#isn't even enough to retire on

[theorajones]

Up and at 'em for workday 6 of 6!

[bonefall]

TC Scourge is so interesting tho. How does he play out or effect the narrative? Does he go more clan life and change his name or does he act like a changer who gets the clans to see that outsiders aren’t lesser? I think he could be such a good character in like TBC especially as a rebel. I’m very interested in this idea

I'm glad you asked! I do actually have a point with it, and it's the more "fun" option between two choices I have at a certain point.

I'll try to summarize this and keep the BIG overview for its own post;

BloodClan is much older, forming back during the end of Oakstar's rule

It's neutral now, no longer pure evil. It does good things (distributes resources, protects from invasion, saves cats from abusive and neglectful living conditions) as well as bad things (demands service and/or tribute, gruesome punishments for stealing and disobedience, rigid pecking order)

Scourge is the newest in a line of rulers. Instead of being EVIL he's just very politically savvy, having inherited a large and brutal group.

The BloodClan battle happens because Tigerstar PROMISED them land and Scourge is sick of Clan cats not respecting them

So, in any case, Scourge is NOT dying at the battle. Firestar defeats him honorably, and engages in diplomacy with BloodClan afterwards. Everyone involved is mixed about this, but it works out well at the destruction of the forest where BloodClan absorbs the warriors who are staying behind and provides aid.

The Choice

So the crossroads will come during the period concurrent with Firestar's Quest/Quietus, the part where there was a power struggle between Snake, Ice, Claw, and Rage. In the rewrite I'm combining all the BloodClan power plots into one-- Scourge choosing a successor.

My initial draft was to give him a progressive disease that was going to kill him early, but with some small tweaking, it could just be him getting tired of leadership.

So my choice is that he dies here (much more compliant with canon) or he ultimately joins ThunderClan and accompanies them to the Lake.

Why though?

Because I want him to play a role with Hollyleaf.

In addition to it just being generally fun that there's this very quiet ex-mobster boss hanging out in the background just enjoying life, he would be an uncle figure in PO3.

I think Hollyleaf's struggle with outsiders is really interesting, and since I'm probably going to reduce Stormfur and Brook's role in ThunderClan due to Tribe reworks, there is an opening for him to squeeze in. Hollyleaf is able to look between the obedience the code demands, the way the Clans see outsiders as being soft, and have a real, hard example that this is not true because of Scourge.

He will be old by this point, old enough to not soak up too much attention from younger warriors, but still has that good old BloodClan skill in his claws when it's required. That aside he would generally be a quiet loner type, quite close to Goldenflower, probably accepting a clan name (he'd see it as respecting the culture) but not correcting anyone when they call him Scourge.

He would die sometime between OOTS and AVOS, possibly of that progressive disease or even going down in a blaze of glory during the Great Battle (Tigerstar getting a rematch would be SUPER fun!) and he would become a ghost, not joining StarClan. Tree gets to see him a couple of times, and he would be there for Squirrelflight's Hope instead of the random kittypet, Blade.

[shibusawaz]

why is it that every time I get an ssr ticket I pull fucking hirotsu or q. stop it. get away. I hate the dependency ratio

[anaalnathrakhs]

“work meeting” this evening wish me luck i want to run away and die

[theood]

"you don't have enough bandwidth to play this right now"

Crying screaming whining whimpering moaning howling throwing myself onto the ground kicking my legs and wailing

LET ME watch Doctor Who!!!! PEASE

[medicinemane]

Oof, always feel so damn worn out after that 6+ hour trip, but can't sleep

So I can't do something fun and useful like minecraft, but... can't sleep and move on to tomorrow

[gremlingottoosilly]

Social Worker!Reader who gets sent to Loser!Konig's house due to multiple calls and complaints about his behaviour and supposed mental state

You're here because you were really passionate about helping kids and the elderly. Too bad you were sent to work in a town that lacks kids and has over 60% of the elderly patients as very gruff veterans. Maybe it was something in the air, maybe it was some weird water-induced PTSD retaliation, but you're mostly handling calls from worried families of some traumatized veteran who decided to live in the area. That, and you also handle Konig. He is a good guy, really. Retired colonel - retired with honors, no less, and a mercenary gig that no doubt makes his PTSD feel even worse at times. He is a good guy whenever he doesn't hunt for deers in the woods - you're pretty sure it's kind of forbidden, but you're also not the one who would look at an anxious patient and tell him that no, having severing deer heads as a hobby isn't a good coping mechanism. Those are his emotional support mutilated animals, and you won't come between a guy and his passion. He is sort of a loser, you think. He got too much of that thousand-yard stare, his eyes following you everywhere. Staring in the crease of your shirt where your chest is, trying to take a peek under your skirt when summer heat approaches and you can't deal with the heat anymore. You exchange having sweaty legs for his leering stare, and it's almost a fair trade. He would look at you like he wants to kill you, and then politely ask for you to do a welfare check inside. You think - fucking hell, this dude is totally going to kill you. You think checking him off the checklist will probably give you a nice little bonus. Neutralizing a problem before it becomes bigger. Preventing a town-wide shooting conducted by a bored veteran with too many weapons stashed in his basement. He showed you - got excited and a little bit hard, having a pretty girl look all over his hunting riffles. He is smart enough not to tell you about the other things he is totally hiding - and you aren't dumb enough to try and investigate whether or not he has enough assault riffles stashed to supply a small army. You listen to his rambles about his favorite anime - not the harem garbage, at least, not a single underage female character in sight of his figure collection. You suppose it was nice, better than you thought it would be. Some of his favorite shows are fun, and you find yourself almost waiting for the next visit. You don't shove away his hand on your knee because you're priding yourself on preventing risks, and you sometimes, having sex with a weirdly hot nerdy guy next door is the only thing left on your welfare checklist.

[satellite-evans]

Drunk in love

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: When their wives get drunk, it is up to the Bridgerton brothers to take care of them ;)

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Kate and reader are drunk lol, just pure fluff

A/N:

this is just something silly I had in my mind lol enjoy

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The Bridgerton household was steeped in the soft glow of the evening, and in the library, two brothers sat comfortably. Benedict Bridgerton leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips as he listened to Anthony's latest tirade about the complexities of running the family estate. The occasional crackle of the fire punctuated Anthony’s words, creating a comforting backdrop to their conversation.

"It's all well and good for you, Benedict," Anthony was saying, "to prance about with your paints and canvases. But someone has to keep this family afloat."

Benedict chuckled, shaking his head. "You take life far too seriously, Anthony. One day, you'll realize there's more to it than ledgers and land."

Before Anthony could retort, a burst of laughter erupted from the drawing room, loud enough to make both men pause. They exchanged curious glances, and without a word, rose to investigate the source of the commotion.

As they approached the drawing room, the laughter grew louder and more infectious. Pushing the door open, they were met with a sight that brought simultaneous smiles and sighs to their faces. There, amidst a sea of discarded shawls and half-empty wine glasses, were their wives: Y/N and Kate, draped over the settee in fits of giggles.

"My love," Benedict began, striding over to Y/N, who looked up at him with sparkling, mischievous eyes.

"Ben!" Y/N exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. "Have you come to join our party?"

Anthony moved to Kate, who was similarly animated, her cheeks flushed with wine. "What on earth is going on here?" he asked, unable to keep a smile from his lips.

"We were just... having a bit of fun," Kate replied, her words slightly slurred. "Isn't that right, Y/N?"

Y/N nodded enthusiastically, her grip on Benedict tightening. "Yes! And you should have been here, Benedict. We were planning all sorts of adventures!"

Benedict exchanged a knowing look with Anthony. "It's getting late," he said gently. "Perhaps it's time to retire for the night before we wake the whole household."

"But we’re not tired!" Kate protested, though she yawned right after.

"Yes!" Y/N said eagerly. " We have work to do. We need to save the pirates!"

Benedict looked at Anthony with a confused look on his face, not understanding a word his wife is saying.

"The pirates? What pirates?" He asked his wife.

"Silly Benedict, the pirates that got captured of course! If we don't help them they will die or worse, catch a cold." Kate said to her brother-in-law while slurring the words, indicating that the night was surely over for the 2 ladies.

With a mixture of gentle coaxing and persuasive charm, Benedict and Anthony managed to guide their wives towards the staircase, their efforts accompanied by more giggles and shushing noises. Y/N and Kate were like a pair of mischievous schoolgirls, clutching each other for support as they swayed precariously.

"Shhh, we must be quiet!" Kate whispered loudly, her finger pressed to Y/N's lips.

"Yes, shhh!" Y/N echoed, though her laughter threatened to spill over.

Benedict exchanged an amused glance with Anthony. "Easier said than done," he muttered, placing a steadying hand on Y/N's waist.

The trek upstairs was a comedic parade of whispered laughter and shuffling feet. Y/N, in her drunken state, decided it was a brilliant idea to try walking on her tiptoes to avoid making noise. She stumbled, her giggles turning into a high-pitched squeal as Benedict caught her just in time.

"My hero," she declared, leaning heavily against him.

"Always," Benedict replied, his voice filled with warmth.

Meanwhile, Anthony had his hands full with Kate, who seemed determined to recount an elaborate and entirely fictitious tale about their latest adventure. "And then the pirate said, 'No, it's my treasure!' and I told him, 'You can have it, but only if you dance a jig!'"

Anthony shook his head, suppressing his laughter. "Let's get you to bed, love. You can tell me the rest of the story tomorrow."

As they finally reached the top of the stairs, the brothers carefully navigated their wives down the hall to their respective bedrooms. Y/N clung to Benedict, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt.

"Do you know what we should do, Ben?" she whispered, her voice conspiratorial. "We should have our own little party. Just you and me."

Benedict raised an eyebrow, amused. "Is that so?"

Y/N nodded, her movements exaggerated by the effects of the wine. "Yes. And I have... ideas." She bit her lip, trying to look sexy for her husband but failing miserably.

Benedict couldn't help but laugh softly at her earnest expression. "I'm sure you do, darling. But I think you might regret them in the morning."

She pouted, leaning in closer. "You're laughing at me," she accused, though her own lips twitched upwards.

"Never," Benedict said, kissing her forehead. "I just find you utterly adorable."

Y/N’s pout deepened. "I’m trying to seduce you, Benedict Bridgerton, and you’re laughing."

Benedict wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "And I love you for it," he murmured. "But you’re far too drunk to remember this tomorrow."

Y/N huffed, but her eyelids were already drooping. "Fine. But you owe me, mister."

"I’ll gladly pay my dues," he promised, tucking her under the covers, making sure she was comfortable.

Once the bedroom doors softly clicked shut behind them, Benedict and Anthony exchanged amused glances, their expressions a mix of fond exasperation and lingering mirth.

Anthony let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "Well, that was certainly an eventful evening."

Benedict grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Indeed. I never knew Y/N had such a penchant for dramatic declarations."

"And Kate," Anthony added with a raised eyebrow, "tyring to save pirates? I wonder where she comes up with these ideas."

Benedict chuckled softly, moving to pour himself a glass of water. "It’s all part of their charm, I suppose. Makes life interesting."

Anthony nodded thoughtfully, leaning against the dresser. "Indeed it does. They certainly keep us on our toes."

Silence settled between them for a moment, the sounds of the quiet house filling the space. Benedict took a sip of water, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at Anthony. "At least they provided us with some entertainment."

Anthony grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To our adventurous wives and the mornings after."

Benedict laughed, clinking his glass against Anthony's. "May we always be prepared for their antics."

The next morning, the dining room was a scene of quiet activity as the Bridgerton family gathered for breakfast. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow over the table laden with a variety of morning fare. Benedict and Anthony were already seated, exchanging knowing glances as they sipped their coffee.

"Good morning," Anthony greeted with a wry smile, his voice a bit too cheerful as Kate and Y/N finally made their way downstairs. The two women looked thoroughly sheepish, their faces pale and their movements slow, battling clear signs of a hangover.

Kate, with a hand on her throbbing head, groaned softly as she took her seat. "Please. Not so loud, Anthony," she muttered, reaching for a slice of toast but ultimately settling for a glass of water.

Y/N, trailing slightly behind, sat down next to Benedict, doing her best to avoid his amused gaze. "Good morning," she mumbled, her voice hoarse, reaching for a cup of tea as if it were a lifeline.

Benedict leaned over, a smirk playing on his lips as he whispered in her ear, "How’s your head, my love?"

She shot him a sideways glance, her cheeks coloring. "Let’s not talk about it," she replied, taking a tentative sip of her tea.

"But you were quite the charming seductress last night," Benedict teased gently, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning softly. "I’m never drinking that much again."

At the other end of the table, Kate was having a similar conversation with Anthony. "Honestly, I can't remember the last time I felt this awful," she confessed, gingerly rubbing her temples.

Anthony chuckled, passing her a plate of fruit. "Perhaps next time you’ll heed my warnings about overindulgence."

Kate shot him a baleful look, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. "Don’t be smug, Anthony. It’s not becoming."

"Who, me? Never," Anthony replied with a wink, earning a soft laugh from Kate despite her discomfort.

As the morning continued, the initial awkwardness began to fade, replaced by the comforting normalcy of family life. Eloise and Colin entered the room, their curiosity piqued by the unusual quietness of their typically lively sisters-in-law.

"Good morning," Eloise said brightly, her keen eyes darting between Kate and Y/N. "You two look like you’ve been through the wars."

"Something like that," Y/N muttered, managing a small, embarrassed smile.

Colin, always one for humor, grinned broadly. "Did we miss an adventure last night?"

"Let’s just say it was a night to remember," Benedict replied, his eyes meeting Y/N’s with a tender affection that spoke volumes.

Eloise raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do tell."

"Another time, perhaps," Y/N said quickly, the color rising in her cheeks again.

As the conversation flowed around the table, the bonds of love and laughter only grew stronger. Despite their mortification, Y/N and Kate couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for their husbands’ gentle teasing and unwavering support.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Benedict asked Y/N, his tone light but with a hint of curiosity.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to piece together the fragmented memories. "Bits and pieces," she admitted. "I remember laughing a lot. And I think I tried to..." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing.

Benedict chuckled, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "You were very determined to have a private party," he said, his eyes twinkling. "It was quite the spectacle."

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I’m so embarrassed."

"Don't be," Benedict said softly, leaning closer. "I love seeing every side of you, even the tipsy, adventurous one."

At the other end of the table, Kate was facing a similar interrogation. "So, what exactly were you and Y/N plotting in the drawing room?" Anthony asked, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

Kate looked mortified, her face pale except for the flush of her cheeks. "I think we were planning an expedition to find some pirate treasure," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or something equally ridiculous."

Anthony laughed, the sound rich and warm. "You certainly had quite the adventure in mind. Perhaps we should consider a career change?"

"Very funny," Kate muttered, though she couldn’t help but smile at his good-natured teasing.

The rest of the family, picking up on the mood, joined in the light-hearted banter. Colin leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "It seems our sisters-in-law have a penchant for late-night escapades. We'll have to keep an eye on them."

Eloise, never one to miss a chance to tease, added, "I think it’s wonderful. We could use more excitement around here. Perhaps next time, I'll join in the fun."

"Absolutely not," Anthony interjected firmly, though his smile betrayed his true feelings. "Two tipsy adventurers are quite enough."

Amidst the laughter and teasing, the lingering embarrassment began to fade. Y/N and Kate, though still feeling the effects of their overindulgence, found themselves relaxing, their initial mortification replaced by a growing sense of comfort. The warmth and acceptance from their family wrapped around them like a cozy blanket, reinforcing the love that bound them all together.

[konigsblog]

(B) König's favourite body parts.

(What's König's favourite body part for himself and you?)

KÖNIG NSFW ALPHABET MASTERLIST.

On himself, König's favourite body part is his thighs, and perhaps even his stomach. After retiring, König has put on a couple pounds, which led to insecurities that he hadn't felt in a long time suddenly making a reappearance in his life. Of course, you knew exactly what to do to increase his confidence. You began to rub your slick cunt against his hairy abdomen, gradually getting him into tummy riding. God, seeing you appreciate his stomach leaves him overjoyed, almost drunk off of the thrill and pleasure.

He can't get enough of the reaction he earns from you when you grind against his thigh. He adores the shocked and aroused look on your face when he flexes his thigh teasingly, pushing a beer to your lips. When you're drunk, you can't stop yourself. You constantly rock your hips back and forth and overstimulate yourself over and over again, until you're exhausted and panting, overwhelmed at the wetness between your thighs and the patch left on his trousers.

For you, König loves every inch of your skin. But, König is ashamed to admit that he adores your breasts more than anything. The size and shape isn't a concern. You feel that they're too small? Well, König appreciates being able to cup them with his entire hand, practically wrap his mouth around them and overstimulate himself until he's palming his boner and coming inside of his pants. You believe they're too large? König can't get enough, he'll fuck his cock between them for hours while you encourage him with your sweet praise, his calloused fingers kneading with the flesh and fat on your chest. How can he stop himself when he's comforted by your soft, warm, and large breasts? It drives him utterly insane, little mouse.

He's definitely a titty guy, and he feels like such a gross pervert for eyeing you up, as if you're a feast. König can't help himself. His eyes begin wandering, and before he knows it, his breathing is out of control and he's choking on his own excuses, the stiffness between his legs absolutely agonising and humiliating. König loves buying you lingerie, just to see those breasts in different clothing, lace and silk.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Dick: I made a mistake

Jason: What you do?

Dick: It's bad

Tim: How bad?

Dick: I think Bruce is going to take me out of the trust fund bad

Damian: Worry no, Richard, for I shall care for you when you are old, wrinkled, and gross. I have more than enough funds for both of us.

Dick: Thanks Dami

Jason: So what'd you do?

Dick: Remember Danny Phantom? That ghost hero that saved the planet from an asteroid?

Tim: Yeah, he does good, clean work. Bruce considered offering him a spot in the Justice League before he suddenly announced he planned to retire from the hero scene.

Dick: I slept with him.

Damian: I beg your pardon?

Dick: And I left before he could wake up the following day, ignored all his calls 'cause he was my rebound when Kori and I split and haven't seen him in almost five years. I just saw him.

Jason: Alright, he's your ex, and you ran into him. He's probably mad at you since that was a bit shitty. But that's not too bad; I don't think Bruce will disown you-

Dick: Yeah turns out Phantom isn't a human ghost. I don't know what he is, but he is a different species, which means his kind reproduces differently, and he was walking hand in hand with a miniature version of me. A version that was five years old. I stole some of the kid's hair, and well.....I have a son I never knew about because I blocked Danny after our one night since I got what I wanted from him.

Tim/Jason: .....

Damian: I regret to inform you, Deadbeat, that no funds are available for you. Or ever. You will die alone. Hungry and scared.

Dick: Trust me I know I deserve that. God! What am I going to do!?

Meanwhile clear across the city

Dan: Are you sure no one will notice me overshadowing this body?

Danny: Nah, it's a failed cloning experiment between me and my ex. It never had a soul. Think of it like it's a meat suit. If anything, I can just keep telling people you're my son.

Dan: Why did you try to clone your ex anyway?

Danny: I'm bored Dan. I'm so bored, there is nothing for me to do now that I retired Phantom.

Dan: That's fair. Boredom is the worst. That's why I choose to visit the human world, though it is weird to be corporal after all this time.

Danny: Do you miss being a halfa?

Dan: Sometimes. But I brought upon myself, I did kill my human side, so I appreciate you leaning me the meat suit. Now tell me about that ex.

Danny: Ancients, where do I even start. His mullet? Blagh! His diet? Blagh!

Dan: He hot?

Danny: So hot.

Dan: Nice.

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited)³ retired simon has nowhere to go, so you offer. { his pov } [ one, two, three]

she’s like a breath of fresh air. bright and cold. a gust so frigid that it sends goosebumps to shroud his skin. like the first fall of snow. was it december now? how long has it been since he’d left? how long has he wandered? adrift like a buoy at sea. but strangely stuck, straying in place. like some sort of ghost. trapped and terrified.

he thinks she’s naive. strange, even. like a child left outside without supervision. prone to being up to no good. she’s insistent in her little fiat car. her hands are covered in a pair of creme wool gloves. and when he looks close enough he notices that they’re fraying at the seam. worn. loved.

she says her name. it’s pretty, her name. it fits. she’s expectant, waiting for him to speak. give her something, anything he’s sure. she seems like a good girl. too good, too much for him, not enough for her. he hardly even knew her. but she wants to know you. she’s being nice. nothing more. simon. that’s what he tells her and it rolls off her tongue faultlessly. “well, we’re not strangers anymore, simon.” is what she says. he finds her amusing.

it’s her eyes. that’s what makes him slide into the passenger seat. they're wide. warm. nervous— despite her being the one to offer him a ride. it’s endearing, if not a bit entertaining. and the cold has already frozen his body. he can hardly feel his feet. but he deserves this. this life that he’s been subjected to.

she’s an anxious thing. her gloved hands drum lightly against the steering wheel. she’s shit at making small talk. and from the reflection of the car window, he can see the way she works her bottom lip into her mouth. he’s tempted to thumb it from within the wet heat. he doesn't.

“could be a killer.” she smiles. her eyes brighten. it’s small but he finds himself forgetting to breathe. in and out. in and out. she smells temptingly like honey and spices, all tangy and sweet. fuck. he holds his breath. “are you?” he doesn't respond. after all the killing. the blood that stains his hands. his skin. won't come off no matter how hard he scrubs. he’s a murderer. yes, i am. she’s too trusting. he wouldn't hurt her. never.

small. is how he would describe the apartment. small but homey. filled with greenery, color, and a tiny christmas tree. it’s tucked away. surrounded by lights at its base. it smells like chocolate, milk to be specific. but her as well. honeyed spices and dried fruits, tangy and sweet. the radio that he hears plays quietly. silent night in instrumental. his heart tightens in his chest.

he’s not sure how he ended up here. surrounded by her four walls. she suggests sweetly. eyes wide and sad at his destination. he declines. she isn't the type to take no for an answer. her brows are knitted. hands tightening. he’s enamored. he shouldn't stay. he should tuck and roll out the car while he has the chance. run. like he’s used to doing. too late the two pull in. she’s pleased with herself. he grins faintly beneath his mask. cute.

the couch is a bed. it pulls out into one anyway. she busies herself. shuffling to get sheets and a comforter. it’s a faded baby blue, printed with delicate flowers. and she looks proud. smiling at the cozy couch. her lips are coated in a sheen. from the lip balm she’d put on a second ago. and he adverts his eyes when she looks toward him. couldn't meet those wide eyes. sweet and nervous. he stares instead at the makeshift bed. she speaks. grins awkwardly.

“thank you.” he means it. it’s stiff. his voice hoarse from the cold but, he means it— no matter how gruff it comes out. her hands. no longer swathed by wool gloves, slide down denim-clad thighs. lips press. and her head nods. she says his name again, but scurries before he can reply, and maybe it’s for the best. he can barely speak.

click.

he shouldn't. but he finds himself amused. good girl. he was still a stranger after all. a strange man she has willingly invited into her home. he wondered briefly if she was right in the head. right to slow for him. to smile at him. she couldn't be. unsure. he can’t get comfortable. just lays there and listens to her faint voice. walls thin. voice muffled. but words clear. “die tonight.”— “…love you.” he ponders.

he doesn't remember a ring. friend? mom? boyfriend? his heart aches. he doesn't know her. he has no right to feel anything. she was nice, too good. he was the opposite, with nowhere to go. nothing to offer. why was he here? he should leave. but sleep weighs heavy on his eyes. bing crosby lulls him to sleep. he’d be gone before she woke.

i've always thought simon to have very choppy thoughts. and always being very in his head. very observant. so yeah. listened to christmas music making this! hehehe

[kneelingshadowsalome]

What about princess reader who falls for Konig? He's a retired royal soldier (Bit of an age gap but I was thinking more like he was so good he was able to retire early) that she saw every once and a while and she does the typical "disguise myself as a commoner so i can sneak into town" routine and he pretends he doesn't know but he used to serve her family so ofc he fucking recognizes her

He tries to be gentle with her but honestly she should just be happy he isn't ratting her out to her family 🙄🙄🙄 (not that she minds)

CW: 18+ MDNI. Medieval AU, forbidden love, mutual pining, virgin!princess!reader x veteran!knight!König. Undefined age gap (reader is of legal age which means she’s "old" for an unmarried woman of this period). Reader is kinda coercive, König is implied to be a virgin too. Bittersweet romance vibes, brooding guy/gentle girl trope, ambiguous ending.

Word count: 6.4 k

You never thought you’d have the guts to slap a knight. 

Violence is unladylike, and even if you’re a princess, it doesn’t mean you should force your status down someone’s throat like that. Far less his, the man you were taught to respect and listen to because he’s a man, and older than you. 

The fact that he was also an anointed knight didn’t seem as important as the simple truth that he possessed a cock between his legs, and it always annoyed you to no end that this was the reason why men ruled the world. As a lady still unwed, you’re supposed to be afraid of cocks, especially if they’re old and gruff. 

But you never were afraid in the presence of your father’s most loyal knight. He was your sworn shield too, and the only time he had been away from your side was when he asked to go on a pilgrimage to some chapel nearby. Said he wanted to seek forgiveness for his sins.

A man like him must have a lot to pray forgiveness for, but knowing that he could split a man in half with that greatsword of his doesn’t stop you from sneaking out one night as you follow him outside the castle walls and into the local inn.

Dressed as a stable boy, you watch with wide eyes how he gulps down three pints of beer and doesn’t turn any dumber from it. His speech never slurs, his shoulders never slump, but when some kitchen wench sits down beside him, your breath gets caught in your throat. 

You look at the odd couple for a moment or two, watch how your father’s knight, the secret object of your silly daydreams, finally loosens the strings of his purse and offers the girl a copper coin. 

It’s more than you can take, so you shoot up from your bench and march to him. The woman looks up at you with lousy disinterest as you ask the man of your dreams if he’d like to have another pint of ale. Your knight recognizes you immediately, even in your too-big tunic and your uncomely hose, even with that dirty felt hat covering your hair.

And he’s mortified, from what you can tell.

Both your eyes are wide now, and the woman beside him is smart enough to leave. She slides herself off the bench and sneaks past your side, and your valiant knight just looks at you, looks at you, looks at you. 

You should be worried that he’ll snitch about your adventures to your father, but right now, all you can do is stare at him like he’s the thief, caught fresh and red-handed. Because he is a thief, and a devil, the worst man on earth when he was supposed to be the best. You snort to let him know how much you despise him—for coming here and bedding women for money when he’s supposed to be a sworn, celibate knight—but what truly hurts here is that he’s bedding someone else than you.

When you march out of the inn, he follows you, even dares to lay his hand on you by grabbing your arm outside. That’s when you turn on your heels and deliver a fat slap on his cheek, lightly stubbled and sweet, something you had hoped to plant a kiss on for many, many years.

“Your grace,” He grunts and rubs his chin, slightly amused. “Have I offended you?”

The slap couldn’t hurt that much, and this man never does amused. Even now, the mirth extends only to his eyes, never to his lips. 

“You know perfectly well that you have, sir,” you clasp your hands in front of you, now entirely his princess even though you’re dressed like a peasant.

“My lady,” he bows both in body and in voice. “I truly don’t know what crime I have committed.”

You’ve never seen him so… jovial.

Usually this knight looks like there’s a stick up his ass, that someone pissed in his porridge and shat in his stew, that there’s nothing but hailstorms and calamity in his life. 

Were you any more clever, you’d leave him be, but God has made it so that you’re drawn to battered and beaten animals. Of course you’re drawn to him too, lonely and spiteful as he is. This man broods so much you sometimes wonder if he’s the reason why it rains so violently up here in the hills. He probably summons dark clouds above the castle with those ponderous frowns alone – but now he’s looking at you as if he just woke up from the dead and walked into the shy sunshine after a long, harsh winter.

“You… You shouldn’t bed women,” you tell him, and he looks at you even more curiously.

“You shouldn’t pay for it,” you mumble next – unladylike, again, especially when your eyes turn to your shoes and away from that hawk-like, calm stare.

There’s a short silence after that, and you almost turn heel and walk back to the castle from the desire to escape the weight of his eyes. Eventually, he shifts his weight to the other leg and clears his throat.

“I sometimes pay for women to hold me. There’s nothing more to it.”

You raise your eyes to meet his, but the mirth is all gone now. It’s replaced by solemn acceptance, some sorrow you never even knew he had. Yes, he’s always silent and looks a bit pissed, but he’s not heartbroken, no, not your brave knight…

“To “hold you”, sir?”

The sorrow is covered with white lashes before you get to the bottom of it. Something tugs at the corner of his mouth—shame and frustration, probably.

“To hold me. Like a mother would. Is that a sin?”

His eyes search for yours from under dark brows, they beg for your consent as if it mattered to him. They’re quite catching, his eyes; enchanting in their intangibility. You know he doesn’t need your acceptance, nor is he threatened by your disgust. He’s unreachable, untouchable, forbidden—a mountain you can never climb because you wouldn't even find it among the mist. And those eyes see everything but feel nothing: they haven’t taken part in the troubles of this world in years.

…

He evades you for the whole of next week. 

Leaves the hall if you choose to dine there, walks away when he sees you at the stables, looks through you if you have the courage to address him. You stand watch by the window every night to see if he slips out of the castle, but it seems your knight has lost his interest in kitchen wenches and copper hugs. 

It burns like hot broth in your stomach, the thought of him in some other woman’s embrace. This mighty giant of a knight, kneeling in front of a girl, paying for her to simply put her arms around him. 

You’re not sure if you’re childish to believe him and his words. To trust that he truly goes to them just to be held. You’re not sure if you’re the worst lover of poor, crippled creatures for not wanting to let him have even that...

Because you wish to hold him yourself, here, in the softest of all beds. Just wrap your arms around him after you’ve unburdened him of that heavy mail and thick gambeson; you’d help him with anything he needs. Let him sigh against you and have those lines of worry on his brooding face smooth somewhat. Maybe sing a soft song for him to help him sleep...

The thought of him being so lonely that he spends his wage on girls just to have a hug is driving you to madness.

It’s tearing you to pieces because he would never, ever have to pay you to hold him. 

It’s forbidden, you know: this love you’ve harboured for years. He’s far below your rank, even as a bannerman, he’s far below you even if he’s taller than the tallest war horse in your father’s stables. He’s older than you too, but that’s hardly the biggest problem: your father took his second wife when he was five and thirty and the maid was seventeen. The match was considered perfectly normal, even healthy, but this would not. This would cause an outrage.

Oh yes, you’re to be wed far away to some sadistic young lord if your father has his way. You’re sure they’re already gossiping about it in the streets: how you should’ve been sold like a horse years ago. How is it that you’re still here, burdening the kingdom with your presence and swallowing up coin? 

If they only knew that you’ve fought against every match with tooth and nail, the townsfolk would work themselves into a small uprising. And you’re not against marriage because you like it here so much... You’re against it because the knight who dresses himself in black mail and makes the servants piss themselves with his heavy footsteps alone makes your heart flutter like never before.

Your father would kill both of you if he knew.

And you wonder… What would he do? Your pale, brooding knight?

Would he scoff and turn his head away if he knew you dreamed of him before sleep, would he be appalled to hear that you’ve touched yourself to the thoughts of him? Would he think you a whore…?

You dress differently that night, the night you catch him escape the dull horrors of the castle once more. Boredom oozes out of the walls here, a poison of nothingness and despair. The stones won’t offer warmth, not even during the height of spring, so it’s no wonder that your knight is headed elsewhere for warmth and a mug of ale. 

You dress accordingly to see what this toughest of knights is made of: with a brown woolen skirt and a white cotton blouse, you look the part of a kitchen maid who forgot half her garments at home. 

People look at you in the streets, but without your usual attire and with your hair styled differently, they wouldn’t know who they’re looking at even if they saw you frolic around like this in court. You know they’re looking at you because you're a half naked woman ripe for taking, stubbornly out at night and dressed so suggestively it’s a miracle no guard rapes you before you reach the inn. 

Maybe it’s the royal pride that keeps them away: you certainly look like you haven’t toiled in the fields or shoveled horse dung in your poor miserable life. There’s an air about you, and he notices it too, far before you’ve sat your pretty bum on the bench next to him.

“What are you doing,” he asks with a slightly alarmed voice.

He has that stick up his arse again, sits so straight that you’ve never seen such a ramrod back on anyone. When you set your hand over his, he only blinks.

“One silver to hold you, sir,” you lean to whisper on his skin, the shaved cheek you’ve wanted to kiss for so, so long. “What do you say...?”

He’s still breathing, even if there’s no sound to prove that he is. You can only see it from the rise and fall of his chest, covered by a stained, cream-white gambeson, that he’s breathing. He’s big, even without his armor, big and strong and intimidating, a tower of strength in one man.

“I cannot bed women,” he talks to the stout logs that make the walls of the inn, refusing to even look at you after one quick horrified glimpse.

“Who said anything about bedding?”

“This is a dangerous game, your grace,” he warns with a low purr when you won’t relent. 

His voice is parched but smooth, and you smell smoke; delicious smoke from the fire that sticks to the clothes of a person who spends too many hours staring into a fire. You smell ham and earth and leather and sweat, horses and metal, the rusty stench of mail gone bad.

You wonder how you smell to his nostrils – is it something sweet? Fresh herbs and lavender oil maybe, or soft, spun wool, some tangerines and summer wine?

“I’m not your grace,” you tell him, nose now touching the bridge of his ear. “Not in here.”

You see from the turned sleeve of his padded tunic that the hairs on his arm are standing on end. His eyes are closed, and you can finally hear his ragged breaths. Desire speaks in them, or then you’re in over your head... Why else would he sound like that, like he’s already making love?

“One silver, sir, and I’ll hold you all night,” you repeat softly, and he swallows with a dry, open mouth.

“I don’t have such money on me,” he rasps, voice drenched in slow, drowsy want. 

He wants this; wants, wants, wants….

“Really? Is my price too high?”

“Far too high for a man like me.”

You breathe a smile upon his skin, the place where his neck meets his jaw. Running your fingers across his wrist, you leave little to the imagination and you both know it.

“You can pay for the room and we’ll see how much you have left after that.”

“Princess, this is–”

“Hush.”

He’s in pain now, you can see it: the sharpness, the distant eagle gaze from his eyes is gone. He can barely keep his lids open, and when you peel the sleeve back with your hand, pet him like he’s one of your cats, press your lips on the spot you know is the most sensitive, he groans.

“You’re going too far,” he whispers, but won’t move. Breathless now, he can’t even speak with dignity. Gone are the distanced grunts and the composure, even the stick in his arse has melted away. 

If a touch of your lips and the softest caress can do this to him, what would happen if you straddled his lap? How would it feel to be pressed against him, naked and entwined in a mutual embrace?

“You didn’t say no to that other girl,” you breathe more kisses on his skin. “Am I so horrendous…?”

“You–” he starts, opens his eyes somewhat. “You are teasing me on purpose.”

“You never were the brightest of my father’s knights,” you smile a little laugh in his ear. 

He grabs his pint as if that could save him; out of fury or lust, you don’t know. And that’s when your little adventure gets interrupted: someone must’ve had enough of this disgusting display of seduction and whoring. 

“Pardon me, lovebirds. The room’s a copper, if it please you,” a tired voice says from somewhere above. “And the ale is–”

“Ja, ja. I’ll pay,” your knight grunts with such annoyance that you’re not sure if he’s mad at you or the poor soul who interrupted you two. 

Everyone here must think that you’re here to make some coin on a lonesome, desperate man. And he’s desperate, by God, he’s desperate… But when you walk upstairs and into your room, he takes a dip in cold waters without you knowing anything about it. When the door shuts behind you, your knight is back to the unbroken effigy he was last week, as he has always been. 

“You sleep there,” he points at the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“There’s plenty of room on the–”

“One more word from that pretty mouth and I’ll tell your father what you’ve been up to.”

You’re sent to your bed without supper, in your silly clothes, and get to watch how he barely takes his boots off before setting himself down on the floor, back turned to you. The innocent question “You think my mouth is pretty?” only gets an irritated scoff for an answer.

From under the linens, you watch him sigh and slowly turn to stone on the cold floor. There’s a big rug there but it’s barely enough to keep the chill out, and the hearth is cold during late days of spring. You’re warm enough here under your sheet, but you would be warmer if your knight was here with you… Warm body against yours as you both hold each other through the night. 

If only he could be enticed here by lying that you’re freezing... His honor would force him to share the bed with you, and your poor knight wouldn’t have to wake up with sore joints. The more you listen to him let out those occasional sighs, the more you want to shake this man. This silly act of martyrdom has to come to an end, now.

Slipping out from the warmth of your bed, you tiptoe to him. You know he can hear you, probably cursing in his mind with that crude foreign tongue of his. Laying yourself down behind him, you snuggle close until your front is glued to his back. 

It must pain him to have a maiden leave the comfort of her bed and trade it for the dirty floor, but you wonder if there’s pleasure in the pain when your touch finds him once more. And it’s not just want and lust you feel when you place your arm around him. It’s not motherly love either, although you do feel like you’re embracing a giant child who doesn’t want to be comforted. You know nothing about how lovers touch or hold each other, you’ve never touched a man other than your father, and those touches were never affectionate and warm, those touches were barely there at all. 

You wonder if you should be scared: you were taught that men will fuck everything that moves when given the chance. If a man of his size chose to take you here on this floor, there would be nothing left of you. Such an outcome seems dubious, however, when your sworn shield acts like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“Let me hold you,” you whisper when he continues to be stiff as a rock in your embrace. “You don’t have to pay me. Surely you know that you don’t have to–”

He moves, and at first you fear he’s about to rise and dart to the door. Make a run for it and slam it shut because you pushed it too far, his dumb, danger seeking maiden. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he turns around and buries his face somewhere in your neck. He does it so forcefully that you’re almost sent to lie on your back, and you barely catch the naked pain in his eyes before a rough arm snakes itself around your waist and pulls you close.

Warm breaths hit your skin, sending all the little hairs in your body shooting up – were he to move an inch further down, his face would be buried in your tits…

And then come the tears.

You’ve never heard a man cry like that – well, you’ve never heard a man cry at all. You didn’t even know they knew how to weep. It’s like all the tears in the world are reserved for women and children because there’s no wetness even now: your knight cries in thick, dry sobs, shudders that shake the both of you, years and years of suffering sighed through gritted teeth and into your hair.

Slowly, so slowly, you place your arm around him once more. Your hand barely reaches the middle of his back, so vast is this man, now only a crumbling mountain in your embrace. But when you won’t waver, when you refuse to turn your tail and run, he slowly melts in your arms like spring snow.

He still breathes as if in pain, the sounds that come out of his mouth heartbroken and strained. You’re not surprised to see that even his crying is an act of violence; he’s a man inconsolable. 

And yet, you console him. Comfort him. Like a mother, you stay and let him cry his fill in your ear as he clutches you, threatening to tear the back of your poor cotton blouse while doing it.

When he’s done, the shakes recede and his body is warm and calm, soft, almost. He pants and swallows, comes down from it with so much shame that you’re sure he has never done this with anyone, not ever before.

And then…

“I beg for your forgiveness, my lady,” he gruffs on your skin. “That was–”

“Shh... It’s alright.”

You caress the back of his neck, sweaty from the toil. He releases the fabric of your blouse only to grab it again in an even tighter fist. The face in your neck is buried deeper, his lips now pressed right over your throat.

“It has always been you, Geliebte... God knows it has always been you.”

You freeze in the middle of his confession, the panting on your skin intolerably thick now. When you swallow against his mouth, he pulls you against him, the body that used to be rigid and cold now like a hot, thick furnace, threatening to devour yours.

“You must know it too,” he whispers. “You must. You’ve seen my torment. Tell me you’ve seen it…”

He’s not demanding more than he is desperate, some dam suddenly being breached by a long-held flood.

If anything, you thought he hated you... You thought you were alone in your anguish, but it turns out he has carried the same soft secret all these years.

And it drowns you for a moment, his want and yours. Hands trying to touch whatever they can, mouth searching yours like he’s about to die if he can’t have a sip. You’ve heard what happens to women who allow themselves to get groped in dark hallways and winding steps; they hardly ever escape a man’s touch with their maidenhood still intact. And yet, this is what you’ve always dreamed of; a hot, blunt, forbidden encounter with this man. 

Now that he’s finally on fire for you, you’re not so sure though. What if you’re about to mate with a beast?

“Sir…” you whisper when he plants trembling kisses down your throat. He thinks you’re only moaning his title in the throes of pleasure, and squeezes you against him so hard that a tight little whimper is squished out of your mouth.

“I’m–I’m untouched,” you tell him before he sends his face between your tits, and it finally has the effect you feared and hoped for.

He freezes too, in the middle of tearing down your blouse. A shivering hand releases the fabric slowly, reverently; it rises to cup your face as your flushed knight meets your stare with shame.

“Of course you are,” he hushes upon your lips, strokes your cheek softly. “I cannot bed you. I know. But let me…”

He blushes while searching for the right words. That’s the moment when you start to suspect if he’s ever even been with a woman. What kind of a womanizer would blush when they’re about to make love to a lady?

“Let me make you feel good,” he finally suggests. “I’ve heard… of a way.”

He almost stutters when he says it, and you wonder if this is what he’s prayed forgiveness for. If he’s been thinking about different ways of wrecking you so much that it’s enough to send him to hell…

“And then,” he continues, “we’ll never speak of this again. You’ll become my lady, and I’ll become your sworn shield once more. We’ll be as we always were. As it always was...”

You’re not sure if you like that – returning to your status quo, becoming who you were before clutching each other on the floor like mad animals about to mate. But you nod. 

Whatever he wishes to do to you, it must be something good, and you trust him. Even after he showed you a side of him you’ve never seen before, you’d trust this man with your life.

Your valiant knight carries you back to bed, and delivers on his promise. He never undresses you, he never defiles you. He just lifts your ankle to his lips and gives it a soft, reverent kiss, grazes your shin with his mouth before starting to worship you like a pagan idol of old.

You don’t know where he heard about it–at the stables, or the kitchen, at the barracks or the taverns–but the way with which he makes you squirm doesn’t require a cock, not even a hand. His lips are gentle, but his mouth is hungry, and you don’t know how to feel shame when he’s buried under your dress like that. You can’t even see his face when he makes you his, claims you with his mouth alone. 

It must be a sin to not take you like a man takes a woman on a wedding night; it must be a sin that it does not hurt at all, what he wants to do to you. But you don’t care. Love is much better and far messier than how they depict it in the songs, and no one ever talks about the noises a man can make when they pleasure a woman.

He groans like a beast, but moans like a whore – it sends a flush of hot blood up your cheeks to hear him so utterly needy and vile. Your knight who barely gave you a grunt as a greeting in your father’s hall now whines with a broken pitch between your legs. His hot sighs drown your own, and you thank Saint Mary and all the angels that there’s loud music and booming laughter downstairs. It’s still there, the dirty tavern, even if you’re being sent to heaven on this bed...

He gives you mercy only after you break upon his mouth with a series of tight cries. Spends a lengthy amount of time under your dress too, licking and kissing you clean.

He doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to get out of there, but when he emerges, he looks like a drowned, happy puppy, this giant, brooding knight… The sight seizes your heart in a flaming hand that you know will never let go: it’s forever engraved in your heart, that drunken, devoted stare. You thought that men had the needs of an animal and that women were put on this earth just for them to have their fill, but when you look at your knight, it appears it’s the other way around... This man has finally found what he was looking for. Between your legs, he just found his Heaven on earth, his Holy Grail.

And so he returns from his quest with a devotion that leaves you breathless. Takes you in his arms like an injured bird, making you feel like it’s summer already, and the world is nothing but songs and tales and long nights of bliss.

“Know that I am yours,” he says. “Until my dying breath and even beyond, I’m yours.”

It’s a pledge, not a statement, and it’s said with so much weight that the vow he swore to your father pales in comparison. 

“Sir... You always say such silly things,” you whisper back while lying in a pool of shimmering love, a heaven on earth indeed. Not even anointed, true to their faith knights talk like this… And he just smiles languidly when you raise a hand to brush his cheek. 

He looks like another hug could save him, like a simple adoring stare from you is all that is needed to keep him going for another year. It irks you that he’s ready to settle for so little when you’re ready to give him everything he’s ever wanted and more. With what just happened, he’ll live on for a thousand, thousand years, he’ll survive even the coldest of nights – but you won’t.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you tell him, and a flash of fresh panic crosses his eyes.

“Süssling…”

He says it with worry, but does nothing when you send an exploring hand to his bulge. Drawing a sharp breath when you sweep your hand over it, he goes rigid again, this time for reasons other than just nervousness.

You’re younger and therefore more impatient, which means you’re at the strings of his pants in no time. He looks at your greed with a slack jaw and a set of furrowed brows, but never tries to prevent you. It only spurs you on that he’s acting so shy in front of an eager maiden when other men would already be bullying their cocks in your unexplored heat.

“This is madness,” he whispers when you pull out the heavy, hard cock that reminds you of the members you’ve seen on horses and bulls. 

Of course the man’s big down there when he’s practically a myth walking… And there must be a way to pleasure him too, some lovely devilry that will leave you a maiden. A virgin for him to take on your wedding night – because you will marry this man, no matter what anyone says. You’ll burn the whole kingdom down before giving yourself to any other man.

You wrap your fingers around him to punctuate it that he’s yours. If he feared you might mirror what he just did to you, he makes no comment about it when you don’t, only whines when his cock is snared by a frail but eager hand.

“Princess,” he warns, slightly out of breath. “I will stain your dress…” 

“Shh. Show me how to please you.”

The worry in his eyes is wild and bright, but the way your fingers mold around him leaves no space for arguments. A broken, stiff sigh is punched out of him when you begin to move: if he won’t show you how, it’s no trouble at all to try and find out yourself. 

But when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of him, he finally brings a trembling hand upon yours. He starts to guide you, adjusts your grip, huffs when you both apply pressure on it. The curious creature that you are, you look down to witness the ugly beauty of it all.

It’s intimidating and rough, the cock in your hand... It looks like a weapon, honestly, a battering ram that leaks heady liquid from the head. Smooth and heavy and ripped with veins, it’s like a too hard muscle about to bludgeon something, and your hand is making it drool profusely. Would that it were inside you, you would be in grave danger, and why is it that you find the prospect so seductive?

His hand is far bigger than yours, and it makes your heart run wild, the way he tries to be gentle while using your grip to get himself off. He can’t even keep his eyes open from the shame, just takes a quick glance at your enthralled face before squeezing his eyes shut once more. 

“Look at me,” you command softly, and he obeys – what else can a sworn knight do? – but you can see that the poor man is on the verge of tears. Shaking and panting, he stares at you while fucking himself with your hand, and when you close the small breath of air between you and kiss him, he melts.

The first thick spurt surprises you completely, you even mewl into his mouth when it shoots to stain your dress. You didn’t expect that to happen, at least not so fast… And because this is the first time you’ve seen a man come undone, you quickly leave the panting, moaning mouth and look down. 

There’s so much of it, and the release is so violent; it looks and sounds like it hurts because the man is shuddering and groaning as if stabbed. Thick, white pulses of seed coat the brown wool of your dress, but it soaks the semen gladly: there’s nothing left of his cum other than dark, damp stains after he’s done.

And there’s no end to his shame. He pries your hand away from his cock as soon as he’s somewhat composed. Does it with a shaky hand, wipes what little stains of hot, wet seed you have on your palm to his pants, and all you’re thinking about is what it would feel like to have this giant trembling and groaning like that above you, inside you… If you could even take all of that thick, brutal length. If he would be able to move away when inside your heat, if he’d let you hug him again, just hold him close so that he’d never ever leave anymore…

“I have soiled you,” he mutters while looking at your skirt.

“Nonsense. You have only claimed me... I’m yours now.”

“Princess… No amount of silver–”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

You actually manage to kiss him silent. Tears begin to run down his face when you show him where he belongs. It’s the final surrender as he pulls you into his arms and finally drowns you in love – at last, you find yourself under him as he takes what's his. What seems like hours later, he breaks the kiss, only to look into your eyes with full-blown adoration.

“How am I to live without you after this?” 

“You don’t have to. Not ever,” you say.

“Princess. If there was any hope for me to have your hand, if there was any hope that your father would give it, I would have carried you away from this place years ago.”

For a while, you fear it’s the fear of sin that burns him. But then you realize it was always only just you. 

He looks so anguished now, even more in pain, when all you wanted to do was relieve his agonies. This was only a taste of what he can’t have. You both took a bite of the forbidden fruit but can’t eat the entire thing – no wonder he looks like he’s cast out of heaven he didn’t know even existed.

“Sir, I cannot do this,” you grab his face with both hands now. “Please don’t make me do this...”

He sighs and looks at the mess you just made. He’s broken every oath he’s ever taken, and the evidence is scattered right there between you. The only thing deadlier than this would’ve been if he pumped all of that hot, fluid sin inside you.

“Sweetling,” he laments. “Look at us. You’ve already ruined me. Ruined us both…”

“It’s called love, silly.”

He breathes a short, shy smile, the first you’ve ever seen on him. It’s cute and makes him look young, the quick flash of teeth between unruly lips, the almost bashful, downcast eyes that are not quite ready to meet the full brunt of your devotion.

“Ja,” he breathes. “Ich weiss.”

Then he brings his eyes back to yours, his smile slowly making way for a more serious expression. He lifts a hand to touch your cheek, and you find yourself soaring in the sky like a bird, a phoenix that has risen from the dead. It’s heavenly, the way you both caress each other, here on the lowly tavern’s bed, covered in salt, sweetness and sin.

“Your father will have both our heads if he finds out,” he tells you as if you needed the reminder.

“I pray our heads will never be separated then.”

He snorts a quick smile again. It makes you heady, that you’re apparently the only one who can make this gruesome giant laugh. 

“You’re dangerous, princess,” he gruffs. “I knew you were trouble… And yet I curse all the years I left you in peace.”

“I know,” you smile. “Never the brightest one, my love...”

When you lie in his arms that night and tell him about your silly little fantasies, he grows hard again. When you tell him you now have new ones—ones where you’d want to feel him inside you—he looks like a man condemned to death. 

The stares he shoots your way make it clear that he’s lost – no matter what he says, he can’t be kept away from you, not anymore. You suppose he’ll forsake even more secret promises and vows before forsaking the pledge he swore to you. Even at the cost of your lives, he’ll come scratching at your door, howling for some quick, hot love in the night, begging for you to give him everything he has denied himself. 

And eventually, you grow more serious too. While lying in his arms, safe and tucked away from all the horrors of this world, you play with the leather strings of his gambeson, tugging them and twisting them around your finger like a child.

“There will come a day when they promise me to another,” you whisper, wondering if he’s already asleep. 

He promised to never leave your side again, he promised. And still… What will happen when the carriage and horses take you to some distant, hostile kingdom, far away from him? What if you only get this summer together, and then nothing no more?

“They’ll take me away,” you tell him, almost without a voice. 

A soft, hearty grumble answers, a man who finally knows what he’s fighting for.

“No one will take you away, sweetling. Not as long as I live.”

[wombywoo]

do you have any ghostsoap favorite fics, perhaps?

boy do I....

I should preface this by saying that I'm pretty...particular with what types of fics I enjoy reading (I only like certain character interpretations/tropes/writing styles, etc) so bear with me...

These are all mostly canon-compliant, non-AUs, ones that I regard highly~

Seasons--by StinglessWasp: This is pretty much my go-to fic rec for anyone into CoD and ghostsoap in general. It showcases everything I love about these characters, in a setting that feels as authentic to the games as possible, while also exploring the depth and sincerity hidden under the surface. So well-written and paced--the dialogue and military references all contribute to that 'feels like a mission out of the game' experience. Plus, I just love this interpretation of our boys--the humor, the inner struggles, the intimacy--Wasp 100% *gets* these characters and it's a joy to read <3

Except You, You Can Stay--by Iravaid: While this one isn't *technically* ghostsoap until the last chapter, in my opinion, it's required reading for anyone who gives a shit about Simon Riley. This is *the* character study--an intimate dissection of Ghost's past that seems so realistic and grounded, you forget how ludicrous those comics really are. Ira takes such care in treating these heavy topics with delicacy and effectiveness. Each chapter has you going 'oh wow, this is even better than the last', but as a whole--it's a stunning, fleshed-out glimpse into Simon as the character he was always meant to be. And the final chapter which eases you into his relationship with Johnny is so authentic and sweet, it just makes perfect sense that they should be together, and that this poor poor man deserves some goddamn love <3

bleeding in the house of god--by revolvermonkcelot: This is a really great 'missing scene' fic, a perfect opportunity to explore the in-between moments that the game so carelessly chooses to gloss over. I can't praise Monk's writing enough--it's slick and crisp and very tasty; the imagery just jumps off the page and you can practically feel the sweat. Plus, the dialogue exchanges between our two boys are so well-timed and in-character--love all the slang and British references~ This whole fic reads like an addition to their mission flirting, and I'm all for it! You can truly tell this author has such deep understanding and experience with this franchise (winkwinkwink, this is a joke) Read it--it's good!

The Dead are all Living--by Kabbal: This fic blew me away when I first read it. It's such a unique take on the retirement trope, I just adore this interpretation of Simon as an aging recluse while he builds his home. I tend to lean towards more subtle, grounded characterizations of Mr Riley, and this really fits the bill. All of these glimpses and fragments into his post-military life contribute to an overarching love story; the scenes with Johnny are so poignant, it's like you're pining alongside them both. I love how not-perfect they are; flawed and difficult and real. There are some moments and lines that just....struck something in me so deeply. I'm sure I'll still be thinking about it for a long long time <3

Portrait of Taction--by a_platypus: Another Simon-centric fic that I absolutely love. The character voice in this is off the charts, I can hear him so vividly in all of his inner dialogue and stunted attempts at conversation. Simon is so endearingly dense in this fic, you're just waiting for him to finally get his act together, but the clumsy, oblivious steps he takes in his relationship with Soap are truly a treat to read. I love this version of Johnny too--confident and considerate, but still hopelessly crushing on his superior. It's comedic, well-written, and the paragraphs describing Soap's journal give some of the best insights into his character I've seen <3

come on, haunt me--by flyby2: This was a really good long fic that I took my time savoring. What could have been a typical 'on leave' fic instead took time to develop a unique spin on the backstories as well as throwing our boys into some wholesome encounters. Both Soap and Ghost felt very true to character, and I appreciate the exploration of PTSD and the subsequent struggles that come along with...all that. There was a really nice balance in having their romance spread across the chapters, and I can promise a very sweet, happy conclusion <3

in the mess of it all--by flowersferns: A lovely one-shot that exhibits some of my favorite aspects of these two characters. I'm a sucker for 'one of them is hurt, the other is freaking out, they are both idiots in love, etc'. There are some really great dialogue and character moments in this, plus the overall prose hits hard. Love this take on their romance--the mutual trust, the familiarity of their bond. And just the general theme of impermanence--the inevitability of what this relationship means for them--two soldiers, willing and ready to sacrifice their lives at a moment's notice, still clinging to each other because...god...that's all they have---big fan of this :'D <3

Lapsus--by Lisbetadair: Another really great one-shot and 'missing scene' fic. The authenticity in the writing is spot-on--it's like you can feel Soap's pain right off the bat. I love how smoothly the banter flows between the two, and the attention to detail and references all help lend to that 'hardened military man' exterior. Ghost smelling like flowers because of a face wipe is such a delightful addition, plus the scene where Soap is, ah, donald-ducking it in just a t-shirt with his jewels out is such a funny mental image, I still think of it fondly from time to time. It's funny, it's surprisingly cute, it's very in-character. Stick around for some awkward but adorable cuddles <3

I'm sure I have more to recommend, but these are the ones I can personally endorse for now~

[rboooks]

DC x DP Fic idea: The Bakery is a Front!...right?

Danny Fenton starts his own business in Gotham. He knows that moving to Gotham is dangerous in a way, but it is the only other place with enough natural ectoplasm that can sustain him.

He wanted to move away from Amity Park to start on a clean slate. His parents now knew the truth, and to show their support, they were turning their research into a more sociological base instead of biological- I.E. ripped ghosts apart. Jaz got accepted into her dream college- Oxbridge. She moved overseas and is doing well in her advanced physiological courses. They told their parents of Dani, who promptly adopted her and signed her up for a traveling club under the condition she returned home for school.

The ghosts stopped challenging him after he explained Amity was his haunt and that it was bad manners to spar inside a haunt. He is open game in the ghost zone, but Danny got to choose when to go in there- his obsession requires him to defend something, so defending weaker ghosts in the Zone was a good option.

Danny always wanted to be an astronaut, but his teenage vigilante lifestyle ruined his chances- it isn't even his grades. It's a fact Danny's heart is so slow due to his ghost side it is mistaken as a heart condition. No space program would ever send him up with that. Danny decided that he would instead go with his second joy- baking. He opened Phantom Bakes in his second week in Gotham using funds from his Ghost King vault.

He served everyone and asked no questions. He was mostly sure half of his customers were gang members, but he didn't start anything and didn't allow any fights in his bakery. He became a sort of haven for everyone. He even began preparing packs for people experiencing homelessness, and bought the building next door to put some heating systems for anyone to sleep In during the winter.

Despite his obsession with protection, his human side made it possible for him to ignore it. He decided that his teenage years were spent too much giving in to his obsession and that in his twenties, he would retire. He did nothing while the various Bats threw themselves into battle, he turned a blind eye to petty crimes and basically tried not to bring any attention to himself.

He managed about six months until he accidentally walked through a cloud of fear gas while texting Sam and Tucker. His friends were tying the knot- the fact they all were best friends and exes was only slightly strange- and he was so focused on helping them plan the wedding as their Best Man he didn't hear the gasps, and horrified yells until he ran into Scarecrow.

He apologized for not looking where he was going and got a needle shoved unto his arm as a response. Danny's reflex to that was to punch the man a foot away from him.

The Bats quickly locked up the villain, and Danny decided he needed to be gone as fast as possible. He tried to return to his everyday life, but the next day, some of Scarecrow's goons showed up at his bakery asking him for work....so he hired them and taught them to make pastries. Then those goons brought over some friends who needed work but were recovering addicts and couldn't find employment.

He added coffee to his menu and threw them into that. Then some street kids asked if he would buy some stuff from them. Danny told them that he wasn't interested in car parts, but he was interested in furniture for the building next door. He had kids bringing in broken bookshelves, bed frames, and much more, paying them far more than the shady garages would.

Then some shady groups of men kept coming to his bakery asking for money for protection but Danny can protect himself just fine and proved it every single time a group made trouble.

He started having the streey kids make deliveries hoping to get them out of life of crime.

He made natural ectoplasm which, after much testing and research done by his parents, proved to clean out dangerous substances from the body. He made unique pastries that could help overcome addiction and heal withdraw.

He saw the light slowly return to the eyes of a drug-ridden community, and it brought him so much joy he barely charged for them.

Unknown to Danny, he has set himself as a up and coming villain. Rumors of his Fear Gas immunity attracted the attention of the Joker- who was found with all limbs broken, beaten black and blue after the clown tried to take a swing at Danny's employees. The baker had taken his broken body back to Arkharm, dragging the bleeding man through the streets uncaring of the line of red he left or the various people recording him in awed fear.

The rest of Gotham waited to see his true colors as he carefully built a front and gathered people. Some want to take him out as soon as possible.

Red Hood, most of all, after he heard that Danny had kids run special deliveries to know addicts. The only reason he hadn't blown his brains out was because Danny hadn't set himself up in crime alley.

The Bats had even talked him into joining an undercover mission to learn more about Danny. They didn't know what drugs he was moving or if he had a hand in other crimes, and needed more information that Oracle was unable to find.

She couldn't pull anything on Danny, driving her insane. (Techus erased Danny from the internet as a prank once and forgot to undo it.)

That led to Jason and Tim entering Phantom Bakes, acting like street kids who ran away from a homophobic father looking for a job.

Danny had them decorate cupcakes within the hour, letting them know he didn't expect them to crunch out masterpieces. They knew it would be a while to see Danny's real business so they bite thier tongues and got to work.

Tim just hopes they finish this mission before Jason snaps and shoots their main suspect....or before Danny romances the entire of Gotham because, goddammit, he has as much game as Brucie pretends to have. It's getting frustrating to see so many people throwing themselves at him, only for Danny to pretend not to notice. His good looks, charming personality, and carefully manipulated cover, drag good people into his schemes. He didn't want another Harley Quinn.

(He will ignore that his heart skips a beat whenever Danny gets too close. Thank you very much. It's just a crush; people get those all the time.)

(Part 2) (Part 3)

[pastorpresent]

insp by this right here, by @septicsoldier13. thank you for the prompt lovely! :))

-

They were short on bills this month.

Logan's shitty job at some scummy bar didn't exactly leave him rolling in cash (not to mention the seventy dollars he was docked for drinking the supply), Wade hadn't made all that much in commission, and Al's disability cheque didn't stretch far.

Rent was covered, so was water and electric, but that left heat unpaid.

Logan figured it wouldn't be a big deal. It was July- and there was a pretty intense heatwave hitting the city currently. They likely wouldn't need the heat for the next month anyway.

The apartment was chilled, but it wasn't cold by any means, which was why he was confused when he got home one evening and Wade was walking around making dinner with a blanket draped over his shoulders, and what looked to be two sweaters on, alongside thick sweatpants.

Logan was sweating just looking at him.

"I know you're pissed I got docked the alcohol money, but aren't you overplaying it a little, bub?"

Wade jumped at his voice, clearly not hearing him enter. The blanket dropped to the kitchen floor, and the merc looked mildly embarrassed.

"I was... cold," he said quietly, and it was... odd. There was no jokes, none of the usual outrageous comebacks, and Wade was just staring at the blanket now crumpled on the floor, almost with a fucking longing expression, and Logan would admit that often the idiots jokes flew right over his head (he wasn't exactly caught up with the last fifty years of media), but he really didn't get this one.

"You were cold? It's not hot in here but it's not cold," Logan pointed out, pretty much over Wade's dramatics.

He'd had a long shift at work, split up about four fights, kicked three people out and chased two couples trying to fuck in the filthy bathroom all between making stupid drinks as his own fingers itched for alcohol.

All to say, he really didn't have the energy for whatever dumb joke this was a part of.

"You're gonna give yourself heatstroke, and you look fucking ridiculous," he deadpanned, and Wade shrugs, doesn't say anything, which makes something heavy settle in Logan's gut.

Whatever, not his problem, right?

He left to go shower.

//

Wade had stripped down into sweats and a single sweater by the time they retire to the couch.

Logan is in his vest and flannel pyjama pants, and he's warm, but he doesn't mention Wade's layers this time.

The TV is on, some shitty episode of some shitty reality show Wade insists he has to watch, and Logan's focusing on it, until he's not.

His attention wanders over to the merc sat on the other end of the couch. It's not uncommon, Logan tends to spend more time watching Wade react to whatever dumb shit is on rather than watch it himself, for reasons he doesn't have the energy to analyse.

Somethings wrong.

Because Wade isn't watching the TV either. His eyes are distant, staring at the floor, and he's shivering violently, teeth practically chattering as he curls in on himself, knees hugged to his chest, and it's like he's...

"You're cold," Logan concludes aloud, but this time the words hold no frustration, because he'd seen Wade be committed to jokes before - but never on this scale. It's not a joke, or some sort of prank at Logan's expense.

Wade nods, and Logan is up and crouching in front of him immediately, sticking a hand against his forehead. Wade practically leans into his body's warmth, shuddering, and jesus christ - the mercs skin is like ice.

"The hell? Are you sick? Can you even get sick?" Logan touched the exposed skin of Wade's wrist, and sure enough - it was freezing.

Wade laughed softly, "I'm always sick, it's just... another side effect," he explained, and it took Logan a minute to recall what the cause of Wade's scars was. The cancer.

"But... your mutation, that stupid programme, I thought it cured you," Logan frowned.

"Not... cured. Just sort of put it on the back burner. It can't kill me, because my body is constantly regenerating the cells it kills, but it's there, and sometimes the symptoms hit a bit harder than usual," Wade explained, looking self conscious, as if this was something Logan would mock him for.

"Why the fuck didn't you say something when we sacrificed the heating this month?"

"We needed it the least-"

"I would've found a fuckin' way if I knew you'd suffer! I'm going straight down there tomorrow, I'll use my tip money to pay it," Logan stated, and Wade's eyes widened.

"No, peanut, you're saving that up for your motorcycle-"

"Fuck that, I'm not having you be uncomfortable in your own home," Logan huffed, "now wait here," he tossed a blanket from the chair over to Wade, then headed to their bedroom.

He headed to Wade's set of drawers first, but pivoted to his own. His hoodies were bigger - more fabric, more warmth, right? Definitely. He didn't just want to see Wade wrapped up in his clothes. That would be fucking dumb, because he wasn't a thirteen year old girl with a school crush.

He grabbed the obnoxiously pink Hello Kitty blanket from their bed too, and then stuck into Al's drawers and grabbed the hot water bottle she used when her back was giving her a hard time. He grabbed one of her heating pads from the medication cupboard too, making a note to buy her some more the next time he did their grocery run.

A few minutes later, items in hand and hot water bottle sufficiently warmed, he reentered the living room.

Wade had the blanket over his lap, but Logan could still see the slight tremble of his shoulders, as much as he was now trying to hide it.

His stomach twisted with guilt for his earlier words.

Logan sat beside him, "lift you're shirt up, just for a minute," he ordered as he opened the heat pad.

"At least buy me dinner first, or I'll kiss and tell. Who am I kidding? If we kiss I'm definitely telling, I'll go on the local news-" Wade's usual tirade of rambling was somewhat comforting, not that Logan would ever tell him that, but even so it's usual flow was lost behind the chattering of teeth.

"Wade," Logan interrupted, trying for exasperated but knowing he probably fell a bit short, "Shirt up, bub," he repeated.

Wade still looked hesitant, staring at him like he'd lost his mind, and Logan sighed, grabbing the hem of the sweater and doing it himself, using his other hand to stick the heat pad on.

"What are you- oh," Wade shivered again, arching his back a little into the heat source.

It only took a second for Logan to reboot his brain, and he quickly dropped Wade's shirt.

"Here," he shoved the hoodie, blanket, and hot water bottle into his lap, and Wade stared at the collection, and the tiny tug of a smile made Logan's heart jump a little in his chest.

"Awh peanut, you're the sweetest," he gushed, and it was supposed to be a tease, he knew that, but there was also something genuine there.

"Just warm yourself up," Logan muttered in response, avoiding his gaze.

He returned back to his seat, occasionally glancing over to Wade. The merc settle back down, both blankets wrapped around him, drowning in Logan's hoodie, the hot water bottle hugged to his chest.

He looked... cute, his nose and eyes visible beneathe the layered cocoon.

Logan did go back to focusing on the show, but he didn't stop his sideways glances, and it didn't take long to notice Wade was still shivering a little.

"Are you still cold?"

"No-"

"Wade," Logan warned, practically growled in his direction, and the younger man sighed.

"It's not... I know I shouldn't be, it's just... weird. It's like it's embedded into my fucking bones, I can't..." Wade trailed off, and he sounded miserable.

"Just come here, you dumbass," Logan said, rushing the words out before he could change his mind.

And if Wade looked at him like he was crazy earlier, now he was regarding him as if he'd grown a second head.

"You've done more than enough, Lo. I just need to get my shit together-"

It wasn't up for debate, and Logan wasn't fucking debating it. He grabbed Wade and yanked him closer, earning a yelp of surprise.

He made quick work of pulling him in close, an arm wrapped around his shoulders and dragging him into his body heat.

"Logan, you really don't need to-"

"Shut up and watch the TV," Logan grumbled, staring pointedly at the screen as to not meet the eyes burning holes into him currently.

Wade did give in eventually. He snuggled down into Logans side, head resting on his shoulder and a sweater-pawed hand coming up to lay on his chest. Logan wrapped an arm around his waist in response, tugging him impossibly closer.

Wade did stop shivering, eventually, and there was a mumbled 'thank you' against his neck.

Logan just squeezed his waist in acknowledgement, and neither made a move to separate.

//

The next time, Logan didn't need Wade to say a damn thing.

It wasn't the bills going unpaid this time, either, because Logan prioritised heat as much as he did the base rent when working out their money these days, and had even spent some of his spare cash on an overly loud but functional portable heater as the weather grew colder.

(Of course Wade's favourite method of warming up remained... him, but Logan really had no qualms with that. He found himself almost a bit jealous when Wade opted for the heater before himself, usually when he was busy, and Logan found himself purposefully dropping whatever he was doing to sit on the couch and drag Wade up against him. He absolutely did not glare at a portable heater, because that would be insane.)

No, this time they'd been invited to a Christmas night out alongside the X-men.

Logan had been reluctant to go, still not all that comfortable seeing the team after previously seeing them all... but Wade had begged, and pleaded, because apparently this was a yearly thing and he'd never been invited before.

That alone had only served to piss Logan off more, but Wade had been so excited - and so he sacrificed their quiet night in for a pub crawl around the city.

He'd already caught Wade shivering a few times in the warmth of their apartment that day, but the merc was quick to deny it, likely thinking (and accurately so) that Logan wasn't going to let him go if he thought he was having a bad day in terms of maintaining his body heat.

He'd watched Wade dress with a frown, "at least stick a shirt on under your sweater. You not got any clean sweats you can wear? Those jeans are too thin," Logan had lectured, and Wade had pouted in that way that typically spelt trouble for the older mutant.

"I don't wanna look stupid! Have you seen what I'm working with here? The least I can do is dress nice," Wade gestured to his face, to his scars, and Logan had to bite his tongue to stop himself from immediately jumping on the defence, because he'd probably call Wade gorgeous or something equally as eyebrow raising in the process.

"Fine, but you bring a jacket," he said, and Wade rolled his eyes but agreed.

They'd been out for a couple of hours. The drinks were flowing (Logan had cut himself off at three beers, which was a personal best), and everything was going... oddly well. Logan felt more at ease around the team than he had since he arrived in this universe, and it was nice.

He was talking to Hank, when Scott came over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Wade's asking for you, Logan," Logan frowned.

Wade had dissapeared a little while ago in order to go dance with Storm, Morph and Jean.

"Where is he?" Logan asked, already on his feet.

"Bathroom. He doesn't look great, dunno if he's had too much to drink," Scott replies, and Logan nods, heavily doubting the explanation.

"Thanks, Scott," he says, before making his way through the crowd and into the bathrooms at the back of the club.

When he enters, Wade is perched against the sinks, shivering violently, his whole body trembling and teeth going so fast he could hear them clinking together. He had his arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"W-won't stop, m' cold," Wade whimpered, the embarrassed flush on his cheeks standing out harshly against his pale palour.

Logan's immediate reaction is one of frustration, "I told you that you needed more layers!"

The scolding only earned a small nod, and a sniffle as Wade looked away.

"I'm sorry, I know. I'm just... gonna go home," he said, pushing up from the sinks to leave, but even his legs were shaking, and when he tried to walk the violent trembles knocked him off balance.

Logan was quick to catch him, wrapping his arms around the merc. Wade leaned into his warmth almost instinctively.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" Logan said, but his voice held more concern than anger now, as he steadied Wade on his feet.

He didn't expect the mutant to burst into tears.

Logan didn't do great with tears, especially not when it was somebody he genuinely cared about. He very almost ran out of there, went to grab Jean or Storm or even Hank - anyone who was better at this shit than he was, but he had a feeling Wade wouldn't appreciate anyone seeing him in this state.

Shit, did he even want Logan here right now? He might have asked for him earlier, but he clearly wasn't being much help. He'd made him cry, for fucks sake.

"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, I know I should've listened I just- I wanted to just feel slightly normal for once," Wade cried harder, and Logan found himself pulling the shaking merc into his arms again, tucking him against his chest.

"I'm not mad, bub. I get it, I do. I'm just worried about you," Logan sighed, and God, Wade really was like a block of ice on his hold.

"'M sorry," Wade hiccuped, and Logan shushed him softly.

"It's fine, honest. Let's get you home and warmed up, hm?" Logan suggested, running his hands over Wade's arms in an effort to ease the chill.

"Yeah," Wade agreed tiredly, and Logan guided him out the bar, giving Jean an excuse of Wade not handling his alcohol too great (which was at least somewhat true, because the merc was definitely teetering into the emotional drunk category if his display in the bathroom was anything to go off) and hailed them a cab home.

He helped Wade to the couch, burying him in blankets and setting up the heater directly in front of him. When he turned to leave, a hand escaped from the mountain of fleece to curl around his wrist.

"Cuddles? Please?"

Logan was surprised he didn't turn into a puddle on the spot. It was fucking ridiculous. If anyone else dared to grab him like that, make such a request with big devastated puppy dog eyes, he would've sliced them into three even pieces.

Wade was making him soft. He didn't feel as repulsed by that thought as he probably should've.

"In a minute, bub. Let me go get you some stuff first, alright?"

Wade nodded, letting go reluctantly.

Logan made quick work of gathering the usual. It had become almost a routine at this point.

He made Wade a hot chocolate too, knowing how much the merc adored the sugary drink. He was only making it to warm him up though, obviously.

When he returned, Wade had burrowed completely beneath the blanket pile, and Logan had to immediately shut down the adorable that his unhelpful, traitorous brain supplied.

He put the hot chocolate on the table, and the smell had Wade popping his head out, staring at the drink.

"You made me hot chocolate?"

"Don't get used to it," Logan replied, and shoved a pair of his own sweatpants and his own hoodie against Wade's chest.

"Get these on."

"These are yours y'know," Wade said, running a hand over the sweatpants.

"Yours are dirty," Logan shrugged.

They were. Apart from a black pair at the bottom of his closet, but Logan was prepared to swear under oath that he'd never seen them before in his life.

Wade made quick work of getting changed. Logan turned to face the wall, and while Wade didn't say anything, Logan could feel the assholes smirk.

Once he was done, Logan joined him on the couch, climbing beneathe the layers of blankets despite the fact that he tended to run pretty hot. He could get closer to Wade this way.

He stuck the heat pad on his neck, the hot water bottle against his stomach (Wade's very own one now, with hello kitty sewn onto the cover - early Christmas gift from Logan) and wrapped him up in his arms, until Wade's entire body weight was resting against him, sprawled against his chest.

"Logan?" Wade asked after a while of silence, the only sound being the TV and humming of the heater.

"Hm?"

"You're the best wolverine," Wade said softly, and Logan glanced down at the merc, snuggled against his chest, eyes half lidded. He'd stopped shivering.

"Only for you, bub," he hummed in response, very almost kissing the top of his head, but settling on running a hand through it instead.

Wade made a happy sound, and Logan was just glad no one was around to see the stupid smile it put on his face.

[put-me-through-the-wall]

Imagine Retired!Price who has nothing to do in his new found free time

His team was finally able to convince him to put down the gun and rest. He's done more than enough for others.

But after years of constant movement and missions he isn't comfortable with sitting in one place.

He starts to go on long walk in the afternoon to fill his time

Mostly people watching or checking out the local businesses.

One night as chilly afternoon turns into a cold evening he finds himself wondering into retro diner all lit up by neon lights.

He finds a booth and takes a look around at the polished but dated looking restaurant.

it brought him a feeling of comfort he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Hello sir, can I get you a drink to start?" A sweet voice chirps

He turn to meet your sunny smile all dressed up in a baby pink button up dress, waist cinched with a mini apron. Hair pulled back with a matching bow.

"Hello..." John looks down to your name tag. "Bunny?"

"Oh" you laugh, "It's just a nickname. The old timers think it's cute"

"What does that say about me, then?"

"You don't look too old to me."

"Let me get a coffee, bunny"

From that point on John made sure to come by the diner every night.

Rain, sleet, or shine you could bet he would be there.

You weren't there every night of course but it thrilled him to think of the possibility of seeing you again.

Always greeting him with a, "Hey stranger" or "You come here often?"

Always dressed in that little faded pink dress.

Your conversation started to take up more of your shift as time went on.

Evolving from cordial to friendly and occasionally flirty.

"Bunny, what does your boyfriend think of you working all the time?"

"I don't have a boyfriend, John"

"Then what do you do all day when you're not here?"

"Waiting for you to ask me on a date"

Then you both laugh but John knows his time will come and he's a patient man.

He was always a generous tipper, even before the flirting

He loved to watch you run around the place, espically when it was busy.

You handled yourself well under pressure. Never letting a difficult customer get under your skin.

He love to way you look after a long shift with your hair slightly tousled with a pen or two stuck somewhere in your hair or behind your ear.

He'll stack his empty plates up nicely to make it easier for you to pick up.

Pushing them to the edge of the table signaling to you he was finished up.

He made sure they were steady too, especially so after one unlucky afternoon that had you sweeping up the shards of glass under his table with an embarassed blush warming your cheeks.

But seeing you on your knees sweeping up your mess made unpure thoughts flood his mind.

He began thinking about what you wear outside of work.

What you wear when you go out.

What you look like when you don't wear anything at all.

Then one rainy afternoon, John blows in to find his usual booth vacant and waits patiently for your typical sweet greeting.

Instead you rush over and drop his coffee on the table with a thud causing tiny brown droplets to splatter over the thick rim of the diner mug.

"What's crawled up your skirt, little rabbit?" John chuckles.

You frown down at him, pulling your notebook and a pen from your apron pocket. "I'm not in the mood today. What do you want to eat?"

"I know I was a little late but, the it's pouring outside. Don't be upset with me, bunny" He says, refusing to drop his joking tone.

"John" You snip.

He likes the way you say his name when you're angry.

"What's wrong?" He looks up at you with sincerity and you finally drop your arms and sigh.

"It's been a hard day. My boss is just being a total tool. The other waitresses are shit and no one is tipping well. Don't say anything but, I think I'm gonna put in my two weeks" You're words tumble from you in a rush.

"You're going to quit?"

"I can't keep working like this. I hardly make enough for rent and I still have no time to myself," You take a breath and shake your head. "Sorry, I shouldn't talk about money stuff with you. You're just here for dinner."

"Let me help you,"

"No, I don't need help. I'm fine, just a little overworked. I shouldn't have brought it up. Forget it."

"Let me take care of you"

You laugh but he does not.

"Come live with me, you'll never have to work again."

"Okay stop now, this isn't funny."

"Do you see me laughing?"

"You don't even know my real name"

"Aren't you tired? You're far too pretty to be so stressed. This job will always be here if you change your mind. I don't think you will though."

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A/N: This turned out longer than anticipated but hope you enjoy. I just want a Price to sweep me off my feet and make me a house wife :'-)

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@azkza @miss-mistinguett @contractedcriteria @hidden-treasures21 @sprokat @ebodebo @coooookie15 @from-vuka