#if you do read it all and then still read my tags afterwards thank you!

[b0nelessdoodles]

Art Summary 2023

shoutout to the one month were i drew fanart and then everything else was just dnd content again lmao (also shoutout to me being late to posting this haaaaa)

2023 wasn't the best year for me personally. between money problems and job searching, health issues, mental health issues, unintentional discomfort at my new job, and the overall issues of the world it just hasn't been great and I felt it heavily in my creativity. I never really had any creative highs this year outside of artfight (and even then i felt like i didn't do well) which only fed into some of the issues I was having.

But looking back I am really happy with most of what I made! Sure I didn't draw much but hey I think I popped off when I did!

So here is to 2024! Already off to a good start in the art department and even if I slow down at least I've had fun so far!

(i was gonna put me gushing about things in tags but its a lot so i'm doing a read more this post is already so damn long lmao i'm sorry)

okay i'm here to gush about two pieces at a time and their contents cause then make me happy to look at so lets get started on that with march and september 'cause hey! look at the relationship development of my little goblin guy!

march was when kk (tic's best friend and now boyfriend) first appeared to the rest of the party outside of just tic talking about him. literally the entire party could see that kk was in love with tic and was just like "oh buddy sorry about that" 'cause tic was a dumbass and romance was just never something he thought about until meeting the party. then we flash forward to september where the two confessed to each other after what really felt like the end of tic's story arc. at least it felt that way to me 'cause he reached his goal of killing groll and becoming the king of goblins but i know he still has shit to do I'M LOOKING AT YOU TRAVELLER AND RIP! but yeah that was the whole reason he left and it was done. he did it! but it almost cost him kk and the two ended up having a really important talk about it. kk chewed tic out and spilled his guts and i still think about it a lot holy shit it was so good omfg but it was in that moment that it clicked for tic. that if he had actually lost kk he had no idea what he would do, that he felt like his whole life would fall apart without him. and just man it was good wholesome content. congrats to the goblins for being the first canon relationship! (even tho they were not the first confession that one goes to rhami!)

now that that block of the text is out of the way we get to more depressing ones, those being january and october with my guy, dr. cecil wilfree.

its just.... man. what do i even say about him. january was probably the last moment before his life went into a full downward spiral, eventually leading into his demise. that piece isn't even anything major but rather something like a reminder going "hey, remember when wilfree had two normal eyes? good times!" and just man (-insert that image of a horse standing on the beach-) compare that to where he's at in october and knowing what happened in those 10 months? january he still had trust and hope, he believed that he was going to get back home and help river out with his plague, maybe even get aster home if she'd let them, maybe find a way to cure himself and help casey. but by the end there was no hope and he found out that he had been used, was nothing more than a tool for someone who he trusted, despite knowing that he really shouldn't have. river was dead and it was his fault (at least in his mind it was), he had failed to protect aster and traumatized both her and willow, and he could do nothing to save an entire population from being wiped off the face of the map. and he caved under the guilt. he gave up. its sad to see him alive and pissy in january and then look at december and see a shell of the same man, no more thoughts in that head as his mind got disconnected from his body and self.

and then for extra sads we've got december which was his birth month, so i drew something from a time before the campaign. back when he was alive and well, no soul curse and unknowing of the horrors yet to come, and receiving a gift from someone whose life he could soon destroy due to his own hubris.

anyway! pay no mind to may! i didn't draw a damn thing that whole month!

[herdarkestnightelegance]

Bedhead

Pairing: Astarion/ g/n unnamed You

Tags: the fluffiest of fluff

Length: 1k words

Summary: You woke up in Astarion‘s tent for the first time.

A/N: I'm really starting to enjoy this whole Fanfiction writing thing! Thank you all for all the love on my last fanfic Magpie Stash 🥹 👉👈

Once again I have to thank @nyx-knox for the thoughtful beta-reading, helping me to smooth out the bumps in the story ✨

Shout out to @onlyancunin. You know why ❤️

::::::::::::::::::

A single strip of sunlight falls directly onto your face, waking you gently. You don’t stir but slowly, you open your eyes. For a moment you’re disoriented. This isn’t your tent, is it? Slowly you look around. No, it’s not. And then you remember. It’s Astarion’s. And now that your senses catch up you feel him next to you, his arm laid sleepily across your stomach. You blink almost in disbelief at the feeling of him still beside you.

This is new. Yes, the two of you have spent many hours together, sneaking away for moments of passion both here and in your tent, out in nature, in a couple of caves and a temple even. But usually you went your separate ways afterwards. Occasionally, you had fallen asleep next to each other but you usually woke to find him gone or already awake and half-dressed, like that first morning after the Tiefling Party. Never had you woken up to feel him still slumbering beside you before. In his tent no less.

But then you remember. Arms pulling you closer as you were about to disentangle from him, a kiss on the delicate skin below your ear and a single whispered word. “Stay?” 

So you stayed.

You turn your head to look at Astarion. But to say what you see is not what you expected would be an understatement. 

Unable to stop it, the corners of your lips curl up in an adoring grin. Often have you seen Astarion meditate on this journey. Usually lying on his back, his head resting on a pillow, hair immaculate, the ruffles on his shirt laid out perfectly, face relaxed and his fingers doing that dainty fingertips-touching-thing you’ve come to adore.

But this was not that.

Beneath a mess of tangled sheets, Astarion is lying on his stomach, one leg stretched away from him and the other at a weird but apparently comfortable angle. One arm draped over you, the other one tucked under his head, barely resting on the edge of his pillow, which has somehow wrapped itself halfway around his head. He looks completely disheveled and … utterly adorable.

It’s the light chuckle you can’t suppress that seems to wake your lover. He opens his eyes groggily, their crimson color practically glowing in the strip of morning light that had also awoken you.

In the few moments before he fully wakes from his rather unusual meditation, you see it clearly on his face: a flicker of a pleasant surprise to find you still beside him. Followed by confusion. Then a moment of vulnerability. And finally you see his trademark cocky smile slipping onto his face.

 “You’re up early, darling.“ he says in a casual yet sleepy tone. “I thought I’d all but worn you out last night.”

“Good morning to you too.“ you answer back, the smirk lingering on your face. Slowly, he pulls his arm off you and turns onto his back. His slender body stretches deliciously, and you roll onto your side to face him, unable to take your eyes off all of his beautifully exposed pale skin. When he eventually sits up, you can’t help but let out a giggle.

“What?”, he asks, looking down at you.

“I’m sorry - it’s just …” You reach out your hand towards that mop of stunning white curls that look like an exploded feather-pillow, but you pause, waiting the slightest of moments before actually touching him. You realize you’ve never really… touched his hair. Sure, you had weaved your fingers into it, tugged at it in moments of passion, but … fixing these beautiful curls seems almost too … familiar? You can’t help but worry it’ll bother him. “May I?” you ask cautiously.  

Astarion leans his head towards your hand ever-so-slightly, signalling you permission to touch his hair. “I’ve just never seen you like this, that’s all.” His curls are incredibly soft, even in their disheveled state. Has anyone ever seen him like this, you wonder.

“Like what?” he asks in a relaxed tone but you detect the slightest hint of insecurity. Inspecting his beautiful face for a moment longer, you notice the red skin and creases the pillow has left around his cheekbone and the drop of dried blood in the left corner of his mouth from when he drank from you.

“… Tousled,” you finally answer, still unsure if the word captures how endearing he looks to you in this state.

He huffs a laugh. “Well, my dear, you too are looking rather unkempt.” he says as he plucks a tiny, honest-to-god pillow-feather from the tangled mess on your own head. The two of you look at each other - all messy hair, dried blood, squished faces and sticky skin. 

You wonder what the pale Elf is thinking, what he is searching for while he is studying your eyes so intently. Because all you feel in this moment is fondness. Fondness for him, for waking up together … for whatever it is that exists between the two of you. And you think he maybe feels  it, too. Because, to your delight, a smile spreads on his indented face, his fangs momentarily glinting in the morning light before the both of you let out a laugh. He is so beautiful to you in that moment. And your heart swells in a way it has not done before, to the point of aching within the confines of your chest.

It’s Astarion who leans in first to kiss you then, running his fingers over the bird’s nest that is your hair. “I do think you look quite delicious like this, you know?” he whispers against your lips before pushing you down, pinning you back onto the bedroll as his weight comfortably settles onto you. You feel him smile into your kiss and you know it’s sincere. “So let’s see if we can mess up this hair of yours a bit more, shall we?”

[zae-heeyyy]

Seraphic

Summary: You are Arthur's angel. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,222 Tags: smut, high honor Arthur Warnings: 18+ MDNI

a/n: Whew 😅 I'm a little nervous to post this one. 🫣 Been sitting on it for a while (no pun intended) I've read and reread it a million times, and I'm ready to share. Also, we're pretending like Arthur's tent actually closes. Anyway thanks for reading!

Seraphic: something angelic or celestial in nature, often suggesting purity, beauty, or holiness.

By 1 a.m., the sounds of camp had reduced to the songs of crickets and the crackle of the fire. While everybody else slept, you waited up for Arthur, reading a book under lantern light in his tent. He arrived eventually, keeping his greeting short and joining you on his cot with slouched shoulders, seemingly exhausted. When he took his hat off, the grimace on his face became all the more apparent. His expression and tense body language told you all you needed to know; whatever happened out there wasn't good.

You handed him a match and a cigarette from his nightstand, and he thanked you with a nod. Using the heel of his boot, he struck the match and lit the cigarette, holding it with his thumb and index fingers. Flickering lantern light and the burning ember tip illuminated his bruised knuckles.

"Should I ask?" You traced a gentle finger over the bruises, and he shook his head.

"Best not," he replied, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.

"Well, I'm glad you're still in one piece," you said, looking him over. His shirt had seen cleaner, less wrinkled days, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. "Well, mostly in one piece."

He let out a gust of air, a failed attempt at a laugh, before pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning.

"Headache?" you asked, and he confirmed. The discomfort came with the life he lived. Loud gunfire, the rush of adrenaline, and focusing on his shots all combined to leave him in pain afterward. You exited the tent momentarily and returned with a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a bottle of miracle tonic.

"Here—for your head." He took the medicine and snuffed his cigarette. Rejoining him, you sat on the cot and dabbed his face with the wet cloth, wiping away dirt and sweat. A soft kiss on his temple prompted him to lean into you, the tension finally dissipating. You wrapped your arms around his big frame and held him close. Obviously, he was your safe space, but oh—were you his. Eyes shut, he rested his head on your bosom.

Arthur found comfort in his typical role as protector and provider. But in these moments, when roles faded, he could feel the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders—a crushing weight he didn't even realize he was carrying. Being with you like this made him wonder if heaven was real because you were godsent.

To Arthur's dismay, you unraveled yourself from him to tie the tent flap closed, sealing the two of you away in the dark. Walking between his legs, you untied his neckerchief and dusted his soiled shirt.

"—Needs a wash. Your blood or someone else's?" you questioned, fingers undoing the top button.

"Not mine," he answered. Peeling the shirt off and tossing it aside, you studied him for a second time tonight. He'd seemed more relaxed than when he arrived, but his brow stayed brooding. Still positioned with his legs on either side of you, you caressed his face, one of your thumbs stroking the hairless scar on his chin.

"What else can I do?"

"You done enough; I'm fine." He gave your hand on his face a reassuring squeeze.

Leaning forward, you kissed him tenderly. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you nearer until your foreheads touched. You spoke low against his mouth, a playful grin forming on yours.

"You gotta stop getting yourself into so much trouble, Arthur Morgan."

Your demand was met with a chuckle, and he replied, "I'll do my best, darlin'." You peppered his lips with loving, tender kisses, making him smile against them and squeeze you tighter in a hug. You would do just about anything to see that man smile at you the way he did, all soft and endearing.

Your kisses subsided, but Arthur's affectionate gaze stayed fixed on you. The slight smile on his face had straightened, his expression mirroring the intensity of the one he wore when he first confessed his love for you.

"Got that look on your face," you told him, and he just blinked slowly, awestruck. Though he often swore he was a man of few words, he could fill volumes with his devotion for you. You loved it when he got like that, entranced and overwhelmed with love.

The way he watched you set a fire within you that warmed the most intimate parts of your being. He was surprised when you let yourself fall heavily into him, trying to get as close as possible. Maybe he was going to say something or make a noise, but he didn't have the time before your mouth was on his again, your tongue pushing through his lips to tangle with his. You only pulled away when you needed to breathe.

Instead of pressing your lips to his once more, you dropped to your knees in front of him. Eyes widening, he tried to bring you back up to your feet, shaking his head, once again astounded by you.

"Sweetheart—"

Still on your knees, you patted his cheek and looked up at him with doe eyes. "Shhh, let me take care of you, Arthur." His hand found yours on his face, and he turned to kiss it, nodding placidly. Both of you managed to keep your volume low as you helped him strip down to his union suit. You began working at the buttons of his neckline, doing more ripping than unbuttoning, shoving the fabric down his shoulders.

As more clothing fell away, you trailed sweet kisses down his abdomen. At the same time, his hands roamed wherever they could. The rough pads of his fingers lightly tracing your skin mirrored a faint electric charge. Despite being a brute of an outlaw, he was overly careful with his hands when it came to you; your body was fine china and deserved to be treated as such. Goosebumps formed in a wake left by his touch.

As you kissed down the trail of hair under his belly button, his rapid breathing hitched, and the bulge between his legs strained against the flannel fabric, begging to be unleashed. You tried to find his eyes as you groped him through the underwear, but his head was tipped back, his mouth agape.

"Look at me." You whispered, and he snapped to attention like a soldier following commands. Eyes locked on his, you unclasped the last button, and his length sprung free, the pink head of his cock primed with anticipation. A teasing laugh crept up within you as you trailed soft kisses from the base of his shaft and left one long lingering peck on the tip. The loud, rhythmic thumping of his heart was music to your ears. Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, you took his entire length in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down, taking him deeper until your nose touched the curly hairs at the base.

Then he couldn't hold it in anymore; a deep, guttural groan escaped him.

Your mouth was the warmest, most intoxicating blanket he'd ever been wrapped in, and he never wanted to leave. He gaped at you, seeing your mouth full of him, his pupils dilated with pure lust. The blunt tip of his cock pressed to the back of your throat, making it constrict around him. His whole body shuddered.

"Look whatchu' do to me, woman," he rattled, tangling his hands in your hair. Despite his eagerness, you withdrew from his aching sex, a string of saliva joining your lips to him. Something reminiscent of a whine exited him when you stepped away, but his open mouth fell shut at the sight of your bloomers slipping down your legs. You kissed him, savoring the salty, bitter taste of his arousal mixed with the tobacco and herbs of his mouth.

"Lay back," you murmured in his ear. Obeying your command once again, he let out a grunt as he felt your weight on top of him. You straddled him, and he held you up, his fingers digging firmly into your sides. Bending at the waist, you kissed longingly, your hips undulating against his. He pulled your nightgown up around your midriff, one of his hands gripping the flesh of your ass while the other one went between your legs. His index finger sank painstakingly into your weeping cunt, then brushed over your clit, making you shiver. He raised himself on his elbows, reaching for the hem of your sleep dress.

"Take this off; let me see you." You raised your arms and let him yank the garment away, leaving you completely exposed on top of him. "Beautiful," he breathed, using the back of his hand to graze your skin. Breathy sighs escaped you as he traced delicate circles around your nipples. His eyes bored into you, absorbing every detail like you were the most captivating thing that ever lived. Hyperfocused on your body, he fondled your breasts before gliding his hands down your torso, ogling, taking all of you in.

Freezing, his stare intensified as you massaged the tip of his cock up and down your glistening slit. Touching his lips to yours, you pushed him into your wet folds. Neither of you could contain the sounds building with you. He split you open, stretching you, making room for him, filling you. You held yourself up with your hands braced on his chest, but you went weak as he bottomed out within you, brushing against that deep, tender spot. You would've fallen if he wasn't there to hold you up, a thought mirroring one he had about you so often.

"I got you," he whispered into your ear. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap his hips up into you, the warm embrace of your center clearing his mind and driving him mad all the same. Finally, you started to ride, surging and sinking into him. He was a simple, agnostic man, but being with you like this made him believe in all the theocracy of angels, soulmates, and divine intervention. This was his bliss. This was his heaven, and you were his seraph. He'd go through hell every day if it meant coming home to this—to you. Hypnotized in the rhythm of you, a new thought crossed his mind every time you bounced.

Up.

She's so goddamn beautiful.

Down.

So perfect.

Up.

My girl.

Down.

My girl, my girl, my girl, my girl.

Up.

My angel.

Down.

I love her so much.

Up.

So wet.

Down

So warm.

Up.

So danm tight.

Down.

Shit.

And before you could come back up again, he squeezed his eyes shut, halting your hips with all the strength he could muster, fighting the damn-near irresistible urge to cum inside of you. Sweat had built up on his brow, and his stomach rose and fell quickly with each panting breath. You folded to kiss him, your hard nipples grazing against his chest.

"It's okay," you whispered, patting his face and grinding antagonizingly slow against him. You wanted him—needed him— to come undone for you. With that goal in mind, you picked up the pace and rolled your hips relentlessly, moaning your every thought into his ear.

"You feel so good inside of me."

"I need you."

"I love you."

Your climax was building fast, and you reached to give relief to that sensitive bundle of nerves atop your center. Arthur pushed your hand away swiftly, replacing it with his own. Always a giver, he'd do anything to feel useful while you were treating him like royalty.

While one hand worked your clit, his other gripped the meat of your hip, rocking you in time with his upward thrusts. His head tipped and hit the pillow, and you could feel his thighs tensing and shaking beneath you. Lips parted, he stared up at you. You felt him twitch inside you, and his brow finally relaxed.

That did it for you.

You were wordless as your orgasm ripped through you, your head swirling, and your veins on fire. Arthur's guiding hand on your hip didn't stop, and he fucked you through your climax. Hugging your body close and nuzzling his face into your neck, he growled as he painted your inner core with his own release. You stayed like that, glued to each other as you came down from your highs.

"You're too good for me," he finally said. You clasped a hand into his, kissing the long-forgotten bruises on his knuckles.

"Shut up." You responded, and he didn't say another self-deprecating word. It was the least he could do.

You cleaned up and redressed, nestling into the small, one-man cot. Finally settled for the night, you resorted to your regular bedtime positions: your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, your legs tangled in one another's.

He rose before you in the morning, perching himself on the cot's edge while you slept behind him. He wrote in his journal, his thumb leaving a smudge on the page:

"For a long time, I believed I could not live a bad life and expect good things to happen to me. Yet somehow, this woman of pure goodness entered my life, and it is clear now that I have been a fool."

[hotnbloodied]

Hiyaaaa can I request a stalker yan x enabling gn reader🪼could it be smut if possible

I went a little haywire with this one, I hope it meets your expectations dear~

(PLEASE BE EXTRA CAUTIOUS OF TAGS FOR THIS ONE!!!)

I'm still not too sure about how to feel about writing smut (I'm actually not a big fan of it) but as long as everyone enjoys it thank you ^^

-˚ʚ♡ɞ˚HB˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Stalker!Yan X Pushover!Reader (!!SMUT!!)

!Warning! This post contains yandere themes and topics that may be uncomfortable to people who are sensitive to the topic, read at your own discretion. I do not support or encourage these destructive behaviors in real life.

CW: not proof read, yous/yours used, gn reader, SEX, sloppy lewd writing, implied stalking, saliva, yandere behaviors, delusional thoughts, dub-con, obsessive behavior (LMK if I'm missing anything.)

!!READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!! MINORS DNI!!

(PLEASE BE EXTRA CAUTIOUS OF TAGS FOR THIS ONE!!!)

It all started with a simple act of helping him pick up the paperwork that you accidentally knocked out of his hands. No one had helped him before, much less make conversation with him due to how he looks and holds himself. Perpetual hunch, unkempt hair, deep dark eye bags and a slight stutter. This guy was a mess, but the company kept him because his work ethic is near perfection. Back to the papers you were helping him pick up, you offered to carry half with him to where he needed to go and he offered to treat you to lunch, “i-it’s the least I can do for helping me,” he reasons. You couldn’t turn down, “well, if you’re sure, I am getting pretty hungry since it’s lunch time already,” you reason.

Though, you didn’t expect him to get so chatty during lunch. It felt like he was asking your ear off with questions. “How’s work been for you?” “How is your family?” “Do you have any hobbies?” “Favorite shows? Movies?” Admittedly, you couldn’t wait for lunch to be over but even when you wanted to say goodbye, to get back to work, he asks for your phone number. Wanting to just go already you hurriedly gave it to him.

Little did you know that he would be texting you everyday, perhaps even every hour. Not wanting to be rude you responded when you could. Soon you were seeing him outside of work, not willingly but whenever you would be trying to run errands or even just out and about. Grocery shopping? He suddenly appeared and offered to push your cart and even load your bags into your car. At the mall? He just so happened to be needing to get a birthday gift for a family member so why don’t he shop around with you, even though when you were leaving he walked you to your car with his hands empty. Just taking a walk in the park? What a coincidence, he loves this park! A walk is better with someone else right? You didn’t bring up how weirdly coincidental it was that he happened to be wherever you were, you didn’t want to deal with confrontation. Which led you to the state of you and his relationship as it is these days.

He started hanging out with you in your apartment, he had one day asked if he could come over to your place to hang out for the weekend. “We could hang out and watch a movie, I’ll even make dinner for us. Unless you want to come over to my place?” You weakly try to give the excuse that your apartment is a mess but he even offers to clean it and you didn’t really want to go over to his place so you agreed to hang out with him at yours.

True to his word, he cleans your apartment but it wasn’t even that dirty in the first place since it was just an excuse. He goes on to make dinner, it was exactly to your taste like he knew and even cleans up afterward. When it came to the movie it was whatever looked good on the streaming service, you’ve been wanting to watch a certain movie that was recently released so he agreed to it too. Not too long into the movie you notice him moving closer to you, your heart rate raises with each proceeding inch until finally your shoulders are touching. Even if you wanted to scoot away, you were already on the edge of your couch. In a fluid motion he rests his arm on your shoulders causing you to look at him. He looks you in the eyes and leans in for a kiss. You instinctively used your hands to stop him from leaning closer and he looked at you with wide eyes.

“Do you not want this?” He asks with a bit of hurt in his voice. Flustered, you replied, “I just think it’s too soon for this.” He smiles and takes your hands in his, “it’s okay, we’re just having a little fun after all. No strings attached.” Something about the last statement didn’t feel right but you don’t say anything so he takes it as you agreeing with him and leans in for a kiss again. You close your eyes as your lips connect and you can feel him sigh as he continuously pecks kisses on your lips. Soon after you feel something wet probing at your lips and it surprises you enough to open them. His tongue invades your mouth and you feel his grasp on your body tighten as he explores your mouth with his tongue.

Breaking from the kiss only for air, it doesn’t stop him from tasting you like he was a thirsty man and you were an oasis in the desert. His tongue rolls over your cheeks and jawline working down to your neck leaving you covered in saliva. He sucks and licks the sensitive skin of your jugular making heat form in your lower regions. He nudges to take off your top and you allow him a full view of your chest. He wastes no time and continues to suck on your collarbone area, the whole thing feels weird and warm and slimy but you didn’t want to stop him since you believe it was too late for that. Suddenly you feel your nipples get pinched and you jerk backwards. “You’re so cute, and so sensitive just for me,” he coos. He continues to suck and play with your nipples until your brain seems to go fuzzy from the pleasure and all that’s escaping your lips are sounds of moans, whines and whimpers. He chuckles, “you’ve been grinding against me for a while, do you want it?” Did you? You didn’t even notice until he said so. “Let’s go ahead and get these off okay?” He nudges at your pants now and he watches as you slowly take them off.

He gulps at your completely nude form now, “you’re everything I dreamed off and more.” You flushed at his words. Before you could say anything he went down on you causing you to yelp. He licked and sucked and slurped like his life depended on it. He almost got you to cum but stopped much to your dismay. “No need to pout darling, we’ll be coming undone together.” It was his turn to undress, his member stood proudly over your entrance. Something in you knew deep down that if you let him go the whole way that there would be no turning back even if he said no strings attached, but another part of you just doesn’t care. He turns you around and slowly enters you from behind and you gasp as you grip your sofa cushions from the intrusion. It doesn’t take long for the speed to pick up and he’s pounding you into your sofa making an absolute mess of you. Soon the both of you climax and he’s covering your back with his seed.

You’re too exhausted to move but that’s okay! He already knows where you keep your towels so he goes and gets some to clean you up. After doing so, he guides your arm over his shoulder and leads you to your bedroom. You fall asleep, too tired to stay awake. “You’re more ethereal in person when you’re sleeping than a screen could ever capture,” he kisses your forehead before drifting off to sleep himself, with you finally in his grasp.

Part 2

[jackhues]

...and maybe it's not love... | oscar piastri

note: here's part 2 <3 i think this will have 3/4 parts, but they might be split up if i reach the picture limit.

prev || next

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader, logan x best friend!reader, one sided!enemies to lovers

faceclaim: various, from pinterest

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youruser

liked by oscarpiastri, y/bffsuser, landonorris & others

youruser: what can i say? i'm a busy gal

user: bae... are you soft launching someone or is this just logan again? -> logansargeant: it's not me -> user: LOGAN MY GLORIOUS AMERICAN KING! WHO IS THIS??

user: why are the f1 boys here?? -> user: bcz she took a picture with oscar and i guess they're all friends now -> user: and it's only lando. quite overreacting

yourmomsig: too busy for family dinner -> youruser: ma if it was only our family i'd have been there. i just wasn't in the mood to deal with aunt griselda -> logansargeant: yeah thanks for that, i had to take ur place -> youruser: love you logie

logansargeant: you know you idiots are so cute it almost makes up for making me have dinner with aunt griselda -> user: stop he calls her aunt, 'aunt' - those two are siblings your honors -> youruser: i already told you i love you... what more do you want?

user: GIRL ARE YOU BACK WITH YOUR EX? -> youruser: ew no

user: come home the kids miss you

user: bae who is this man you're taking pics with? do i have to be jealous? -> youruser: nah we're just friends -> user: YOU MEAN YOU'RE FREAKING US ALL OUT TO TELL US THE MAN DIDN'T EVEN MAKE IT OFFICIAL YET?? -> youruser: i'm actually crying at this comment this is the funniest fucking thing i've ever read- -> oscarpiastri: she has literal tears streaming down her face -> user: ARIANA? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

oscarpiastri: too busy of a gal to answer your texts? -> youruser: depends on who it is -> user: guys stop logan's besties are becoming besties- i love this!

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youruser

liked by logansargeant, landonorris, oscarpiastri & others

youruser: signin' out

oscarpiastri: photo creds? -> youruser: no -> user: wait... oscar was at the graduation??????? -> user: i don't think so... he took the first and/or third picture and neither of them are at the ceremony itself. i think he was just invited to the party -> user: quit crushing my dreams girl

logansargeant: proud of you 🤍 -> youruser: love you logie 🤍

landonorris: just in time for hot girl summer -> youruser: 🤪🤪

user: wait i thought she already graduated -> user: this is her law school graduation i think -> user: isn't she like 23?? how?? -> youruser: max course loads + studying during summers! wasn't fun, but i'm FREEEEE

user: girlBOSS

y/bffsuser: i love you !! so so proud -> youruser: i adore you 😘

yourmomsig: love you sweetie, i'm so proud of you -> youruser: love you more ma

user: wait where's the 'friend' she was soft launching a while back -> youruser: we're still going good, trust -> user: lowkey think it's oscar

--

yourprivuser

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, y/bffsuser & others

youruser: fun night with fun people

tagged: y/bffsuser, oscarpiastri, logansargeant, friend2, friend3, friend4

oscarpiastri: probably the closest i'll be to graduating -> youruser: it's why i graduated twice, once for me, once for you

y/bffsuser: girl my face was not nice in that last pic -> youruser: puhleasee you look hot

logansargeant: i feel like there's someone you need to thank for all of this -> youruser: uhhhh god? -> logansargeant: girlllllll -> youruser: ugh thank you logan hunter sargeant, the greatest american to have ever lived

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f1gossip

liked by user, user, user & others

f1gossip: sources say that oscar piastri was in fort lauderdale between the canadian and brazilian gp. he was most likely there for y/n y/ln's graduation, but we cannot confirm if he attended the ceremony or only the party afterwards. the two know each other through their best friend logan sargeant, and we can confirm that they've only become friends during the miami gp, which is around the same time y/n began soft launching someone she calls a 'friend'

many think her and oscar piastri have started or are starting a relationship, and the belief has been cemented by him attending her graduation party. these pictures look like oscar and y/n going out for dinner with her friends, holding hands at one point, and then hanging out at oscar's hotel afterwards. we cannot confirm or deny that any of these pictures are in fact oscar and y/n as they aren't clear, but they do look similar to them.

for more information on y/n y/ln, check out the link in our bio

tagged: oscarpiastri, youruser, logansargeant

user: i ship them

user: bro who even is she??

user: how much y'all wanna bet she's not even really friends with logan?

user: that doesn't even look like oscar, y'all wilding

user: maybe he's just there to support a friend (in denial)

user: she doesn't look good

user: i don't like them together

user: oscar's too good for her

user: y'all hella interested in people who don't give a shit about you

youruser: wow my very own post on f1gossip- mom look i made it -> yourmomsig: congrats baby -> user: HER MOM ACTUALLY COMMENTED LMAOOOOO -> user: i changed my mind i stan her -> user: guys i really hope she's with oscar -> user: i don't think she is 😢 otherwise she'd probably ignore this post

user: y'all as much as i love them, i doubt they're together- most wags ignore these posts and this chick's out here commenting and calling her mom 💀

--

--

--

Y/N STARED AT THE MCLAREN CAP, unsure if she should wear it. It shouldn't mean anything to the public, just her showing support to one of her new friends. Because to them, that's all Oscar really was. Her friend.

They didn't know about the constant texts, the late night face times, the movie dates while across an ocean from each other. They didn't know about the way her heart would race whenever she saw his text, how he'd make her giggly and blush just by calling her a cute little nickname. They knew nothing.

Besides, she was wearing a Williams Racing shirt in support of Logan. Why should a simple McLaren cap - not even fully papaya colored - mean anything to the public?

"Oh my God, just put the cap on," Logan groaned, making way over and putting it on her head for her.

Y/N rolled her eyes, fixing the cap so it didn't ruin her hair.

"Shut up," she muttered. "I'm just nervous."

"You have no need to be," Logan promised her. "Oscar's going to lose his mind when he sees you in person, turn into a stuttering, stumbling mess, and you're going to be so touched by his awkwardness that you're going fall in love. All in all, it's a win-win situation."

"I don't like you," Y/N rolled her eyes, following Logan out of the hotel and in the car. She had arrived in England a few days ago, but kept a low profile. She missed the first two practices, before deciding to arrive on track for FP3 and quali. She'd also make her way over for the race tomorrow.

The two best friends shared TikToks and reels with each other during the short drive, making their way out of the car and towards the paddock once they arrived. Y/N tried to keep her hands at her sides, away from the McLaren cap on her head. No need to make it obvious. Cameras flashed and recorded videos as her and Logan walked down, making her incredibly nervous.

She felt hot, really hot. And... was she sweating? She resisted the urge to smell.

"You're fine," Logan promised, sensing her inner anxiety. "Nobody's focusing on your cap, they take videos of all the drivers arriving at track. Stop spiraling."

Y/N blinked back to the present at Logan's words, realizing that she was indeed falling into a spiral. It was all going to be okay. Logan was going to be there no matter what.

"Thanks Logie," she smiled. "You're the best."

"Yeah, I know," he nodded to himself.

She rolled her eyes, swatting him in the arm. Arriving outside the Williams' garage, she waved at Alex Albon.

"Hey, Y/N," he jogged over from inside. "How are you? Logan never even told me you're coming."

"I'm great Alex, thanks," she grinned. "And it was a bit of a surprise. I didn't want people to know I was coming here today. I have a job interview in a few days, so I decided why not come early and watch the GP in person."

"Good decision," he laughed. He looked at her cap, "Are you heading inside or heading to McLaren?"

"Uh... I think I'll head over to McLaren," she decided. "I don't want news of my arrival reaching Oscar before I get to surprise him."

Alex raised his brows, before fixing his expression, "Right, you guys finally met at Miami. I take it you became friends, right?"

"Yeah," Y/N nodded, trying not to let her heart eyes show. "I probably should've taken Logan's offer to meet his racing friends years ago. Most of them are pretty cool."

"I hope I'm one of them," Alex joked.

"You're at the top of the list," she winked. "Anyways, I'll catch you guys later on. Don't leave without me Logan."

"Same goes to you," he waved.

Y/N flipped him off, turning to make her way to McLaren garage. She could hear Logan's laughter behind her, making her smile to herself. Who knew when the last time he genuinely laughed on a race weekend even was?

Over the last few months, she'd seen lots of clips of Oscar and Logan hanging out together - more than usual - and usually joining them was Lando. It seemed that the Brit was interested in becoming friends with Logan after Miami, which honestly made her happy.

She arrived outside the McLaren garage, debating if she should head in or wait outside, or maybe just head back to Williams.

Before she could make up her mind, she heard someone make a surprised little noise.

"Y/N?" Lando asked, exiting the garage once he saw her. "You're here? Oscar that little brat, he never even told me you're going to visit."

"That's because he doesn't know," Y/N laughed. "It's a surprise. I kind of insinuated that I wouldn't be able to watch the race at all, but... well, I'm here!"

"Ugh you two are just so absolutely adorable," Lando sighed, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "C'mon, I'll take you to him. He said he's going to talk to his dad, I think."

"His dad's here?" She asked, stopping in her tracks. "Why did no one tell me his dad was going to be here?"

"Quit freaking out," Lando rolled his eyes. "His real dad's not here, I don't think."

"Then who is he — Charles?" Y/N asked. "They're still doing that little bit from Monaco."

Lando pointed to where Oscar was, indeed talking with someone in Ferrari gear. Y/N stood on her tiptoes, recognizing Charles Leclerc and his girlfriend, in the middle of some conversation with Oscar. Leo slept soundly in Alexandra's arms.

"Let's wait for them to finish their conversation," Y/N suggested, feeling bad for coming up to them while they were talking.

"Nope," Lando shook his head, leading her across and closer to Oscar.

"Lando, no, no, no, Lando, I will throw you under one of the cars, no, Lando—"

"Quick, laugh like I said something funny," Lando whispered.

Y/N was so surprised by his request, that she stopped trying to plot his murder.

"Laugh, woman!" Lando muttered.

"Oh, right," Y/N responded.

Trying her best to seem somewhat genuine, she thought of that time Oscar texted her because he walked into a pole. Which made her laugh so hard, she walked into a door.

She giggled at the memory, laughing as the duo approached the others.

Lando, seeing Oscar's head whip over immediately at the sound of her laughter, began giggling too. The two had to stop a few steps away from Oscar, Charles and Alexandra because of how hard they were laughing.

"Did you see— the way he—" Lando couldn't get a sentence out without bursting into another round of laughter.

"Lando, get your shit together," Y/N wiped her eyes, straightening up.

Charles and Alex raised their eyebrows, entirely confused by what was happening a few steps away from them, while Oscar stared at Y/N like she was a mound of gold.

"Okay, okay— never mind, I can't do it," Lando fell into another round of laughter every time he remembered how quickly Oscar looked at her.

"Oh my God," Y/N muttered, sending an apologetic smile towards the trio near them.

She grabbed Lando's arm and dragged him the final few steps, smiling at the small group.

"I'm so sorry about that," she apologized. "Lando here doesn't know how to behave."

At this point, Lando's laughter, which was finally beginning to stop, starting up all over again.

"I'm sorry guys, I'm so sorry," Lando got out. "I'm not laughing at you guys, I promise. I'm laughing at Osc."

"What did I do?" Oscar asked, finally snapping out of whatever trance he'd gone in after hearing Y/N's laughter.

At his question, Lando's laughter came back, this time high pitched and bringing on some tears.

Y/N leaned closer to Oscar, whispering, "Is this normal?"

"Just ignore him," he responded, hoping she couldn't hear his heart beating all over his body. "It'll stop eventually."

"If it doesn't it'll give the rest of us an edge in the race," Charles offered.

"Right, uh Charles, Alexandra, this is Y/N," Oscar introduced them, the group now choosing to ignore Lando as he sat on the floor and laughed some more. "She's uh, a friend of mine, and also Logan's best friend. She usually only comes to Miami, but apparently is here today."

"Surprise!" She grinned.

Oscar smiled, the feeling of her happiness radiating towards him. Maybe he liked surprises a lot more than he realized.

"Logan, uh..."

"Sargeant," Lando supplied to Charles from his spot on the floor, wiping his eyes to clear up some tears. "The one who drives for Williams."

Y/N's smile dipped slightly at the reminder that Charles was another driver who wasn't quite close with Logan. But she brought the smile back immediately, doing her best to be nice.

In fact, it was only because Oscar had his eyes on Y/N the entire time that he noticed the small dip. He didn't know just what it was about, but he remembered her make the same expression when she first met Lando.

"Right, yeah," Charles nodded. "I just wanted to make sure I had the right one. It's nice to meet you, Y/N. I'm Charles, and this is my girlfriend Alex."

"Nice to meet you guys," she smiled again, and it was as if nothing was wrong. She cooed at Leo asleep in Alex's arms, "Aw, cute dog. I've been more of a cat person my whole life, but I love puppies."

"His name's Leo," Alex introduced the dog.

"Oh, he's adorable," she grinned.

"Well, it was nice to meet you Y/N," Charles nodded in her direction. "We've got to go now, but hopefully we'll see you later on. Bye Lando, bye son."

"Bye dad," Oscar laughed.

"Bye," Lando waved at them.

Once they were gone, Y/N looked back at Oscar, only to see him already looking at her.

"Hi," she smiled.

"Hey," he breathed out.

"Oi, you two are being too lovey dovey in front of the cameras," Lando warned them. "Go to the motorhome or something."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but he wasn't wrong. There were much more cameras around McLaren than Williams, and people would be dissecting Y/N and Oscar's every move. Considering they weren't even dating, she wanted to keep the secret for a little while longer.

"Right, uh... you wanna come along, Y/N?" Oscar asked her.

"Sure, I'm not due back at Williams until the end of the day," she shrugged. "I got to return my paddock pass then. Coming, Lando?"

"No thank you," he shook his head. "I like my spot on the floor, and I'd rather not accidentally be a cockblock."

"Lando, we're not going to have sex in Oscar's motorhome," Y/N rolled her eyes.

"We're not?" Oscar asked, a joking glint in his eyes.

"Take me out on a date first, then we'll see," she responded in the same tone, turning towards the motorhome and making her way there.

"Hey, I already asked," he reminded her, catching up. "It's up to you to decide when you're cashing in the rain check."

Y/N tilted her head at him, a small smile making its way to her face. "Tell you what, you win the race tomorrow, I'll go on a date with you the next day."

Oscar smirked, "Well, I have to win the race now."

"Nice to know where your motivation factor lies."

The two arrived outside the room, and Oscar opened the door for her.

"What a gentleman," Y/N grinned to herself, entering the small space.

She took a seat on the bed, while Oscar sat in the chair by the desk.

"Are you okay?" Oscar asked once it was just the two of them, no cameras, no Lando, no one else.

"What do you mean?" Y/N asked. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, there's something bothering you," Oscar noted. "Or it did bother you at one point. When you were talking to Charles and Alex, you frowned at the start of the conversation. Right after I'd introduced you to them. Like, as if you were upset by something they said or did, I don't know."

Y/N frowned again at the reminder of that interaction, before shaking her head quickly to clear her thoughts.

"Nothing, I mean... like it's not a big deal," she tried to explain. "It's just this weird thing about me."

"You know you can trust me with anything, right?"

"I know, Oscar," she sighed. "It's just... it's complicated, I guess."

"If you want to talk about it, I've got time," he responded.

Y/N stared at him, remembering how she thought she hated him just a few months ago. She saw him as an egotistic prick, who'd left her best friend in the dust after stealing him from her. And here he was now... telling her he'd listen to her if she wanted him to.

"I didn't like you for a long time," she confessed.

At Oscar's hurt look, she continued quickly.

"Wait, no, that didn't come out the way I wanted," she closed her eyes. "I mean, like when we were kids, a long, long time ago. Because, for our entire lives, it'd been Logan and I. We did everything together, always. And then he got serious with racing, and he made other friends. Which was fine by me, because I'd always been his best friend. The only one who managed to come close to my position in Logan's eyes, was you. You were the one who'd managed to be one of his closest friends, because of racing, and you were the one who was closest to taking my place. And... well I was jealous. Which was why I often ran away after Logan's races, never stopped to meet you or talk with you, or any of the other drivers.

"And, you know, the years passed, and Logan and I remained close, and the jealousy faded, but then, I don't know. I guess I was embarrassed to talk to you, because I'd been jealous for so long. And then you both went into F1, and I told myself I'd be happy for both of you... but I wasn't, really. You just— I mean, you came into F1, and the love for you was immediate. The fans, your team, the other drivers. They all loved you, and they wanted to talk to you. And Logan... Logan got stuck with a shitty car and a shitty team, and none of the drivers even wanted to talk to him."

She took a deep breath, continuing, "and I know it's not your fault, but I love Logan, okay? Like I'd quite literally give up my life for him, and seeing him constantly in a place where he wasn't being treated fairly, where he wasn't happy.... it hurts. He's here because he loves racing, but every time people talk shit about him or act like he didn't put in so much work to be here, it makes me upset. I was... I don't know, envious of you on behalf of Logan, if that makes sense. And so I kind of ignored you during F1 as well. But then I began talking to you, and that first time I heard you speak, stumbling over your words, I think that's when I realized you were human. Just like Logan. You didn't choose it to be this way and you can't help it. And you know, a lot of times I can forget most of the people out there have never acknowledged Logan, because he's asked me to forget it so many times, but then they remind me that they haven't... and it hurts, Oscar. It hurts to see that. So you know, I'm sorry for judging you before ever even meeting you. That was stupid of me."

Oscar stared at her for a moment, feeling sick at her words. He'd never had someone who he was that close with, not outside of his family. He couldn't even imagine what went through her head every time she saw him, or the other drivers. He didn't blame her for her feelings, she had every right to hate anyone out there.

"Oscar?" she began hesitantly. "Are you... are you alright?"

He got up from his chair, standing in front of her and pulling her close. She immediately wrapped her arms around his waist, melting into his hug.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry that I let it happen."

"Oscar, it's not your fault," she said, her voice muffled by his embrace. "I realize that now, and it's something Logan's always known. He's never blamed you, I don't either. It's just the way life works."

"It's not great," Oscar commented.

"Nah, not really," she agreed. "But it won't stay like this forever."

She wouldn't let it.

--

f1

liked by youruser, logansargeant, y/bffsuser & others

f1: and it's the FIRST career GRAND PRIX WIN for oscar piastri! a daring move by the aussie in the final laps of the race put him ahead of max verstappen and as the leader of the race, where he led quite comfortably to the checkered flag

mclaren: that's our guy!!

user: OSCARRRRR GO OFF

user: LOGAN IN POINTS SOMEONE TALK ABOUT LOGAN IN POINTS -> user: your honor they're boyfriends

youruser: wow a race winner -> oscarpiastri: it was nothing

user: OSCAR OSCAR OSCAR OSCAR

user: someone check on y/n -> user: ???? -> user: well her and oscar might be dating no one knows. but she's besties with logan, and one of them won and the other's in points so she might be celebrating

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oscarpiastri

liked by youruser, landonorris, logansargeant & others

oscarpiastri: winning the race ➡️ winning in life

user: OSCAR JACK PIASTRI!! WHO IS THIS???

user: mans just dropped a whole bomb and left

user: boy isn't responding to ANYONE -> user: he said 'look at my girl' and then dipped

user: y'all that's y/n i'm calling it -> user: no she looks too tall in the second pic -> user: i think she's wearing heels

user: oscar get your ass back on this app and answer the peoples' questions -> oscarpiastri: no.

youruser: ugh i love her nails -> oscarpiastri: 🙄 she said thanks babe -> youruser: your girl loves me more than you -> oscarpiastri: i'm afraid it may be so

user: NAH IT AINT Y/N! LOOK AT HER COMMENTS

user: y/n bestie boo tell us who oscar's new girl is -> youruser: no.

user: y/n and oscar are hilarious bcz she's been soft launching her 'friend' for months and now oscar's hiding a whole girlfriend from us -> user: i see what logan meant when he said they're too similar but also completely opposite

user: i still think the girl's y/n

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youruser:

liked by y/bffsuser, logansargeant, landonorris & others

youruser: summer of 24... you were definitely one for the books

tagged: oscarpiastri

user: YOU'VE BEEN SOFTLAUNCHING OSCAR ALL ALONG????

user: the way i didn't actually see this one coming

user: I FUCKING KNEW ITT

oscarpiastri: best summer yet 🩷 -> youruser: got me blushing and shii

logansargeant: i'd like a written thank you card for being the reason you two are together -> youruser: no 🤍

user: i just KNOW logan's been their biggest shipper

yourmomsig: cutiess

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oscarpiastri

liked by youruser, charles_leclerc, logansargeant & others

oscarpiastri: it's been ten years in the making

tagged: youruser

user: SHUT UP

user: wait they've been dating for TEN YEARS??!! -> user: no i think he had a crush on her for like ten years

youruser: i adore you 🩷 -> oscarpiastri: it's hard not to adore me

youruser: s i m p -> oscarpiastri: are you complaining? -> youruser: no

logansargeant: again. am i getting a thank you at all??? -> oscarpiastri: sorry my future wife said no -> youruser: jasdjfakhfrshgous -> user: nah she real for that- i'd do the same if oscar said that about me

user: she needs to lose some weight

user: ew why does she smile like that

user: MOM AND DAD

landonorris: i'd also like a thank you for not being a cockblock -> oscarpiastri: no.

--

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user & others

f1gossip: well it's officially been confirmed by oscar piastri and y/n y/ln that they are dating and have been together for at least the summer. it's unclear when they began dating, but we can assume it was after the miami grand prix, where it is believed that they met for the first time.

y/n y/ln is the childhood best friend of logan sargeant, and has took to social media multiple times to defend him. she has completed law school, and we believe she works in england, which is where oscar is located at the moment. for more information on y/n y/ln and the timeline of her and oscar piastri's relationship, check the link in our bio

user: bro who cares

user: i thought this was a driver gossip page not the wags

user: what does oscar see in her? -> user: right like she has to have bewitched him

user: i love her she's such a girlboss

user: idk how oscar does it. my brain would stop working once she smiled at me

user: something about their relationship screams pr to me -> user: like wdym they only met in miami bcz fans wanted them to and now they're dating -> user: nah that's sketchy

--

--

notes: well here's the anticipated part 2!! i hope you guys enjoy it! if you'd like to be added to my tag list, please comment on part one of this series just so all the comments are in one place. let me know what you guys think of this part in the comments + reblogs <3

and again my tags don't always work, so you might want to follow my writing tag 'naqia writes!' or the tag for this short series 'the bsf of my bsf! series' so they show up on your dash at some point :)

don't forget to like AND reblog!!

tags: @ravisinghs-wife , @urfavsgf , @mxdi0 , @lemon-lav , @lilipiggytails , @stinkyjax , @blckgrl-sunflower , @littlemisssummer , @dreamsarebig , @k-pevensie28 , @themislovesf1 , @hellowgoodbye , @chezmardybum , @5sospenguinqueen , @charlotte1697 , @stylestastic , @sie17136 , @2lsargeant , @softpiastri <33

[formula-ghost]

Read Your Diary (FC43 x fem!reader)

Chapter 2: Own My Mind

CHAPTER SUMMARY: You might have finally admitted to yourself that you have feelings for Franco, but that doesn’t make the deep longing you feel for him any easier. And he's starting to make you question if he might feel the same longing for you, too.

WORD COUNT: 5.2k

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT 18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Reader is a lil freak, use of YN, mentions of anxiety disorders/therapy, reader has self esteem issues

TAGLIST: @scopeiguess

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on part one! I never expected my first chapter to get any notes let alone over 200 notes in just a few days. Seriously every single note has me kicking my feet and turning my eyes into little heart emojis lol. I’m already about 2k words into ch 3 so I am hoping I’ll finish it before I have to travel for the holidays (I will not be able to write at all while I’m gone). Also, I had a request for someone to be tagged in this chapter, so let me know if you all would like me to start a permanent tag list. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Oh it’s automatic, you know I just gotta have it

I’ll make your body a habit

You know there’s some kind of magic, uh huh

Do you wanna, do you wanna, own my mind, own my mind?

The Singapore Grand Prix was later that night. Franco did really well considering the circumstances. It was disgustingly humid, and when he was done you could tell he felt awful. You were so angry at everyone at Williams for letting him race like that. Yes, it was his job, but that was your friend out there suffering—your friend who you had just admitted to yourself yesterday that you were in love with.

You watched him from afar when he spoke to the media afterwards. His curls were plastered down to his forehead with sweat, and his skin was pale and clammy. You just wanted to hold him and tell him that you were proud of him. Instead you had to settle for keeping an eye on him in the chaos of the paddock post-race, and helping him back to the hotel with his mother.

She had to get on an early flight, so she left and you promised her you’d stay until he was okay. She was worried about him, and you were too. God, seeing him so sick broke your heart. You helped pack up his things while he took a cold shower and he emerged in just a towel wrapped around his waist. He seemed to be feeling much better thankfully, and his more playful mood reflected it.

Of course, you snuck a glance or two at his sculpted form. Just a peek at his wet curls, the water droplets running down his chest—even the scar on his collarbone that he always tries to hide. He thinks it’s ugly. You think there isn’t a single part of him that’s ugly.

You tried to ignore him and continued tidying up. “I hope you don’t expect me to tip you,” he joked.

You playfully rolled your eyes. “What else are you going to do with all your stripper money?”

“Well, if we’re stripping…” he said, slowly lowering his hand down to his hips, palming the towel. You stomped to the bathroom, out of view of whatever joke he was making. “Get dressed, you man whore,” you instructed.

You lived for the banter you all had—at times, it felt like your own language separate from the rest of the world. The audience could hear Franco’s humor, but they’d never understand it like you did.

When you left the bathroom he was thankfully (or, unfortunately) fully clothed, lying on the bed and lazily scrolling through his phone.

“I’m glad you seem to be feeling better,” you said.

“Well, better than I was, but still kind of like shit,” he responded with a sigh.

“Well, you can get some rest, I’ve got you pretty much all packed up so you’ll be ready to go tomorrow.”

He put his phone down and gave you a soft smile. “Thank you.” He paused for a moment, as if he was readying himself to say something, and looked at the floor away from you. “YN, would you… stay? Just in case I get worse, you know.”

You could tell by the color in his face that he was feeling better, but how could you deny him this small comfort, when his eyes met yours through his long eyelashes, a sliver of light from the street lamps outside cutting through the drawn curtains and resting on his face? He was so beautiful. And he wanted you to stay.

“Of course,” you said. You were going to get up from the corner of the bed where you now sat and move to the chair until he fell asleep, but instead he motioned for you to lay down on the bed next to him. Tentatively, you did, heart racing as he laid his head on your shoulder and curled his body into you.

His playful flirting was normal, but this was… different, a closeness beyond what was usual between you two. You could feel the warmth of his skin, his breath steady against you. Yes, your heart was beating, but you felt strangely calm. Peaceful. In this moment all that mattered was you and your best friend, quietly sharing a moment in each other’s presence.

Your hand, trembling, reached down to smooth a piece of his hair. He hummed in response, to which you quickly moved your hand, mumbling, “Oh, sorry.”

He just grabbed your hand and wordlessly placed it back on his head. Slowly, you began to run your fingers through his beautiful curls. You got lost in the moment, and soon enough, you felt his breath even out as he fell into a peaceful sleep. Soon enough, the stillness of the moment and the soft rise and fall of his breathing lulled you to sleep too.

You woke just as the sun was beginning to illuminate the sky outside. You had an unfortunate habit of waking up in the middle of the night—a common symptom of anxiety, your therapist had told you—but for the first time in a long time, you slept through the night soundly.

You and Franco had shifted, and he know had his arm lazily wrapped around you. You remembered the previous night and felt your heartbeat increase. It wasn’t just the feeling of his arm draped across your waist, but the feeling of…. something else. A little… morning problem.

Of course, you knew Franco couldn’t help it. He wasn’t even awake, and from your years of friendship you knew how much of a heavy sleeper he was. It was just an uncontrollable biological phenomenon. Nothing more.

But you couldn’t stay, feeling him pressed against you like that. It felt wrong and you were so nervous you could hardly breathe. So you carefully wiggled your way out of his grasp and quietly left his room, returning to your own.

Returning to your hotel room, all you knew to do to calm yourself down was to write. So you opened your journal and wrote all about the scene; the dinner, the banter, waking up next to him in the morning sunlight.

You wrote until your hand started to cramp. Then you went back to read what you had written, skimming over it, your mind only picking up on little snippets.

Lily thought I was Franco’s girlfriend, and I guess I can’t blame her. He’s such a flirt, I love and hate it. I just wonder if it ever means anything to him. I mean, he treats random reporters the same way he treats his girlfriends. What does he do when he actually wants someone?

He asked me to stay. I thought he must still be sick, but he just wanted me to… cuddle? I ran my fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. He looked like an angel, so soft and innocent, resting next to me. I wanted to kiss him so badly.

But when I woke up, I could feel his morning wood pressing against me. God, it was so awkward. But I can’t stop thinking about it, what he would do if he really wanted me.

Oh no. Oh no no no. You shouldn’t write that kind of stuff. Having a crush was one thing, but thinking about him like that? It was…wrong. Franco was your best friend. Your best friend who was absolutely perfect—yes, physically as well.

You threw your journal on the bed with a grunt of frustration.

You were fucked.

Your heart beat nervously as you walked into the waiting room before your next therapy session. It had been a week or so since Singapore when you had finally admitted the truth to yourself.

Yes, you had feelings for Franco. Emotional and… physical. No, you had no idea what to do with them.

Waiting for the clock to strike the hour, you reached down into your bag to run your fingertips along the spine of your leather journal. You had been writing incessantly in it since that night.

And if you thought that your fantasies were bad then, oh, it had gotten so much worse.

You told yourself you couldn’t help it. You were ovulating. You’d been single for a while. You were a girl with needs. But you felt disgusted, basically writing porn about your best friend.

I keep imagining that night at the hotel in Singapore, when he came out of the bathroom with just his towel on. In my mind, he sits on the edge of the bed like always, hand carefully placed at the top of his towel. His hair is dripping and his skin is still dotted with water droplets.

He doesn’t even have to say anything. The way he looks at me—eyes looking up through his gorgeous lashes, his pouty lips looking so lonely—I know exactly what he wants. So I get on the bed and straddle him, the only thing between us being my skirt, panties, and the thin fabric of the towel. I can feel him, how badly he wants me.

Then I’m in control, kissing his neck, leaving love bites up and down so that everyone knows he’s mine. He moans softly into my ear, bucking up his hips into me for just a bit of friction. “No,” I tell him, “I didn’t give you permission for that.” He whines in protest, but I just smile at his frustration. “My sweet boy…”

Even remembering what you wrote felt filthy. You wanted him—all of him.

I had a dream last night that Franco dominated me. We are in his apartment, arguing about something stupid, and he pushed me against the wall, kissing me roughly, like he couldn’t get enough of me. He holds me waist with his strong hands as his kisses get deeper.

“I need to taste you,” he growls into my mouth, picking me up and throwing me on the bed. Before I can react he’s on top of me, one hand holding my chin and the other fumbling with the zipper of my jeans. “Are you going to be good for me?” he asks, and I frantically nod.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, smirking, as he pulls off my jeans and my panties with it—

“YN? You can come in now.” You’re pulled from your daydreaming by the voice of your therapist. You close the journal, embarrassed, but not without her seeing it in your hands.

“I hope you’re doing well. I see you’ve got a journal, you’ve been writing in it, I take it?” she asked as you sat down in the familiar office.

“Yeah, I have,” you answered, clutching it tightly in your folded hands.

“Well, that’s great! Has it been helping you?”

“Um… I guess?”

“Explain more.”

You paused, unable to think. All you could do was blurt out the truth.

“I’m in love with my best friend.”

“…Okay.” Your therapist also paused. “Did your writing bring about this revelation?”

You tumbled through the rest of the session, trying to explain what happened without revealing too many intimate details.

“I just feel… horrible I guess. It’s so dumb. It’s not like he’ll ever feel the same way about me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, he’s so… perfect. And I’m an anxious mess,” you laughed.

“Is anxiety that much of a barrier to being loved?”

You laughed, considering the gravity of her question. You couldn’t truly answer it. “It shouldn’t be. But I just know he’d never choose me and that’s okay. He doesn’t even know how I feel, and even if I had the courage to tell him, I wouldn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“Does it bother you, not being able to tell him about all of this?”

“….yeah, it does, actually,” you admitted. "I'll never do it but... I just wish I could, you know?"

"I understand. Why not start with expressing your feelings platonically? Telling him what he means to you as a friend?"

"I guess I could do that." You didn't quite know how you'd accomplish that, but you weren't in therapy just to refuse to try anything. You wanted to do hard things. You needed to do them.

So you made it your mission, next time you saw Franco, to tell him something meaningful. You weren't sure what it would be or how it would come out, but you'd at least try.

Unfortunately, it was a while before you'd see Franco again. There were a few weeks between Singapore and Austin, and between race prep with Williams and sponsorship deals, Franco was up to his ears in work. You still talked, of course—you texted back and forth every day—but it just wasn't the same, and you missed him horribly.

You'd felt this before, the ache in your stomach that longed for his presence when you'd gone too long without seeing him. You figured it would be different now that you had finally admitted to yourself what this feeling was. You didn't expect it to be worse.

Because now that feeling in your stomach was sharper. You didn't just yearn for the mere concept of him—you wanted everything. You missed his smile. You missed hearing his voice rise and fall in intonation as you bantered back and forth. You missed his perfect curls smoothed across his forehead. You missed the feeling of his arm wrapped around you, whether in a friendly embrace or something more intimate, like you'd had in Singapore. And in the back of your mind, you missed the feeling of Franco's hardness pressing against your back, a sign of what you fantasized was a deep wanting for you, both physical and emotional.

You tried, and failed, to rein in these fantasies. But with the more days that passed, the more Franco began to feel less and less like your best friend, and more and more like the version of him you'd created in your head, desperate for you more than anything else in the world.

You wrote all of this down, of course. If you hadn't you would have lost your mind with lust. Romantic pining was nothing new to you—you'd had a boyfriend before, although what you felt for him paled in comparison to Franco—but this intense physical desire you felt was new.

You had never been satisfied by anyone, anything, before. You smiled to yourself as you thought, well, I guess it's true what they say about the quiet, shy ones.

And Franco, unbeknownst to him, wasn't making it any easier. He called you one day, the first phone call you'd had in a while, a few days before you'd be flying out to Austin for the grand prix.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy," he explained, "but the stuff we're doing is so cool."

"Am I allowed to know, or is it top secret?" You smiled through the phone.

"Well... I can't tell you everything just yet, but I can give you a sneak peek. Check your messages."

You felt your phone vibrate, receiving a notification from Franco. You tapped on the text and nearly dropped your phone. He had sent you unedited pictures from a photoshoot, and he looked fucking amazing.

His voice on the other end of the line explained, "I'm gonna be on the cover of Forbes Mexico for the race. What do you think?"

At first, you were quite literally speechless. "Franco, you look..."

"Gorgeous? Sexy? Like the most fuckable Formula 1 driver?" he teased. For a split second, you wondered if it was possible to hear a blush through the phone.

His banter inspired your own. "... not bad. I mean, you certainly give them a lot of work to do to make you look good, but they did pretty decent."

If human beings could hear a blush through a phone, you were sure the noise that Franco made would be indicative of one. "Oh, shut up and tell me I'm pretty."

A million potential responses went through your head. Make me. Beg for it. My pretty boy.

Instead you just laughed and said, "No, really, you look great. This is amazing. You know the entire internet is going to lose their minds after this drops?"

He smiled. "That's the plan."

It still hadn't been released by the time you made it to Austin, but you weren't complaining. A part of you liked having this piece of Franco all to yourself. You kept going back to the photos again and again—his glare at the camera, his arm draped over a steering wheel—you couldn't get enough.

And when he met you at the airport in Austin (even though you told him it wasn't necessary), all that want came rushing back the instant he wrapped you in a hug that lasted a little too long to be considered platonic.

You couldn’t let your thoughts go that far. You’d already crossed a line by allowing yourself to feel such… intimate emotions for him. But to even imagine that he really wanted you to? No. That was where you actually drew the line.

But unfortunately, Franco’s confusing behavior made it far too easy for you to believe that he didn’t feel the same.

You all didn’t talk about that night in Singapore, or the fact that he must have woken up alone. You’d rather throw yourself into a pit of knives than talk about it and have to bear the embarrassment, and Franco didn’t seem bothered at all, so you let it go to the back of your head, acting as if it never happened at all. Your first day in Austin was fine, mainly spent recovering from jet lag and exploring the city on your own while Franco did his media duties. You had dinner with him that night and it was like no time had passed. The banter was the same, the atmosphere was great, and you were so happy to be back in his presence again.

As he walked you to your hotel room, you remembered your promise you had made to yourself, that you’d try to practice being vulnerable. For some reason, you didn’t have it in you today. You were tired, in a good way, but all you wanted was to curl up next to Franco and wake up in his arms the next morning.

And of course, you assumed Franco would want to stay. Why else would he walk you back to your room? Maybe it was the nervousness of the implication—you and Franco, alone in your hotel room—that prevented you from saying anything, or maybe you just knew that now wasn’t the right time.

Either way, there was no moment. Franco just bid you goodnight with a wave and left to his own room.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. He just didn’t like you like that, and it was okay. You didn’t want to ruin the friendship.

But you also couldn't help but feel a bit...disappointed. You cursed yourself for letting your fantasies become too real. It would be weirder if he had tried something.

Still, you dealt with these complicated emotions the only way you knew how: writing. You opened the journal and began to write away, not even stopping to think, just vomiting words on the page.

We're in Austin right now. It's been...normal. Good. Which is weird, considering that last time we were at a grand prix we spent the night together. It's not like that, but I can't help but think that something is just...different. I keep thinking about what my therapist asked, about anxiety being a barrier to love. Franco has always supported me, or tried to at least. I haven't exactly made it easy for him, or anyone else, since I bottle things up so much.

But he doesn't love me, not like that, anyways. He dates models—I mean, God, he is a model now—and I'm just me. I'm not exceptionally pretty or smart or funny. I'm nobody.

I can't help but fantasize about how things could be different. I imagine us going on a fancy date. He's wearing that suit he did the Mexico photoshoot in, with the top shirt buttons undone to tease me. He picks me up from my apartment at 8 with a bouquet of pink roses (not red, red is too cliche; but I guess I can't complain, no man has ever bought me flowers). I'm wearing that dress I got the last time we visited Argentina together—the one that hugs all my curves just right, and it's his favorite color. The dinner is sweet. We savor the time together, since it's more scarce now that he's a permanent driver in F1. We've had a few glasses of wine, just enough to get us slightly giggly and blushed, our inhibitions long abandoned. In the back of the Uber he traces his hand up and down my thigh, each time teasing scandalously closer and closer to the place I need him the most. 

The ride is torturously long, but when we arrive back at his apartment, he wastes no time in getting me alone so he can have his way with me. He picks me up bridal style and kisses me through my drunken laughter, a smile on his face, too. He lovingly tosses me on the bed before taking off his jacket. I just look at him in awe. He’s so fucking perfect. And he’s all mine. He gets on top of me, kissing me gently, and no words need to be exchanged between us. I can feel the tenderness of his lips against mine, and he pauses, looking me directly in the eyes. The moment is quiet and I feel so safe and loved with him, until our lips crash together and his hand finds its place on my thigh again. It trails up and

There was a knock at your door. 

You jumped, startled. Getting up and looking through the peephole in the door, you saw it was just, of course, Franco, so you hurried to open the door.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“You left your lipstick in my pocket,” he smirked, holding out the tube to you.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, having forgotten about asking him to hold it earlier at dinner since your outfit didn’t have pockets. 

“You didn’t even notice that I stole it.” It was true. You had completely forgotten about it with all your journaling. 

“Well, the shade would look good on you,” you teased. 

He playfully rolled his eyes. “It’s no fun pranking you when you don’t even notice. Keep up, hm?” Franco loved to play little tricks on you like this, and usually you played right into them, knowing that the fun of his taunting outweighed whatever consequence the prank itself would bring. 

“You’re impossible,” you said, smiling regardless. “Now, if you’re done stealing my stuff, I’m exhausted.” You went to close the door, assuming this to be the natural end of the exchange, until Franco took a step into your room and rested his weight on the doorframe.

“Not exhausted enough to skip your… journaling?” he said, looking over your shoulder.

Shit. Shit shit shit. You hadn’t closed your journal. 

“Since when do you journal?” he asked, leaning forward as if he was trying to make out the words from across the room.

If you had been smarter, smoother with it, you probably could have lied and said it was for work, then proceeded to rant about your remote corporate job which would have bored Franco to tears. But smart and smooth with it are two things that you are not.

You swiftly turned around to grab the journal and slam it closed, holding it in a death grip. Your absence from the door, however, had been interpreted by Franco as an invitation to come in. And it was clear by the urgency of your actions that whatever was in that journal was something you did NOT want him knowing.

You answered him, “I haven't been doing it very long.” There was a brief moment where you considered ending the conversation there. It was too late to formulate a good lie, anyway. But on the other hand, you wanted to do hard things and be honest with yourself and others. So you did. At least your therapist would be proud.

So you continued, “It was a suggestion from my therapist. Just helps you get your thoughts out so they aren’t all stuck in your head.” Simple enough. It was the truth, after all. He didn’t need to know what those thoughts were.

“Can I read it?”

You paused in bewilderment. “Um, no? Franco, what the fuck?”

“What?”

“You don’t just… ask to read someone’s personal journal.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s personal, you muppet!”

“Really? Stole that one from Lando?”

“It fits." You snorted. "But seriously, why would you ask to read my journal?” 

“Because I never know what you’re thinking. You’re impossible to figure out.”

“... I am?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well why don’t you just, I don’t know, ask me what I’m thinking?”

“... I know you did not just say that.”  He made a face at you. Yeah, he was right. If you were skilled enough at communicating your emotions you wouldn’t have needed to start the journal in the first place. He continued, “You were literally dying in Singapore and when I asked you what was wrong you said you were fine.”

“Hey, I made it to quali alive,” you replied. 

“Look, I just… It would be nice to understand where you’re coming from a bit more, like… actually nevermind, forget I ever said anything.” Your confusion only lingered as Franco clearly struggled to find the words. You guess that this was how he felt communicating with you sometimes—it sucked.

“Whatever, you weirdo,” you said, your joking tone an indicator to him that you were willing to act as if this horribly embarrassing exchange had never happened. 

“Goodnight, YN,” he said as he left the room, ending the conversation like that. Now it was your turn to be confused by his actions. There was something he clearly wanted to say but couldn’t, and you let yourself wonder, just for a second, if what was happening to you wasn’t so different from whatever was going on in his head.

You let your fantasies lull you into sleep.

Again, you let… whatever was happening between you and Franco go unsaid and focused on supporting him for the grand prix. 

From the Williams garage, you cheered him on as he got another point, overtaking Alonso so skillfully. When he came back to the garage, you met him as you always did, with a smile that stretched across your entire face. Your hug this time was different, as he picked you up and twirled you around. You laughed into his shoulder, holding on to him as he spun you.

He put you down and was immediately assailed by hugs all around from the Williams team. Lily, who had been in the garage by your side the whole race, elbowed you in the side. 

“So, you and Franco are just friends, huh?” she teased. You all had become friendly enough that a little bit of banter was acceptable. 

You inhaled with a soft smile, watching him celebrate in the distance. Once again, you chose vulnerable honesty. 

“Yes, we’re just friends. But it’s…complicated.”

Her eyes widened and she turned to you, shielding you off from the celebratory scene. In a lowered voice, she muttered, “You have feelings for him?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. But c’mon, he just spun you around like a Disney princess. He obviously has feelings too. And have you seen what the fans are saying about you all?”

“No?” You were surprised the fans even knew you existed. You had cut down on social media a long time ago, knowing how much it contributed to your anxiety and self-esteem issues. You still had accounts, but all were private and hardly used, and you didn’t interact much with fans at the races, preferring to stay in the garage or in Williams hospitality to enjoy the races without worrying about what people were thinking of you.

“They love you two. Seriously, I think there’s gotta be a million teenage girls living vicariously through you.”

You laughed at her comment, not in a mocking way, but because of the absurdity of it all. None of these people really knew you, or Franco, for that matter. It just proved your point that social media wasn’t real.

So if people on social media were shipping you and Franco, then it couldn’t be true. At least, that’s the confusing logic you held yourself to. A line had to be drawn somewhere.

Your conversion with Lily was cut short by Franco approaching. “Celebratory dinner later?” he asked, still beaming. You agreed.

If you could have bottled the energy that Franco exuded all day after the race, you would have had yourself a very lucrative energy drink company. As he was packing up his things to leave the circuit, you all passed by barriers where fans were practically crawling their way to get to him, screaming his name and waving Argentine flags in the air. He tilted his head to them as you passed, and asked, “Can I?”

You were in no rush, and of course you could never deny him this moment to enjoy what he had built with all his hard work. He stopped to sign shirts and caps while you stood behind. Everyone had their phones out, filming Franco, but you knew you’d inevitably end up in the background. You just hoped you didn’t look too awkward. 

Franco turned his head back to you as the crowd behind the barrier just grew more and more excited. “You see this, YN? This is insane!” his smile stretched from ear to ear, and you just smiled in response. He climbed up the fence, eliciting a small giggle from you, and filmed the crowd below him chanting his name.

You had never been more proud of him. And you had to say it. 

So you did, after dinner when you all somehow ended up in his hotel room together again. The atmosphere was…calm. Familiar. Warm.

The conversation had reached a natural pause, and the night had gotten to that point where that space between you and him felt simultaneously infinite and nonexistent. 

He sat crossed legged on the bed, fiddling with something in his suitcase next to him. You sat on the chair only a few feet away.

“I’m so proud of you, Franco. I don’t tell you enough.”

He looked up and your eyes met. And he blushed. You had made Franco Colapinto blush.

“When did you get all sappy on me?” he asked. There was still a bit of a wall up. It was unusual for you all to be this vulnerable with each other.

“Since my best friend in the entire world is achieving all his dreams! I mean, we’re celebrating points now, but one day we’ll be celebrating podiums. And then race wins. And then championships. I believe it.”

The room was draped in a thick silence. Franco knew you didn’t throw these words around carelessly. And the unspoken implication, that you’d be there for all of it.

“I believe it too,” he said quietly. There was no ego in his statement. Only true hope.

[lady-djarin]

home

joel miller x f!reader (one shot)

warnings/tags: sickening fluff, established relationship, no outbreak, sarah’s alive and well, some touching and kissing between reader and joel, still adult content but no p in v. mdni

word count: 2.6k

a/n: not edited much (that’s my motto) but i just kinda dumped this out in one go so it could be bad. who knows.

* ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

“Dad!”

Ever since Sarah entered middle school she has become quite loud.

“Dad, there you are,” she barreled into the living room where you and Joel sat on the couch. “I need you to sign this.”

She pushes a piece of paper into his face along with a pen. He quints at it to read the small print. You grab it out of his hands when he tries to locate his glasses that are nowhere in sight.

“Oh the dance! How fun,” you handed it back to him and made sure he signed it as you shot Sarah a wink as she bounced happily on her toes.

You have been dating the single dad for around six months and you have grown quite close with Sarah. Joel has expressed how nervous he is about his baby girl getting older and all the things that come along with it. More than anything else he hates the idea of her dating. He signs the paper with his usual grumpy frown but does it nonetheless and in turn Sarah squeals and jumps up and down in excitement.

“Can you take me shopping tomorrow, I only have a week to shop for a dress,” Sarah put on her best puppy dog face that usually works on her father.

“I’m sorry angel I’ve got a job tomorrow,” he did look genuinely upset that he couldn’t spend the time with his daughter.

“I’ll take you, we can have a girls day,” you had been wanting to spend some one on one time with Sarah and this was the perfect opportunity.

“Oh my god, thank you!” She squealed again and jumped on you and wrapped you in a tight hug. She ran up the stairs talking mostly to herself about what kind of dress and makeup she was planning for her first dance.

“Thank you darlin’, you didn’t have to do that.” He rubbed your leg with his large warm hand and the other came up to hold your face as he kissed you tenderly.

“Oh please, I love that kid. Plus, I don’t think shopping is your forte,” you both laughed at how true that was.

Even though you’ve only been seeing Joel for a few months, you have never felt so at home. He and Sarah have welcomed you in like you were always meant to fit in their little family. You knew you were never one to have kids of your own but the young girl makes you feel more maternal than you ever have in your life.

~

You and Sarah spend the day in the mall finding stores to invade and try on every dress possible. She finally settled on a beautiful deep purple shimmery one that made her look way older than she needed to, but it was appropriate. Afterwards you found the food court and dug into some pizza and garlic knots.

“So… since your dad will never bring this up… are you going with anyone to the dance? Like maybe a boy? or girl, I don't judge.”

You knew she probably didn’t want to talk about it as pre-teens never do but you wanted to make sure she wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Her cheeks blushed a deep shade of crimson but she giggled slightly, telling you there was someone.

“I mean… I’m not going with anyone but my friends but…”

She was avoiding telling you the truth, maybe because she thought you’d rat her out to her dad.

“Look Sarah… I'm not asking to be a snitch, I just want to make sure you’re being safe and smart, that's all.”

She looked up at you with shyness but trust in her deep brown eyes.

“There is this boy… Ben,” she had the most radiant smile on her face telling you about her crush. He’s a little older than her but in the same grade and apparently very sweet and has blue eyes and dark blonde hair. You can imagine her sitting in class staring at him instead of listening to the teacher.

“So, are you going to meet him at the dance?”

“I mean we haven’t made plans but… I told him I’d see him there, and he followed me on instagram!”

It all reminded you of the days before adult pressure and complicated feelings. You smiled as she continued to tell you about him and the things she found endearing.

“Ok now, I have to ask and be the annoying adult but have you, you know… done anything with boys before?”

While she was only just under thirteen you still had to make sure, kids do anything these days.

“Like what?” She gave you a scrunched confused face then slowly realized what you were asking. “Like kissing?! Oh no that’s gross, boys smell anyway…,” she seemed to maintain her innocence for a while longer.

Thank god.

“Well that’s fair, but just remember, if a boy ever tries to do anything you don’t like, you can always say no. Don’t ever feel like you have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

She looked a little confused at your instruction but nodded anyway. She’s a very smart kid and strong willed, you have full faith in her.

The rest of the day was spent wandering around the mall and you both finally decided to end up getting your nails done.

~

Joel came home to find you both cooking dinner, a hoard of shopping bags littered the house.

“There’s my girls,” he ruffled his daughter's hair and covered her eyes jokingly as he kissed you deeply. “How was shopping? Successful it seems like.”

“Very…,” Joel’s eyes kept flicking down to your lips, as they often did when he got home from work.

“Dad, look! We got our nails done!” She splayed her fingers out so he could inspect her manicure. You let her get some slightly ‘grownup’ nails, small extensions with french tips. She said she’ll be the talk of the dance.

“Oh look at that… my little girl is all grown up…,” he looked a little queasy and you both laughed at his reluctance to let her grow up.

“Sarah, why don’t you put these bags away and I'll finish dinner, ok?”

She hugged you tight around your middle and mumbled about a million ‘thank you’s into the fabric of your shirt before grabbing her bags and darting up the stairs.

As soon as she disappeared Joel grabbed your hips as he stood behind you and pulled you into his hard chest. He attached his lips to your neck and ran his hands over your curves.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” His voice was low and gravely in your ear.

“Mmm, not today…”

He pulled you impossibly closer and nuzzled his mouth against your neck. “Well I do, I love you so damn much,” he continued kissing down your neck and any skin he could reach. “Sarah loves you too you know, she’s always talking about you…”

It felt like he wanted to talk about something else, something more. Your relationship has been going so well and it kind of feels like it’s time to take the next step. While you both know that this is it, there’s no one else for either of you, it might not be exactly time yet to tie the knot. However you have talked about sharing a space, the idea of living together is exciting to both of you.

“Well I love her, she’s a great kid, because you’re a great dad.” You turned in his arms and returned the kisses along his jaw. Just as you slid your hands into his back pockets, loud very teen sounding footsteps came racing down the stairs. You pulled away from each other but Sarah was too busy looking at her nails to notice. The timer on the oven beeped and as Joel and his daughter set the table you gathered the rest of dinner.

You sat around the table like you always did on Saturday nights and talked about the plans for the next week and the dance. You really did love your little found family.

~

The following Saturday you sat in Sarah’s room with her and a couple friends of hers, helping do their hair and makeup. Joel happened to have a poker game tonight with Tommy so he said bye just before the teen girl screaming got too loud. So here you were, a fully grown woman essentially playing dress up with a few 13 year olds. But you couldn’t be happier.

After the girls were ready and a lengthy photoshoot ensued, you were off. Four screaming voices all trying to harmonize to some pop song over the radio made your ears ring but seeing Sarah so happy made it worth it.

The plan was to pick her up around 10pm when it ended.

So you were super confused when you got a call from Sarah around 8:30pm.

“Hey girl, what’s going on? You ok?”

All you heard at first was a sniffle, then a deep breath before her wobbly voice came over the speaker. “N-no, not really…”

Your heart stopped for a second but you tried to stay calm.

“What’s wrong?” You tried to hide the urgency in your voice.

“Ben… he—“ hiccup “He was a… a total jerk!” Her voice was strained and scratchy like she had been crying for some time.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry… You know what, you stay in the office, ok? I'm going to come get you.”

She only mumbled a quiet ‘ok, bye’ before you slammed the phone down on the receiver and grabbed your keys. You shaved off probably five to ten whole minutes speeding through the streets to the school.

You quickly make your way to the office and find her with mascara running down her cheeks. She hiccuped and sniffled when she saw you before sluggishly standing and wrapping her arms around you. She sobbed slightly into your sweatshirt and you wrapped the one you brought her around her shoulders. After the teacher who waited with her waved you out, you gathered her into your car and made your way home.

But before reaching the familiar street you had an idea. Sarah had been slumped in her seat with the sweatshirt wrapped tight to her form until she saw the neon lights. You swore you saw her eyes light up when she saw the ‘Dairy Queen’ sign and it warmed your heart.

She got her usual birthday cake flavor of course, and you got your favorite. Before now you tried to let her have a few breathing moments but as you settled in the parking lot you tried to get some information from her.

“Are you ok?”

“Boys are so stupid…,” another tear slipped out of her eye.

“I know… I hate to say it but they don’t get much better.” You managed to get a laugh out of her which was an improvement. “What did Ben do?”

She spooned the thick ice cream into her mouth and tried to talk around it. “H-he was with that girl Rebecca all night and I tried to say ‘hi’ but he ignored me and pretended I wasn’t there. They were laughing at me…,” She resolved into sobs again and you rubbed her shoulder to try and comfort as best as you could.

“Oh god I’m sorry that’s so… shitty.” You never really cursed around her as she’s still young but this felt appropriate. It also helped draw out a laugh again, which made you both smile. “Look, boys like that are not worth your time. He’s playing games and you don’t want a boy who plays games. If anyone ever talks to you like that, it means they don’t respect you. You should only be friends, or more, with someone who respects you. Does that make sense?”

She looked at you with her red-rimmed and puffy eyes and you knew she got it. Of course she got it, she’s a smart kid.

“Yeah, I think so. Thank you… I'm sorry I freaked you out.” The light returned to her eyes as she giggled at her own words.

“You didn’t freak me out… too bad.” You were both laughing now, recalling the way you sped over to the school. “Look we can talk more if you want but I think you need some ‘you’ time tonight. Let’s get you some of my nice bath stuff and we can do a little spa night?”

“That sounds nice… thank you.” She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around your neck. On the way home you told her stories of things boys had done to you in the past. You did make sure to let her know that her dad was not one of them, he was the best kind of guy. Once you arrived home you gave her some bath stuff and gave her a clean towel and told her you’d wait downstairs for her.

You made some tea in the meantime and shortly after, Joel got home. Before he said anything he looked towards the stairs and heard the shower running. He gave you a quizzical look and you sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to like it.

“So Sarah had me pick her up early…”

He already looked concerned.

“She’s fine… it was boy drama. We talked and she’s still upset but she’ll live.”

He breathed out a dramatic sigh and you welcomed him into your arms.

“This is what I was worried about,” he sounded so defeated.

“Joel, it’s bound to happen. Every girl gets her heart broken, it’s inevitable unfortunately.” You rubbed your palm over his stubble and looked over his tired features. “She’s smart and strong willed. Boys will be intimidated by her when she realizes it.”

He softened at that. “Thank you for helping her so much, she really has opened up since knowing you.”

“She’s really something, just like her dad. He’s not too shabby,” you giggled as he pinched your waist.

“I’m not too shabby? That’s sweet.”

You mirrored his smile as he boxed you between himself and the kitchen counter. He kissed you deeply, pushing his tongue between your lips, tasting every inch of you. Your hum reverberated through your chest into his and your skin lit on fire from the inside out. Desire instantly pooled in your lower stomach and you ground your hips into his. This only resulted in his hard, jean clad thigh slipping between yours and pushing against your clothed sex. You moaned into his mouth and just as you felt like you were going to lose it, Joel pulls away and then you hear descending footsteps.

Sarah reaches the bottom but doesn’t come down, “I’m going to go to bed, I’m really tired. Sorry dad.”

“That’s ok angel, you sleep good. Love you.”

“Love you guys,” then she’s gone.

“‘Love you guys’?” you look at Joel with surprise. “Did she just say she loves me?”

He just stares down at you with this tender look, unresponsive for a few moments.

“Move in with me.”

It wasn’t a question but a plea. Like he couldn’t imagine you’d say no. Because why would you?

“Really?” Your heart raced.

“Yes really, we both want you here. More than anything.”

“Of course, I’d love to!” You squealed like Sarah did earlier tonight and launched yourself at him. He caught you around the middle and pulled you up, sounding giddy as you did while he spun you around.

You spent the first night in your now full time shared bed after Joel showed you all the ways he truly, passionately loved you.

You knew you were finally home.

[matchavellichor]

If you’re still taking requests then I have one 😊

Could you please write a scenario where Sebastian goes home for the Christmas holiday to make amends with Anne and Solomon (before shit happens) and he leaves Ominis and Female MC alone. They finally get to spend time alone together for once and find they have a lot more in common than rheu previously thought (they go on walks, study in the library, hang out in the undercroft) and Ominis who already had a secret little crush on her but always thought that Sebastian kinda had a claim on her, starts falling very hard and he finally decides to do something about it. Maybe they’re hanging out in the undercroft one night and he spontaneously kisses her. I would adore if you could take this into NSFW territory, I’d love the awkward yet sensual first-time sex between them if you could (and as much as I love him, please no Dominis, I want the sweet boy we meet in the game) ♥️

A.N: Thank you for this request! I absolutely adored writing this, so precious 🥹 I hope you enjoy! Also thank you to everyone else who sent a request, I'm trying to get through all of them now that I'm on break and have more time 🫶

You Drew Stars

f!MC x Ominis Gaunt - NSFW/Fluff - 5.6k words

Summary: After Sebastian leaves the castle to spend winter break in Feldcroft, Ominis' sentiments for his friend slowly begin to stretch past the bounds of what's platonically appropriate...

Tags: "Un"requited Love, Pining, Miscommunication, Loss of Virginity, First-Times, Friends to Lovers, Supportive Friend Sebastian Sallow

The library was empty as Ominis meandered his way through towards the back shelves, most of the other students having gone home for winter break. To his satisfaction, the few who had stayed didn’t share any habits of curling up with a book an hour before curfew. 

He made his way to the old, royal purple chaise that he usually sat in towards the back corner of the establishment, tucked just behind a shelf on holistic gardening that no one ever frequented. He stilled when he noticed someone already there, the quiet sound of pages turning alerting him of their presence.

“Hey, Ominis,” She glanced up when she heard him approach and eyed the book in his hand curiously. “Some light reading before bed?” 

“Oh, it’s you,” He scratched the back of his neck. “I was, but I think I’ll just head back to—”

“Don’t be silly,” She tucked herself towards one side of the lounge and patted the seat directly beside her. “Come on, there’s plenty of room.”

“It’s fine, really, you were here first—”

She sighed. “Will you just sit down?”

He shifted nervously in his place for a moment before finally coming to some decision and making his way towards her to take a seat. The chaise sat two people comfortably, albeit a bit cramped, their arms brushing every time either of them turned a page. 

She didn’t seem to mind. Unfortunately, he didn’t possess the same level of indifference, a faint flush of pink creeping up his neck from beneath his white Oxford when she crossed her legs and her thighs brushed against his.

After finishing up her chapter, she reached over to tilt the front cover of his book towards her, her curiosity getting the best of her. She was awfully forward, if not borderline rude. He tried to disguise the fact he liked it.

“Brontë?” Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Developed a rebellious streak, have you, Ominis?”

“Something like that,” He mused. “Though, I suppose there are better ways to defy my parents.”

“Oh, certainly. If you spent more time with me you’d have a plethora of creative ideas by now,” She grinned. “Not that sneaking around reading Muggle literature isn’t an admirable offense, of course.”

He breathed out a laugh. “You make an enticing offer, I have to admit.”

“What can I say, I’m enticing.”

Overwhelmingly, he thought.

He accompanied her to her dorm room afterwards and tried to wipe the stupid, dreadful smile on his face the entire walk back to his own.

They fell into a simple sort of routine. 

Even though they had already fit into some category of the word friends, it had never been in the same way that she was with Sebastian. The more he got to know her, the more he wondered why he hadn’t done so sooner. She was absolutely brilliant.

He quickly learned she was just as much of a night owl as he was, often walking into the common room to find her already curled up on one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace, waiting for him.

She’d lay out a rotating selection of Muggle literature and make him pick one for her to read to him, even if he insisted he could just cast a simple dictation spell or transfigure a copy in braille.

He quickly found his particular favorite was Jane Austen, to which she teased him relentlessly for being a bleeding heart romantic. Gods, she had no idea. 

She introduced him to Mary Shelley, which he enjoyed just as much, although he posited he’d grow to appreciate just about anything as long as it was her reading it to him.

It was over steaming cups of earl gray in the common room and midday walks through the snow-crested forest that his inkling of a crush morphed into something else. Something more.

Feelings, he recognized rather ruefully, one late evening after she’d fallen asleep with her head pillowed on his lap in the common room. 

Twisty, hot, almost nausea-inducing feelings. Overwhelming and nerve-wracking, but at the same time so unbelievably good, and warm, and sweet, because how could he feel anything else with her except pleasantries? 

They were the kind where he found he wanted to do nothing more but stay in the private, simple routine they’d created for themselves, just the two of them. Wanted to keep living in the daydream he’d invented about their relationship, where sometimes she’d hug him goodnight a little too tightly, or sit a little too close, and it’d almost feel like she cared for him the same way he cared for her. Almost.

He ignored the guilty, nagging sensation in his gut about her relationship with Sebastian, and decided he’d let his delusions take him through the remainder of their holiday together. 

//

Stretched out on the plush rug in front of the common room fireplace, he wrapped a hand around her ankle when she went to nudge him with a stockinged foot for the thirtieth time in the last five minutes.

“Quit it,” He didn’t glance up from where his fingers were combing over the braille in his open textbook. “You’re distracting me.”

“You’re not even studying anymore,” She wriggled her foot out of his hold and poked his thigh again in defiance. “You’re a terrible fake-reader, you know. You don’t even make your eyes move across the lines.”

“Hilarious,” He rolled his eyes, finally closing the book on his lap. “And maybe I’ve stopped studying because someone has been prodding me incessantly for the past half-hour.”

“My mental capacity has reached its limit for the night. And I’m starved,” She picked herself up from the floor, rolling her shoulders back in a stretch, before holding a hand out for him to take. “Come on, up. Let’s get something to eat.”

He waved his wand over his wristwatch. “It’s nearly one in the morning, where on earth are we going to get something to eat?” 

Her lips curled into a smirk as she helped him to his feet. “I have my ways.”

He sighed a defeated breath as he let her tug him along. “Yes, I’m aware. I’m afraid that’s precisely my concern.”

//

“Gods, we’re going to be given twin concussions by a kitchen elf any second now. I hear Tilly’s got a particularly strong arm.” The glowing tip of Ominis’ wand cast the dark surroundings of the Hogwarts kitchens in a red hue. “Keep an eye out for any hurtling rolling pins, will you?”

“Will you stop worrying? It’s fine.” She huffed, sticking her head into one of the pantries of the kitchens before popping out a few moments later. “Apple or blueberry?”

“Both?”

She grinned, slipping back inside. “This is why we’re friends.”

“We’re friends? This is news to me.” 

She narrowed her eyes at where he was poised at the doorway. “Keep talking like that and we’ll be enemies soon enough.”

“My biggest nightmare,” He teased. “I certainly would not want to get on your bad side.”

He followed her as she slipped past him out of the pantry with two magically-steaming pies in hand, making her way towards the exit of the kitchens. 

“You’re certainly a lot smarter than Sebastian, then,” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You know what’s good for you.” 

You’re good for me, he thought.

“Call it self-preservation.”

//

“How about dinner with a view?” She stopped at the bottom stairwell of the Astronomy tower, only pale moonlight and the dim, orange glow of the scattered wall sconces to illuminate the barren hallways they’d been treading through.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t really make a difference to me, all of my dinners are without a view.”

“Oh, look who’s all clever all of a sudden.” She rolled her eyes.

He grinned. “I’ve always been clever. Do keep up.”

She balanced the pie in her hands in one arm and took his hand with the other, beginning the long, meandering ascent to the upper tower platform.

Her fingers laced so nicely with his, as if they’d been carved to mold perfectly with his own. Smaller than his, but warm, and familiar. He reveled in the privilege of getting to touch her so freely, conscious of the fact this comfortableness would most likely end as soon as Sebastian was back from Feldcroft.

They sat cross-legged with their arms draped over the metal railing, tucking into their pies and trading spoonfuls of rich, syrupy goodness. It wasn’t as cold as a normal December night, but he cast periodic warming charms over them anyways and transfigured his jumper into a blanket that turned out only marginally big enough for the both of them.

They ate in comfortable, companionable silence and all that he could think about is how he wished he could do this always. In the summer, in the spring, in the fall. That this wasn’t something temporary, something that would be robbed from him in a few short weeks.

“Didn’t realize you were such a messy eater, Ominis.” She glanced up at him, an amused smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Where’s all that pureblood dining etiquette gone to?” 

He rolled his eyes and went to feel around for a napkin, but she leaned forward instead. He sucked in a sharp breath as she braced a hand on his thigh and swiped her thumb over the side of his mouth, collecting remnants of blueberry jam, brushing over his bottom lip in a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity, though in reality was brief and fleeting. 

She sat back down in her seat, unphased, and popped the digit in her mouth, bottom teeth scraping over the pad of her thumb, sugar melting on her tongue. 

His mouth felt terribly dry.

He swallowed down the sensation of longing with a spoonful of apple filling and flaky, golden crust.

Bellies full with ungodly amounts of pie, they laid beside each other on the too-small blanket, and Ominis tried to ignore the too-loud sound of his blood rushing in his ears, paired with the too-fast beating of his heart in his chest, and attempted to simply relax. 

He closed his eyes and focused on something other than the consuming feeling of want prickling over his skin, setting his nerve-endings alight with the desire to touch and hold and caress. She wasn’t his to do any of those things with. 

He focused on her soft, steady breathing. The rise and fall of her chest beside his. 

“Merlin, it’s beautiful.” She murmured, a dazed quality to her voice.

“I’m sure it is.” He replied just as listless, though undoubtedly for other reasons.

She turned her head to face him. “Want me to describe it to you?” 

He turned to face her as well and he was suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of her breath ghosting his cheek. She was so close. His voice was quiet. “Would you?”

She nodded. “Alright, close your eyes.” 

He bit back a smile. “You’re such an idiot.” 

She grinned. “Shut up and do it.” 

He obliged with a disgruntled huff. Pleased, she turned back towards the scenery. 

“It’s a full moon tonight, so everything has this almost…silver glow. Like the whole world’s been dipped in platinum.” She began. 

He tried to picture it in his head, sheens of pale white cast over rolling hills and thick forest.

“You can see the entire lake from up here, never-ending and inky black, and juuust there, past the border of the forest—” She outstretched a hand. “—is Hogsmeade, with its little orange lights.”

She glanced sideways at him to see his eyes still closed, the softest smile brushing his lips. 

She continued, “What’s really pretty though, is the stars. Too many to ever count. Enough to make your head dizzy, really.” She let out a laugh and he decided it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

“Some are brighter than others, and you can make out little pictures in the night sky. Tonight, there’s Orion looking down on us,” She tilted her head, brows knitting together as she took a moment to study him. “Actually…”

He let out a startled breath when he felt her fingertips make contact with his cheek, dragging over his skin in feather-light touches, tracing the small smattering of beauty marks there.

“You bear a remarking similarity,” She ran her index softly between the points, connecting little invisible lines. “Right here.” 

He swallowed hard. “Do I?”

“Mhm,” She hummed. “It’s awfully pretty.”

She hadn’t pulled her hand back. His skin buzzed with the sensation, because her fingertips were still there, on his cheek, touching him with a softness that he had never known before in his life, with a kindness that he was so unaccustomed to.

Gentle, repetitive drags, skin-on-skin, that same prickling sensation of want having grown into something almost painful inside of him. Bubbling and overwhelming, just underneath his flesh, his fingers twitching with the desire to reach out and feel.

He was conscious of how stupid it was, mind-numbingly so, but he couldn’t bear the aching tension in his chest any longer, and he knew of only one way to acquiesce his restless heart.

He cupped her own cheek in his hand, dipped his chin forward, and captured her lips in his.

Her fingers froze against his cheek, and he could feel the slight surprise in her body language, before it quickly morphed into something else, something accepting, something satisfied. As if she’d been longing just as desperately, had been waiting for this the same way he’d been.

Her hand dragged down to thread through the fine, blonde hairs at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer to her, eliciting a sharp intake of air through his nose, settling all kinds of feelings deep behind his navel.

She parted her lips for him and he chased the syrupy taste of sugar on her tongue like he needed it to live, swallowed her quiet, breathy pants like mouthfuls of honey, sticky and saccharine and so overwhelmingly her he could drown in it. 

She was so sweet, so soft, and far, far too perfect for his fantasies to have ever possibly done her justice.

When she finally broke away, he could feel her drowsy, sapless smile against his lips. He smiled back, just as giddy, an absolute fool, surely, but in the moment he couldn’t care less. He resisted the urge to dive back in. To run his tongue over her teeth and plead for more, because he knew he would most likely never get enough. 

He was content then, just holding her. She tucked herself into his side, pillowed her head on his chest, and let him run his hands up and down her back. Let him bury his nose in the crown of her hair and revel in the feeling of having her there, feeling too much like his.

//

After that, their routine shifted into something else. Something unspoken, that didn’t really need any labels or clarifications, because it all fell into place like pieces of a puzzle. Normal and simple and easy and natural.

Because, of course he got to kiss her goodnight when he left her at her dorm room every evening. And it was only obvious that they’d lace their fingers together on their Sunday trips to Hogsmeade for a butterbeer, and sit on the same side of the booth instead of opposite each other like before. And why would she not drape her legs over his lap on that purple chaise in the library, or tuck herself into his side on that dusty, old loveseat in the Undercroft?

He wasn’t sure what he’d done to ever get so lucky, but he thanked Fortune herself every night he got to collect her in his arms and press lingering kisses to her forehead. It was an intoxicating feeling to have everything he wanted right there in his hands, soft and pliable and willing, so perfectly receptive to his touch, so eager to reciprocate with the same amount of fevered passion and affection.

Of course, there were levels of uncertainties to their relationship still. Questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask, out of fear of ruining everything. What are we and and for the love of Circe, tell me this means something to you, too poised on the tip of his tongue everytime she wrapped herself around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

There were boundaries, admittedly maybe only fictitious ones his own anxious brain fabricated, but ones nonetheless. He’d always ask her first before he kissed her, and she’d always respond with eager nods, blissful smiles, and her fingers curling into the front of his shirt to tug his mouth down to hers.

He adored kissing her.  Maybe a bit too much. Alright, maybe alarmingly too much.

He’d spend eternity with his mouth on hers if he could, and it still wouldn’t be enough. He constantly craved the numb, bruised feeling of his lips after a particularly long makeout session. He couldn’t get enough of touching her, of being so intimate with her, of the soft and sweet and spit-sticky brushes of her tongue against his, of that aching, heated swirl he got just behind his navel. 

She was bliss personified. 

Crossing a leg over the other on that worn, tawny loveseat in the Undercroft, he skimmed through the pages of the paperback in his hand with his wand. A few feet away from him, she was reducing a couple training dummies into splinters of charred wood, spell after spell rolling off her tongue with ease. 

His headstrong little witch. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips at how powerful she was, admiration swelling in his chest.

After getting her fix of dueling for the day and craving attention, she made her way over to him, sitting beside him, although more accurately, practically sitting on top of him. Not that he minded.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she looked up at him expectantly, and because he’d give her absolutely anything her little heart desired, he tucked his book away immediately and turned his focus towards her, pecking a kiss to her cheek. She smiled in satisfaction. 

He had the tiniest inkling of a feeling that maybe he was spoiling her rotten. Not that he minded that, either. 

“Tired?” 

She shook her head. “Just missed you.”

He brushed the back of his knuckles against her cheek and couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his mouth. “Did you now?”

She nodded, staring down at his lips as she leaned in to press her mouth against his. Simple and natural and easy. It was a wonder how normal it seemed, as if it was something they’d always done. 

Her tongue brushed against his bottom lip, pleading for entrance, and of course he obliged, because who was he to deny her anything?

He could feel the little exhale of breath against his cheek as his tongue met hers, feel the way she instinctively pressed more against him as if she wanted to mold herself to his very bones.

He loved having her like this. 

Eager and passion-filled, her magic thrumming in her veins with a little added intensity, reflected in the way she kissed him, in the way she touched him. 

She broke away for air, but he couldn’t help the desire to have more. He trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses over her jaw, down the length of her neck. He’d never kissed her there and he found himself particularly interested in exploring. She positively melted under his ministrations.

“Ominis,” She sighed his name on a breathy pant and the sound coursed straight to his groin, tugging at that aching desire in his gut, that heated, twisty, starved feeling that was always there when he touched her, lingering someone hidden, nursing it into something insatiable. 

She reconnected her mouth to his and stoked that flickering flame inside him until it was red-hot and all-consuming. 

He tangled his fingers through her hair and explored her mouth with a deliberate slowness. Languid, syrupy drags of his tongue against hers. Hot, needy breaths shared in a space between them that was far too little and far too much at the same time. 

A gasp died on his tongue when she shifted in her seat to press herself even more against him, effectively straddling his lap, impatience dripping down her spine. He went rigid.

“Hold on, don’t—” His fingers dug into her waist to still her, but she had already dragged her hips flush against his, right against that aching stiffness in his trousers. His face blanched, mortified. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

She held her bottom lip between her teeth, processing the feeling of him, a very specific part of him, pressed right to the gusset of her knickers, right under her skirt. It was like someone had stricken a match, lit her nerves on fire.

She shook her head, her cheeks hot. “Don’t apologize,” She smoothed her thumb over his cheek, reassuring. “I want you, too. I want this.” She shifted minutely, tentative, right against that throbbing part of him.

His brows knit together, looking almost pained. “Gods, you can’t say things like that.” 

“It’s true,” She whispered, shifting against him again, deliciously slow. The slightest roll of her hips. It was enough to ruin him completely. “Please, Ominis.”

He nodded then, forehead pressed against hers, fists white-knuckled in the starched linen of her shirt. He let his hands fall to his sides, onto the tattered pillows of the loveseat and sighed. 

“Not here.” He planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “You deserve something nicer.”

//

Ominis’ dorm was certainly nicer.

Clean and tidy to the point of almost being manic, just as she imagined it would be. She glanced over at the surrounding beds and noticed his side strikingly bare in comparison, devoid of the clutter of Quidditch posters, junk and other memorabilia that you would normally expect to find in a teenage boy’s room. 

His sheets were crisp and neatly-pressed, and laid back against his pillows, she could pick up the faint smell of vanilla and bergamot and, most strikingly, him.

He hovered over her there, his hands on either side of her head on the pillowcase, a pink flush dusting his cheekbones, uncertain. She found it awfully endearing. 

“Have you ever…?”

He shook his head, sheepish. “No.” 

She nodded. 

A gnawing feeling clawed itself inside his chest, something marred and ugly and possessive, a jealousy he knew he probably had no right to feel. “Have…you?”

She shook her head. “Never.”

His brows furrowed, confusion and surprise and a faint sense of relief etched into his features. “Really? You and Sebastian never…?”

She sputtered. “Me and Sebastian?”

“Er…yes? I assumed you two had already been—”

“Dear gods, no,” She laughed, as if the mere notion were hysterical. She looked at him bewildered. “Where on earth did you ever get that impression?” 

“I don’t know, you’re both always spending so much time together.” 

“As friends.” She choked. “If I’m being completely honest, I’ve always harbored a bit of a crush on you.” 

It was his turn to sputter. “On me?”

She smiled. “Yes, it’s a bit embarrassing, actually. I’m surprised Sebastian’s never told you. He’s tormented me about it since the moment he found out.” 

Ominis winced and let his head fall forward, voice muffled in the collar of her shirt. “Gods, I’ve been such an idiot.” 

“Well, that’s only natural,” She teased, raking her nails softly through the hair on his nape. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.” 

He picked his head up. “So, I…we could’ve been doing this, so much sooner?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Been wanting to get into my pants for very long, have you, Ominis?”

He groaned. “That’s not what I meant,” She watched as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. “I’ve liked you for quite a while.”

“Have you?” She grinned. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” He murmured. “A bit of pining was good for me. Humbling.” 

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Yes, I’m sure you’re not very used to not getting what you want, hm?”

“Mmh,” He hummed, non-committal, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Terribly spoiled, I’m afraid.”

“I won’t hold that against you, either.”

She laced her fingers behind his neck, tugging him forward to bring his lips down to hers again. Ominis could barely contain the euphoric feeling of relief in his chest, of completion, of blissful satisfaction in knowing the witch underneath him was his and only his. 

He let his hands wander, explore, caress, tugging her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt and running his hands over the creamy smooth expanse of her stomach. He let his lips roam with just as much fervor, trailing down the length of her neck, scraping biting kisses over her collarbone, over the soft curves of her jaw.

“Take this off me,” She pleaded in between kisses, breathless, and he would be a fool if he didn’t immediately oblige. Slender, deft fingers turned clumsy and unpracticed in the heat of the moment, fumbling over buttons and the zipper of her skirt with a lot more lack of finesse than he was used to doing most things in life. His heart was pounding too loud in his ears for him to care. 

If she was anything she was impatient, and he quickly learned this impatience would be the very bane of his existence, as she proceeded to grind her hips up to meet his every time he tried to pause and regain some level of composure. 

She seemed to take a form of sick gratification in the way he’d curse under his breath at the feeling of the soaked fabric of her knickers, rubbing back and forth against that stiff, aching part of him, nearly bringing him to completion.

He crawled down her body before she could torture him any longer, hooking his fingers into the hem of her knickers and tugging it down to pool at her ankles. He left a trail of wet, open-mouth kisses in his descent, dragging his tongue down the line of her sternum, slow and deliberate. 

She tensed. “You don’t have to—”

“Please,” He nosed at the soft curve of her stomach, his breath warm against her skin, eyes half-lidded behind blonde eyelashes. “I want to. Please let me.”

Her voice was quiet, anticipated. “Okay.”

It was all he needed to kiss her there, lips pressed to her dripping core, sucking just slightly, tentatively, just enough to make her gasp. His tongue was velvety smooth, purposefully slow, as if savoring it, savoring her.

“Tastes good,” He murmured against her cunt in a hum, lips sticky and glistening, voice hoarse and gravely with want. “Tastes s’good. Mmh.”

She couldn’t stifle her moans as he lapped at her firmer then, more focused, dragged the tip of his tongue and swirled it around that sensitive little bundle of nerves he had already deduced made her hips writhe and her hands tangle in his hair, pulling, pleading.

He didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but Ominis prided himself on being a very intuitive learner — and there was no better lesson than her nails raking over his scalp and her mewls muffled against the back of her hand every time he evidently did something  right with his tongue. In this more than anything, he was determined to get all O’s. 

“Oh, gods, Ominis,” She breathed out, and that was all it took for him to break, for him to push two fingers inside her cunt, wrap his lips around her clit, and suck. Hard, until her toes curled at either side of his hips on the bedding, and her head was thrown back onto the pillows, and she was repeating please, please, please like a prayer — as if she’d ever have to beg him for anything.

He pulled her over the edge with a groan against her cunt, fingers pressing into that little spot on her walls that made her vision white over with stars, melting her muscles into a puddle of ecstasy. Coaxed her through it, lapping at the wetness until she was reduced to shudders and breathy, shaky pants.

“You’re so beautiful,” He climbed over her, chest heaving, pressing kisses to her cheeks. He rambled praises, utterly sapless, euphoric, and if she didn’t know any better she’d think he was coming down from the high of his own orgasm with how giddy he sounded. “Oh my gods, you’re so unbelievably perfect. Sounded so good — tasted so good, fuck. You’re just—”

She kissed him then, not minding that she could taste herself on his tongue. Slow and sweet, her head dizzy with endorphins. He liked her like this.

Reaching down between them, she ran her hand down the placket of his briefs, palmed the evidence of his arousal, reveled in the way his lips faltered against hers. She dipped her fingers past the elastic of his waistband, and the whimper he let out when she finally wrapped her hand around him was nothing short of depraved.

“Want to be inside of you,” He pleaded, his hips rutting of their own accord against her palm, warm and slick with desire, a sticky bead of pre-cum pooling at the tip. He felt so thick in her hand. “Please, want— want it so bad.”

He couldn’t bear the restriction any longer, tugging his shorts down his thighs, exposing alabaster skin and flushed pink and so much of him she couldn’t pull her eyes away.

He notched himself at her entrance, lips hovering over hers, asking for permission without words, and all she could do was fervently nod to keep herself from begging.

He laced his fingers with hers as he slowly pushed in, gasps shared between their lips, foreheads pressed together. She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him closer, urging him for more.

His voice was wrecked when he spoke. “Is this — am I hurting you? Is this alright?”

She shook her head. “You’re perfect —you feel so perfect.”

He groaned, surging forward to capture her lips in his, pouring every ounce of devotion and adoration into the way his tongue brushed against hers, as he slowly rocked his hips, in and out, cautious, shallow thrusts. 

“Please, more,” She whispered, quiet, needy, and he couldn’t help but oblige. He bottomed out inside of her, his head falling to her shoulder, and eased his hips back to meet hers with a sharp thrust. 

She was overwhelmed by the novel and absolutely foreign feeling of being so full. That dull sting where he was stretching her out around him, that pleasurable ache where he was pressing up into her walls — it was all revoltingly delicious. She never wanted it to stop. 

“Christ, you’re — fuck,”  Her fingers wrapped around his bicep for support, nails digging little crescent-shaped marks into his skin. “You’re so deep—oh my gods, please move, please, please move,”

He was half-convinced he’d cut out his own beating heart in that moment and present it to her if she asked. He braced himself with his fingers splayed warm and broad on her hip, holding maybe a bit too tightly, and fucked into her with steady, deep thrusts, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Yes, yes, yes,” She gasped, his cock pressing deep into that sensitive spot inside of her. She could feel that winding knot behind her navel being pulled taut,  being stretched tighter and tighter until she felt like she might break. “Like that, just like that — fuck, please don’t stop, please don’t stop,” 

Ominis had by no means a dirty mouth, was never, ever crass by an definition of the word, but hearing her pleading in his ear, feeling her squeeze so tightly around him, slick and warm and utterly divine — he couldn’t stop the endless litany spilling from his mouth, delirious from how good she felt as he thrust into her thoroughly, his self-restraint slipping out of him like grains of sand through open fingers.

“You’re so perfect. My angel, oh my gods, all mine. Mine, mine, mine. Gorgeous, so gorgeous, you’re so tight, so tight around me. Fuck, I can’t stop, I can’t — I need —I need you, I love this, I love this so much, fuck, fuck, fuck, I love this, I love—”

His words died on a strangled moan as he finished inside of her, pumping into her until he pulled her over the edge along with him, electrifying her nerve-endings into bliss. He pressed his lips to hers like he needed her to breathe, like the only oxygen he desired was the ones she would give him from her very own lungs.

She spoke first, dazed. “That was—”

He let out a laugh, soft and pleasure-rough, the slightest bit drowsy. “Amazing. Brilliant. You’re absolutely brilliant.” 

She returned his gleaming smile with her own, teasing.

“You’ve only just noticed?”

//

It took one look. The raucous bustle of other students still disembarking around him, yet his attention was trained on his two friends smiling and waiting up for him. 

His eyes darted between the two, briefly combing over the faint bites of purple on her neck that was peeking out just slightly from beneath the green and silver of her scarf, then finally dipped to where their hands were surreptitiously clasped behind layers of cloaks, and he immediately knew.

Sebastian dropped his suitcase on the weathered boards of the dock with a thunk and ran up to clap his hands on his friends’ shoulders with a sly smile and a satisfied glint in his eyes.

“Fucking took you two long enough.”

[eumppattv]

THAT’S MY TYPE | enha ot7

pairing ot7 x reader genre ᩍ fluff, idol! x idol!reader warnings ꕁ none ➜ masterlist a/n: permanent taglist is open!

heeseung ☆ ⊹ ๑

oh he wouldn’t stop smiling. both your groups were on a variety show, when the topic of ideal types came up. they had asked you to point at the member that fit your ideal type, and of course you pointed towards heeseung. at first he bowed and thanked you, trying to be funny. but this was only to disguise the red spreading across his cheeks. he spent the rest of the episode glancing towards you, and laughing extra hard at your jokes.

jay ☆ ⊹ ๑

you had been doing a dance jam type of live on weverse, when you got the request to react to enhypen’s new comeback. during the reaction it slipped that jay was your ideal type. next time jay went live, he read a comment about the incident, and immediately went red in the face. he awkwardly laughed, saying he was honored if it was true. he ended the live shortly after, as he couldn’t control his emotions. he was 100% flustered.

jake ☆ ⊹ ๑

our shy king. you had mentioned in an interview that jake was your ideal type, and it broke the internet. when you hosted an award show, you made a joke about it while announcing enhypen as the winners. the boys had forced jake to stand next to you when accepting the award, and he couldn’t even look you in the eyes. when he spoke into the mic, he made an awkward joke that sent the crowd into tears. he’ll never hear the end of it.

sunghoon ☆ ⊹ ๑

you were both mc’s on music bank. there was an artist with a song called “my ideal type”, and as part of the interview the artist asked who your ideal type is. you answered sunghoon, while taking a prop rose out from behind you and handing it to him. he then stuttered, forgetting the script in front of him. it took him a couple seconds to get back on track, and he was so so awkward afterwards. he stood still, scared he would be too obvious if he got close.

sunoo ☆ ⊹ ๑

he would pull an uno reverse on you. you were both invited to film a small idol youtube series, where you went on a “date” with each other. during the date you had mentioned that you would fall for him if you were on a real date, as he was your ideal type. sunoo’s brain freezes and the first thing that comes out of his mouth is that you’re his ideal type too. now it’s your turn to be flustered. he then kept being flirty the whole episode, i mean straight up making it known he’s into you.

jungwon ☆ ⊹ ๑

he is in leader mode 24/7, so he’s extra cautious. you were doing a joint stage with the boys, and jungwon happened to be your partner. while rehearsing one day it slipped that he was your ideal type. he swore he didn’t care, and that he wanted to stay professional, but he was over the moon. during the performance a week later, people would feel the chemistry between you two. it was the smirk he sent your way that fully convinced the fans that something was going on.

ni-ki ☆ ⊹ ๑

poor guy doesn’t know how to act. both of you were on a variety show episode for maknaes, and you had gone to the random play dance portion. you were in awe as he danced, and the mc noticed as they singled you out. you blurted out that ni-ki was your ideal type, and he malfunctioned. throughout the game he forgot choreo, including his own. he was all over the place the rest of the episode.

🝮 taglist open! bold can’t be tagged

@avocarua @kpoprhia @haechansbbg @yeehawnana @lilly-bubblelops @aishigrey @dior-girlie @gigification @wonnie-avenue @httpsneptvnn @dimplewonie @gweoriz @soul-is-a-strange-kid

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

*original Image from a CW still photo

Summary: Dean shows you what it means to be in a relationship with a self-proclaimed Red-winged Bloodhound, and to be loved.

Characters: Dean Winchester x You

Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY, period sex, shower sex, brief oral, super horny bc hormones and Dean Winchester, ILY exchange, intimacy

Words: 2K

Author’s notes: Sanctioned will be a series of low-stakes explorations of sexual taboos and boundary nudging with one or both of the Winchester brothers and You. It will all be written in 2nd person, further fostering a sense of closeness and leaning into the level of intimacy achieved with each act. It will not necessarily be considered part of the same universe but can absolutely be read that way.

As always, all my love goes to my long-time beta and friend @brrose-apothecary and many thanks to @bigmouthlass for the read-through and green light.

Sanctioned: The Red-Wing Rodeo

Being on your period sucks.

You radiate heat, but you're freezing. You can’t even think about wearing anything other than sweatpants. Most days, you bleed through an ultra tampon and the thickest pads you can buy in less than an hour, and you’re hungry all the time.

For nasty, greasy junk food and for Dean.

Dean’s gorgeous and effortlessly sexy. Even when you aren’t on your period, all he has to do is say your name and you’re putty in his hands. When you are on your period, bloated as a bridge troll and craving melty cheese, the things your brain conjures up for him to do to you threaten to set feminism back faster and farther than an old, white conservative on the Supreme Court.

It’s all you can think about—Dean’s hands on your skin, his lips on your throat, and his cock hammering you senseless.

But you smell bad, right? Your eyes are puffy and your feet look like sausages. No one thinks that’s attractive.

He’s tried to tell you that he likes it. Loves it, is what he’s said. He’s the one who told you there’s a name for guys like him—Bloodhounds. He’s even gone down on women having their period.

You don’t consider yourself a prude, but he can’t be serious, can he?

Right now, you’re in the shower in an attempt to feel less ick and maybe work out some frustration where you can easily clean up afterward. You’ve washed and conditioned your hair, exfoliated, shaved everything, and now you’re standing under just-the-right-temperature water as it blessedly sluices your neck and shoulders to your toes. You’re starting to feel something approaching relaxed when you hear Dean’s voice.

“Care if I join ya?” he asks, peeking around the large shower stall with a grin that no one in their right mind could resist. He’s naked, his hair’s spiking in nine different directions, and his face is smudged with grease from the Impala.

You shake your head and shrug, afraid to firmly commit to any answer since every cell in your body is stretched tight between tenterhooks; you could snap at any second.

“You sure?” He arches a brow and dips his chin to his chest as he eases his way into the shower.

“M’sure,” you mutter, curling in on yourself.

He settles in behind you, tall and strong, skimming his big hands over your hips before gently palming your belly. You rest one hand on his forearm and reach up behind you with the other to slide your fingers through his dampening hair. Dean begins to hum and sway before moving to multitask—dragging one hand up to expertly cup and caress one hot, tender breast, and lazily drawing a random but intricate pattern around your navel and lower.

“I know it’s your time of the month or whatever you call it, and I know it’s gettin’ harder lately,” he murmurs, touching you with reverence and heat, kissing your temple, around the shell of your ear. “I wanna make it better.”

You sigh. “I know… I just-”

When his thumb brushes your nipple, you gasp and bite back a desperate moan.

“Just what, honey? Tell me.”

He shifts behind you and his thick, hard cock grazes the curve of your back. It’s too much. He’s told you so many times how good he could make it for you.

“Please?” He continues to kiss and suck the thin skin of your throat and thumb your nipple.

You bite your lip and twist his hair with your fingers. Maybe you can let go a little. The shower will help with the mess, right?

Dean sucks an earlobe between his lips and brings his other hand up to work your other breast, forcing a pitiful whimper from your chest. You grip his wrists, encouraging his touch and buck back against him.

“Fuck me,” you whisper.

Dean groans and you can practically feel him vibrate with excitement. “I promise I’m gonna make this so good for you,” he whispers back.

You sigh, brace your hands against the tile in front of you, and widen your stance before glancing over your shoulder. His eyes flick to yours as he lathers up his hands. When he takes a step closer to touch you again, you drop your head to hang between your arms and exhale. He works you up, kneading your breasts, pulling and teasing your taut, sensitive nipples.

“You look so beautiful when you trust me like this. I want you to know it and believe it.”

He nuzzles and nips under your jaw as he hooks one hand under your right knee and gathers both your wrists with the other. You gasp when he lifts and shifts you like you weigh nothing, spreading you up and open, pressing you up against the cool tile.

“Makes me crazy knowin’ how bad you want somethin’ but won’t ask for it.”

And then he slowly sinks inside you.

You sob his name and quake between his solid weight and the soothing ceramic. You feel so hot and light, spread wide and fucked tight.

“So good, Dean,” you whimper, and he kisses you everywhere he can, sucking small bruises into your skin.

“You too.” He pushes your knee up higher, opening you wider. “So hot and greedy. Fuck, your pussy’s squeezin’ me so tight.”

“Ung.”

His thrusts are slow, shallow, and precise. Each pass sends ripples of brilliant pleasure from the ends of your hair to the tips of your toes—liquid, rolling, boiling.

“Wanted you like this for so long,” he huffs in your ear. “Give you what you need when you feel so empty.”

He’s repeatedly, steadily driving over your g-spot, slip-sliding along the path he’s traveled time and time again—but this time, every single nerve ending inside you is engorged and hypersensitive. You can feel every ridge of his cock, stroking your insides.

“Yes, Dean. I can- can feel you everywhere. Fuck.” You gasp for air and arch your neck as he plants his forehead against the shower wall.

“C’mon,” he whispers, quickening his grinding pace and eliciting a shout from you.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck…” you’re chanting, your skin is singing, and your vision blurs.

Time warps and whirls, Dean tells you you’re so perfect, so beautiful, and then- your body seizes rigid and shocking before blowing up into the most powerful, white-hot orgasm you’ve ever had.

•

•

•

Dean gently nudges you awake with soft, warm touches and the aroma of chicken soup. Your eyelids flutter open and he’s lying on his side above the covers facing you, lightly brushing the wide tips of his fingers across your forehead.

“How ya feelin’?”

“Mmmph.” You wriggle into him, clutching his soft t-shirt in your fists, and nuzzle his chest.

Dean chuckles. “That good, huh?”

You feel brand new, wrapped in crystal-spun gossamer—delicate and feral. Your consciousness scrambles to catch up to your body’s instinct to climb on top of Dean and never let him out of bed ever again.

He runs a hand down and up your back, soothing and warm, and kisses your temple. “Should eat somethin’, babe. Made ya some chicken soup and those cheese crisps you like so much.”

“You’re so good to me,” you mutter as you roll and squirm toward your nightstand. You push yourself to sit up, holding the sheet to your chest, and reach for the steaming mug.

Dean traces your spine, back and forth, up and down, sending chill bumps all over your body. You are pretty hungry, so you take a few healthy sips from the mug and pop a cheese crisp into your mouth before turning back to face Dean.

“Thank you. I do love those crisps. But I like you even better.” You scoot closer to him and slide your hands up under his t-shirt. “You should get naked and get under the covers with me.”

“I should?” He smirks in that way that makes your heart skip and your guts twirl. “One single period sex shower session and you’re hooked. I like it.”

He helps you get his shirt off before shimmying out of his pajama pants and sliding under the covers with you so you’re skin to skin.

“God, you’re already hard.” You immediately push a hand down and wrap your fingers around his thick length, kissing him hungrily. “So smooth, want you in my mouth.”

“Uh-uh,” Dean stops you from diving down, rolling you to your back and kneeing your legs open to slot his hips and grind his cock right there. “I want you in my mouth, smell so fucking good, so ripe and hot.”

You groan. Two hours ago, you’d have been horrified by the mere suggestion, but now you want, want, want.

“Dean, you can’t-”

He answers your groan, rolling his hips and nestling his face against your neck. “I won’t if you don’t want it, but,” he pauses, pushing up to look you in the eye. “You want it, don’t you?”

His eyes sparkle, and your pussy throbs. He’s right; you’re hooked and there’s no going back. You’re so turned on that he likes the way you smell—that he wants to devour you. Dean’s always eager to eat your pussy, but right now he looks ravenous.

Your heart rate kicks up a notch, and you nod.

Dean swears under his breath before kissing you, hot and firm. He kisses you so well, every day. He’s thorough with his kisses and touches. This is no exception.

When he finally, slowly begins his descent, you’re breathless, writhing in the twisted bedding and fisting your hair. He gives every square inch of your body the same treatment as your mouth, all the way to your ankles and the arches of your feet. Everywhere he touches, licks, and kisses is a hot zone. As he makes his way back upward, you think you might come before he even lays a finger on your clit.

“Dean, I’m-” You break into a sob and squeeze your eyes shut.

“No, no- don’t hold back, honey. Make some noise, make a mess, I gotchu. C’mon.”

You open your eyes and he’s watching you closely as he hunkers back down, nodding. You mirror his nod and take a deep breath, reaching for him to sink your fingers into his hair.

He smiles as he continues kissing his way from your knee up the inside of your thigh, then splays his fingers against the backs of your thighs. You watch him gently part your seam with his thumbs and dip in to press a kiss to your swollen clit.

“Fuck,” you breathe, dropping your head back to the mattress and twisting his hair in your fists.

He huffs a quiet laugh, blowing a stream of cool air over your slick, open pussy, and you lose it.

“Aaahhh!”

You’re higher than you’ve ever been on any substance, raw, and on fire. You feel like you might rocket through the roof of the bunker into the stratosphere; then Dean slides up over you and inside you, filling you up and anchoring you. He braces his forearms on either side of your head and you wrap your arms around his back.

“I love you so much,” you whisper, accepting his kiss and reveling in his long, steady strokes inside you.

He rests his forehead against yours and breathes, dragging out and pushing back in.

“Me too,” he whispers back, brushing noses with you. “So much, honey. Thank you for lettin’ me take care of you.”

You giggle and lift your legs to hug him tight. “Thank you.”

“Next time, I’m goin’ down on you ‘til you forget your own name, but,” he pauses to rotate his hips and kiss you again. “I just had to be inside you.”

“Not complaining.”

Dean keeps that connection, pulls the thread, loops it back again, and reminds you why you’re there. He reminds you of why you love him.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

Mine to Protect Part III

@thetrueghostqueen Thank you so much for your wonderful request for the birthday prompts! I truly hope you enjoyed the story! Even though it turned out pretty big 😅

Source for Pic

Mine to Protect

Word Count: 4408

Tags for the whole story: Highlander!Kid; Fem!Reader; Alternate Universe - Scotland 13th century; Gore; Blood; Violence; Death; Mild Angst; Fluff; Nudity; Cursing; Sexual Tension; Explicit Sexual Content; Protective!Kid; Possessive!Kid; Soft!Kid; Feral!Kid; Jealous!Kid; Happy Ending; Sort of Enemies to Lovers; Teasing; Banter; NSFW; MDNI; Mature Audiences;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: Your father and his allied clans are at war, and you're a liability. When you're assigned a guard to protect you - against your will - you do everything in your power to infuriate him. The problem is that he can be more infuriating than you, as you're about to find out.

Notes: Final part everyone. I hope you enjoyed this! It really wasn't supposed to be so big... but then there were so many little moments I wanted to include... Thank you for reading!

Part 3 of 3

|Part 1| | |Part 2| | |Masterlist|

You avoid the wedding conversation with your father like the plague, but you chase Kid’s company like a hunter tracking deer through the glens. More than once, he tumbles into your sheets –sometimes you don’t even make it that far. He has you against doors, walls, on the ground, under the shade of trees, anywhere –everywhere!

You now know the shape and contour of all his scars and muscles. The way they ripple as he uses them to handle your body effortlessly, the way they tense when he’s lost at the edge, spilling his release into you, or the way they soften as you search for the warmth of his embrace afterwards. 

He’s told you about many of the scars. He’s even told you how his left arm was rendered almost useless during battle. He has opened up to you, and you to him, sharing all your worries over your people, sharing how you’ve lost your brother to brigands when you were young and vowed not to be a helpless noble girl –he assures you, you’re not.

Things happen easily between you and Kid, even though you still disagree on many things and keep fighting like cats and dogs. Most of those fights end the same, with both of you lost in a mess of tangled limbs. 

You’ve fallen.

So hard it hurts. And it’s scary as hell in more ways than one. Not only do you not know if Kid feels the same for you, but you also don’t want your heart and emotions to be so tied to a single person. Because, at this moment, it feels like you might die if something happens to Kid. 

You can’t hold back that conversation anymore, so it takes a particularly cold night –a bit warmer now that you and Kid have exercised– when you’re lost in his embrace, to peel the words from your lips.

Kid’s arm grips you, his hand securing you tightly by the waist, and you absentmindedly realise that he never holds you differently. It’s always with strength, a fierce claim, or a desperate need to protect. Your fingers trace the scar on his chest, as you usually do, and that always brings a soft smile to his lips as he relaxes his breathing.

After a while, he speaks. “Yer awfully quiet today. Ye must tell me what I did tae get ye tae shut up.�� He chuckles. “I might need that information for other nights.”

But you don’t reply. Not with a chuckle, nor with a witty response as he was expecting you to. 

“Lass?” He opens his eyes and lifts your chin with his fingers to inspect your face, and you sigh. 

“What are we, Kid?” The fear of his answer grips your heart in its clutches holding it ransom. 

“What do ye mean?”

Sitting up and crossing your legs on the bed, you lock your gaze with his. “This, us. What are we?” You gesture between your bodies, impatience oozing from your pores. 

Kid sits up as well, running a hand through his fiery, slightly damp hair. “Lass… we… we’re us.” He shrugs, and you sigh again. Talking about feelings with Kid is like pulling a sword from solid rock. Clearly, he senses that you’re upset, because he tries again. “I care for ye.”

“I know that.”

“Good. So, that’s it.” He reaches for you, but you swat his hand away. 

“Is that all? You care?”

“We have fun, aye, lass?” He smirks at you, trying to lighten the mood, but he’s not even inching closer to where you want him to be. 

“Aye. Fun. You care, and we have fun. That’s all there is, right?”

Kid tenses, and the ticking in his jaw alerts you that he’s finally taking this seriously. “There cannae be anythin’ else, can there? Yer a noble lady, I’m a hired sword.”

You nod. In your head, you know that, technically there can’t be anything more, but in your heart, there are infinite possibilities. What you wanted to hear from him is that he more than cares, that he is willing to fight for both of you. You want to hear him say that he’s fallen for you too. You don’t expect him to be romantic, he was right all those nights ago, you don’t need to be sweet-talked. But you want something real. 

“Is that what ye wanted to hear? That we’re nae good tae each other? That we cannae work?” He slams a fist on the bed, and you know he’s not angry at you, really, it’s at the situation. 

“No, Kid. What I wanted to hear was a bit of fight in you.” You get up, pull your dress over your head, and your feet through your boots. “Because you fight so hard to protect me from outside threats, when the biggest threat to my heart is right here in my room.”

The hurt in his expression is a mirror of your own as you make your way to the door. But it’s not over yet. There’s something else you need to tell him and this was why you asked him what you were. To see if you and he were worth fighting for. 

Your hand hovers the doorknob and you don’t look back at him as you deliver the news. “My father has chosen a suitor to marry me. I have no say in the matter. We are to be married within a month.”

As tears fill your eyes, you leave the room without looking back, not knowing what Kid feels about the news or if he’s as devastated as you are.

-*-

You will never know how he felt about the news you delivered, because by morning, he’s gone. Just gone, without a trace, without a goodbye, without a word. Why does your chest ache so much when he took your heart with him?

Your father merely assigns another guard to you, but since you’ll be married within a month –securing a formidable war alliance that comes with soldiers and money– and leaving his house, he simply assigns one of his personal guards to shadow you.

This guard is quiet, slow, and an idiot. You lose him on the first try. 

Though you don’t wander too far alone. The streets are growing more dangerous, and this guard isn’t Kid. You don’t trust him to find you anywhere and everywhere, as if you were connected by more than duty. 

You refuse to cry.

You know you have many, many tears to shed, but you gave yourself one night to do it. The night he left you, and that was it. No more tears, no more broken heart. And though it all seems easier said than done, you manage slightly. 

You set up a food delivery system with some of the citizens on the keep’s grounds, so you can be safer and still help them, and this has kept your mind and hands occupied. But the end of the month approaches, and so does your wedding. 

You can’t stop thinking about Kid and how he makes you feel and it’s nearly impossible to think of giving yourself to another man. Be it body or soul. You’re Kid’s. And that’s it.

Days without him seem colder and drag on slower than before. Training doesn't feel the same, and every time you lie in bed you still feel the ghost of his arms wrapped around you. You've found yourself glancing over your shoulder more than once, hoping he's there, just around the corner, with his scowl in place, a witty remark at hand, or a biting word. 

But he's not. 

And so, you tread on, day by day, night by night, forcing your heart to harden, to stop caring, to just let him go. 

Until you feel him. It's that prickling sensation at the nape of your neck, the tingling that bristles your hairs and almost stops your heart. This time, when you glance over your shoulder, he's really there, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to run to him and jump into his arms. 

Gods, you've missed him. 

He looks… haggard. His hair is duller, matted and dirty, there's dried blood on his skin and clothes –you're too scared to ask him if it's his, so you don’t– and there's darkness in his eyes, so much darkness. 

“Kid…” You barely utter, your heart too shattered to let your mouth part with any more words, lest he take them as ransom and use them against you. 

“Forgive me, lass. I've been gone longer than I meant, aye?” His voice seems drained. He looks exhausted, and you want nothing more than to scream at him for leaving you without a single word, for making you suffer beyond human understanding. But none of what you feel matters when he looks ready to drop dead from exhaustion at any second. So you drag him into your quarters and draw him a warm bath without uttering another word. 

He sits in the tub as you pour warm water over him, loosening the grime and blood so he can scrub it off. You don't speak. You're too afraid that the first words out of your mouth will be angry and accusing, and now’s not the time to fight. For what it's worth, he doesn't speak either. Whether he's respecting your silence or simply too tired, is anyone's guess. 

When the water rises enough for a comfortable bath, you wet the cloth and hand it to Kid, but he doesn't make a move to take it. His eyes are droopy, and his head lolls back and forth until he finally leans it against the rim of the tub with a groan and a grunt. 

You sigh as your heart clenches, and you kneel beside him, running the wet cloth over his arms first, scrubbing off the caked mud, blood, and whatever else he dragged on him from wherever he was. When you reach his hand, his fingers curl slightly, seeking your touch, trying to hold you and you give everything to stop your tears from falling. 

Gods, how you love this man. 

He slumbers for a bit as you clean most of the grime off, but when you reach his chest and your hands find the familiar scars, his eyes slowly open, watching you. You're frowning pretending not to notice him observing you, but you grumble something unintelligible when you find three new scars –badly healed– on his torso. 

“Where did you go…?” The question slips from your lips against your will in a quiet whisper. You're not even sure if he heard you or if he'll answer. 

“Behind enemy lines, tae the north.”

The cloth slips from your hand, and you fumble to secure it again, your mouth open as wide as your eyes. “Beyond the borders? Into enemy territory? Kid! You could’ve died!”

His smirk barely curves his lips, but it's there. “Would've been worth it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You growl, scrubbing harder and making him wince. 

“Ah, I've missed that filthy tongue, lass.” How can your heart warm at such words when you want nothing more than to yell at him for having left you? “I got what I went in for.” He dips his head back into the water, using his hands to try and comb through his matted hair. When he rises out of the water, his exhausted gaze falls on you, waiting for your questions. 

“What did you go in for?”

“Information. War information that’ll make the clans turn tae yer da’s side without ye havin’ tae marry.” A chill runs through you as you stare at him. Is he serious? Has he risked his life just to get you out of an arranged marriage? Does that mean… does he love you back? Are you more than just ‘fun’? 

You swallow the lump in your throat and try to make your tongue work past the dry, sand-like feeling in your mouth. “You still left me behind, without a word or a goodbye. Without a warning. I was alone!” The sigh that parts your lips is filled with sorrow and resignation. “We'll speak about this after you rest, you're in no condition to argue.”

He chuckles as you force him to lean forward –with a harder shove than you should– so you can clean his back. “Oh, but I've missed arguin’ with ye.” You purse your lips, drawing back an angry snarl that only makes him chuckle again. “Think about it. Would ye’ve let me leave if I told ya my plan?” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I mean, I would've left just the same, but ye would've tried tae stop me. Or worse, ye would've wanted tae go with me. It was better this way.”

“Better for whom? Because I was left thinking you'd abandoned me, right after I poured my heart out to you!”

Kid's face falls again. “Better than tae worry about me. If I died, at least ye could've forgotten me if ye hated me. It would've been a lot harder tae forget me if ye still cared.”

I still care. 

You think the words, but you don't say them. Instead, you hand him the cloth. “Finish up, Kid. I'll go grab you some clothes from your old room. It hasn't been touched.”

-*-

When you return he's clean and dry, a  towel wrapped around his waist, and you lower your gaze before you get lost in the body you know so well. Handing him the shirt and breeches, you return to your room, waiting for him with a tray of food and ale, so he eats and rests, because he looks like shit. 

He follows you wordlessly after getting dressed and eats the food ravenously, which makes you wonder how long it’s been since he last ate. By the time he finishes, he looks ready to fall down again. You lead him to your bed, setting him down in the place he's slept more times than you can count, and securing the blankets around him. As Kid closes his eyes, you sigh, turning to leave, but his arm loops around your waist, and he drags you to bed, your back firmly against his chest, as he pulls you closer and drapes the covers over you too. 

“Kid…” You start to protest. He needs rest and you don't trust your heart enough to be this close to him and not break. He still hasn't told you how he truly feels. He said he missed your remarks and arguing with you, but he didn't say he missed you. 

“Stay.” His voice sounds hoarse and pained as he pulls you impossibly closer, burying his head in your hair, inhaling your scent in deep breaths. 

You relax in his hold. It's not like you want to leave anyway. You've never felt safer than in Kid's arms, you're just not sure if you feel loved. 

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, lass.” The whisper of his words kisses the back of your neck in warm breaths, and your heart clenches. “I'm shite with words and feelings, ye know that… but… dinnae think for a minute that I left because I dinnae care. I left because I do care.”

He's still not saying it. 

“I know you care, Kid.” You sound weary and resigned. Perhaps you're asking too much. It's obvious he cares deeply, or he would've never gone to the lengths he did for you. 

“It's more than that.” You can almost hear the strain in his voice as he forces the words out. “I knew I could never fall for ye. I'm a guard, yer a noble lady. How could I… love ye if I'm no’ worthy? Yer da would hang me for ever touchin’ ye…” His chuckle is just a rumble against your back. “If he knew how much I've touched ye, my head would roll.”

You hold back a smirk. All your life you've defied your father and his rules. Kid would never be the exception. 

“But I've come tae realise that I cannae live without ye, nor do I want tae.” He sighs and rolls you, motioning for you to turn to him, so you do. Your cheeks are hot and flushed and your heart is hammering violently against your chest. His fiery eyes are droopy and tired, filled with so much exhaustion that is physically noticeable. But he needs to get his words out. His fingers tilt your chin so he can stare right into your eyes. “I've realised that if lovin’ ye is a risk, then I'm ready tae bet everythin’. And that's why I had tae go. Because I love ye.”

A ragged sob breaks through your defences and tears down the dam you've built to hold your tears in since Kid’s return. Tears spill from your eyes in fat droplets as Kid pulls you to his chest, his hand resting on the back of your head, comforting you, cradling you. He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to. 

He's said it all. 

You spill all the tears you vowed not to cry when he left, all the pent-up emotions that you’d stored safely away in a dark corner of your heart come crashing down with the force of a tidal wave, destroying everything in their path. And Kid holds you through it all. Your lifeline, your anchor, your everything. 

He doesn't utter any more words, and he's right, you know he's shit with feelings. But his actions have always spoken much louder than words. He holds you tightly, clearly fending off all the exhaustion in his weary bones just to comfort you. His lips press softly against the crown of your head, again and again, in an endless torrent of kisses, like he can't get enough of you. His hand rubs your back up and down in soothing motions as your heart explodes from all this love. It's overwhelming, overpowering and somehow, still not enough. 

Eventually, you pull back from him, tilting your head upwards and watching him through wet lashes. “Gods, Kid. I love you too. So much. So, so much.” The warmth in his gaze overpowers the tiredness as he lowers his face, mouth hovering just above yours. “Yer mine.” His words are a claim and he delivers them softly, like a man who is sure of what he's saying. 

“I'm yours.” 

With the softest of grunts you've ever heard him release, Kid takes your lips in his. You melt into him, this kiss insurmountably different from all the others you've shared. It's soft, steady, and tender. It's not filled with brimming, raging fire or fueled by desire. It's intimate and filled with promises. It's perfect. 

When you both pull back, he cups your cheek and rests his forehead against yours, eyes hooded as exhaustion finally overtakes him. “Stay with me.”

“Aye, Kid.” You don't really know if he asked you to stay the night or to stay forever, but it doesn't really matter when the answer to the question is the same, right? 

-*-

As dawn approaches, you leave Kid to rest in your bed as you get changed and ready. Then you gather the papers Kid brought with him, the valuable information about the war front and you grimace. The papers are bloodied and dirty, a testament to what he's been through, but they are readable. In fact, it serves the purpose best like this, so your father can understand what he's endured. 

You march into your father's quarters, and his guards have the gall to try to stop you from entering. “Either of you touch me, and you'll meet my wrath.” Your fiery reputation is well known in the keep and after exchanging glances, the guards step aside. With a deep breath, you burst into the war room where your father and his advisors are already gathered, though they seem to be discussing how juicy a piece of boar meat is, instead of actual war business. They startle at the noise of the door banging, and you stride towards your father with pursed lips and purposeful steps, daring anyone to stop you. 

Nobody does. 

“Here.” You shove the plate of meat aside –almost dropping it on the floor– and slam the papers in front of your father with a loud bang. “You'll be interested in these, Father.” You watch as he cleans his greasy fingers on his cloak and picks up the parchment, curiosity lighting his eyes. 

You have to suppress a grin when his eyes widen and his mouth opens in surprise. “This… how? This information can change the war… it can bring us the support we need. This is vital.”

The advisors look at your father, then at you, also filled with curiosity. “Aye, Father. That information can sway the clans to your side and bring you the numbers you need to finish this. All without me having to marry.”

A triumphant smirk curls the corner of your lips as all the men gathered around the table begin talking with one another, discussing outcomes and probabilities, finally forgetting the food and actually delving into war business. Your father passes the bundle of papers to the advisor on his right and pins you with his stare.

“How did you get these?”

“Remember Eustass Kid?” You can’t help the way your voice softens at the mere mention of him.

“Aye, the sword I hired to protect you. The guard at the entrance reported that he returned yesterday. Was it him?” He seems incredulous. 

“Aye. He risked his neck for that.”

Your father scratches his chin, the weight of what Kid did hanging heavily on his shoulders. You’re pretty sure he’s already considering how much gold he can be parted with to compensate him. But you’re about to help him solve that problem.

“I will not marry the laird.” You state. You don’t ask, you simply inform your father of your decision because you know he cannot deny you that, not when he doesn’t need a marriage alliance anymore. 

“Fine. I barely know how I convinced you the first time. You’re free, lass, to do whatever you want.”

Your heart hammers against your chest, but you don’t let your nerves show. Not now, when you’re so close. “But I want to marry, Father. Just not him.”

A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he returns his gaze to a paper that wandered back into his hand, looking as though he has more important matters to discuss than your marriage. And he does, and this reminds you of all the headaches you’ve brought upon him, all the troubles you’ve stirred up while growing up. You know you were not an easy daughter, but you know your father loves you, in his own way. 

“Who, then?” 

“Kid.”

He lifts his eyes from the parchment in front of him to stare you down again. “The hired sword? Not a laird?”

You nod. Your throat suddenly feels too tight to squeeze any words through. 

“Impossible. You’re noble, and he’s… not. I was willing to grant you a marriage of your choosing, but I thought you wanted someone of your standing.”

You knew this was coming, so you take a deep, calming breath. “What I want, Father, is someone who fights for me, someone who is willing to go behind enemy lines and risk his neck for me. Someone who loves me so much, that he’d burn down the world for me, if only I asked. He has proven his dedication to me –and to you– a hundred times over.”

“He’s just a mercenary” Your father’s voice rises, and the room stills. “You need a leader by your side! Someone who knows the people and how to lead, not just fight!”

You place your hands on your hips to hide the trembling in them. “I know the people well enough for the both of us. I love the people more than anyone in this room.” Your voice starts to rise with each word. “Gods, I’ve done more for the people and the land than any of you combined! For once, just for once, Father, let someone love me! I deserve to be happy, too!”

Your father stays silent for a moment, his throat bobbing up and down as his thick brows furrow in deep thought. His eyes scan the information laid before him again, as if weighing everything he has and what he’s willing to lose. 

“Very well. You can marry him, if that’s what you truly want.”

-*-

You barely make it past the hallway outside the war room before you feel a familiar prickling sensation on the back of your neck. Kid’s waiting for you. He looks better, more like himself, but there’s still weariness in his eyes and a sort of darkness in them that can only come from claiming someone else’s life –and gods know he’s done enough of that for a lifetime.

“Lass, I knew ye’d be with yer da.” His gaze softens, however, when you meet. “Did he call the weddin’ off?” The hope in his voice mirrors the one that fills your heart.

“I’m still marrying.” 

“The fuck ye are! He lays one finger in yer direction, and he’s dead. I’ll fuckin’ kill him and his entire clan if I have tae! Fuck! I’ll just grab ye and we’ll run. I dinnae care where–”

“Kid!” You take one step towards him, tears threatening to spill from your eyes at the intensity of his feelings. Placing your palms on his heaving chest, you look into his eyes with nothing but love. “You would really burn down the whole world for me, wouldn’t you?”

His hand brushes your cheek gently, a contrast to the beast of a man he is. “Just say the words, lass. I’ll do it.”

“I’m marrying you, you insufferable man. There’s only you.”

He lets out a string of curses in his thick brogue, and you barely understand a word, though you know they’re all directed at you. “Ye wanna kill me. I already knew ye wanted me dead, lass!” Then he weaves his fingers through your hair and pulls you closer, lowering his face until his lips hover over yours. “Damn brat.”

“I love you, Kid.”

“Aye. Me too. Ye’re mine, always.”

“And you’re mine.”

The smile on his lips mirrors your own as they touch again in that soft, gentle dance you’ve come to know as love. 

THE END

Tag list: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @takamimami

[lenaswritingandstuff]

Dating Barty Crouch Jr ◼ HEADCANONS

Requested: No

Characters: Barty Crouch Jr. (+ y/n)

Warnings: NSFW mentions, English is not my first language

A/N: Oh my sweet Barty. I think I'll write a one-shot based on these headcanons one day. This will include also the pre-dating stage as well. SORRY FOR THE TYPOS. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Enjoy! ^^

Tag list: @helendeath @im-jesus @wolfyychan @blocked-zombieartist

At first you guys were great friends, but you secretly had a crush on his best friend Evan, who you were also great friend with

And, unbeknownst to you, Barty had been in love with you for years

But after his best friend somehow broke your heart, Barty was there for you

He would discreetly hold you hand or have an affectionate gesture when Evan and his girlfriend would be there together, and also in public 

He would spent most of his time with you - as Evan has now become insufferable - doing homework, studying, reading or just talking

Every time he goes to Hogsmeade he brings back your favourite sweets or a gift

The more time you guys spend together, the closer you grow, and you realise Barty is even more awesome than you thought he was 

He truly is the kindest, and sweetest boy ever 

Little by little, you’re less affected by Evan’s relationship thanks to Barty’s presence and support

You know he has a difficult relationship with his father, so during holidays, you accept to spend half of the holidays at his house, and the rest at your horse

And you constantly tell him that it’s not his fault that his father acts like that

He gets along so well with your parents, they adore him and basically ship you guys 

That’s when he stays at your house that you first share a bed, and sleep while holding each other

And, without you realising it, it happens every night after

You also start to cuddle in the morning, and after class 

He gives you nicknames, like “sweetheart” or “love” 

And sometimes put his arms around you

Once you’ve completely forgotten about Evan, you wonder why you didn’t realise that Barty was right here the whole time 

You realise one day that Barty is now the most important person in your life

One day, you get drunk at a party and accidentally kiss him, and, despite not wanting to take advantage of you, Barty can’t help but kiss you back

The day after, Barty thinks you don’t remember the kiss, but you do. You’re embarrassed about it, but you soon realise the kiss was an expression of your growing feelings for him

But the difference is, you loved an idea of Evan, while you love Barty for who he is

But after a while, when Evan breaks up with his girlfriend, he tries to get closer to you, but you put boundaries 

But while you know you love Barty, you can’t help but be scared he won’t return your feelings and you’ll end up hurt again

BUT when Evan confronts you and Barty about what’s going on between the two of you, an argument between them follows, and Barty ends up screaming that he loves you

Once Evan leaves, you tell Barty you love him too and he kisses you - telling you he’s been craving to kiss you again 

You guys naturally start dating afterwards, and the first night together is spent kissing, cuddling and enjoying each other’s embrace

Everyone is surprised to learn you two are a couple - Evan more than the others, and he’s actually pissed - but they’re happy for you

Barty is the cutest boyfriend ever, like a labrador 

Totally fine with PDA, will always hold your hands or have an arm around your shoulder 

Overprotective 

He’s always kissing your cheek

Tries to make you laugh during lessons - succeeds most times

Will go anywhere and do any activity with you

Sex with him is a bit rough but still very romantic 

He loves praising you ( “Fuck, baby, you feel so good. So, so good”) - and has a praising kink

He LOVES fingering you

Jealous sex doesn’t really exist, but he will keep you up all night if he gets jealous

His aftercare is cuddling, kissing your temple while praising you, and a bath most of the time

Sex means a lot to him, and he’s so thankful you trust him enough to let him share that with you

Loves to shower with you - and most of the time it doesn’t even end up with sex 

Can’t start/finish his day without kissing you and telling you he loves you

He absolutely loves to sleep in your arms, with his head on your chest or belly and his arms around you

He also loves to put his head on your lap 

Deep down he’s very insecure, and is afraid you will leave for someone better 

Gets depressed when you’re mad at him

Gives you the best gifts on your birthdays, anniversaries, or Christmas 

Since his father probably works on Christmas day, you invite him and his mother to your hose to celebrate it, and it’s the best Christmas ever

He loves how you get along with her 

Won’t probably join the Death Eaters because he doesn’t want to disappoint you, and doesn’t want to put you in danger

But if he does, he’ll do everything he can to hide it from you - and screams your name while in prison

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[katyawriteswhump]

Steddie microfic: I got you

Steve loves it when Eddie rubs his chest.

Written for the December @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘pine,’ 508 words. Originally inspired by the ‘pining’ idea, then it evolved and some extra pine turned up elsewhere!

Rating: T. CW: A couple of sexual references. Tags: shameless hurt/comfort, sickfic, fluff.

***

Their first winter, Eddie got sick. Then Steve got sicker. He took to their bed with a cough that scoured his lungs, rattled his ribs. When Eddie arrived, Steve buried his damp face in the pillow. “I’m all gross. G-go away.”

“Sorry, Babe.” Eddie rolled Steve over, fingers skittering soothingly across his brow. “Kinda guilty here. You scored my germs.”

“Always g-got chest infections as a kid.” Steve shivered. “Ask my m-mom.”

“She won’t talk to me, remember?”

“Ugh. Why are my f-family shitheads?” The pang of irritation proved too much. Steve’s next breath jammed in his lungs. A coughing fit consumed him. Eddie helped him sit, rubbed his back till the worst passed. Then Eddie removed his rings—huh?—pulled the covers over them, and spooned Steve from behind.

His warm hand slid under Steve’s t-shirt. He rubbed Steve’s chest, so gently Steve hardly noticed at first.

“I gotcha, Sweetheart. I gothcha.”

Steve’s shuddering breaths fell in sync with Eddie’s caresses, beneath which painfully taut sinews softened. Steve’s chest still burned, his breaths wheezy, but… 

…Eddie’s touch got him, somewhere so deep it almost choked him again.

It became a regular thing, in sickness and health. Eddie’s guitar-string callused strokes across Steve’s chest—sometimes firm, sometimes soft—set Steve sighing, groaning, purring like a cat. He even adored the cool slide of Eddie’s rings, especially when they snagged in his hair.

One day, afterward, he littered Eddie’s agile fingers with kisses. “Wanna marry your hands.”

Eddie quirked a brow: “You got a mighty fine chest, Babe.”

Steve grinned, sent his own hands south on a far dirtier mission.

Next winter, Eddie scored a touring gig with a band who’d lost their guitarist. Steve missed him like crazy, ignored that tell-tale tickle in his throat, and went to work—peddling hotdogs in the snow. Eddie called daily around 3am, always losing track of time. Steve mainlined cough medicine and pretended so hard:

“I don’t miss your mess, man. I cleaned the shit out of this place—totally reeks of Pine-Sol.”

“Haha. Miss you too, Stevie.”

“Riiight. If you blow the drummer, I’ll repave the drive with your vinyl collection.”

Steve got sicker. The pine stench of the stupid polish caught on his chest. He coughed himself raw. That night, Eddie didn’t call.

Or, Steve didn’t hear.

When he woke, he tried to sit. Flopped back down. He was shivering, out of water, and coughed till tears streaked his face and blood spattered his hand. Scared now... He drifted, never quite sleeping, coughing less, instead struggling to drag whistling breaths. His bones ached. His head ached worse. Freakin’ terrified…

A gentle touch revived him: “Babe?”

He blinked. Eddie? 

“You didn’t answer last night. Caught the first flight home.” Seriously? “Do I need to take you to ER?”

“No,” wheezed Steve.

“Don’t be macho, dude.”

“Need c-cuddle.” That ‘not macho’ enough, Honeypie? 

Steve was too sick for decisions, so let Eddie make them. Much later, when Eddie slid into bed behind him and rested a warm hand on his chest, he knew he was mending already.

***

Thank you for reading :) Also posted on my AO3 here

[crepesuzette2023]

Hi! Because someone just asked me, I'd love you hear your Top 5 favourite McLennon fics!

You made my day! Nothing could have made me happier than this ask.

I'm not going to evade your question. I will post my top-five, even though it hurts to choose. But you inspired me to finally write a longer (okay: very long) post about some (not nearly all!) of my favorites, which will be under the cut.

(Sorry for not knowing every writer's tumblr, by the way. Please feel free to let me know, so I can tag authors where appropriate. Thank you!)

My Top 5:

MIRACLE WORKER by @scurator. What can I say. Every time I need my heart broken and to feel an inkling of what grace truly means, I go to this masterpiece about Paul and Robert Fraser finding each other again at Cavendish in 1981.

COAST STARLIGHT by bookofapril is "Miracle Worker's" cosmic twin. The sun to its night. Paul and Robert Fraser on Fire Island in 1974. Nothing I can say will do it justice, so I won't try. This is the "other world" conjured in "Tug of War," so powerfully and joyfully imagined, it's real. (I'm always thinking of this story, but I did so extra hard when I came across a prompt recently: 'They aren't each other's first love, but they're each other's true love'.)

SAME AS IT EVER WAS by RedheadAmongWolves. My favorite Outsider's POV. An ageing newsstand owner from Liverpool remembers John and Paul as boys and young men. There's something magical about the relationship coming alive in these glimpses. A story filled with tenderness that reminds me to always look closely.

AN ORGASM OF SOUND by @pauls1967moustache. The insanity of John and Paul in 1967 got the tribute it deserves. I sleep easier since I read this story. It feels cosmically right that it exists.

PLANT A SEED by @eveepe. Paul in his slutty sailor outfit in Miami. He and John are into each other, and happy, and fuck slowly. Afterwards, Paul has an idea for a new song. That's it. Tender, glorious, hot perfection. Apply at least once a week for best results.

For more thoughts about some of my favorite stories, sorted into very much defined-ad-hoc categories, read under the cut.

Young Love:

I love the myth of their first meeting, and stories that speculate about the sexually loaded creative fireworks/gritty jealousies/tentative hand-holding/topping and tailing during the first years. Here are some faves:

Paul finds music, and John, and his life is changing. In STREETS OF OUR TOWN (@with-eyes-closed) you can taste the upheaval and promise of first love and growing up. Deeply sensual, even without on-page sex. The shaky, sweet, and all-consuming fire of John and Paul’s first kiss is immortalized in ALL I KNOW SINCE YESTERDAY (RedheadAmongWolves). In NON NOBIS SOLUM (@downtothe-lastdrop), art student John simply has to know how far grammar school boy Paul will go to please him. But Paul matches him play-by-play. In THE CAST IRON SHORE (@m1ssunderstanding) Paul earns extra money through music and sex. John finds out. They fall in love, and hide their mutual pining behind transactions—but in the end, they man up to pair up, and get their band back on track. (The first part is finished; I can’t wait for part 2.) John and Paul’s ’61 trip to Paris has been honored in fiction many times; WHEN YOU ARE YOUNG THEY ASSUME YOU KNOW NOTHING (@lilypadd23) is a slow-burning, blessedly long story that blossoms sweetly. DON’T THINK ABOUT IT is the concept by which Paul measures both his pining for John and their deeply satisfying (but surely not really queer?!) sex life. Perfectly realized Paul POV by @merseydreams. Finally: I NEED YOU DARLIN’ (verse) (by @beatlessideblog) would have fit many categories, but I put it here, because in the end, it’s about young John and Paul becoming friends, making music, having sex, and falling in love. No more, no less. Embedded in a late 50’s/early 60's Liverpool omegaverse in which there's a place for their bond. But, surprise (?!): It’s still complicated. I can’t overstate how charming and satisfying and funny and hot this work is.

Old John and Paul:

Is there anything as lovely as imagining John and Paul growing old together?

In HERE TODAY (@herspecialagent), John and Paul found happiness with each other in Scotland. On 8th December 1980, they invite friends for a party, and fight an inexplicable sense of doom. A reminder that our other lives can be closer than we think, and to keep our loved ones even closer.

GROW OLD WITH ME (@inherownwr1te): Old farmers and husbands John and Paul enjoy domestic bliss, deal with a broken arm, and make sweet love.

HAVING COFFEE (@feathersandblue): John Lennon and Paul McCartney, “one of the most iconic gay couples in history,” look back on their early love, the Beatles, and being outed in the 80’s, in this oh-so-glamourous, well-written 2020 portrait…

Magical re-tellings of J/P and/or the Beatles Story:

No matter where you come down on the blessed vs. cursed continuum—they were living through something magical.

In KISSING THE BLARNEY (@zilabee) the Beatles draw love and music from kissing Paul, and each other, until the stupid world interferes. But fear not, all ends well. How to tell the truth through whimsy: this story demonstrates it.

In WE ARE ALL TOGETHER (also by @zilabee), John and Paul switch bodies. It helps.

I WAS A YOUNGER MAN NOW (THEN) (POST HOC) BY @fingersfallingupwards: Paul is a time traveler and braids his life together with John’s, out of order, through the years. And yes, they do grow old together—but not without losing each other first. I’m in awe of this story.

A darker time-traveling story is A MATTER OF TIME (D12Fan), in which John and Paul love each other, over and over, and never manage to make it work—but Paul won’t give up.

FOR THOUGH THEY MAY BE PARTED (@downtothe-lastdrop): The misery of the 'Get Back' sessions and memory-stunting technology imported from “Severance” are not enough to kill off John and Paul’s attraction and longing for each other. Again, this is basically what happened, so.

John and Paul without the Beatles?

Yes, please! Sometimes, the best way to dissect and celebrate (and fix?) this mesmerizing and exasperating partnership is to lift it from its context and drop it elsewhere. Anything goes.

WHATEVER FATE DECREES by @dailyhowl: A gorgeous, finely spun, securely handled, self-contained vision of how John and Paul could have worked as artists in love, without a band to 'legitimize' and constrain their bond. I love this homage to their deep and complicated love that needed trust and breathing room.

1967 by @walkuntilthedaylight: What if John and Paul had gone to Spain together and not come back? This story not only explores their relationship layer by layer, it also dives into the the feelings of those who knew them 'before' and who now meet them again, as a couple. A fascinating alternate history. Not a fluffy one.

TOMORROW I'LL MISS YOU (@pauls1967moustache): Paul abandons John in Hamburg—or John stays behind without bothering to write, depending on who you ask. This "Before Sunset"—AU reunites them, years later. They ride a bus and write a song, and the love and tension are sweet and painful.

DOUBLE FANTASY (by @javelinbk): Modern AU in which John and Paul meet at John's flower shop and manage to ignore and creatively re-interpret their feelings for one another for a surprising amount of time, before fate has mercy. I love how their sweet, well-matched eccentricity makes the world a warmer place for both of them.

WE ARE STARDUST (Unchained_Daisychain): AU. John and Paul meet at Woodstock, fall hard and fast for each other, and have to decide what to do with it: Paul's life is back home in England...except...

Angst, darkness, and courage:

Pain, fear, grief, and other dark emotions are part of the real J/P story, so it makes sense to honor and harvest them in fiction. One of my favorite brands of McLennon angst is the one triggered by their feelings for each other, and the thing they become once they're together™. When they're scared of how much they need each other, and of what will happen next.

ONE AND ONE AND ONE IS THREE and MANAGING EXPECTATIONS (both by @pauls1967moustache), for instance. The first is a terrifying threesome with Yoko (at John's instigation, of course), in which trust is never rewarded and sex resolves nothing. The second is Paul wondering, in thoughts both messy and crystal clear, whether he exists independently of John. He turns to Brian for answers. They fuck. It feels like a human thing compared to what is going on in Paul's mind. Just astounding.

SUNDAY DRIVER (@boshemians) dives into the theme of Paul and John being afraid of themselves in the aftermath of Paul's accident (moped, sexual) with Tara Browne. This one, like "Managing Expectations," ends on a lovely grace note.

MACABRE (@dovetailjoints). Lennon and McCartney go too far.

OPEN HEART (@paisanas). Paul drinks John's blood. John lets him. But Paul starts to hate himself for how much he needs John, which John feels as rejection. I love how this story ends on Paul embracing his need. You can see the painful, bare bones of their malnourished love under the lush sensuality of the vampire sex. Raw and rich.

SILENCE (@ohjohnnysblog). Short and piercing. If there is someone you love—tell them. Don't wait.

THE LATE, GREAT JOHNNY ACE (@midchelle). Reeling with grief, Paul is recording an album in 1981. George and Ringo are there. John is not. But in the end—he is. And they touch. I've always admired Paul's resilience in the face of having to perform or "prove" his love of John in public, and this story showed me, without sugar-coating, where this resilience comes from.

Light, hope, and fixing things:

There is also much lightness and brightness in McLennon, because John and Paul were ridiculous, and horny, and weird. And also: they deserve a laugh. They deserve the fluffiest of happy endings. They deserve high-quality, life-affirming smut. They deserve silly, because silly is what they were. You know their names, look up their number.

1980. John is in BERMUDA (@scurator), Paul visits. Paul comes prepared, John just comes. Sometimes, it can be this simple. This story always leaves me in such a good mood. Paul is the (more) experienced one, and it...really works for me.

GOT TO GET DOWN (@eveepe): In praise of John's obsession with Paul's...precious. His small and perfect prick.

ADVENTURES IN TOTAL HONESTY (@merseydreams). Pithy and sexy, and, I quote from the tags: #Excessive Margarita Mixing.

ANINUT (@pauls1967moustache): The Beatles heal, together and separately, after Brian's death. Once more, I quote the writer: "The Beatles did not follow any of the Jewish mourning traditions, and frankly, they should have."

The unhinged weirdness of the Mad Day Out, with John and Paul escaping and Francie, Yoko and Mal not missing them...much, is rightfully celebrated in one of the insaner stories I read: JOHN, I'M ONLY DANCING (@skylikeaflame)

FAIR'S FAIR (@javelinbk): John and Paul are being silly during a press conference, resulting in acute arousal requiring John's skilled intervention. I love the unexpected care and tenderness in this one!

WHERE THE POETS WENT (RedheadAmongWolves): Tender and enchanted story in which Paul and John go to a bookstore, where they're not as famous as everywhere else. As delicate as the chiming doorbells and the pages murmuring around them.

TAKEN AWAY (@crumblingcookies) Extraterrestrial Intelligence intervenes to reunite John and Paul.

CAN I TAKE MY FRIEND TO BED? (manhattanvalleys). Paul fucks the band in sequence and gets off in the end, as is his due. This is a story like Prince's KISS. No filler, all effect.

THEY SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY (@ohjohnnysblog). Warm and nostalgic phone sex in the 70's.

KEEP THE LIGHT WE'RE GIVEN (@backbenttulips). Amidst the rise of Beatlemania, Paul and John expect their first child. This is Paul's 1962 diary.

More Outsider POV's:

STILL MATES (@pauls1967moustache): in 1968, Peter Asher takes the leap to act on his feelings for his sister's spiraling ex fiancé. This isn't about Paul as much as about Peter, and who he wants to be. Gutting character study. It made me love Peter.

ANOTHER GIRL (@boshemians): Astrid reunites with the Beatles during the making of AHDN and registers their words and deeds with the same stark objectivity as her camera. I love how she seeks the shelter of obscurity while they are being dragged into the limelight. But she sees them, wherever they are. J/P in this story feels incredibly real to me.

WHY BUY THE COW (RedheadAmongWolves). The milkman sees everything on his early morning rounds: the arrival of a nice new family, the McCartneys, the mother's illness, the sadness after her death...and the arrival of a new love in the older son's life. He shouldn't approve—should say something, in fact. But a small inner voice holds him back.

SLEEPLESS IN WALES (thinkpink20). Mike overhears Paul and John whisper in bed. He doesn't understand everything they say. I do. Adorable.

Not each other's first love, but each other's true love

THIS YEAR'S FOR ME AND YOU (@skylikeaflame): After a long life, after deep and loving partnerships with other people, John and Paul, encouraged by their grown-up children, finally meet their mutual love head on. A festive story about waiting the perfect amount of time.

THERE ARE ALWAYS FLOWERS (tarenas): The Beatles are in the past; John and Paul's love is in ashes. Paul, who is fragile and bereft, lives with George, who is content. The four ex-Beatles unite for the second wedding of Mike McCartney. At times, the aching grief in this story is almost unbearable. But the love between George and Paul is unusual and real. This is unfinished. I'll keep waiting for the final chapter.

Beyond J/P

WANT ME WHEN I'M NOT THERE (@backbenttulips): Linda catches Paul cheating on her with John. She divorces him. Finally: a story that puts her most likely reaction front and center, with no mercy for the messed-up geniuses.

In the Rebecca-AU LOVE LIKE GHOSTS (@backbenttulips), Yoko becomes Mrs. Lennon. Soon, she discovers that her husband is haunted by the ghost of his first love. It's pleasing how well this re-telling matches the events as they (alas) (almost) happened. The ending is chilling. Genuinely horrifying. I love seeing Yoko as the sensible one and as the focus of empathy.

THE BASS LESSON (@aquarianshift). Paul and Stu fool around without letting go of their mutual resentment for even a moment. And it works. "Let's never do this again." I don't think so.

TELL ME ALL MY LOVE'S IN VAIN (@midchelle). Forget about quote unquote platonically obsessed male rock stars: This about about Maureen and Patti through the years. The web weaving continues.

SPOTLIGHT ON JOHN AND STU (@dailyhowl) A love story in letters—too brief, like Stu's life, but sounding as if the writer transcribed their dictation. Some of the best descriptions of what it must have been like to play on stage with the Beatles during the mania are in NO I IN THREESOME (@with-eyes-closed). George finds himself in the beam of attention between John and Paul, and nearly loses his mind. But he's determined to stay and become part of them. Paul is daddy and "fucks like music" as seen through George's eyes. The whole story is vicious and hot and uncomfortable—until there's the love and quiet at the eye of the storm.

Not for the faint of heart! WHAT THE CIGGIE CARTON SAW (@waveofhand): Paul McCartney having his way with cigarettes.

This is getting out of hand...but I'll stop here. There are so many more stories I love. And I can think of many other categories that would deserve their own post.

So, who knows: To be continued?

[unpredictable-probabilities]

The Pleasures of Dreaming and Waking

Summary:

Hob spends time with Dream after a long week at work. As they chat over their usual table, they grow more comfortable in expressing their fantasies and endeavour to explore them.

Notes:

Inspired by this fic written by @delta-pavonis <3

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4,716

Square/Prompt: B3 - Somnophilia |  @dreamlingbingo

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Kissing, Neck Kissing, Making Out, Nipple Play, Smut, Eldritch Sex, Light Bondage, Consensual Somnophilia, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Orgasm Edging, Multiple Orgasms, Sweet, Sweet/Hot, Cuddling & Snuggling, Naked Cuddling, Post-Coital Cuddling, Porn Without Plot, Porn With Feelings

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59931001

———

The sounds of conversations combined with the clinking of cutlery and soft footsteps is making Hob sleepy.

He had a long week at work and only managed to catch a break now that it's Friday; he stifles a yawn behind his hand and mumbles thanks to the waiter that just brought their order to their table.

“Are you well, my love? You seem exhausted.” A frown creases Dream’s forehead, and Hob still marvels at how Dream is more comfortable with expressing his emotions now, especially since they started dating three months ago; a fact that Hob still has trouble believing if he thinks about it too hard.

Hob nods and straightens up in his seat, trying to blink the fatigue out of his eyes. “I'm alright, love, don't worry. Just pretty knackered with finals week coming up. Been up late catching up on grading papers and all that.”

“You should have informed me sooner. We could always meet in my realm while your physical body rests.”

“Yeah, but I'm quite fond of this place,” Hob admits. “This table is where I was sitting when you first came back. I like talking with you here.”

“You are stubbornly sentimental,” Dream chides, though there's an unmistakable smile on his lips.

“You love it,” Hob says pointedly, taking some chips from the basket.

Dream makes a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Very well. What woes did you experience in the world of academia today? I have heard it is part of unwinding to talk about how one’s day has gone.”

“You learned that in one of those relationship books you read in your library?” He walked in on Dream reading that sort of book once in the Dreaming during their first month of dating. Dream vanished the book in an instant when he saw Hob, but Hob had been so endeared that he had pushed Dream against the shelf and kissed him senseless.

“Perhaps.” Dream drinks from his mug of hot chocolate to hide his face, but not before Hob sees the subtle pink on his cheeks.

Hob grins and reaches for Dream’s hand resting on the table, fiddling idly with the cuff of his sleeve. “Nothing remarkable happened, at this point even the students were just waiting for the weekend so classes were rather quiet. Then afterwards I went with some of my colleagues to that pub near the university, and we just traded mindless gossip to purge our brains of essays and staff meetings.”

Dream turns his hand so his palm is facing up, and he brushes his thumb back and forth on Hob's wrist as he speaks. “I am sure the other patrons enjoyed hearing gossip from academics.”

“I'm not so sure I did, honestly. My mate Nick runs his mouth after a few pints, and I didn't need to hear that he had a wet dream about our colleague from the Arts department. Does that fall under your jurisdiction, by the way? You just know whenever someone's fantasising in their dream?” Hob has already asked a lot of questions about Dream and his function, which Dream always answers with some degree of amusement, but Hob still feels like there's so much more to learn.

“I am able to see into someone's dreams should I wish, but unless a nightmare is crossing a line in troubling them or other similar concerns, I have no obligation nor desire to do so. And any fantasies they might have are created by their own minds.” Dream pauses and tilts his head slightly to the side. “Do you wish for us to do the same? To share such intimacies in my realm?”

Hob feels his face warm and he chuckles. He still gets caught off-guard by how direct Dream can be nowadays. “I thought you said you can't read minds?”

“I can sense daydreams. And yours are often loud.” The corner of his lips tilts up in a smirk.

“Well, can you blame me? People dream about that kind of stuff all the time, but for you and me, it would be real. It would actually be you.”

Dream’s smile disappears and he seems to hesitate, his face becoming guarded.

“Hey,” Hob says gently, stroking Dream’s arm with his fingers. “We don't have to, okay? All the sex we have here in the Waking is already perfectly amazing.”

“Crude.” Dream's eyes twinkle in amusement and he seems to relax. He pauses for a moment before continuing. “You have seen my form in my realm. How… different. I look.”

Hob raises an eyebrow. “You mean being paler and taller than an average human and having galaxies for eyes? And wearing that sinful robe that would be considered indecent in the streets of London?”

Dream lowers his gaze and is obviously trying to suppress a smile. “I am trying to be serious, Hob.”

“Oh I'm perfectly serious. I'm surprised you didn't sense my daydreams whenever we walked around your realm with you wearing that thing.”

“I… did. But.” Dream trails off, his fingers tapping restlessly on the inside of Hob’s arm.

“What's wrong?” Hob rarely sees Dream be so hesitant.

“I am… afraid. To hurt you, in my realm. If we engage in physical intimacy.”

Hob’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Hurt me? You could never hurt me, love.”

“I might.” Dream’s voice sounds strained with worry. “In my realm I am… more. In the throes of passion I might lose control of my humanoid form.” He looks right at Hob. “You inspire such greed in me, Hob Gadling. I will have you for as long as it takes until I am sated.”

Hob swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. If Dream intends to discourage him by what he just said, he's spectacularly failing. “So exactly as we always do it, then?” he manages to say lightly.

Dream huffs out a chuckle. “You are not daunted at all.” He sounds almost impressed.

“‘Course not,” Hob says easily. “Is it something that you want, though?”

Dream nods slowly. “I have thought of it. More than once. I should like to have you in my bed, at the heart of my palace. So the very essence of our ardour seeps into each fibre of my realm, that none may doubt my affections for you.”

Hob takes a shaky breath, unable to look away from Dream. They should probably be talking about this somewhere more private, but right now the most prominent thought in Hob's mind is if Dream wants it just as much as he does then why haven't they done it yet.

“Okay, okay,” Hob says mainly to calm himself. “Since we both want the same thing, is there any way I can make you more comfortable with the idea? We can use safe words, and I bet you can sense anyway if I feel like something’s too much for me.”

“I am uncertain about that. I have never been able to sense your discomfort in any of our couplings.”

“That's because I've never felt any discomfort, love. Like I said, everything we've done has been amazing, and I think you know by now that you're not the only one who can get greedy,” Hob says cheekily.

A smile curves Dream’s lips. “That is a fair point.”

“I know. So then. Um…” Hob looks around at the pub. “D’you wanna go upstairs and talk about it?”

“You are not too tired?”

“Oh believe me, I'm more awake now than I've been all week.” Hob calls over one of the waiters and tells him that they're taking their food to go.

“Eager, beloved?” Dream raises an eyebrow playfully after the waiter leaves.

“No more than you, Your Majesty.”

Dream makes a low humming noise in his chest that might have been a purr or a growl. Either way, it's definitely a sound of approval and that's all Hob needs to practically drag Dream upstairs as soon as they get their takeout bag.

Hob takes a shower first because he's not sleeping with his boyfriend while carrying the grime of public transport, nevermind that it's the quickest shower he's ever taken in his life.

When he gets out of the bathroom wearing a fresh shirt and sweatpants, he sees Dream on his bed wearing black silk pyjamas, sitting up against a pillow and reading Lord of the Rings. The whole image is so soft that it makes Hob’s chest ache.

“I like seeing you like this,” Hob says as he sits next to Dream.

“On your bed?”

“Relaxed.” Hob kisses the tip of Dream's nose. “Do you still want to talk about it?”

Dream nods. “Do you?”

“Yeah. Thanks for waiting while I showered.”

“You were not gone long. I had not even finished the chapter I was reading.” Dream closes the book and puts it on the nightstand. “I still do not know what happens after Frodo and Sam meet Merry and Pippin.”

“Oh, should I shower for longer then so you can continue reading?”

“If you step in that shower again I should be inclined to join you.”

“Talk first,” Hob says firmly, rather proud of himself for declining such a tempting offer. Granted, he declined in favour of a much more tempting one. “How'd you feel about safe words?” he turns to his side to more comfortably face Dream, folding a knee under him.

“They could prove to be useful, yes. What words do you recommend?”

“We can use the traffic light system. Green means continue, yellow means slow down, red means stop immediately.”

Dream considers for a moment. “And you promise to use them with no hesitation?”

“Yeah,” Hob nods. “And you should too.”

Dream slowly blinks at him, looking surprised.

“You can use them too,” Hob clarifies. “You're allowed to say if you're uncomfortable, yeah?”

Dream is silent for a few moments, forehead creased in thought. Then he slowly nods. “Alright. And I should like to give you control to shape the Dreaming.”

“What?” Now it's Hob's turn to be surprised.

“My realm is tied to my temperament. I may cause a storm without meaning to. Or an earthquake. While you might not be powerful enough to stop these things entirely, you will have the ability to shape the environment to conjure whatever shelter best suits your comfort.”

The first thought in Hob's mind is how utterly sweet Dream is to even think of granting him that much power over his realm; Hob is aware that that much trust given to him is not to be taken lightly.

The second thought following closely after is that Hob wants to see just how much he can make Dream lose control while sharing his bed. He wonders if he can pleasure Dream enough for him to make actual fireworks appear.

Dream chuckles and rests his forehead against Hob’s. “Your priorities continue to fascinate me, Hob Gadling.”

“Shall I show you how fascinating I can be, then?” Hob reaches up to run his fingers along the collar of Dream's silk shirt.

Dream purrs low in his chest and holds the back of Hob’s neck to slot their lips together.

Hob groans softly and clenches his fist into the fabric of Dream's shirt, pulling him down to lie on top of him.

“I thought you wished to do this in my realm,” Dream says playfully against his lips, pupils already blown.

“Still do. Take me there then, my lord.”

There’s sand and the familiar feeling of drifting off to sleep, and then all at once Hob feels a different bed under him, smooth as satin and softer than goosefeathers.

Dream is looming over him, his black robe nearly slipping off a pale shoulder. His blue eyes flicker down to Hob’s clothes, running over them with a curious gaze.

Hob looks down and realises that he’s wearing a bottle-green robe, loosely tied at the waist and with nothing else underneath. “I owned something like this back then,” he recalls. “In the 1500s, I think. It was always comfortable.”

Dream nods in approval and noses along the line of Hob’s jaw. “Good. Here you shall have every comfort.” He sinks his teeth in the skin beneath Hob’s ear with just enough pressure to make him shiver.

“I wish I could carry your marks with me to the Waking,” Hob says breathlessly.

Dream pulls back to meet his eyes, and for a second Hob wonders if had said something wrong.

“If you truly wish it, I can extend my consciousness to my physical form currently sleeping beside yours. I will make love to you in the Waking as I do here. And you will have my marks until your body heals them away.”

Hob feels his eyes widen, his heart thumping in his chest. And once again he wonders why they’d never done this before. “Will I be able to feel what you do to my physical body? Even here?”

Dream considers it. “I can put your consciousness in the liminal space between sleeping and waking, just enough for you to feel my touch in your realm. Is this what you wish?”

“Yes,” Hob whispers, absently realising that he has his hands clenched into fists on Dream’s robe.

“Very well.”

Dream closes his eyes, and suddenly Hob feels smooth hands trail slowly up his thighs, even when Dream hasn’t moved at all. Cool fingers wrap around his cock and he gasps, hips jerking up against Dream’s thigh.

“Did you vanish my clothes?”

“I did not think you would need them.” There’s an edge to Dream’s smile, and when he opens his eyes the blue has vanished too, replaced by pools of black with brilliant stars at the center.

Hob pulls him down for a kiss, and Dream opens up immediately. Hob loses himself in the feeling of their tongues against each other and Dream’s body undulating above him. They both still have their robes on, but Hob can feel a hand slowly stroking his cock, a mouth around his nipple. He hears a whimper that might have been his but never felt it leave his throat.

“Dream,” Hob gasps, hips stuttering against Dream’s thigh. The sensations in the Waking haven’t stopped, but with most of his consciousness here in the Dreaming they all feel distant, like a vivid memory that can never live up to the real thing. “Touch me. Here.”

“As my love commands.” Dream unties Hob’s robe with one hand before pressing their lips together again.

Hob sighs against the kiss as he feels Dream’s hand caress his torso, gliding lower and kneading the flesh of his thigh. He wraps his arms around Dream’s neck, runs his fingers through soft midnight hair that seems constantly ruffled by wind despite the lack of any breeze.

The sensations in the Waking stop abruptly, and before Hob could begin to wonder why, he feels teeth sink into the inside of his thigh.

“Ah!” Hob arches his back, breaking the kiss and pulling Dream’s hair. His cock twitches and he feels the heat of Dream’s mouth wrap around him—in the Waking. Hob moans in frustration, his cock hanging heavy and neglected in the open air. “Do you even have plans to fuck me here?”

“I am marking you in the Waking. That is what you wish, is it not?” Dream rakes his nails lightly across Hob’s chest, scraping a nipple and making Hob twitch.

“Just in the Waking? What happened to being greedy?” Hob quickly bunches up Dream’s robes, thrilled to find that there’s not a stitch of clothing underneath. He grabs Dream’s bare arse and pulls him flush against his groin.

Dream throws his head back with a shaky gasp, his eyes fluttering close.

Hob pulls him down and mouths at pale clavicles, licks at Dream’s icy throat and nips at his jawline.

Dream surges down to kiss him, and at the same time Hob feels his thighs being spread open in the Waking.

Dream's tongue reaches into him from both ends, soft and slick and far longer than any human tongue should be.

Hob squirms as he feels Dream’s tongue move inside him in the Waking, feeling full and empty all at once. He grips the back of Dream's neck, ruts against his cock.

Dream makes a wounded noise and returns the enthusiasm, grinding down hard until Hob’s sure they're carving a dent into the plush cushions.

Hob feels precome on his belly, and he needs Dream inside him now but he also needs him to never stop moving.

And then Dream does stop, even his movements in the Waking.

Hob opens his eyes, mind clouded in a haze of confusion and lust. He sees Dream looking around their surroundings and blinking.

Hob begins to realise that even though they're still on the same cushions, they're no longer in Dream’s bedroom.

The ceiling made of a starry night sky is replaced with an elaborate mosaic of figures that might be deities, and the marble walls are now stained glass windows letting in colorful sunlight that dapples on the steps leading down from where he and Dream are.

Dream shifts to his side to give Hob room to sit up and look around. He realises that they're on a raised platform overlooking a great hall with long tables and tall double doors at the far end. They're the only ones here, and the vastness of the place has a solemn quiet to it.

“Where are we?” Hob’s voice echoes softly.

“You brought us here, beloved.”

“What?” Hob frowns and looks around again, paying more attention to the details.

The wall behind them is painted with doves and bells so intricately that Hob can almost hear them, and he suddenly recognises that the deities depicted on the ceiling are who the townspeople considered the gods of marriage from about six centuries ago.

“This is a wedding hall,” Hob breathes. I brought us here to shag on the altar.

Dream blinks at him slowly. “Why did you choose this place?”

“I didn't mean to,” Hob scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “I guess, um…” he feels his face warm up. He looks down and fidgets with the sheets. “I'm not proposing or anything, I don't even know what that would mean for you but… I s’pose I liked the symbolism of it. Us getting married…” He trails off and hesitantly meets Dream’s gaze again.

Dream is looking at him in bewilderment, and Hob feels panic rise in his throat, images of a rainy night and a black figure storming off flashing in his mind.

“Look, I can't control what my brain thinks,” he hurriedly says. “You can whisk us back to your room—”

Dream moves and pins him down on the cushions, claiming his lips with teeth and tongue and the intensity of the birth of a star.

Hob’s body quickly gets back with the program, whatever he was feeling before they got interrupted by the location change has come back in full force, and then some.

He grunts when he feels Dream slip a finger inside him, the sensation so vivid that it takes him a second to realise that it's happening in the Waking. Dream adds another finger, slick with the lube that Hob keeps in his nightstand drawer, or possibly dreamstuff, Hob doesn't really care. He grinds down on empty air here in the Dreaming, a moan of pleasure and need escaping him.

“You wish to be united with me in this manner?” Dream is actually breathless, and his form is starting to blur at the edges like a freshly made oil painting hanging on a lord’s wall.

He has a subtle glow about him, and Hob can believe that it's coming from the stars in his eyes that seem to burn brighter now. His dark hair ripples softly as if underwater. It's as if one of the gods from the mosaic came to life just to loom over Hob and look at him with utter adoration, as if Hob is the one worthy of worship.

“Of course I do.” Hob threads his fingers through Dream’s hair, caresses his face, his shoulders. Marvelling at how he's allowed to touch a being such as this. “I'll have you in all the ways you would allow,” he says quietly, reverently.

Dream presses their foreheads together. “Hob.” The syllable drops from his lips like a prayer and then he's kissing Hob again, their robes vanishing in an instant.

Hob cups Dream’s face in his hands, his eyes falling close as he inhales the scent of rain and ozone and fresh ink on paper.

He feels Dream's fingers pull out of him in the Waking, and his stomach clenches in anticipation.

The familiar shape of Dream's cock teases at his rim, and Hob realises with a gasp that it's here in the Dreaming. 

Dream tenderly takes his hands and pins them beside his head on the pillow, their fingers lacing together.

Hob is already slick and soft and open, and his eyes roll back in his head when Dream slips in, filling him up inch by delicious inch as Dream’s lips move down to his neck. Their fingers remain intertwined, but Hob feels soft touches up and down his body, becoming more insistent as Dream thrusts deeper into him.

Hob’s eyes flutter open to see that shadows seem to be bleeding from Dream’s form, shaping into tendrils that act as his limbs. Hob doesn't even bother to try counting them, especially not when one tendril touches his nipple, flicking and rolling the hard nub until Hob is squirming and jerking his hips up to meet Dream’s thrusts.

The teeth that scrape and nip at his neck are definitely sharper than usual, and a shiver runs down Hob’s spine, prickling his skin with goosebumps and making his toes curl.

Dream tightens his grip on Hob's hands and slowly pulls out before slamming into him in both realms.

“AH–!” Hob arches his back, or tries to, but finds that the shadow tendrils are pinning him to the bed; wrapped around his waist, his arms, holding his thighs open as Dream continues to thrust into him.

Dream's face is pressed in the crook of Hob’s neck, making growling noises that could never come from a human throat.

Hob’s weeping cock twitches from what little friction Dream’s body is giving, unable to get any more of it no matter how much he strains against the tendrils. Dream slams into his prostate and Hob cries out a sob, tears forming in his eyes.

Dream slows down and pulls back to look at him, the tendrils loosening their hold. “Colour, my love?” His voice sounds wrecked.

“Green,” Hob whines, taking advantage of his mobility to raise his hips and take Dream deeper into him. “Green— Fuck, Please…”

Dream captures his lips in a searing kiss. The tendrils wrap around Hob once more, but this time they help him move, raising his hips to meet Dream each time, faster than what Hob would have been capable of on his own.

He can feel Dream's teeth on him in the Waking while he's being fucked into his own mattress; on his chest, his jawline, his neck, oh his neck, Dream is making good on his promise to mark him, sucking bruises onto the skin and soothing them with his tongue. When that tongue moves down to his nipples, Hob feels so keyed up that he can almost feel it in the Dreaming as well.

A tendril wraps around Hob’s cock and strokes him quickly while another one teases at the slit, and it's all too much and not nearly enough. Hob doesn't quite remember how to breathe, and he tightens his grip on Dream's hands as the tendrils manhandle him to buck and rut against his lover.

The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike, and Dream is panting in Hob's ear as a sudden wind whistles through the wedding hall, the light from the stained glass windows changing colours rapidly as if the sun is moving erratically outside.

Seeing Dream so affected is what hurls Hob over the edge, and he comes with a roar that might have broken the windows but he can't hear anything else above his own voice and the pleasure lighting up his spine.

Dream speaks against his ear, soft lips almost caressing. “This dream is over.”

Hob slams back into the Waking with a strangled cry, frustration crashing over him when he realises that Dream has a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, stopping his release even as Dream repeatedly fucks into him, his other hand bracing himself on the bed for leverage.

The whiplash of going from a mind-shattering orgasm to his cock heavy with wanting has Hob going half-mad.

“Dream–!” he digs his nails into Dream’s back, squirming as he tries to get free of Dream's iron grip, only succeeding in deepening the angle of Dream inside him.

“Shall I fuck you into unconsciousness, my lover?” Dream is in his human form again but his blue eyes are no less piercing. “I can take you here, and in my realm, going back and forth until you can no longer distinguish between Dreaming and Waking. Giving you endless pleasure in my realm where you will not tire, and holding back your release here until I decide that I am done with you.”

A full-body shiver runs through Hob; Dream's voice only stokes the fire already burning Hob from the inside, his words making Hob’s cock ache and twitch in desperation.

“You are mine, Hob Gadling,” Dream's hips stutter out of rhythm before speeding up. “Not to capture nor possess. But to adore and—ah—cherish. Mine to care for. Mine to love.” His eyelids flutter and his breaths are coming in pants. “Just as I am yours. To do with as you please.”

He thrusts deep and Hob cries out, his nails raking red lines across Dream's back.

A flash of concern appears on Dream's face as he looks down at him.

“Green, green!” Hob screams before Dream could even think to slow down. “Dream, my love, please…” he whimpers.

“Yes,” Dream says breathlessly, leaning down to kiss him. “Your love. Yours,” he says against Hob’s lips. He deepens the kiss as he strokes Hob’s cock in time with his thrusts.

Hob clenches his hands into Dream's hair, moaning wantonly in his mouth as his hips buck up and down of their own accord.

“With me, my love,” Dream gasps. He slams into Hob’s prostate and twists his hand.

Hob's vision goes white and he screams, his body thrashing under Dream as he spills and spills between them. He hears Dream’s guttural cry in his ear and it only flings him higher into his peak, where nothing else exists except the two of them and Dream’s spend filling him up more than he thought possible.

Their embrace tightens as they shake and tremble, listening to the sound of each other’s breaths as they begin to calm down, their chests heaving.

Dream gently slips out of him and they both groan at the sensation. “Have I fulfilled your expectations, my love?” he asks quietly, brushing away a lock of hair that had stuck to the sweat on Hob’s forehead.

Hob’s brain takes a few moments to understand the question. “Have… What…” he tries to form a coherent sentence while still catching his breath. “I only ever expect for both of us to feel good, and I think we'd been pretty vocal about that just now.”

Dream smiles, a soft thing that brightens up his face. “Indeed. And now, you must sleep,” he brushes a thumb across Hob's cheekbone. “You have been exhausted this week, and even immortal bodies need rest.”

Hob just hums. Given how his eyelids are already feeling heavy, he doesn't have much room to argue.

“Cuddle?” he manages, sleepily running his fingers through Dream's hair.

Dream leans into his touch. “Both here and in the Dreaming.”

Hob vaguely registers Dream waving his hand to clean them up, and then Dream is lying down beside him and snuggling close, tucking his head under Hob’s chin.

Hob wraps his arms around Dream, drifting off to sleep and smiling at what a lucky bastard he is.

———

(Dreamling Bingo Masterpost)

(Masterlist)

[2demondogs]

Hiii!! I love your work so much and would like it if you could do some angst(?)/comfort with Arthur and FTM reader?

If you're comfortable with this, reader might experience some transphobia while trying to get his hair cut short at the barbers, and they refuse to cut his hair. When he comes back to camp and Arthur sees that his hair isn't cut and he looks disappointed and upset, Arthur comforts him and offers to cut his hair instead.

Thank you!! I love this prompt... everyone's experiences are different, so I drew a lot from my own here. This was cathartic as fuck I hope it is for you as well.

Since the relationship felt ambiguous to me this is as well. Can be read as platonic or romantic <3

Words: 2.2k Tags: Period-typical transphobia, misgendering (explicitly in first scene); gender dysphoria, hurt/comfort thru out

I don't serve your kind. The words keep replaying in your head as you slow your horse's run to a trot, slurring into the next warning of: 'n' neither does anyone else 'round here, girl and whatever the barber had said afterwards.

Your ears had rang with the sudden rush of blood to your face when he pointedly said girl, so you hadn't heard much besides the clearing of your own throat and the tense, panic-airy good day, then you were forced, by polite expectation of your apparent subhuman nature, to utter instead of—

Instead of doing what?

Slitting his throat?

It wouldn't even have sufficed to relieve the blackness that filled your gut to bursting.

The words were spoken the same as any declination of service might be, the way it almost always is. That silent look over your figure, head to toe, and some kind of parental disappointment. Pursed lips or a frown, scrunched nose or not, and always the same, disquieting look that begs the question of who raised you?

As if this festering discontent is as blase a decision for you to make as a toddler playing in cow manure. Some work past the fence, but it's easy when you're young and small and you can wriggle through the wooden boards nailed to the posts. Except you're too old, now, for mucking about in mud that you are smart enough to understand is shit.

As if it's a decision at all.

As if you don't already fear, sometimes, that you are mucking about in shit, whatever it could mean.

As if, as if, as fucking if.

And by the time you are starting to feel the anger again, you're blinking and Bill is barking his usual who goes there? from his post watching guard. You ignore him, your mare recognizable enough to answer one of you, if not just me.

Everything melts into hot wax, burning behind your eyes. Exhaustion, and some reactionary, snapping-dog hatred of Bill for how deep his voice is, for all the hair coating his arms; suddenly, you hate every man in camp, keep your eyes on your horse as you dismount and leave her to socialize with the others. A greenness is taking root inside you, turning the fires of maladaptive respect and twisted-sweet envy into a purely Grecian kind.

Even over reason, it burns. It's so much easier to be angry, for now, than it is to let yourself cry.

Men don't cry.

Arthur is always lurking. Built for looming around, he is, but unsure where to go about it. Any other afternoon, that awkward habit would endear you. Now, he is the last and first person you wanted to hear say your name.

He knows, you think, both about the day's events and to remind yourself that you could be asked by anyone else what the sour stink rolling off your expression is all about, only to have to stammer through a lie.

Still, you freeze and splay a hand over the pages of your journal where it rests in your lap, and then gain the sense enough to shut it. Most of it had been words that would've been difficult to read from where Arthur stood, but there were drawings peppered throughout you'd rather he did not see.

He's standing in front of your seat on your bedroll, a respectful few feet back as always, thumbs hooked into his belt. Gun belt nowhere to be seen; it must be a day off or a late-starter.

"Yessir?" You answer him. It's a teasing formality, but the lack of oomph behind it makes his face twist.

"Thought you was gettin' your haircut today, mister," Arthur says, nodding at the thicket of hair still dusting your shoulders. His raises his brows, half concerned and half prying for a story, if there is one. That would endear you, too. "Y'get some trouble instead?"

Warmth raises in your cheeks. You glance at your journal, and then the bushes that line camp, as if both might speak for you. Even if Arthur won't spit invert or crossdresser at you — though the way being treated as you were this morning leaves you feeling so raw, you're suddenly afraid his heart might have changed since those months ago — it feels impersonal and also far too personal to tell him.

Violated, you realize, is how you've felt since this morning. Seen through by the eyes of hate, and violated. That burning in your skin is crawling.

"Sort of," you finally say, and the pause clearly perks his ears.

He sucks on his teeth, slides his thumb over the stitching on his belt for something to move. "You been mean-lookin' since you got back, man," Arthur says, but his tone of voice asks: Are you alright?

Men never do ask what they mean. You had to figure that out quick when you were surrounded by so many of them, of the most emotionally-withdrawn variety to boot.

Sometimes it pisses you off. You ache to be foolish in the right ways, instead of the ways that you are.

Another pause, as you ask yourself once if you should tell him, and then stare into the grass poking up around his boots instead of actually pondering the question. You suppose you knew you would the moment he called for your attention.

Why is it so difficult to accept his concern? Why does it hurt?

Tearing your gaze from the ground, roving it around camp and finding nobody close enough, you bite the bullet. "Barber turned me away." You sigh, drop your journal on the ground beside your bedroll and draw your legs to your chest, before readjusting against the stiffness of your packer pushed uncomfortably into your gut.

God, I feel extraterrestrial.

His brows furrow. "Why?"

You just look at him, shoulders sagging. He seems to recall, as if it's something he could ever forget. Does he really forget?

"Oh," he says, rubs a hand over his mouth. His nostrils flare, and he points vaguely at the ground as if condemning the blades of grass in place of the barber. "That's bullshit. How would he...?" Arthur trails off, shakes his hand, realizing it probably isn't the question to ask you in this frame of mind. "That's real bullshit. I woulda hurt him."

You blanche. "Arthur, it ain't that— it ain't nothin'," you lie. "Not worth that."

"Yes, it is," Arthur says, as if he's disagreeing on the weather.

You can't help wishing he were right, that you could have slaughtered everyone who turned that evil eye on you without soaking your hands through to the bone with blood. Before Dutch came along, before you had a place — as transient as it is — there were no rocks to cling to, because only pebbles are laid out for men like you. If it weren't for the hatred spread so far, you'd think you were the only one born wrong.

Sometimes, you feel that loneliness, anyways.

There is no want me to do something about it? asked in the silence that follows. Although you can feel it lingering in the air after he sighs, you also know Arthur isn't a stupid man.

There is no justice for you, same as anyone deemed degenerate in the way you are, and he knows this as well you do. There is no use pretending that there can be, not today and not tomorrow. Twenty years from now, maybe fifty, maybe the very day you lay dying— but not today, and not tomorrow.

The promise of it beneath Dutch is part of why you've stuck around, despite that promise being made in the utmost secrecy.

"I'll put the bastard out of a job, at least," Arthur offers. "Won't even charge ya."

"You know how to cut hair?" You ask.

He offers a small smile, lifts his hat and bows his head. "Can't promise it'll be handsome," he says, running a hand through his own choppy hair before re-settling the gambler on his head. "I been cuttin' Hosea's, lately, old coot can't work the scissors. Used to cut John's, before we could trust him with scissors."

Your mood lifts, menially. "Is that to say you're still cuttin' John's?"

Arthur laughs. Nothing gets a belly-laugh out of him like picking on John. Somewhere, some sixth sense probably made the other man sneer with no apparent cause.

"Nah, he's too literate now. He could actually tell me what he's thinkin' 'bout," he waves a hand, then feigns a disgusted expression. "I'd prob'ly end up stabbin' him in the head."

Clearly, he's more comfortable raising your spirits this way. You don't blame him; it's easier, too, for you to get distracted from your grief than to explore it.

Most of camp is busy, the women washing and mending and reading, the men doing the hard labor and lazing around. Even out in the sticks, even above the law— those divides still find us, you think, and ignore the complexity of how you fall victim to them, too, in your own ways.

The canvas flaps of Arthur's tent are already drawn down to keep his cot in the shade, and you're thankful for the privacy despite the slight claustrophobia inside it. Sure, you've shared tents with Hosea and Lenny who both are afflicted with a constant chill only drawn canvas can resolve; and with Javier who draws the flaps because he is forever roasting, seeking the same shade that's found here. Something thick clogs the air as Arthur takes a pair of scissors from his shaving stand and drags his fingers through your hair to straighten it out, all before you've even stopped moving, as uncoordinated as most of his friendly gestures are.

Kindness just the same.

Could be thick in your throat, too, maybe that's why your eyes feel dry enough to burn — but neverminding that, you swallow and say: "Thanks, man."

Arthur grunts behind you. He's so much taller, he doesn't need you to sit to see clearly over the top of your head. It stings, a little, and then it fades.

"Ain't nothin'," he says. "How short you wantin' this?"

You try to think of anyone but him to compare your desired length to. He's already being nice. You can't let yourself appear admiring.

"Sorta like Bill," you say.

"Wanna be baldin' in the front like 'im, too?" He asks, and you can hear the shit-eating grin before he snickers alongside you.

It should probably worry you how quickly he works, pulling chunks of hair taut and snipping straight across the ends. First, a solid inch comes off your nape; then he's working closer to your scalp, rough but confident. Most finer movements, you've noticed, seem to come natural to Arthur despite his inelegance with the rest of life's motions.

You can feel the boxy pattern he cuts in. Cookie-cutter, probably, because you suppose Hosea is the only one he's ever done-up who really cared to instruct him on flattering his face shape.

That thickness raises in your throat again, and your chest presses against its bindings with the heavy breath you take to try staving off what must be tears. Only some, does it lighten, as the weight of untrimmed hair is loosened and felled.

Thanks doesn't feel like enough. You aren't often so... whatever you had been since you got back from town. And Arthur still took your vulnerability in his hands by his own volition, without asking for anything in return. Gratefulness blooms from that tacked-on clause, because you know the plight of where's my favor? too well from that false girlhood.

A haircut amongst thieves really ain't nothin', he's right — your hair has been cut by many a fool before, in shops and in camp — but whether or not it's just a haircut is a better question. It is, then it isn't, and then it's too much to think about all at once and you feel overwhelmed, slinking out of your own head and back to the present, staring ahead at the beige, stained canvas of Arthur's tent as his hands work through your hair.

He's ruffling it and nudging your head towards the barrel his shaving mirror stands on before you're fully back in reality. You need to get a handle on the spacing out, you know, but you never realize it's coming on before it does.

"Take a look," he invites as you step towards the looking glass. "Tried not to do y'too nasty."

You lean over, fix the part of your hair after running a hand through it, just to feel the difference. It's a weight off your shoulders, mentally, and you find yourself smiling.

"Looks good enough for a hat," you say, give him lopsided grin.

He snorts. "Careful." Arthur tosses the scissors back atop the barrel. "Might inflate my ego."

It's choppy and slightly cockeyed, if you look carefully, which you don't.

Straightening, you itch with the urge to hug him. Contentment wavers. Another moment of social expectations reaching into your heart, twisting around the feelings, making you wonder if men ever get that urge or if it was too womanly of you to even consider it— and Arthur must sense your pent-up intent.

He doesn't offer an embrace, though you've never known him to be one to shy from it. Instead, he claps your shoulder and squeezes in something quite like one, offers a crook of his lips.