hire just to get a glimpse of some ass.” 

Tomura stayed resolutely silent, grumbling under his breath as he lunged forward to slip his tongue back into your mouth. Your hand in his hair tightened though and his thighs tensed below you. 

“Seems a bit desperate, huh?” 

He growled again but moved a hand to the open front of his pants, palming slowly against the growing bulge there. The swathe of light grey fabric covering his cock was already sporting a sizable stain that you were dying to taste. 

Feeling merciful, you dragged your tongue along his sharp jaw and nipped at his earlobe, “Do you really want me that bad?”

You weren’t sure what exactly was the nail in the coffin. It might have been the words themselves, or the soft, honest tone with which you whispered them, or even just the way your chest brushed against him, but that was the moment his resolve finally shattered. 

“It’s your fault,” he whimpered, hips bucking up into his own hand, “you’re the one that did this, so fix it.” 

You could only guess he was referring to the absolute rager he was sporting and the drool threatening to spill from his ragged lips. 

“Oh, you want me to make it all better?” you were having a hard time keeping it together yourself with Tomura talking like that. 

He nodded furiously and you took the opening to lick back into his mouth, tracing his teeth and biting softly on his rough bottom lip. When you pulled back, a silvery string of saliva glinted between your mouths, only breaking when you moved to roll your desk chair over and plop down on the cushions. 

Tomura’s eyes immediately drifted between your legs as you peeled off your thin shorts and spread them, propped on either arm, fingers digging absently into the meat of your thighs. 

“You didn’t get to see much before did you?” he didn’t answer but you hadn’t expected him to. “How about we start where we left off, but I want to see that pretty cock this time while you stroke it for me.” 

“Oh fuck ,” he gasped and tugged his jeans down so they pooled at his ankles. 

You smiled as he cursed. One hand still gripped his length, but you could see how thick it was from between his fingers. Long and hard and leaking so much onto his stomach where it rested. The other fisted in his hoodie, pulling it up to give you a glimpse at the lovely musculature of his torso. 

So many delicious surprises, all in one night. 

Your gaze drifted between his face and the hand slowly pumping his length. Every now and again, he’d stop to run his thumb over the tip or squeeze harshly at the base. Your hand moved too, sliding your underwear to the side and giving him a full view of just how soaked he made you. 

“Is that how you usually touch yourself?” you asked quietly, slipping two fingers down your slit and coating them in slick. 

“Yeah,” his voice was already so wrecked that you shivered at the single word. 

Your fingers found your clit, drawing languid circles over the bundle of nerves and groaning in relief. “Tell me what you think about.”

“You,” he responded simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

To his credit, it probably was but you wanted to hear him say it. 

“What about me?”

Your slow rhythm sped up to match Tomura’s hand now steadily jerking his dick, wet slaps and various groans emanating from both of you. 

“Your...mouth,” he mumbled, vision locked on the movement of your wrist as your fingers began to dip inside only to travel back to your clit and repeat the motion. “How it would feel on me, how wet and warm and tight your throat would be.” 

You let out a long moan of encouragement and nodded for him to continue, grinding down on your own wrist as he spoke. 

“I think about how you parade around like a whore every time you come over— shit —and how you’d look bent over the bar top,” he spat as he ran his palm over the head of his cock. 

Normally you’d have clapped back at the insult but you were distracted by the way the muscles in his stomach were twitching violently with every stroke of his hand. 

“That’s not all is it?” you asked between breaths. 

Your skin was buzzing, warmth rising to your cheeks as sweat broke out on your forehead despite the chill of the room. Tomura keyed you up in a way no one else ever had.

“No,” his eyes were redder than usual, glazed over and pricked in the corner with frustrated tears. He wanted to cum so badly, you could see it in the set of his feet on the floor, forcing his hips up but not getting quite what he craved. 

“Come on, Tomura,” you brought your other hand down to rub quickly at your clit, “tell me what you need.” 

“Touch me,” he hissed, head thrown back, exposing the graceful column of his scarred throat. “I want to feel you.” 

He was panting, head thrown back and mouth open with just his eyes cast down at you. You wanted a painting of this scene—Tomura, ruined and starving for you. Wanted it framed and hung in your foyer so it was the first thing you saw coming home. 

How could you deny such a pretty boy?

“Alright, I suppose you’ve earned it,” you sighed in mock annoyance and stood, honestly surprised he’d restrained himself from jumping you this long. Discarding your shirt elicited a series of wines as you stood completely bare for him. 

You thought for a moment about what you should do first, before settling on your knees between his legs and batting his slowly stroking hand away. Tomura stared, wide eyed and slack jawed down as you took his cock in your hands and admired him for a moment. 

He felt good in your palm, heavy with impressive girth and length. Leagues better than you had hoped for. Pretty veins ran up the sides and the gentle ridge of his tip was silky smooth as you leaned forward to run your tongue up the slit. 

The sound that left him was bone shattering—deep and low in a way that reverberated in your bones. 

You vowed to make him cry. 

Looking up through your lashes, you let your lips fall open to take Tomura into the warmth of your mouth.  

And if you thought his first moan was delicious. 

What fell from him next was a goddamn feast. 

Four fingers were fisted into your sheets, the balls of his feet tensing so his hips bucked up and forced his length deeper down your throat. You hummed around his length, drinking down the salty taste of him, and bringing your hands up to rub sweet circles into the skin of his thighs. Listening hungrily, you devoured all the little whimpers and moans and curses that spilled from Tomura. 

Objectively, you ought to have been offended by all this. That he was so desperate for you, blamed you for somehow leading him on (which you had to an extent but only because he refused to set foot into your traps). You should have felt a bit disgusted by the behavior he’d displayed, but instead you were invigorated. Spurred on by the knowledge that the man before you wanted you so deeply and obsessively, that just the sight of you drove him off the edge. 

Flicking your tongue over the sensitive tip, you doubled down your efforts. Hollowing your cheeks, you sucked hard and took his pulsing dick deeper, swallowing around it. 

“Oh god, yesyesyes—” Tomura cried out, hips twitching. 

It was on that particular backstroke you noticed the way he was grinding back into the sheets, rocking his ass just so and you really couldn’t help yourself from indulging a bit in the curiosity. 

Shifting a hand, you collected some of the spit and precum that had leaked from your mouth and coated the base of his dick, slicking your fingers. Slowly, you moved to give his balls a firm squeeze that had him whining before letting two fingers dip lower, between his cheeks to nudge the cute pink skin around his hole. 

“Fuck—” he gasped, staring down at you and letting himself fall immediately to the mattress, giving you full access to his pretty ass. “Hm, there please…” 

He trailed off, brain rotted with pleasure and unconcerned now with how desperate or needy he seemed. You thought it was a good look for him, and you gladly obliged his pleas. 

Just the slow circles you were tracing around the sensitive flesh seemed to drive him closer to the edge. You would have been shocked by how long he was lasting considering the unlikely possibility he’d had many partners in the past, but you were sure he’d had plenty of ‘practice’ on his own to get his stamina up to this level. 

Surprisingly, you were able to actually slip a finger past the tight ring of muscle down to the first knuckle. He was so tight your mind was flooded immediately with how good he’d look bent over—ass in the air and impaled on your strap. He made this delectable choked sound when you turned your wrist and slid a fraction of an inch deeper. But as you curled inside him and gave one particularly deft swallow around his aching cock, something even more unexpected tumbled past Tomura’s lust-loose lips. 

“Oh fuck, mommy —” 

As soon as the words left his mouth it snapped shut so hard you heard his teeth clacking. 

Well. 

You certainly hadn’t anticipated that, but thankfully, transporting required you to think on your feet often.

Tomura was beet red now, looking almost as surprised as you felt by what had slipped from him in the haze of lust and sweat that filled the room. You withdrew from him completely, pulling off his cock and planting both your hands on his slim waist. 

“What did you just call me?” you asked, tone dark, praying to hear it again. 

And of course you did, because Tomura was such a good boy . 

“M-mommy,” the tremor in his voice may have been due to residual shame or the fact that you’d nearly sucked his soul right out of his dick, “mommy, please.” 

And that, that lit something in you. All bets were off, any plans of a long, drawn out night of playing with your pretty boss until he begged for you was slipping quickly down the drain as you clambered off your knees and onto the bed. 

“Does my little boy need something?” you mused, slipping into the role easily and planting your knees on either side of his thin body while you brushed your nose against his cheek. 

He hadn’t touched you since you’d gotten him in your bed and while you thought it may have had something to do with the potentially deadly side effects, you really couldn’t have that. Reaching down, you guided his hand gently to your mouth and pressed a gentle kiss against the calloused knuckles. 

“Do you want mommy’s pussy?” 

That last question might have been boarding a bit on the evil end of teasing, but Tomura responded in equally bratty fashion by burying his face into your chest and reaching down to guide the tip of his dick into your dripping entrance. For once that night, you were the one gasping at the sudden stretch and quite frankly the fucking balls your boss displayed in surprise spearing you on his cock. 

Not that you minded, but damn. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you groaned as you dropped your hips to sink the rest of the way down his length. It took a bit, even as slick as you were, before he was bottoming out and letting out little poorly hidden sobs against you. 

Tomura’s feet still hung off the bed and couldn’t provide him the leverage to thrust up into you as he so clearly wanted to, but you could work well with this. Pulling back you got him to sit up, head still buried in the crook of your neck and braced your hands to start bouncing in his lap. 

His hands flew to your hips, any trepidation apparently lost in favor of marking you with crescent shaped bruises. You let your hands trail up his chest, thumbing over his flushed nipples before threading into the hair at the base of his head. Tilting his head back, you came up and dropped back down hard on his length, letting him strike that lovely spot inside you and making his face twist in pleasure. 

“Oh, good boy, “ you moaned, long and low. “Such a good boy for me, Tomura.” 

He whimpered loudly and you bounced faster, praise tumbling easily as the pressure in your gut began to build, “You look so perfect like this, pretty cock feels so good inside.”

On a whim, you gripped his hair tightly and pressed his face into your chest, leading his lips to the stiff peak of your nipple. He latched on immediately, moans muffled against you and lovely eyes rolling back in his head. 

You took it back— this was the picture you wanted immortalized from tonight. Tomura’s mouth was full of you, slick tongue curling over the bud and suckling softly only interrupted by the occasional graze of his teeth, his dick buried in you and pulsing as you rode him to your own high.  

A high that was coming sooner rather than later. 

You let your free hand slip from his shoulder to rub frantically at your clit, feeling yourself clenching tighter and tighter on his cock, strokes shifting into a more desperate grinding. The white hot pleasure grew stronger—spurred on by the image of Tomura’s pretty hair plastered with sweat to his forehead and his coarse lips grazing your skin—cresting and sending you hurtling over the edge, cumming hard on Tomura’s thick cock.  

“Oh, baby boy, yes, make mommy cum,” you shook and clenched around him, pussy in a vice grip around his length. 

He didn’t hold out long after that, biting down roughly on your chest he groaned and you felt the hot ropes of his release painting your walls. 

It was a bit of a blur after that. You recall lifting his mouth from you, revealing a deep bruise and the indents of teeth just around your nipple—a reminder that would stick with you of this quite eventful night. Residual clothing was abandoned and you’d agreed to forgo a shower in favor of pressing every available inch of skin against his under a light sheet. 

Tomura’s breathing had evened out a while ago, heart beat relaxing to an even tattoo from it’s initial pounding. His head was tucked securely under your chin, arms flung across your middle and legs tangled in a knot. 

You’d thought he was asleep until you felt his lips moving against your shoulder and heard the soft, whispered words, “Are you going to ask me to go?”

It had been so long since you’d had a ‘normal’ conversation with him that it took you awhile to recognize his casual tone from the wrecked and begging voice you’d been hearing from him all night. Something about that knowledge made your chest ache. 

“I’m not going to make you stay,” you responded simply. 

Which was all you could really think of to say, noncommittal but open. 

“But do you want me to?” 

His tone was harsh, but not in a purposeful way. The quiet rasp was a permanent feature of his voice you’d discovered and made it him sound far more severe than he usually meant to be. The question both surprised you and didn’t. You’d asked Tomura to give up control to you before, let you take the lead and see him vulnerable. Now he was asking for it back. Asking for a level playing field. 

“I would like it if you did, yes.” 

He nodded and you felt the brush of his lashes as he closed his eyes again, settling into you more than the mattress itself. You followed suit, at least for a bit, and rested your eyes to enjoy the feeling of finally not sleeping alone. Half dozing, you breathed in the scent of well earned pleasure and sweat and laundry detergent. 

Neither of you asked any more questions—you didn’t need to.  

Because you understood Tomura Shigaraki and he understood you. 

[vennilavee]

someone like you

pairing: levi x reader (modern au; tbah universe) summary: “Someone like me, huh?” You bite back, your throat beginning to close up, “Does that apply to you, too? Would you listen to anything that ‘someone like me’ has to say?” warnings: cursing and a fight a/n: for this drabble prompt req

You were afraid that this would happen. After all, they do say that dating co-workers can be messy. You had a feeling this could happen. And guess what, it did-

“You think that’s the best way to engage the youth in the Underground? They won’t respond to all of this, the frills and fake happy shit-” Levi says flatly, his arms crossed over his chest with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, then what’s your idea? I don’t hear you saying anything useful,” You mutter.

“Those kids won’t listen to anything you have to say,” Levi says honestly, “You look like you’ve never stepped foot down there-”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think those shitty kids would listen to a word that someone from aboveground has to say?”

“I don’t know, Levi, you tell me. Since you were one of those shitty kids-”

“You’ve got another thing coming if you think those kids will listen to anything that someone like you has to say-”

“Someone like me, huh?” You bite back, your throat beginning to close up, “Does that apply to you, too? Would you listen to anything that ‘someone like me’ has to say?”

Levi can be hurtful when he’s speaking with his blinders on. You can kind of understand his point, but he didn’t have to make it so… personal. But maybe, because ever since the lines of professionalism and dating have been blurred in the workplace for the last few months, you both took it to the next level when neither of you meant to.

Still. You don’t want to speak with him. You’re pissed at him, so upset that he undermined and questioned you like that in front of Erwin and made it a direct attack on you as a person.

You wouldn’t have considered it him undermining you if he didn’t make it so personal. 

Someone like you. Why does that sting so much? Someone like you- who would never understand the struggles that he’d gone through himself? Someone like you- who was too much, and not enough at the same time? Is that what he meant?

You don’t say goodbye to him when you leave work, or give him a quick kiss and a promise that you’ll call him later. You tell him you don’t want to speak to him when he tries to talk to you in your office and you hide in the comfort that your dark blue drapes bring.

You go home to your apartment without checking if he’s still around, despite your heart screaming for you to go to him. But you need space from him, and you hate how small he made you feel just in the fraction of two minutes.

It’s your first major fight and Levi genuinely doesn’t know what to do. He’s torn between showing up at your apartment and giving you space like you requested. His instincts are screaming for him to fix this, to get you to talk to him. But in the end, he decides to just give you space. Because he thinks you’ll be even more upset if he shows up without respecting your wishes.

He hates it. He hates that he had said what he said ‘someone like you’, those words ring in his mind like an annoying alarm. A reminder that he had hurt your feelings so easily and a reminder that he was the cause of your sad, dark eyes. And the way your shoulders had slumped in on yourself.

He messed up. He knows it, and Erwin knows it. Erwin had given him a disapproving look after you had left the conference room and Levi had met his eyes with a glare, warning him to mind his business.

Erwin said nothing and Levi only stared at the ceiling in frustration.

And Levi is currently staring up at the ceiling while sitting on his couch. He’s restless, leg bouncing on his freshly mopped hardwood floors. He’s been on a cleaning binge, but nothing can ease the anxiety of wondering what you’re doing. Are you okay? Did you want to break up with him?

His phone lays on the couch, almost mocking him. Levi abruptly stands up and swipes to your text message thread, which has been dry since the fight-

levi: hello

It takes you ten minutes to answer. In that time, he dusts off the coffee table and the television stand. Again.

you:  hi levi: can i come over.

Five minutes, with the three dots indicating that you’re typing appearing and vanishing. 

you: okay

Levi leaves his apartment with his wallet and car keys, on a mission. But first, he stops by for some of your favorite flowers.

Your eyes are a little red when you let him into your apartment. Red and wary. Levi hates this, hates that he did this. That he made you cry, all because of his inability to properly communicate to you what he was thinking.

“Thanks,” You mutter, taking the flowers from him, “But I didn’t want-”

“I know,” Levi murmurs, skin warm at the faint touch of your fingers on his, “Please, just hear me out.”

“Okay,” You finally say after a few moments with a shrug. You gesture for him to sit on the couch and the way you’re not facing him, body turned into yourself as if to make you look smaller… it hurts him. Because he did that.

“What did you mean?” You say, beating him to the punch, “Someone like you? What does that mean?”

Levi’s eyes are sharp and so are yours. His heart is thudding out of his chest, and the only way you can tell that he’s a little nervous is because he’s subtly wringing his hands together.

“It means…” Levi exhales and squeezes his eyes shut, “That I’m stupid-”

“Yeah, I know that,” You snort and roll your eyes.

“Be serious,” Levi chides you without any heat in his voice, “I didn’t mean it that way- just that… you’re not one of them. It’s different for the kids down there versus growing up here-”

“I know that,” You repeat, “But I’ve been doing this work for almost six years, too. It’s not fair for you to undermine me like that. A-and to me, it sounded like you meant that I’m not like you and that you’re holding that against me.”

“I know,” Levi breathes, “I know that’s what it sounded like. I only meant that those kids underground won’t take us seriously if we go in there ignoring their circumstances with fake, shitty smiles. I’m glad that place has never touched you in that way.”

You look down at your hands, unable to meet his steely eyes. But you’ve never known Levi to be a liar, and this time is no different.

“Please look at me,” Levi begs and you look up, overwhelmed by emotion, “I’m… sorry. I’m sorry I undermined you in front of our boss. And that I said what I said. I know I hurt you.”

“Yeah, you did,” You sigh, “And I’m sorry I called you a shitty kid.”

Levi lets out a breathless chuckle, “I think I deserved at least that much.” 

You open your arms to him for a hug and even though it’s only been a few hours since he saw you last, he sighs in relief once he settles next to you. You know words are difficult for Levi, but you know him well enough to know when he’s trying and when he’s being sincere. 

“When I say someone like you,” Levi murmurs, nosing your neck and holding you close to him, “I mean someone as bright and kind as you doesn’t belong down there.” He kisses your cheek, letting his lips linger there.

“Don’t say that,” You mumble, swatting his chest lightly, “That implies that you and anyone in the underground is undeserving of basic kindness.”

Levi only stares at you before nodding and turning your cheek towards him for a real kiss. He mumbles his apologies in the form of kisses, in the way he holds you close as if you’ll let him go. He breathes his apologies into your skin slowly and languidly… So you believe him.

tags: @simpingmaize​ @kentobean​ @captainchrisstan​ @alrightberries​ @puredivinity​ @regalillegal​ @castellandiangelo​ @bakuhoesworld​ 

[hattiepins]

Expectations

Zeke Yeager/Reader 18+ Chapter 1/??? Warnings: Alcohol mentions, explicit content a/n: I haven’t posted fic to tumblr in literal years so here’s me christening my new AOT blog with some Zekefucking. This fic will eventually have an actual plot, and I have it mapped out, but for now it’s just smut so have fun with it. I’m also on ao3 w the same @ if you prefer that layout better.

Zeke Yeager was an incredibly imposing man. The warriors were an intimidating group to anyone who had heard of them, but there was something special about him. 

You had “met” several years ago, at work cleaning the imposing Marleyan government building that served as the warrior headquarters in Liberio. Most of the year it was filled with children hopeful that if they worked hard enough, dedicated their hearts firmly enough, and bought into the belief that they too could bring honor to their homeland, they could be worthy of inheriting a titan.

You liked children, and though it hurt to see them pushed into the grim roles they took up at the compound, you would occasionally share excited chats with them in the halls, rooms, or courtyards of the massive complex. You’d scrub the floors of the messes left behind by their muddy boots, or the walls of the grime that accumulated every week, and the candidates, being the chatty little kids that they were, would update you on their days. Who beat who in what race, how fast so and so could disassemble then reassemble a rifle. On a good day of work you were given a run down of everything. 

On special days, though, the Marleyan warriors themselves would show up. A woman with unruly dark hair, a tall and disheveled scruffy man, and a blonde with a slicked back undercut all would often pass you by.

But Zeke Yeager? He always stood out to you the most. Anyone who could spare enough pocket change for a paper would know of the great feats of the beast titan and the man who held it. There had never been quite anything like him before in history, and his accomplishments on the warfront were praised as the ace up Marley’s sleeve in many battles. 

In reality though, Zeke bore no resemblance to his titan, with there being no visual similarity between the terrifying monster printed on the front page of every news story and the warrior who controlled it. 

He was tall, with a laid back posture that stood in stark contrast to his own mythic status. A legend among Eldians, and a fearsome specimen among all men, with his steely grey eyes and furrowed brow. He always looked as if he had something weighing on his mind whenever you spotted him, be it alone, or with his comrades.

You would absentmindedly toy with the hem at the edge of your own grey armband every time your eyes glanced over their red ones, not envying their lives as warriors but wondering what it must be like, being honorary Marleyans. 

None of them ever noticed your presence, and why should they? You were the cleaning girl, a part of the scenery. 

So then it comes as quite the shock when, tonight, as you head to the pub around the corner from the compound, Zeke Yeager recognizes you. 

The place isn’t anything fancy, but it’s halfway between work and the run-down tenement you can afford to rent on a maid’s salary. You go here on your days off, when you want more than anything to just relax, have a drink, and listen to the gramophone at the bar play music that you’d never get to hear otherwise. It’s a surprise enough to even see Zeke here, but the way he reacts to seeing you has your heart seize up a bit in your chest. 

He waves you over with his hand clutching his drink, calling your name with a voice just loud enough to be heard over the scratchy, poorly recorded music of the wax cylinder recording, his face plastered with a smug expression.

You blink slowly, as if closing your eyes will somehow remove him from the table in front of you and confirm that just a few sips of your drink have led to full on hallucinations. But you do not move. 

Catching onto your nervousness, Zeke raises the glass of warm swill this poorly stocked Eldian pub calls drinks, swirling the liquid inside as he motions towards your general direction.

“Come on now, that’s your first drink of the night in your hands. I know you aren’t far gone enough to not recognize the sound of your own name.” 

The volume of his voice is louder than you would like. A necessity, you know, for him to be heard over the sound of the gramophone, but still embarrassing.

You gesture stupidly at yourself with your pointer finger, and he nods, brows raised and mouth smiling with pursed lips as if he’s trying to stifle a laugh at your blatant confusion. 

He, in turn, gestures for you to take a seat next to him at the small booth he holds for himself in the corner. 

“You’re the cleaning girl, right?” He says. 

And for as awkward as that introduction is, it doesn’t stop you from joining him.

“How did you know- where did you learn  my name?” You drum your fingers against the base of your drink, still slightly nervous. 

“I’m observant.” He takes a sip of his own drink. 

“That, and you’re more well known than you’d think. The Grice boys talk about you sometimes. The younger one, Falco, is pretty damn fond of you, actually. Says you’re a good listener. Likes talking to you. His brother’s the one set to inherit my titan.”

You stare at him, a little shocked to hear that the candidates even remember you beyond simple hallway chatter, let alone that a warrior has actually taken note of your reputation with the children. 

“Falco’s a good kid. Colt too.” Your lips quirk up into a small smile, thinking about the two blond boys, always polite and courteous. They even bothered to get to know you by name, and always seem to ask about your day before telling you about their own.

“You’re quite the conversationalist for someone who the government pays to mop floors and dust shelves all day.”

You tense up, and suddenly, for a moment, a sense of sudden clarity and fear grips you. Is this an interrogation? Does Zeke Yeager think you’re a spy because you’re too chatty with the candidates? You knew this felt off, there’s no way that he’d invite you here just to ta-

“If I’m honest, I noticed you first because I was shocked that a pretty face like yours would be working scrubbing dirt. Didn’t put a name to said face until Colt started bringing you up almost just as often as his little brother. But I’m a good listener.”

He smiles, repeating your name with a soft smile as if testing out the sound of it.

“It’s a pretty name. Suits you. I try and keep things professional at the compound. Lots of eyes and ears. Granted there’s definitely a few in this place right now, but we don’t have to worry about them.”

You lift your head with a start, eyes scanning the bar, all a sea of patrons with worn clothes and grey armbands. None of them stand out as being particularly unique. None accept the man with the red around his arm seated across from you. He sticks out like a vibrant wine stain against white cotton, and though the patrons know better than to stare, you catch them sneaking “coincidental” glances his way. 

Their eyes rest on him, then flicker away to observe the much less interesting rest of the bar as if it’s merely chance that they managed to get caught looking.

You let your gaze wander over all the faces in the crowd, trying to see who he might be referring to. To see who could be watching. 

“Shit, could you be a little less obvious, sweetheart?”

The sudden affectionate name has your heart  flutter in your chest in a way you absolutely were not expecting, and as you turn your gaze back to him, an embarrassed flush creeping its way across your cheeks, you see his smirk grow. He’s smug, but you suppose he has all the reason in the world to be, with all his accomplishments.

Zeke, you thankfully come to realize as your conversation progresses, is not here to report you to the higher ups for something or another, nor does it seem that anyone in the bar is particularly interested in your chatter. 

You do, however, find that Zeke Yeager is not only a very powerful presence, but that he’s very handsome. It was something you didn’t particularly notice at the compound, mostly because you tried to avoid being in the way of your superiors in the warrior unit, but also because the stories you’d heard of the beast titan’s strength painted the man as a brute. 

Instead, you find yourself enthralled by him. He has beautiful hair, and his beard is kept very nicely trimmed. The way his grey eyes light up when he learns you two share a similar taste in novels has your breath catching in your throat. 

You list off your recent reads, only to find that he’s also read most everything on the list. He says he’s an avid reader, especially when they ship him out. It helps him keep his mind off of the fighting to think of smaller problems than wars.

“I couldn’t put it down.” 

You find yourself raving about your latest literary obsession. 

“The way the whole town just watched her descent into madness was so painful to read, but I wanted to know why they hated her in the first place so badly.”

You have long since finished your drink, but the conversation with Zeke ensures that you absolutely do not want any more. The last thing you want to do is slur your speech in a conversation about your shared interests, and especially not when those interests are shared by a very handsome man. 

“The reveal of how her daughter was framed had me glued to every word. And the ending!” He leans back in his seat, like he’s processing it all over again just speaking about it. 

“Lighting the whole town on fire… they say revenge is a dish best served cold, but reading about her walking through the burning streets…”

“Brilliant.”

His smile is captivating.

You remind yourself that this man is an honorary Marleyan, and you are just a regular Eldian who is lucky enough to have enough pocket change at the end of the month to even buy those novels. 

But for as much as Zeke insists that you are well known at the compound for being a great conversationalist, you find that the same compliments the Grice boys have paid to you apply tenfold to him. You don’t want to stop talking. 

When the bar closes, you don’t say your goodbyes and head home. Instead, you find yourself continuing your conversation in the streets of Liberio, walking the cobblestone roads at what must be at least two in the morning. Your conversation never has a single slow moment. 

You don’t think the slightly intimidated feeling you get while next to him will ever fully subside. He is, after all, much larger than you, and you feel dwarfed by him as you walk side by side, looking up at his handsome face. You’ve switched conversation topics through nearly a dozen different novels now, and your ideas bounce off one another perfectly. 

He mutters how your theory about a plot twist and it’s possible connection to the yet unreleased next book in the series might be one of the best ideas he’s heard, and his little smile while he does so is captivating. 

“You’d serve better as a critic than a cleaner, you know.” He says with a laugh. 

And you smile, because for a moment, by Zeke’s side, you almost forget it’s Liberio’s streets that you’re walking, and that you can’t hope to aim too high. All that exists for now is the two of you, and the words you share. 

As you walk under the lamplight through deserted streets, you take notice of the way he scratches his ear when he’s thinking, but more specifically your eyes fixate on his hands themselves. They’re big, and you purse your lips imagining how little your hands would be in his. He admittedly dresses like an old man, and while his wardrobe is nothing fancy, it doesn’t hide his impressive stature. 

His broad shoulders and military status imply an impressive body under the loose fitting coat he wears, and you feel like a repressed schoolgirl just looking at the exposed skin of his neck and how the muscles there tense when you bring up some narrative choice or another that you both didn’t enjoy. Your cheeks flush as you watch him take a drag of his cigarette, holding it between two thick fingers. 

He seems to take notice of your stares, but says nothing to discourage you. In return, you catch him eyeing you a few times too, but unlike you, he doesn’t get flustered when you notice him clearly staring. 

It’s still fairly chilly out, and your warm coat doesn’t do your body any favors, but that doesn’t stop his glances. 

When the two of you cross a bridge, you find yourself staring up at the moon and how it’s surface reflects on the wide river below. Zeke leans over the rail, taking yet another drag of his cigarette, and you cautiously reach out a hand to his. He makes no move to shift away from you as you lock your arm in his. 

You continue your walk like that, the feeling of closeness making you far more flustered than you should be. It’s only proper for a man to escort a lady by the hand when it’s so late. But you’re no lady, you’re a maid. And Zeke’s glances are growing far from proper, even as the topic remains firmly on literature. 

When he invites you up to his apartment to see his books, you both know you won’t be doing any actual reading. But you let him lead you through the streets and up countless flights of stairs regardless. 

He turns the key in the lock, and you enter, following his lead in kicking off your boots and hanging up your coat by a hook on the wall. You barely have time to take in how nicely furnished the home of an honorary Marleyan is before he has you pressed against the door, closing it shut with the weight of both of your bodies against it.

You gasp at the impact, and run your fingers through his soft blond locks as he presses his lips to yours in an open mouthed and greedy kiss. His lips are soft, and his breath is hot against you as he pulls away.

“Do you want to-?”

“Yes. God, yes.” You pull at his coat, hoping he’ll get the message, and he does. 

He shrugs it off, and then his lips are against yours again. Your touch traces down along his back, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt until it comes untucked from his pants and you can slide your hands underneath it, feeling the warmth of his skin. 

He fumbles with the buttons of your own blouse, before tearing it off of your shoulders as he unfastens the last one, and you can hear his breath catch in his throat as his hands move to touch you. 

His mouth parts from yours to get an eyeful of your body, his fingers trace the edge of your bra, watching how your chest heaves against the constraints of the lacey garment with every breath. He groans, the sound guttural in his throat, and fuck, you need him. He brings his lips to your neck, kissing and biting his way down to your collarbone.

“Can we please get this thing off?” His thumbs hook at the straps of your bra. 

“Marley’s greatest warrior can’t figure out how to unhook a bra?” You smile as you reach for the clasps. 

“Bigger things on the mind right now, sweetheart.” His tongue runs against a spot at the base of your neck that his teeth just bit at, soothing the skin.

“Oh?” You drop your bra to the ground, and he is quick to grab a handful of your breasts, teasing lightly over your nipples. You moan as he slides his hands down your torso, stopping as he gets a handful of your ass, kneading at it with a grin. 

“You enjoying yourself there?”

He hums as he presses you further against him and lifts. You let out a startled whimper, your legs wrapping around his hips and hiking up your long skirt in the process. He lifts his head from your neck and looks down at you, hunger in his grey eyes. 

“Trying to figure out if I can even get you to the bedroom, or if I’m gonna have to fuck you right here against the wall.”

Zeke grinds his hips against yours, and through your soaked panties you can feel him strain against his trousers. He’s so horny it hurts, and he hisses at the little bit of contact, bucking against you. 

“Fuck, baby, need you to decide.”

“B-bed.” You wrap your arms tighter around him and wiggle your hips just enough to get more of that delicious friction. Zeke doesn’t have to be told twice as he carries you to his bedroom and practically throws you into his mattress. It’s soft as a cloud, and you feel yourself sink into it, pulling your skirt from your hips, letting it fall in a pool at the edge of the bed. 

Still situated at the side of Zeke’s massive king size bed, you spread your legs, your stockings and your panties all that’s left on you. You circle your clit through the fabric, and watch as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, his eyes fixed on your clothed pussy like a hungry animal. He makes quick work of his own clothes, undoing the buttons of his shirt and stepping out of his trousers, stripping to his boxers. 

Your cheeks flush as you take in the sight of his bare chest. He’s toned in the way only a warrior could be, and there’s a small dusting of blonde hair that trails from his bellybutton to somewhere below his waistband. He towers over you, imposing and arousing at the same time. He looks like a marble statue, beautiful and powerful and perfect. You can see the outline of his bulge against the grey fabric of his underclothes, and he palms himself lazily, his eyes clouded with lust behind his glasses. 

“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

You scoff. “Could say the same thing to you.”

He smirks, and you want nothing more than to kiss him. For a moment it looks like he’s about to do just that. Instead, he sinks to his knees between your legs.

“What are you-?”

“Gotta get you ready for me first, babygirl.” He says, hooking his fingers under your panties and pulling them down, letting you kick them off your legs. 

“Are you joking? I’m already soaking, you don’t-“

You’re cut off by the feeling of his hot breath against you.

He runs his fingers against your folds, and you bite your lip before he shoves two thick fingers inside. The noises you make as he hooks them inside you have him painfully hard and straining against his boxers, but he knows what he wants. He pulls his fingers from you, earning him a whimper.

“Fine. I can be transparent here.” He groans as he kisses at your inner thigh. “Just wanna bury my face in your cunt, nothing else to it.”

You whimper as his lips circle your clit, the burn of his beard between your thighs coupled with the feeling of his hot breath against you has him having to hold your hips in place to keep your squirming down.

“Z-Zeke, I-”

“Hm?” He releases your clit from his lips but licks slow stripes up between your folds now. 

“Too much.”

He teases the tip of his tongue against your hole, his moans the only response. You feel his grip on your hips tighten as he pushes it inside of you. His mouth works against you, making you grind against his face. 

“Fuck, baby, you taste so good…”

He’s a madman as he devours your cunt, and you have full confidence that Zeke could make you cum with just his tongue. Instead, he opts to do otherwise, spurred on by the delicious sounds you’re making. You cry out as he circles his lips back around your clit and plunges two thick fingers inside of you. 

You can barely think as he curls them into you, fucking his fingers into your weeping cunt while his tongue laps at your clit. 

“I’m- I can’t-”

“You can.” He adds a third finger, and the stretch is so food, so filling, as he watches you fall apart. “Good girl, my pretty little slut, come on.” 

His tongue never ceases for long, even as he speaks. “Come for me.”

You’re falling apart under his touch, cries and moans spilling out of your mouth as you cum into his. You clamp your thighs down around his head as he keeps fucking his fingers into you, running his tongue desperately against your little bud as you writhe beneath him, only stopping when he feels he’s had his fill of your taste. 

He lifts himself up and pushes you further into the bed, letting your head rest on the pillows as he leans on his side next to you.

“You’re a quiet little thing whenever I pass you in the compound. Never knew you could be that loud.”

You’re panting, still coming down from your orgasm.

“Never been fucked in the compound.”

“We can change that.”

Your pussy clenches around nothing and you whine. “Can we start with here first?”

His beard is wet with your slick as he grips your jaw and pulls you in for a kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and you moan as you tug at the waistband of his boxers. 

You remove your lips from his to look down at the shape of him, still straining against the fabric. 

“Zeke, please…”

He sits up on his knees at the end of the bed, hovering over you, thumbs toying at the elastic. 

“Yeah? You want me to fuck you?”

Your little nod is all he needs, pulling his boxers off. You watch as his hard cock springs free of confinement and slaps itself against his stomach. It’s big, and you’re practically drooling at the sight. He crawls over you, lining himself up with your hole, rubbing the tip over your clit. He smirks, watching how you whine and writhe at his teasing. 

“You have to beg for it, sweetheart. Let me know how much you want it.”

He fists his cock, leaking precum all over your slit as he drags the head up and down your folds. 

“Fuck, Zeke, please fuck me. Need you so bad, just please...”

He grips your hips hard, lines himself up with your hole, and bottoms out in one quick thrust. 

You moan and he curses under his breath. It’s so much, all at once. The stretch is much more than his fingers prepared you for, and it’s overwhelming, even with how wet you are. It’s a little painful, but it hurts so good. 

“F-fuck, move, fuck me, please. Please, please, please, please.”

He pants into your shoulder as he follows your request. Zeke grabs both of your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head, kissing and sucking at your neck, leaving little purple marks. 

“So pretty like this, letting me fill you up so good. Gonna leave my mark everywhere I can on you. You gonna come to work with your neck all marked up from me? Huh?”

You pant and grind your hips against his as he pistons in and out of you. “Y-yes.”

“Gonna advertise to every soldier there that you’re mine? My little whore? You like being fucked like this?” He pulls back out all the way, only to thrust back in at just the right angle that has you seeing stars.

“Yes!”

“You know how long I’ve thought about this? Wanted to just p-pull you into a supply closet and fuck you til you forgot your own name, ‘cuz hell, I didn’t even know it back then, but now…”

He traces his hand down to your clit, and starts to rub circles against it.

“You’re perfect, you know that? F-Fuck... Perfect for me. Fit me so good, god, you’re so tight.”

“Zeke, s’too good, I’m gonna-”

“I know, baby, I know. Me too. Come for me, it’s ok.”

He captures your lips in a hungry kiss, and the closeness is not enough and too much all at once. You can’t tell where he begins and you end and suddenly your orgasm is washing over you in waves as you scream his name. Your arms struggle against his grip and he relents as you cream around his cock. You grab at his back, nails sinking hard into the skin, and you swear he’s letting off steam as your fingers scratch down his back in ecstasy. 

Zeke fucks you through it, thumb still playing with your clit as he hammers into you, hips snapping against yours at a rhythm much less even than before.

“Beautiful. So fucking beautiful with my name on your lips and my cock in your cunt.”

You whine, still barely coherent and too fuckdrunk to think as he pounds you hard enough to make the bedframe creak and the headboard slam against the wall. 

“G-good girl, you like being a good little-fuck- good little cocksleeve for me?”

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck.” 

You’re so overstimulated it hurts. He keeps hitting just the right spot, and while he’s still toying with your sensitive nub, you can tell he can barely hold his focus. He removes his fingers from you and buries his head in your shoulder. His beard is rough against your skin as he lets out a few last thrusts into your cunt, his grip on your hips enough to bruise. 

Zeke pulls out and fists himself a few more times, panting before he empties his load on top of you, white ropes of cum shooting out of him as he finishes onto your stomach. Zeke collapses, panting, by your side. He pulls you against him and kisses the top of your head.

You practically purr at the affectionate gesture, and lean into his touch. 

He sighs, removes his glasses, and carefully places them on the bedside table, relaxing into the comfort of the bed. 

His eyes are closed, and as you snuggle closer to him, you can feel his heartbeat slowly start to return to normal along with your own. 

“I think now’s the time I should ask where your bathroom is so I can clean off?” You breathe out, tracing figure eights lazily against the muscles of his chest. 

He lets out a tired laugh. “You’re not at work. No cleaning right now. You can afford to be a little messy for a while.”

You hum, unwilling to admit you’re fine either way. You guiltily realize you enjoy the feeling of his cum on your skin, and, instead of admitting that embarrassing thought, you kiss him again. 

You whisper against his jaw. “I should go home soon, just-”

He claims your lips in his again to shut you up. “Stay.”

You lay by his side on the same pillow, faces inches from eachother. 

That night, you stay. You fall asleep in his arms, and everything somehow feels right. He feels right. 

You hate going home to your shitty apartment after that. And Zeke hates seeing you go. 

Every week you repeat it all like routine. 

Zeke is always there at the pub. You always end up in an endless conversation before following him home, and leaving the next morning to prepare for your afternoon shift. 

It only takes one month of this torture for him to ask you to move in.

“Would make it easier. Better than me pretending it’s a coincidence I’m there almost every time you have a day off.” He mutters into your shoulder, as he holds you close. 

It’s the easiest decision you’ve ever made. 

You laugh at how his beard tickles your skin, pressing yourself further into him, to which he responds by wrapping an arm around you tighter and smiling that smug grin against your skin as you card your fingers through his blond locks and whisper “I figured it wasn’t a coincidence by the third time it happened.”

He kisses you, and cradles your cheek in the palm of his hand. For what feels like the hundredth and the first time, you drift off to sleep in his arms.

You never return to your old apartment, even to grab your things. Zeke has the same books as you, and his bed always was nicer. He buys you much better clothes to make up for what little loss of wardrobe you went through. 

You can’t aim too high in Liberio. But with him, you feel like you’ve started over on a clean slate. 

And for a time, though you never put a name on it, Zeke Yeager is yours.

[searchingwardrobes]

It’s Been . . . a DAY 1/3

Yeah, I've got WIPs, but yeah, this came to me. My oldest, years ago, had to pee really bad and NO ONE would let me use their bathroom. An insurance office, of all places, took pity on me, and my kid proceeded to pee on their bathroom floor. I burst into tears, and the woman there hugged me and told me how her kids peed in all kinds of places when they were potty training. The people were so nice, they refused to let me clean it up. I've never forgotten that act of kindness, and I likely never will. So that's the inspiration for this story which will have three parts.

Summary: Emma Swan bursts into Killian's life in spectacular fashion - when her three year old pees on his office floor. Nevertheless, Killian is mesmerized by this tenacious woman. Perhaps fate will let them cross paths again . . .

Rated: G

Words: Just shy of 2k

Also on Ao3

Tagging the usuals: @kmomof4  @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @xhookswenchx @teamhook @let-it-raines @winterbythesea @spartanguard @shireness-says @superchocovian @thesschesthair @resident-of-storybrooke @vvbooklady1256 @hookedonapirate @ultraluckycatnd @hollyethecurious @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @bethacaciakay @optomisticgirl @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @ekr032-blog-blog @itsfabianadocarmo @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite​ (sorry if I forgot anyone - I am really tired right now!)

Chapter One: 

“Can we use your bathroom, please?”

Jones & Jones Accounting Firm isn’t your stereotypical lifeless, silent establishment, just as the Jones brothers don’t look like your stereotypical accountants. Nevertheless, the frazzled blonde bursts in upon a moment of intense concentration. It’s tax season, after all. Killian takes in said blonde, her hair a wild disarray and tension in her shoulders. She’s clearly not having the best day. A squirming three year old grips her hand, doing what Liam and Elsa always call “the potty dance.”

All four employees of Jones & Jones (it technically should be Jones, Jones, & Jones, but Elsa said that was far too pretentious) hurriedly assure the woman, “yes, yes, of course,” leaping to their feet, hovering, oozing politeness, and pointing to the end of the hall to the facilities. The woman practically weeps in relief.

“Pee pee now, Mama!” the child cries, and his mother scoops him up, holding him out in front of her as she races for the toilet. It’s another maneuver Killian is familiar with thanks to Liam and Elsa - or his nephew, to be more specific.

The blonde - he really wants to know her name - sets the boy down in front of the toilet. In her haste she doesn’t even bother to shut the door.

It’s too late.

Before she can even get the child’s pants down, a yellow puddle is spreading at his feet.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps to the adults still unhelpfully hovering.

Then she starts ugly crying. Somehow, Killian knows this is out of character for her.

The boy begins to cry in earnest too. Liam and Elsa race off, most likely to take care of this, as the only two adults at Jones & Jones with kids. Ariel, who knows nothing about personal space and has never met a stranger, puts a comforting arm around the blonde.

“It’s okay, lass,” Killian assures, “really.”

“How can it be okay? We burst in here and peed on your floor!”

Killian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling or pointing out that only the lad did the actual peeing.

Liam appears with a roll of paper towels and a mop. “Accidents happen,” he tells the young mother cheerfully. “Potty training?”

“Yes!” the woman practically wails. “He’s three, so I know we should be done -“

“Ours is three too,” Elsa interrupts as she pushes a stack of clothes into her arms, “and he still has accidents. Which is why I have a spare set of clothes in my desk drawer.”

“Oh, spare clothes,” the woman mutters, shuffling through the massive bag slung over one shoulder. “Shit, he peed on those yesterday.”

He continues to sob as Liam lifts him out of his yellow puddle.

“So take these,” Elsa insists once again. “My name is Elsa, by the way.”

“Emma,” the blonde answers with a trembling chin as she takes the clothes, “and I never fall apart like this with strangers.” She chuckles sardonically. “Hell, I don’t do it with people I do know, but we’ve just had the worst time. Henry said he had to go, but every shop on this street said no when I begged for a bathroom. I was trying to buy him a pair of shoes. I mean, who the hell opens a kids’ thrift store and doesn’t put in a public bathroom?”

Killian once again bites his lip at the heat in her voice. He believes her when she insists that she rarely falls apart. She’s feisty and tough as nails - no question.

“Well,” Liam says, stuffing the wastebasket with sodden paper towels, “I’ve gotten most of it so you can change your lad out of his wet things. I’ll mop up when you’re done.”

Emma looks at each of them in turn, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. “Why are you all being so nice?”

It’s clear from the way she says it that kindness has been rare in her life. It makes Killian wonder about the boy’s father. She isn’t wearing a ring, but that doesn’t mean the man isn’t around. Whoever he is, he’s done nothing to ease that look of mistrust in her eyes.

“Because it’s clear you’re having a rough day,” Killian tells her gently, “and we’ve all been there.”

“Some of us literally,” quips Liam, and Elsa laughs.

“Your office was the sixth place I tried,” Emma whispers. “I never would have asked to use a bathroom in a business office if I wasn’t desperate.”

The boy - Henry - is still sniffling. “Was I a bad boy, Mama?”

“Oh baby, no,” Emma croons, falling to her knees before her son. “Even a big person might have had an accident holding it as long as you had to.”

Her soft voice melts the little boy, and he collapses wearily into his mother’s arms for comfort. Emma obliges, heedless of the child’s smelly dampness. She’s a good mother, that’s clear. The businesses on this street however? Killian clenches his jaw as he mentally ticks them off: the thrift store Emma had mentioned, a sporting goods store, a ladies boutique, a children’s book store, a jewelry store, and then Jones & Jones. Every single one had no reason to deny the desperate mother and child an exception to their “employees only” restrooms.

“Next time, love,” Killian says to the resilient mother before him, “you just stride right back to the bathroom no matter what they say.”

“Yeah,” Ariel agrees, anger flashing in her eyes, “I understand why they might not want a public bathroom, but surely they could see it was an emergency.”

“You just tell them it’s either let you use their bathroom or your kid’s gonna pee right on their floor,” Elsa grumbles. She’s clearly pissed - pun completely intended - or she wouldn’t have spoken with such poor diction.

Emma laughs, her face more at ease than it has been since she arrived. “I’ll remember that next time. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“And potty training is definitely a desperate time,” Liam commiserates.

They leave Emma and Henry alone then so she can change his clothes. When mother and son exit the bathroom, they both look much calmer.

“I can’t say thank you enough,” Emma tells them. “I’ll come back by tomorrow to return the clothes.”

Elsa waves away her offer. “No worries. Those are pretty worse for wear. Ian won’t miss them, I promise.”

“Ian Jones, I’m guessing?” Emma asks. “That’s a nice name.”

“It’s a nickname, actually,” Liam tells her from where he’s mopping the bathroom. “He’s named after this git of a brother, over here.”

“Oi, but you did name him after me, didn’t you?” Killian shoots back.

“Nickname, huh?” Emma asks with a tilt of her head and a teasing smile. “Short for . . . ?”

“Killian.” Is it just his imagination, or is she flirting with him? “Killian Jones.”

He extends his hand, and she takes it.

“Emma Swan.”

A last name! His heart soars. “It suits you.”

Emma’s smile brightens even as she rolls her eyes. No, it isn’t his imagination - she is flirting. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones with kids who pee in my office.”

She tilts her head back and lets out a full-throated laugh. It does something to his heart - makes it expand or something equally cheesy. Her cheeks are pink as she looks at him while tugging at the ends of her hair.

“So . . . um, I still feel kind of bad about that.” Her nose wrinkles, and he notices the light dusting of freckles there.

“Well, you could make it up to us by staying and having dinner. It will be here any minute: sub sandwiches and practically a whole salad bar. Ariel always orders way too much.”

“It’s better than running low!” the redhead snaps indignantly.

His smile wavers as he watches a shadow pass over Emma’s face, dimming her eyes. It’s as if he’s watched a wall fall back into place. She shuffles her feet, and ducks her head. Henry meets her gaze, popping a thumb into his mouth.

“I . . . um, think this is a Happy Meal kinda night - right kid?”

“Yay!” Henry cheers, bounding up and down in that jerky way toddlers always have. “Ticken nuggets!”

“Chicken nuggets,” Emma corrects.

“Dat’s what I say,” Henry retorts with a frown.

Killian catches the boys gaze and winks at him. The boy giggles before popping his thumb back in his mouth. Then Killian regards Emma again, weighing the risk of his next question, but he has to know.

“His father is expecting dinner too, perhaps?”

Emma’s eyes narrow, and it’s clear he’s made a serious tactical error. “He certainly isn’t expecting it from me, wherever the hell he is.”

Killian ducks his head. “Apologies, lass.”

Emma sucks in a breath, then lets it out slowly. When she speaks again, it’s with measured calm.

“I thank all of you again, but we really need to go.”

They all talk over one another assuring Emma that it was no trouble at all, but she practically dashes out the door. When it closes, sadness sweeps over Killian at the thought that he’ll probably never see her again.

“Well, you sure mucked that up, little brother.”

Killian glowers at Liam. “Shut it.”

“Leave him alone, babe,” Elsa admonishes gently. “He had to find some way to make sure he wasn’t flirting with a woman who was already taken.”

“You think she was flirting?” Killian asks.

Ariel snorts. “Please. For a minute there, she was practically melting at your feet.”

Killian groans as he runs a hand over his face. “You’re right Liam. I mucked it up.”

“I don’t think so,” Elsa muses, her gaze drifting to the door Emma Swan had just exited. “I think her walls flew back up before you probed about Henry’s dad.”

Killian sinks dejectedly into his desk chair. “And now I’ll probably never see her again.”

“So what?” Liam shoves the mop back into the broom closet before heading back to his own desk. “You only talked to her for like ten minutes.”

“There was an instant connection, though.” Ariel clasps her hands together and practically swoons.

“And you never know,” adds Elsa, “the two of you may cross paths again.”

Killian frowns as he stares at the spreadsheets on his computer screen. He hasn’t been immediately affected by a woman in this manner since Milah. Liam’s right - it’s foolish to read much into their brief meeting.

Yet he can’t help hoping that he’ll see Emma Swan again.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Lapis Lazuli - Geraskier [G]

[gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): None

Word Count: 4,538

Originally posted to my AO3

Geralt suddenly realises how much time he and Jaskier have spent together, and all the places they've travelled around the Continent. He decides that it's time to give the bard something to show how much he appreciates all of it.

His bird flies to Oxenfurt for the winter. The Academy still likes to keep him around for the busier autumn semesters because students will actually listen to someone like Jaskier, and Jaskier likes going back because it’s paid accommodation to weather out the harsh winters in. And Oxenfurt is familiar.

Not that he hasn’t thought of going to wherever it is Geralt goes. And Geralt hasn’t not thought of extending an invitation. Vesemir has made it abundantly clear; if their guests can behave themselves throughout the winter, and won’t mind being put to work for the essential jobs, then his pups can invite whoever they like to Kaer Morhen. Lambert has brought people before; notably a Cat from the Dyn Marv Caravan wandering around the Continent. A Griffin has roosted within their keep before too. Both Aiden and Coën defer to Vesemir, acknowledging that they’re guests and he’s the head of the keep, as is the order of things, and the winters go by without anyone killing each other. And that’s all the elder wolf can hope for, it seems.

The invitation sits on his tongue every year. He knows Jaskier knows of the keep. He’s asked about it before, when his lute is propped on his knee and he looks at Geralt with loud wonderment at all of the things he can lure out of the Witcher about his kind and his guild. He can’t blame the little bird. If he was given the choice of a warm academy apartment, with set banquet meals throughout the day, and a steady pay to tide him by, or a crumbling keep perched on top of the northern mountains, still haunted by the ghosts of everything that’s happened before, he knows what he would pick. But Kaer Morhen is home, and he can see past every horrid thing that happened within those walls, because what’s left behind is his family, and he’ll go wherever they are.

They’re only ever parted for a winter. Even the winters that make themselves longer than they need to be, stretching into spring and keeping the frosts around, it’s only one season. It’s strange that he goes the rest of the three without him.

And this seems to be much worse. It’s quiet on the road; with only his own thoughts and Roach’s chuffs and nickers keeping him company. It used to be the way of things in a world before. Before Geralt found himself a songbird and it perched on his shoulder, following him around from village to town to city and never knowing when to go away.

Gods forbid if Jaskier knew that Geralt secretly misses his voice. He spent so much time of their first year knowing each other trying to get Jaskier to shut up. But it became a gentle hum in the background of their travels. Jaskier would ramble on about something or other while he strolled next to Roach, occasionally brushing his hand along the mare’s neck. And the mare learned to not kick out at Jaskier’s shins or turn and nip his fingers. Her master seemed to like him enough to keep him mostly intact. That, and a few secret sugar cubes and apples snuck into her feed from the bard seemed to win her over.

Spring means his songbird will fly back to him, and autumn means that he’ll fly away again. A secure income and a warm place to hunker down throughout a potentially harsh winter, Geralt can’t blame the lark at all for going to roost.

It’s just the familiar groan of loneliness left behind is awful, and he hates how it makes itself known at night, when he’s slipping into an inn’s bed and the empty space on the other side seem to stretch on for leagues. It’s cold and Geralt always wakes with his arm stretched across, reaching out for someone who isn’t there. And that’s when his chest tightens and he wishes he could cross the Continent within a matter of strides, just to get his little lark back with him.

A courier comes one morning. Nothing more than a lad barely into his adulthood, with spots still speckled on his face and a mop of thick curly hair almost shielding his eyes, who somehow manages to find him in a merchant town’s tavern. Geralt glances up from his breakfast, regarding the lad for a moment as he fumbles through a knapsack of letters and parcels. “Geralt of Rivia,” he says primly, holding out a letter. As soon as the letter is in his hand, the lad scurries away, and that seems to be the end of that.

Geralt thins his lips. Contracts very rarely come to him. His name may start to be travelling further and further into the Continent, but notices are usually left on boards within the village or town itself. Contacting him directly isn’t how it works. He’s never in one place for too long.

But the envelope in his hand is crisp, freshly printed card, and a maroon ink seal at the back tells him all he needs to know. Oxenfurt’s emblem is printed into the wax, and the card smells vaguely of old books and ink.

He thumbs the letter open, running his eyes over the elegant scrawl inside.

Meet me at the Three Crowns Inn for Beltane. Can’t wait to see you again. – Songbird

Geralt’s chest clenches. He can’t stand from his table and run out of the inn fast enough.

-----------

He doesn’t know when he started calling Jaskier his little bird, but the bard certainly had no problems with it. If anything, he greatly encouraged it. Having someone as grumpy as Geralt dote on him seemed to be one of Jaskier’s favourite things. It’s a side of the Witcher that only he sees; when they’re curled in a bed together, or gathered around a campfire, and it’s just the two of them.

Jaskier has a pretty voice, and his songs are beautiful. Not that Geralt would ever tell him that. A preening smug Jaskier is borderline intolerable. He didn’t know why it tumbled out of his lips one night, when Jaskier dozed beside him and Geralt threaded his fingers through the man’s soft and freshly washed hair. But songbird and lark all seemed to fit. And Jaskier revelled in them.

Jaskier is also a magpie in some regards. A mischievous little thing that has a certain penchant for anything shiny and grand. He plucks vials of oils and lotions and soap bars from merchant stands and revels in how they smell, uncaring that the cost of them alone makes Geralt’s eyes water. He adorns his fingers in rings that catch the summer sunlight and glisten, and Geralt likes running his thumb over the gems and engravings in them when Jaskier links their fingers together. He likes gold and silver and gems and fragrant oils, and any time he lingers for a moment outside of a merchant’s stall, nose wrinkled in thought of whether or not he could spare the gold earned from playing in taverns on something, Geralt watches.

He buys rings because he can wear them, and any oils and lotions and soaps that somehow end up in his bag are brushed off as ways he can make his Witcher finally relax for once after a particularly taxing hunt. And the gems he leaves behind. Even though he’ll pick them up, watching how they glint in the midday sun, he’ll set them back and part the merchant with a small grateful smile.

A few of those gems have ended up in Geralt’s pocket. He doesn’t know what he would do with them, or how he would use them or even gift them to Jaskier, but his songbird liked them and didn’t seem keen to part with them. So they take up a permanent residence in one of the smaller pockets of Geralt’s saddlebag. They come from all sorts of places; Nazair and Toussaint, to Aedirn and Poviss. Anywhere he and Jaskier have wandered together, he takes them as small reminders. And in the seasons he goes without his bird, he has something to remind him of him at least.

-----------

Getting to the Three Crowns will take him through a few kingdoms. If he keeps to the main roads, not lingering in any towns for longer than he needs to, he’ll make it to the inn before Jaskier. And he doesn’t think he could cope with having to sit in a tavern’s hall and wait for his little bird to fly to him.

Smaller merchant towns are kinder to him than the bigger cities. He bundles his cloak tighter around himself when he rides through the cities, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and not the badly hidden curious looks from passing people on the streets. The whispers soon follow, and inevitably, the word butcher will dust the shell of his ear. So he sets his heels against Roach’s side and continues on.

But the smaller towns are kinder. They’re quiet and people lap through them like gentle waves, flowing quicker in the day, but dissipating by night. Roach plods along, with Geralt slackening her reins and letting her stretch her neck out. It’s a quiet and still walk in through the town’s main street, and most of the shops are already beginning to board up their windows and draw their stands in for the night. An inn’s sigil hangs at the far end of the street, and Geralt aims Roach towards it.

Before he can let his shoulders slacken, his eyes fall on to a shop next to the inn. It looks like every other building surrounding it – red brick and ornately carved, with worn-paint signs hanging outside. The windows are still clear and its door is open, so he can presume that the merchant is still inside trading wears.

He blinks at the first recognisable word he manages to spot on the worn wooden sign.

Jewellers.

Geralt slows Roach to a stop. The mare huffs, pulling at her bit slightly. The inn and its stables are literally right there. He sets a gloved hand to her neck, scratching into her winter fur beginning to fluff her out. “Wait here,” he rumbles, hopping down from her and on to the cobbles below. He hitches her reins to a small post outside and starts to rustle through his saddlebags. Empty vials of potions he’ll need to brew again, purses of gold that he keeps away from his person just in case of brigands. He fishes out the gems. They’re tiny things, just enough to gather in the palm of his hand.

He pats Roach’s neck one last time. “I’ll only be a second.”

Roach huffs, but waits.

-----------

He doesn’t know what it is, but all merchants tend to look the same. Regardless of whether they’re travelling the roads with him, they all have this glint in their eyes and glasses perched on the end of their nose, with finely kept clothes that reflect the wealth of their trade. And this merchant doesn’t look that much different.

The man inside blinks as soon as Geralt steps inside. “Witcher,” is the first word to bumble out of his mouth. A brief flash of panic blinks across his face before he tries to fight his way back to say something better than a profession as a greeting.

Geralt lifts his hand. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, looking around the shop. It’s unlike the kinds of stores Jaskier likes to drift in to. Wooden shelves along the walls stacked with all types of ornaments and glasswork. The storefront is a mixture of dark cherry wood and glass, showing off the expertly crafted necklaces and rings and bracelets he’s sure are worth every golden coin used to make them. The shop smells faintly of varnished and broiled glass and paint. It wrinkles his nose, but he steps closer to the counter.

The merchant adjusts his glasses. “What can I do for you, Master Witcher?”

Geralt holds out his hand, showing the gems gathered on his palm. “I was wondering if you could do anything with these?”

Even in the fading light of day, the orange strands of evening sunlight that stretch into the merchant’s shop, the gems glisten and gleam on his hand. The merchant gestures to them. May I? Plucking each of them up and examining the way the light catches them, the merchant adjusts his glasses again, moving them up and down his nose and squinting through the lens. “Ah, yes,” the merchant muses, “amethyst, amber, emerald, garnet. You must be very well travelled, Witcher. Some of these gems are hard to come by in these parts.”

Geralt hums. “I travel for work,” he explains simply. “I’ve been everywhere.”

The merchant sets the gems along his work surface, lining them up. Some are slightly bigger than others, but all polished and showing off their colours. The merchant muses, running his eyes over them. “What would you like me to do with them, Master Witcher?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “That’s up to you,” he says. “I don’t have any experience in jewellery or fineries.”

And he tries not to bristle at the way the merchant’s eyes drift over every part of him for a moment. Worn and scarred armour, dried blood flecking his skin. He doesn’t even seem like one of the merchant’s patrons.

The merchant’s lips thin. He hums and turns his eyes back on the gems. “I could make something beautiful of these gems, absolutely,” he considers. “But it would cost gold and time, Witcher. Do you have anywhere you need to be in the coming days?”

He’s already going to be early for his meeting. A few days of rest before doing the last trek towards the Three Crowns might do him some good. If he showed up to meet Jaskier like this, after so many seasons apart, he could imagine the bard instantly trying to shove him into a bath laden with oils and soaps. He can stomach to lose a few days to rest.

-----------

The Three Crowns is their usual meeting point. Winter looms over the Continent, peering over the mountains to the west and already hinting at its arrival with chilling and biting winds that tumble down from the hills. The snow and frost keep away, thankfully. The last thing he needs is frozen roads. But they are somewhat flooded. He keeps to the main roads, laden with merchants selling the last of their wares before they can head home from the winter. And if he had any more gold left, he would buy some fruit or bread from them. But the last of his gold dwindles, just enough for a tavern room – something he’s sure Jaskier has already procured and readied for him.

His bones warm at the thought of being with his bird again. If Roach walks a bit quicker, with a noticeable spring in her step, it absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that Jaskier spoils her with more treats than hay and grains. And even she can appreciate having the bard around; also because it makes her companion happy.

The Three Crowns is nestled in the heart of some town straddling a crossing of roads. It sees its fair share of passing traders and huntsmen drifting in from the road only to be swept off again. It reminds him of Posada, and he can understand why Jaskier always insists on it being their meeting up place. Roach chuffs at the sight of it in the distance, almost breaking out into a gallop just to read the town’s wooden barriers.

Stableboys linger around the yard and don’t even blink twice at him setting some gold into their palms. He hops down from Roach and takes his bags off of her before she’s led into the stables around the back of the inn, pawing insistently at the ground to get somewhere warm and full of oats and hay.

The tavern is as crowded as it always is. A hum of noise and the smell of roasting venison assault his senses the moment he steps into the tavern. It’s familiar. This meets him every time he comes to greet Jaskier and begin their wanderings together. But it’s been longer than usual and he’s missed everything about it.

He hauls his saddlebags over his shoulders, stalking further into the tavern. All the tables are already occupied, farmers and merchants and passing huntsmen bowed over their dinners and knocking back tankards of ale and mead. Geralt’s eyes scan the room, looking for the familiar spark of colour that usually stands out from the rest.

And his ears twitch when he hears hurried footsteps approaching from his side. Through the maze of tables and people sitting at them, Geralt watches Jaskier almost trip over his own feet as he hurries towards him, a bright smile and glistening eyes already settled on his face. Geralt has just enough time to let his saddlebags drop to the ground by his side before he’s tackled into a hug. His arms hover in the air for a moment. The closeness Jaskier insists on having with him isn’t something he was ever used to. But he’s warming to it.

As his arms slowly coil around and gather his bard to him, Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. His lungs fill with the scent of the other man. Sea salt that he likes to scrub and soften his skin with, and the faint lilts of desert roses and vanilla coats the roof of his mouth and Geralt is loath to let the bard go. Jaskier seems to be in a similar position. His arms are curled around Geralt’s shoulders and neck, locked and unwilling to let him go just yet.

The rest of it fades away. The tavern, those gathered within it and all of their conversations melding into one lapping wave of noise. Geralt’s lungs can fill again as he breathes Jaskier in, and a deep rumble purrs out of his chest at the feeling of the bard’s hands settling on to his back, slowly rubbing at the plains of muscle there.

He isn’t sure how long he spends holding on to Jaskier, but eventually the bard tries to slip away. Geralt’s arms tighten. A light breathless laugh shakes through Jaskier. “Come on,” he murmurs, setting his hands on to Geralt’s elbows, “I’ve got us a room.”

He’s slow to let go of the little bird. Even then, he only allows a small sliver of space between them. Jaskier catches one of his hands, and even through the thin leather glove, he can feel the warmth of the bard’s skin blooming through his.

As soon as he has gathered his bags again, Jaskier leads him away, from the prying curious eyes of the other patrons nearby. He’s lured upstairs, until the conversations below become nothing more than a distant hum and Geralt feels like he can think again.

Just as he imagined, Jaskier already has the room ready. The hearth within the wall crackles and spits with a freshly fed fire and candles dotted around, perched on dressers and cabinets, offer a warm glow to the room. With fresh linen sheets and furs lining the foot of their bed, his bones ache at the thought of going to sleep.

A bath has already been brought up and filled, and the air is scented with the musk of desert rose and something sweet laced underneath it.

As soon as he pulls Geralt inside, Jaskier clicks the door shut behind them. He squeezes Geralt’s hand, but doesn’t move to pull away. “Now,” he says primly, “I’m sure you have stories to tell me, darling, but I insist on bathing you first. The road hasn’t been kind to you.”

Because you haven’t been on it with me. The words lodge in his throat and Geralt struggles to keep them behind a shut jaw.

With his saddlebags put to the side, Jaskier’s nimble fingers set on the many belts and buckles of his armour. It’s different; having someone else do it. He remembers the first time where he stood frozen, wondering why his newest travelling companion insisted on removing armour Geralt has been wearing for years. He can do it himself. But now he’s content to let Jaskier strip what he can off of him, leaving him in a worn linen shirt and breeches. He toes off his boots, leaving them alongside the pile of armour that gathers beside his bags. He’ll clean it in the morning, before they go, but as Jaskier drifts over to the bath, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Geralt pauses.

Jaskier moves around the room so seamlessly, as he is with most things. He gathers what he needs to bathe Geralt; lotions and oils for his aching muscles, and a comb to try and wrangle his hair back into something tame.

The bard eventually catches his eye. “Are you going to stand there all night,” he laughs breathlessly, setting a hand on to his hip, “or are you coming over?”

Geralt blinks. His fingers flex by his side, not entirely sure what he should try and do now. He glances over to his saddlebags, piled up beside a nearby dresser. Geralt grunts, holding up his hand. Jaskier cocks his head, but watches the Witcher regardless.

He roots through his bag, looking for a soft felt bag kept in one of the more secure pockets inside. He fishes it out, making sure that the gift is still intact. He tried to keep it safe. He might have even lost hours of sleep because he worried about brigands and highwaymen storming him on the road and taking it.

But now, he somehow manages to force his feet to take him over to Jaskier. The bard looks at him puzzled, his gaze drifting down to the small bag caught in Geralt’s hand.

There’s a moment between them where nothing is said. And Jaskier tilts his head, eyes searching for Geralt’s as the Witcher tries to gather what to say. Because how does he even go about presenting something like this? Geralt clears his throat. Gods, words really aren’t his strong suit. He stretches out his hand, handing the bag over to Jaskier. When the bard looks to him again, lifting an eyebrow, Geralt rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh...It’s for you.”

Jaskier regards him for a moment, slowly letting his deft fingers unlace the drawstring and pull the ties apart. A lot of gold and time made what Jaskier is fishing out of the bag, and Geralt’s stomach churns. Gods alive, what if he doesn’t like it?

Jaskier blinks when he lifts his gift out. A necklace of gems, expertly melded together like petals of a flower. Each gem is its own petal, but together, they represent something more. Their journey together, the wanderings all over the Continent and the time spent together. The gems glint in Jaskier’s eyes, bright crystal colours joining the ocean blue Geralt likes losing himself in. The chain is something lithe and simple, small interlinking locks of silver that don’t distract from the flower hanging from it.

Jaskier rubs his thumb over each gem, and the thin and lithe metalwork that binds them all together. His lips part, something resting on the tip of his tongue, about to be spoken, but Jaskier all but gapes. “This...” he stammers, glancing over to Geralt. “Gods, Geralt, how much did this cost, I—it’s beautiful.”

Geralt can feel a flush warming his cheeks. “You, um,” he rasps, clearing his throat again. “You liked the jewels. In the markets we visited. But you never bought them, and I, I don’t know, I guessed that I would get them for you but, uh, I didn’t know how to present them.”

He nods to one of the gems. “The, uh, the lapis is from Toussaint,” he manages to get out, because if he talks about the gems and focuses on the gems and the gems alone, he won’t have to look at Jaskier staring at him. The lapis was the most expensive, but it’s the most beautiful. “The topaz is from that visiting spice market in Redania.” All things that caught Jaskier’s eye, but he had to leave behind. And now it’s here, for him, in a way that he could wear.

Geralt manages to tear his eyes away from the necklace, glancing up and catching the bard’s gaze. Jaskier stares at him, mouth and eyes wide, and for a terrifying moment, he doesn’t say anything. Geralt’s throat bobs. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t even mourn the loss of the gold spent on it, but the way he could potentially have soured things between them.

And then Jaskier’s moving. Geralt has just enough awareness to notice heat bloom on the side of his face before Jaskier leans forward, catching his lips in a soft and languid kiss. He stands stock-still for a moment before he melts into it, reaching up to brush the backs of his knuckles along Jaskier’s cheek. His own is nestled into the bard’s hand, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone in something so soft and undeserving of him and his life that he struggles not to shrug it away. Jaskier has always been so kind and soft to him, with gentle hands and lulling words.

Jaskier breaks their kiss when air thins, but he doesn’t go too far away. He sets their foreheads together; the ends of their noses brushing and a shared breath mingling between them. Geralt watches a bright and outrageously happy smile spread across the bard’s lips. “This,” he laughs breathlessly, “gods alive, Geralt, this is beautiful. Thank you. I, gods, how did you even think of something like this?”

He honestly doesn’t know. Jaskier is a worryingly big part of his life now and he needed it immortalised somehow. If, if, the bard didn’t come adventuring with him out on the road anymore, at least there is a reminder of all the places they did go together.

Jaskier lures him into another long and languid kiss. His lips are soft and it’s a struggle to break apart from them. Eventually, one of Jaskier’s hands settles on the centre of his chest. His smile hasn’t even budged. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Geralt hums. It’s taxing, trying to muster words and make some effort to say them. And what could tumble out of his mouth may not be the way he wants them to come out. So he nudges his forehead into Jaskier’s, enough of a physical touch to widen the bard’s smile.

He doesn’t want to pull away. He has Jaskier back now, and he’ll bundle the bard off to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter, and spend the following seasons after that traversing the path with him. And the thought of all of that settles into the core of his chest and blooms warmth through him; undoing all the stresses of the past seasons, unwinding tension better than any bath or sleep ever could.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Gavin’s Old Haunt Date

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

References are made to the birthday R&S, so please read that first!

[ PROLOGUE ] 

MC: Is this the place?

Gavin: According to the map, it should be.

Gavin and I have stopped outside an old house, carrying a cake.

The reason we’re here today has to do with the phone call Gavin received a few days ago...

~ Memory begins ~

Gavin: You are?

Ever since receiving the call from a foreign number, Gavin has been frowning slightly, as though recalling something.

After hanging up, he looks deep in thought. 

MC: Gavin, has something happened? 

Looking at his expression, I can’t help but ask.

Gavin: It’s nothing. It was a call from my grandmother’s neighbour. They are about to pave the pathway, so they informed me that they’d have to use the yard.

MC: Your grandmother’s house? You’ve never mentioned it before.

Gavin: My grandmother lived on the outskirts of the city, and has a house with a courtyard. I used to go there occasionally during vacations. After my grandmother passed away, I’ve haven’t gone back. 

MC: I'm sorry, I didn’t know...

Gavin: It’s okay. Although her condition wasn’t great, she had a serene passing. She had quite a long life. I don't have a deep impression of the old house. Only after getting the call did I remember the large patch of dandelions there. It looks very beautiful in Summer.

Hearing his words, my heart stirs.

Over the past few days, I’ve been anxious about where to celebrate Gavin’s birthday, and haven’t been satisfied with all sorts of places. 

Perhaps the old house isn’t a bad choice.

MC: Since we have this chance, want to go back and have a look? I’m even thinking of celebrating your birthday there. How does that sound?

After thinking for a while, Gavin nods.

Gavin: Also good. Let’s go back and have a look.

~ Memory ends ~

Therefore, on Gavin’s birthday, we returned to this old house that Gavin can’t remember much of.

The house no one has lived in for a long time stands quietly. The yard has not been tended, and only wild weeds and dandelions grow.

Near the windows, the wind chime, with its tubes missing, is also silent. 

It seems to have been waiting for an opportunity to tell of the past that has been forgotten with time.

~

[ ACTUAL DATE ] 

The noon sun spreads across the green leaves of the dandelions, and a few clouds occasionally drift across the blue sky. 

The old house in front of me seems to sleep quietly in amber. Since a particular day, it has become unchanged. 

Only wild grass in the yard grows, hinting that over a decade has gone by.

MC: Do you still remember the last time you were here? 

Gavin shakes his head, pushing the iron gate open.

Gavin: The dandelions look almost the same as I remember though. Come to think of it, my grandmother used to directly pluck dandelion leaves from the yard to include in her dishes. 

MC: Were they delicious?

Gavin: They were really bitter. I didn’t particularly like them. However, my grandmother always said that good medicine tastes bitter, so she gave me even more. 

I laugh while looking at Gavin’s tiny pout. 

I can’t help but wonder if the Gavin of back then was just as he is now, eating vegetables he doesn’t really fancy.

Suddenly, I realise something important. It’s something that I haven’t confirmed even till now.

MC: Gavin, did you bring the keys to this place? 

He shakes his head and calmly admits it.

Gavin: I don’t have the keys to this house. 

MC: Are you...

Seeing me cast worried glances at the door, which does not look as sturdy as it once used to be, he taps on my forehead lightly.

Gavin: What are you thinking? Here. 

Holding onto my wrist, Gavin brings me to the side of the old house. 

He shifts some vases to the side, then squats down and knocks on the wall, as though searching for something. 

After a while, the corners of his lips lift, and he laughs lightly. 

Gavin: Looks like I didn’t remember wrongly. It’s here. 

As he speaks, he pulls out a loose brick and retrieves a slightly rusty key from the hole in the wall. 

MC: A spare key? 

Gavin: Mm. Back then, my grandfather would go fishing and forget to bring his keys. He simply left a set here. When I was young, I would sneak out with my grandfather without my grandmother knowing. We’d rely on this key to get back in.

With a flick of his thumb, the key gets tossed into the air. After circling a few rounds, it falls back into his hand. 

Gavin: Let’s go. 

~

The door creaks as it opens, like an off-key welcome. 

I follow behind Gavin, slowly entering this house, which has not been disturbed by anyone for far too long.

The dim light and the air, which is several degrees lower than outside the house, causes me to draw nearer to Gavin. 

Only after my eyes gradually acclimatise to the light in the room do I have a proper look at this old house, which is covered in dust. 

The house is empty, apart from a sofa and a coffee table which are covered with a thick layer of dust, and a few cabinets which are inconvenient to move. 

I’m guessing the other items have been moved away a long time ago. 

People used to place fresh flowers and tea cups here, and spend a leisurely late afternoon with family. 

On the low cabinet next to the stairs, there would have been pictures, telling visitors about the warmth in this household. 

It’s a pity that after many years of remaining idle, this place has become completely desolate.

Even the traces of small furniture and decorative items have been buried in dust. 

Gavin: I’m back.

Gavin says this in a soft voice. I’m unsure if he is saying it to the old house, or to himself. 

Gavin stretches out his hand to brush the wall of the corridor lightly, then silently twists away the dust on his fingertips. 

Gavin: It doesn’t seem very appropriate to celebrate a birthday here. Want to go somewhere else?

Gavin lowers his eyes, his tone normal, as though he’s talking about something trivial. 

MC: Mm... we really can’t do it in such a place.

Making a decision, I stride towards the windows. With a single movement, I draw the heavy curtains and push the window open. 

Sunlight rushes into the house, and a cool breeze carries in the scent of grass. The dust and quiet in the house are stirred up by the flow of air. 

MC: Which is why we’re going to do a thorough house cleaning!

I say this loudly, flashing a grin at Gavin. 

He probably didn’t expect that I’d do such a thing. After freezing for a moment, he lets out a light huff. 

Gavin: All right. 

~

Even though I said that we’d be cleaning, I have absolutely no idea where to begin when I look at the dust-covered house. 

MC: Mm... should we do it from top to bottom, or from inside to outside...

Gavin: No need for such trouble. 

MC: Do you know some secret to cleaning up? 

Gavin doesn’t speak. The corners of his lips are tugged upwards into a smile, and he pulls me to his side. 

A gust of wind blows through the house, going through every corner, rounding up the dust and bringing them outside the house. 

From where we are standing, we aren’t disturbed by the dust at all.

MC: This... this is playing foul!

Looking at the house, which has become much cleaner in just an instant, leaves me feeling shocked and delighted. 

MC: So there’s actually this method!

Gavin: In the past, my mom would use this method of cleaning when she felt lazy. Seems like the result isn’t bad.

Gavin’s smile widens, and his eyes have a faint sense of longing within them. 

Gavin: MC, I’ll mop the floor, and you wipe the tables?

MC: Mm! With this division of labour, work wouldn’t be tiring~

The sounds of the slightly rusty faucet turning, followed by the rush of water, signal that our house cleaning project has officially begun. 

MC: Honestly speaking, I like cleaning up. 

I wipe the table earnestly, looking at how the old wooden table exudes a soft halo under the sunlight. 

MC: Sometimes when I’m not in a good mood, I’ll tidy up my room, and clean up. By doing so, my heart’s grievances are also cleaned up.

Gavin: Yes.

Gavin looks at the interior of the house, and agrees. 

Gavin: Many things require a proper cleaning up. 

The dirt is gradually removed, and the glass is polished. Gavin and I chat while sweeping. 

Sparks slowly return to this old house. 

Gavin: Hm? 

MC: Did you find something? 

Hearing a sound, I turn towards Gavin. 

There is an empty bookshelf taking up the space of a full wall. In the corner of the lowest shelf, there is an old tin box. 

MC: What is this...

Gavin: Open it and we’ll know.

Without hesitation, Gavin takes up the box and gently opens it. 

Several guesses flash across his mind. The moment the box is opened, he receives an answer. 

A bracelet made of small beads, an old but well-preserved doll, a transparent sweet wrapper...

A collection of items that girls would like. 

Did this box belong to Gavin’s grandmother? After thinking again, I find that the box doesn’t look that ancient.

While I’m still identifying the items in the box and speculating who its owner is, Gavin takes out a pair of small, incomplete knee pads.

MC: So cute... are those knee pads for little kids? Although it’s only half complete, a lot of heart was put into it. 

Gavin: Really? How can you tell? 

I take the knee pad from Gavin’s hand and turn it over carefully for him to see. 

MC: Look, the needlework is very delicate, and the edges are neat. If only my fingers were that nimble... it’s a pity that the embroidered small plane at the side is slightly out of shape. It’s probably the reason why it wasn't complete. 

Gavin: It is a little crooked. 

I return the knee pads to Gavin, and can’t help but voice my speculation. 

MC: Perhaps it was meant to be given to someone? I’m not sure if it was a success in the end...

Gavin: It was a success. It looked very good at the end, and was a very precious birthday present. The boy who received it liked it a lot. He even won several basketball matches while wearing those knee pads. 

MC: Gavin...

I suddenly realise something, and draw nearer to Gavin, looking at the pair of knee pads together with him.

MC: The boy who received this present is definitely very blessed. 

Gavin: Mm. 

Gavin nods, answering in a tender and soft voice. 

MC: Are we bringing it back with us later? 

He places the knee pads back into the box preciously.

Gavin: Since it has always been stored here, this is its most appropriate place. Let’s continue cleaning up.

~

I’m standing in the living room after cleaning the final area, and do a big stretch.

With our collaborative effort, the old house is finally thoroughly cleaned. 

The sense of melancholy earlier has been removed along with the dirt. Although the house still feels empty, one can see the warmth from its past. 

The wind chime has also been fixed, and it once again rings with crisp sounds.

MC: Once we wash the sheets and curtains, it’d be a complete success!

Unfortunately, when we press the power button, the washing machine produces a strange sound. It stops operating after a series of tremors. 

MC: Is it broken?

I look at the washing machine and give it a knock, refusing to give up.

Gavin: Possibly. This washing machine is a very old model, and it has always been idle, so it’s not strange that it’d malfunction. Let me try fixing it. 

I pull on Gavin’s arm before he leaves to get the toolbox, then point at the big basin at the side. 

MC: It’s not a bad idea to do things manually sometimes, right? 

Upon hearing this, Gavin turns his head to look at the warm weather outside the window. 

Gavin: It’s not bad. 

~

Clouds drift across the blue sky leisurely, and an occasional breeze causes the dandelions to fly along with it.

In the yard, Gavin and I hold each other to maintain our balance as we take turns to step on the sheets in the basin. 

As the cool water flows over our toes, the sheets gradually become clean, slowly returning to their former whiteness. 

Along with our repeated actions, foam bubbles fly everywhere, floating towards the grass. 

MC: It’s a pity that I didn’t bring any decorative items. If there were things like colourful ribbons and balloons to decorate this place, there would more of a birthday atmosphere. Right now, I keep thinking about how empty the house is.

While washing, I look at the old house before me and purse my lips, feeling regrettable towards the gaps in my plans. 

Gavin: It’s already very good now.

Gavin responds matter-of-factly, adding a little more washing powder into the basin.

Gavin: If we hang decorations, we would have to take them all down before leaving. There’s no need for such trouble.

His reaction is not unexpected. I smile and ask him.

MC: When it comes to my birthday, would you do up decorations?

Gavin: Of course.

He answers seriously, tightening his hold on my hand. 

Gavin: But you’re here right now, and even baked a cake yourself. To me, this is already the best birthday. Your plan is perfect. 

MC: [blushing] ...

Meeting his direct and candid eyes, I feel my cheeks flush. I lower my head and continue stepping on the sheets in the basin.

MC: Even if it’s not decorations, you could bring some small pieces of furniture to add a touch of home to the atmosphere if you come back again next time. It’s such a beautiful house, and we spent so much effort cleaning it. We can’t just neglect it again.

Gavin: All right. We can take a look at the furniture mall together anytime. I’m not good at choosing these things, so I’ll leave it to you.

MC: I might end up buying the things I like though...

Gavin: That’s not bad. 

MC: No no, this is still your house.

Saying this, I am suddenly curious. 

MC: Gavin, have you ever considered what your “ideal home” looks like? 

Gavin: The place I'm currently staying at is pretty good. 

MC: I’m not referring to that... it’s more...

I pause my actions, thinking of how to best illustrate it. 

MC: It’s a more emotional kind of “home”.

Gavin: In that case, I haven’t given it much thought... MC, come out for a while. I’ll change the water. 

As he speaks, he pulls me out of the basin. After pouring the dirty water into a bucket nearby, he takes the hose. 

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and a few foam bubbles are on his sculpted forearms, scattering specks of colourful light. 

MC: Want to think about it now? 

I dip the sheets into the clean water. Under the warm sunlight, the old house seems to be cast in a layer of gold. 

MC: For example, there’s a soft cushion in the living room, and there’s a shelf for flowers in the balcony. 

Gavin: Mm, that sounds good. With a shelf for flowers, Pearly can live more comfortably too.

Gavin smiles at my serious expression, and considers the topic I brought up.

Gavin: As for other things... a telescope? 

MC: Being able to look at the stars at night sounds romantic. 

Gavin: Do I continue?

He raises his chin from the sheets and stretches his hand towards me. 

Gavin: Be careful not to slip.

MC: I have you, don’t I? 

I stand in the basin, exerting a bit of force, wanting to pull Gavin closer to me. 

The bottom of the basin is too slippery, and I lose my balance. 

Before I can steady myself, Gavin fishes for my waist, and I fall into his arms. 

Gavin: Be careful not to slip.

He repeats himself again, but his voice carries a smile this time. His low voice drifts to my ears. 

Because of the earlier movement, some water has ended up outside the basin, creating small puddles. It’s as though pieces of the sky are embedded into the ground. 

Gavin: The house must also have a good quality washing machine. 

Gavin leans down, helping me wipe water off my skirt. 

MC: Makes sense. 

Looking at his drenched shirt, I let out a laugh and second his remark.

When we start to coordinate with each other’s steps again, I start to imagine the house belonging to Gavin - the house he’s looking forward to. 

MC: What about the bookshelf? Would you have a huge bookshelf?

Gavin: Mm. That way, it’d be very convenient to work from home. 

MC: As expected of our dedicated Commander Gavin! What else? 

For some reason, I keep sensing his gaze trailing to the old house, and that he’s looking at something very afar off. 

Gavin: There’s a yard to put Sparky in. 

MC: The carport really needs to be built well. We can’t leave Sparky exposed to the wind and sun. 

Gavin: It’d be best to have a small basketball court...

Saying this, Gavin pauses, as though he just thought of something. 

Gavin: The house must also have a piano.

Gavin smiles and glances at me, the hidden meaning in his words self-evident. 

My face heats up, and I step on the sheets with force, creating more bubbles. 

MC: [blushing] Then, I want to grow ginkgo trees in the yard!

The bigger movements make me draw closer to Gavin in order maintain my balance. 

MC: There’ll be a swing, and also a dog which is as intelligent and cute as Flyer.

Gavin smiles as he reaches out to hold my upper arm.  

He looks into my eyes solemnly and opens his mouth slowly. 

Gavin: All right. Whatever we want, they will all be there. 

~

The sheets flutter under the sun, and we can finally rest for a while. 

Even though Gavin says that he doesn’t mind it, I still want to make this old house have more of a birthday atmosphere. 

I look at the big patch of dandelions, and am struck with an idea.

MC: There aren’t any colourful ribbons, but there are dandelions. I can form them into a “birthday crown”.

Thinking about the expression on Gavin’s face when he saw the flower garland, I am filled with motivation. 

Watching me head outside hurriedly, Gavin thinks of helping while looking confused. I stop him at the door. 

MC: You’re not allowed to peep. Have a good rest. This is an “order”.

Knowing that he can’t bend my stubbornness, he smiles and raises both hands in an “I surrender” posture.

Gavin: I promise to complete my mission.

Before I close the door, I suddenly see something stuck behind the cabinet at the entrance. 

MC: What’s this? 

Curious, I take a look and try to pick it up. Unfortunately, it remains stuck.

Gavin: Let me see.

I take a step back and Gavin shifts the cabinet slightly.

It’s a photo frame, and within it is a picture of a harmonious family of five. 

In the middle sits a couple who have experienced life. Life has brought steadiness and wisdom, but has not taken away their spirit. 

Behind them stands a couple, who look to be around twenty or thirty years old.

The man is muscular and handsome, and is unsmiling. 

The woman, on the other hand, is smiling. Her hair is draped over her shoulders. She is carrying a baby in her arms preciously, as though it is the entire world.

Somewhat familiar facial features enable me to quickly recognise who these people are. 

Gavin takes the photo frame from me wordlessly. The faint smile he always had has disappeared. 

MC: Gavin? 

Gavin remains silent for a while. Finally, he releases a sigh, using his thumb to brush the picture.

Gavin: You mentioned earlier that when you’re cleaning up, the grievances in your heart would be cleaned up as well. What should be cleaned up will have to be cleaned. 

His faint voice is the same as always, but is more solemn than usual.

Gavin: MC, there are some things I want to tell you. Are you willing to listen? 

MC: Mm. No matter what it is, I’m willing. I want to understand everything about you.

Gavin seems to be thinking about where to start. After a moment of silence, he purses his lips and begins. 

Gavin: My father is an outstanding soldier. I won’t deny that point, but it doesn’t mean that I agree with what he does. 

Gavin: As for my mother... she was very tender, and stronger than anyone else.

I look at Gavin’s side profile. Not much expression is on his face, but when he mentions this, there is warmth in his eyes.

Leaving his father when choosing between righteousness and family, a mother who was always tender, childhood struggles, a postponed birthday...

And the fire that severely burned him.

He spoke simply, carrying me across decades of the past in the span of a few minutes. Yet, my heart feels a wave of sorrow.

Gavin: These are just things that happened in the past. They’re over now. 

Gavin says this at the end, and places the photo frame on the table carelessly.

Gavin: Let’s check on the sheets outside. The weather has been hot recently, so they should dry quickly. 

I pull on Gavin before he stands up, and look at him seriously.

MC: No matter how heavy the topic is, you always say it so lightly. It’s as though you’ve never been affected by it. But... Gavin, whether it’s the scars from the past or right now, I hope to help you bandage them. 

I try to tidy my messy thoughts and grasp the words I truly want to say to him.

MC: Just like how we cleaned up this old house together, we will place new decorations and furniture together next time. We can turn this place into a house you can rest in.

Gavin lets out a sigh and rubs my head gently. 

Gavin: Only when I say a proper farewell will it count as leaving it behind, right?

I nod my head vigorously and give him a smile. 

MC: Want to tidy this up properly? 

Gavin: Mm.

Gavin finally returns a relieved smile. He brings me into his arms gently, and presses his forehead to mine. 

Gavin: Give me some time. 

MC: Mm. 

I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around his neck.

No matter how heavy the past is, he will take it all away. He will move forward without confusion, and will no longer be bogged down.

As for those burdens that follow the wind, I can share them with him.

The wind chime on the windowsill produces a crisp sound. The low tone sounds like a farewell, and also the announcement of a new journey.

~

I stand on my tiptoes to retrieve Gavin’s dry shirt from the rack.

Along with my movements, the occasional dandelion blows past, floating and spreading in the air. 

After Gavin ended that long embrace, we hung the photo frame on the wall together, and I felt at ease.

This place shall be the start of our journey to the future. 

At this moment, the most important thing is to keep the clean clothes, and then hold a complete birthday celebration with him. 

MC: Should I make up for this another time when there’s more of a birthday atmosphere?

I retrieve Gavin’s dry shirt from the rack. The faint scent of sunlight lingers on it, as well as the washing powder. 

MC: Come to think of it, I wonder if Gavin would find this year’s cake a little too sweet...

Gavin: What about me? 

Before I can turn around, I am tightly encased in a familiar scent and warmth. 

MC: Gavin!

Gavin: I’ve tried a bit of the cake. The flavour is just right. 

MC: Why did you steal a bite?

 Gavin: It was just one bite, so it doesn’t count as stealing.

I pretend to be angry and turn my head to the side, wanting to say a few more things. My face meets Gavin’s cheek.

From this angle, his long eyelashes are clearly visible, and his amber eyes are even more clear and flawless. 

The slightly humid air circulates around us. In the span of a breath, all my senses are overtaken by him.

A wind blows past, carrying dandelions far away.

MC: Gavin, happy birthday.

With a curl of his lips, Gavin smiles. He holds me by the waist and lifts me up, spinning me around in a circle.

MC: Ah?!

Slightly startled, I laugh while pounding his shoulder lightly. 

He spins me around again, then changes his position to hold me in his arms. 

Gavin: We can keep the sheets later. Let’s have cake first. 

MC: It’s still in the afternoon though. We should keep the cake for tonight, after you’ve made a wish.

Gavin: It’s my birthday, so I have the final say.

Gavin doesn’t care about my small retort, nor does he care about the fluttering sheets. Still carrying me, we enter the house. 

The braided corollas hang at the end of the clothes pole, the golden flower petals stretching warmly under the sunlight. 

A gust of wind sweeps past, closing the door of the old house. 

On the windowsill, the tubes of the wind chime are also swept by the wind, hitting the glass, producing a crisp and long sound.

Clanging under the bright blue sky. 

🎐

Gavin’s Birthday Collection:

ASMR: Regaining the Old Days (takes place during the date)

Moments and Texts

Phone call

Video call

[hualianff]

T.F.T.A (I.H) III 《II》

Irodori – Hiroaki Tsutsumi “I can touch up some patches of the walls that look washed out?”

“Uh, no you don’t have to-“

“-oh! And I can vacuum the carpets in the morning before work, during the day, and at night once everyone leaves so the floor will always be spotless-“

“No, really, that’s a bit much-“

“Does anything in your office happen to need dusting?“

HX sighs. This human never stops.

First, it is the food and drinks he delivers to the employees on each floor–without being asked to. His employees are filthy slobs when it comes to dealing with their customers as it is; the extra vacuuming would admittedly be appreciated. Though, HX has no complaints when XL personally brings him fresh coffee and pastries from the bakery on the corner.

Then, it is the excessive cleaning that has somehow become one of his biggest priorities, courtesy of XL. HX supposes this is what he needed a custodian for in the first place. But he can’t help but wonder how YY found a human who is so damn eager to be worked like a slave.

“Mr. Xuan, what cleaning fluid brand do you prefer the bathroom floors to be mopped with?” Xie Lian asked, still sitting in the lone chair in front of HX’s desk, one hour after he first entered. Here he was, going through a laundry list of sterilization questions while HX was still trying to process just how ugly the human’s work uniform was.

He’ll have to do something about that.

HX was, by no means, generous or fashionable. Hell, he currently had on all black–the inner and outer robes being different shades–and cheap sandals that exposed just how pale his skin was. He sported the same skull earrings since first getting his ears pierced, and he kept his hair back in a simple, low ponytail that felt like a rope of lead at times.

They surely must make quite a pair, like the dark and mysterious goth teen meets the wrongly-dressed happy-go-lucky old man. There is no doubt HX beat XL in age by a couple of hundred years, yet, XL somehow still gave off wise-beyond-his-years energy. A man who has seen and been through plenty of life’s obstacles.

Such fragile beings, humans were.

“Um, Mr. Xuan?” XL spoke up again when HX didn’t answer his twentieth question right away. “Is it alright if I call you that? Or should I call you Black Water?”

HX’s frown deepened, sincerely considering how XL should address him. It was not like XL knew the truth behind the title Black Water, and for that reason, it felt improper for the human to speak a name he was not aware held so much power.

“Mr. Xuan is fine,” HX says curtly.

“Oh, okay. Mr. Xuan it is.”

HX exhaled with thinning patience. He placed his elbows on the desk, preparing to shoo his new employee away so he could work in peace.

“You can just call me Xie Lian. I hope to be of the best assistance to you, Mr. Xuan,” XL adds quicker than HX can respond. “By the way, about those cobwebs surrounding the hallways lights-”

Seriously, was this guy out of his mind?

From XL’s perspective, he believes he hit the jackpot with this job. Not only is it incredibly low-stress compared to his previous hustles, but XL often finds himself to be most useful in keeping Black Water company. Yes, XL is aware HX strives to be as antisocial and non-confrontational as possible. And yes, a boss-employee relationship probably shouldn’t cross a certain line into the best friend zone.

But whenever HX happens to be nearby, and XL bounds over with a dozen updates on his work and random stories that he can’t help sharing, HX begrudgingly stays and listens.

“See? Doesn’t dusting make everything nicer to look at?“ XL questions with a sunny smile, gesturing to the bookshelves on one side of HX’s office. He was a quarter of the way through with this task when his boss walked in.

HX merely grunts, then plops down in a chair different from the one guests typically sit in. It appears to be a new addition to the room. In XL’s eyes, more furniture means more growth in self-care for one’s personal space. In this case, HX’s working environment.

Naturally, XL approves with a satisfied nod. He also can’t stop the next words from tumbling out of his mouth.

“By the way, I noticed your tastes in literature differ across many subjects: Folklore, politics, ocean science…”

HX raises an eyebrow at this comment.

“What about it?” he asks, a little blunt, a little curious.

XL continues dusting in between the shelves. He faces away from HX and is glad his boss can’t discern his nervous expression. XL knows he has his nosy moments, knows that he often unintentionally crosses others’ boundaries in order to connect, which irks people all the time.

Maybe this is one of those moments.

Still, XL wants to try.

“Do you want to tell me about them? I’m quite the avid reader myself, and some of these titles look positively compelling,” XL says, skimming a hand down the exquisite spine of one of the books. He turns his head just enough to sneakily eye HX’s reaction, who hasn’t changed his seating positions the last forty minutes.

HX’s arms remain crossed over his chest, staring straight ahead at the wall of bookshelves XL insisted on dusting and tidying. His obsidian eyes noticeably sharpen, jaw slightly relaxing.

HX doesn’t say anything for a long minute. One minute bleeds into two, and then three.

XL sighs, a bit disappointed. He doesn’t want to push HX’s limits, nor initiate conversation he is in no place to discuss. Quietly, XL turns his attention back to work.

But as XL squats down to straighten out some books on the lower shelf, the image of black robes gliding along the floor catches his eye.

HX walks to one of the middle bookcases, caressing his fingers along his vast collection until he pauses on a book with an emerald green cover and characters glimmering in gold. He plucks the novel out of its homely crevice, opening the cover to flick through the worn pages.

XL takes this as his cue to approach, waving around the feather duster in anticipation. HX shifts to show the human the open book, finger pointing to the section header.

“This one is a myth about a parasitic ghost who latches onto its host and feeds off of sadness, sorrow, despair,” HX explains slowly, deliberate with his words. XL’s mouth opens in an “oh” shape, expressing interest in his features.

HX brings the book closer for XL to see.

“It’s one of my favorite reads,” HX murmurs, focusing on the text. XL blinks in astonishment, feeling especially honored that HX shared this with him.

It has only been one month since XL started working at Paradise Deals, and despite HX’s “I don’t care” attitude when it comes to basically anyone ever, XL definitely considers them to be friends.

And that is honestly the most he could ever ask for.

“Then I’ll be sure to put it on the top of my list,” XL chirps, tapping the book with the duster.

The corner of HX’s mouth tugs upwards.

*** Flor y Sangre – Sophism, Isabella LeVan, A Million in Vermillion One day, as XL rides the elevator up to the eleventh floor, it stops at the third floor first. The doors open to reveal a man with a green dress shirt tucked into black-and-white checkered pants. The same checkered-patterned suit jacket hangs loosely over his shoulders.

The man’s dark hair is long enough to cover his ears, making him appear quite young. Side bangs obstruct his eyes, but upon seeing XL’s face, the strands fly out of the way as he shakes his head in surprise.

“YOU!” The man seethes out, stomping into the elevator with clenched fists.

“M-me?” XL looks around, then points to himself questioningly.

“What are you doing here!? And what the hell are you wearing!? Am I supposed to fall for a dumb disguise like this?” The stranger fires back, voice getting more high-pitched as he jabs an offending finger at XL’s nose.

XL is beyond confused. He glances down at his custodian attire, the nameplate thankfully still in place. It’s in navy this time, courtesy of Black Water’s kindness is providing XL with more than one work outfit that doesn’t automatically suck the soul out of whoever sees it.

There is an awkward beat of silence.

The elevator doors close, XL now pressed with his back against the wall, nervously fiddling with the mop in his hands.

“Do I know you?” XL asks, forgetting his manners in a panicked state while searching his memories, trying to recognize the man in front of him.

“Fucking rude, as always,” the man sneers, giving XL a nasty stink-eye before backing off. “If you won’t reveal your true self now, I’ll just follow you until you do.”

“Excuse me? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” XL rushes out, sneaking in a few bows here and there. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for the wrong person?

The man crosses his arms as if seriously contemplating XL’s words. His eyes shift from XL’s face, to his attire, to the mop, and then finally, up towards above XL’s head.

He decidedly shakes his head, unconvinced.

“No, I’m not that gullible. How convenient would it be that the first time I see you in who-the-fuck-knows-how-long, you’re stuck like this,” he hisses lowly. “Weak. Useless. Ignorant.”

Now that makes XL’s eyebrows rise into his hairline. He’s been harshly insulted before–regarded as pitiful and lacking potential in many areas–and likes to think his skin is thicker because of it. But to be directly attacked by a man whom he has no memory of meeting before? XL can’t help but feel like this is entirely uncalled for.

How does this man even know him?

The elevator doors slide open, having reached the eleventh floor. On the other side stands Black Water, wearing an expensive-looking suit with navy lining and silver cuffs. His foot stops its tapping on the ground where it had been denting the carpet.

“Xie Lian, I’ve been looking for you,” Black Water says, completely ignoring the other man in the elevator. “I’m meeting with a few clients on the east side of the city, and I need you to handle the documentation.”

He holds out a huge briefcase with the same fish symbol as the ones on the doors in the hallway. As XL steps out of the elevator to accept the briefcase, an interested “Xie Lian, huh?” sounds from behind.

“Pardon me, sir, if I can’t recall our first acquaintance. But did you need something from me?” XL asks while turning around, attempting to hold out an olive branch once more. Next to him, Black Water pulls out his phone and mindlessly scrolls down the screen.

“I can’t believe you actually did it. Got yourself a name and everything,” the man says, disbelief coloring his features. Then his eyebrows pinch together in a sudden display of anger. He locks eyes with XL, those amber eyes looking eerily similar to his own. “You disgust me.”

Before XL can react, the elevator doors slam shut instantly with a loud boom, masking the sound of fingers snapping right next to him. XL jerks at the sound, hands white-knuckling the briefcase.

“Do you know who that is?” XL asks his boss, tilting his head. This encounter has left him awfully confused and a little worried about his job. Would this affect what his boss thinks about his impact in the workplace?

It seems this trouble is needless when HX eyes simply narrows his eyes at the closed doors, a stormy expression on his face.

“No one to concern yourself with.”

Bonus:

XL finds out QR is the lower-levels’ boss, who holds an apparent grudge against him…? Once QR had come across XL in the elevator, he sticks around like an unwanted pest, somehow having the time to harass XL many hours a day.

XL: “Why does this guy keep following me around and insulting me?”

XL eventually cleans QR’s floors too because he has time and it seems QR won’t leave him alone.

HX: “Give me back my custodian!”

QR: “Fuck off! Why are you so defensive about mortal scum?”

XL, wiping down the doors, whistling: (´∀｀*)

[bread0nhead]

Hey, levis s/o wants to clean with him and help him but is terrible at it and kinda makes things worse but still wants to help?

Funny scenario please? 💖💖💖💖💖💖

Spick and spank

This was the first thing that popped in my head for the title. But it is a little (a lot)suggestive, and you didn’t ask for smut... but I just fucking cracked myself up so much from it... I decided to keep it LOL. So I PROMISE there is no sexual themes.

Ps: whenever I get an ask that wants me to be funny- I have to put myself in a special mindset. Also known at LIT AF....uh... So I apologize if my grammar is shit.

Rating: T16+

“You’re moving in my room.”

You dazed off at Levi looking like you’re solving a whole damn physics math problem in your head. You and Levi have been dating for just under a year, with no talk of living to together. Not even sharing a room! You figure with the new cadets, rooms are becoming sparse. Condensing down the couples into one room would be the economically friendly. Whatever the reason; you are SO EXCITED. You start fantasizing of breakfast in bed. Helping him with paperwork in his office. Cuddling every. Single. Night. A big dorky smile painted your face as your body was almost trembling with excitement.

“Oi, idiot. I’m about to revoke my offer if you keep creeping me out with that weird look on your face.”

Mentally slapping yourself, you drop the look and straighten up. Act coooool.

“Sigh... I know I’m going to regret this.” You turn on the puppy dog eyes to make Levi take back what he just said. “...I’m going to go clean my area while you pack everything up.”

“Let me help you clean! It is our space—“

“NO! Ahem- no, thank you...” Levi cringed at his sudden snappy response. “I got this. You just get ready for the move.”

You pouted your puppy dog eyes again while Levi stared you back with his death glare. You both stayed like this until someone would finally crack- which was you. Damnit!

//

You looked at the perfectly packed items huddled into a pile. The pile was bigger than expected- but a large majority of it was your collection of books. As a past time, you like to dramatically act out parts of the books your reading while Levi does paperwork. It’s quiet cute, really. Levi says he hates it, but anyone could see he adores those moments the most.

With how quickly you finished packing, you figure you can assist Levi with the cleaning. Excited to help, you rush outside to grab a bucket of water and a mop. In ODM gear you’re like a fucking ballerina, but on land- you have two left feet. Carefully carrying the heavy bucket of water and awkwardly long mop. You pace yourself up the stairs and down the halls. When you arrive at Levi’s room, you open the door without knocking. It’s your room too now, after all!

“Hey, babe! I finished packing and brought you—“ you make a loud yelp before finishing your sentence.

“God damnit, Y/N....”

Water starts to expand across the floor. You look around and the bucket has rolled all the way to the other side of the room, and the mop is still in your hand. You look back to see what you tripped on....nothing, of course. You take a brave glance up at Levi with an awkward quiet laugh. Levi is hovering over you with him arms cross and a look that could kill. You quickly scramble up and start mopping up the water.

“Sigh... you’re going to brake your shitty ankles if you keep walking around on a wet floor. I’ll do it.”

“Wait! No! Please.... I want to help....”

Levi closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before holding it for 30 seconds and exhaling. Slightly more relaxed, Levi hands you the duster without saying a word. He smiles at the way your eyes sparkled with joy.

“I’ll do this, you dust the bookshelf in the office and make room for your collection as well. And for fuck sale, Y/N... don’t do anything stupid.”

You give Levi and salute and prance to the office. The office was dry, no wonder Levi put you in here. You look at the bookshelf and start wiping down the shelves, books, nooks and crannies. You notice all the open space is on the top shelves. You giggle knowing it’s because he’s so short, he avoided the higher shelves. Grabbing Levi’s desk chair, you push it up against the tall shelves and dust what you can reach. Once that was all removed of all dust, you hop down and go over Levi’s books. Any that you know he will never read again, you set aside to put on the top level. You leave just enough space for the books you still need to finish, and the ones you already completed can go up top as well.

Levi just finished mopping the floors, thanks to your little accident- the floors are actually way cleaner than they have ever been. Levi stood in the room, thinking of what it will be like living with you. He thinks about what life will be like with you after the war. Where would you two live? In the city or out in the country? Levi also started to imagine little brats running around.

CRASH!

“God damnit, Y/N....”

Levi rolled his eyes as his fantasies came to a crashing end.

“I’m okay!”

Levi sighed and walked into his office. You’re on your back, books scattered all over the floor. His chair has two broken legs.

“Owww... shit- sorry! I’ll clean this up and buy you a new chair!”

Levi dropped the annoyed look and warmed up. His arms fell from being crossed, to ruffling your hair. He’s smiling so softly as he’s joining you on the floor. You both lay on the cold wooden floors, Levi pulled you in so your head is on his chest.

“You’re lucky I love you- because you’re complete shit at cleaning.”

“Sorry...I know we need to condense rooms down for the new cadets. I can room with someone else...”

“Where the fuck did you hear that? We aren’t running low on rooms. I just want to spend every moment with you. Forever.”

“Forever.”

“Or at least until you start to annoy the shit out of me- then I’m removing your ass so fast.”

“NOOOO—“

Levi cut you off with a deep kiss, until you were able to relaxe back into his embrace.

“Common, let’s get this cleaned up. Together.”

/END

[freddiesaysalright]

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes - Chapter 1

Gwilym!Prince Charming x Reader

Summary: After losing your parents, your step-family makes your life impossible. That is, until Prince Gwilym holds a ball. It’s your one chance for everything to change.

Word Count: 3.4k

Tag List:  @psychosupernatural​, @someone-get-a-medic​, @bensrhapsody​, @deakyclicks​, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession​, @minigranger​, @crazyweirdocalledfriday​, @the-moving-finger-writes​, @assembledherethevolunteers​, @rose-writes-prose​, @queenlover05​, @26-7-49​, @drowsebaby, @im-an-adult-ish​, @queen-paladin​, @rogerina-owns-me, @mirkwoodshewolf​, @namelesslosers​, @headl0ng​, @captvianswaan, @xviiarez​, @baltimoresweethearts​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: The first part, I hope y’all enjoy!

Warning(s): Descriptions of abuse and general creepiness

Moodboard

Prologue

Chapter 1 here we go!!!

“Father, please,” Gwilym groaned, setting his book down. “Not this again.” 

He had been reading - rather peacefully - when his father burst into the library and started asking him when he could meet another young lady suitable for him to court.

“I’m not getting any younger, Gwilym!” the king returned. “I’d like to see you settled before I go!”

“You’re in great health,” the prince argued. “And besides, why is it so important that I’m married before you die?”

The king hesitated before replying, which made Gwilym’s brow furrow.

“I need to know there’s someone looking after you,” the king said. “That you’ll be taken care of.”

“Father, I’m your son, not your widow,” Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. “And it isn’t a wife’s job to look after her husband.”

“What do you consider her duties to be, then?” the king challenged.

“To love me, that’s all,” Gwilym answered. “To be my partner.”

“Love, puh,” the king scoffed. “I tell you, the world is too different now. First, Prince Rami marries a village girl, and then Prince Benjamin finds himself a mermaid. If you’ve got some crazy idea because of them, then I’m telling you, boy, I won’t stand for it!”

“In fairness, the mermaid is a princess,” Gwilym said with a cheeky smirk. 

“Don’t play with me,” the king replied. “I’m serious, Gwilym.”

“I’m serious too,” Gwilym said. “If I meet the right girl - someone I love - then I’ll be happy to get married. But you must accept that she may very well be a village girl or a mermaid or a servant.”

The king huffed. “She may also be high born. Or at least a gentleman’s daughter.”

“She could be anyone, I won’t discriminate,” Gwilym said. “But I must love her, Father. If I’m going to get married, that is my condition.” 

“But who knows how long that might take!” the king cried, exasperated. 

“What’s the rush?” Gwilym returned with a shrug. 

He kept his eyes fixed on his father, whose face was reddening with heat. The king looked very hard at the floor, as if fascinated by the dust on the wood. 

“Father?” Gwilym pressed. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not in great health, son,” the king admitted. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time left.”

Gwilym got to his feet and approached. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m ill,” the king said, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “It’s still early on and there is treatment, but I don’t know how much life is left for me. I’d like to see my grandchildren, and know the woman that will be my son’s companion. Then maybe, when I join your mother, I can tell her about them.”

Gwilym offered a faltering smile. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want to worry you,” the king said. “Especially with me not even having all the information yet. But that’s what it is, and why I’m so concerned with it.”

The prince sighed. “Well, I can’t make you any promises. Love happens organically. It’s not something you can force.”

“It is something you can build,” the king rebutted. “Like your mother and I did.”

“It might embarrass you to hear this, Father, but I’d also like some passion in my marriage,” Gwilym said. 

The king’s face went beet red, and Gwilym bit back a laugh. 

“Well!” the king cried. “Times truly have changed when young men can so carelessly talk about matters of the bedchamber in broad daylight!”

Gwilym chuckled. “Look, I just said passion. If your first thought was the bedroom, then whose mind is truly in the gutter?”

The king’s frown deepened. 

“Don’t play with me, boy!” he warned again. 

“I’m sorry, Father, I won’t tease you anymore,” Gwilym promised. “But even so. Only a deep, true love will sell me on matrimony. Until then, we just have to enjoy our lives. The way they are.”

The king released a low breath, the redness slowly draining from his cheeks. 

“I want to,” he said. “But when I think about the future, I…”

“I know,” Gwilym said. “Let’s not focus too much on that. How about we go for a ride? Just you and me? For old time’s sake.” 

When Gwilym was growing up, his father used to take him riding for time away from the palace, especially if Gwilym was feeling upset or stressed. They’d saddle up their horses and just take off into the countryside. Fresh air did wonders. It seemed to clear the air inside themselves and they always had the best conversations. 

“Yes,” the king said with a smile. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” 

Gwilym called in a footman to get their horses ready.

***

“There,” you said finally as you tied the last ribbon on your stepsister’s dress. “All done. Is there anything else you need, Miranda?” 

“No,” she replied dismissively. “You can go now. Is breakfast ready?”

“Yes,” you said. “Your father and Eleanor are already downstairs.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” she snapped. “Now it looks like I overslept!”

“But, Miranda,” you said. “You did oversleep.”

“Well - Father doesn’t need to know that!” she argued. “Never mind. I’m going downstairs.”

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. You followed shortly after, closing the door softly after you. Miranda and Eleanor could slam doors all they liked, but if Frank ever heard you do it, you were certain you’d be out on the streets.

You headed downstairs, below the main floor, into the kitchen. The tea would need to be freshened up soon, and you had a kettle warming on the stove. Elsie and Robert sat at the servant’s table, nibbling at their own breakfast.

“Y/N, take a seat,” Robert offered. “Bacon’s still hot.”

You shook your head. “I can’t. I’ve got to get their tea up quickly so I have time to visit Papa today.”

“Oh, it is the anniversary, isn’t it?” Elsie recalled. “It’s been so long, it slips my mind.”

“Yes, it has been a long time,” you sighed sadly. “But I miss him every day.”

“Of course you do,” Elsie said. “Well, hurry on then, I’ll make you something fresh to eat.”

You thanked her and ran the tea upstairs. You entered the dining room and instantly felt a frigid air about the family. You began to pour the tea, knowing better than to question things.

“So, Y/N,” said Frank, the usual stiffness to his voice. “I understand you have time for meddlesome pranks.”

“I - what?” you questioned. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you understand perfectly well, don’t play dumb,” he warned. “Toying with my dear Miranda’s clock to make her almost miss her breakfast is childish at best and vindictive at worst.”

“But, I didn’t -”

“Don’t interrupt me, Y/N,” he said, cutting across you. “If you have time for stupid games, then I don’t see why you need time off this morning.”

“Frank, it’s the anniversary of my father’s death,” you reminded him. “I go and visit his grave every year, you know this.”

“Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before acting like a mischievous child,” he said.

Tears welled up in your eyes. “But I didn’t, I swear!”

He ignored this.

“Today, before you head to the tavern for your shift, you will wash all the windows, re-do the laundry, mop the floors of the entrance hall, and polish my boots,” he said. “On top of all your regular duties, this should prevent you from temptations like practical jokes.”

“You can’t,” you said softly.

“I can,” he returned. “This is my house, and I won’t tolerate any tomfoolery. You want to behave that way, then you will face the consequences.”

“It’s not fair, Miranda just overslept, I didn’t touch her clock or anything in her room!” you insisted.

Your stepfather’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide. You had never spoken back to him, but nothing was more important to you than honoring your parents. Visiting your father’s grave was something you used to do with your mother, and it made you feel close to her as well. Frank shoved his chair out from under him and got to his feet. You stepped back, frightened. 

“Don’t you dare take a tone with me, Y/N!” he barked. 

He moved toward you, his form looming. You felt like you were actually shrinking under him.

“I - I’m sorry, I just -”

“Enough!” he cried, and he shoved you.

You fell to the ground on your side, catching yourself on your hands. You could already feel a bruise forming where his hands had gripped your arm. A shiver ran through you. He stood there, tall and proud, straightening his vest.

“That was undignified,” he said shortly. “But I also won’t tolerate disrespect. You will complete all your tasks today, Y/N. And if I find it isn’t done when I return from town, you will face far worse than a shout.”

“Y-yes, sir,” you replied, shaking. 

“That’s a good girl,” he said. 

He returned to his seat, and resumed his breakfast. You watched the tension slowly release from Miranda and Eleanor’s shoulders. A warm tear slid down your cheek. On trembling legs, you got up, and made your way back to the kitchen.

Elsie saw your pale, terrified face, and she jumped up, taking you in her arms. 

“What happened, dear?” she gasped. 

You let out a sob and told her everything that just transpired, almost disbelieving yourself. Elsie and Robert held you in their embrace. Since you’d lost your mother and father, they were the closest thing to a real family you had. 

“There, there, darling,” Elsie soothed. “It’ll be alright. Robert and I will handle those chores for you. You go on out to the cemetery.” 

“Are you sure?” you asked. “If Frank finds out, we could all be in trouble.”

“How will he know?” she replied. “He’s always out of the house, and as long as it gets done, there shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“W-what about Miranda and Eleanor?” you sniffled. 

“They’re going to town with their father today, they’ve got some lessons to attend to,” Robert said. “No one will know except us.”

You gave them a watery smile. “Thank you so much.”

Frank and the girls left straight from breakfast. Elsie urged you to go ahead and get to the gravesite and get back as soon as you could, just in case. You agreed, and quickly fetched your cloak and basket. Packing a few things, you headed out. 

It was a short trek from the main house, but you didn’t mind the walk. In fact, you loved walking. It gave you an opportunity to sort out anything on your mind. As a young girl, you used the time to imagine yourself as anything other than what you were - a sad child with no parents and a difficult future. On your little walks, you could be a princess or a warrior or mermaid or whatever you wanted. 

Now, as an adult, your imagination had dwindled. Harsh reality took its place. The only way to escape Frank was to have something to fall back on, and since he didn’t pay you, and worked you all day, you had nothing. But after this morning, you knew something had to be done. Frank was always distant and demanding, but that kind of aggression was new. And that was something you could not tolerate. Your arm throbbed in agreement.

You reached your father’s grave, and placed a ring of flowers against it. You lit a candle and set it beside the headstone. There was actually a towering statue there of an angel. In a way, you’d always seen your father as an angel, but he wasn’t cold and rough like stone. He was warm and gentle. You said the usual prayer for his spirit.

“Oh, Papa,” you sighed when you were finished. “I miss you so much, especially today.”

You opened your mouth to speak again, but shut it quickly at the sound of horse hooves. Fearing Frank had returned unexpectedly, you blew out the candle and stood up, pressing yourself into the angel statue. You heard voices and held your breath, straining to make out what they were saying. To your great relief, it didn’t sound like Frank. 

“Gwilym!” one man called out through a laugh. “Slow down, my boy!”

Another laugh rang through the yard - soft, friendly, and sweet. You listened as the horses slowed to a stop and the men caught their breath. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost your edge, Father,” the one called Gwilym panted. “We haven’t been gone very long.”

“I’m old,” the father replied. 

“You’re young at heart, though,” Gwilym returned. “Where are we?”

“Sir Frank Tarleton’s property, I believe,” the father answered. 

“He owns an estate?” Gwilym asked. “I thought he ran the tavern.”

“He does,” the father said. “He inherited the estate from his late wife. It was in the Y/L/N family for centuries before Tarleton got it.”

“What happened to the Y/L/N family?” Gwilym wondered.

“The man died, his wife remarried Tarleton,” the father said. “There was a daughter, I believe, but Tarleton cares for her now.”

You almost snorted. “Cares for” - that was rich. 

“How sad,” Gwilym said. 

Taking a chance, you peered around the statue, careful not to expose yourself too much. You saw the two men, clearly nobles from the way they were dressed, but you didn’t know who they were. The younger one - Gwilym, stood out to you. He was dashingly handsome; tall, blue eyes, soft dark hair, a strong jaw, and a gracious smile. The older one looked similar, with more gray in his hair and a longer nose. Otherwise, they might have been brothers instead of father and son.

Gwilym’s horse turned, so you leaned further out to keep looking at him. Unfortunately for you, it was a stretch too far. You lost your footing on the statue and tumbled into the grass landing on your already bruised arm with a sharp yelp.

Gwilym and his father whirled around and saw you. The former dismounted swiftly handing his father the reins, and he jogged over to you.

“Are you alright, madam?” he asked, offering you his hand.

You looked up at him in awe. He was handsome from a distance, but up close he looked unreal. Like a painting or a sculpture. He belonged in a gallery or a palace, not in a field, helping your clumsy self up.

“I - yes - sorry,” you sputtered, heat rising in your cheeks. 

“Let me help you,” he said gently. 

You took his hand and he lifted you carefully to your feet. He was surprisingly strong for his slimmer frame. You knew you shouldn’t stare, but you couldn’t help yourself. He was so...tall. 

“What’s a girl like you doing out here all alone?” he asked kindly. 

He took in your face and thought you fair, even with the dirt and soot that dotted your skin. The hood of your cloak covered your hair, but he found the color flattering on you. 

“Paying my respects,” you said, nodding toward the grave. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

Now, you looked everywhere but at his face, embarrassed. 

“Not at all,” he assured you. “We’re just passing through. It’s us who likely disturbed you.”

You shook your head. “No, sir. I was just leaving.”

His brows came together as he observed you. You were a striking girl, but the timidity concerned him. It was not a typical feminine play at being coy. You were genuinely fearful.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “We could escort you home.”

“Oh, no!” you cried, looking at him at last. Your gaze shot quickly back to his feet. “I couldn’t impose. And besides, I dearly love to walk.”

“It’s no imposition -”

“No, sir,” you said firmly. “Thank you, but no. I must be going now, I’ve got so much to do at home.” 

You bent down and snatched up a basket, drawing your cloak closer around you.

“Good day, sir.”

You offered a short curtsy and then turned and walked off. He watched you go until you disappeared over the hill. 

“How very odd,” he said to the king. “Do you think she recognized us?”

“I should say not, or you’d have gotten a lot more respect than a ‘sir,’” the king said. “Ignorant child.”

Gwilym mounted his horse.

“Don’t be so harsh, Father,” he said, settling into the saddle. “She’s only a servant, there’s no reason she should know us right away.”

“Let’s ride on,” the king replied. “I’ve got my energy back.” 

“Well then, you’d better keep up!” Gwilym joked. 

They took off. You heard them thunder away in the distance, and you wondered if you had just missed an opportunity to escape. You shook your head. That couldn’t be the case. Those men had no reason to help you. They knew Frank, and you had no way of knowing whether or not they were friendly. And yet...that Gwilym had the kindest eyes you had ever seen.

You went home and got started on the rest of your chores. By some miracle - mostly because you had Elsie and Robert’s help - you got everything done. Evening was drawing near, so you went up to change and prepare for a shift at the tavern. 

You were in your chemise when your door burst open. You gasped and covered yourself with your blanket, whirling around to see Frank standing in the doorway. You stepped back.

“Well, I see everything is in order,” he said. “Well done, Y/N.”

“Thank you, sir,” you replied coolly. 

He cleared his throat. “Regarding my conduct this morning….it was not gentlemanly.”

Your brow furrowed. Was he actually going to apologize?

“But I’m not sorry,” he said. 

Of course he wasn’t.

“You need to understand, Y/N, that I am the authority in this house, and I won’t stand for disrespect,” he went on. “But I will say, I admire that you bore it with such dignity.”

“I - thank you, sir,” you said again.

He walked in and stood in front of you, coming within inches of your face. His hand came to cup your cheek, and he brushed some ashes off it. You looked up at him with wide eyes. This was also new, and his touch made your stomach churn.

“Yes,” he said. “You are growing up to be a fine woman.”

Your mind went completely blank. You had no idea what he meant by that.

“I’ve just paid you a compliment, Y/N,” he said. “The polite thing to do is say thank you.”

You didn’t want to thank him. He had invaded your privacy and your personal space. It felt more like intimidation - to further squash any more thoughts of rebellion against him. He was asserting himself.

“Thank you, sir,” you repeated, but it didn’t even sound like it came from you.

“Good girl,” he said, stepping back at last. “Now, finish dressing and get to the tavern.”

He turned on his heel and swept out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. You sank onto your bed and drew in a deep breath. 

The tavern was already filling up by the time you arrived. You offered Zelda - the manager - an apology as you tied your apron on. 

“It’s been a very long day,” you told her. 

Your feet were already aching, but that was something you were used to. Your limbs and muscles always had a dull pain about them from working all day at the house, and all night at the tavern. 

“Understandable,” Zelda replied. “But jump on it, girl, we’ve been open half an hour already.”

“Yes, Zelda.”

You went up to the first table and jotted down drink orders. 

When you first began work at the tavern, the customers intimidated you. They were mostly men, who drank heavily, and were therefore loud. But you quickly realized the regulars were some of the sweetest people you knew. They came in to relax after working all day, and they sometimes even brought their wives and children. Those were your favorite days. 

“Y/N!” called one of the men, called Peter. 

“Good evening, gentlemen!” you greeted. “How are you?”

They all talked at once, so you smiled and nodded, feeling some relief. Work was a nice distraction from all of Frank’s new and strange behavior. 

You went to fetch them a pitcher of ale, but as you walked, you saw the front door open. In walked the last person you ever expected to see at the tavern. This wasn’t a place where people with his kind of money spent time. It was the man from earlier - Gwilym.

[liron-ao3]

But of course.

Dean runs a hand over his face, completely exhausted. He's so tired. It's nothing unusual. He never sleeps enough. But this again?

Damn it!

Where is the angel!? It's a question he has asked a thousand times, never getting an answer. Just once and then he had found him, pulled him against his chest, smiled from ear to ear, huffed in relief as he felt Castiel's rigid body in his embrace.

He had managed to ignore that Cass didn't hug back. He didn't want to think about what it meant. He didn't want to question his own motives, either. Sure, Castiel was his friend. Dean is a loyal person. But more than once, Benny had asked him, "Why?" If the angel was really worth the hassle. He had never found an answer other than a disgruntled, "Yeah."

Dean pushes up from the empty bed, pulls a shirt over his bare chest and pitter-patters barefooted over the bunker's cold floor. He'd like to call for his boyfriend, but that would wake Sammy and with him likely Eileen. She's seven months pregnant and struggles enough to get sleep with her restless legs and heartburn.

It's the fifth night in a row that Dean woke up to an empty bed. The former angel suffers from insomnia that even tops Dean's worst phases. Every night, Dean prays that his love might find rest in his arms. He's not sure who he is praying to. Jack? Maybe. Anyway, his son isn't listening. Hand's off.

Dean shuffles through the common places where Castiel usually tries to kill time - the kitchen, the library, the main room. Once, he even found him in the storage room where the Empty had taken him, standing at the exact spot where he had smiled while Dean's heart shattered into pieces. But he hadn't smiled then.

He hasn't smiled a lot since he's back. Not even when Dean had told him that he loved him, too. Not when they first kissed. Not when they first made love. He assured him that he wanted it, wanted him. And Dean decided to believe him. It would become better with time, he hoped.

To each of the few smiles that Castiel mustered, there is melancholy. No. This word isn't strong enough. There's something as heavy a lead pressing the former angel down, tinting every good emotion grey.

Dean hates it, can't shake the feeling that it's his fault. He thought he did the right thing, fighting him out of the Empty. But all he had gotten were tired eyes and a "You shouldn't have done that."

It had made Castiel so happy when he told Dean that he loved him that it was enough to summon the Empty. But now that he has him, nothing really seems to pierce the veil of darkness. It's so much worse than the worrisome, honey-collecting version of Cass all those years back. At least, he had smiled then.

It's superficial and stupid to wish for this, Dean knows that. It was just another way for Castiel to cope. He always carries all the world's burdens on his shoulder, especially Dean's crap. But it's not fair!

Dean never expected an apple pie life. Not really. But with Cass, he had hoped for a slim slice of it. At this point, he'd be thankful for a crumb.

He scolds himself inwardly for this train of thought. He's ungrateful. He falls asleep with his man snuggled against him every night. He looks in blue eyes when they make love. He holds his hand when they watch a movie. It's so much. More than he ever dared to dreamt of.

Dean's steps grow wider and faster as he nears his Cave. Maybe—yes! There are flickering lights under the door and subdued music coming from the room. Dean takes a deep breath before he pushes the door handle down.

Castiel sits in the armchair that is labelled his boyfriend's in Dean's head. He looks at the tv screen, his eyes fixed on a bumblebee collecting nectar.

Dean chuckles softly, calling attention to himself, hoping not to startle Castiel. He doesn't. His partner doesn't even so much as flinches.

"Bumblebees are funny. By all rules of aerodynamics, they shouldn't be able to fly," Dean says, hoping to pull his boyfriend's gaze to himself.

"That's not true Dean. Humans were just too fixated on their formulas for aeroplanes to see the dynamics behind the wingbeats, the vortex they produce, not to mention the joint I added to make it possible for them to kink the wings and heighten the weight they can move even further.

Dean sinks into his armchair. "You worked on creating them?" Castiel hums in affirmation. "Why are you watching a documentation then? You know them better than anyone."

Castiel is silent for a long moment and Dean wonders if he somehow insulted him. But then, there's a sound that he hasn't heard way too long and it makes his heart clench.

A chuckle.

Not as free and loud as he knows it can be, but it's there, echoing in the sparsely decorated room.

"It reminds me that my existence had meaning."

The short burst of hope crumbles to dust at these words. Dean fights against the tears brimming his eyes. Castiel saved the world, more than once, and especially with his self-sacrifice. They wouldn’t have defeated Chuck without him!

"Your life has meaning," Dean says, his voice carefully schooled. Castiel chuckles again, bit tjis time without mirth.

"I know."

It feels rehearsed, like an automatic reply to soothe Dean's nerves. No. This won't do! Dean gets up and down on his knee in front of the man he loves. He cups his cheeks with both hands, relishing that Castiel leans into the touch.

"You are important. To me, to Sam and Eileen, to Claire and Kaia, and so many more. We need you, man."

"You'd be well off with or without me," Castiel answers evenly and Dean covers the pain with anger, lets it build up in the very familiar way. He clenches his jaw and lets go of this boyfriend's face, gets up, turns, and kicks a pile of DVDs through the room.

Then he turns back, outstretched pointer hovering mere centimetres from Castiel's face.

"You have no idea!" The force of Dean's words makes Cass pull back - not in fear but in gut-wrenching surprise. "I burnt you on that pyre, spread your ashes in the meadow. I got you back just to let Chuck let us screw over once again. I'm not proud to say this, but with you gone, I thought of flipping the bird to this shit of a life and go down in a damn vampire nest or something."

"Your life is not shit!" Castiel counters, always willing to make Dean feel and think better of himself. Hell, he did it even when he thought he would die for good.

"Yes, you're right. But still—" Dean runs a hand through his hair. His brain isn't awake enough for the depth of discussion they need to have and neither is Castiel's judging by the looks of his lover's red-rimmed eyes. He takes a deep breath. "You are my home, Cass. My rock. I don't say this to make you stay or to make you put on a brave face. I appreciate that you're not acting as if everything is fine. But we need to talk about what's going on in your mind. What makes you so sad all the time. I can't—"

Castiel looks at him with unhidden fear. Hell! The man fought demons and angels, God himself. He shouldn't look like that because of a hunter who feels so many things that he can never properly put them into words.

"I can't ignore it any longer. You need help. Hell, we all need therapy. But, damn it, Cass! I want us to be happy. I want you to be happy. And don't tell me you are. You're a terrible liar."

There is another chuckle and Dean wants to cry. Because it's all too much and not enough. He can't make his boyfriend better and that sucks big time. He's a doer, a carer, a damn Acts of Service love languager. He's shitty at gifts that his man understands, he's bad with words when it counts. But he can touch, is allowed to touch now. So he does.

He pulls Cass into his arms, feels him melt against him. He brushes his hand through the unruly mop of hair. "Come to bed. Sleep. Tomorrow, we'll take care of this, okay?"

He feels Castiel's head nod against his shoulder. He presses a kiss into his hair and pulls back, scrutinising him for a long moment. There is the ghost of a tired smile on his lips. Dean counts it as a win.

He switches off the tv and leads him to their bedroom, tucks him in before he slides under the covers, and pulls him close. "I am here. And I am happy that you are here. Never doubt that," Dean murmurs. "You're the best thing ever happening to me."

"But I'm broken, Dean. I can't be of any use to you, now that I lost the rest of my grace."

Dean huffs his anger out through his nose. "If you're broken, we'll find a way to fix you. And the other bullshit—don't you dare think that's what we kept you around for. You're family. Like a brother to Sammy, a father for Claire, the man I love. Don't get pissed, but your love has always been your strongest asset. You saved me from me a million times. Hell, just think of Jack." He takes a deep breath because his anger won't solve anything. "You are love and you are loved. You don't need to be useful and still, you are. Every. Single. Second."

Castiel looks at him with glassy eyes. "I want to believe you."

Dean presses a kiss on his forehead. "I know." He brushes a strand of hair out of Castiel's eyes. "Just promise me you'll try."

"I will," Cass whispers and then he smiles. Tired, but enough to form crinkles around his eyes. And it's just a start. Dean knows that. But it's enough for now.

"Sweet dreams, honey," Dean whispers and cradles Cass' head to his neck. "I'll watch over you."

[astraeagreengrass]

exile [the woods part 1]

When you wake up in the floor of your apartment, you have no idea of how much the world has changed

Word Count: 2.708

Warnings: angst, mentions of death and death-related themes, PTSD, brief allusion to a panic attack.

A/N: A month ago, Taylor Swift released her eight studio album folklore and, unsurprisingly, it took over my life. The stories Taylor beautifully narrates in her songs inspired me to write something of my own: the woods is a four-part, post-Endgame story, with some slight changes to the canon, featuring Steve Rogers. Updates will be every Friday. Thank you to @xbuchananbarnes for proof-reading this and @thegetawaywriter for encouraging me to write. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway. Here is exile. I hope you like it ♡

i think i've seen this film before and i didn't like the ending you're not my homeland anymore so what am i defending now? you were my town, now i'm in exile, seein' you out i think i've seen this film before so i'm leavin' out the side door

Being pieced back together was like a hangover.

Like drinking too much wine one evening and then waking up on a foreign bed, not knowing how you got there. It was a pounding headache, a churning stomach, a dry throat. The back of your teeth were sensitive and the sound of sirens rung too loudly on your ears.

In the aftermath of your intoxication, the city is deafening.

You groaned at the light - you must’ve been so wasted if you’d forgotten the blinds. Every breath took a toll of your lungs, stretching your muscles beyond their strength, creaking your joints as you exhaled.

Someone gasped, startling you.

The familiar floorboards of your apartment greeted you when your eyes opened. Timeworn almond timber, the New York staple. Craning your neck, you saw a foot. Shit. You weren't one to bring one night stands home, or actually have them in the first place. Little ol' you was a little too square, a little too cautious, struggling to keep her trust issues from spilling out of her hands. Definitely not the best candidate for loose-stringed affairs, but your grandma always told you there was a first time for everything.

The foot’s owner nudged you, and you groaned again.

“Miss?” they said. “Are you alive?”

I don’t know.

Your gaze focused and you noticed the person was a boy of eleven or twelve, with a beautiful dark mop of curls and soft brown eyes. What the...

“Who are you?” you managed to croak. There was an ashy taste in your mouth, as if you’d swallowed dust.

The boy looked up and across, and you noticed that, on your left side, his father was crouching beside your body. He looked just like the kid, except a couple of decades older, so you assumed he was the father.

“My name is Cal,” the man said, spacely, as if he’d might frighten you if he spoke normally. “This is my son Daniel. We’re not going to hurt you.”

"Nice to know the invaders won't hurt me," you tried to say, but it came out a jumbled, messy current of words, like a baby first learning to communicate.

"Invaders?" the boy exclaimed, insulted. "We live here!"

"Daniel!" his father chided. "Miss, what is the last thing you remember?"

You pressed a palm to the ground, trying to lay your weight on it so you could stand up. You weren't about to answer an unknown man's questions while laying face-down on your own apartment floor. You might be hungover, but you had more dignity than that. When your body crumpled like a twig under a boot, Cal held you up, helping you to a seating position facing the window.

Craning your neck to shield your eyes from the sun, you noticed it.

Golden brown leaves.

Golden brown leaves that shouldn't exist in May.

You clearly remember opening the windows yesterday to green, lively foliage. New York was many things - loud, chaotic, more often than not dangerous - but it’s seasons were consistent, enduring. Through the tempests and disturbances, nature persevered in her year-long cycle, living and dying and living again.

These particular leaves belonged to October, perhaps even early November, never May.

Something was terribly wrong.

“What day is it?” you whispered, wide eyes going from the window to the man aiding you.

Cal grimaced. His boy was suddenly very quiet.

When you were a child, you used to have nightmares: a ghost in the attic, a wolf haunting the woods outside your house, an IED blowing up your father's convoy in Iraq. They'd trap your consciousness, suffocating your mind with fear and panic, and no night light or teddy bear could stifle the onslaught of relentless screams that rattled the walls and hallways of your childhood home, until your frantic grandmother shook you awake. The reality that greeted you on the floor of your apartment was that Twilight Zone all over again.

“Please,” you pleaded, perhaps to the man, perhaps to yourself.

Cal sighed.

“Today is October 17th, 2023,” he said and you learned that the only thing scarier than a nightmare is life itself. “You’ve been dead for the past five years.”

“We could go to the house in the woods,” you mumbled to the warmth of Steve’s chest.

He tightened his hold around your body, pressing a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “You’ve got me for the weekend.”

“The whole weekend?” you smiled at him, finding the reassurance you needed in his indigo gaze.

Steve kissed you again, a fierce press of lips this time. Mouths and tongues and teeth intertwined, your hand finding hip, his hand finding you thigh.

“The whole weekend,” he breathed in the shell of your ear, right before the two of you became nothing more than a mess of pillows and sheets, drowning in love and want and lust. “And then forever.”

When the world ended, several hospital units closed down due to lack of patients.

When the Avengers managed to reverse the effects of the Snap - no one knew how they did it, but everyone knew it was them because of course it was - the mayor of New York declared the interruption of all kinds of activities in the city in order to help those returning. It was in a campaign hospital in Bryant Park that Steve Rogers found you, sitting up cross-legged and wrapped up in a grey blanket, having your temperature checked by one of the volunteers.

Wearing dark clothes and a cap, Steve was nothing more than a shadow behind the woman's shoulder. A lesser-trained gaze would glide past his figure in a quarter of a second, but not you. Never you. You'd recognize him in a sea of people, as if the blood that sustained you and the bones that built you knew exactly where to find him.

Steve had the decency to wait until the woman was done to approach you. With slow, clearly measured steps, he came closer, taking a seat at the foot of your stretcher. If he reached out his arm, he'd touch you, but he refrained and you were glad he did. In your mind, you saw him days ago, but reality told you differently. The calendar at the nurse's station, the newspaper you got a hold on, the constant broadcast of news: all of them mocked you, tormented you. Five years had gone by - more time than you’d ever had with the man across from you. And if there was ever any lingering doubt in your mind that this was some elaborate trick to fool you, they faded when you noticed the modest signs of aging that nothing but time and grief could inflict on a Super Soldier.

Again, a lesser-trained gaze probably wouldn’t catch them, but that would never be you when it came to Steve Rogers.

The two of you stayed in silence for minutes, watching a CNN report of a family reuniting in Idaho. The mother snapped right after the birth of her daughter - now a little girl with ginger pigtails, hugging her legs and kissing her hands. Everyday since you woke up on the floor of your apartment, there'd been thousands of stories such as this: parents finding children, husbands finding wives. The fallen - that's what the press called people like you, the dead that weren't really dead - all had the same lost look in their eyes. You supposed that's what happened when your clock was five years too late.

“What happened?” you finally asked when the broadcast changed to twin brothers reconvening in Hawaii. “What went wrong?”

Steve didn’t look at you, instead he kept pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.

“He was too strong,” he sighed. “And I thought I could fight him without Tony, but…”

You nodded.

“One of the nurses said he was badly wounded in the battle upstate,” you mentioned.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “But he’ll recover. Banner is looking after him. He’s got a kid now, you know? Tony. Her name’s Morgan.”

“Wow,” you smiled genuinely. “That sounds unbelievable and incredible at the same time.

“She’s a good girl,” Steve said. “Keeps Tony on his toes.”

On the TV, the two brothers embraced with a beautiful sunset as background.

“What about Sam and Nat?” you wondered.

Steve's fidgety hands stilled. With the left one he rubbed his mouth and chin until his skin was reddish.

"Sam was like you," he muttered and the implicit words hurt more in his voice than anyone else's. "Natasha… She didn't make it."

She didn't make it.

Natasha Romanoff. Natalia. Your mentor, your friend. The strongest woman you'd ever met. She didn't make it.

"What?" you gasped. "What do you mean 'she didn't make it'? Didn't she come back?"

Like Sam and the mother in Idaho and the twins in Hawaii. Like you.

Steve shook his head.

"It wasn't like that," he said. "She survived the Snap. Spent years trying to find something, anything, even the smallest possibility of getting everyone back and when we finally did… She sacrificed herself so we could have the Soul Stone."

"Sacrificed herself? For a stone?" you were extremely agitated now, the grey blanked falling from your shoulders as you looked at Steve searching for any sign of emotion. "Steven, look at me!"

 His eyes were glazed, a big blue sea threatening to spill over in waves of sadness.

"It wasn't a simple stone, Y/N. I'd rather not explain to you here, people can't know about this," he whispered, looking over his shoulder for anyone that could be listening.

"You mean they can't know why they disappeared and were brought back together like broken toys?" you exclaimed. "Toys that the Avengers can grab and then toss aside however they please? I'm not your toy, Steve!"

You knew you could be cruel. Ruthless. A child yelling ferociously at the top of her lungs until she got what she wanted. An angry teenager. An intelligence officer with obscure morals. But even when he left you without a goodbye, you'd always kept your forked tongue away from Steve Rogers.

Until now.

"Please," Steve pleaded. "Let's go home. I'll explain everything to you when we get there."

"I have no home," you spat. "I had a home three days ago when you came in saying something bad would happen, only to leave me again. Now I have nothing!”

Your tears were hot when they streamed down your face.

“I don't even know myself anymore,” you admitted and somehow that was worse than knowing you were alone in a world you didn't recognize. "All I know is dust. My bones were dust and now they're not. My heart was dust and now it's not. Everyone keeps telling me that I'm safe and that 'it's all over', but what is?"

You gasped, trying to breathe in some tranquility and breathe out some of the agony twisting your insides, but all that came out was a distressing wheeze.

"How do I know that I will not disappear again?" you cried and there was no more Steve, just a curtain of water contorting his figure, like one of those paintings he loved and you never understood the meaning.

The stretcher creaked when Steve pulled you to him, rubbing your arms back as he whispered your name.

"Breathe, Y/N. Breathe."

But you were so scared of breathing. So scared that you'd taste ash again and your lungs would collapse in dust, leaving not a shred of the person you were for people to remember you by. So scared of losing a game you didn't even know you were playing.

"Steve..." You weeped, gripping his shirt tightly.

"I'm here, my love. Just breathe."

You weren't expecting him.

After two years, the hope that kept you up at night waiting for him grew tired, dwindling until it was mere utopia. So you shut the windows, changed the locks and turned off the bedside lamp. Perhaps that's what brought him to your door, you thought. Maybe, wherever he was in the world, he felt your devotion waning, so he returned to haunt you.

You had to admit, though, that of all the ways you imagined Steve Rogers coming back to you, him ringing your doorbell at midnight wasn't one of them.

He looked handsome, with shaggy blonde hair curling at his ears and a beard, and it hurt like a punch to the stomach.

It's hard when the one that hurts the most you looks so unfazed, meanwhile you're just a shell of what you used to be.

"You've lost weight," was the first thing he said, as if he'd left to grab groceries instead of becoming an international criminal.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, ignoring his greeting. If that could even be a greeting.

He sighed, mentioning with his head to the hallway behind you.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside, letting him walk through. You didn’t bother turning the key because if anyone really wanted to get to him they wouldn’t be worried about leaving your door in one piece. Steve stood in the middle of the living room, his hands on his waist. An onlooker would never guess that he once belonged there.

“Did you hear about Tony?” He asked when you sat down at the armchair next to the window. The one you bought together in Ikea and Steve insisted he could assemble on his own.

“Yes,” you said. Tony Stark went missing after an alien ship appeared in Midtown. It was exactly the kind of disaster that would bring Steve Rogers to New York. “Have you found him?”

“No,” he replied. “But the same aliens that took Tony attacked Vision in Edinburgh. We managed to stop them from killing him, but he’s badly wounded. When he heard about Tony we flew to the Compound.”

You nodded. It was strange how you could feel so detached from these people- Vision, Wanda, even Tony in a way. They were once your friends, your colleagues. Now they just felt like characters in Steve’s tale - no longer part of your life, only his.

“And why are you here?” you asked.

Why did you come to the home we used to share? you meant to say. Did you miss it? Did you miss me?

He shrugged.

“I thought maybe you could’ve found something on Tony and…”

“If you went to the compound it means you saw Rhodey and Rhodey has most definitely told you that I quit my job when the Avengers split,” you interrupted him. “I have no tech, no machinery, no means whatsoever to find Tony here, nothing that Rhodey has at his disposal Upstate. So why are you really here?”

He was a stranger. Cold and detached, like the house that once trapped him. There was no tenderness in the blue of his eyes.

“Something bad is coming, Y/N,” he said. “I’m not sure what it is yet, but I… I wanted to see you. I wanted to know that you were safe.”

You thought Steve Rogers was done breaking your heart. You thought that when you stopped expecting his return you’d go back to who you were before him, even if you couldn’t find that girl amongst the mess he made of you. You thought you’d be safe from love, and trust and kind soldiers with blue eyes, but you’d never be safe from him - your fellow and your foe.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” you croaked, holding back the tears swimming in your throat with a cough.

Steve fisted his hands, and for a moment you swore that he was stopping himself from holding you. But he just hung his head, tearing his gaze from where you were sitting by the window.

“Just stay home, ok?” he stated. “Try not to leave the house until this situation is resolved.”

Then he turned around and left again.

[alpineglowx]

I'll Do The Same {Din Djarin x OC} Chapter One: Silhouettes

pairing: mando/din djarin x female oc

warnings: none

* * * *

“Get up here, now, or I’m gonna have your head, Sai’Lya!”

Her head shot up, and the pain that followed from banging her skull into the top of the sleeping chamber ached immensely. Thell held her head, only for a moment; it was the only time she was allowed, before slipping her brown and gray garments over her head. Her tattered grey cloak was last, securing the gold pin tightly around her chest as she swung her legs over the chamber to slip her feet into her boots. Her toe was nearly sticking out through the front again; she would have to ask Miko for news ones, if he could afford to risk it.

Thell stumbled down the steel corridor, tying her hair into a knot to make herself look at least a bit more presentable. The hallways turned to a sudden stunning white that reflected the fancy interior of Bespin’s greatest business lord, Bleys Darand’s, mansion.

Thell had worked and lived with him for as long as she could remember. Her mother had been with her too, until the sickness that had ravaged Bespin for two years took her too, along with many of her friends. That had been over ten years ago. She was twenty nine now, nearly thirty, and twelve when her mother had passed. She had never known her father, and for the most part, she was alone. Miko, another servant in the adjacent building, was the only one she could scarcely call her a friend. He was a grumpy old man who only took pity on her because he had been fond of her mother.

That’s what it had been for years now; sympathy from others, for the people who she had come from, been born from. She herself had never been able to prove her own worth, and it was what she wanted more than anything else. For someone to appreciate her for her own self, her own spirit, to actually see her, and not someone she had been associated with.

Bleys Darand came into her view much sooner than she had expected, whirling around the corner so fast she had to skid on her heels to avoid crushing him.

“Where in the Maker have you been, girl?” He growled, tugging her forward with a harsh grasp on her arm. “I needed the entire room to be cleaned before my guests arrived, and you are twenty minutes behind schedule!”

Thell gritted her teeth and tried to stop the tears she knew were coming. She only looked away, nodded, and waited for him to release her.

“Insolent child,” came Darand’s harsh voice again. “I don’t see the reason in keeping you around if you can’t do the simplest of tasks. Don’t make me regret making that promise to your mother all those years ago.”

He shoved her forward, so hard her knees slammed into the smooth marble flooring, and when she raised her hands they were streaked with red. Thell waited until she had heard Darand move from the room until she rose to her feet again, dusting off her pants.

She hated the cleaning, the constant need to have everything perfect, when Darand already lived in the most perfect place in the galaxy. But the view was nice. For at least now, it would suffice.

The sun was rising, casting golden glows and beaming rays of yellow and orange across the cityline. Thell stepped closer to the window, closer and closer until she could let her fingertips rest against the glass, hoping, wishing, that one day she could fly past that swirl of clouds and sunshine and make it into that neverending void of space and stars.

. . . . .

The day had been lonely, like most. The other servants never made eye contact with her, wanted nothing to do with her. They knew the promise Darand had made her mother the night she died, wasting away from a sickness no doctor could cure.

“Please, momma.”

“You have to be strong, my star,” her mother whispered, her voice strained with sickness. “You have to be strong for me.”

Thell had been twelve at the time, and the pain of losing her best friend, her only friend, had not been made any easier. Watching her wither away for months, being forced to spend less and less time with her as Darand gave her more responsibilities.

But something was different that night, Thell could feel it. Her mother had told her stories of the Force, the Jedi, the thing that tied all living beings together. She wondered if she was feeling it, that mystical Force her mother had told her stories of late at night.

“Momma, please. I need you,” Thell begged, wrapping her small fingers tight around her mother’s thin arm.

Her mother’s arm came up, tucked a wandering lock of copper hair behind her ear.

“I’ll always be with you, Thell. You know that.”

Her mother tried to smile, even with her sickly skin and pale eyes.

“Momma... I don’t know-”

Footsteps echoed behind them, and Thell curled close to her mother, her eyes narrowing when she noticed Bleys Darand stepping into their chambers.

“Thell, step into the other room for a moment, please,” her mother said, but when she didn’t move, pressed, “Thell, now.”

With gritted teeth and teary eyes, Thell fled from the chamber, huddling on the opposite wall, the one that faced the window. She wrapped her hands around her knees and ducked her head down, letting the tears stain her garments. She could hear her mother and master speaking, but only faintly. She could only hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

She strained closer to the open doorway, pressing her ear against the corridor.

“You have to promise me that, Darand.”

“Seba, I...”

“You have to. She is the only thing I have ever loved. Too many children die in this galaxy because they don’t have people that care for them. I don’t care if you do not show her love as I did, but I need you to promise me that you will take care of her. I don’t want you throwing her to the streets as soon...”

The conversation drifted off, and Thell sniffed, bringing her ear closer.

“I have served your family since you were a young man. The least I am asking for is that you give her a home.”

“I.... I will.”

“I need you to promise me.”

Thell heard Darand sigh heavily. “I promise. I will take care of her.”

“I will be gone soon... I am thankful to know that.”

“That’s... another thing, I needed to speak about with you.”

Thell leaned against the wall, catching her breath as she swung the sack of cleaning supplies over her shoulder. It was nearly sundown, the end of her shift. She could relax, stretch her legs, maybe even take a walk around the artificial garden that sat atop Darand’s mansion.

Thell had just placed the sack of cleaning supplies back in their closet when she heard a loud, unnerving thump. Twisting her head the other direction, Thell’s eyes followed down the dark corridor, only lit by small yellow lamps. She waited, the only sound being her breath as she tried to slow her racing nerves.

“You’re just being stupid,” Thell whispered, trying to pluck up any courage she had.

Taking a small metal rod, meant for cleaning, in one hand, she tiptoed down the hallway, delicately placing one foot in front of the other. The hallway was quiet, almost dead silent save for the hum of the lights and air converters.

But someone was there, a large, shadowy figure standing like a statue at the end of the hall. She had blinked only for a moment and he was there, standing as stiff as a mop. Thell couldn’t see them clearly, not with the limited light, but they didn’t look like anyone who belonged in Darand’s mansion.

Her blood turned to ice, and something like panic rose in her veins. As slowly as she could, she turned on one foot, gently pacing back the direction she had come. Maybe, if he hadn’t noticed her walking forward yet, he wouldn’t bother her.

But something was wildly unnerving at having to turn her back to him. Especially when as soon as she started walking, she heard a loud clang on metal, like it was hitting the floor. Thell flinched, drawing her shoulders in, and dared a peek over her shoulder. Sweat was dripping down her neck now, past her eyes and under her shirt collar.

The stranger had stepped only a foot closer, however, Thell could see that they had placed their hand on their hip.

“Where is Bleys Darand?”

The deep voice, although modulated by a helmet, was like a punch in the chest for Thell. It was both confirmation that she wasn't going crazy and seeing people at night, and that someone was stupid enough to come after someone like Darand.

Thell turned all the way around, her hands shaking like she was holding a buzzing canister. She knew her options: obviously, this person was trying to kill or at least kidnap Darand, and would stop anyone who came in their way. And from the looks of it, this person knew their way around town.

But there was also the matter of who Darand was to her, the promise he had made to her mother over fifteen years ago. If he was killed, or taken, what would she be then? Cast out to the streets, made a slave to yet another master?

Dread prickled up her neck for both circumstances, but for once, she didn’t have to make the decision.

“Get down!”

Thell dropped to the floor, holding her hands over her head as a rush of blaster fire soared over her, explosions and sparks being thrown to each opposite end of the hall. There were footsteps around her on all sides, vibrating the floor beneath her shaking form and causing her to peak at the scene unfolding around her.

A body dressed in black, one of Darand’s guard, lay on the floor only a few feet in front of her. There were small bouts of flames on the walls, blaster marks on the white marble flooring, evidence of a battle not wanting to be won easily.

But there was no one else in the hallway. The mysterious man and the other guards must have fled down a hall, and relief surged through Thell’s body. But she scrambled toward the guard anyway, pulling him onto his back and shoving the mask off his face. He was still breathing, just barely, taking shaky, gulping breaths that made Thell realize the shot must have been fatal.

He tried to raise a hand, but it barely made it off the floor. His eyes were frantic, blood starting to gurgle from his mouth.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Thell hushed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Man...” the guard wheezed, his eyes squeezing shut.

“I know.”

She had seen death before, seen it take away the one she cared most about, so she did not fear it. It did not make it easier, however, to know that this man was young, and suffering, and he would be dead in moments.

Suddenly she was back in real life, and something was being shoved against her hand: a blaster.

Blinking, Thell turned back to the man, whose scrunched eyes were directly on her.

“Take it,” he hissed.

Thell shook her head, knowing what a weapon of that power meant, what it could so easily do to someone in a second.

“No.”

“Take it!” The pressure of the blaster ceased as the man’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp against the floor, the weapon lying limp against Thell’s arm. There was a tear rolling down her face and she roughly wiped a sleeve against it, smearing the wetness. With trembling fingers, Thell closed the man’s eyelids, and placed her hand over his forehead, closing her own eyes.

“Udesiir,” she whispered, just as her mother before her had done when staff members of Darand’s household had passed away. The last time she had spoken the word was over fifteen years ago, and it felt just as raw.

She grabbed the blaster, stumbled away from the dead guard, and fled the opposite direction down the hallway.

The hallways were quiet, but littered with the marks of blaster fire and struggle. Windows were smashed through, letting in a more than chilly breeze that ruffled Thell’s cloak. Glass crunched under her shoes, and she made her way carefully, slowly through the halls, holding the blaster out in front of her. But as far as she could tell, no one else had been killed, and no one else but the guards that had chased after the man knew that he was here.

The hallways were silent until she rounded a corner, and came into the main living area that Darand spent most of his time in. This section was unharmed, looking as clean as she had left it, but something was off. The holo was on, showing scenes from a holodrama that Darand loved to watch. But from where she could see at her position at the edge of the wall, no one was in the room.

So she inched forward, holding the blaster out in front of her, twisting her head to look in every possible direction for an attack. Thell came closer, rounding the circular white couch that encompassed most of the room. Her goal had been to turn off the holo, probably left on by another servant or Darand himself, but her gaze had been glued to the center of the couch.

It was only when she had stumbled back, smacking her backside into the marble floor from the pure shock, that she could see clearly what was sitting on the couch.

It was some small, green alien, no taller than a foot high, from his position on the couch. If it even was a he. He was dressed in a bulgy tan robe that covered his feet and most of his three toed hands. Long, expressive ears stuck out from the side of his squashed head, and large black eyes stared back at her from his spot. From here, she could see wisps of light hair on his head, but he nearly looked bald. He was the strangest, but nearly cutest, creature Thell had ever seen.

And he was watching the holodrama. Even holding the remote in his tiny green hand.

So Thell let the blaster fall to her side, swallowing hard so she could speak without trembling.

“Um, hello.”

The small thing tilted its head, made a small squeaking noise, and directed its attention back to her. Thell’s jaw dropped.

“You’re just a kid,” she whispered to no one in particular, stunned.

So Thell stood slowly, letting her hands open so the child could see that she was unarmed.

“Hi, little guy,” she said softly, gently kneeling down in front of him. He tilted his head again, his ears twitching at her words. “Where did you come from?”

He made a soft noise again, and his nose twitched, like he was trying to say something. And Thell was ready to speak again when she heard a loud yell down one of the adjacent hallways. Her head shot up, and she expected to see that strange man walk in through the corridor. But it seemed she had some time.

Thell looked back at the child. “Come on, little guy. I need to get us somewhere safe.”

When it didn’t seem like he would object, Thell pulled him against her chest and rose to a standing position, going to grab her blaster. She had just bent down to grab it when she heard that familiar metal clang on the floor, and that same deep voice.

“Put him down.”

[g--r-e--e-n]

The Crow

A late Mammon x GN!MC for the Max thingy!

Warnings: It obviously talks about a crow, just in case. The ending might seem quite rushed, I'm sorry, it was already too long :(. No spoilers, everything is before the MC's actual arrival to the Devildom.

Loud music echoing all around your house, singing and dancing like a madman through the corridors like it was no body's business, mopping the floor and trying to make something nice out of your free days.

Everything was perfect, just the way anyone would have always liked it. Yet, somehow… It felt empty, bitter, almost painful.

It hadn't been long since you and who you thought was your other half broke up. But you couldn't allow yourself to feel sad, not now.

You're young, you're strong, and you have a lovely future. You repeat it over and over, trying to turn the music louder than any thoughts you may have. It might not be the easiest thing to do, but trying won’t murder you, will it?

Finally there was not a single shadow of dust in your apartment. Not that there was anything before, but it helped keeping yourself busy. Now, finally, you only had to get rid off all the rubbish you somehow managed to collect.

You reluctantly turned off the music and made your way to the bins. Luckily, they weren't too far away: It was a cold, rainy day, and you'd rather stay at home instead of fighting the wind with your little umbrella,your hair a mess and your socks now wet.

Your day couldn't really get worse, yet you started doubting it the second you saw something dark moving in between feral pieces of litter someone didn't care about enough to throw correctly.

For a second you started believing in ghosts and God knows what but,soon enough, you saw a crow's deep black feathers, a painful caw breaking through the air like a thunder.

It was hurt, hungry, wet and cold. You could see how it bended it's right wing, unable to fly, a poor creature begging you with it's eyes, deep as the galaxy, were you clearly saw yourself, wet hair sticking to your face, comfortable yet not too fashionable clothes, eye bags hanging from your eyelashes, as pitiful as the poor bird in front of you, even if your wound was emotional rather than physical.

You didn't think twice before throwing your own raincoat over the creature, knowing that holding it with your bare hands would be rather dangerous.

Soon you headed home, crow surrounded in plastic like some bizarre newborn baby. It seemed to be weirdly docile, given its nature, but you soon learned to give it its space, holding it away from your face, barely able to keep the umbrella over your soaked bodies.

As soon as you get home, you lay him down carefully, keeping an eye on him and slowly getting rid of your wet shoes and reaching your phone.

The bird seemed scared, but it didn't move, eyes staying fixed on yours, its screams sounding more like begging than dangerous.

You soon sent a message to your good old friend Liam. Sure, Google is interesting, but Liam is your neighbor, a vet, and you've known him for years. This is not your first time rescuing feral animal in danger, so you knew for a fact you can rely on him.

Soon, he messaged you back, telling you that he's on his way with a cage so he can take the crow to the clinic. You couldn't help but chuckle, of course Liam wouldn't allow you to take the poor little thing in your arms, knowing how it could reduce your skin to vaguely human-flavored threads.

However, this also left you with a couple minutes alone with this somehow magnificent king of dumpsters. After observing him from a while, you walk backwards towards the kitchen. As soon as you could, you reapeared, hard bread on your hands and a smile on your lips, seeing how the bird stood still. Not that he had much option, of course. His right leg didn't seem too fine either.

Breaking a small piece of bread, you carefully and pretty cowardly throw it at the crow, thinking it would land before him, but being rather amused by the way the creature just catches it ever so quickly.

When Liam came, you had almost ran out of bread, and both the crow and you seemed so engaged in the game of throwing and catching that you barely realized the young man walking into the room, hair wet and a miracously almost dry cardboard box that you supposed was originally meant for holding fruit at the market,

You almost jumped when you heard him call you by your name, but soon your fear turned into a warm and welcoming hug, never minding his cold body, or how the crow ruffled its feathers, wishing it could growl in this pitiful form that barely managed him to caw drily. Something about the tall brunette slowly stroking your lower back managed to piss it off.

"Oh my God, you are such a mess!" Happily, and always positively, saluted you Ian. At times you feel like he doesn't really know when he's not supposed to be sincere, but not wanting to keep your new little friend waiting, you decide to keep your big mouth shut. "So... Where's our guy?"

His bright smile calms you down a bit, but its effects are quickly reversed by how the crow clumsily tries to run away, jumping on its one functional leg, only tangling itself with the raincoat still surrounding it.

Liam gives you a raised eyebrow. "I know I told you not to touch it too much, but a blanket would've been nice, you know?"

You simply shrug it off, not wanting to admit that you got too distracted feeding it to even be a decent human. The crow apparently agrees with Liam, because suddenly it's easy to move around again. You probably thought it was simply a funny coincidence, because, well crows are clever but, as far as you know, not THAT clever.

Who would've thought a poor demon would've gotten cursed by some witch? Not you, or not seriously, at least. As much as you love those sort of themes, reality doesn't allow them to become true.

A crow is just a crow, as clever as it could be. Not more, not less.

“Whatever. Let's do our thing, it's getting so late..." You softly sighted, eyes slowly dancing towards your window, the sky getting darker every second. Too invested in cleaning your bad memories out, you had barely realized how time had passed. Did you even have lunch?

If Liam noticed the brief sadness in your expression, he decided to leave you be, carefully holding the injured crow before leaving him in the cardboard box. The bird moved, cawed, yes, but he didn't seem to put too much of a fight. After all, Mammon might be a fool, but he'd much rather get back to Lucifer as soon as possible, thank you very much. Hanging upside down is not a pleasant experience.

Soon you were silently in Liam's car, the box resting in the backseat. Your friend's warm brown eyes were fixed in the road, but you both knew each other too well. He knew you were having a bad time. You knew he was plotting something.

"You know, after we drop our new son..." He softly said, taking a turn to the right. You braced yourself, both for his harsh driving and the proposal in coming. "We could go to the club, like in the good old days."

You softly laughed it off, even knowing Liam would easily catch the bitter feeling growing in your throat. "You know I'm trying to save my money, Liam. It doesn't grow from trees."

"I mean, technically..." He shrugged, turning now to the left. Even if he was being particularly gentle in order not to turn your feathery friend into a smoothie, you still had to stop yourself from screaming when the car almost ran over an elderly lady. "C'mon! There's a zebra cross like... Eleven meters away?!"

You slightly turned, sighing in relief seeing the crow is still safe.

"What I was saying" Liam continued, much to your dismay "I can pay for you, you know? I'm gaining some good cash now, and I don't have that many expenses. Plus, I'm pretty sure I owe you one from back in highschool."

A faint, but at least genuine laugh was thrown into the air as memories came back. Summer nights lying in the sand, gossiping and laughing, having a good time. "You dummy, that was ages ago! I just... Don't feel like going anywhere crowded."

"What about my place then? I've got some nice cheap booze. You look like you could use it."

He teasingly flashed you a bright smile before finally hitting the brakes and getting off the car. It was hard, but you managed to get out without fainting along the way.

"Well, thank you very much sir. You too look alluring" you sarcastically commented, before going to pick up the crow that stared at you so firmly with its jet black eyes that you felt the void within them could shallow you entirely any time.

Mammon doesn't have the best attention spam, or any sort emotional intelligence, but bring money to the equation and it may just change.

The human was short on money. Something Mammon, of course, understood very well. The human, even if a lowly human, had also saved him.

His little braincells were working hard, wondering if it was right to do what he thought to do. What if you were some terrible person underneath? What if you were a witch looking for a pact?

Luckily, he didn't have much time to drown himself in conspiracies, for soon he wad bring brought to the vet, and, by the way he was moving around, he did not enjoy it.

"Oh, C'mon, buddy..." You softly complained, struggling to hold onto the cardboard while Liam opened the clinic's door, fighting against the key. "I know it hurts. Just... Hold on a little, alright? Be a brave little boy for me"

You smiled at the crow, Liam suddenly laughing his soul off, loud enough for you not to pay much attention at the effect your words had had on the poor creature emiting broken caws.

"Do you always have to do that?" He mercilessly mocked you, finally opening the door and holding it for you, mainly because your arms were too busy, both with the crow and the hard fight against yourself to keep you from strangling Liam. "Come in, leave it on my table and wait outside, alright? Here, get yourself some coffee."

He absent mindedly thew you a coin. When Liam entered the clinic, he was no longer your dear and annoying friend Liam. He was the doctor. And the doctor was very cool at doing his thing, but pretty much useless at anything else.

Useless enough to throw a coin to someone holding a crow.

Of course, you couldn't just drop the guy or get the coin with your mouth like some dog, so you simply stared at him waiting for the realization to kick in. However, to your surprise, the crow threw itself as the coin, with as much grace as a bird with a wounded leg and wing can throw themselves at anything, which is, sadly, not much.

Luckily you did manage to keep him from failing, a soft smile flourishing as you saw him holding onto the coin.

"Please? I want to finish soon, the rum won't finish itself tonight." Liam was now in front of you, slightly surprising you. Trying your best to hide it, you hand him the crow. He simply sighed, struggling a bit to take the coin out from his beak, holding it out to you while taking the crow like a perfect choreography. "There you go."

You exaggerated an angry face as he petted your head a few times, managing to keep the animal in one arm like it was just natural before disappearing after the door.

Liam didn't like having you around while he works, specially if he knows it can involve anything even a bit gruesome. But this time you simply feel the need to be there with the pitiful crow, to help him and bring some hope into his beautiful eyes that seemed ever so intelligent.

The loud caws only made it worse, so you decided to get some coffee into your life.

Coffee at the clinic is bitter and far too strong, but Liam insists it's the only thing keeping him from falling asleep after specially complicated shifts.

You didn't really think twice before chugging it down, regretting it immediately. You were already nervous enough, why add caffeine?

You soon began wandering around the waiting room you knew so well, roaming next to the door to try and catch a glimpse of what could be going on in its guts. Liam is a good bet, but, what if something had gone wrong? What if it was not fixable?

A crow is not something you can keep in your house, is it? What would you do then? The closest animal rescue center is so far away, but perhaps you could take a few days off your obligation. After the whole situation with your ex, it’s very much needed.

Your constant thinking was soon relieved by a softly smiling Liam walking in with the crow resting in the cardboard box, looking all over like it too felt uncomfortable there. Its broken wing had been carefully wrapped in what experience told you was coflex. You couldn’t see his leg, but it must be in a similar situation.

“Our little man here has beheaved just fine” Liam said, softly. As much as he always made fun of how you spoke to animals, he was not that different. I mean, he did dedicate his whole life to this, didn’t he? “He should be able to fly in… Perhaps two weeks? It’s not a multiple fracture, which is rather relieving, but who knows.”

You slightly frowned. You did expect something similar, of course, but you wouldn’t normaly expect a bird with a broken wing to be half as lively as this one had been. A part of you admired his strenght, yes, but the other one felt simply curious.

“What about the leg?” you softly ask, bending a bit to see the creature eye to eye, barely saving enough distance to ensure your safety. “It couldn’t walk. What is it?”

“Give it around five or seven days and he will be walking all over” He tried your best to cheer you up, so you decided to at least gift him a little smile. “And he even seems to be eating well, so no need to worry, alright?”

You noded, standing up again to throw the empty cup of coffe in the bin, its bitter taste slowly dissappearing from your mouth as this new, warm feeling took you all over.

“So… Your house, right?” You flash Liam a smile while taking the crow carefuly. It seems to struggle against it for a bit, but soon relaxes. What else could it do?

Liam didn’t even bother to confirm what you already knew to be true, as he opened the doors once again and you stepped outside, the night’s cold air against your skin. Before you even realized it, you were siting in his kitchen, the crow resting on the counter, warm tears on your face, the burning feeling of alcohol down your throat… And dedscending through a rabbit hole of blurry memories and complains.

Trust me, there are many things you regret. But getting ever so wasted is deffinetly within the number ten.

You wanted to keep on with your life, you wanted to do your best, to show yourself you didn’t need any “other half” to be completed. You know, being active and stuff, putting yourself together.

But here you were, laying down in your bed on a Saturday afternoon, staring at your ceiling in pain and hunger, too hangover to even sit up and absolutely obliterate the bird that was screaming so loudly. God, that surely is another big regret of yours right now.

Still, you didn’t have the heart to let it starve, not again, so you slowly roll out from bed, holding your head with your hand, the same clothes you wore yesterday all wrinkled around your body.

“I know, I know.” You complain as if the bird knew what you were saying, too naive to realice he, in fact, was. It didn’t take you long to cross your rather small appartment to reach the kitchen, were you apparently dropped the bird yesterday, not that you remember much about it. You lazily searched for the bag Liam had given you, filled with sunflower seeds and… Crickets?

You look at the bird, hesitating a bit before sighing and walking towards it, leaving the open bag for it to eat and, hopefully, not get your floor too dirty. It seemed to be pretty hungry, as it devoured his meal without a single complain, quicker than ever. After all, Mammon was used to eat before Beelzebub could even dream of stealing his dear fuel.

Oh, how he missed his brothers. What could they be doing? Perhaps they didn’t even realice. Perhaps they were happier that way. He has always been “the scummy second born”, after all, so isn’t it a favour to dissapear like this?

You didn’t quite understand what was going on, but you did realice the way the crow’s eating speed decayed. Before struggling a bit against yourself and your huge headache, you spread your arm towards the bird, not daring to touch it, relieved when it didn’t seem too keen on murdering you, at least by the moment.

“Come here, little guy…” You carefuly stroke his head a few times. It seemed to enjoy it, but you still felt a bit too insecure to maintain the contact for too long. “You will be flying again in no time.”

You soon went to do your own thing, drink your pretty late breakfast, sit by the counter and silently tink of some name for your newfound friend. Little did you know this was but the start of a very wicked story.

The bird, who, to Mammon’s dismay you had called Liquorice, proved to be a rather interesting company, even when he could not move that much for the first few days. You found yourself spending most of your free time playing with him, or even telling him your deepest of secrets, not like he could judge you.

It was relaxing, no façade to be held, not a lie to be uttered. It was Liquorice and you, and it felt perfect. Either way, seeing how clingy he slowly grew to be, it’s not like it was one sided.

In four days the crow could already run around, and it seemed to want to look outside. Of course Mammon loved your company, but he was still worried. A part of him thought it was foolish, that nobody would miss him, but he knew Lucifer far too well.

Seeing how his wing wasn’t still healed, you decided to accompany him to his little walks all over the town’s outskirts, and it seemed to even strenghthen your relationship. You still cound’t be anywhere with people or vehicles, but fresh air was nice enough to make your black and white world broaden a bit.

Days passed by quicker than either Mammon or you would’ve thought, too lost in your little shennanigans to even mind the clock. Soon the crow was able to fly, as you discovered when it leaped from the fridge to the hallway, happily cawing around.

At first it was a happy moment, and you soon sent a hundred videos to Liam to show him how the little crow was doing so well. However, soon both of you had to face a realization: His time here was over.

Liquorice was a wild animal as far as you were concerned, of course, and you did not have the guts to keep him trapped. Not after knowing how that felt. However, something inside you felt uncomfortable with the idea of seeing your house empty again. Mammon, of course, also felt uneasy, but for very different reasons.

You see, for you this all had been helping a very funny crow. But he was a tad more conscious of the whole situation, and trust me, it was putting him through hell. Sure, he wanted to return to his brothers, but… What about this human?

He tried to convince himself this was just him wanting to protect a weak being as a “thank you”, but his lie was too obvious to ignore. He had seen you at your worst, in the nights when you drank alone and talked for hours about someone he simply knew did not deserve you. He had seen you at your best, dancing all across your house when you recieved any good news, cooing at him when he did even the smallest of things, like it was a great archievement you could barely believe. You had hold him close, you had kissed the top of his head, stared for ages into his eyes, not realizing the effect none of your actions had in him. He had slowly started to care, and he was not enjoying that idea, but what could he do?

He’s just a crow, and now that there’s no excuse for you to keep him around, it’s his time to go and dissapear, turning into a vague memory. God, why did he feel so impotent now?

You both struggled against yourselves in silence, until you came up with an idea.

“Let’s give it a day, alright, buddy? Just to see if you still remember how to move those wings of yours”

You showed him an empty smile he could tell from miles apart, but he couldn’t do much about it, drowning too deep into his own feelings.

The following day, both of you stayed at home, playing your little games of fetch, you laughing at how the crow beheaved almost like a little puppy, him silently swooning over the sweet sound of your laughter, almost forgetting the bitterness of the situation until night actually fell and it was time to close this wonderful little adventure.

You were both lying in the living room when night came, exhausted from running around, breathing heavily with a big smile to your face like it didn’t hurt.

“You know… I think it’s time already, right?” You slowly stand up, yawning softly. You didn’t really get too much sleep last night, and you sure as hell needed it. “Time to be free, little guy! Here, come.”

You carefully pick him up, close to your chest. You knew him too well to think he would hurt you, and the warmth was greatly appreciated by Mammon, who snuggled a bit within your embrace, trying to save this moment forever deep in his memories.

Being the avatar of greed, he’s used to the feeling of wanting, and, at times, not being able to. Yet, somehow, it didn’t stop this ugly feeling from blossoming in his now feathery chest. He felt so pathetic like this, so worked up because of a human being.

He and his brothers knew very damn well this wouldn’t lead anywhere nice. What could he do? Even if he managed to stay here, he knows his family can’t take another Lilith, and every second he spends here it’s harder not to fall even deeper for this trap his father seemed to have laid just for him.

Mammon convinced himself it was for the better, and soon did you. When you set him free to fly in the park next to your house, he didn’t even bother to look back as you screamed your goodbyes, the poor people around the park staring at you with a raised eyebrow as you soon deinflated with a big sight, knowing your routine was back to haunt you forever.

And of course, it did. You were back to doing your thing, spending your afternoons either with Liam and his new boyfriend or watching bad movies all by yourself, barely feeling certain melancholy as you found some stray feather hidden in your couch.

Liquorice was gone. Little did you know Mammon was not.

The young boy had found Lucifer as soon as he had left the park, and their little chat had been… Interesting. But at least it didn’t lead to his death, but rather to some extra chores and, finally, the hex coming undone, which meant he could always try to come back, even if he could no longer take certain adventage of your inocence.

Of course he went back to the House and Lamentation, and was made to attend every RAD lesson, but as soon as he was out of sight he was already walking over to your house, “accidentally” bumping you in the street from time to time, always trying his best to hide his identity, knowing you would probably be weirded out by always seeing the same guy around, and how easily his fluffy white hair and glasses could be told from any crowds.

You didn’t really think much of the many faceless guys you happened to encounter, of course. But what really made you ask yourself certain questions was the amount of little things showing up on your window frame, from stray coins to little glittery plastic jewelry. You didn’t want to think too much of it, but thinking it was Liquorice warmed your heart a little, and it was much less disturbing that thinking some random guy was passing daily around your home.

Mammon couldn’t help but swoon over the way you smiled, pressing his little gifts to your chest and looking through the window, the poor demon barely managing to stay invisible and attached to a tree he didn’t trust that much (C’mon, human, what made ya think livin’ on a fith floor was a good idea?), too scared to face you, too scared to leave.

Who would’ve told him it would be you, even if dragged by his dearest (and very aware) brother who would eventually face him, a feather necklace on your neck, smiling unkowingly and turning his little world upside down?