#its mostly worn off from when i put it on

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 36: To The Sea

Summary: It's time to move on. You're not sure where you're going exactly, but anywhere is better than Texas

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,811 words

Warnings: ANGST, injuries, medical stuff, descriptions of pain and injuries, brief discussion about strangulation, mentions of PTSD and nightmares, so much crying, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, a very little sprinkle of comfort, language, mentions of medications, still very heavy emotionally

A/N: Not actually a lot of warnings for this one. It's a lot of dialogue and inner monologues. Not a lot happens, just mostly setting the scene for the next chunk of the story. Bring tissues though, the last part of the chapter emotionally wrecked me but also might be the best thing I've ever written.

11/30/24: **This Chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

It’s warm outside. 

Not even the shade from the building can completely shield you from the dome of heat that seems to surround the base. It seeps into the concrete and asphalt that lock it into place, trapping everyone in a bubble that may as well be an oven. It’s always hot in Texas, though. You hate it. You’ve been spoiled by the cold, rainy seasons in England. You’d gladly take that over Texas. 

You’d take anything over Texas. 

The heat prickles at your skin, your arm starting to get sweaty in the sling. It had been Dr. Keller’s idea to keep your shoulder as still as possible so you don’t continue to cause yourself pain when you move. It still hurts, but at least you won’t instinctively try to use your left arm now.

Despite the warmth, there’s still a chill deep in your bones. The warmth of the pain medicine has worn off and you’ve been left with the perpetual ice that has seemed to coat your insides. Dr. Keller says it's the stress giving you a fever. Every nightmare, every flashback sends your body temperature spiking, your heart beating right out of your chest. You’re not out of the woods yet. It can take a long time to recover from that level of distress and the omega taking over. You almost regret it, but there was no guarantee you would have lived either way at that time. You did what you had to do, and it did work out in the end. 

But at what cost? 

Dr. Keller’s phone buzzes in her pocket and she pulls it out, staring down at the screen for a moment. “Kyle wants to come by.” 

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to see any of them. 

“I think you should see him. Even if it’s just for a moment.” She squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right here.” 

It’s a predicament. Dr. Keller supports your decision to keep them away, putting some distance between all of you for the time being. Yet, she also says being close to your pack will help your healing. Having your pack around will help your omega settle once again. She needs that safety, that security before she finally lets go completely. 

You don’t want to be close to them, but you may not have any other choice. 

You sit there in silence, picking at the fabric of your sweatpants as you wait for Kyle’s arrival. Sweat has started to bead on your back, the day only getting warmer and warmer as the sun moves higher in the sky. You want to go back inside, back into the cool air conditioned building. You want to crawl back onto the hospital bed and lay there for the next few hours. 

You can’t. 

Footsteps approach, but you don’t look up. You know who it is. You don’t want to see him. 

“Kyle.” Dr. Keller greets. 

“Christine.” He says back. It still throws you off, hearing Dr. Keller's first name. She'll always be Dr. Keller to you. Kyle turns his attention to you, still standing a few steps from the bench you're perched on. “Hi, love.” He says. The affectionate nickname almost makes you wince. You don't look up at him. You don’t want to see his face. “I wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.” 

You don't move, don't give an answer. You don't have an answer to give anyway. You shouldn't have to give an answer. 

He lowers himself onto the bench, sitting as far away from you as he can. “It’s hot today.” He says, adjusting his hat. Always wearing a hat. Maybe that's why he and Price work so well together. 

He stares at you for a long moment but you don't bother moving, your gaze still on your sweatpants. They're starting to get a bit warm, even with your perpetual chill. 

“I’m not here to apologize.” He says, breaking the silence. “You’ve probably heard enough apologies to last you a lifetime.” He shakes his head. “Words can’t fix what we did. Nothing can fix what we did. All we can do is give you what you need, try and make you as comfortable as possible.” 

Tears burn your eyes as you listen to him. He's not wrong, an apology won't fix what happened. No words will ever be able to fix what they put you through. You're not sure there's anything they could do that would make up for it. An apology still would have been nice, despite the fact you know how guilty he is. Their avoidance of you, their willingness to give you such space in an unknown place just proves how guilty they all are. 

That doesn't make things hurt any less. 

You slowly turn away from Kyle, angling yourself towards Dr. Keller. 

He doesn't say anything further in that regard, taking your movement as an answer to his non-apology. He leans forward instead, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just wanted to let you know that we’re getting ready to leave soon. We’ll be heading somewhere safe, somewhere quiet and secluded. I think you’ll like it.” 

Dr. Keller had informed you of that earlier after she went to speak to them. They've decided what to do, what's best for the pack again. You might have protested, except for the fact it meant you were getting to leave Texas. Where exactly they're taking you, you're not sure. You just know it's not Texas. 

“I want you to know that we’re here if you need us.” He stares at you for a moment longer before pushing himself up to stand. 

If, not when. 

Maybe they're finally getting the message. 

Dr. Keller stands, touching your right shoulder gently before she steps away with Kyle, speaking quietly with him, but you can still hear every word in the nearly silent space around you. 

“In an attempt to remain a neutral, professional party in this situation, I feel it would be appropriate for me to tell you not to beat yourself up too much about this.” Dr. Keller says. “The unprofessional side of me has many words I’d like to say to all of you.” She clears her throat. “That being said, on a positive note I can say you’re all doing the right thing for once, prioritizing your omega and fulfilling her needs, even if her needs require you to leave her alone for now. I know it’s hard, I know every instinct is screaming at you to help her, but just take comfort in knowing you are helping her. You’re doing the best thing you can do for her at this time.” Dr. Keller puts a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “Even if it is tearing you up inside.” 

“Thanks, Doc.” He says. 

“I’ll see you soon.” She says, patting his arm before she heads back towards your bench. 

You turn your head just slightly, not missing the way Gaz lingers for a brief moment before he turns his back on you, walking back down the sidewalk. 

It hurts. 

You want to cry with every swallow. No matter how much you chew, it doesn’t ease the pain of trying to swallow solid food. Even the worst sore throat you’ve ever had pales in comparison to this pain. Tears burn in your eyes as you eat, unable to refuse this time in favor of choking down some liquid nutrients. Even liquids make your throat ache, but they are easy to chug to get it over with at once. 

This feels like torture. 

Dr. Keller looks guilty as she spoon-feeds you the soup. Chicken noodle, something simple and easy but still something with some substance. It makes you think back to when you were sick as a child, your mother dutifully feeding you homemade chicken noodle soup until you reached the age you could feed yourself. 

You do feel like a child again, unable to even hold the spoon. Well, you could hold it, but it would have come at the expense of some burns from how badly your hand was shaking. 

So instead you sit here, being spoon-fed soup you can barely stand eating. 

“I know.” She says as a tear finally falls, your inhale shaky from the ache in your throat. “You need something in your system for the sedative. It’s a long flight and you’ll be sick when you wake up if you don’t have anything in your stomach. That’s going to hurt a lot worse than eating now.” 

Yeah. You’ve already figured that out. 

“Strangulation is a tough thing to survive.” She says, dragging the bottom of the spoon against the edge of the bowl to wipe off any soup that might drip on you. “Then again, so is getting shot, and distressing to the point of your omega taking over.” She holds the spoon up to your lips, and you’re tempted to refuse. “You’ve survived a lot, more than most could. And to look this good after...” 

You blink up at her, teary eyed and sickly looking, exhausted and bruised. Your left eye is still almost swollen shut, and your hair is tangled perhaps beyond saving, tied up in a bun at the top of your head. All just reminders of what you survived, all reminders of what happened to you. Of what was allowed to happen to you. 

You’re not quite sure when the last time you had a real shower was either. 

“I know.” She says, spooning more soup into your mouth. “You might not feel like it, right now.” 

“I want a shower.” You say, your voice still hoarse and cracking through your throat. A real shower might solve a lot of problems for you right now. It won’t fix much, but being truly clean would make a lot of things feel better. 

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Dr. Keller says. 

You give her a look. You don't smell that bad. She should know, she’s the one that cleaned the blood off of you and the one who gave you the sponge bath this morning. 

She gives you a look back. “I meant it would be nice to take a real shower. Once we get where we’re going, we can work on the logistics of a shower.” 

Right. You can’t exactly stand for a long time on your own, not to mention the problem of only being able to use one arm without bringing blinding pain upon yourself. That’s where the pack would come in handy. 

The thought of one of them seeing you vulnerable like that, putting their hands on you right now makes your skin crawl. 

A shiver runs down your spine, your body shuddering uncontrollably. You grunt as your shoulder screams in pain, another electric jolt burning straight through your nerves and down through your feet. Fuck. You mouth the word, squeezing your eyes shut. It makes your stomach churn, the soup starting to burn a path back up through your esophagus.

“Breathe for me.” Dr. Keller says, putting a gentle hand on your right shoulder. 

In and out. You focus on your breath, the only thing you can do without feeling like you’re going to go insane from the pain. It’s all you can do in this situation. It’s the only thing you can do at all. Breathe. Just keep breathing. 

Sometimes you don’t want to. 

The pain passes as it always does, leaving behind a subtle ache that will linger until the next flare of pain. It’s a constant, never-ending cycle that you can’t escape from. Weeks, Dr. Keller had said. It can take weeks to heal. You’ll be stuck in this cycle for weeks and weeks. What if it never heals? That is a possibility. It’s always a risk with any injury. 

What if the rest of your life is like this? 

You’re crying again, hot tears blazing a path down your cheeks. They won’t stop, they never stop. There’s a constant stream down your face, even in your sleep. You’ve woken to find your face and neck damp from the never ceasing flood of tears. 

How you can’t wait for the time to come when you have none left.

You’d welcome the numbness at this point, greet it like an old friend and invite it in for tea. Anything over the pain and tears that won’t stop. The depression-fueled numbness that had filled you when Price and Gaz left, then Soap and Ghost would be a welcome relief at this point. Anything would be better than the pain. 

You almost wish you were in a coma right now. Then you wouldn’t feel anything at all. 

Dr. Keller puts the spoon back into the soup bowl before rolling the table to the side. She puts a hand on your head, gently stroking your hair as you cry. The room is silent aside from your sniffles, Dr. Keller not having to say a single word. The silence is almost a blessing. You’re tired of hearing words, of hearing people speak. There’s nothing anyone can say that will do anything to help you, to comfort you, to make it better. 

There’s nothing anyone can do to make it better. 

You’re so tired of being like this. 

The sedative is kicking in before you even reach the airfield. She can see the way your head is drooping further and further forward in the car, your body jostling without any complaint. It had started kicking in before you even got into the car, as you offered very little resistance when Kyle helped her mauver you into the front seat. She chose Kyle out of everyone to help her in hopes it would be easiest on you. Your claimed alpha’s beta is a good place to start in rebuilding the bonds within the pack, and his calm demeanor certainly helps. He is a caretaker through and through, that beta trait prominent above the others in him. He would have made a good medic, had he gone that route. 

Your chin drops to your chest as the car comes to a stop in front of the plane, your body slumping to the side against the door. 

“She’s out.” Christine says, unbuckling her seatbelt. 

“Makes this easier.” Kyle says, getting out of the car. 

They maneuver you into the wheelchair, Christine easing your head onto your right shoulder to avoid aggravating the left. The less pain you’re in when you come out of it, the better, though pain will be unavoidable. Kyle pushes the wheelchair up the ramp of the plane, Christine following close behind. She’s glad she gave you the sedative before you left the med center to avoid as much pain as possible. She almost wishes she had given it to you earlier, as getting you into a sweatshirt had been a battle of its own. Though, the longer it stays in your system, the longer you’ll sleep through the flight. The longer you sleep through the flight, the longer they can delay the inevitable emotional storm of being enclosed in a tight space with your pack. 

If you’re lucky, you’ll be out of it long enough for them to reach the cottage without incident. 

John is waiting near the front of the aircraft, his eyes watching carefully as Kyle helps maneuver you into a seat. Even with the turmoil in the pack bonds, an alpha will always feel protective over their omega. There’s some things that can’t be undone, even in such a fragile state. Some instincts can’t be unlearned, no matter what. 

“I gave her a sedative.” Christine explains as she gets you as comfortable as possible in the seat. “It won’t last the whole flight, but it’ll take a while to wear off regardless.” 

“Is that more for her or for us?” John asks. 

“Both.” Christine says. “Mostly for her. It helps with the pain of moving around, but it will also keep her calm in close quarters like this.” 

“Here.” John says, handing her something. It’s a blanket, brand new by the feel of it. “Johnny made a store run this morning. It’s going to get cold in here, so he got the warmest one he could find.” 

Christine takes the blanket, the fabric thick and soft in her hands. It’s a touching gesture, speaking volumes of their desire to still care for you despite everything, their willingness to do what they have to, to keep the pack together. “Perfect.” She says, carefully draping it over you and tucking it around you before John gets you secured in the seat. 

“It’s going to be a long flight.” John says, taking a step back. 

“It is.” Christine says, pulling out her thermometer. She takes your temperature, letting out a hum at the number that pops up on screen. “I need to monitor her temperature.” She explains as John gives her a look. “It’s been spiking when she gets stressed.” 

“She's not quite out of it yet, is she?” John asks.

“Not quite.” She says, putting the thermometer back in her bag. “I’ve only seen two omegas successfully come back from that point, and I know the number across the board isn’t very high. It takes a long time for the body and the brain to get back to normal.” 

“And on top of everything that happened...” 

She stares up at him for a long moment. “She’s very strong. I knew she was a fighter, but to come out the other side even where she is now...” Christine shakes her head. “I didn’t want to say this at the time, but I was expecting the worst. When that call came in about what state she was in...” She bites her lip, holding the emotions back. “Her resilience and fortitude is what kept her alive. That and Simon’s courage to do what needed to be done.” 

“I know.” John says, looking past her. “We all owe a lot to him.” 

Christine puts a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re doing what’s best for her. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it goes against every instinct you have, it’s what she needs.” 

“That’s all that matters to us right now.” John says, staring down at her hand for a moment. “There’s nothing else we can do, so it’s time we start putting our priorities where they should have been the whole time.” 

Christine gives him a small smile. “I’m proud of you for that. It takes a lot to unlearn the things you’ve been told since the beginning.” 

The corner of John’s lips twitch before his face falls into the emotionless mask he’s been wearing for the last few days. “It’s about time we get our heads out of our arses.” 

“I can’t blame you totally.” She shrugs. “We were all just doing what the initiative was telling us to do. We couldn’t have known. There wasn’t any room to question it.” 

“I wish we would have figured it out sooner.” He sighs. 

“Things might have been worse if the truth did come out sooner. If you started digging into the initiative too soon, Shepherd might have gotten antsy and taken more drastic measures to stop the truth from coming out entirely.” She glances down at you. “I think this was all inevitable.” She turns her gaze back to John. “What happened, happened. None of us can change that. All we can do is keep moving forward with what we have right now.” 

He stares at her for a long moment. “The more time passes, the more I’ve come to realize why Kate chose you for this position.” 

The corner of her lips turns up in a smile. “Well, I am rather good at my job, which, among other things, involves advocating on behalf of omegas.” 

John huffs. “Wish we would have listened sooner.” 

“You can’t change the past.” She repeats, looking down at you again. “But you can change the future.” 

You woke from your sedation about four hours from Helston. 

Well, ’woke’ might have been too strong of a word for it. Your eyes opened, but you were still hazy, movements sluggish and entirely unaware of the world around you. You floated between sleep and awareness for an hour before finally gaining consciousness completely. Awareness took quite a while to return, though. Not until they were moving you to the car from the plane. 

Even still you’re groggy, slumped against the door in the back seat of the car. You blink slowly, eyes unfocused as you stare out the window at the blur of green passing by. 

“How is she?” John asks from the driver's seat, glancing up at the rearview mirror. 

“Cow.” You say, blinking slowly as the car passes a field of cows. 

“Still out of it.” Christine answers from the back seat where she's sitting next to you. Your response might have been enough to answer that. “Better than being in pain, though.” 

“How long will it take for her to get out of it?” Kyle asks. 

“Hopefully she’ll be more lucid by the time we get there, but it could take a few hours for it to completely wear off.” Christine says, wiping a bit of drool from your chin. “Probably not a bad thing. This is a big change, and with everything that’s happened, it’s going to take some time to settle in.” 

“Things are going to be rough.” Kyle says. 

“Yes.” She agrees. “Being enclosed in a small space with the people you want to see the least in the world isn’t an ideal situation. It’ll be an adjustment for everyone. I trust all of your abilities to adapt, though. Just don't go in expecting things to be the way they were.”

John's hands tighten around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. Kyle cracks his window open, prepared for the thickening of John's scent in the air. Christine knows she hit a nerve, but it needed to be said. Even if you were open to forgiveness right now, even if they had chosen to go after you right away, things still wouldn't be the same. Things won't ever be the same. It is their fault deep at the root of it. Those cameras were put up because of them, you were taken because of them. You were chosen for the “initiative” because of them, because Kate thought you'd fit in well with them. Their decisions shaped your life, and will continue to shape your life. 

Can you ever come to forgive them? Christine likes to think so. She has the hope that they can put in the work and regain your trust and earn eventual forgiveness. She knows you'll allow them to try once the initial hurt and emotions begin to fade, once the two of you put in enough work to start processing the trauma around the events that happened. It will take time. Probably a long time. 

She'll be there every step of the way. 

“Ashley did some shopping for us, picked up some stuff to get us until we can get into town.” Kyle says, looking at his phone. 

“Good.” John says, his shoulders starting to relax. “Should wait a couple days before going. Get settled in.”

“She's still working on cleaning up. Probably still be there when we get there.” Kyle says, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

“That's fine. We’ll probably have to utilize her a bit.” 

“Doubt she'll complain.” Kyle says, looking out the window. “Be thrilled to have something to do besides work.” 

You let out a quiet groan, shifting against the door. “Hurts.” 

“I know, honey.” Christine says, carefully adjusting your left arm. “I’ll give you more pain meds once we get to the cottage.” 

“We’ll be there in half an hour.” John says, glancing up at the rearview mirror again before turning his eyes back to the road. 

The half hour seems to take the longest as you continue to become more and more lucid and aware. The pain sets in first, your brain picking up on those signals before anything else. John’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel as you begin to whine and whimper around every bend in the road and turn he has to make, every jostle of the car. Every instinct in his body tells him to pull over and comfort you, but he can’t. It’s more important to get to the cottage, and there’s no guarantee you’d even let him. It might make things worse. 

The last thing you need right now is for things to get worse. 

Christine breathes a sigh of relief as they pull up to the cottage, glad she can finally get you somewhere more comfortable. You’ve been in far too many uncomfortable positions today, moved around too much. She would have liked to keep you in Texas a couple more days, but she knew as soon as you were able to travel, the better. The sooner they could get off the grid, the better. 

The sooner they could get out of Texas, the better. 

Kyle is getting the wheelchair out of the trunk when Johnny and Simon pull up, not having been far behind. They likely took a turn around the back roads to ensure no one was following and to keep things from looking too suspicious. 

Christine keeps you from slumping out of the car as she carefully opens the door on your side. You’re more awake than you were, blinking up at her with almost startlingly aware eyes.

“Crutch.” You pout when she pulls the wheelchair closer. 

She gives you a look. “Honey I'm not sure you could even stand right now.” You may be more aware, but that doesn’t mean your body is working as it should.

You let out a defiant noise as you attempt to get your legs out of the car, trying to hide your grunts of pain and discomfort. 

She's tempted to stand there and let you try, but she knows all hell will break loose if she lets you fall. She's not willing to take that risk, not to mention it will cause you more pain to get you up off the ground. 

“Come on,” She says, stopping you before you can get your feet under you. “Nice and slow.” 

You let out a quiet growl of indignation but you allow her to help you, your legs trembling as she eases you up. Kyle is there with the wheelchair, getting it as close to you as possible so she can sit you down quickly. 

“Ow.” You breathe, eyes pinched closed as you breathe through the pain. 

“I know.” She says, patting your good shoulder lightly. She's glad she put you in the sweatshirt before you left Texas. It's chilly outside, chillier than it was further inland a few days ago. 

It's hard to believe it's only been a few days since you were taken. Barely even a week. So much happened in such a short period of time. It feels like it’s been weeks since everything started, but then again, it had been weeks since John and Kyle first left. It had been weeks since you had been around your whole pack together by the time you were taken. The deep depression you sunk into before the events of the last week had been draining you slowly for weeks before this. It had started before John and Kyle were deployed, back to that day when you revealed the cameras and the secret you had been hiding from them. 

How long you’ve gone in such turmoil. 

How far you still have to go. 

The path up to the door is rocky and uneven, the wheelchair jostling as she pushes it up towards the door. She can picture your face, the way it has to be screwed up in pain. You're silent though, holding it all in. She almost wishes you weren't being silent about it. 

The door is already open, light shining from inside as she approaches. Kyle is in the house already, having gone ahead to greet his sister. John is right behind the two of you as Christine turns to wheel you up the steps into the house. His eyes are on you, focused and ready should you fall.  

Christine would never let you fall, and from the way your hand is gripping the arm of the chair for dear life, you probably couldn't anyway. 

She wheels you through the entryway, the inside warmer thanks to a fire that's burning. It's a nice cottage, far nicer than she had been expecting judging from the outside. 

Johnny lets out a low whistle as he enters behind John, looking around. “Yer parents own this?” 

“It was given to our mum by our grandparents. They did some...renovations before they passed it on.” Kyle says. 

“Yer tellin’ me.” Johnny says. 

It looks new inside. New wood floors, freshly painted walls. The furniture looks like she would expect to find in an English seaside cottage, though. Kyle’s parents went to France for summer vacation instead of utilizing the cottage, and none of his siblings had wanted to use it, he told them. It looks almost perfect, like it came right out of a home renovation show. Kyle’s sister must have worked some sort of magic to get it this clean. 

It is a very nice cottage. It’s small, the door opening right to the main area. There’s two couches and a chair in the middle of the room around a coffee table. To the left of the couches is a fireplace, the fire already lit and crackling. It looks original, likely having been untouched in the renovations. There’s a door to the left of the fireplace closer to the main entryway. A bedroom maybe? To the right of the front door are two doors, one on the far wall and one facing the front door. 

The stairs are in the middle of the house, leading up to the second floor where there’s likely more bedrooms. On the far side of the main area is the dining area and beyond that is a sliding glass door. Around the corner on the far side of the stairs is likely the kitchen. She can see the fridge from where she’s standing. It’s new. Very new. Makes her wonder just how long ago it had been renovated. 

“Everyone, this is my sister Ashley.” Kyle says, introducing the other woman in the room. 

“Hello,” she says, giving everyone a wave and a dazzling smile. 

She’s dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt, her medium box braids pulled up into a bun on top of her head. They look a lot alike, her and Kyle. Tall and slender and stunning. They have the same smile and the same soft brown eyes. She's wearing scent blockers, but Christine can imagine her having a soft scent like lavender or something fresh like mint. 

“There's two rooms down here, and two upstairs.” Kyle says. “The main bedroom is through there.” He points towards a door to their left. “I figure we'll give that to our omega. The bathroom in there has a walk-in shower.” 

“Perfect.” Christine says. That will make getting you in and out of the shower easier at least, and you won’t have to go far to use the bathroom.

“You should take the other room down here.” John says, looking at Christine. “So you can be close in case of an emergency.”

And so you don't have to be too close to them, so you won’t feel like they’re hovering.

He doesn't have to say that part out loud. 

“I put new sheets on all the beds.” Ashley says. “I also picked up everything Kyle sent on the list. Food, some clothes, some other necessities.”

You let out a quiet groan, Christine patting your head gently. You have to be exhausted and sore after the day. She should give you another dose of pain medicine like she said she would. You’re going to need it tonight. 

“Let's get you laying down for a bit.” She says, wheeling you towards the door. 

Kyle opens it for her, revealing a spacious room with a big window looking out towards the sea. You're going to spend a lot of time in front of that window, she thinks. The bed is in the middle of the room, and there’s two chairs facing the window. She’s almost tempted to sit you in one of the chairs, but laying down will be more comfortable for you right now. 

You're still too out of it now to care much as she wheels you to the double bed. With Kyle's help they get you horizontal, Christine draping the blanket at the end of the bed over you. It’s not very soft, but it will do for now. She’ll have to get the guys to pick up some soft blankets for you when they go to town. She has a whole list of things starting in her head she needs them to pick up.

She leans your crutch against the end of the bed just in case you might need it for an emergency. She hopes you’ll yell first, but you always have been stubborn. Being mostly bed-bound has only made that worse. 

“I’m going to go look through the things Ashley picked up.” She says, patting your leg gently. “Get some rest.” 

Christine leaves the door open a crack as she exits, wanting to give you a little privacy as you nap, or at least she hopes you’ll nap. It’s going to be a rough adjustment, and you’re going to need as much rest as you can get. 

“I’m assuming you’re Christine.” Ashley says, walking up to her. 

“I am.” She says, giving Ashley a smile. 

She can’t help but get lost in Ashley’s soft gaze for a moment. The Garrick siblings seem to share the same magnetic energy. There’s something almost ethereal about them. She could easily imagine them with glowing halos and angel wings. It’s almost like she’s being blessed with the opportunity to look upon her. She could spend an hour staring at Ashley’s face and not grow tired of looking at her.

“I picked up the items Kyle said you needed.” She says, motioning to the bags on the coffee table, pulling Christine out of her daze. “I couldn’t find the exact nutrient powder you asked for, so I got one that was as close as I could find.” 

Christine glances through the bags. She was thorough, getting at least two of everything. 

“I got warmer clothes for her too, since it can get chilly out here this time of year. Just some simple things for now until you guys get into town.” Ashley says. “I did some research too and I read that omegas like comforting things so I picked up some extra blankets and pillows” Ashley says, motioning to a couple bags sitting on the couch. “I also picked up this,” She pulls a stuffed dog from one of the bags, holding it up. “It was the softest one I could find. I thought it might help.” 

A small smile forms on Christine’s face, her heart fluttering in her chest from the sweet, thoughtful gesture. Ashley doesn’t even know you, nor did she know exactly what happened to you, and yet she went so far as to pick up some comfort items for you. You have nothing right now, only the borrowed clothes on your back. All of your belongings are still on base, all of the things that you had built to make your perfect nest. Would you want any of them still? Or have they been tainted by the events of the last few weeks? 

That Ashley thought to do this has warmth flooding Christine’s body. You can have some comfort now without having to wait for their trip to town. She almost feels the urge to cry. She wants to hug Ashley, thank her over and over for her kindness. Ashley has no idea how much her small act of kindness means, how much it's going to mean. 

A smile forms on Christine’s face as she stares at the stuffed dog. “It’s perfect.” 

You can hear it. 

In the distance, the quiet roar reaches your ears as you’re dragged from the sweet arms of sleep. It must be a dream, or perhaps the sedative is still clinging to your mind, making you imagine things. 

No. 

You’d know that sound anywhere. 

The effort to push yourself up to sit is a momentous one, every cell in your body protesting after a day of being moved and jostled. The last thing you want is to move right now, but you have to. 

The pain meds have done little to help.

The crutch at the end of your bed must be a thousand miles away as you sit there and stare at it. The ache in your body only increases as you become more and more aware of the pain, almost as if it can tell what it is your mind is planning. 

The door is cracked open, letting in a slit of light from outside. It’s dark in the room, the curtains pulled over the window. It’s a blessing compared to the bright yellow light outside the door. You welcome the darkness as your head begins to throb. You could call for assistance. You’d get more help than you needed. More help than you want. 

No. 

You need to do this. 

The effort it takes to get standing nearly sends you back onto the bed. The pain nearly blinds you as your feet touch the floor, your body leaning against the side of the mattress out of desperation. If you fall, you’ll never be alone again. You can’t afford that. You don’t want that. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The breaths out of your nose are short and sharp as you reach for the crutch, fingers trembling in the effort to fight the pain threatening to blind you. You’re trembling like a leaf in a storm as your fingers finally wrap around the cool metal. The rubber bottom drags across the floor as you tug it over to you, holding it against your chest for a moment. 

Breathe. That’s what you need to do. Breathe. 

In and out. 

Nice and slow. 

The pain is only a memory. The pain is nothing. The memories forming at the edges of your mind will take over and wipe out the pain and the misery. You just have to be sure. You just have to be certain.

You push yourself upright using the crutch, tucking it under your arm. You should go back to bed. You should rest. 

No. 

You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The first step you take nearly makes you sick. 

It’s like watching a baby deer walk for the first time, knees wobbling, feet shaking. You lean heavily on the crutch, your determination the only thing keeping you from tumbling to the floor in a heap. That might almost hurt worse than forcing yourself to stand upright. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Inch by inch you move across the floor, silently grateful for the socks on your feet. They allow you to slide across the hardwood, but they also pose a threat. Slide too far and you’ll lose your feet. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The determination and your desire for certainty is what keeps you sliding inch by inch across the floor towards that strip of blinding light in front of you. It’s hovering before you, threatening you. How do you know there’s not one of them standing guard, waiting for you to try and leave? You can’t know. You don’t have a clue what’s waiting on the other side of that door. It could be nothing. It could be your entire pack. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You take a moment at the door, resting your aching feet. Your body is throbbing from the effort to keep yourself upright, the sedative still numbing your brain and your movements. It’s like treading through honey, everything twice as hard as it should be. You can walk. You’ve done it before. You did it in the medical center. 

You can do it here. 

You use the crutch to push the door open more, your free arm still tucked in a sling to keep you from moving it. Reaching for it with that arm would have put you on the floor, would have caused more pain than you needed, would have made you fall. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

The light burns. Explosions of yellows and whites erupt behind your eyelids as you screw them tight against the sudden onslaught. The sun is in the room, shining its rays directly into your sensitive eyes. Your stomach churns, your fingers tightening around the crutch so tight your knuckles begin to ache. The oppressive light makes you want to recede back into the darkness of the room behind you like a vampire shying away from the light of day. 

No. 

You won’t be defeated by the harsh artificial lighting. You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The others are moving around. You can hear voices around the corner, voices upstairs with thudding footsteps. The air is thick with a mesh of scents, cleaning chemicals, and the burn of scent blocker. Your nose wrinkles at the sudden onslaught against your senses, your sedated brain making it all seem so much worse. 

You need to know. 

The hardwood floors continue and you use them to your advantage as you shuffle your way across the main area. The fire crackles as you pass, the popping of a log making you startle. Your feet slide again, your body pushing up against the crutch to hold yourself steady. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Your target is dead ahead, a mile away but so close you can almost taste it. Just past the dining table and straight on till morning. 

Despite your snail’s pace, no one seems to notice you shuffling your way across the house. It should make you upset, the fact that none of them notice you moving around, but instead it makes you glad. They’d try to stop you if they noticed you, turn you around and shuffle you back to bed. Or worse, they’d carry you. 

How easily you could slip away, though. 

Well...in theory. 

Perhaps that’s why they ‘re not paying you any mind. How far could you really go in your current state? 

Why would you want to stray from the only safe space you have? 

The world outside is more dangerous with the state you’re in. Not just because of your injuries and your status, but also because you know Shepherd is still out there, and for all you know Graves is as well. 

He could be waiting right outside the door. 

No. 

They’d know. 

They’d protect you. 

They failed. 

You push past the fear in favor of certainty as you push forward, passing the dining table in your slow crawl towards the sliding glass door. 

It poses an entirely new threat as you stand before it, staring out the darkened glass. You have to get it open. Getting it open takes strength and you’re down to one hand that’s trying to keep you upright. 

You have to know. 

You have to be certain. 

You lean your weight on the crutch, ignoring the way it digs into your armpit as you reach for the handle. You click the lock, wrapping your fingers around the plastic before pulling. Your body screams with pain as you tug, the door sliding in the track as slowly as you had moved across the small living area. It’s almost as if it's mocking you. 

It’s open only as wide as you need to crutch your way through, doing your best not to knock your left shoulder against the frame. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

You can smell it. 

The salty sea air invades your senses, slipping up through your nose and straight into your brain. Memories come flooding back of childhood vacations back when things were simpler. Back when nothing mattered but the sand and the water and avoiding getting chased by your brothers carrying the piece of seaweed they found. 

Polkadot bathing suits, bright red to be seen easily. Toes in the water, sand everywhere. The nap in the silent car home. 

How simple life was back then. How easy life was. 

Your heart aches for those days again. The days when you could exist without a care in the world, trusting your pack would keep you safe, trusting your family would care for you. Your mind yearns for that sense of safety and security again. 

The world is grey as you hobble across the porch, the grey seeming to go on forever. You missed it, the chill in the air, the gloomy grey overhead. How you yearned for the gloom of England while stuck in the heat of Texas. 

Anything is better than Texas. 

Your forward shuffle pauses at the edge of the deck, your eyes looking out into the grey. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare out into the distance, the ache in your chest intensifying. It blocks out the pain in your body, numbing you to everything else as you stand there, legs trembling from the effort of going the short distance from your room to the end of the porch. 

You can see it. 

Emotions swirl inside of you like a hurricane as you stare out where the grey water meets the grey sky in the line of the horizon. Those emotions threaten to choke you as you stand there trembling at the edge of the porch. There’s a breeze, a cold one that bites through the fabric of your sweatshirt and into the skin below, but you don’t care. 

You can’t care. 

Your legs shake from the exertion, the neverending exhaustion that’s settled deep into your bones. It’s not just a physical exhaustion, but a mental one as well. It’s been a long week. 

Only a week. 

So much has happened in a week. 

You want to sit. You want to sink down onto the porch and rest. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

There’s a pain in your chest as your breath catches in your throat. The emotions are whirling, tightening around your chest, squeezing your lungs until they feel like they might pop. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You needed certainty. You needed to know. 

You can hear it. You can smell it. You can see it. 

A single tear rolls down your cheek as you stare out at the sea. 

NEXT ->

To be notified about new chapters, please follow HERE and turn on notifications

[shigarakislaughter]

Put Your Meowth to Mine

Chapter One

tags: cat tomura shigaraki, quirk accident, crack treated seriously, the princess and the frog but wrong

synopsis: When you see a cat getting attacked, you make it your mission to rescue and care for said cat. It turns out the cat is a bit of an asshole, and a little more human than you thought.

wc: 2.7k

warnings: language, slightly suggestive

a/n: no one say anything abt the word count. No one. Also happy valentine's day. enjoy my cringefic

Chapter Two

The cold air made you shiver as you made your way to your apartment, a gentle spray of mist falling down from the heavens in tiny droplets. It was surprisingly cold for September. A cold front must have hit Musutafu last night, one you were ignorant of due to your apparent forgetfulness when it came to checking the weather. You really should have worn a thicker jacket.

Luckily, you were close to the temperature-controlled sanctum you called your home. With only one more block to go, you relished in the idea of a nice hot shower, a comforting show on the television while eating a warm meal, and an early bedtime.

That was until you heard it: the unmistakable sound of a cat absolutely yowling its head off. Your head swiveled as you looked for the source of the sound, eyes widened when you found it. A small, scraggly looking cat had been backed into a corner by a larger blonde tabby. The poor, scrawny looking cat was clearly doing its best to look terrifying, back arched to make itself look bigger. Unfortunately, it wasn't doing a great job, its small patches of fur not thick enough to give the illusion of a bigger size.

"Hey! Leave it alone," you yelled, jogging up to the pair. You'd dealt with enough cats in your life, seen enough cat videos online, to know that breaking up a cat fight was probably a bad idea. But you felt bad for the pathetic cat in the corner, growling and hissing with all its might.

Looking around, you spotted it— a cardboard box, flattened, lying soggy next to the dumpster. Perfect. The cats didn't seem to hear you as you approached, too engrossed in their own battle to pay attention to their surroundings.

The edge of the cardboard made a crunching sound as you slammed it into the ground between the two cats.

"Go! Scram!"

You herded the blonde cat away with your foot, watching it quickly take off and run out of the ally. Your attention returned to the cornered cat. Slowly removing the cardboard, it quickly darted several meters away from you, cowering in the cold.

However, it didn't run any further, its red eyes gleaming like gems under the low glow of the streetlights. "C'mere, it's okay!" you cooed, knees soaked as you knelt down on the wet asphalt, your hand outstretched.

It eyed you warily, ears tilted forward as it slowly approached you. You kept your hand still as it sniffed your hand, determining if you were trustworthy. You must have passed its test, because it quickly rubbed its chin hard against your knuckles.

"Aww, poor baby," you murmured, scratching its chin with the pads of your fingertips. Up close, you could truly see how skinny and bare it looked. It was mostly naked. What fur it did have was light blue and incredibly wispy, seemingly concentrated around its arms and chest, trailing down to its stomach.

Poor thing would be too cold tonight if you left it to fend for itself. You knew what you had to do.

Quickly, before it could run away, you scooped up the cat with one arm under its belly, the other on its neck in preparation to scruff it if necessary. It began to writhe and wriggle in your grasp, letting out the most pathetic sounding meow you'd ever heard.

"I know, baby, I know," you whispered, walking as fast as you could without jostling the cat too much, its meows increasing in pitch as it continued to wriggle, now trying to bite at your hand.

You were lucky your building had outside stairs as you climbed them two at a time, the cat's teeth dangerously close to the back of your hand. Its meows turned into wails halfway up the stairs, continuing as you fumbled with your keys.

You managed to get the door open and closed behind you as you practically tossed the poor thing on the ground. "You turned out to be quite the little asshole," you groaned, turning to look at the cat as it stared at you. As if it could understand you, it hissed in response before looking around your apartment, sniffing as it went.

Removing your jacket, you began to mentally plan for the next steps. First, you had to give the mangy creature a flea bath, lest it was infested. After that, you could run to the local pet store for supplies. You were lucky they were open late.

You began running the water over your hand, waiting for it to come up to a comfortable temperature. After the water felt warm enough, you worked on gathering your supplies— your softest dish rag, cat-safe dish soap, and of course, the cat itself. Luckily you didn't have to do any more wrangling— the cat jumping up, a nosy thing, curious as to what you were doing.

As you once again pounced on the cat, scruffing it for the sake of bathing him, you spotted a familiar look of murder in his eyes. If it wasn't plotting your death before this, it certainly was now. Fuck.

—

Bathing the cat taught you two things. One: It was a he. Two: His claws were sharp and he would use them if necessary.

Wrapped snug in your towel, he glared at you, the wrinkles on his face emphasizing his anger, tail swishing from beneath the towel. He had clearly gotten into several fights before, old scars on both the side of his maw and over his right eye. You felt bad for him, no wonder he was acting like such a little demon.

Little demon. Lucifer.

That's what you decided to call him the second time he clawed you, a long scratch stark red against the expanse of your forearm. Luckily, it wasn't too deep.

Trying to reason with him, you began to apologize. "I'm sorry, I didn't want you bringing fleas in, Lucifer."

He meowed in response, a grating, angry sounding meow that perfectly suited him. Lucifer.

"Listen, I have to leave now. I have to get food, a litter box, cat bowls, cat scratchers," you trailed off, lowering your face to get down to his level. Removing himself from the towel, he stood, leaping off the counter to go make himself comfortable on one of the cushions by your low table. Sassy.

—

When you returned, arms laden with supplies and out of breath, you didn't expect to see him anywhere. Most cats hide when confronted with a new environment. But not him. He sat on your kitchen counter, staring into your soul with his red eyes, a screaming meow assaulting your eardrums as if he wished to say, "why'd you take so long? Did you bring me food? Hurry up and get in." He was demanding too, apparently.

"Calm down," you griped as he jumped down to follow you as you set up the litter box, jumping on the sink above you as if to supervise your actions.

As you set up everything else, scratch pad, toys, washing the cat bowls, he seemed to follow you everywhere else as well, acting as your shadow. It would've been cute if not for the fact that he was so loud. He seemed to understand that the faster you set things up, the faster he'd be fed— little bastard was hungry and demanding.

He began pawing at anything he could easily knock over as you attempted to get the can of cat food open. "Give me a second." He didn't seem to listen. A pen on your counter and a bottle cap had both managed to clatter to the floor by the time you managed to pry open the can.

The food hit the bowl with a squelch, the air filled with the smell of wet cat food. Gross to you, delicious to the cat, who scrambled to jump down and immediately start eating, a low growl coming from the back of his throat while he ate. Despite his assholery, he still managed to tug at your heartstrings. Poor thing was probably starving.

You checked the time on the microwave. Fuck, it was late. You were glad you didn't have work tomorrow. Too tired to cook, you reached into the freezer for one of the frozen meals you kept stashed, opening it and microwaving it.

After your food was sufficiently steaming, you were finally able to get back on track with your night, sitting at the low table in front of the TV. Finally, peace.

Peace had not been achieved.

Before you knew it, the cat was on the table, intent on sniffing and devouring your microwaved pasta.

The paper dish was hot in your hands as you tried to maneuver the food away from him. "Stop that, you're lactose intolerant." This didn't seem to deter him, his arm extending as he tried to dunk his paw into the dish so he could lick the sauce off.

Finally, you relented, fishing out a singular noodle from your bowl and placing it on the table. He was on it in no time, scarfing down the pasta at a record speed.

"Didn't you just eat?" He stopped licking the table to glare at you. If he could talk, you were certain he'd be telling you to shut the fuck up. Rude. Luckily for you, he decided his time was better spent shredding pieces of your junk mail with his teeth, the sound of him biting and ripping papers grating against the sound of your television. With a sigh, you resigned yourself to this, turning up the TV volume to drown out the noise caused by his destructive tendencies. At least it was the mail and not your furniture.

After cleaning up your dinner, the cat acting as your shadow the entire time, you went off to the bathroom to attempt to shower alone. Of course, he still insisted on following you inside the bathroom, batting at the door with his paws when you closed the door.

He sat proudly on your bathroom counter, tail swishing the whole time as you tried to reason with him.

"You're not going to like it in here once I start the water."

He only glared at you more. "Fine." Turning on the water, you glanced at him once more, thinking the sound would be enough to scare him. He settled into a loaf, unbothered by the sound and steam that was quickly filling up the room.

You resigned yourself to not shower alone again, ever. "You're gonna be bored out here, but alright." He seemed to snap back to life as you began to undress. His eyes were huge as saucers as the leaped off the counter, bolting through the cracked door. Huh. At least you could shower in peace.

After getting ready for bed, you found him curled up on the end of your bed. He looked up at you before leaping back down. "What, are you embarrassed?"

As you turned off the lamp, you tried to ignore him as he loafed on the dresser by your bed, staring at you with his beady red eyes that seemed to bore into you. Drifting off to sleep, the idea of him eating your face in the night chilled you to your core.

When you awoke, your chest felt… heavy, as if a dumbbell had been placed on top of it. Your eyes felt dry when you opened them to find him—across the length of your torso, Lucifer sat curled up, siphoning your warmth. He was rather cute up close, in the way one might find a possum or a rat cute.

Before he could awaken and throw a fit about it, (or scratch your eyeball out…), you pressed a chaste kiss to his little wrinkled forehead.

All of a sudden, the weight on your chest pressed against your entire front, significantly increasing in both size and mass. The face of a cat turned into the top of a head of light blue hair, matching the cat's fur. Your mouth felt dry as you tried not to scream.

Cool. Cool cool cool. The mangy cat you managed to pick up off the street was actually a man! A human man! You hoped he couldn't feel your heartbeat from where he lay on your chest, the tempo of your heart accelerating.

Lifting your head to peer at him, you saw the plain expanses of his back. Fuck, he was naked. Scrambling to cover him up with the edge of your blanket, you slid out from under him, jostling him in the process.

"What the fuck," he groaned. Shit. You woke him up. Stirring, his hand grasped the blanket that was partially covering him. You watched in abject horror as the blanket turned to dust in front of you.

Your hands flew up to cover your eyes. "Oh my god, what the fuck is going on?"

"Sorry—" The blankets shuffled as he tried to cover himself up. After a brief period consisting of him swearing under his breath, he eventually stilled. "Alright, my dick is covered now."

"Oh my god." You shoved your hands further in your eyes. "Why'd you have to say it like that?"

"What other way is there to say it?"

You looked up at him. His pinkies were raised as he gripped the edge of your sheets in an attempt to cover himself.

"Never mind, just—let me get you some clothes." You sighed, picking out an old t-shirt and pants that you thought would fit him.

"Put these on." You placed the clothes on the bed, staring at him expectantly.

"Aren't you going to turn around?"

A searing blush rose to your face as you quickly spun around. Right. Not a cat anymore. The absurdity of the situation was frying your brain, and you needed coffee. "What, is it only okay when you watch me undress as a cat?"

He spluttered. "Listen, I didn't mean to do all that, it's not like I turned into a cat on purpose. It was cat instincts or something."

You crossed your arms with a huff. "Whatever."

Turning on your heel, you left to the kitchen. The two of you could talk over coffee.

A few minutes later, he padded in after you, sitting in one of your chairs. Still clingy, even when not a cat.

Two steaming mugs of coffee in hand, you sat down at the table with him. "Explain everything."

—

It took a minor amount of coaxing, but he finally managed to tell you the story. "So you got into a fight with someone, and a random passerby thought it would be funny to turn you both into cats?"

"Exactly," Shigaraki, not Lucifer, took a long sip of his coffee, avoiding your eyes. You thought he was cute up close. Definitely a liar, definitely as scrungy as his cat form, but cute in a way that made you want to take him home and care for him.

"And you have no idea why?"

"No." His answer came out a bit too fast. You narrowed your eyes in suspicion before ultimately deciding to let it go. "Alright."

"You have a place to go after this?"

"Yeah, it's nearby," he shrugged. "I can walk."

Goodbyes were always awkward. Walking him to the door, you made him promise to stay safe, although he said it quite flippantly, still rather embarrassed.

"Wait, before you leave," Scribbling your name and number on a piece of paper, you rushed to hand it to him. "Can I see you again? Not as a cat this time?"

He seemed almost sad when he took your paper, carefully holding it between his thumb and pointer, before shoving it in the pocket of his borrowed pants. "Sure."

A few weeks later, you sat in front of the TV, watching the news. Your heart thumped, microwave pasta falling off your fork when you recognized the name and photo of the man on screen: Tomura Shigaraki, leader of the League of Villains.

Cleaning up the fallen pasta, you froze when you heard it—the scratching of several sets of paws at the door, followed by a distinct, frenzied meow.

taglist: @zephlovesspacestuf, @booksooks, @tomurafrlover23, @juni0njup1terr, @deadhands69, @mastercheetos, @kittyhyuka, @blizzardprincess, @moonstonejpg, @lysaisland

[roguelov]

Scars and All

Summary: For a few years, you have been friends with Trafalgar Law. And for a few years you have harbored a crush on his dad, Donquixote Rosinante. You tried, and tried, to ignore such feelings, but perhaps it’s time to put it all out into the open. No more hiding, you will tell him how you feel. You only hope he will let you down gently.

Word Count: ~8.9k

Reader: fem/afab (reader referred to a sweetheart/sweet girl)

Warnings: SMUT (age gap (reader is in their mid 20s and Cora is 40), breast play, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, cream pie, dirty talk, small breeding kink, mostly dom!cora), minor angst (denial of feelings), pining, fluff in the end

(Fanart and inspo for the fic by levikra)

The idle rumbling of the car was the only thing keeping you grounded, or was the irritable sensation propelling your already splintered mind into more of a frenzy? You pressed your forehead into the steering wheel. The sun’s ray heated the faux leather, unfortunately not bringing you any relief or comfort. Just more irritation.

This is stupid.

Grumbling, you lifted your head, peering up at the picturesque house. It was simple with a small porch with rickety chairs to recline in, and a worn down welcome mat. Shutters muted by the sun. Its attached garage had its mouths open revealing a sleek vintage car and a motorcycle parked inside.

Plain. Ordinary.

Yet, it was frighteningly daunting. You white-knuckled your steering wheel. Your heart pounded feverishly in your chest. Blood pumped so loud in your ears you could barely discern the jumbled voices from the radio. A song? An interview? Why did it matter? Why were you focusing on such trivial things when -

Dumb. This is so fucking dumb and stupid and - and I should just leave. He wouldn’t -

You banged your head - again - against the steering wheel, growing out in frustration. “What am I doing here,” you asked the rhetorical question in the lone space.

You tilted your head, glancing at your passenger and the reason for the afflictions to your spiraling mind: a plastic container of an assortment of cookies. The container sparkled in the sunlight as if smiling giddily eager to be delivered.

You grumbled to yourself, “Why did I talk myself into this?”

*****

“Ooo, it smells amazing in here!”

You peered over your shoulder, looking back at your friend and housemate, Evelyn. She hungrily eyed all the variety of cookies littered across the kitchen counters cooling and some already packed neatly in containers. Giggling, she snatched up a fresh one, biting into it.

She hummed, smiling at you, “It’s so good.”

Your cheeks warmed and you smiled bashfully, “Thanks.”

She plopped down at one of the dining chairs, happily nibbling on her cookie. “So why’d you make so much? And why did you ask me to help?”

You snickered at her tone and small pout. “Ah well, I wanted to make some chocolate chip cookies but then you saw we had plenty of other ingredients so it just spiraled out of control from there.”

She frowned a bit, deciphering your roundabout words. “Stress baking?”

Your eyes dropped to the side. Caught. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Why?”

You added some cooled cookies into another container. “Well … I was thinking about bringing some to Rosinante .. and I know Law is still doing his shift at the hospital.”

She beamed, finishing off her cookie. “Yeah, I bet they will like them.”

You said nothing, you just closed the container, sealing it tight.

Evelyn watched you for a moment. Your hand nervously patted on your pants, rubbing off the flour and sugar. Your eyes darted around counting and recounting all the cookies. “What’s wrong? What do you think they won’t like them?” She asked.

“Huh? Oh, uh … no, that’s not the issue.” You shuffled side to side. “I thought that maybe I could finally do it.”

She cocked her head. “Do what?”

You fiddled with your fingers. “That … that I could tell Rosinante how I feel.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Really?”

She had known about your crush on him, you had confided in her some time ago. She had even comforted you when a few tears were shed under the veil of night. It wasn’t right to have a crush on your shared friend’s dad. You knew this. You tried to drop it, to let him go, yet with every conversation you had with him you fell a bit more.

“I … I just … I don’t want to keep pretending,” you quietly admitted. “If he doesn’t like me, then so be it … maybe I could finally move on once I hear it from him … it’ll be awkward as hell when we go over there in the future but … I should do this.”

No more delusions or what ifs. Your mind tired of these endless running thoughts every single night.

Eve gave you a reassuring smile. “I’m proud of you.”

You smiled, a small one. You placed a hand on your chest, rubbing the spot over your racing heart.

I got this.

Taking a deep breath, you picked up a perfectly packaged container. You held the container close to your chest, however once you turned to leave you froze.

Seeing your hesitation, Evelyn got up and started pushing you towards the door. “Alright, go.”

You dug your heels into the floor. “But -“

“Nope, now shoo.”

“Actually I - I changed my mind. This is a terrible idea and I don’t want to do the adult thing anymore -“

“It’s a wonderful idea,” she urged you, opening the front door for you. “And he’ll love them.”

And you, she thought.

“I don’t care if he likes the cookies,” you grumbled. “It’s the other thing.”

“You can do it. I know he likes you back -“

You vehemently shook your head, pushing back on her attempts. “I can’t -“

She spun you around, grabbing your arms. Her eyes blazed with determination, far more than your own. “Yes, you can. You said you would do it, so no backing out.”

You hung your head, sighing deeply, “… fine.”

She beamed. “Great! And don’t worry, I’ll keep Law away … for a few hours.”

Your cheeks burned. “Whoa, it won’t -“

With one final shove, you stumbled backwards out the door. She chirped in a cheery tone, “Now, go. And good luck!”

The door then slammed in your face.

*****

Fuck it, just do it!

Shutting off the engine and snatching up the cookies, you hopped out of your car. Every step towards the front door, every time your heart jumped up into your throat. You wanted to turn tail and hide, but how could you go back home? Eve will certainly give you trouble.

I could just sneak inside and hide away in my room.

You muttered to yourself. It was at least a decent idea.

Wrong. All wrong, a voice hissed in the back of your mind. You’re a friend of his kid, why would he even see you like this? You shouldn’t have even entertained this for a second. It’s all wrong.

Your heart ached. You shoved that voice back, locking it in the far recesses of your mind. You didn’t need it whispering in your ear. Again. You just needed to get this all off your chest, you couldn’t bear the weight of this secret anymore. The rejection will sting, it will gut you, and you will cry, but then hopefully you could finally move on.

With a shaky hand, you pressed the doorbell. The chime cut through the silence. You flinched. Glancing over your shoulder, you wondered if anyone was watching this slow disastrous train wreck.

This is a dumb idea. Maybe I could -

The doorknob clicked then opened. You whipped around, staring up at the owner of the home, the father of your friend, and the owner of your heart: Donquixote Rosinante. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, he smiled warmly, “Hey, what brings you around here?”

Matching his smile, you held up the cookies. “I made a bit too much so I thought I would stop by and bring some.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? Thank you, here -“ he moved aside giving you space to step in, “- come on in, you know where the kitchen is.”

You nodded, walking in. Smiling, Rosinante closed the door behind you. You passed by the living room and into the kitchen with Rosinante following behind you. You set down the cookies on the kitchen island. Rosinante circled around the island to the other side. He took his cigarette, flicking the ashes into a small glass tray. His eyes darted over to you. He saw the question written so clearly on your face.

“I know I’m trying to quit. Just please don’t tell, Law,” he said, taking a small drag. “I know the kid is almost a doctor now, but it’s hard to break such an old habit -“ he winked “- it can be our little secret.”

Your heart fluttered. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Joy, unbridled joy and elation, bloomed at the nickname. It brought a warmth unlike any other: sunshine on a snowy winter morning, bonfire on a cool summer night, or a warm blanket wrapped around at night. You couldn’t remember when it started, but you loved it. His deep voice mixed so lovely with the affectionate tone of the name. It was this small insignificant thing that made your heart cling to hope, hope that maybe - just maybe - he felt something.

“Do you mind?” Rosinante pointed at the container.

“Oh! Uh, no please go ahead,” you answered.

He smiled then opened it up. He inhaled the tantalizing decadent aroma. “Smells great.”

He plucked a chocolate chip cookie. Holding his cigarette between his fingers, he took a bite. He hummed. His eyes twinkled with delight. ”This is amazing! You’re a great baker.”

You smiled bashfully. “Thanks.”

Looking at him, your expression softened as he finished the cookie with a smile. However as he ate the last bite, your eyes caught something. “Hey, uh, you have …,” you gestured to a spot on your own cheek.

Rosinante tilted his head. His golden hair swept across his forehead. His innocent face made him appear decades younger.

How can a grown man look so adorable?

You reiterated, “You have some chocolate on your cheek.”

“Oh!” He swiped his thumb across his skin - to where you pointed - then gently sucked the chocolate off. He hummed, licking his lips. “Thanks.”

You kept your voice steady. “No problem.”

He really doesn’t understand what he does to me.

“Any reason you made so many cookies?” Rosinante asked, closing the lid.

You shrugged. “Just wanted some, but then it kind of spiraled into making a bunch of different batches.”

He smiled, leaning on the island. “Well, thank you for sharing. I might eat them all before Law gets a chance to try one.”

You mimicked him, resting your elbows on the island. “No worries, we have plenty back at the house … that is if Eve doesn’t eat them all.”

He snickered and took another drag of his cigarette.

Your eyes skimmed over him. He truly was a golden god, yet wrapped up with some boyish charms. You tore your eyes away. Your heart started to speed up again with the mere thought of spilling everything out in the open. He picked up the cookies, turning his back to you and putting them next to the fridge. It was out of sight, and somewhat hidden for a sweet treat for himself later.

Ok, fuck, breathe. Just - just say it. It’s now or never.

Clearing your throat, you spoke in a shaky voice. “Rosinante?”

He hummed, his back still to you,

I can do it. It’s fine - it’ll be fine.

You took a long deep breath. “I … I have something I want to tell you.”

He froze.

Instantly, he knew where the conversation would go before you could utter another word. The thing was Rosinante wasn’t clueless or oblivious to your infatuation with him. He will admit he didn’t at first, however it all clicked. He saw how you clung to each of his words, how you stared at him when you thought he wasn't watching, how you leaned towards him craving his warmth, or how you always sought out his company. He was surprised, yes, and in heavy denial for some time. But, as weeks passed, his observation and theory only solidified.

He could only hope your crush would pass.

Rosinante twisted around. “Please don’t.”

Most of all, Rosinante hoped and prayed his own attraction to you faded. It started as a small bud in his chest. Yet, the more and more you came around, the more you talked and laughed with him, the more the simple infatuation grew. It rooted its vines deep within his heart, taking hold and control of him. He craved your presence constantly, you were becoming his new addiction.

But, it wasn’t right.

Rosinante sighed heavily. Taking his cigarette, he smothered it out in the ashtray. “I know what you’re about to say.”

You blinked. “You do?”

Does he?

He glanced up, staring directly into your eyes. Why were his eyes so sorrowful? Or … pitiful? “You we’re about to make a confession, were you not?”

Embarrassment. White hot searing embarrassment coursed through you. Your eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. You quickly dropped your head, hiding your boiling shame. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, nails burying into your palms.

“Please don’t.”

His haunting words replayed on repeat.

Fuck, I was right. Shit -

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing back the tears.

Rosinante frowned. Fuck. Maybe, he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe, he should have let you speak first. But, he was trying to save you some pain. He moved around the counter, hovering by your side. His hand raised to comfort you. However, when he heard the faint sniffles, his heart clenched and his hand dropped.

Damn it.

“Look, it’s -“

You snapped your head up. You smiled, an awfully forced one that didn’t convince Rosinante in the slightest. Taking a deep breath, you tried to swim faster than the typhoon of emotions hurtling through your mind. “No, you don’t have to explain yourself. I - I understand … I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

It was a long shot, an impossible chance. Why did a part of me believe it would work? How delusional could I be?

You spun on your heels to leave, but Rosinante caught your wrist. He tugged you back. His hands cupped your face, forcing you to stay and look at him. He searched in your frantic eyes to see if he overstepped. But, all he saw was pain trying to be bottled up. “I do owe you an explanation, it’s only right,” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts, “sweetheart, it’s cliche I know but it’s not you, it’s me … I’m … I’m not right for you.”

Your heart - your conflicted heart - flipped. “… what?”

He sighed, “You are kind and wonderful and amazing -“

And everything I could ever hope for, he thought.

“- but I’m broken. I’m old. I’m scarred. I’m - I’m not whole.”

Unlike you.

His words swirled around in your head. Broken. Old. Scarred. “So?” You asked in a quiet voice.

Rosinante’s eyebrows furrowed.

Pushing down your nerves, you pressed on. “Not everyone is perfect and - and without flaws, do you think I am? Do you think I don’t have some sort of scars whether etched into my skin or across my heart?”

He blinked, taken back by your words.

Just spill it all. He … he already knows.

“Only you make me feel like this,” you whispered, dropping your gaze. “Only you can constantly make me laugh and smile, and - and brighten my day. You make me feel seen, heard.”

Rosinante’s heart hammered. “Can - can you look at me?”

Your eyes wearily inched back up. Your eyes were glassy with tears threatening to spill.

He smiled sadly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. “Hey, don’t waste your tears on this old fool.”

“Why not?” You muttered, desperately keeping your voice calm. “You’re amazing … why can’t you see that?”

Because I have a complicated past, he bitterly thought. I’m old, past my prime. You deserve better.

“Sweetheart -“

“Please,” you cut him off. “If - if you don’t like me, want me, or - or see me in this way then just please let me go. Don’t make me stay here any longer … but if you do … if you like me in some way … then …”

Your voice trailed off, leaving it up to him to interpret. An admission of his feelings? A kiss? It just had to be some obvious sign. You were trying not to crumble before him.

Please, just let me go.

Rosinante licked his lips. His heart raced sporadically in his chest. What should he do? What was the right thing to do?

To let you go.

To save you - one of his son’s friends - from this broken old man.

But what did he want? What did his heart yearn for?

You. He wanted you, he always wanted you. And maybe this was his only chance at happiness.

Why shouldn’t he at least try?

He leaned down slowly as if waiting for you to run, for you to get out while you could. But, you stayed firm. His face hovered inches above yours. His eyes bore into you searching and deciphering any signs, or tells, that meant regret. He couldn’t. He only saw hope, hope that this wasn’t a fantasy, hope that you could finally love and cherish him as you believed he deserved.

His eyes slid down to your lips, so soft and waiting so patiently. He swallowed a nervous lump in his throat. His eyes flickered back, locking with yours. “I want this, but tell me,” he whispered desperately; his hand now wrapped around the back of your neck holding you firmly, realizing he didn’t want you to run away now, “tell me you want this. I - I just need to hear you say it.”

You hesitantly reached up, touching the side of his face. His chin was slightly prickly unlike his usual kempt appearance. Your hand traced upwards, threading through his blonde locks - that nearly covered those beautiful rustic red eyes of his. “I want this,” you breathed out. “I want you, scars and all.”

Rosinante crashed his lips against yours. He claimed your lips, pouring all this untapped love into it. He wanted - needed - you to know how much you meant to him, how much he wanted this, and how long he had deprived himself of it. His lips parted, darting his tongue along your lips pleading for entrance. You shakily parted your lips, still surprised this was truly happening. Rosinante hummed, slipping his tongue inside. You whimpered faintly. With your head tipped all the way back to accommodate his height, you were truly at his mercy.

And you loved it.

He eagerly explored your mouth, swirling his tongue wanting to taste every part of you. You clung to him, feeling your knees about to buckle. Chocolate and hints of nicotine blossomed over your tongue. His tongue commanded your attention, yet so did his hands. His dexterous hands glided down your body. He awkwardly hunched forward, but he didn’t mind. He had you, he could hold you, touch you. His hands greedily roamed over you, mapping out the curves and lines of your body. He sneakily cupped your rear and thighs, making you gasp. Rosinante smirked against your lips. A quick squeeze and jerk urged you to jump.

And you did.

The ex-marine lifted you up quite easily. Your legs wrapped so wonderfully around his waist, and you threw your arms over his shoulders. However, he couldn’t make it quite far. Taking only a few steps, he stumbled into the wall. You were far too distracted by his lips and touch, you hadn’t noticed his quick reaction: one of his hands cradled your head, protecting it from the wall.

He pulled away from your lips, mumbling, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you panted.

He smiled, wide and beautiful, making his eyes crinkled in an adorable way. He was enthralled with you, and this moment. How could you truly be here in his arms, in his grasp? It was a dream, a dream he didn’t want to ever end. “Can we keep going?” He asked, nudging his nose against yours.

“Please,” you answered.

He captured your lips again, but slower. He wanted to memorize the shape and feeling of your lips. There was precision to his movements, a dance. The ex-marine knew how to maintain control, and how to draw everything out. Each stolen breath, each push and pull of his lips, each slow drag of his tongue, each teasing nibble left you clinging to him.

One of his hands slipped under your shirt, skimming up your back. You shivered at his cool calloused fingers. He murmured, “Soft.”

His fingertips drew nonsensical patterns, or so you thought. He purposefully drew hearts and spirals, carving his unspoken love. His hand moved upward before dragging his blunt nails across your back. He so desperately wished to mark your skin, to put his scar on you.

“Can I take off your shirt?” He begged into your swollen lips.

You didn’t answer. Using the wall as leverage, you haphazardly wiggled out of your shirt and tossed it randomly onto the kitchen floor. Excited and dazed, you didn’t bother to wait for him to ask about your bra. You unhooked it, adding it to the pile. His eyes widened, staring down at your breasts with his slightly mouth agape.

Fuck, this is really happening, he thought.

You nervously bit your lip. Your mind began to second guess his silence.

Shit, did I go too far? What if he didn’t -

Rosinante quickly hoisted you higher up then craned his head down. His lips wrapped perfectly around your breast, sucking on it. You sighed, arching your back to better help him. Your fingers slipped into his hair, holding his head close. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach. His tongue circled around your nipple. Your lips and mouth had just learned his sensual dance. Every swipe of his tongue, your body shuddered. He teasingly nipped at the bud, making you gasp. He removed his mouth with an audible ‘pop‘ like he wanted you to know how good you tasted, how much it pained him to break away. Yet, he couldn’t neglect the other. He kissed along your chest, hungrily capturing your other breast.

“Rosi,” you breathed out.

Fuck, he loves how that sounded. How could his name send such intense pleasure skyrocketing through his body? His cock jumped in his pants. Gods, he needed to hear it again, and again, and again. His hands squeezed your ass both trying to hold himself back and as if you forced it out of you.

And it worked.

You whimpered.

Faint, yet so sweet.

Pulling away from your breasts, he rested his forehead against yours. Your chests heaved in an odd symphony. The thinnest space separated your lips, your shared breaths mixed together. His air was yours and your air was his, souls were mingling in such close proximity. His eyes shone, all his emotions now officially and completely bare.

No, more hiding. No more denying.

He stole your lips once again, unable to get enough of them. Humming, you arched your back, pressing your now spit covered breasts into him. The tiny bit of friction of your perked nipples across his rough shirt sent sparks of pleasure down your spine. However, and unfortunately, he broke the kiss far too quickly. You eagerly chased after his lips, needing them. Rosinante hid his amused smile. He kissed down your neck, swiping that devious tongue of his over your sensitive skin. He whispered, “You taste like sugar.”

“I - ah - I may have made a mess earlier,” you admitted. “Butter and sugar got everywhere.”

He chuckled. He wanted to say he expected no less from his sweetheart. Sweetness seemed to always pour from you, and he always wanted to drink from you - to always have a taste. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated taking you here. He could lay you across the kitchen island, pour honey across your skin, especially your breasts, and have his way with you. But, he shelved such an idea.

Not today, another time, he promised himself.

“Upstairs?” He asked into your neck.

“Up - fuck.” Rosi nipped at your skin, gently sucking and soothing the spot. His lips curled into a smirk, a smirk you felt burned into your skin. Your head tipped back into the wall as he continued his sweet assault. How could such a kind, sweet man be so conniving, so sly?

“What was that, sweetheart?” He teased in a low tone.

“Upstairs.” You breathlessly added, “Please.”

“Of course.” He pushed off the wall, delicately carrying you up the stairs.

However, since he was so focused on carrying you, you decided to return such delightful favors. You started by peppering his face in adoring kisses from his cheeks, to his nose, then his lips.

He chuckled with a growing smile, “Sweet girl, you need to stop or I might trip.”

“We’ll be fine,” you brushed him off.

Your lips trailed soft butterfly kisses along his prickly jaw and down his neck. Your sweetness turned sinister. You placed a single open mouth kiss on the crook of his neck. He let out a soft pleased sigh. Your teeth then grazed over his skin. His grip on you tightened. You lightly bit him, feeling a shudder run through his body. Smirking, you sucked - viciously and without remorse - on a sensitive spot ensuring you left your mark on him.

His reaction was perfect. He groaned and stumbled backwards into the wall by his bedroom door. The thud resonated through the still home, so much so a few pictures wobbled on the wall threatening to fall. “Shit,” he hissed.

You continued your attack listening to his heated swears under his breath. Once you felt satisfied, you pulled away, eyeing your red spot with a triumphant grin. It will only darken with time, a lovely reminder. Looking into his eyes, they were blown wide with lust and desire which mirrored your own. Smirking, you teasingly nipped his bottom lip. He swore again. Using one hand, he brought your head closer, attacking your lips with new energy. He pried himself off the wall and rushed into his bedroom. He used his muscle memory stumbling and swaying into the room until his shins hit the edge of his bed. Carefully, he laid you down on his sheets.

So gentle, so delicate.

His lips skimmed down to your heaving chest, between your breasts and to your hips. His fingers followed after his lips, tracing down your sides. Your breath stuttered at his feathery touches. His breath fanned over your lower stomach, hitting the waistband of your pants. His eyes flickered up, peering through his eyelashes.

“Can I?” He whispered in such a loving tone.

You nodded, unable to muster up a single syllable.

He undid the buttons of your pants and tugged them down while you lifted your hips to help. He bit the inside of his cheek. So beautiful. His hands traveled up your legs, squishing your thighs. She’s really here. He then spread your legs a bit, and didn’t miss the dark wet patch on your underwear. His chest burned with desire knowing he was responsible. His finger hooked around the band of your underwear. If he could, he would have torn them off already.

“Can these go next,” he asked, continuing to ensure he had your consent with every step.

Your heart skipped. “Y-yeah.”

He pulled them off as calmly as possible, and tossed them aside. Your cunt was dripping. He swore his mouth started to water. Swallowing, he silently drank in your figure, still reeling you were here. He wanted to ravish you, he wanted to make love to you, he wanted to do it all.

However, for you, the silence pressed on for too long. His blank stare morphed into disinterest in your mind. Insecurities bubbled up as it dawned on you how you were now completely naked before him. Your hands covered your chest and you snapped your legs closed.

What am I -

Rosinante’s eyes widened at your sudden change. He immediately climbed onto the bed, over top of you, and removed your hands from your chest. “Please, don’t,” he breathed out. “I - I’m sorry … you’re just so beautiful.”

Your cheeks and chest flooded with heat. You quickly turned your head to the side, hiding.

He cupped your cheek, turning your head back to him. “You are. Please don’t hide from me.”

His soft expression and kind smile eased back the fears. You slowly nodded.

“Good. Here, it’s only fair.” He leaned back and removed his shirt, adding it to the pile on his floor.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes darted all over, taking him all in. So many scars. You propped yourself up on your elbow, reaching out. You carefully traced over each of them, outlining the rigids and harsh ragged shapes. Rosi watched you intensely. A shiver ran down his spine. You were so delicate, as if he were made of glass. Your face filled with some kind of concentration, one he didn’t fully understand.

You asked softly, “Can … can you flip over?”

Stunned a bit, yet Rosi complied. He rolled onto his back into the squeaky mattress. You swiftly straddled his hips. Before he could ask, you bent down kissing one scar by his ribs. His heart leapt up into his throat. You then methodically kissed every single scar - no matter the size nor how gnarly it appeared - all over his chest. You finished your endeavor by kissing the one near his heart, an almost fatal hit. His heart thrummed beneath your lips, and you felt the elated vibrations. You peered up to see his cheeks flushed a rosy red and his lips parted as he tried to calm his breathing. You had rendered this man - this near mammoth of a man - into an utter mess. He was putty under such touches, touches he had long deprived himself of.

You smiled, resting your cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a beat which your heart harmonized with. “I’m sorry, did I -“

“Don’t.” He let out a shaky exhale. “Don’t apologize. I - I just wasn’t expecting that.”

Your hand followed the curve of his chest to a scar on his right shoulder. You, once again, traced the shape. Rosi shuddered. At his reaction, a thought suddenly dawned on you. “Rosi, are your scars sensitive?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, mumbling, “Just a bit.”

Noted.

You held back a devious smirk. Sitting up, you placed your hands on his chest. Your nails raked down.

Maybe I could have some fun -

Rosi’s hands suddenly gripped your hips. He yanked you all the way up his body. A sharp gasp left your lips. Your hands flung out and collided with the wall for support. Your eyes - wide and somewhat confused - dropped down. You now straddled over his face, your knees on either side. His hands wrapped around your thighs and squeezed, letting the fat pool between his fingers. Most importantly, his grip indicated one thing: he was unwilling to let you go.

“Fuck.” He groaned, looking up at your dripping cunt like it was a meal.

Your heart sped up, “Wait, Rosi - I -“

“Sweetheart, I dreamt of this so many times,” he whispered. His breath, each puff of air, sent jolts through your body. “Please, can I have this?”

No one had begged before.

Trying and failing to keep your voice steady, you stuttered out, “I, uh, y-yes - ah!”

Rosinante eagerly yanked you down, unable to wait another second. Humming, his lips wrapped around you. The tip of his tongue swept over your folds, collecting and tasting you. Sparks burst through you.

“Rosinante,” you moaned. How could one single motion left you so vocal?

He smirked at your reaction as he weaved a spell over you. He moaned as he started devouring you. His tongue teasingly traced your folds. You shuddered. He did it once, twice, then pushed his tongue inside of you. He curled his tongue, hitting your spongy walls. You whimpered. Your hands balled up into fists, clawing at the wall. His tongue - long and thick - moved with precision. His age and experience truly showed in his moment. He knew how to work it, how to render you in his beautiful mess.

He hummed. The wondrous vibrations made you moan loudly and unabashedly. A noise you never expected you to make. One of your hands instinctively shot down and latched onto his hair. Mindless on your growing pleasure, you tugged on his strands, making him groan. More vibrations, more dizzying sensations, more of your juices coated his lips and face.

Rosinante nearly rolled his eyes back. Fuck, this was better than his measly dreams. His cock twitched in his pants at each of your sounds. And gods if you tasted and felt this amazing just around his tongue, then how would it feel to be buried inside of you? Precum spilled in his pants at the mere thought.

Pleasure built deep in your stomach. As his tongue expertly moved and curled in and out of you, you lowered yourself more and greedily rocked your hips to chase after the pleasure. He moaned. His fingers dug harshly into your thighs, possibly leaving bruises.

“That’s it, sweetheart, ride my face,” he purred.

Shit.

Rosinante’s eyes darkened. Your walls fluttered around his tongue at his blunt words. He watched your head tip back as a sweet whimper hummed in the back of your throat.

“Dirty girl,” he murmured with a devious smirk.

His words added to the insatiable heat burning you from the inside out. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the pornogrpahic moans daring to escape. He continued to watch, unwilling to tear his gaze away. He loved how your breasts bounced, tempting him to feast on him again, how your back curled so elegantly, how your thighs slowly squeezed around him minimizing his world so it was you and you alone, and how your hips stuttered losing concentration at his words, his pet names, and his merciless tongue.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” his voice was low and commanding, drawing up such a tone from his former marine days.

You shakily glanced down at him. Your eyes drooped with lust and desperation, your chest heaved gulping down air, and your mouth hung open as whimpers and moans poured out. To him, you were picture perfect, a sight to behold and cherish.

He turned his head, kissing your thigh. “Good, now can you lean forward for me?”

With a tiny nod, you tipped your hips forward.

”That’s it, good girl.”

Your whole body pulsed. Such praise, such simple words shouldn’t set your body ablaze, and yet you nearly crumble. You already wanted to hear that honey tone pour from his lips again.

His lips wrapped around your swollen clit, sucking on it. You inhaled sharply. His hand then caressed down between your thighs. It trailed down with such a light tough until one of his slender fingers dragged slowly through your soaked lips. You lurched at the feeling. He gingerly pushed his finger in. You shut your eyes tight and bit your lip, almost drawing blood. His finger moved painstakingly slow, both wanting to be careful yet also wanting to tease you closer to that edge.

“More,” you begged, already pushing your hips back. “Please.”

Rosinante happily and easily added a second finger. The wet sounds echoed in the room from him hungrily sucking and licking at your clit, to his fingers being drenched in your juices. It was all too much. You pressed your forehead into the wall, closing your eyes. It held all of your support. You were panting, nearly drooling as pleasure claimed your whole body.

Fuck, Rosinante could come at the sight of you like a horny teenager. His cock ached to be free, to be buried within your walls, to be stroked by your delicate fingers, to be wrapped around your tongue, or perhaps to be smushed between your breasts. He wanted it all. But, he also wanted this. He needed this just as much as you did. His pleasure can wait, he wanted to devote all his energy onto you. He hummed again.

Another moan fell off your lips.

Cracking open your eyes, you were greeted with Rosinante’s red glowing eyes beneath you. He then kissed your clit, softly as if giving one a kiss on the cheek, and cooed, “Be a good girl and come all over my face.”

“Fuck,” you swore. He chuckled, a rich laugh. He crooked his finger, hitting a certain spot. You gasped, seeing stars. “T-There, fuck, right there.”

Rosi immediately zoned onto that spot. His fingers bullied into you with new purpose. Each curl, scissoring, of his fingers snatched your breath away. His tongue and mouth, however, could not be forgotten either. He sucked and swirled his tongue, guiding you closer to the edge. You tightened your grip on his hair, nails scraping along his scalp. And he could only moan. Pleasure and pain tangled so well together.

You mewled, “Rosi, I - I about to come.”

“Give it to me,” he growled.

The pressure built and built, and you quickly abandoned all caution and care. You began to grind back on his fingers, practically humping his face. A fog was casted over your mind, only able to think of your pleasure. Rosinante moaned, fueling your end.

Yes, use me, he thought.

A few more pumps of his slender fingers, mixed with his constant attack on your clit, you cried out his name gushing all over his face. The edges of your vision blurred with stars. Rosinante swiftly pulled out his fingers and greedily drank you up. He groaned, enjoying every drop. He feasted until your legs were shaking, ready to topple over and you were whimpering and jerking from the intense overstimulation.

He thankfully - and finally - stopped. He lifted you up and off his face, laying you down on the bed. He then littered your heavy tired body with kisses as you came back to your senses. He kissed your cheek then forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, tossing him a lopsided smile. “I’m good.”

Great. Fantastic. Amazing.

He smiled, giving you a short kiss. He continued his conquest kissing down your neck and chest. You sighed dreamily, threading your fingers through his hair. Your desires, however, were being reignited by every kiss. You still craved more, you wanted him all.

“I want you,” you whispered softly.

He lifted his head with some hesitancy behind his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You hadn’t been more sure in your life.

“Ok,” he smiled, giving you a quick peck on your lips.

Standing up, you finally could drink in the full sight of him. The years had been so kind to him. He was like a Greek god: golden hair kissed by Apollo and Helios, a rugged physique that battled Ares’s, a booming laughter rivaling Zeus’s own thunder, a voice so rich and luscious like ambrosia poured directly from Dionysus’s cup, and all of it wrapped together and blessed by Aphrodite’s touch.

He was beautiful, more than beautiful he was ethereal.

He tugged down his pants, along with his boxers. Your eyes trailed down to chest, to his stomach, to the thin patch of darker blonde strands to his hard cock - long and thick, matching his already intimidating height. His tip red and swollen as precum leaked out, a sign of your effect on him.

You swallowed nervously.

Would he fit?

Rosinante’s ego inflated at your stunned reaction. He kicked aside the clothing, unfortunately his clumsy curse returned momentarily. Getting tripped up, he toppled sideways, crashing to the ground. You immediately sprung up. Before you could think to ask if he was okay, he propped himself up. His cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment. He huffed, resting his chin on the edge of the bed.

Smooth, he sarcastically thought to himself.

You bit your lip then bursted out into laughter. You know you shouldn’t, yet you shouldn’t have expected anything less. He perked up, and smiled at your infectious laugh. You crawled over to him, sitting back on your knees. You cupped his face, bending down kissing him softly. Pulling away, Rosinante looked at you as if you brought upon his salvation, as if you were an oasis in the desert of his life.

“Are you okay?” You asked, still concerned about him.

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Good.”

Still holding his face, you gently drew him with you, urging him back on the bed. He listened to your silent command. You fell backward, scooting up the bed while he slowly crawled over top of you.

“Are you sure?” He repeated.

You threw your arms over his shoulders, bringing him down. “Yes, I want you. Like I said, scars and all.”

His heart melted. He kissed your nose. His hand slid down your side, sending ripples of anticipation. He guided your leg over his hip. He gave your thigh a quick reassuring squeeze. He will happily take the lead in this dance, he will ensure you are cared for. There will be no misstep.

He lowered his hips, brushing the tip of his cock over your dripping folds. You shivered at the size and warmth of him. He teasingly rubbed through your folds and over your clit, enjoying how his precum mixed with your first orgasm. Your nails sunk into his skin. Crescent shapes adorned his body with more marks to come.

“We’ll take it slow, ok?” He whispered.

“Ok,” you mumbled, beginning to lose yourself all over again.

He reached down grabbing the base of his cock, and slowly pushed the head of it in. You bit the inside of your cheek. It stung. The stretch was unlike anything you had experienced or felt.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he spoke, reading your expression and feeling the tenseness of your body.

You panted, ”Keep going.”

You wanted this.

Listening, he pushed in further. A sharp hiss left your lips. You clawed at his back, red ribbons added to the jagged pale scars. Rosinante almost stopped, fearfully he was hurting you too much.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. The sting had begun to subside as pleasure whisked you away.

Rosinante again listened to you. He may lead this dance but he had a partner he must be attentive too. You whimpered, shutting your eyes and adjusting to his size. Your heel dug into the meat of his calf, pleading him to keep going. With one final push, Rosinante was completely in filling you to the brim. He panted heavily over top of you. He watched as your face contorted from minor pain to absolute pleasure. Opening your eyes, you were met with pure unfiltered love, a culmination of months upon months of locked feelings, of denial and heartache.

It was finally all unburden, and unchained.

Breathless, you both stared at each other unmoving. Neither of you could. You both desperately wanted to stay here, to preserve such a memory and feelings. He filled you, your senses utterly overwhelmed by the sensation of him. And your body welcomed him in return.

It was as if you were made for each other.

Rosinante hid his face in your shoulder, exhaling shakily. Shit, I feel like I could come right now.

“I’m going to move now,” he grunted into your neck.

“Please.”

Taking a deep breath, he slowly moved his hips. His thick cock dragged through your walls before thrusting back in.

You whimpered.

“I got you,” he whispered. “If anything hurts, tell me.”

“Just - just please don’t stop.”

He let out a breathy chuckle. His hips increased in speed, spurring stars to burst in the corners of your eyes. Your mouth hung open as a silent moan spilled out. His cock stretched and filled you leaving nothing but pleasure in its wake. You wrapped your other legs around his hip, clinging to him. You were immediately becoming drunk and desperate on such pleasures. And Rosinante wanted to give you everything, to have you consumed by pleasure. He curled over you, pressing his forehead against yours. Lifting your hips, he hit a new angle, deeper and far more intimate.

“F-Fuck, Rosi,” you moaned. You clawed harshly at his back. An apology sat on your tongue, but every thrust left you mewling. You could only babble his name or curses.

Rosinante glanced down, seeing your stomach bulge at the size of his cock. “S-Shit, sweetheart,” he moaned. “You’re taking me so well. Look.”

You peered down. The debauchery sight left you speechless. His hips slapped deliciously against yours. Your stomach bulged every time his cock disappeared back in. And when he pulled out, you saw how his cock was slick and coated with your mixed juices. Not to mention at this new angle, the tuft of his snail trail rubbed wondrously against your clit only furthering your pleasures.

Fuck.

Whimpering, your head fell back into the bed. You bucked your hips, matching his thrusts. Rosinante whimpered, almost unnoticeable. “Fuck, just like that.”

He grabbed your hands, prying them off his back and pinning them to the bed. His fingers interlocked with yours, and squeezed your hands. He captured your lips, kissing you sweetly and pouring all of his love into it. His mouth, his hands, were passionate, and yet his hips were so sinful. The trio constantly stole your breath, leaving you in such a messy state.

Breaking the kiss, he smiled down at you. Still boyish, despite the years on him. Hearts danced in his eyes, and you knew you were the same. Every movement, every thrust, every shared breath, every touch - no matter how minuscule - was written with love.

And he was beginning to love watching you squirm on his cock.

He bent his head, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes rolled back. The stretch of his cock, the grinding on your clit, the swirl of his tongue on your breast, each sensation brought you closer and closer to the edge. Each delicious friction melted your mind, and your body could only react. Your own well-timed thrusts started to waver as desperation sunk into your bones.

You whined faintly, “Rosi, so close.”

He popped off your breast. “I know, sweetheart, come on. Come around my cock.”

You shivered, lolling your head to the side.

“Be my good girl,” he purred into your ear, rolling his hips. “Come on, sweet girl, come on my cock.”

Your walls fluttered around him, warning him. He gritted his teeth, holding back his own pleasure. He needed to feel you come first. He snapped his hips with new fever, hitting the perfect spot. You gasped loudly. Blinding pleasure covered your senses. Rosinante saw your beautiful reaction and continued to hit the same spot over and over. His pace was unwavering, he needed to see and feel you come.

“Make a mess on me,” he moaned.

You tightened your grip on his hands, digging your nails into him. You squirmed and writhed on his cock. You whimpered as your orgasm approached quickly. Rosinante groaned in your ear, whispering such sinful things. You bucked your hips up just as he snapped his hips, and it all came crashing down.

Shutting your eyes tight, you walls clamped down as you cried out his name. He kissed you, swallowing up your moans and cries. He then kissed your cheek where a tear glided down, to your forehead, and finally nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “I got you, sweetheart.”

His hips continued to pump into you, letting you ride out your orgasm. It was a beautiful sight. Your body convulsed as pleasure consumed you and as each additional pump stole your breath. Your eyes fluttered open to see your god still hovering above you, giving you everything.

But, it was his turn now.

“Fill me,” you muttered weakly drunk on pleasure.

“W-What?” Rosinante’s eyes widened and his hips stuttered at your words.

Freeing your hands, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. You dragged him down pecking his lips. “I want to feel you, Rosi,” you whispered.

His cock twitched inside of you.

“Please,” you begged softly. You arched your back, trying to take him deeper. Your hands glided down his back, pressing into his chest. Your hands roamed touching his scars, the ones you had memorized only moments ago. Your thumb grazed over his nipple, making him hiss. You nibbled on his ear, “Fill me, Rosi.”

His jaw clenched. He kissed you heatedly, pushing his tongue inside to re-explore your mouth. His large hands grabbed your hips, most likely bruising them in the process. But, you didn’t mind. He guided your hips, matching his new pace with more vigor and unrestraint. You moaned, drawing your nails down his chest.

A mere taste of this side of him was addicting. He could be loving, but he could be a monster. A monster you wished to learn in full some day.

Abandoning all his resolve, he pumped wildly into you. He couldn’t help it. Your words let a fire inside of him, and he had been holding back for so long. He muttered out an apology, afraid he might be hurting you. Yet, you took it all. You smiled up at him as he used you.

“Please, Rosi, I want to feel you,” you moaned.

He shuddered. Fuck, how could someone so sweet be so sinful? With a few more deep thrusts, he came, moaning out your name. He slowed down his pace until he buried himself deep within you, coating your walls.

Just like you asked.

Taking a second, you both stared at each other sweaty and out of breath. Rosinante carefully removed himself, and you squirmed at the abrupt emptiness. He rolled off of you, flopping onto the bed. But, he snatched you up, bringing you with him. You yelped, surprised by it. He settled you onto his chest, and your shock vanished. Sigh deeply, you nuzzled into his chest savoring this moment. A lazy smile tugged at the corners of your lips, listening to how his heartbeat slowly evened out. His fingers soon skimmed up and down along your spine.

It was peaceful, it was heavenly.

You each shared one thought: mine. Each of you unbeknownst to the other swore the same vow, to always make sure the other smiled and is to be loved for eternity. Perhaps, later down the road, such vows will be spoken aloud. But for now, you kept these secret promises to both of your chests.

Unfortunately, serenity was short lived for you. A thought, a more drastic one, occurred to you. Lifting your head, you nervously said, “Rosi? I - I think there’s still one thing we should at least talk about.”

He hummed, peering down at you.

“… like how are we going to tell the others? Especially Law?”

Rosinante flinched. He sighed heavily. His arms wrapped around you, firmly drawing your head back down. “We can worry about that later, I just want to stay right here a bit longer.”

You smiled, cheeks warm. You buried your head back into his chest whispering, “Ok.”

Your eyes spotted a scar near your face, specifically the one by his heart. You began to trace over it, memorized by the feeling and knowing you alone could do this.

“I like them,” you admitted quietly.

His heart skipped. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “It means you survived and you’re here.”

With me.

He gave you a gentle squeeze. His lips brushed over your hair, kissing the top of your head. “And I promise I won’t go anywhere.”

Closing your eyes, you smiled and kissed his scar. “Good.”

*****

“Law, please!”

Law huffed as Evelyn tugged on the back of his shirt. She had called him after his shift, asking him to come over. He wanted to go home, and into his bed, but she kept insisting. He agreed, however, as time dragged on doing little to nothing at her home, he decided to leave.

And for some reason, she decided to join him.

She begged the whole time to turn the car around, to go somewhere else, but he kept on driving home. He didn’t care, she could catch a ride back to her own home. Once parked, Law hopped out of his car, marching up the driveway with her bizarrely pleading.

“Look, I’m tired and …,” he paused, spotting a familiar car. One he didn’t see at her home, but oddly was parked here. “Why is she here?”

Eve flinched.

Law peered over his shoulder, staring down at her. But, she avoided his piercing gaze. He glared at her obvious guilty expression. She knew something. “What do you know?”

She blurted out, “Nothing!”

He tsked, “Lair.”

Law shook off her grasp then opened the front door. Stepping in, Eve quickly darted around trying to push on his chest but to no avail. Law walked further into the home. He didn’t see anyone, and nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Where …,” his voice trailed off when he stepped into the kitchen. His eyes instantly spotted something on the floor: a shirt and bra.

Eve whipped her head around. Her eyes widened at the pair of clothing, both shocked and happy for you.

Law’s face, however, scrunched up in disgust at the thought of what his dad had been doing. He huffed, clicking his tongue, “Idiots better not have done anything in the kitchen.”

Scanning the floor, he luckily couldn’t find any pants which brought some relief. Sighing, he spun around, heading back towards the front door.

Eve blinked, “Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Do you want to stay and find them?” He asked, raising his eyebrow.

She blushed, “Um, no … not really.”

“Figured, now let’s go.” He glanced back at her. “You can buy me dinner.”

She gasped, “I will not.”

“I’m driving, so either you stay here and find them or you pay.”

She pouted and grumbled, following after him. However, Evelyn sent you a kind thought as she left.

I’m happy for you.

[noira-l]

𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞

⋆ ★ '𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞' - 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

chapter summary: At a sorcerer gathering filled with tension and subtle power plays, you find yourself talking to a mysterious man whose sharp remarks leave you both intrigued and uneasy. Just as the air grows heavier, Satoru steps in, his protective charm and simmering jealousy shifting the dynamic completely.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader

warnings: a little possessive and jealous Satoru.

author's note: a little shorter text, but I still hope you like it <:

The hall buzzes with low conversation, a steady hum of voices filling the corridor outside the meeting room.

You’d been here a while already, drifting from one polite exchange to another, acknowledging nods, handshakes, and quick, shallow smiles. The yearly gathering was mostly an opportunity for sorcerers to talk strategy, review successes, and hear out the latest initiatives, yet it felt more like a family reunion for most - a chance to reaffirm alliances and, just as likely, lay the groundwork for future favors. This time the meeting is being held in Kyoto.

You play the part well, stepping in and out of conversations, adjusting your polite mask as you went.

Currently, you’re listening to some young man boasting about his latest missions. He’s tall, with a narrow face and eyes that glint with a self-assured pride. His family, he mentions, is associated with the Kamo clan - a name he drops with the kind of casual reverence that suggests he thinks it should impress you. You smile, nodding along as he details his accomplishments. You half-hear him recount a cursed spirit that gave him trouble last month, barely resisting the urge to glance away and search for a distraction. His stories are neither subtle nor modest, but you keep up the polite act, occasionally tilting your head as though you’re intrigued.

Finally, he seems to remember you’re standing there. His gaze shifts, appraising you with a newfound interest, and he offers a half-smile.

"You know..." he says, leaning in with the faintest hint of self-satisfaction "... you’re surprisingly put together. Quite charming, actually."

You haven't said a word to this men in past twenty minutes.

You blink at him, momentarily thrown off, before offering a modest wave of your hand "Oh, no, no, no." you say, forcing a laugh that sounds just the right amount of flattered "I’m not that charming."

"You should accept a compliment when it’s true." a voice interrupts from beside you, its tone heavy and worn, carrying a weight that cuts through the surrounding conversations.

The voice catches you off guard, pulling your gaze to its owner.

You look up to find a man watching you, his presence both striking and unfamiliar. He stands taller than most, with a dark, gaunt face that seems almost carved in shadow. His cheekbones are sharp, hollowed, giving him an intense, almost haunted appearance. His hair, slicked back but slightly unruly, suggests an effort to appear put-together, but stray strands slip forward, defying control. The darkness of his eyes, set deep beneath tired brows, gives his gaze a solemn, wearied depth that seems to hold stories untold.

You feel the air shift around you, his words lingering in the silence between you. He doesn’t look at the man you were speaking to - only at you, as though he’s drawn to some unspoken understanding, as if in that brief moment, you were familiar, even if he wasn’t.

His presence commands attention, though he offers none of the arrogant energy your previous company exuded. He seems grounded in something heavier, something you can’t quite place.

But just as suddenly, the man gives a slight nod, almost courteous, and turns away. His attention shifts to a small gathering nearby, his focus sharp as he approaches them, blending into the crowd with an ease that belies his imposing aura.

What the...

The young sorcerer next to you fumbles for something else to say, but the previous exchange has soured your patience. You excuse yourself with a polite smile, finally free from listening to that guy's talking.

For moments there was peace and quiet.

You catch sight of the man from earlier across the hall, where he stands out without needing to try. Others seem to notice him too, sparing quick glances his way, drawn perhaps by his professional demeanor or the calm intensity with which he holds himself. Everyone greets him and talks with him.

At one point, you spot him pouring himself a cup of tea with careful precision, his movements unhurried, almost ritualistic. You sip your own tea, enjoying the quiet moment, though curiosity about him still simmers in the back of your mind.

Then, unexpectedly, he’s beside you. You don’t remember seeing him approach; he just appears there, a calm, steady presence. He glances down, assessing you with that same detached expression, before speaking in a low voice that carries even in the bustling corridor.

Damn, he's fast... and creepy.

"Are you new here?" he asks, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity "I don’t recall meeting you, miss."

You meet his gaze and reply evenly "I’m from Tokyo. Last year, I wasn’t at the meeting - missions kept me away." there’s a beat of silence, where he seems to process this before offering a low, thoughtful hmph.

You addressed him in a rather informal tone. You don't know if you're coming off as rude at the moment. Although he was the one who added something to your previous conversation and didn't even introduce himself.

You can feel a vague smell spreading through the air. Something like candles, incense, paper and... dust? You realise that he smells like that.

"Ah. That would explain it." he concludes, his voice as unchanging as his expression "We wouldn’t have an opportunity to cross paths, then."

You simply nod, sensing he isn’t the type to need a response to his every statement. There’s a weight to his presence that doesn’t invite unnecessary words, but you still can’t shake the question: Who is he?

Without any prompting, he speaks again, his tone flat as if reading off a ledger.

"That man you were just talking to..." he says, nodding subtly toward the overconfident sorcerer who’d been eager to boast of his successes "...is due to marry into the Kamo clan in a few months. Comes from a wealthy family; they’re indebted to him. Interesting technique, too."

He states it all so matter-of-factly, like he’s recounting weather statistics rather than family arrangements.

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, remarking "You don’t strike me as a gossipy type, sir."

Make up your mind - are you keeping the formalities or not?

A faint flicker of something - irritation? amusement? - crosses his features "I’m not." he replies smoothly "I’m just telling the facts. I see no reason to explain myself for stating the truth."

You’re left momentarily silent, the conversation now veering into the faintly awkward. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care. He’s content to stand there in his quiet, unyielding way, his gaze somewhere distant.

And then, over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Mei Mei across the hall, watching you with a familiar gleam in her eyes.

Her smile is as polished as ever, but you recognize it well enough to know it’s not entirely innocent. She’s sizing up the situation, her eyes twinkling with a subtle mischief, and she gives you the smallest of nudges with her gaze, clearly pissed at your predicament.

You break eye contact, lifting your mug for another sip to avoid her gaze. The dark man beside you doesn’t seem to notice any of it; he’s still watching the crowd, as if nothing at all unusual has happened. But you know Mei Mei too well to ignore the sly iritation in her look. You sink a bit lower, wondering how you managed to end up in such an odd position, and decide that maybe your tea requires all of your attention for the moment.

Whatever amusement or politeness you’re managing with this stranger, Mei sees it, and she isn’t about to let it go. But it’s not as though you asked for this - he approached you, started the conversation himself, leaving you no clear path to exit.

The atmosphere thickens as you take another sip of tea, trying to hide the flicker of irritation bubbling beneath your polite mask. Mei’s gaze is still burning into you, a reminder that this interaction is already treading dangerous ground.

And this man, whoever he is, has yet to introduce himself yet holds the air of someone accustomed to observing, weighing, and speaking only when necessary. You consider, for a brief second, introducing yourself by your maiden name if necessary, a small layer of distance in case things turn even stranger.

But before you can decide, he shifts slightly, his gaze leveling with yours "I wonder if you have a problem seeing the facts." he says in that measured, heavy voice "You’re a sorcerer, looks like a stronger one; you shouldn’t have a problem with such things."

A questioning expression crosses your face before you can mask it. His words hang in the air, vaguely barbed, and you can’t tell if he’s trying to insult you or make a point.

He wants to test your control or what?

You take a breath, steadying yourself, and ask calmly, but still very confused "What do you mean by that?"

He leans closer, his face just within the edge of your personal space.

"Is seeing your beauty in the mirror difficult for you.." he asks quietly, his eyes fixed and intense "..or are you pushing this fact out of your head?"

The words hang between you, clear and unembellished. His gaze remains steady on you, unblinking, like he’s sizing you up not just as a sorcerer but as something else altogether. His face betrays no humor or playfulness; he delivers it as if it’s a truth as plain as daylight, a simple observation he sees no need to dance around. The weight of it strikes you silent, caught between surprise and…something else you can’t quite name.

In that suspended moment, you don’t know what to say. No clever remark comes to mind, and his expression doesn’t offer any clues to where he’s coming from. You’re left there, face blank, feeling as though he’s drawn back a curtain you didn’t know was there, leaving you exposed in a way that no amount of polite nods or tea-drinking can disguise.

What are you supposed to reply? This is so strange.

The silence stretches, and for a heartbeat, it feels like it’s only the two of you standing there, locked in this peculiar exchange that feels strange and entirely out of place in the bustling hallway.

"Hey, Usami!"

You turn toward the sound, finding Satoru making his way down the corridor, his casual stride breaking the almost oppressive formality of the scene. He’s late, as usual, but when the principals haven’t even arrived, can it really be called late? The man turned to the voice calling.

So this man’s name is Usami.

You barely have time to register the relief you feel as he approaches before he’s beside you, his hand casually slipping onto your hip, his touch grounding you, a gesture both possessive and protective.

He greets Usami with a look that could only be described as borderline hostile amusement "You have such a fancy watch, shouldn't you use it sometimes? You'll miss your meeting with Mei soon."

Usami’s expression doesn’t change. He meets Satoru’s stare with that same impassive, almost haunting gaze. The man's gaze fell for a moment on the hand on your hip. Then his gaze turns to you once more, eyes briefly lingering on yours in a way that feels strange, almost unfinished.

"I hope we meet again." he says, his tone neutral as he bows his head slightly. Then, without waiting for a response, he steps back and vanishes into the crowd, moving with an unhurried ease that’s almost unsettling.

Satoru’s grip tightens just a little on your hip, his body tense.

You exhale, your shoulders finally relaxing as Satoru’s hand remains at your hip, steady and reassuring "What was that all about?"

Satoru gives an exaggerated, annoyed sigh, his mouth pressing into a pout that reminds you of a disgruntled cat.

"That guy? Ugh." scoffs "I can’t stand him." he mutters, glancing at Usami’s back with open irritation "All he does is follow orders from the higher-ups without thinking. It’s like he doesn’t even have a mind of his own. Have a brain or something."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by his unusual pout. It’s not often Satoru openly displays this kind of irritation. He’s genuinely ruffled.

You watch Usami drift away until he approaches Mei Mei. She stands near the wall, playing with her braid, her gaze flickering toward him in a way that makes your stomach sick.

Of course, you think, feeling the last piece of this odd puzzle settle into place.

But before you can think on it further, Satoru steps directly into your line of sight, blocking your view of Usami and Mei. His fingers find your cheek, gently guiding your face toward him, his thumb brushing against your skin as he pulls you back into his focus. He lowers his glasses, his eyes are narrowed, a glint of challenge and irritation within them.

"And why..." he asks, his voice a low murmur meant just for you "..are you looking at him?" he stares at you, his blue eyes watching you closely.

You part your lips slightly, losing your focus entirely on the darker shade of his eyes and the glimmering swirlings that you see inside them. He’s waiting, his expression somewhere between curiosity and a stubborn insistence that demands your full attention.

"I’m not." you reply innocently, though you know he doesn’t believe you. His hand still hadn't left your hip, it slid over it and found its place at your waist, pulling you a little closer.

You feel warmth sneaking into your cheeks and your knees want to bend under his gaze.

Satoru’s lips twitch, but his gaze doesn’t soften "Good." he says, moving his fingers so that they are able to lift your chin higher, making you look only at him, keeping his eyes locked with yours.

"Because if you’re looking anywhere, it should be here." he finished, the corners of his mouth slightly lifting.

© noira-l | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, or redistirbute my work without permission

tl (italics - couldn't tag): @kalopsia-flaneur, @dainslumi, @syneyam, @idiotgojo, @itachiiwrites, @fidgetydeer

[ankiebitez]

Can I request?

Avisos boys reacting to you/reader wearing their clothes. Could be their uniform, could be their casual clothing or sleepwear.

Would've added wearing their underwear (the clean ones ofc) but i hc that they go commando so 🤷‍♀️

I hope this lil request hasn't been done yet 😭😔

- 🦐

MC wearing avisos boys clothes

tags: gn!mc , nsft 🔞 , beelzebub stealing readers underwear/clothes for implied nsft purposes , beels scent kink , amons a mischievous little shit

note: im SO sorry this took so damn long ive had it mostly done for months but couldn't figure out how to write for stolas since there aint much for him lmao and then i just kept putting it off. i hope you like it though :>

Beelzebub

imagine trying on his clothes when you think he's gone, maybe he left a shirt or something and you decided to put it on out of curiosity, looking at yourself in the mirror when suddenly beel appears with a happy little smile seeing you in his stuff

coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his nose against the nape of your neck to inhale your scent mixed with his

"hmmm, i didnt know that you were such a thief..." he'd hum while letting his hands slide up under the shirt to touch your skin, looking up at you in the mirror with an even bigger grin

you can mention that he forgot the shirt and that you didn't steal it, or the countless times that he's swiped your underwear when you look away for a second, but he's not focused on that

he'd 100% fuck you while you're wearing the shirt and then take it with him, he'll leave you another one behind at least for you to wear so he can do the same thing again. what he does with the worn shirt is unmentioned, but he probably wouldn't wash it until he gets the next one or its gotten too dirty.

Bael

imagine wearing baels clothes and coming into his office, dude might actually put the paperwork down for a second

just a second though, he'll pull you into his lap to give you kisses before continuing, he'll probably let you sit in his lap while he does it

he thinks its adorable, especially if you wear something of his besides his uniform clothes. he'll like it more since its something not related to beel or his work

will hold you, sniff you, give you kisses and compliments while doing his work

if you'd like to actually get him to take a break though, wear nothing beneath his clothes

Amon

honestly he probably hid your regular clothes while you were changing so that you'd wear his, you'd turn around for a second and when you look back your clothes are gone and replaced with his. he's fast as fuck and definitely used it as a way to lure you into his room for cuddles, if you're mad and scold him thats just a bonus

he'd snatch you up and pull you into bed with him, either to snuggle or if you wanna punish him he wouldn't mind that either. would love it if you wore his shirt and rode him, maybe even cockwarm him afterwards too.

would also think its really cute if you didn't know it was him somehow. come into his room and ask for his help to find the thief, he'll pretend to help you look around which ultimately leads to yall fucking in some random area of the palace. 50% chance of it being stolas' or naberius' room just to piss them off bc he's a little shit and can't help it, he just thinks its too cute seeing you look around even though you're literally wearing his clothes.

if you ask him to wear his clothes, he'd think it's adorable and would let you wear whatever you wanted.

Naberius

not sure how to feel that a lot of this post is about scents but yea he would definitely be into that as well. he tries to act dignified but he can't help giving into his canine instincts, definitely likes that you have his scent on you now from his clothes

might wonder if this is a humans way of choosing a partner or something like a mating ritual, are you trying to seduce him???? he hadnt heard about this behavior for humans before.... but its working.

will indirectly encourage you to wear his clothes or take them more often and pretends to forget them in your room

he really likes it to say the least, i feel like he tries pretty hard to put up a very sophisticated and put together front, but in private he'll be cuddly and nuzzling against you while you're wearing his clothes. its very cute, call him a good boy too and he might get hard though

Stolas

feel like it might depend, he is short tempered so if its something like his crown he might think you're making fun of him which would Not be good

if its something like his coat though he'll probably get a huge ego boost, getting cocky immediately and bringing you to sit in his lap

im just imagining him having you sit on his lap in front of a mirror, his chin on your shoulder while his hands feel what's underneath the coat.

let's just say thats not an extra gun hidden in his pants, he's just very happy to see you in his clothes

[your-nanas-house]

Just a... thong

◇ Pairing: Dad's Best Friend!Cillian Murphy X Bff's daughter!Reader

◇ Warnings: mention of masturbation, age gap (all off age, Cill is in his 40s, Y/n 20s), pervert Cilly, laundry, dad's best friend, cramps

◇ Summary: Cillian decides to take care of the laundry and finds his best friend's daughter's thong.

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English. Another piece of the "AU/series" of Dad's Friend. Thank you @drcranessweetestdoe to encourage me to write smt. It's bit shitty but I hope it will "satiate" you a little. 🤭

It had been several weeks since Y/n, his best friend's daughter, had come to stay with Cillian for the summer holidays.

He had rearranged a bit of the usual routine that the man had made his, now that he was in his 40s and considered himself too old for several things.

However, he had adapted quite well, thanks to the collaboration of the young woman who also did not want to cause any disturbance to him and therefore followed his schedule a bit.

They had established little silent rules, such as the times of breakfast and meals in general, who cooked and when. They had also decided without talking about it that they would do the dirty laundry individually even though she was the one in charge of running the washing machine and making sure of the little details like which clothes could go together and which couldn't.

Usually Y/n took care of the sorting too, before Cillian could do anything, so it was the first time for the man to take care of that task.

The young woman was busy on a call with her family and the Irishman didn't have much to do, so when he passed by the room where the washing machine had finished he approached it, deciding to do it himself to take away a task from her seeing how well he was taking care of all the things he had asked her to do in exchange to make her stay under his roof.

His baby blue eyes scanned the object, taking in the different buttons before making sure it was actually done.

When he was sure of it he opened it, rushing to get the basket to put all the wet clothes in there and then go and hang them outside since the weather permitted.

They were mostly his things and a few things from Y/n, just clothes he had seen on her the previous days, some sports tops and... a lacy piece.

A lacy... A lacy piece of clothing, Cillian repeated to himself before his eyes snapped quickly back to the undergarments he was holding in his hand. His breath catching in his throat as his mouth dried, his heart started to beat faster, drumming against his chest at the realization.

A thong.. it's just a thong, Cillian, get yourself together, he thought, scolding himself, as his eyes snapped towards the door and back to the fabric when he was sure that he was still alone.

Her underwear was soft under his fingertips, smooth and silky except the lacy part that decorated it in an innocent but provocative way.

There was little fabric... he really wondered why she worn something like that since it covered barely her cunt, exposing probably fully her round ass cheeks.

"Fuck" the older man murmured under his breath, his breath becoming heavier as his mind wandered, imagine his best friend's daughter wearing something like that... just that, her body completely bare, her breasts on full display as the thong hugged her hips, teasing him with its little see not see game.

His body reacted pretty quickly and he was hard.. again.

It had been happening quite frequently since she entered his life in a daily basis. He really felt like a pathetic teenager by the way his body acted at the mere display of a bit of her skin.

Cillian bite his lip, taking a deep breath as he stroked the fabric in his hand for a couple of seconds, groaning softly at the feeling while his other hand moved slowly to his boner which was quite noticeable because of the sweatpants he had choose to wear that morning. His thick fingers slowly brushed his clothed hard lenght, before palming it... his bottom lip caged by his white teeth as his mind started to play different scenarios.

"Fuck" he cursed lowly, moving his hand again to pull out his cock irrationally, following the wind of his carnal desire with no shame, too blinded by lust.

"Is everything okay? Is it your back again?.. I heard you curse" Y/n's sweet voice interrupted him, making his blood run cold and move quickly up.. stretching his muscles in the wrong way.

He really was too old for this kind of things, he thought dramatically while cursing softly.

A shock of pain hit him, making him lean against the washing machine in an attempt to regain himself.

Karma.. just Karma, Cillian repeated in his head while inhaling deeply, now feeling pretty much self-conscious about his actions. Luckily she didn't look like she had noticed the perverse actions he was about to comply.

Her look was one of worry and not disgust, even when she moved quickly closer to make sure he was alright and help him sit on the sofa to relax a moment while she continued the task, not noticing the piece of clothing that was missing since he didn't have the opportunity or the time to throw it back in the basket before she took it to another room, warning him that she was coming back to check on him and his back.

[boop-le-snoot]

kinktober #3

Strangelove

kinktober day three | restraints, bratting (if you squint, he's very polite) | cw: 18+, sub!Gil, service dom!gender neutral! Reader, inappropriate use of Elvish rope, mouthy princess gil, oral sex (m receiving), safe sane and consensual | word count 4,1k | author's note under the cut | click here for the full kinktober list |

“Now,” a majestic voice rolls over the room like thunder.

You cannot see its owner for that he is hidden behind several of his advisors but your mind paints a picture familiar and amusing.

Face scrunched in petulance, crown slightly askew, the High King bends down to bring his face closer to the dignitary. “I have spoken all there is to say on the matter. Do not make me repeat myself!” He straightens promptly, dark eyes flashing in flickering golden light, and addresses the expectant crowd. “I have exceeded my quota of patience for today! Take your leave! Ego!” The command comes off as harsh even for the King when he is in one of his moods, so he hurries to soften the blow. “We shall continue on the morrow.”

Golden robes billowing out behind him, High King Erenion Gil-Galad takes his leave without sparing a second glance towards the disappointed Elves. Some nod in understanding, knowing just how heavy-handed some of the advisories can get when vying for the King's favour. Some frown and rush off towards the main exit, muttering displeasures to themselves. You linger, letting the crowd disperse into smaller groups, and nimbly make your way towards the side exit, unnoticed amongst various discussions and arguments.

The narrow hallway greets you with a silence and a chill, this year's autumn exceptionally windswept and grey. Erenion's abandoned outer robe stands out like a sore thumb: carelessly thrown over a toreutic statue, it glistens with what little sunshine pierces through low-hanging clouds pregnant with rain and fog. You pick up the garment and fold it at the waist before throwing it over your shoulder, adjusting the pile of notes to your chest. Well-worn soles of your shoes make no noise as you near the King's private study.

The door stands open, no more than a hand's width, and most of your field of view inside the room is occupied by the broad back of your King. It is tense, hard at the nape and taut at the seams of his shirt. Often, you have privately wondered of the possible incident that may finally cause him to burst out of his clothing - once or twice, you were sure Lady Galadriel had come very close to causing Erenion to simply spontaneously combust.

Such he stood with his back turned to you. Pent up, hard-boiled and simply done. A mostly empty carafe of wine at his left hand, a drained glass in the right.

“More wine,” he said the moment you announced yourself with a light step and a creak of the door.

“Yes, my Lord,” you replied evenly, racking your brain for the probable location of the nearest servant. Erenion Gil-Galad was a fair king and a kind ellon but that did not stop all servants from clearing his path when he got into a particularly sullen mood. A sulking King was no good company to anybody.

You trotted over to the nearest chair to place his outer robes onto. He turned swiftly. You needn't raise your eyes to see him struggle to swallow whatever bitter remark had been curling on his tongue; even so hotly angered, stupid he was not. Erenion knew better than to bestow unjust abuse towards his most dutiful and loyal attendant.

He spoke your name and you nodded in acknowledgement before smoothing out his robes and placing your stack of parchment on a nearby table. Not engaging in chit-chat but simply offering a quiet, steady, ataractic presence to the disgruntled King. Soft swishing of the parchment as you rearranged it invited a soothing ubiquity into the cool room. You felt, not saw, your King's shoulders drop. The clink of an empty glass being put down followed suit.

“These noxious vultures!..” Came the predicted grumble. Erenion's footsteps, unusually heavy and resounding for an Elf, traced a path from that corner of the room towards his desk. “Arguing for the sake of it...” Some of the more passionate choice words got lost in the pull of drawers being opened and paper bags' crinkling.

You hid a secretive smile. The Royal Snack Shelf, having been restocked by yours truly, was doing splendid at its job. A whimsical, silly detail even, but nevertheless quintessential at easing the burden of your King's day-to-day routine. A mentor in your past had given you valuable lessons on sweetening the bitterness of all that is tedious and mundane and you had taken them all to heart.

Periodically interrupted by crunching, the King's mouth ejected a day's worth of vitriol into the world, onto you and onto nobody at large, as he paced the long, spacious office like a caged lion. With every sentence he seemed to deflate a little and you counted every tiny victory as you mindlessly sorted and re-aligned your pages. The ranting was a canonical event and you did not interfere.

“... Grach! What secret information do your scrolls contain that is more important than listening to your King?!” Erenion's exclamation was not loud, but his deep and rich voice made it sound petulant and harsh.

Ah. One of those nights.

You straightened your back, taking your sweet time to readjust the muscles of your spine that were beginning to cramp from your hunched position and rapidly evened the stack that had previously preoccupied all of your attention. The bottom of it connected with the table with a sharp, resound tap, and Erenion immediately froze in his tracks.

You turned around slowly, body coiled in perfect precision, a masterful image of picture-perfect regard. Wide-eyed, Erenion frowned, dark brows creasing over the bridge of his nose. Your voice was even when you spoke.

“I am your dutiful servant, my King.” Bowing at the neck and not at the back, you crossed your hands behind yourself, looking him directly in the eye. “It is my job to thoroughly inspect all that concerns you and see to your comforts, which includes your spiritual well-being. At the present moment, it is imperative I allow you to vent your frustration without risk of scrutiny and judgment.”

Erenion, ever the imperfect perfectionist, scoffed. A knee-jerk reaction you harboured no ill will towards, for that you knew it would serve to be so much more rewarding when he finally decided to yield. As the King's brow darkened further with peevishness, his body language spoke of unmistakable interest. A creature of greatness and great contrasts was your King, most exhilarating. Bittersweet, like sour cherry wine.

“You think you know me better than myself?”

You pretended to think about it. “In certain areas, yes.” Jerking your shoulder a little, you took small, short steps towards him, observing him for any changes. Although his face was now contorted in a kingly version of a pout, his chest remained open and shoulders lax.

Looking down on you, Erenion seemed almond amused. “And what is it that you think I presently require?”

“Temperance,” you crooned. The air between your bodies thickened. With your eyes, you traced the fluid lines of his arms covered by his form-fitting undershirt. The hills of his biceps tapered down to wide forearms and sturdy wrists; towards broad palms, adorned with multiple rings but calloused from practice of warcraft. Erenion Gil-Galad was a beautiful King, all smooth lines and luxuriance from the regal curl of his plush mouth down to his shaking fingertips. “You need a lesson in temperance, my King.”

“Is that so?” He inquired lowly. Amusement, intrigue and apprehension all mixed up in his voice, colouring it with hoarseness usually reserved for lovers of a capricious occasion. Erenion was not known for those, but then again, it was unbecoming of a Noldorin High King to voluntarily overturn control of his persona to an assistant, even if it was temporary.

But you were just so good at what you did. How could he not surrender? With a gentle touch and a sharp word, you beheld the King within your eye as if nothing else outside it existed at all. The usually reserved personal aide, you became anything he needed you to be behind closed doors, be it a punching bag filled with sharp nails that cut him right back at every snap or a firm palm, offering rich handfuls of well-earned praise.

There was no diplomatic school advanced enough to lecture anyone on how to handle a King, so you could say that it came naturally. And proof was in the (re)actions: the willingness of Him to acquiesce, the intensity with which you handled him and just how far you were willing to go.

Erenion Gil-Galad stepped back. Again, and then again, until he landed noisily in the nearest chair, his broad, tall body sagging into the comfort of soft upholstery. Like this, you were just about eye-level with each other, and you beheld him with genuine sympathy and utter devotion. He stared back, eyes wide, deep irises seamlessly blending into dark pupils.

A cursory sweep around the room while he was contemplating your expression revealed an unexpected treasure: a thick roll of elvish rope laid on a nearby chair, likely accidentally left behind by a commander rushing in to receive or confirm orders. You smiled and looked away, least your plans be ruined by Erenion's inherent reaction to do the opposite of what people wanted him to do.

Carefully, you raised your hands to rid him of the crown. It always had to go first - dutiful servant as you were, it was most cumbersome to be reminded of his higher status when doing something scandalous with the King's body. Not that the situation lacked appeal, as a concept, but the crown had a weight attached to it. You were set on freeing the King of his burdens, after all.

Erenion's eyelashes fluttered as you gently carded your fingers through long, thick chocolate hair. Tugging lightly at the roots and brushing over the shortened warrior's edges at his temples. Tracing his strong jawline to brush a teasing thumb over his lips just to withdraw before he licked it like a playful kitten. You caressed the sensitive leaf shape of his ear and were immediately rewarded with a pleased rumble coming from the depts of his chest. For now, Erenion was much content to sit back in his chair and hold the outside of his palm against your leg, but it would not last.

Not when your fingers made swift work of the laces on his shirt and freed him from it. As the fabric landed on a nearby ottoman, his large palms settled over your hips, possessively kneading the meat there.

“Impatient,” you chided with a gentle shake of your head, eliciting a displeased grumble from the King, followed up by his fingertips digging deeper into you, clinging to your bones. A tap on his nose caused his eyes to shoot open. Your smile only grew. “Impertinent.”

Opening his mouth, Erenion's eyes shot to his crown abandoned nearby and back at your face. He pursed his lips, and, in lieu of a response, leaned in to rub his cheek over your clothed chest. You stood still, letting him find his comfort, but did little else. Until the very moment Erenion withdrew, his famous kingly pout back on full display.

“Melmë.”

“Erenion.” You echoed, matching his tone. “Are we in a rush?”

“Yes!” He grumbled. Looked at the window, where the clouds had obscured stars and the moon, blanketing Lindon within an impenetrable darkness. Several candles illuminated the room and that was it: not a single torch was lit outside the window. Erenion sighed. “Well, no, alas...”

“We are not in a rush.” You placed your palms atop his own, squeezing them once: a wordless command to release you. He did so and you stroked his face, his eyes, which he closed. Placing a kiss on his forehead, you swiftly grabbed the rope and returned with it, unfurling the roll as Erenion grew visibly more restless from the lack of touch. He dared open his eyes and immediately gasped, aghast. “Temperance,” you reminded him.

“No!” He protested, but made no move to get up or otherwise interrupt your planned activity.

You were sure many would call you mad for enjoying this exact moment of your games: the feigned resistance. Erenion would gripe and groan and complain and inevitably ruin his trousers in the process and there was no sweeter reward for your troubles that could be. The more he objected, the higher he riled himself up. That final leap over the edge beckoned you both in the distance. Erenion fell apart beautifully and...

A sigh. “Yes,” you stressed, wrapping the rope around his chest and the back of the chair before weaving it swiftly and delicately over his forearms, effectively securing them to the armrests. The length of the rope allowed for a safe amount of movement and several pretty knots.

It should withstand a good deal of resistance; Erenion's awareness of his own size and strength and their comparison to yours put an upper limit on just how physical these games would get. Ever cognisant, Erenion would flat out refuse even the possibility of causing you pain with his body so certain workarounds had to implemented. And even then, you found yourself wistful, wishing nothing more than for your King to lose himself to simple, mindless pleasures.

When was Erenion Gil-Galad ever simple? Effectively prevented from seeking out touch, he sat poised and regal, chin pointed in defiance, as he watched you shed your outer robes and and miscellaneous clothing. His eyes roved over you hungrily, yearning, as you stood before him in nothing but your underthings. Veins of his hands thick with rushing blood, what little was south of his trousers anyway: obscured by his breeches, the outlined of his hard cock stood as tall and proud as him.

You sat astride it, reveling in the hiss that came from his lips as you pressed your weight atop it and stayed still. The line of his jaw was fascinating to explore: you enlisted your lips, your fingers to do so.

As you'd predicted, his patience was... Not there.

“Well?”

“Hm?” You rumbled at the root of his ear, hot breath ghosting over the lobe.

“What now?” Centuries at Court kept his voice steady; his body was the biggest traitor. Blood rushed, a siren's song to you, enticing to switch your attentions to the other side of his face. Tenderly and thoroughly, you lavished it with attention, attacking Erenion's erogenous zones with tempered precision. You were in no rush to reply. He could not wait to feel. “I am sat in my office, indisposed and restrained, for the sake of your amusement?” He spat.

“No,” you murmured. And immediately corrected yourself because lying to your king is wrong. “Well, yes. But you are restrained for your own sake, as well. Good things come to those who know how to wait.” You preached, finishing off with a quick bite at the ball of his shoulder. Your hands slid lower, palming his thick pectorals, flicking his nipples.

There wasn't much to do but feel and bestow sensation and Erenion knew that. And enjoyed it so, his length twitching against your leg as you alternated between hard and soft, fast and slow, biting and kissing. Periodically, you withdrew enough to observe the changes on his face: how it grew from annoyed to flat to quivering. He panted softly through parted lips, groaning upon coming in contact with your own sex.

The buck of his hips straightened you up atop his lap. “You are much too impatient, darling,” you whispered against his lips. “Rushing to start one thing before the last has even ended,” withdrawing from his cock, you kissed him gently, pulling away as soon as he leaned in to envelop your tongue with his hot mouth. A whine slipped out instead and you smiled, brushing your closed mouth over his, moist and spit-slick.

“Multitasking is a necessary skill!” He objected, the ‘for a King’ hanging heavy and unsaid.

In lieu of a response, you ran your hands through his crown-free hair and gathered it in a loose ponytail, arching his head back. He moaned, low and long, and you rewarded him with a kiss to his lips. He did not misbehave this time as you mouthed at each other, losing time and space where your lips connected. You heard the creaking of wood, felt the bulge of Erenion's muscles as his body released all of its pent up tension.

Slowly, you lowered yourself back down to sit over his cock. Swallowing his moan and a noise of your own, you felt sparks fly as a sloppy movement brushed over where you were most sensitive. It was a sobering action. There was very little time for pleasure while you were doing your job, or, rather, the pleasure came from granting your King such. Boldly, your tongue snuck into his mouth to coax out his own so you could suck on it with conviction.

Erenion moaned, back arching within confines of his restraints. A wet spot was steadily growing under you, the result of your combined desire. Your mouth slid off his, smearing spit over his cheek as you panted. To pretend to be unaffected would be pointless and foolish. A pair of dark eyes sparking with amusement met yours: he looked too smug for an Elf who was at the brink of coming undone.

Cheeks flushed and mouth wet, Erenion Gil-Galad gave you a little smirk.

You wished nothing more than to bite him. So you did. Teeth clashed as you initiated another kiss, taking full control of it this time. It was wet and messy, full of growling and fangs as you temporarily abandoned your gentleness. You fucked his mouth with yours until your tasted bloody meat, and only then you withdrew, observing the momentary change in his behaviour. He was surprised, conquered, staring at you with reverence.

Your game of tug of war continued. He pushed and you pulled: he arched his chest and you bit down on his nipple, pulling it taut and letting your teeth scrape the surrounding sensitive tissue until his gasps descended into whimpers and bitten-off, broken Quenya. You raked blunt nails over his sides as he shuddered with sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain. Very few knew their King was ticklish and even fewer had the skills to incorporate it into ardurous sensual torture. You could have given any experienced courtesan a run for their money with how you played the High King akin to an instrument.

Maglor's incredible and terrifying singing had nothing on the broken noises coming out of the hot wet mouth of your King. Erenion was no songbird, no, he was a lone wolf howling at the moon. You observed the results of your handiwork as he shook with desire. There was little else to do but marvel.

Erenion Gil-Galad was a vision. Arms and chest criss-crossed with angry red welts where the ropes had rubbed a webbed pattern into his skin, he sat flushed and panting. Mouth red, as if wine stained, and eyes lidded, moved in wordless pleas for release. The need was showcased at the apex of his thighs where he'd leaked right through his trousers. Brown fabric was stained nearly black all around his sizeable bulge.

It was when you found yourself kneeling before it that reality sharply hit you in the face. Here you were, a servant, kneeling at the feet of your King, and he could do little else than plead for your mercy. And there was nothing else you wished to see more than give it to him - to see his face fall slack and easy, to see his twitching fingers finally find rest. But it was not the point of this. One release just bought the two of you a little time until the next.

The only thing you truly had control over was the amount of time it passed between the two. Not when you gave it and not how you gave it, for all that Erenion had to do was dismiss your advances and you would go back to sorting his mail and compiling his daily schedule.

Distracted, you nuzzled into his crotch, and fiddled with his trousers. His erect cock greeted you with a throb; the King moaned and threw his head back, straining the ropes to a point you began to consider they would lose their magic at once and simply snap. No such thing happened even as you blew gently onto the heated head of his cock.

“Cruel!..” He mumbled in between curses in languages you did not even know. “I was patient!” He objected to your withdrawal from his cock with fervor.

You were simply adjusting yourself. Not that he saw it, nearly delirious with need.

“Patient on account of lacking other options,” you teased him mirthfully.

He chuckled, but that noise quickly turned into a moan as you stuck out your tongue to trace the thick, prominent vein curving along the underside of his cock. Taking care to avoid the sensitive head, you took some tablets to lavish the shaft with soft licks of tour tongue. The sweet-salty taste of him beckoned you, clear droplets sliding down his cock just so you could curl your tongue around the middle of it to catch as much of the nectar as you could.

You went downwards, popping each of his testicles into your mouth. A whine in a pitch very few had ever heard echoed in the room; the chair creaked, it's back legs lifting off the ground. You immediately withdrew, placing apologetic kisses all along his cock as you ascended towards the tip. Erenion had been patient indeed and was now firmly stood at the edge of total overstimulation.

Sensitive Elven bodies, used to hard wars and tender lovemaking, had a very fine line that separated pleasure and pain. It'd been a steep learning curve to learn how to pluck the strings of your King just right, but once you figured out how to get him in that sweet spot betwixt the two and never firmly on the side of either, your sessions became something beautiful.

You wrapped your lips around him - he shuddered - and hollowed out your cheeks, tonguing along the frenulum as you swallowed as much of your King as would fit in your mouth. What couldn't fit was taken up by your hand, working him with all your might, going in for the winning round with single-minded abandon.

Erenion bucked his hips wildly, adding to the cacophony of your coupling. Moans, sighs and wet squelching, the creak of the chair that surely was to be replaced come morning - it all faded into the background as you kept your eyes firmly on the face of your King. Contorted in sweet agony, he gasped for breath once, twice, before his brow turned lax and a torrent of bittersweet nectar flooded your mouth.

Kneeling in awe and reverence, you swallowed it all. Erenion's chest heaved, covered in a translucent sheen of cool sweat, and he remained moaning softly all throughout it, reacting only when his flaccid flesh slipped from your mouth. His mouth was open and eyes closed as you undid the knots, content to ignore your own discomfort until the moment to relieve it offered itself.

You rubbed his wrists, eyeing his face for any discomfort. There was none - Erenion remained as timelessly beautiful when disheveled as he was in his golden garb. The corners of his mouth turned up in a lazy, absent smile, he freed a wrist to pull you in. You mirrored his smile.

“Come,” he spoke, voice rough. Unsteadily, he stood up, and pulled you towards the hidden door leading to his chambers. “We are not finished yet.”

Pretending to be surprised, you chuffed softly at the lack of care he showed at his own state of undress. He truly cared not, for he was the King, and managing his reputation (and any missteps of his in that regard) was your responsibility as his personal attendant anyway.

Would he ever make it easy for you? No. But, perhaps, one day you might get him to beg...

Someone said slightly bratty sub gil x service dom reader? OK I said it. I am pretty sure this is gender neutral, but in case it isn't, point out gendered things/words to me. I didn't bother to proofread it because I got too horny while writing it. I don't like this as much as I wish I did but oh well.

a/n: the bigger sub/smaller dom is an actual issue if you get physical during your scenes. I've dommed men roughly the size of Ben (I'm 5'4 130?lbs) and there are scenes and things that we simply cannot do safely, unless the sub is at least somewhat restrained. Even further, taking into account that canonical gil-salad is 7+ft... Tie that elf down before you let him brat/overstim or you'll get flat out 💅yeeted💅 across all Lindon.

[hrizantemy]

Nesta's boots.

In the second chapter of ACOTAR, Feyre makes a note of how shiny they are. In ACOSF, when Nesta returns to the cabin, her point of view shows them as being so worn that they had a holes in them. While the most obvious reason for this is retcon, I think there is a in-universe reason that's worth looking into, because it's not the first time something like that happened.

“I needed new boots, but Elain needed a new cloak, and Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed.” ACOTAR, Chapter 1

In the first book, Feyre is written as someone practical, who is doing her best to keep her family alive. She also believes her sisters to be frivolous in their spending, which is shown when she mentions in chapter 2, that she feels the need to hide money.

“No, she just spent whatever money I didn’t hide from her" ACOTAR, Chapter 2

So, going back to the first quote, the fact that Feyre herself mentions Elain's need for a new cloak, already paints a picture of Nesta in our minds, of being the worst of the two sister, with the implication that Elain actually needs it while Nesta doesn't.

“I glanced at Nesta’s still-shiny pair by the door. Beside hers, my too-small boots were falling apart at the seams, held together only by fraying laces.” ACOTAR, Chapter 2

This perception of Nesta is practically set in stone by the description of those boots, in comparison's to Feyre's. I do think it's worth noting that, while we get the description of the boots the second Nesta mentions them, we don't get a description of Elain's coat, and the condition it's in. All we see is her whining about how cold she'll get.

However, in ACOSF, the description of the boots that we get is entirely contradictory.

“There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s seam. She’d worn those shoes—in public. Could still remember mud and stones creeping in.” ACOSF, Chapter 55

To begin with, I think it's important to consider what each pair of shoes was put through to get them in that condition.

Feyre, as a hunter, spent a lot of her time in the forest throughout the year. She's setting up traps, stalking potential prey, and carrying it back, either to town or to her cabin. I imagine that she also skins and preps the meat while wearing her shoes, especially during winter, meaning they often get covered in all sorts of substances that would cause them to fall apart faster.

Meanwhile, Nesta spends her days, largely, in the cabin. Perhaps she steps outside every now and then, perhaps she goes into town some days. But, for the most part, she doesn't put her shoes through half the amount of stress Feyre does.

If we also consider that neither of them probably have particularly good quality shoes anyway (I'm sure in such a poor village, there's a cap on the quality of the products they sell, since most people wouldn't be able to afford them at a certain point, so there wouldn't be a point in stocking it, if vendors even have the ability too), then it makes sense why Nesta's shoes may seem better off than Feyre's, from her perspective.

This wouldn't be the last time Feyre's view on wealth is skewed.

"Velaris was by no means poor, its people mostly cared for, the buildings and streets well kept. My sister, it seemed, had managed to find the only thing relatively close to a slum." ACOFAS, Chapter 4

'Relatively close', she said.

So not a slum. Not even particularly run down. Maybe somewhat outdated, I imagine, but not violating health or safety codes, in any way. The streets themselves don't seem to be particularly dirty either. It's very likely that the area itself is safe too. I mean, this singular city has the, supposed, most powerful fae in their court living there. They all see their High Lord regularly, you never know if the spymaster is lurking in a dark corner, and the entire IC seem to have way too much time on their hands. Mor spends half the books at Rita's, for God's sake. And they all treassure Velaris on a personal level, so it's understandable that crime would be very low there, and why crime rates in places like Illyria and the Hewn City are much higher.

Both of these instances show just how skewed Feyre's perception of wealth is, which shouldn't be surprising. Feyre's inability to read shows how uneducated she was, even before her family lost their wealth. Frankly, I think Nesta has a better perception of money than Feyre ever did.

Nesta was raised to be a Queen. The human lands seem to be based off of Medieval Europe, so the roles of Queens in universe are likely to reflect that. Mor confirms at least the second part in ACOWAR.

“But she was human. And a queen—who needed to continue her royal line, especially during such a tumultuous time.” ACOWAR, Chapter 66

This means that a Queen's main role, aside from providing heirs, would be running the royal household, managing the finances, hiring staff, etc. There were times when they may take part in religious ceremonies, and, depending on their circumstances, politics. But, largely, their main duty was to run the royal household.

“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. “You would need an armada. I have calculated the numbers. And if you are readying for war, you will not send your ships to us. We are stranded here.” ACOMAF, Chapter 57.

Nesta proved in ACOMAF, when she calculated the number of ships that would be needed to evacuate the people inhabiting the mortal lands on Prythian.

So, logically speaking, who would've been running their household while living in the cottage? I doubt their father, who's track record shows how terrible he is with money, would be doing it. Feyre's perception of wealth has been shown to be skewed too. This leaves Nesta and Elain. Weather or not Elain has the skills to do that is unclear, at this point, which means the most likely person was Nesta. Even after they were given money by Tamlin, the person running their newly restored household would, probably, be Nesta. After the last time it's unlikely she would trust him with such a sum of money again. Nobody would be there to help them if he lost it.

This leads me to the question, what exactly was Nesta spending money on?

When Feyre mentioned hiding money, she mentioned that she did it because Nesta spent it, but, to the best of my memory, we never learn what she bought with it. Is it possible Nesta struggled to adjust after losing their wealth, and made some impulse purchases? Yes. In fact, I'd say it's likely that she did, which may be what Feyre is basing her opinion of Nesta's spending habit on. However, it's also likely that as time went on, she started to help manage finances. Replace things that Feyre refused to because she didn't think they needed to be replaced, like Nesta's boots.

We also know that it was likely Nesta, and perhaps Elain, who handled domestic labour in their household. This would include fixing torn clothes. It's unclear exactly how long Nesta and Feyre had the same pair of boots, but even for someone who didn't leave their home much, they would begin to rot eventually, especially if they're low quality. It also wouldn't be surprising if, as part of the domestic labour, Nesta tried to clean, fix or polish their clothes and shoes however she could, but with Feyre heading to the forest every day, I doubt it would work as well on hers than Nesta's or Elain's.

With all of this in mind, it makes sense why, from Feyre's point of view, Nesta's boots look fine, better than fine, even, from her perspective. And now, with sudden access to hoards of wealth, Feyre has essentially gone from zero to a hundred in less than a day. She never experienced the middle ground, that most people live with, leaving her feeling entitled, and out of touch by the time we get to ACOFAS, and maybe even in ACOSF too. Its why she seems so jarring, like she forgot her roots entirely.

1. The Boots as Narrative Symbol: A Mirror of Perception

The contrast between Feyre’s perception of Nesta’s shiny boots in ACOTAR and Nesta’s actual memory of her “half-rotted” shoes in ACOSF is more than just a continuity oversight — it reflects a fundamental truth of the series: that Feyre is an unreliable narrator.

That line — “Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed” — comes from Feyre’s internal monologue, not from Nesta’s actions. Feyre is projecting resentment. Her situation is horrible, and she’s young and desperate. And instead of seeing Nesta’s refusal to adapt as a trauma response or a psychological defense mechanism (which we later learn it was), Feyre interprets it as selfishness.

“I glanced at Nesta’s still-shiny pair by the door.” — ACOTAR, Chapter 2

But then in ACOSF, we get:

“There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s seam.” — ACOSF, Chapter 55

That is a full-circle moment. It's not a contradiction — it's a correction. A window into how one character (Feyre) perceived things through her own bias, and how reality was far more complex. This shift matters because it reframes how we’re meant to understand Nesta. It’s the moment where the “spoiled, cold sister” trope begins to fracture, and the truth of her silent, lonely survival comes to light.

2. Wealth, Class, and Skewed Perception

You're absolutely right that Feyre’s perception of wealth is deeply skewed, both before and after her transition into High Lady. Her family was rich once, but she was a child — likely shielded from the logistics of how wealth was managed. When that wealth collapsed, she learned one thing: survival requires control. Her obsession with control — of food, money, her sisters’ choices — became a coping mechanism.

“No, she just spent whatever money I didn’t hide from her.” — ACOTAR, Chapter 2

But what Feyre sees as “frivolous spending” could very well have been basic necessities. In a household that was falling apart, with no income, and no parental guidance, it would have made sense for Nesta to try and replace things. To buy soap. Or fabric. Or, yes, a slightly better pair of boots to last the winter. And Feyre’s disdain isn’t rooted in logic — it’s rooted in resentment, which becomes increasingly clear with time.

Let’s not forget:

“Velaris was by no means poor… My sister, it seemed, had managed to find the only thing relatively close to a slum.” — ACOFAS, Chapter 4

This isn’t Nesta seeking out squalor — it’s Feyre projecting class-based judgment. It’s Feyre, who now lives in palaces and wears Night Court couture, acting like someone who used to be poor but now has the luxury to sneer at others from a safe distance. Her “relatively close to a slum” line isn’t just ignorant — it’s classist. It’s a reminder that Feyre hasn’t actually unlearned the trauma of being poor; she’s just buried it under wealth.

3. Nesta’s Financial Role and Domestic Responsibility

You hit on something truly important when you said Nesta was raised to be a queen — because that would have included education in household management. Queens in medieval and early modern European societies often oversaw everything from royal expenses to household inventories. They were expected to know how to run a court, a kitchen, and a staff. Even without fae-level magic, Nesta likely had early training in reading ledgers, assessing quality, and making judgment calls.

“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. “I have calculated the numbers.” — ACOMAF, Chapter 57

Feyre, in contrast, couldn’t read at the beginning of ACOTAR. She admits this. So why is she the one assumed to be the practical, financially literate sister?

It’s because Feyre tells the story. She frames herself as the martyr, and her sisters as burdens. But who’s doing the mending? Who’s buying the salt? Who’s maintaining the hearth while Feyre is in the woods?

It’s likely Nesta did what she could — in a home where she had no real resources, no parental support, and no mental health help. Her “frivolity” may well have been the bare minimum of caretaking — but because Feyre sees it as excessive, so do we.

4. Symbolic Labor and Feminine Expectations

The boots symbolize more than class — they symbolize expectation. Feyre was expected to labor physically, while Nesta was expected to serve aesthetically and socially. When Feyre’s labor was visible (bruises, blood, boots falling apart), it was “real.” When Nesta’s labor was invisible (sewing, budgeting, scrubbing a floor, fighting to maintain dignity), it was “useless.”

Sound familiar?

It’s a gendered double standard that echoes through both human and fae society in the series. Feyre became the “masculine” heroine — bow-wielding, hunting, sacrificing. Nesta was the “feminine” failure — bitter, cold, broken, and ornamental. But both girls suffered. Both survived. And only one was allowed to be praised for it.

5. Feyre’s Arc Toward Elitism

By ACOFAS and ACOSF, Feyre isn’t just removed from her roots — she’s romanticizing them. She frames her past as a hardship she alone endured, without acknowledging the nuances of what her sisters went through. Her judgment of Nesta’s apartment, her flippant dismissal of Illyrian or Hewn City culture, all reflect a Feyre who has adopted the classism of her new station. She means well. She’s trying. But she’s also deeply out of touch.

And here’s the hard truth:

Feyre never had to learn how to live in the middle. She jumped from poverty to divine wealth, from hunter to High Lady. She never had to rebuild slowly — so she can’t fathom what it means when others do.

Conclusion: The Boots Were Never Just Boots

They were a symbol. Of perception. Of judgment. Of class. Of trauma.

Feyre’s narrative taught us, early on, that she was the only one struggling — that her sisters were dead weight. But as the series unfolds, and we finally get the chance to see through Nesta’s eyes, we realize the truth is so much more complicated. Nesta didn’t just let her boots rot. She let herself rot. She wore them into the mud and let them fall apart, just like she did with her body.

Because that’s what happens when nobody saves you. And nobody sees you.

So yes — the boots matter.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Perhaps Hal Jordan or Clark kent with cuddling. Like just them coming home after a stressed day and you just take care of them the best you can. U offer sex but they don’t want it. Just wanting to be in ur presence for a bit yk yk

Clark Kent x Male reader

Headcanons

Hey nerds, guess who’s not dead. I feel like I am, but apparently, I’m not. Classes are kicking my ass because of very cramped timelines and long days. Who’d have thought becoming a caretaker (idk the English word) would be so difficult. A shorty, but still something I enjoyed writing.

It wasn’t a common occurrence. For Clark to come home so worn out and tired. As a man powered by the sun, a man of steel as he so regularly gets called, its very difficult to him feeling so worn down.

For the most part, the days he comes home in this mood, is not because he’s exhausted physically, but rather mentally. Be it from difficult missions, or just long days at work where he’s talked down too or pushed aside.

There is something soft and cute about him like this, though you would never tell him that. he’s always a little whinier and poutier, but also cuddlier, if that’s even possible for a guy who seems to live off affectionate contact with you.

The first thing Clark does when he comes home from days like this, is kick off whatever he’s wearing and change into something else. Most days its some ancient washed-out sweatshirts from his university days. The kind that’s been washed so many times the logo is mostly gone, and the fabric is worn thin and soft.

Its either that, or if you’re bigger than him, then it’s one of your shirts. That or just a pair of boxers and socks, so he can crawl into your space and flop down there like a big lazy cat.

If possible, Clark tries to crawl up into your shirt, laying his head on your stomach or your chest, ear pressed against your skin to listen to your heart, even if he can easily do that anywhere on the planet. Being so close just puts him at ease.

You cant hear it, but you know he’s purring, even if it’s a frequency you can’t pick up. At this point you can only really rub his back and let him soak up the affection and touch he needs like a wilted flower in the sun.

When he starts pressing featherlight kisses against your torso, you start to think maybe Clark wants something more, since he starts kneading at your sides, like you’re made from playdough, and he wants to mold you into something else.

His hands are so big and strong that you almost feel like playdough, with how insistent his rubbing and kneading can get. His kisses never go beyond soft pecks and barely there brushes of his lips, Clarks head just moving from side under your shirt as he lays on top of your legs.

You don’t need words in a situation like this, your hands becoming more exploratory, rubbing between his shoulders and tapping your fingers at his spine, like he’s a harp you’re plucking the strings off.

The change in your scent must catch his attention too, as Clark lifts his head just enough for you to see him through the collar of it, his eyes soft and glistening. They remind you of marbles, in a way. So shiny and with that clash of shades of blue.

The small downwards pout of his lips and minimal shake of his head is all you need to know, that going farther isn’t what he wants. So, you just give a nod in reply and place a hand on the back of his head, bringing him back down again.

You don’t really understand why he feels so much comfort under your shirt like this. Maybe it’s the enclosed feeling of it all, the shirt, and sometimes blanket you put on top, closing him off from the rest of the world.

Maybe its just the closure, and being surrounded by your scent, which always seems to put him at ease, or rile him up, depending on your own mood.

You don’t hate it though, you never could, not when its Clark. So, instead you just lay back, rubbing your hands slowly up and down his back and Clark nuzzles deeper against you, letting him rest there for as long as he needs.

[kikihoneyb]

Ice Packs and Peachy Delights

PAIRING: logan howlett x reader (she/her pronouns are used) SUMMARY: reader just got her wisdom teeth out and isn’t feeling very well, wade and logan are here to help | pure fluff, some tension and some swearing, PG-13 at most. WORD COUNT: 3k

-

The clinic's fluorescent lights flickered as the receptionist handed you a small slip of paper. “You’re all set,” she said, her tone a mix of sympathy and professionalism. You nodded, barely registering her words, and tried to say thank you through the gauze, probably sounding like something else completely but the receptionists understood. The local anesthesia had worn off just enough for you to feel the ache in your jaw, and the pain was starting to get worse by the minute.

Your face was a mix of soreness and the strange feeling of having no back molars. The dentist had handed you a small bag, its contents a bizarre souvenir from the day’s adventure—your wisdom teeth. You clutched the bag tightly, half-dismayed, half-amused at the thought of carrying around bits of yourself like a twisted memento, before carefully placing it into your tote bag.

You stumbled out into the waiting area, where Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool, was leaning against the wall, casually flipping through a comic book. His eyes lit up when he saw you, and he pushed himself off the wall with a flourish. “Look at you! Alive and… well, mostly intact.”

“I feel like shit,” you muttered, attempting a weak smile. Your face was still numb, but you could definitely feel the throbbing pain settling in. The gauze stuffed in your mouth made you talk with a muffled drawl.

"Well, I can promise you that you don’t look as bad as you feel." Wade tried to cheer you up, but you shot it down with a deadpan reply. "With blood pouring out of my mouth?" You say into the piece of tissue you've taken out of your bag to put over your mouth to at least save the eyes of the passerby, both of you walking towards the parking lot in front of the dentist after picking up the meds that were prescribed.

"Still a friendlier look than when you tried to throw that chair at me two months ago." He points out. "It was a joke, Wade." You reply trying to speak without messing with what feels like a crime scene in your mouth.

He replies in a softer tone, using an uncommon quieter voice he rarely used while sticking the keys into the ignition. "Still, it wasn’t very funny. Vanessa gave me that chair." You felt a pang in your chest, you didn’t mean for the conversation to shift like this, especially since he insisted from the day on that you mentioned that you had to get an appointment to get your wisdom teeth out because the pain and discomfort just kept coming and going to the point where you just did not want to procrastinate anymore, that he was going to pick you up from the dentist.

You replied, a bit more pronounced than you wanted to especially with the two pieces of gauze still sitting in the same spot that you, somehow, forgot in this second "I told you I didn’t knooooow and I already said I was SORRY- OW!" The gums didn’t like that, so you were reminded. You carefully moved your hand to cup your cheek which was slowly but surely becoming more swollen.

"Ok that one's on me," Wade replied, smiling again. "For what it's worth, I forgave you for that long ago, I know you didn't know. And I'll shut up now, for the sake of your squirell-hiding-a-fuck-ton-of-nuts cheeks." You could only throw him a heavy case of side-eye because was he wrong? The reflection of yourself glancing back at you on your phone screen would say no. Your eyes moved from the phone in your hands to a shiny piece of plastic reflecting the sunlight, picking it up from the opened bag sitting on your lap.

As Wade drove, he glanced over at you and noticed the bag you held. “What’s in the bag?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

With a smirk, you lifted it up. “My wisdom teeth.”

Wade’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh, that’s just wrong! You’re bringing home your wisdom like a trophy? How’s that for bragging rights?”

You chuckled, despite the pain. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d keep them as a reminder of how much I’ve endured for the sake of dental hygiene.”

Wade shook his head, laughing. “You’re braver than I am. I’d have left those suckers in the dumpster. I wanted to make a joke about your loss of wisdom but I guess you're still holding onto it after all."

You both shared a laugh, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics as Wade maneuvered through traffic. The absurdity of the situation made the discomfort more bearable, and the humor helped in forgetting, if only momentarily, the throbbing pain in your jaw.

---

By the time you reached your apartment, you were a picture of post-surgical misery: bloodstained gauze, swollen cheeks, and a general air of crankiness.

Wade was rummaging through your cabinets and muttering curses under his breath. “So, what you need is... Well you actually prepped everything here, I see ice packs, painkillers, and baby food- Look at this! We have 'Applesauce,' 'Carrot Puree,' and 'Peachy Delight.' If you have some left by the end of this let me know some of these actually sound kinda good-.” "Fuck…" You sighed when the realization hit.

You forgot the one thing that honestly feels like the most important thing right now with the presence of the blood and saliva mixture in your mouth. "I forgot to buy gauze and the clinic only gave one spare pair. Shiiiit."

You leaned back onto the couch before sitting up straighter again, reminded of what your dentist had said: "Try to sit up the first few hours after the surgery until the bleeding stops." You've gotta be fucking kidding me.

He turned to you “I’ll  make a run to the store then." You grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.

"Please don't." You replied. "You already went all the way to pick me up, I'm not gonna let you go grocery shopping too."

He smirked and said "What are you gonna do? Stop me by challenging me to a chubby cheeks duel?" If only looks could kill, he would've been six feet under.

"Besides I'm not gonna leave you here all alone. You know what would make this whole recovery thing a lot better? Logan. He’s just around the corner. I could get him to swing by and keep you company.”

“No,” you said firmly, your voice muffled by the gauze. “I look like crap. I don’t want him seeing me like this.”

Wade raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You sure? He’s a big softie. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind seeing you like this.”

You shook your head, wincing at the pain. “No way. I’m fine. I don’t need him to—”

“Okay, okay. I hear you,” Wade said, though his grin suggested he wasn’t taking you seriously. He fished out his phone and started typing a message, not giving you a chance to protest further.

"Wade, I swear to god if you-" You speak after him as he closes the cabinets and grabs the car keys that were just recently plopped down onto the counter, making his way to the front door.

"Sorry can’t hear you through all the gauze byeeee." With that he slams the door behind him, leaving you to fume silently. The thought of Logan seeing you in such a state was mortifying. The last thing you wanted was to be seen like this by ANYONE, let alone HIM.

---

A short while later, the doorbell rang, and you shuffled to answer it, barely managing to pull yourself together. Logan stood on the other side, looking both bewildered and amused. “Wade said you needed some help?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over your flushed face and the half-empty bag of ice clutched to your cheek. Thank god the ice chips hack worked, you don’t think you would've opened the door if you still had to bite down on the gauze. Pretending to be dead would've been the better alternative. Maybe.

You tried to muster a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. “Yeah, well... Wade insisted. I didn’t ask for this.”

Logan’s expression softened as he stepped inside, a soft chuckle escaping him. “I see. Well, let’s make sure you’re comfortable, yeah?” You caught him glancing around the room, probably noting the slight disarray as you tried to make yourself comfortable.

As he made his way to the couch, you watched him with a mix of relief and embarrassment. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it.”

 “No trouble at all. Wade can be a bit pushy, but he’s got a good heart.” He replied and sat down on the couch next to you. The minutes ticked by, with Logan asking gentle questions and helping you adjust the ice pack. He didn’t push you to talk much, which you appreciated more than you could say.

In a moment of comfortable silence, Logan notices you shifting the ice pack in your hands. "You alright with that?" he raises his brow.

"Yeah, just a bit cold, hands are a bit frostbitey but it's fine." You reply smiling sheepishly, waving your other hand to help signify that it really is not as bad, because honestly, nothing can feel worse than your bottom jaw right now.

With that, he reaches over the couch, automatically scooting closer to you. "Give me that." He gestures towards the ice pack, making your hands a bit tingly, whether it's the cold, the nerves from the procedure, or him, you couldn't tell anymore.

"No, it's alright really. I'm serious." You reply, only for him to shut your attempt down with a short, stoic, yet sweet: "So am I." You stare into his eyes for a split second too long before you defeatedly hand the ice pack over to him.

Logan had taken to holding the ice pack for you, his touch surprisingly gentle. At first, you’d insisted you could manage it yourself. "I can do it myself, you know." You say, your voice now only a tiny bit above a whisper with how close his face has gotten to yours, his touch truly careful, becoming even softer when he doesn't miss the tiny wince that you tried to suppress when the ice pack met your cheek. You could feel the warmth of his body with how close he was to you at this point, contrasting the coldness of the ice.

“I know you can,” he said softly, “but I want you to know that you don’t always have to.”

You really hoped that he didn't see your eyes falling to his lips for a millisecond before you forcefully pulled them back to his eyes, but by the way his gaze softened and one corner of his lips shifted up ever so slightly, you couldn't be so sure anymore.

The comfortable silence settled back in again, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of your ice pack. The shift within the air, while small, was quite hard to ignore, existing like a floating invisible thread drawing you closer and closer. Logan’s presence was soothing. The way he moved, the way he breathed, the way his eyes crinkled with quiet amusement—it all made you feel oddly safe despite the pain you were in.

Just as that thread pulls you two closer than ever before, a pair of red scissors and way too fucking many grocery bags bursts through the door and cuts it straight down the middle. How he managed to unlock the door so quietly, and how the door remained in one piece, still attached to its hinges will forever remain a mystery.

“Guess who’s back with your very important gauze and baby food, and yes, I managed to avoid all the worst of the baby food aisle!”

Wade burst through the door, balancing a collection of grocery bags and a mischievous grin.

Logan’s eyebrows shot up, and you couldn’t help but laugh despite the throbbing in your mouth.

Wade set the bags down with a dramatic flourish. “I see Logan has managed to make himself comfortable. Good job, buddy. I knew you’d be the perfect substitute for me.”

Logan rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips as he held the ice pack in a way like he was offering it to you but also hoping that you'd let him hold it for you a bit longer. “He certainly knows how to make an entrance.”

You take the ice pack from his hand whispering a soft thank you.

Wade’s gaze turned back to you, his grin softening. “So, how’s our patient holding up? I got you a mountain of gauze because you can never have too much gauze. And some top-of-the-line baby food, most of this is for me but that's not the point."

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Thanks, Wade. You really didn't have to.”

He shrugged, winking at you. “Hey, you’re the one who got her wisdom teeth yanked out. It’s practically my duty to be overly dramatic about it…Wait, don't tell me you don't need gauze anymore." He adds as he notices the lack of gauze-ness in your speech.

"I'm afraid so since you chose to take your fucking time," Logan adds as he gets up to put the now almost room-temperature ice pack back in the freezer, switching it with a new one.

You couldn’t help but smile at the friendly banter. “I appreciate it. Both of you.”

Your gaze lingered on his hands which, thank god, he didn't pick up on. Turning to Wade, however, confirmed that your eyes weren't as secretive as you hoped they were, as he wiggled his eyebrows at you before winking, earning a subtle middle finger from you while you pretended to move a strand off from your face.

Logan walks towards the couch and hands you a neatly wrapped icy cool ice pack which you take from his hands, fingertips brushing, but pulling yourself together pretending that that didn't happen because you've let yourself slip one too many times already today. You lean back against the couch and softly put the ice pack back on your cheek, feeling a bit sleepy after the entire ordeal today. Wade turns the TV on to see if anything interesting is on, settling on the armchair next to the couch while Logan takes the gauze out of the bags.

"Do you store these in your bathroom or the kitchen?" He asks looking at you, whose eyes are closed, trying not to think about the pain. Ibuprofen WILL be taken after the next meal you promised yourself.

"Both are fine but you can leave it in the bathroom, on the shelf under the mirror maybe." You reply.

"Yes ma'am," Logan replies causing you to take a subtle but deeper breath. Why was that so attractive, c’mon he's just trying to help you out what is wrong with you, you thought?

You could only say "Thank you." in return, trying to keep your voice as unaffected by whatever that was.

As Logan comes back into the living area he gestures to Wade and says "You bought so much baby food, do you know that?"

"Do you have something that you want to tell us about?" You open your eyes and jokingly raise your brow at him.

"Not in the way that you think, no, but this baby right here-" he holds his stomach. "Loves to explore all types of cuisines and he's been lustin' after 'Peachy Delight' from the second he laid his eyes on her."

"Your stomach has eyes?" You and Logan deadpan at the same time making you look at each other in amusement. You add a quick great minds think alike, narrowing your eyes in a tone of semi-seriousness but also lighthearted comment before tuning back into Wade's culinary rant. That rant then turned into a dinner party of three, taste-testing of the best of the best jars of baby food, according to the now culinary master apparently. Before the conversation moves to the couch and armchair in front of the TV.

A few more hours in, the ibuprofen after dinner has kicked in, and the comfort of the fluffy blanket you have draped over your thighs has returned, no longer being drowned out by the throbbing pain in your jaw, which is subsiding bit by bit. This return to coziness has made your eyelids feel rather heavy, something Logan noticed when he sensed your breathing become more calm and even. Wade was too glued to the TV to notice anything really. Logan’s gaze falls on your slightly flushed face caused by the ice packs that have been held against your face for most parts of the day before his gaze drifts from your cheeks to your lashes.

“You’re starting to fall asleep,” Logan said softly, adjusting the ice pack gently. He has to fight to tear his eyes away and redirect them back to the TV. “We should let you get some rest.”

You blinked sleepily, nodding in agreement. “I think this is the first time it doesn’t feel like I'm being screamed at by my own jaw since this morning.”

Logan offered a reassuring smile, carefully standing up from the couch to not disturb you, and stretched slightly. “If you need anything, just knock on the wall. We’re right next door.”

You managed a small smile, feeling a sense of comfort in his words. “Thanks, Logan. I’ll do that.”

Wade, now standing by the door with a grocery bag of baby food in hand, gave a dramatic sigh. “Alright, alright. I guess we’ll leave you to your rest. But don’t be shy about knocking. Seriously, I’ve got more baby food than any one person should ever need.”

Logan smiles at you while he grabs the doorknob. “Let’s give her some space. You know where we are if anything comes up.”

You watched them with sleepy eyes, feeling a mix of warmth and gratitude. Logan’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, a hint of something unspoken in his eyes.

“Rest well,” he said softly, heading towards the door with Wade in tow.

As the door clicked shut behind them, you settled into the couch, feeling the soothing quiet of the apartment around you. The soft murmurs of their conversation through the thin wall were a comforting reminder of their presence. With a contented sigh, you allowed yourself to slip into sleep.

-

A/N: just got all my wisdom teeth out this morning so this is how i cope with the pain y'all, i also usually don't write stuff so i'm sorry if this was shite oops (edit: there were so many typos and mistakes i missed last night i’m so sorry to everyone who read that version omg)

[hannahbarberra162]

A Negative Outcome, Part 5

MDNI | on Ao3

The other parts

TW: dissociation - but later comfort. Reader (mostly) gets the crash out she deserves.

You closed the door to your old room as your wet hair dripped down your neck. The room looked nearly the same as before except some of the furniture had been replaced with used cast offs from other crew members. You felt like there was a menacing aura in the room that made you shiver - or maybe that was just your imagination. 

You slowly went over to the new dresser in the corner of the room to put on some clean clothes, not caring what you grabbed out of the drawers. None of the clothes were really yours anyway, they were either borrowed from smaller crew members or given to you by some of the nurses. All of the clothes you’d come in were gone by now, worn too many times to be usable any longer. There was a comb on top and you took it to brush out your still wet hair.

Looking around the room, it was almost like you were walking in a dream. You knew it was your room, it was all the assorted belongings you’d see before but as you grasped the shirt in your hands, your mind started to blank out. It was hard to place the feeling - everything was real but none of it could touch you or maybe you couldn’t touch it in return? A fog settled within you making you only distantly aware of your room or your body or…anything, really. 

You were gone, sunk further into yourself as your body moved on its own, doing what it wanted. Sitting down on a small rug that someone had brought into the room, you laid on your back and looked at the ceiling of the room. Maybe there’d be blood there too. You weren’t really looking as you stared at the ceiling, no longer tired, and just were there.

It almost felt like when you’d been depressed in the past but this was a little better. Instead of depletion, sadness or futility you were floating in your own mind as your body moved around. You laid on the ground and watched yourself stare off into space. After what felt like a few moments later there was a knock at the door. You didn’t mind but you didn’t answer either, you couldn’t disturb the nothing. It was like you were trapped in the nothing and couldn’t diverge from it.

“Hey, Sugar, you in there?” a voice said from behind the door. “It’s been a few hours and I couldn’t find you, I thought we were gonna have fun tonight for your day off.” The voice was Thatch, you knew that, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to answer. It wasn’t pleasant floating away from yourself but you also didn’t have to deal with anything, including Thatch. “I’m coming in, alright Sweets?” You rolled your head to the side but kept looking up as you heard the key turned in the lock.

“Hey, how ya doi - oh Sugar ,” Thatch said sympathetically as he crouched down near you. He tried to make eye contact with you but you didn’t bother to move or change position. “I’m gonna borrow this, OK? We’ll brush your hair out later,” Thatch said as he gently pried the comb from your hand. “Is that ok?” he asked, turning your head to face him. The you on the surface answered for you while the rest of you remained below the fog.

“OK, sounds good,” you replied. It was weird listening to yourself respond so serenly. Whoever was above the fog was good at sounding like they were ok, you thought.

“Are you…you alright? Why didn’t you come back to my room? I was waiting for you,” Thatch said, now sitting on the floor next to you. He looked up at the ceiling to determine if you were looking at anything, but quickly looked back down at your face.

“I forgot,” you said, not remembering what happened before you were in your room. Maybe you missed something? Or did he ask you something else? The person above the fog couldn’t remember anything, neither could you.

“Marco told me what those guys said. I’m sorry you heard that,” Thatch said, watching your face. 

“Mmh,” you hummed, already forgetting what Thatch said. This was getting to be a lot, you couldn’t keep anything he said in your head while the fog was taking up so much space. Thatch was quiet for a few moments before he spoke again. 

“Can I put you in my lap?”

“Sure.” You should let the other you take control more often, you thought, she knew exactly what to say and do and you didn’t have to do anything. You made no efforts to move and Thatch had no difficulty in positioning your limp body to sit in his lap. It was a different vantage point than the floor but you could still look up at the ceiling.

“Holy fu- you’re freezing. C’mere,” he said, reaching over to your bed and pulling the blanket off. Thatch wrapped it around the two of you but mostly your body. 

“Does that feel better?” he asked. You didn’t reply, it didn’t really feel any different than before. Thatch wrapped his arms around you over the blanket, pulling you against his chest. 

“I have a question for ya. Can you name 5 things that you can see?”

“Hm?” you asked with a tilt of your head, like a dog. What was he asking you to do?

“Any five things that you can see, name ‘em,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down your arms.

“Um…” you had to take a moment to process the request but eventually came back to it. “Bed, dresser, plant.”

“Two more Sugar. You see a bed, dresser, that plant, what else?”

“Um…sunglasses and a book.” Thatch gave you a squeeze and kissed the top of your head.

“Great job. Can you tell me four things you can touch?” You rolled your head back, this was a lot. You didn’t want to name anything or tell anything, just wanted to stay quiet and let the fog take over. 

“Please? Do it for me,” Thatch urged, squeezing the tops of your arms.

“Blanket, you, floor, and… clothes,” you said, feeling the waistband of your pants digging into your stomach. Now that you thought about it, the shirt you were wearing was still wet around the collar from your hair. Thatch’s warm chest was behind you while your bare feet were on the cold wood floor.

“Wonderful, almost there. How about three things you can hear?” 

“Mmh, the sea, the night birds, and…” you trailed off as your mind started wandering again, but Thatch rubbed his goatee in your neck to whipster in your ears.

“What other sound can you hear?” You listened in and heard a bunch of sad voices, singing together.

“Crew.” Thatch kissed your shoulder, the warm press of his lips felt pleasant against your skin.

“Can you smell two different things?”

You were quiet for a few moments as you felt a wave of lethargy hit you. “Mint from you and laundry from me,” you said quietly. It was like you were slowly being brought back to yourself, the strings between the detached reality and real life being pulled back together to make one whole once more.

“I’d ask you if you can taste anything, but I -”

“Blood,” you replied as your tongue rooted around your mouth. You’d bitten a hole in your cheek and the injury left a bright coppery taste on your tongue. It was something you’d done a lot as a child when you were nervous but you’d kicked the habit years before, or so you thought. 

“Ah, fuck. Don’t tell Marco,” he said with a teasing lilt to his voice. You froze as you heard the name, your breathing picking up rapidly.

“Shh, no, no. I was just joking. You’re alright, Sugar,” Thatch said as he snuggled deeper into your shoulder. He had been right - you were freezing and your feet were still like blocks of ice. You pulled them into sit cross legged, the soles of your feet touching his bare legs where his pants didn’t cover.

“Hey! Warn me next time,” he said with a pout though he made no effort to move away from you. He didn’t make you do or say anything else but the fog was lifting and you were back in your own body. You slumped against him, suddenly exhausted even though all you had been doing was laying down. He rocked you a little with the ship as it sailed through the water, the sounds of a dirge-like song filling your ears.

“Why’re they singing?” you asked, the unfamiliar mournful song giving you the chills.

“Mm, it’s a little complicated. There’s a lot of…mixed emotions on the crew right now. Even though Teach deserved the ending he got, it’s hard to watch the Captain uh, finish something. He was family for a long time,” Thatch said, avoiding words about death. You didn’t reply but listened to the sad tune winding through the night. Thatch lapsed into silence as you gradually warmed in his lap. 

“Glad you’re back, sweets,” Thatch said quietly. “I’d ask you not to do that again but I don’t think it’s something you can promise.” You leaned your head back against him, seeking more comfort than merely his body heat. Thatch made no moves to do anything as you laid in his arms listening to the chorus above you. 

“Do you wanna leave this room? I had a little surprise planned for you,” Thatch asked, kissing your temple. Inwardly you groaned, you really weren’t in the mood to do anything right now, but he’d put effort into it so you’d white knuckle your way through it. Marco had probably asked him to cheer you up, you thought, and you didn’t want anything bad to get back to the Commander.

“Yeah, we can go,” you said softly, preparing to stand up. You squealed as he stood up with you still in his arms still wrapped in the blanket, afraid that he was going to drop you.

“P-put me down!” you squeaked, wrapping your arms around his neck for support.

“Nah, I like carrying you around. Er, that is if you don’t mind too much?” Thatch asked, giving you a raised brow. You shook your head as Thatch left your old room and carried you down the long hallways back to his own. Crew members were giving you strange looks but you pretended to busy yourself in looking down at the comforter wrapped around you. Since the conversation earlier that night, you knew what they thought of you, the words still perfectly clear in your mind.

Bringing you back to his room, you saw that a three course meal had been brought in, complete with wine and dessert. You closed your eyes and dropped your head, sucking in a deep breath. Picking yourself back up you gave him as big of a smile as you could. You even squinted to try and smile with your eyes in case he was watching closely.

“That looks incredible, I can’t wait,” you tried to say brightly. The food really did look good but the thought of eating had your stomach already hurting. Thatch returned your smile with a soft look as his thumb stroked your cheek.

“I’m no doctor but I’m guessing you’re not hungry,” he said as he walked to place you on the bed. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before - I don’t want you to choke down the food to appease me. Let’s just relax for now, yeah?” Thatch set you on the bed in your blanket and crossed over to the bookshelf you were looking at hours before. “I think you said you like this one, right?” he asked, plucking the volume of poetry off the shelf.

“Yeah, but, you don’t have to do all this,” you said, looking from him to the table. You weren’t a chef but you guessed that all of the food prep took time and effort, not to mention taking food from the ship’s stores. There was grilled meat and some kind of noodle as well as fresh fruit - those things were precious on a seafaring ship. “You shouldn’t have wasted the ingredients on me,” you said with a raise of your shoulder, aiming for nonchalance. Thatch began protesting but you cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I appreciate it, I really do. Not even just this, everything you’ve done for me. Like arguing with Marco and making him apologize or whatever. But you don’t have to put yourself out. It’s ok, I know what everyone thinks about me.” Thatch gave you a pitying look as he turned to face you.

“What you heard isn’t what everyone thinks about you.”

“I mean are they wrong?” you asked, looking up at him from within your blanket nest on the bed.

“Yes. They are,” he said seriously, coming to sit next to you on the bed, the book still in his hands. “Most of us are grateful to you, thankful that you’re here. Even though you don’t want to be with us, you’ve helped more than you know,” he said, scooting towards the wall to use it as a backrest. “Marco’s uptight and a dick sometimes but he’s thankful too. We all are,” he said, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. You scooted back, leaving your makeshift nest now that you were warm.

“They’ve been dealt with-”

“Yeah, Marco said he had a conversation with them,” you replied bitterly, remembering the many times you’d been on the receiving end of a “conversation” with Marco. It was less a back and forth and more you waiting for Marco to stop lecturing you like an errant child.

“Mmm, that’s one way to put it. They’re in the infirmary right now, but they’ll be better soon enough,” Thatch said with a small smile. Maybe it was because you’d been around an Emperor’s crew for a while, but you found you were happy they’d received some corporal punishment. They weren’t going to get killed over something so minor as upsetting you but maybe they’d be more careful next time when airing their thoughts. 

“Is Marco gonna heal them?” you asked, curling up on his lap. It felt like all you’d done lately was relax on Thatch but you were content to pass your time that way if he let you.

“Nope. Gonna suffer for a little longer.” You gave a small satisfied grin, which Thatch returned.

“First smile outta you in a while, Sweets,” he said, pinching your cheek. You snapped at his hand playfully with your teeth, not intending to bite. Even though you were still drained, it almost felt normal to be spending your time with Thatch like this. There wasn’t any time spent in the phlebotomy room hanging over your head, you could actually relax for once - at least for a while before reality set in again.

You changed positions so that your back was against his torso, the two of you now facing the same direction. “I can’t believe Marco beat them up, seems a little out of character for him,” you mused, leaning your head back against Thatch’s chest.

“He didn’t. I did,” he said, looking down at you. You stiffened a little in surprise, rearing back to take in his face.

“Wh- why? Like, it’s not that serious -” you shifted in his lap to look up at his face. You couldn’t believe someone like him had gone out of his way for someone like you. Sure, most of the crew probably didn’t think of you as Marco’s pet but Thatch didn’t need to set the record straight himself. 

“It is to me. And I’ll do it again if I hear anything else. And it’s not just that I’m thankful for what you do, I -” Thatch hesitated. “Do you remember asking me if we had met somewhere else, would we still be friends?” Your heart hammered in your chest as you shifted to face him and nodded. “Well, like I said, I think we’d be friends and maybe more. I haven’t said anyth- it’s not that -I just - sigh this isn’t the right time. You’re struggling and depressed and I-”

You didn’t let the Commander continue speaking but instead pulled him down to kiss him gently on the lips. His eyes opened wide in surprise but allowed you to drag him closer as you wound your arms around his neck and pressed your lips to his again. He made a sound low in his throat as he closed his eyes, kissing you tenderly as one of his large hands wound around you to cradle your head. 

Pulling away, he put his forehead against your own and took in a few deep breaths. You traced his facial scar with the tips of your fingers with half lidded eyes and waited for him to speak.

“You mean more to me than just the bl- the services you provide. Do you remember when you asked if we could ever be anything else? If we’d met differently?” You hummed and nodded, a frown spreading through your features. If Thatch rejected you right now, there’d really be nothing left for you on the ship and you were throwing yourself overboard. Not literally. Probably.

“I’ve been thinking about that ever since you said it. I know this isn’t the life you’d chosen for yourself but I’m glad - well, I’m not glad you’re here, but I am glad that it’s you and that I get to-” you reached up and ran your hand through his hair now that it wasn’t slicked back in its signature style.

“I am too,” you said quietly, tracing his lips with a fingertip. He kissed you again and laid you down on the bed, covering your body with his own. You widened your legs for him to settle between them. Thatch leaned over you on his forearms to prevent squishing you with his massive body.

“Are you sure you’re up to anything? We can stop-” he asked, his worry lines reappearing on his face. As appreciative that you were that he was being careful with you, you really wanted to make this happen. You placed your hands on either side of his jaw and gave him a serious look.

“You said that I could have anything I wanted.”

“I didn’t say that, I said-”

“Well, I want you,” you said as the cheesy line made your own face flush from embarrassment. Thankfully Thatch laughed at your corniness and kissed your jaw.

“How can I deny such a sweet request?” he asked, rolling you to your side to press his body into yours. “It’s our day off, we should enjoy it.”

taglist: @mfreedomstuff @starsandshht

[gloomwitchwrites]

Twin Suns

Bounty Hunter Boba Fett x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, breakup / makeup, suggestive themes, canon-typical swearing, mando’a

Word Count: 1.4k

You broke it off, but Boba isn’t finished.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // summer 2024 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: cyar’ika – darling / sweetheart

Hookah smoke hangs low in the air. The cantina is dim and the noise inside is a dull, persistent roar. Behind the bar, you clean glasses, gaze watching the room for thirsty customers. To the right of the bar is a small stage where a band plays music. It’s loud enough to drown out most of the conversations in the room but not enough to silence them.

It’s a stark difference from your previous work. Being a dancer in Jabba’s Palace brought you protection and money, but it also brought admirers. Most of them kept their distance due to Jabba’s presence, yet there was one you gravitated toward.

One you often snuck away with. One you gave your heart to.

Jabba the Hutt’s favorite contract killer, Boba Fett, ate you up like a Sarlacc. He slipped into your life and you gladly opened for him.

But all of that is gone. You left, and here you are, working away in a Mos Espa cantina, scrounging up enough credits to leave Tatooine behind you. It’s certainly not the life you want for yourself, but the best thing now is to earn enough to start fresh elsewhere.

Setting the glass in its proper spot, you turn, reaching for another. It draws your attention away from the bar, and when you glance up again, the glassware nearly slips from your hand.

A Mandalorian helmet with cracked and peeling green paint stares back. The rest of the armor is much of the same. It’s worn but no less intimidating. Boba Fett stands casually while the people next to him at the bar quickly grab their drinks and makes themselves scarce.

“I’ve been looking for you.” His familiar gravelly voice comes through the voice receiver, and it plunges directly into your heart.

“What makes you think I wanted to be looked for?” you reply, unease slipping into your tone.

You don’t hate Boba—far from it. Deep within your soul, you still care for him. When you’re alone in the dark, you often find yourself thinking of his touch and the way his lips felt against your skin.

But you ran away from everything for a reason. And still, this man came after you.

“You’ve always loved a chase, cyar’ika,” he answers with a gentle tease.

Memories resurface suddenly and without warning. Jabba’s smoky throne room where you’d dance for his guests. The saunter of Boba’s hips when he’d walk into the room and head right for you. The first time Boba touched you far from the eyes of Jabba and his cronies.

Boba chased you until you folded, placing yourself in his arms.

You swallow back a sharp retort, putting on your professional face, changing the subject. “Can I get you anything? A drink? Food?”

Boba’s helmeted head tilts slightly. “I want one thing.”

“I’m not on offer,” you reply immediately.

“Then can I have a few minutes of your time,” he counters. “Alone.”

Kriffing hell.

You glance over your shoulder at the other bartender. She nods subtly and you set down the glass and polishing towel.

“Come with me,” you murmur.

Boba pushes off from the bar and follows you. The two of you slip behind a curtain, entering a kitchen space. The three droid cooks don’t even acknowledge your presence. Stopping at some spiral stairs, you turn back toward Boba. He’s directly behind you, blocking your escape, gloved hands on either side of the railing.

“This way,” you breathe, ascending the stairs as quickly as possible.

You feel him at your back, his body so close you swear you can sense his heat. The stairs spit the two of you out on a little landing. Up here is mostly storage, and it’s a mess. The owner of the cantina insists he’ll clean it up but he’s never here enough to actually care or do anything about it.

As soon are your feet land on flat flooring, you beeline for the large window on the other side of the room. The twin suns are starting to descend, the evening coming quick, but still fending off the cold dark.

Staring out across Mos Espa is easier than looking at Boba directly.

“What do you want to talk about?” you speak to the window. In the glass, you notice Boba’s reflection. He’s moving toward you—a slow saunter.

Even though you cannot see him directly, you know he’s right there next to your left shoulder. Your chest is tight, stomach twisting, and your skin tingles with awareness. Beskar brushes against your arm, and then Boba’s gloved hand slips into your own.

You do not pull away. He is warm, and so close it aches.

“You were mine,” he says, and the possessiveness in his voice draws forth a shiver.

It’s a reminder of all the times the two of you were alone in bed together, with him buried between your legs, tangled up in white sheets while the rest of Tatooine slept. With every roll of his hips, and every languid kiss, he’d call you cyar’ika and whisper mine.

“I was,” you murmur. “Not anymore.”

Boba tugs on your hand. It’s a gentle pull but it forces you to turn into him. Boba is right there, head tilted toward your face as if to kiss you. His other hand comes up and rests against the side of your throat.

“You left without talking to me.” His grip tightens and your free hand reflexively rises, pressing against his beskar chestplate.

You lick your lips. “I needed to go. It wasn’t safe for me.”

Boba draws you close, foreheads nearly touching. “Did you not feel safe with me? Something I did?”

You shake your head. “No.” You glance into the T-shaped visor, only wanting to see those dark eyes again. “Can you remove your helmet?”

Boba drops his hand from your throat. Reaching up, he disengages the seal, and then the helmet is gone. Your eyes track tanned skin and dark eyes. Your hand on his chestplate ascends, fingertips brushing against the stubble on his chin and jaw.

Boba turns his head just as you’re about to run your fingers over his cheeks. You caress his lips instead, and they part slightly in invitation. It’s hard to resist, but you do.

Dropping your hand away, you look down at his chestplate.

“Being with you put a target on my back.”

“No one knew about us,” murmurs Boba. “And I would have handled it.”

You glance up. “Would you? I was under Jabba’s employ. I don’t think he’d appreciate one of his dancers fornicating with his prized bounty hunter.”

Boba grimaces. “You were an employee. Not one of his slaves.”

“That doesn’t matter to Jabba,” you insist. “Remember the guy who slapped my ass? Jabba took his kriffing hand. I don’t even want to think about what Jabba would do to you had he found out about us.”

“And you think you’re safe here?” Boba indicates the cantina with an outstretched hand.

“Bib Fortuna said I was clear. It’s the other bounty hunters I’m worried about. Your competition.”

Boba scoffs. “I’d vaporize them before they even tried to put their hands on you.”

You pull your hand from his and raise them up before you. “You can’t protect me, Boba. And I don’t want to burden you.”

Boba steps into your space, trapping you against the window. “But you still love me.”

“I never said I didn’t,” you reply softly.

With a low groan, Boba grasps the back of your neck and draws you in. His mouth crashes against yours, the two of you meeting again and again until you start to melt, wrapping your arms behind his neck, wanting him even closer.

“Why did you run?” he asks between kisses. You seek another but Boba’s grip on the back of your neck halts all forward movement. “We could have talked about this. You didn’t need to flee.”

“It was easier,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “You’re leaving this place.”

“Boba,” you breathe.

“Hush,” he coos. “I’m taking you with me.”

“And go where?” you shrug.

“Somewhere safe,” he says softly. “We’ll go on my ship. And I’ll take you far from here.”

“But you can’t tell me where?”

Boba sighs. “I have a place I go to when I want to get away. I’ll take you there.”

“Jabba doesn’t need you?”

“If he needs me, Bib Fortuna will call. That’s how it’s always worked.”

You glance out the window. The suns have lowered, the sky a purplish-red. “When do you want to go?”

Boba draws you back to him, pressing a lovely kiss to your lips. “Right now.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @foxxy-126 @km-ffluv

@sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@tulipsun-flower @enfppuff @ninman82 @nomercyforthewarrior @padawancat97

@garfunklevibes2012 @pigeonmama @beebeechaos @no-oneelsebutnsu

[tallgirl14]

Chilchuck angst

I love this lil middle age man but i aslo live for angst so her are few my ideas because I need tell someone and if you have angst dm me we can talk about it

He carries a wallet size family portrait (when his girls were little) with him when he goes down in a dungeon, and he looks at it when he miss them. ( I feel like photos are probably pretty 💰💰 so they only had few consist wedding photo, baby photo mayjack she's fist born, then one of the whole family ) and this photo is chaotic and It makes him smile.

This is the ONLY photo he has of his entire family and he hasent seen them in few years with his kids grown living there own lives and him and his wife are split this photos all he's got.

How far would this man go for this picture. I can see chilchuck getting badly hurt because he went back to grab it and as Marcille is lecturing him about his reckless action as she's healing him.

Marcille: "What could have been so important that you risk your life over??"

Chilchuck: "my family or what's left of it"

He shows her the photo and marcille feels her heart drop she finally got to learn something about him and its sad ( this miscommunication leads to his group to believe chil family is dead )

Chilchuck taught Mayjack how to pick locks, and in the manga, he says when he dies, if they need someone, she'd be their first choice. SO he obviously took her through dungeon showing her how to navigate because being locksmith in a shop vs. dungeon is night & day different, dungeon being high pace environment.

Could you imagine how traumatizing that would be if saw her dad die in front of her AND NOT KNOW THEY COULD BE REVIVED!! (Seeing anyone die would be scaring) Especially if she felt it was her fault.

At first, Mayjack was curious about going into a dungeon with her dad to see exactly what he does she rember as kid seeing him come home late tired excused but mostly worn down.

Whenever she asked him about his work as a kid he was always vague or if he did talk about it was pg version and normally he was just trying scare us about going into dungeon. BUT one thing he made very clear, he didn't want any of her or her sister near the dungeon, but now that she's an adult, he couldn't stop her.

" I still don't want you near the dungeon, but you are a skilled locksmith, so you would be valued and well paid. IF you're still interested, I'll have you shadow me on my next small job so you can see what it's like."

At first, it was like any job we met with the client went over to the terms dad took payment, and then we headed over to the dungeon. I was awestruck by the new environment, but it quickly became overstimulating it took me a moment to adjust. the first few levels, dad had pointed out things to avoid what were scams & how to detect traps and walked me through a few I felt confident. Most importantly, when talking jobs, always have a skilled healer. Now I realize why as we enter new room dad was working on trap I was observing the room when I noticed treasure chest peaking out corner not knowing it was a mimick.

Chilchuck was Halfway through picking his lock when his dad sense went off. He quickly looked around room and spotted may messing with mimick

Chilchuck: "MAYJACK TIMS! get away from that!!" He starts running towards her

May turned to look at her dad, confused " why I already unlocked it?"

Her body stiffened as she could feel presents inside the chest, but before mimick could attach, chilchuck pushed her out of the way taking damage as it jabbed one of its claws through his neck causing him to bleed everywhere all mayjack could do was watch in horror paralyzed with fear trying process what happened. One of group members took care of mimick while she scrambled to her feet to get to here dad trying to put pressure on his wound tears flooding out

"Nonononno im sorry I'm sorry 🥺 "

As chilchuck lay there dying, he was more concerned with the fact he could comfort his daughter. This wasn't how he wanted to see death for the first time. Afterwards, the healer from their group came over and assured her he was going to be fine as she worked on reviving him.

Chilchuck let out a gasp and cough out some blood that had remained stuck in his throat. He turns to mayjack " that's why I told you to stay near me..." He moves toward her noticing her hands are strained with his blood. " are you hurt?... may? "

She shakes her head, and tears start to fall down her face he pulls her in for a hug. " it's ok, I'm ok ... I'm right here. " she hugs him tight, and they stay in that embrace for a while. When they finally break the hug, chilchuck wipes tears from her face.

" im sorry you saw that... do you want to go home.? "

" but the job?"

Chilchuck shakes his head " don't worry about it I brought someone along for that exact reason"

[mystiffox]

— the apple's falling from the tree

from Cross: The Star Sans by @overflowofcrows

star!cross makes me incredibly ill with the tragic found family vibes ... (lays on the floor)

also song inspo was Driver's Seat by Madds Buckley

also have some doodles too (slight spoilers on the fic's lore below! to explain some of my thoughts on clothes n stuff)

does Cross have a star necklace in the fic? no, probably not. did i show off about my thoughts on a star necklace to Simple anyway? yes, yes i did. anyway idc where u think the necklace is from (whether its a gift from dream or a remold of his broken heart necklace, who knows atp) now ONTO THE GANG (+ Error and Fresh)

to preface this: im mostly assuming for most of the lore beyond the crumbs given to me. so, i'd imagine that when the fight ended with the gang losing, Dream and Ink immediately jailed them up. they both seem keen on keeping the gang alive, so they probably would've tried to help them with anything to make sure of it- that is, if any of the gang would even accept it in the first place.

i'm making a small guess that if there were any wounds, they used what they had to take care of it, aka ripping out parts of their own clothing to use as makeshift bandages. dream might've gave them some supplies (out of pity.. or something) but whether that was not enough or not used, i won't know

even if it was enough, there's still the factor of inevitable outburst/breakdowns from any of the prisoners. i'd imagine it'd be so hard to calm any of them down because the gang were too used to being close together that using touch became the usual grounding method— so putting a barrier between them makes it infintely harder for everyone.

i think Nightmare doesn't use his jacket anymore. it probably feels like shit/too itchy and ragged to wear and reminds him of a past he wishes he could forget. (he must feel so helpless seeing all his boys suffer after taking care of them for so long... like a lost father trying his best and seeing how much he's failing at the same time.. man.)

Dust is almost always wrapped in a blanket, the hoodie completely zipped up as if he was trying to hide in it, keeping himself as small as possible (knowing his own breakdowns are the biggest And loudest)

Horror is probably yanked back to the memories of when he was back in his home au, quietly starving and losing all the progress he had with the gang.. trying to press himself against the barriers in hopes that maybe he can feel the others on the other side of it.. (one of his outbursts would be why he ripped off the sleeves of his jacket id assume)

Killer too.. unable to get to anyone and just. with his soul going haywire sometimes, having no available output that he's forced to ride it out on his own And in front of everyone.. yeah, you get the gist for those three

Error's a mess of threads- picks at his clothes and sews em back up, just to have a reason to move his hands. he's not too worried i'd say- it's a little reminiscent of the antivoid, and he's experienced insanity already (not to say it doesn't tug at his own soul-strings to see it happen to everyone else)

Fresh might be the "cleanest" out of everyone, with barely any visible tears, but i have a good feeling his body language is different. maybe the cap is now worn correctly. maybe he took off his jacket. he's tense. his guard is up. because a parasite would never want to be locked up in one place, right?

god.

God.

they make me so sick (message is mine btw)

[hottiehiei]

- NSFW Alaphabet with Hiei (but I pick the letters I want)

nsfw (but its not overly explicit), gender neutral

i used the word c*ck… im so sorry. i literally hate that word but i had to.

✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻

𓆩⟡𓆪 A = Aftercare

Hiei has unlimited stamina compared to you.

While you’re worn out and exhausted, he’s barely breaking a sweat. He simply looks down at you expectantly, even when it’s clear you won’t make it through another round. The need for rest overpowers all of your senses, and you’ll drift into a soundless slumber, leaving Hiei alone.

Of course, this ticks him off. He scolds you for having such a weak human body— all the while massaging your hips and thighs because he knows they’re aching. It’s mostly his fault, so he tries to compensate by doing small things like wiping your body clean.

Hiei watches you rest, grateful to have you by his side.

𓆩⟡𓆪 B = Body part

His Jagan eye is his favorite body part. He has a full view of your entire body. There isn’t a single thing he misses, not even the shiver that crawls over your skin when he tears off your clothes.

Hiei also likes his physique. When you trail your fingers down his chest or claw at his back, he’s over the moon.

As for your body, he admires your lips. He likes the way you pout when he pulls out of you, and the way your mouth hangs open from pleasure when he thrust back inside of you. Or best of all, when your lips wrap around his cock.

Hiei really enjoys kissings. He will bite your lower lip, suck on it, pull it with his teeth, you name it.

𓆩⟡𓆪 C = Cum

The taste is bitter. Literal battery acid. Do not recommend.

𓆩⟡𓆪 F = Favorite position

Hiei favors any position that involves you being at his mercy.

There’s this undeniable urge to bind your wrist, spread your legs further apart, and kiss you senseless. If the position hinders any of that, then he doesn’t bother with it.

Occasionally, he’ll let you on top, but be ready to endure some teasing. The minute he notices you getting tired or struggling to take him…

“So predictable. All that begging for nothing.”

“Just say the word and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

𓆩⟡𓆪 K = Kink

He gets turned on when arguing.

Don’t be fooled by his calm tone. He lets you think you have the upper hand, meanwhile he’s plotting. Lash out all you want, it only makes him want to put you to the test. The more you push his buttons, the more he’s thinking about bending you over and making you beg.

Seeing you act aggressive toward other people also turns him on. Whether it’s yelling at one of the boys or knocking someone over the head, he’s impressed.

The fastest way to rile him up is to physically tease him. Keep it brief and subtle. Whisper in his ear when no one’s looking, he’ll get aroused just from fantasizing about you.

Reel him in little by little, then scurry off before he has a chance to capture you. Hiei loves it.

𓆩⟡𓆪 O = Oral

He prefers to receive, mostly due to the power dynamic. You’re below him, looking up through your lashes, doing your best to please him. It gets him going every single time.

The dirty talk is ruthless, but hot.

“I know you can do better than this. Don’t expect me to praise you.”

“Relax your throat and take all of it.”

If you allow him, he’ll grab your hair and guide you deeper.

He’s good at giving oral though. If you can handle the teasing, edging, and overstimulation….he won’t disappoint.

𓆩⟡𓆪 P = Pace

Hiei is naturally fast, so that’s usually the normal pace.

But if you’re one to enjoy it hard and fast, then he might purposely slow down. He wants your body brimming with lust before letting his impulses take over.

Other times, he’ll skip the foreplay and take you how he wants, just from sexual frustration. Don’t even bother asking for a break, he’s too focused on how good and tight you feel, his mind hazy with pure desire.

𓆩⟡𓆪 V = Volume

Mostly grunts. He’s gritting his teeth, holding the noises in. The only time you can get a full moan is during oral or when he’s close to his orgasm. It’s a pleasant sound. Deep and husky, like his voice dropped a few octaves.

✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻

extra:

𓆩⟡𓆪 W= Wild Card

Hiei is a brat tamer.

[losers-clvb]

woman of letters pt. 5 // dean winchester

pairing: dean winchester x man of letters!female!reader

summary: sam and dean discover the bunker of the men of letters. expecting it to be empty, they get quite the shock when they meet you.

content: no warnings!

word count: 2.7k

note: read on wattpad here. if you would like to be added to the taglist, let me know! this is a bit of a filler chapter, but trust me, things will pick back up in the next part. i also want to say thank you to anyone who helped me reach 100 followers!

taglist: @bettystonewell @kaz-2y5-spn @never-here1992 @thestoriesfold @mostlymarvelgirl @dyhsversion @deans-baby-momma

masterlist series masterlist previous part next part

----

Despite your date being that night, Dean hadn’t seen you all day. You had left the bunker before he had woken up and when he asked Sam if he’d seen you, Dean had received some half answer about grocery shopping or something. He figured he could wait to see you, a guess that was proving to be false with every glance at the door to the bunker. He wandered around the bunker aimlessly, trying to find something to keep you off his mind. Nothing was working; it was as if you were a liquid dripping over his brain, coating his thoughts and actions.

Meanwhile, you were out at the local mall. It was a small drive, farther than town but closer than the next big city. You had only gone there a few times through your life, the bustle of people being too much for you to keep up with. But you needed to get new clothes for your date. You had nothing date-worthy in your wardrobe, and if Dean was going to see your naked body tonight, you might as well dress it up.

You entered a popular lingerie store, eyes skimming over the various pieces of undergarments. Some were lacy, some adorned with rhinestones, some with both. As you searched through the store, a few of the items stood out to you. Your favorite color was the popular choice in your mind. You skipped over the particularly uncomfortable looking options, not wanting to even attempt to figure out how to put them on. You glanced to the other customers, hoping to pick up on what they found interesting. There were girls much younger than you, picking out their first bras with nervous excitement. There were ladies much older than you, fingers brushing against the fabric in a reminiscent kind of way, like they were thinking of specific times when they had worn something similar with their significant other. There were woman your age, mostly in pairs, chittering on about their work troubles while holding hangers with their selections on them. The image of it all made you almost wish you had grown up differently, with friends instead of authors to keep you company. You loved your life, but seeing what you had been missing out on struck you in a way you didn’t know possible.

“Exciting plans?” A female voice broke you from your thoughts. You turned your head to the side to see a woman around your age, a wide smile on her face. You smiled back, nodding.

“I’m not sure what to choose.” You confessed before looking at the choices in front of you again. The girl laughed at your indecision, not in a cruel way, like you were two friends shopping together.

“What’s the occasion? Or are you just wanting something to make yourself feel pretty?” She asked, eyes sparkling with interest. You wrapped a hand around one of the bras in front of you.

“First date, um, and I think my first… time.” You put emphasis on the last word so she knew its meaning. She nodded thoughtfully, looking over your body before turning to the options. She picked up a matching set in a color that complimented your skin tone and held it up against your clothing. You blushed at the attention but let her examine you. She nodded approvingly and handed you the selection.

“This is the one, girl.” She beamed. You returned the smile. You were tempted to ask her for more help, with an outfit and makeup and tips for the night, but didn’t want to push your luck with the stranger. You moved to walk away, but felt steps behind you. You glanced back just in time to see her following you.

“You got a dress already?” The woman asked. She could feel the under qualified emotions running through you and figured she could take an hour or two out of her day to help you. Relief washed over you at the words. You looked to her helplessly.

“I need help.” You replied. She nodded confidently and walked to the registers of the store, you following behind her like a lost puppy. You were learning it was okay to not be good at everything as long as you had people like her and Dean to help you.

----

A little over an hour passed before you found yourself sitting at a table in the food court with the woman, whose name you had learned was Charlie. You had listened to her talk while you two shopped, letting her take on the conversation in a way to keep from having to lie about your life. You knew she couldn’t know about the whole Men-of-Letters-supernatural-beings-roaming-the-earth thing, and you didn’t want to scare your new friend away by closing yourself off again. A pile of bags lay by your feet, one with the lingerie, another with a dress, and you had even purchased new shoes for the date. The day was shaping up to be one of your best and you hoped the good luck wouldn’t run out for a very long time.

You had learned that Charlie was visiting friends in the area, worked in tech, and was a lesbian. The last part had come up when you had asked if she had ever been on a date with a guy she thought she was in love with. She had immediately screwed her face up in disgust at the thought.

“I don’t know guys, but I know what I like in girls.” Charlie had said when you asked why she had helped you. You couldn’t help but laugh at the words. You knew you couldn’t bring her back to the bunker, but the thought that Dean would love her just as much as you did crossed over you. Now, you were listening to her talk about some video game she was into. While you weren’t completely knowledgeable on the specific game, the storylines and lore for it stemmed from mythology. You loved mythology and found her intense feelings towards the game to be interesting.

“-the Minotaur, of course. You have to hit just the right controls in just the right way to actually kill him, but once you do, you get to advance to the next level.” Charlie chittered out. You nodded along with a smile on your face, wondering how she could talk so fast without being out of breath. You were about to ask a question about the next level’s villain, but your phone buzzed with an incoming call. Dean, the name flashed across your screen. You excused yourself, leaving Charlie to watch the bags and leftover food, and answered with a “Hello?”.

“Angel.” Dean breathed out, like he had been holding back breath until you answered. “When are you coming home to me?” He asked, desperation in his voice. You smiled wide at the thought that he had been waiting for you.

“Soon.” You answered, absentmindedly reading the text on the poster in front of you. You heard him sigh out in defeat. He wanted you now, in front of him, in his arms. You glanced back at Charlie, who was texting on her own phone while waiting for you to return.

“I can leave now, but you’ll have to make it worth my while.” You teased. It was Dean’s turn to smile, but this time at the idea of how exactly he would make it worth your while.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, sweetheart.” Dean agreed. You felt the blush creep up your face at the suggestive tone in his voice, but only bid him a “Goodbye Dean” before hanging up. You weaved through the crowd to get back to Charlie.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to go.” You gathered your bags. Charlie nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, me too.” She sighed out, grabbing up her own purchases.

“See ya around!” Charlie waved to you before you both walked in opposite directions. You hadn’t realized you had no way of talking to her again until you were sat in your car. Oh well. Maybe it was a good thing; this way you wouldn’t have to make up a whole life story to connect with her. The thought left your mind as you remembered you had one more stop to make. This was a very important stop, one that would make your night that much better.

----

When you arrived back at the bunker, Dean was waiting for you in the garage. You barely had the time to unfasten your seatbelt before he had the door to your car open. He pulled you into him by your hands, earning him a laugh. The day just kept getting better by the second, flowers blooming in your mind when he kissed you. You hadn’t remembered a time when you were this happy. You had always been content with your life, but nothing had made you feel like you were floating the way Dean did.

Dean was thinking similar thoughts. He had his loves, but they came with heartbreak and loss. His life was just too much to keep a love life. You were different. You knew the world he was fighting against, you had your own troubles with the supernatural, you came with a home. Sure, there was that little part of him that was pushing against all of this, pushing against you. He ignored it for the most part. There was no way he was letting you get away from him. He parted from you to help carry in the results of your shopping trip. The bag from the lingerie store caught his eye and he tried to catch what was inside.

“No peeking.” You scolded playfully, pulling the bag from him. Dean sent you an unserious pout, but followed you to your room, where the bags were deposited onto your bed. You felt him wrap his arms around you from behind, placing a kiss on the spot just below your ear. You placed your hands over his, relishing in the embrace.

“Where’s Sam at?” You asked, remembering how you hadn’t seen him on the journey from the garage to your room. Then again, you were more focused on the feeling of Dean’s eyes boring into the back of your head to look for his brother. Dean placed another kiss on you before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“He’s meeting a friend. She’s got some information on a potential case.” He mumbled to you. He didn’t care about Sam in that moment. He was focused on the light beat of your pulse next to his ear reminding him that this was all real. You nodded at the answer and let him hold you. Your brow furrowed at the conclusion you came to.

“A case? Where?”

“A few hours away.”

“You’re leaving?” You knew this would happen. Dean was a hunter, he couldn’t stay in one place for too long. You had followed him and Sam all around the country through the years, using newspapers and social media posts to track him. He never stayed somewhere for longer than a week at most, save for the time when he was with Lisa. You had just thought, a thought you now punished yourself for, that you were enough to make him stay. This was why you didn’t meet people, why it had taken you so long to really go out into the world. Once emotion took over, it was difficult to make rational choices.

Dean felt you pulling away from him, emotionally. He knew what you had jumped to, and it made him tug you in closer to him. He imagined there wasn’t much in this world that could make him leave for good.

“Only for a few days. I’m coming back.” Dean promised, smiling when your body relaxed from the relief his words brought you.

“Thank you.” You simply responded, hoping he knew the true meaning to your words. He did.

“I could never leave my girl.” Dean mumbled the words into your neck, kissing you again. There it was again. My girl. You could get used to hearing it, the thought of belonging to someone not as repulsive as you had once believed. You had imagined the term to mean you were his property, but hearing him say the words contradicted that. You were each other's now, neither party holding more control than the other. You let Dean kiss you one last time before you ushered him out of the room so you could get ready for what the night in front of you held.

----

You were putting the finishing touches on yourself, smoothing down your dress when you heard voices coming from outside your room. You were curious as to who it could have been, seeing how there were three distinct tones ricocheting off of the stone walls. One was Dean, voice gruff and words sarcastic. Another was Sam, a lighter hold in his words as he spoke. The third, female, sounded distinctly familiar, but you didn’t know why. You were almost completely sure that you and the Winchesters’ acquaintances didn’t overlap, but the boys didn’t sound alarmed at the guest.

“-place is amazing!” You heard from the female voice as you wandered down the hallway to the main room of the bunker. There the three of them stood, Sam and Dean facing you, but the woman still turned around. You narrowed your eyes in thought when you glimpsed her red hair, knowing you had seen it before. Dean stepped forward, holding a hand out for you to take. He spoke your name out.

“This is that friend I was talkin’ about earlier,” Dean began, but you cut him off when the girl turned around.

“Charlie.” You beamed. Your friend from the mall, who had been your saving grace when preparing for the date. Charlie, in response, bounced over to you before wrapping you in a hug. She cheered your name out while she did so, leaving Sam and Dean with twin expressions of confusion on their faces.

“You two know each other?” Dean asked after you and Charlie pulled apart, but not before she whispered in your ear that your boobs did, in fact, look wonderful in that dress. You stifled your laugh before looking over at Dean, nodding.

“She helped me at the mall.” You answered, walking closer to Dean. He hadn't had the chance to look at you when you had first arrived to the room, but now that he had, he wished you two were alone. The black dress you wore hugged you in all the right ways and the heels you wore only accentuated those legs he loved so much. If he had it his way, he would be right in the center of you, lapping you up. But no, he made a promise and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make this the best -- and hopefully last -- first date of your life.

“Yes, I did, and let me just tell you now,” Charlie leaned in like she was telling a secret, but everyone in the room could hear her, “you’re going to have an excellent night.” She finished with a wink. You avoided looking at Sam, knowing he would get the meaning of her words. You weren’t ashamed, but maybe your other roommate didn’t need to know the ins and outs of your sex life. Dean licked his lips and placed a hand on your hip.

“Don’t I know that.” Dean mumbled under his breath, still staring at you. He had already told Sam the night before that he had to get lost by the time you two returned from the date. He figured his little brother would be better off without hearing the way he was going to make you fall apart at his fingertips. You rolled your eyes playfully and placed a hand on his chest, pushing him softly in the direction of the garage.

“Let’s get going then.” You urged and Dean led you to his car. He held the door open for you like a gentleman, even if all he wanted was to push you up against the side of the Impala and make you forget all you had ever known.