#kind of a lower effort drawing this time

[will-bonna]

day 9, echoes

[wild-at-mind]

Saw an artist on instagram saying that their digital art is often looked down upon or considered ‘cheating’ by people interested in buying it, and almost kind of campaigning for digital art to be taken seriously...I honestly thought we’d left that one behind in the 2000s on deviantart, but then I had a look at their page and it’s clear that their work is very specifically meant to look like printmaking, mainly linocut and block print. I don’t think anyone should be weird about it but I can also see that linocut is often beloved for its aesthetic because of the very physical process of creating the print block, the imperfections that often result becoming part of the image. So perhaps this is a problem with buyers assuming they are getting a print made on a physical press using a physical block, rather than a print from a printer? I don’t know, it was interesting to see them kind of sloganning this issue when it may be quite specific to their style. I’m no stranger to digital art meant to look traditional and I know about all the advantages of this, and I especially like to use digital oil paint and watercolour effects, so this isn’t me being a traditional art snob. It just strikes me that this may be a case of the market for your art style being the market that wants handmade prints. Mind you now there is risograph, which an exhibitor at a small press fair kindly explained to me- a way of layering ink on the page using a printer and a digital file, so you can create the style of a linocut/lithograph without a printroom. I think many people still haven’t heard of it though. I wish this artist well and think their style is very interesting, but also I think most digital artists probably would not deal with anything like the flak they say that they get, so not a very universal issue to slogan.

[hoshigray]

Hiiii, I have a request- could you do like jealous or after arguement smex- you can pick any sort of of storyline or any jjk character. (prefferbly a character like sukuna or toji because i feel like they'd be kind mean about it)

Tyy

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: oof, i think after an argument, sex w/kuna would go crazyyy (esp true form! like yikes)

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: true form! Sukuna x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - size difference - fingering (f! receiving) - impact play (spanking + pussy slaps) - clitoral play (grinds, swipes, and pinches) - biting - pinching - degradation (bitch, whore) - monster-fucking (he got 2 dicks) - double penetration; anal and vaginal - backshots/doggy position - pet names ([little]dove, my wife, pet, woman) - multiple orgasms - mention of drool/spit and blood.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

You dare avoid him? The King of Curses? Did the screws in your brain finally come loose, and now you’ve gone mad?

Ryōmen Sukuna rarely lets things slide. He is considered the top dog of the cursed Jujutsu world – he doesn’t find himself bowing down to things because things are supposed to bow to him. Anything and everything doesn’t go unnoticed under his gaze, as that’s the order of things that are supposed to happen.

And this philosophy doesn’t stop with you — his little dove.

Being engaged to a human spouse already raises flags of inconsistency. It isn’t rare for you and Sukuna to argue; the workers of the fortress where you reside can attest to this. The love is there, but Sukuna expects you to understand your standing in this marriage. You may be what he always keeps by his side. However, even you shouldn’t overstep him so carelessly.

Nonetheless, your humanness continues to poke him; your resilience is a thorn to your giant husband’s side. The more disagreements you clash with him, the bolder you’ve become in your standing, which makes the cursed man proud, albeit prefers it wasn’t directed towards him. 

And now, after he puts his thunderous foot down and shuts you up with your bickering, you decide to be courageous enough to turn your back on him? Him? Your betrothed? He couldn’t believe what he saw; your expression molded to neutrality before you turned on your heel and headed somewhere away from him. And then you don’t respond when he calls out to you — the absolute nerve.

Oh, you knew Sukuna wasn’t the one to be daring with, especially when you think you can get the last laugh. So, it would be best if he corrected your foolishness. 

“—Dahhh! Su’kunaa, stop! Let go—Ohhh!”

“Shut your mouth. Think you’re in any position to order me now, huh?”

He has you pinned to the tatami flooring, his upper hand on your head to keep your cheek printed on the mat despite your cries. The upper right hand has a good hold on your waist while his lower right hand grips your ankle to keep your legs spread. And with the lower left, he uses it to tease and toy with your chasm. The mouth of his chasm laps around your labia to lick the fluids that coat your slit while his middle and ring fingers grind on your sore clitoris.

This is your punishment: your husband reprimanding you as he gesticulates around your body. You can cry and holler all you want, squirm out of his hold when knowing your efforts are futile. He doesn’t care because he knows that he will make this point to you no matter what.

The tongue of his palm easily swallows your essence, pushing the muscle into your cunt to fuck you. You nearly choke on spit, sensing the considerable muscle swirl around your insides and graze your walls. “Mmph! Oh, fuck—Nnnm! Sukuna, no! I just came seconds ag—Oooh!”

“Do I care?” He raises his sole pink brow, four red eyes scanning your figure, writhing because of his touch. “You will cum however many times I say, my wife.” He draws out the last words to your ear, enjoying how small you appear under his massive shape. 

He lives for your shrieks, your pitch going higher and higher with every flick of his tongue. Swiping your clit makes it harder to maintain balance, your resolve slipping through your fingers with every push and pull of the abnormal tongue.

“Hahhh, ahhhshit, shiiiit,” your eyebrows scrunch together, nails purchasing on the tatami mat beneath you, which you’re sure your scratches would cause damage. Again, not that your jerk of a spouse would care; he is probably getting a kick out of you losing your poise because of him. “Ooh, ‘Kunaa, y’re going too fast…Nnnn !”

“Oh? Does the dove think I’m going too fast?” Sukuna licks the helix of your ear tantalizingly slow, and you gasp when he bites it while the mouth of his palm sloppily kisses the entrance of your vagina. “You wish to cum again, woman?”

You nod hurriedly, his chuckle rumbling to the core of your heart. The hand on your waist comes up to smack your ass, denting the skin by piercing his fingertips. You howl in pain, “Yesss, I wanna cum again!” 

“Hmph, no,” he removes his hand from your throbbing folds before slapping it; the abrupt action erupts a choked sob. Screams fly out at the pinch of his fingers on your delicate bud; the pain from your chasm stings, making your head pound. “You’re not some whore who gets to cum when they want; you’re mine, and cumming without my permission will get you into predicaments worse than this. Are we clear, pet?”

You had no choice in the matter, propping your ass up and your face down, forcing you to take his two cocks with both of your holes. 

“Aiishhh, oh Lord, Shhlow down! I’m t’oo full…!” 

“Mmnn, khheh, I bet you are, grippin’ on my cocks like a real bitch in heat…”

His lower hands keep hold of your hips, keeping you glued to his pelvis as he pistons his fat dicks into your ass and vagina. The tip brushes on your inner walls, and you mewl at every push as the girth stretches your caves. His upper hands keep you held down to the floor, submitting you to his robust stature that easily swallows your small frame.

Your face is still on the floor, drool trickling down your lips as ineligible babbles seep out. “Nnmahh, ahhaa…!” God, he puts so much strength on your poor body; the inability to move or move away from him keeps you immovable for him. 

Sukuna’s pace is unforgiving, propelling himself into your leaky wetness with no remorse. The fact that he has you come two times already doesn’t concern him; if anything, it aids him in pushing to and fro from your tight cunt. He bites his lip from how your rear contracts around him—so snug for his dual limbs as if you’d milk him dry.

“Fsshoo, ohhmy Go—Daah!” A hand finds its way to the left wrist on your shoulder. “Ohh, ‘Kunaa!”

Your wails are broken when he bends down; the added weight is so lethal that you might end up being pressed and being one with the tatami mat. “Hmm? What is it, woman?”

“—Ahhck! Fuuuhuck, pleaseee, can I pwease cu–Uhhmm?!”

You make him snicker, pulling back his rhythm to implement slow yet harsh ruts to your openings while throwing a slap to your asscheek. “Why should I let you?” 

A tear rolls down your hot cheek. “Pleasee, forg’ve me! I shouldn’t have…turned my back on you...”

Crimson eyes narrow while observing the way your ass quakes from his powerful pounds. Sukuna then comes to your shoulder to bite on your shoulder, and of course, you yelp bitterly. The sight of his canines drawing blood from his mark dials his excitement. “Say it properly, pet,” he purrs as he licks the wound on your shoulder.

“Mmmm! Suk’naa, my Lord…”

“Hmm?” He cups and squeezes your cheeks with his upper left for access to kiss your neck, and the lower left snakes down to play with your clit again. You gasp from the sensation of the tongue of his stomach licking your back, the colossal muscle having you arch like a cat.

Rubs on your pearl have you squeaking for him and eyes rolling upward— all desperate and aching for your release that you could break any moment. “Forgive me for stepping out of line...Hooooh, I wanna cum on yer cocks,” you admit while swaying your hips. “Please allow me to cum.”

“Depends,” you gulp at his quick answer. “This will be your only kind warning for this; if you dare do it again, don’t ever think of asking me.” Sukuna licks your cheek before he chews on the flesh, your breath halting at the graze of his fangs. “Understand?”

Your brave side takes over to turn to him meekly, watery eyes meeting his fierce red ones – a good move on your part. “Yess, my husband…”

And he sneers. “There you go, little dove.”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header edit done by me + dividers by @/benkeibear.

[eclipixels]

Blue lock boys with a bratty gf who will pout and sulk and cry when she doesn’t get what she wants please?

Want it? Got it.

Character: Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Hyoma Chigiri, Rin Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Reo Mikage, Rensuke Kunigami, Kenyu Yukimiya, Sae Itoshi, Ryusei Shidou, Michael Kaiser

Yoichi Isagi

      It started with a bear.

      Not a real one, of course, but a plush, wide-eyed, ridiculously overpriced stuffed bear at the back of an arcade prize shelf. The kind of thing that probably cost 100 yen to make and 10,000 yen to win. You'd pointed to it with a hopeful grin, practically glowing under the flashing lights, and asked sweetly:

      “Can we get it?”

      He hesitated. Hesitated. And that was where it all began to go downhill.

      "I mean... it's cute, but don’t you think it's kind of expensive?" he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we’ve already spent so much on tokens, maybe we can find another one somewhere else?”

      Your smile faltered. Your eyes began to glisten. You turned away with a soft sniffle, lower lip trembling just slightly, like a dramatic reenactment of heartbreak in a shoujo anime.

      And that’s when it hit him.

      Initial reaction: Confused. Panicking. Internally screaming.

      “W-Wait! Why are you crying?! Was it something I did???”

      He practically lunged toward you, eyes wide with alarm, flailing like a man caught in the middle of an emotional hurricane.

      "I didn’t mean to upset you, I swear! Was it the bear? Is it me?? Did I say something wrong??" His words came out in a frantic rush, every syllable laced with genuine concern.

      You sniffled again, louder this time. Dramatically. Weaponized. Your gaze lifted to meet his, watery and wounded, and that was it.

      He was done for.

      He tried to reason with you. He really did.

      “I mean, it's not that special, right? It probably won’t even match your room, and it's super overpriced, and—”

      Your bottom lip wobbled. “You’re literally earning millions from Blue Lock.”

      “Okay okay okay!” he folded faster than cheap origami. “We’ll go back for it, just just stop crying, please!”

      You blinked up at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and nodded slowly as if forgiving him for the great injustice. He immediately turned on his heel and speed-walked back to the counter like a man on a mission.

      Five minutes later, you were holding the overpriced bear in your arms, beaming.

      He stood beside you, wallet significantly lighter, heart slightly battered, but your smile? Worth every yen.

      “…You’re evil,” he mumbled, eyeing the bear. “I hope you know that.”

      You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Love you too.”

      And despite everything, he smiled.

Meguru Bachira

      Bachira leaned against the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you from across the room. You were perched on the couch, arms crossed, lips stuck in a stubborn pout. The atmosphere was heavy with your silent, exaggerated sulk.

      He couldn't help it. The bratty attitude was like a magnet to him. It was his favorite thing.

      "Ooooh~ the princess is sulking again!" he chimed, his voice dripping with playful amusement. "What happened this time? No strawberry milk?" His words were almost a melody of teasing, each one drawing out your reaction like a perfectly executed play.

      You shot him a sideways glance, your pout deepening as if you were silently telling him, don't push it, Bachira. But he was always ready to push it.

      Bachira’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and he leaned in, mimicking your pout with such exaggerated effort that it made you want to laugh despite yourself.

      “I don’t think this is the right pout,” he said, making an even more over-the-top face. “Here, let me show you how it's really done!” He made a ridiculous whining noise, his voice high-pitched as he stuck out his lip.

      “Stop it,” you huffed, trying to hide the small giggle that wanted to escape.

      “Poor little princess… no strawberry milk… woe is me!” He spun around, his arms flailing in a way that had you shaking your head and letting out a soft snort.

      But it wasn’t enough. It never was. Not for you, at least. You had something else in mind.

      You let your bottom lip tremble, the pitiful whimper that you knew would do the trick bubbling in your chest. Your eyes watered just a little, enough for the act to feel genuine. You bit your lip, holding back a sob that threatened to escape. “Bachira… I really wanted it…”

      Bachira froze. The playful spark in his eyes dimmed as his gaze softened, and within moments, he was on the couch beside you, pulling you into his arms before you could even process what was happening.

      “Hey, hey, no need for the tears,” he murmured, rubbing your back soothingly as he cradled you against his chest. His voice was warm, comforting, and with every soft stroke of his hand, the weight of the playful teasing vanished, replaced by an overwhelming gentleness.

      “You know you’re cute when you pout…” he said softly, his thumb brushing away the single tear that escaped down your cheek. “But you're even cuter when I give you what you want, huh?”

      Your eyes met his, and his expression was full of affection, despite the playful teasing earlier. “Fine,” he sighed dramatically. “You win. You’re getting your strawberry milk… just this once, though!”

      You sniffled, still trying to keep the pout on your face, but the warmth of his embrace, the way he held you so carefully, made it impossible to stay upset for long.

      “I’m serious, though,” Bachira continued, his grin returning, though softer this time. “You don’t have to cry for me to do what you want, you know? I’ll always give you whatever you need… just ask, and I’m yours.”

      You chuckled softly, resting your head on his shoulder, the bratty attitude slipping away as you melted into his arms. “I know. But it’s fun to make you work for it.”

      He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmured. “But I think I might be addicted to this game of yours.”

Hyoma Chigiri

      You cross your arms, lips pouting, as you stare up at Chigiri. His calm demeanor never seems to falter, even when you're throwing your little tantrum. But this time... this time you really wanted him to say yes.

      "I don't see why you can't just come with me, Hyoma," you whine, trying to hide the frustration in your voice. "You know it’ll be fun! I don’t want to go alone."

      He’s still quiet, not giving you an inch. You can see him thinking, his usual calm and collected expression not revealing much. You know he’s not one to cave in easily, but that’s part of the challenge, right?

      You roll your eyes, crossing your arms tighter. "You're always so busy with your soccer stuff. Can't you just take a break for once?"

      His eyes flicker, and you catch the slightest hint of concern. He knows how much this means to you, but there’s a stubbornness in him too.

      "I promised to focus on training today," he says, his tone gentle but firm.

      You feel the pout deepen, and your bottom lip juts out further. You can feel the familiar urge to sulk creeping up. Without thinking, you turn away from him, arms still crossed, and let out an exaggerated sigh.

      "Fine," you mutter, trying to make your voice sound even more dramatic, "I guess I'll just go by myself then."

      Chigiri doesn’t respond right away. His eyes follow you as you move away from him, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment. You're just about to leave the room when you hear his footsteps behind you.

      He grabs your wrist, stopping you. "Hey," he starts softly, his voice almost apologetic, "Don’t be like that."

      You turn back slowly, feigning disinterest, but your eyes betray you. They’re wide, slightly teary, and a little too sparkly. The classic look of a girl who knows she’s about to get what she wants.

      His expression softens, and you watch as he lets out a small sigh. "Alright, alright. I'll come with you," he finally admits, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a reluctant smile.

      You can’t help but smirk, giving him a look of triumph. “Yay!,” you say, practically gleaming.

      Chigiri rubs the back of his neck, trying to act like it wasn't a huge deal. "I just don't get why you can't go by yourself..."

      "Because I wanted you there," you reply simply, stepping closer to him with a satisfied smile. You give him a playful nudge, just to remind him who’s in charge here.

      He gives you a look, like he's trying not to be completely charmed by you, and you can see the faintest blush creeping onto his cheeks. Even though you got your way, there's something about Chigiri that makes you want to tease him just a little longer.

      "So difficult," he mutters, but there's no real anger in his voice.

      You beam up at him, feeling completely satisfied now that he’s given in. "I know, but you love me anyway."

Rin Itoshi

      You cross your arms and pout, lips jutting out in that way that always makes his patience wear thin. “Rin…” you murmur, voice soft but dripping with that petulant edge.

      He raises an eyebrow, giving you a blank stare, already bracing for the storm. “Are you seriously crying because I said no to sushi tonight?” he asks, voice flat and dismissive.

      But the moment you avert your gaze and let out that exaggerated sniffle, a small sob escaping your lips as you try to hold it together… Rin feels that familiar twitch in his jaw. His hands flex at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you, even as his mind screams for him to stay calm, to stay firm. But damn it, you’re good at this.

      “Y/N…” he mutters, more to himself than you. His tone is a mix of frustration and reluctant concern, but he doesn’t want to admit it. “You’re really gonna cry over sushi?”

      You just sniffle harder, the act so perfectly rehearsed that it almost makes him want to laugh at how ridiculous it is. But the hurt in your eyes when you look away hits him like a freight train.

      He can’t win, not when you’re looking like that. “Tch. Fine. Get in the car,” he snaps, turning on his heel with the grace of someone who clearly knows he’s about to fold. His voice is clipped, like he’s trying to be irritated, but you know better.

      You’re already pulling on your shoes before he’s finished speaking.

      And as he drives you to the sushi place, he’s stewing in silence, a mix of annoyance and something more dangerous swirling in his chest. You’d gotten him to cave faster than he liked. Again.

      He glances over at you, and you’re sitting there all smug in the passenger seat, quietly triumphant. It bugs him. But he won’t admit it.

      Not out loud anyway.

Seishiro Nagi

      You cross your arms and scowl, lying dramatically on the couch, your face scrunched up in a perfect pout. Seishiro Nagi looks so good at ignoring you when you're like this. Too good, and it’s starting to annoy you even more.

      You huff, making your pout even deeper, refusing to look at him. It's like he's not even trying to make this right. You can practically feel the tension building up, but he doesn’t budge. No apologies. No attention. Nothing.

      “Ughhhh, you’re being annoying again,” he says, his voice not even holding a hint of frustration, just a calm, almost bored tone as he lazily sprawls across the couch. His fingers swipe through his phone as if you're not even there.

      You roll your eyes, pretending to look away, but your lip trembles just enough to get his attention.

      After a few minutes, you hear him sigh, followed by the sound of his phone being set down. “Fine. What do you want? Let’s go.”

      Your heart skips a beat. He’s giving in. You shoot him a quick look from beneath your lashes, just to make sure he’s serious.

      He’s leaning against the armrest now, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in defeat. He’s so lazy that even this little act of giving you what you want seems like the biggest effort of the day. It’s kind of adorable in a way, but you won’t let that stop you.

      “Can we go to gamestop,” you murmur, finally relaxing a bit, even though you're still holding that hint of a pout. He’s just too easy sometimes, and you know it. But, deep down, you both know that after a little tantrum, there’s going to be some serious cuddling.

      Seishiro looks at you, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re such a brat, you know that?”

      You nod and step on your tippy-toes to give him a quick peck. Yeah, you got what you wanted. But you kind of enjoy the aftermath, too, his lazy, relaxed attention, his way of caving in just because you’re being so much to handle. It’s a little game, and you play it well.

Reo Mikage

      You’re sitting on the couch, staring at your phone with a frown that deepens with every refresh of the page. That dress you’ve been eyeing for days is sold out. You knew it would happen, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment from sinking in. You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless.

      The door opens, and Reo steps in, his sharp gaze immediately landing on you. “Hey, baby,” he says, voice gentle, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. He takes one look at your face and sighs. “What happened?”

      You blink up at him, and then the tears start to spill over. “It’s nothing…” You sniff, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but your voice cracks. It’s the dress, of course. It’s always the little things, the ones that feel the most trivial, that hurt the most.

      Reo walks over, kneeling in front of you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, his voice lowering into something softer, more coaxing. “What do you want? A new bag? That perfume you liked? You name it. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, you know that, right?”

      You shake your head, your pout deepening. “No… it’s not that…”

      He smiles, like he’s barely containing his amusement, and you catch that mischievous sparkle in his eyes. He knows exactly what’s going on. He’s always so aware of you, of every little thing that gets under your skin. It’s like a game to him, how far can he push you before you crack? How long will you sulk before you ask him to fix it? And the best part? He enjoys every minute of it.

      With an exaggerated sigh, Reo pulls out his wallet, the motion so smooth it’s almost theatrical. He waves it in front of your face. “I’m not sure you’re getting the point, sweetheart. But if you want it, you only have to say the word.”

      You meet his gaze, the slight smirk on his lips making your heart race in a way you don’t want to admit. You’re being bratty, and he’s loving every second of it. Your arms cross over your chest, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders.

      His teasing tone cuts through the silence. “What, you’re not going to make me beg? You know, I’ll just spoil you rotten to make up for this little pout, baby.”

      You finally crack, letting out a small sigh of surrender. “I just wanted the dress…”

      Reo leans in, brushing your hair away from your face with a soft touch. “Done. It’s yours.” He says it so easily, so casually, like there was never any doubt.

      You sniffle, wiping your eyes and looking up at him. “Really? How? It was sold out?”

      He grins, his voice playful. “I know the designer. I’ll do anything to see you happy, princess. And I’m sure I’ll enjoy spoiling you even more after this.”

      You lean into him, still pouting, but your heart feels lighter. Reo may tease you, but you know he’ll always give in. Encourages your brattiness because it gives him the excuse to pamper you like royalty. After all, you’re his spoiled princess, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rensuke Kunigami

      You sit there with your arms crossed, staring at the soda can in front of you, clearly upset. Kunigami stands beside you, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, trying his best to hold his ground.

      “You really gonna act like this over a soda?” he asks, his voice tinged with disbelief. “It’s just a drink, Y/n.”

      But you don't respond. Instead, you puff out your cheeks, trying to look as dramatic as possible. You just turn your head, letting out a small, exaggerated sniffle. His eyes widen slightly.

      "Y/n…" he starts, but trails off as you shift your gaze toward the floor. His eyes flicker between you and the can of soda. "Come on, you're being unreasonable. It's not even a big deal."

      But you just let out another sniffle, tears threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes. You watch his expression change from frustration to confusion, and then, the realization sets in: he’s struggling. He sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping a little as if the weight of the situation is too much to bear.

      You catch his eye, and his lips twitch. He's trying to stay stern, but his resolve is quickly crumbling. He’s so soft when it comes to you.

      “Okay, okay, fine…” he mutters, shifting uncomfortably. He leans down to meet your eyes, holding the soda you wanted, but his voice is gentle now. “Just… please don’t cry, alright? I can’t stand it when you do that.”

      A small, triumphant smile pulls at the corners of your lips. You sit up a little straighter, but the pout never quite leaves your face.

      Kunigami lets out a defeated sigh, his shoulders relaxing as he hands you the soda. “Here. Just don’t cry, okay? You’re spoiled, you know that?” he mutters under his breath.

      But even as he says it, you can see the soft, adoring look in his eyes. You know he's fully aware he’s the one spoiling you. And yet, he can’t help himself. As much as he tries to lecture you, it only takes a few sniffles for him to cave.

      You take the soda with a smile, but it’s hard to suppress the small giggle that escapes you. He’s so easy, it’s almost unfair.

Kenyu Yukimiya

      You cross your arms and plop down on the couch with a dramatic huff. You don’t even try to hide the exaggerated pout on your lips, why should you? You asked him to cancel practice for one day. Just one day. And what did he say?

      "I can’t skip. I made a commitment."

      Boring. Responsible. Stupidly mature.

      So now, you’re sulking. Loudly. Visibly. With little sniffles thrown in for good measure.

      “I can’t believe you love soccer more than me,” you mumble into your sleeve, voice trembling just enough to sound convincingly heartbroken. You hear his quiet sigh as he takes off his jacket and walks over.

      “I don’t love soccer more than you,” he says, tone calm but clearly bracing himself for your dramatics. “I just have goals I’m working for.”

      You whip your head toward him like you’ve been mortally wounded. “I’m a goal worth working for!”

      He chuckles, and that only fuels the fire. Now your lip trembles for real, though it’s half from frustration and half from how dare he still look this good when you’re in crisis mode. Your eyes gloss over with tears and you sniff loudly, flopping onto your back with a soft wail.

      “Kenyu, I’m suffering! This is emotional neglect!”

      He finally leans over you, his hand brushing the hair off your forehead, the softest damn look in his eyes. Ugh. He’s impossible to stay mad at.

      “I’ll bring you strawberry mochi after practice,” he offers, kissing your forehead.

      You scowl up at him, not accepting the peace treaty just yet. “...Two mochis. And I get to pick the movie tonight. And I get your hoodie.”

      He nods like he expected all of this. “Deal.”

      You turn your head away with a small hmph, but you scoot closer to him anyway, burying your face in his shirt with a sniff that’s more smug than sad now.

      “Love you,” you mumble into his chest, voice muffled.

      He kisses the top of your head, arms wrapping around you. “I know. Even when you’re the absolute brattiest.”

Sae Itoshi

      You cross your arms, lips pushed out in a dramatic pout as you stare out the window of Sae’s car, radiating maximum levels of brat energy. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, clearly not amused.

      "God, you’re such a child," he mutters, rolling his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck.

      You let out a small, wounded sniffle. You clearly said you wanted that stupid, overpriced plushie at the shop earlier, and he was the one who brushed you off with a cold, “You don’t need it.”

      You twist your body away from him more, just to emphasize your sulking. A silent protest.

      “Oh, come on,” he huffs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like you’re inconveniencing him just by existing. “It’s literally a piece of fabric with eyes. You’re being ridiculous.”

      You sniff again, “You don’t care about me at all.”

      “That’s definitely not what I said,” he says dryly, though he doesn’t look at you.

      You stay quiet. Sulking. Pouting. Waiting.

      And then, five minutes later, he clicks his tongue and nods toward the passenger seat without looking your way.

      “Check the bag.”

      You blink, suspicious. “What bag?”

      “The one that’s literally right next to you, genius. God.” He sounds exhausted.

      You unzip it and there it is. The plushie. The stupid, overpriced plushie you whined about for twenty minutes straight.

      You gasp.

      He keeps his eyes firmly on the road. “It was supposed to be a suprise.”

      “Thank you, Sae! I love it!” you say, clutching it like it’s your firstborn.

      He scoffs. “You are a brat.”

      You smile.

      “I love you,” you mumble, a little softer now, glancing at him from behind the plush.

      He doesn’t look at you, but his ears are suspiciously red.

      “Mhm. Whatever. Love you too.” You catch the corner of his mouth twitch, just for a second.

Ryusei Shidou

      You cross your arms and glare at him from the edge of the couch, lips in a full-blown pout. "You said you'd take me. You promised,"

      He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns the world, a smirk plastered on his face, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp and glowing like he’s just scored the winning goal. And in a way, he has—you're pouting, sulking, seething, and that’s exactly what he wants.

      “Aw,” he drawls, cocking his head with a grin that screams trouble.

      Your glare sharpens. “I hate you.”

      “Damn, you're hot when you're upset.” He laughs, low and cocky, tongue brushing over his teeth. “Shit, if I knew saying no would make you act like this, I would've done it sooner.”

      You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, still grinning, and drops it to the floor. He stalks over like a predator, crouching down in front of you so he's eye-level, watching your every twitch with that unhinged amusement.

      “You promised,” you whine again, eyes glossing with frustrated tears. You blink fast, hoping he doesn’t see, but of course he does. He lives for this. The way your voice wobbles. The way your bottom lip trembles.

      “Oh, you’re really gonna cry now?” he murmurs, brushing his fingers beneath your eye, like he's trying to catch a tear before it falls. “That’s so fucking cute.”

      You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. “You’re such an asshole, Ryusei.”

      “Mhm. And you love it.”

      You do. And he knows it.

      He leans in, breath warm against your ear. “Come on, baby. Cry a little harder for me.” His voice drops, rough and teasing. “Maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

      You sniff dramatically, eyes big and wet, and look up at him with your best pitiful expression. “You’re so mean to me.”

      Tears flow down your cheeks and Shidou picks them up with his thumbs immediately, tucking your hair behind your ears.

      “Okay, let’s go get what you want.” He gives a quick peck to your face, secretly doing so he can taste the saltiness of your tears.

      You lean in and peck his cheek back. “Yay!”

      “Such a brat.” He shakes his head.

      “Yeah but you’d die without me.”

      He grins, feral and hungry. “Maybe. But you’d cry without me, so we’re even.”

Michael Kaiser

      You know exactly what you’re doing when you pout like that.

      Bottom lip jutted out, arms crossed, eyes big and glossy like you’re personally offended by the universe. Or, more accurately, offended by Michael Kaiser saying “no” for once in his spoiled, cocky life.

      He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching your performance with that smug little smirk that makes you wanna punch and kiss him at the same time.

      “Oh? Tears already?” he teases, cocking his head like he’s not already cracking. “You really think that’s gonna work on me, babe?”

      It works on him.

      Because not five minutes later, he’s sighing dramatically, unlocking his phone, and muttering under his breath about limited edition drop times and how you’re ‘literally impossible when you don’t get your way.’

      You hear him grumble, “You’re lucky you’re cute,”

      You flop onto the couch with a sniff, making sure your little sulk is loud and visible. He lets you sit in your pouty little misery for a whole thirty seconds before he’s tossing a small velvet box onto your lap.

      “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

      You don’t even look at it right away. You blink up at him, wet lashes, lips trembling like you’re seconds from another dramatic meltdown.

      He rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a brat.”

      You grin.

      “Yeah, but I’m your brat.”

      And that, that, is the part that gets him every damn time.

      He’s got a mental checklist of everything that makes you tick. Bubble tea spots with the cute straws. That obnoxious plushie you insisted had “soulful eyes.” Even the overpriced skincare set you cried over in Sephora. Half of it shows up at your door before you even remember to throw a tantrum about it.

      He says it’s damage control.

      But he spoils you rotten like it’s a sport, and every time he’s with the guys he’s like, “Yeah, yeah—she’s a handful. Total brat. But she’s my brat,” with this stupid little smirk like he just scored the winning goal and you’re the trophy.

      You pout.

      He buys.

      Rinse, repeat. Because he loves you, and he’d do anything for you.

[writingjourney]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭

Your betrothal period feels entirely too long. You and Benedict make the most of the wait, especially once you spend your days together at Aubrey Hall. Or: Five times you and Benedict have to restrain yourselves before your wedding and one time you don’t.

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

content: 6.5k words, regency romance, secret meetings, stolen kisses, smut (morning sex, v fingering, p in v), 18+ MDNI

Masterpost – Ao3 Link

───── ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ ─────

1 Closet

“Ben–”

“Shhhhh.”

His mouth closes around your nipple, breasts spilled over your stay that he tugged at desperately mere seconds ago. You tip your head back, fingers tangled in messy brown curls. His tongue draws a soft moan from your lips, the kind you could not hold back if you tried.

Benedict removes himself with a pop and looks up, innocent eyes over pink, kiss-swollen lips. “They are going to hear us!”

His scandalised tone is what lures the giggle from you.

Benedict, alarmed but no less amused, brings a hand up to seal your treacherous lips. “Shhhh!”

An incredulous smile spreads across his face and you tug at his lapels, intent on kissing it away. His weight has you pressed against the shelf behind you, the hard edge biting into your lower back. You moan into his mouth with the combined vigour of pleasure and pain.

Benedict breaks the kiss with some effort, brow furrowed in distress. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“It is too tight in here I rather think,” you bemoan and urge him to switch places with you. He has the height to his advantage. “Besides, we are already betrothed.”

“Betrothed, yes, but not wed.”

You ignore his complaint as you fix your state of undress, then wrap your arms around his neck to remedy the offending distance. A second of hesitation passes before he leans back in and resumes to bruise your lips. You wonder, sometimes, if the passion you share is of concerning strength.

As air becomes scarce he breaks away to attend to your exposed skin. His lips press to the round of your bosom, your clavicle, then softly venture forth to your sensitive neck. He lingers as long as he can get away with, then pauses by your ear. “How long have we been in here?”

“I should think a few more minutes will go unnoticed…” you whisper.

Benedict hums, the sound deep and warm against the shell of your ear. You rake your fingers through his hair and he bites your earlobe in turn. You are moderately concerned for your jewellery but then his nose tickles the inside of your ear. Another giggle escapes you as the tingle runs through your body and leaves you shivering in its wake.

Once again his hand moves to cover your mouth as his eyebrows rise in alarm. The warning look under his enviably long lashes is a sight you have grown rather fond of. The thrill of these stolen moments makes them all the more memorable, rare as they are.

You smile against his fingers before pressing an apologetic kiss to his palm. “I shall endeavour to be quiet from now on.”

His gaze softens with a twitch of his mouth. “One of these days Anthony will have my head…” he whispers before leaning in to kiss you yet again.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

2 Music

The music is unmistakably yours. The practiced tunes lure him from the sweltering heat of the gardens into the cooler corridors of Aubrey Hall where they arrived just yesterday morning. Anthony insisted on hosting the wedding here, of course, and how could Benedict not rejoice at finding himself under the same room as you at last?

He stops, leans against the frame of the open door to the drawing room and drinks you in. The piano is angled away from the open windows, your back turned to him. Bare skin shimmers in the sunlight, diffused by sheer white curtains that stream dreamily in the mild breeze. He follows the line of your shoulders where they rise and fall as your hands dance across the keys, then up the curve of your spine where your neck is exposed under pinned-up hair. The music seems to carry the ease with which you hold yourself.

He notes that your maid is not with you, a sign that the staff is kept busy with wedding preparations. Or perhaps you sent her away as you are prone to do, craving solitude – and opportunities to meet him. Benedict finds himself chasing these moments in which he gets to have you to himself like they’re his sanctuary, so precious that he has to pile them up with care like gemstones in the shrine of his love for you. One day soon he will be able to display them more openly. For now he has to grasp them as they appear.

You only hear him when his steps have reached so close that not even the rugs can muffle them anymore. A few weeks ago you might have been startled by him appearing out of nowhere but by now it is rather natural that he should find you when you are alone. It seems he has a sense for it.

When you look up he is already urging you to scoot over. The double piano bench is rather narrow but you think he might be closing in more than necessary. You’re acutely aware of the press of his thigh against yours.

“Do not let me disturb you, dearest,” he says in the dulcet tone you know means mischief.

“Is your goal not to disturb me, Mr Bridgerton?”

“My goal,” he whispers, leaning in conspiratorially, “is to be closer to the music.”

His breath on your neck does nothing to enhance your ability to focus. The first few notes are not quite rhythmic as a shiver runs through your limbs and down your fingertips. You soon find your footing, however, and the song comes to life in the form of a moderately slow but all the more magical sonata of your own composition. Sheet music is quite expensive and your collection rather limited. To add some variety you recently began to write your own, significantly inspired by Benedict and his artworks.

“Beautiful,” he whispers to himself and you smile as you transition into a faster section of the song that reminds you of fairies frolicking in a meadow, drunk on honeydew and starlight.

However, you soon realise that he did not talk about the music. His hand dances along your back, fingertips drumming over your spine until they come to rest on the swell of your hip on the other side. It is the closest thing to an embrace, his arm a comforting support behind your back. His proximity, if thrilling, does not deter you. Your hands remember exactly what they must do – over a decade of tutoring has left its marks.

Your confidence is short-lived. His hair tickles your ear as he leans in, a soft press of his lips to your shoulder, devoted, sensuous and… lingering. Your fingers slip but for a moment. It is enough to draw the wrong tunes from the instrument, a cacophonous quake that has you wincing in surprise.

“You must stay focused,” Benedict warns, lips still warm on your skin, “or everyone shall hear that you are… rather distracted.”

“How fortunate that I am known for my stable countenance.”

“Hm, yes, that is what they say about you, my darling, “ he whispers. “If only they saw you as I do, falling apart at the mere idea of a kiss.”

You close your eyes and recollect yourself, trying desperately to ignore how he feels against you. Despite his warning he shows no signs of stopping, not even as you resume your play. The next kiss hits the crook of your neck. You feel his nose against your jaw as he inhales your scent, rose oil and soap. For a moment his warm exhale against your throat overshadows the fact that is fingers curl at your hip, a not so innocent squeeze that you feel somewhere between your legs.

You’re aware that both of your families are just outside in the gardens, that the open windows and the steady breeze carry your tunes far out on the premises. Muscle memory serves you and you finish the hardest part of the song without more than one or two off-key notes. Benedict has been silent, lips lingering just below your ear. Just as you move on to the conclusion his mouth gets more insistent, sucking gently at your delicate skin as he gets carried away.

”Benedict,“ you warn. Crooked tunes are one thing, a vivid red kiss mark another.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, pressing tiny kisses along your neck now. “I cannot help it.”

You finish the song with a relieved exhale, wondering if a musical number has ever felt so painfully long before. Benedict has lost his patience, it seems. His free hand comes to rest on your sternum as though he needs to feel the agitated rise and fall of your chest. You only have a moment to relish in the soft feel of his palm on your bosom before he curls his fingers over your jaw and forces your head to turn to him. His kiss is dizzying, starved. He tastes of the strawberries he must have had outside just earlier.

You allow him to kiss you breathless before you remove yourself. He tries to chase after you, as he is wont to do, but a finger on his swollen lips has him halting. His expression rivals that of Newton when he is in want of a treat.

“We must go back outside before they find us,” you say. “It is already suspicious enough that I played off-key the moment you stepped inside.”

“I blame you for being such a flawless musician.”

“I blame you for being such an irresistible distraction. Now come on, my darling, I am suddenly in want of some sweet strawberries.”

He sighs woefully and you cannot help but kiss the pout from his face.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

3 Painting

You see the corgi’s bottom disappear around the corner. The Viscountess runs after him to retrieve the pall mall ball he stole from the lawn, her mallet swinging from her side as the heated game between her, Anthony, Colin and some of your own relatives is interrupted. The laughter of little children accompanies your every step as you and Eloise take a turn about the house, exerting your legs for a stroll after the small luncheon you had earlier.

Perhaps mere intuition. You glance up to one of the windows upstairs just as it gets pushed open. The rolled up white sleeve and bare forearm disappear from view and you have to resort to using your parasol to hide the direction of your gaze as it lingers long after. A purposely given sign or mere coincidence, you are eager to find out.

“Excuse me, Eloise, I would like to… cool down inside for a moment,” you lie. “I am running quite hot in the sun.”

“Ah, yes, cool down,” she murmurs. “I am sure it is not at all because you cannot bear to spend even a minute without my insolent brother.”

She waves you off, her words mere teasing. You have no doubt she is rather glad to return to her books instead of parading around with you.

Thanks to the many diversions offered in the gardens you manage to slip back inside mostly unnoticed. Aubrey Hall, as grand as it is, is still more of a maze to you than a house and you wander around for longer than expected. A waste of your time with Benedict, certainly, but the manor more than makes up for it in beauty and family history at every turn.

When you reach the right corridor, you note that one of the doors stands ajar. With the window open you can feel the soft breeze carrying you towards the room, the mildly chemical smell of paint assuring you that you are correct.

Benedict is busy. He is seated on a wooden stool, wearing nothing but his ruffled white shirt, the collar open wide to reveal most of his chest, suspenders sitting somewhat tight on his shoulders as he moves his brush across the canvas like it’s his sole purpose in life. Your stomach warms at the sight.

Everything he does inspires love, the way he holds the brush, the way his face is scrunched up in concentration, lips slightly parted and tongue wetting the corners of his mouth. When he spots you by the door his expression morphs into the crooked smile that never fails to have your heart aflutter.

“Do not let me disturb you, dearest,” you echo and he cocks his head to the side.

“Is your goal not to disturb me, Mrs Bridgerton?”

“Not my name quite yet,” you correct. “Though I do rather like the sound of it.”

“Hm. So do I.”

He picks up more paint with his brush and you approach the easel, watching him work. The subject is a still life, for lack of better choices you assume. The fruit in the small basket has seen better days, though he omits the putrid details in his painting.

“I should have you sit for me,” he comments, noticing your doubtful gaze. “That way I might not get as much painting done but at least I would have something worthwhile to look at.”

“If we were to be left alone in a room for hours I doubt you would get any painting done.”

He chuckles, depositing some more of the red paint on the cheek of an apple. “Are they all distracted outside, then?”

“Mhm, your brother is busy ruining my family at pall mall,” you say. “He should give them a chance at winning or they might call off the engagement after all.”

“Are they quite ambitious?”

“Not as much as your brother and the Viscountess, I daresay.”

He sets his palette down to give you his undivided attention but before he can stand and seize control you’ve already wrapped your arms around his neck from behind. Without his waistcoat there is hardly a barrier between you now, the thin shirt allowing you to properly feel his shape underneath as you press against his back. Your lips find his cheek, your hands the opening of fabric at his shirt and you can’t help but pull at your gloves, desperate to feel his skin. The moment your warm palms connect with his chest the brush slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

“You must stay focus, remember?” you tease.

“What if I don’t want to?” he whispers, suddenly breathless.

“Then you can focus on me instead.”

He does. You crave more room so you slowly run your fingers up his suspenders and let them slip from his shoulders, one by one, until you can open his shirt even wider. You admire his bare torso, the freckles that litter his body like stars in a pale night sky, soft hair and even softer skin.

The kisses you press to his neck and shoulder are nothing short of reverent, the muse admiring the artist. Benedict gives you full access, one hand gently resting on your wrist and the other in his lap. Braver now, you run your thumb over his nipple and the deep moan he releases is nothing if not obscene. You smile to yourself, repeating the movement to which he reacts by letting his head fall back against your shoulder. His hand reaches for his knee in a tight grip.

“You are certain everyone is occupied outside?” he asks, voice strained.

“It seemed so,” you reply. “Though, if you keep making these noises, they will hear you through the open window and knowing your brother he will sense my presence up here.”

“Hm perhaps Anthony will challenge me to a duel if he finds us.”

“Don’t even joke about that. Besides, he would have to challenge me to a duel since I am currently dishonouring you.”

“And whatever would you duel in? Who can vex me more?”

“Do I vex you, dear?”

“You do, s-so much. Ah.”

“And how so?”

“Do you really have to ask, you little temptress? How am I expected to wait another week?”

His patience has run thin. Before you can react he has swivelled around. Two broad hands grab at your hips and he pulls you into his lap with a fluent turn of his upper body. The stool wobbles precariously under your combined weight but somehow, miraculously, Benedict manages to balance it out. His thumb feels wet when he swipes it over your cheekbone, drawing you in for a proper kiss.

Benedict has a tendency of getting carried away when you’re alone. You slow him down with a tug at his unruly hair. His tongue swipes across your lips and you allow him to lick against yours for but a moment. Somewhere in the back of your mind, prudence and common sense battle with the unhinged desire that his touch provokes at all times. You pull away with a regretful sigh.

“Do not think I am handling this any better than you,” you whisper.

His lust-filled expression has you doubting your own sanity. You are close to losing your composure at the way his lips curl in discontent when a childlike squeal outside reminds you that you are in fact not the only two people in the world. Benedict reluctantly eases his grip on you and you manage a safe distance.

“I shall let you get back to your painting,” you say. “I expect someone will be looking for me soon.”

“I will join you outside in a moment.”

You smile and make for the door before your senses leave you yet again. The corridor feels violently empty without his presence but you are not yet around the nearest corner when you are met with the broad frame of another Bridgerton. Anthony spots you with an expression that borders on disapproval but carries the same hint of perpetual fondness he cannot shake ever since marrying his wife.

“Has your… game ended, my lord?” you ask, trying to appear innocent.

“Hm, I see yours has as well. You should… wash your face.” He gestures to your cheek with a raised brow, brisk steps carrying him past you. “And I shall have a word with my dear brother.”

When you bring your fingers to your face you are met with the wet texture of undried oil paint, apple-red. You notice another stain by your hip soon after, fingerprint-shaped no less. Even though you will have to change into a different dress now you can’t bring yourself to regret your impromptu visit, not when Benedict’s taste still lingers on your lips. The shouting from the other room stays out so you assume his brother found mercy on him as well. No duel today after all.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

4 Picnic

The weather is most pleasant as you traverse the vivid green meadows with Benedict by your side, hand placed securely in the crook of his arm. It was decided that two days before the wedding the whole party would embark on a picnic to enjoy the outdoors. The chosen destination is a nearby lake and while the servants set up the location you are all taking an extensive walk across the countryside to see more of the surrounding lands of the Bridgerton’s ancestral home.

The walk is short in distance but with both of your family’s making the trip it is a rather time-consuming endeavour. Your relatives have decided to inspect every single tree and field on the way, complimenting the Viscount and his mother on the beautiful piece of land his family calls their home. The smaller children are meanwhile distracted by pebbles, sticks and the odd insect that crosses their path, particularly intrigued by the colourful butterflies that flutter excitedly over a plethora of blossoming weeds and flowers and refuse to be caught by their eager little hands.

You and Benedict use the time to focus on each other. You have fallen back just enough to speak freely and you count the amount of love-sick smiles you receive every time he lures a giggle from you. He is adorable when he’s with others, more adorable still when he is with you.

By the time you reach the lake you are at twelve smiles. The set-up is too lovely and serene, a shame to be disrupted by two dozen people swarming to it for refreshments. In the shade of high broadleafs and so close to the water the heat is much more bearable.

“Benedict, fetch your betrothed a lemonade, will you?”

You find Violet, as you are now allowed to call her, with her hand reaching for your gloved elbow. Benedict and her exchange looks that speak of their intimate knowledge of the other’s thoughts, his challenging and hers that of a mother who has to remind her son of his manners. You fight off a smile as he excuses himself. He never likes to leave you alone with his family.

“Will you sit with me, dear?” Violet asks. “It is rather difficult to catch either of you alone these days.”

“Forgive me, I know we are toying the line of propriety by spending so much time together already–”

“Oh, nonsense! I am sure neither Anthony nor your family mind. In fact we are rather excited to see you getting along so well.” She leads you to one of the blankets by the side of the picnic arrangements, littered with pillows of sky-blue embroidery that invite you to rest. “You must know that a love match is all I ever wanted for dear Benedict.”

You do your best to find a graceful sitting position on the uneven terrain, keeping your latest encounter with Anthony to yourself. “I daresay it is rare to find a love that is so genuine.”

She smiles at you, a motherly smile that is all the proof you need that you have long since been accepted into the family. “I am inclined to agree, my dear. It is rare indeed.”

For a moment you sit in comfortable silence as the breeze sweeps through the clearing, leafy-green canopy swaying and rustling to the rhythm of the cooling wind. You spot several ducks gliding across the lake, some more sitting in the gras by the shore. It is idyllic. If a life with Benedict means spending more time in this part of the country you know you will spend many a happy summer with him.

When you focus back on the party you notice your betrothed approaching the scene with a somewhat hesitant smile, still adorable in its crookedness. A reassuring look is exchanged and he slowly lowers himself to your level, hands occupied with refreshments.

“I shall take my leave,” Violet says. “I hear Daphne and sweet Augie require my presence.”

You are certain that they are alright on their own but you will not miss an opportunity to be alone with Benedict if she offers it so willingly. Once she is out of sight Benedict hands you the lemonade. The first sip is just what you need after the walk.

“And… since you are so fond of strawberries,” he says, “I secured you the last few before the children get their hands on them.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

He smiles genuinely now and you lean a bit closer. A comfortable silence settles between you, even though the party more than makes up for it in noise. The strawberries are sweet as they only come in June, picked ripe and fat with juice, staining your gloves red at your fingertips. You care not. Not when Benedict secured them for you, not when his eyes are fixed on your mouth with every bite you take as though he envies them every sinking of your teeth.

You offer him one but instead of taking it he leans in and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, sucking the juice from your lips.

“Ben–” you warn.

“Shhh.”

Another kiss before he pulls away. You glance around nervously but everyone seems too occupied to notice. On the blanket you place your hand next to his and toy with the ring on his pinkie, hooking your finger in his bigger one. Benedict looks at the strawberry still in your hand, then back to your eyes, a honey-sweet smile gracing his lips.

“Perhaps I would like one after all,” he says, “now that I know how delicious they are.”

He is a tease but you lift the fruit anyway, holding it up to his mouth. He takes his time to take a bite, eyes intensely glued to yours. Perhaps you are too far gone to care, perhaps it’s the way he commands all of your attention with a mere look, but the world around you blurs into nothingness. It is unfair, you think, how every freckle and dimple you discover on his face makes him even more beautiful.

As he swallows you finally notice a few pairs of eyes on you. Heated cheeks have you sitting back, covering the worst with a press of the back of your hand. But before you can compromise yourself any further one of the children squeals in terror and the whole party shifts their focus to sweet Augie who has got too close to one of the ducks. The bird has spread its wings to run to safety, quacking in sudden irritation. The other ducks follow swiftly and soon the whole swarm flutters back to the lake in a whirlwind of feathers and chatter.

You use the distraction to grin at Benedict. His eyes are fixated on you as though the turmoil around you is of no significance to him, a soft, affectionate expression no doubt prompted by your flush. You dare to lean in once more, kissing the sweet strawberry juice form his lips. He looks down to your intertwined fingers, removing his in favour of fully grasping your hand.

You cannot bring yourself to care what it looks like to anyone else as you both let yourself fall back into the pillows, watching the fluffy white clouds travelling across the sky.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

5 Night

A sudden bang like thunder has you shooting bolt upright in bed. You are momentarily confused, the room not as familiar as your own quite yet. Bright moonlight, blue sheets, sheer curtains. Aubrey Hall.

It is the night before the wedding.

You can’t remember falling asleep, only the anxiety that kept you up all evening. Another, quieter bang and you realise that it is your door. Not a knock though. It sounds like someone is using their entire body to get it to open.

You think the whole house must have woken up but beside the ruckus at the entrance to your bedroom everything is eerily quiet. You’re entirely too trusting. Perhaps bringing a makeshift weapon would have been helpful but you approach the door in just your nightgown, barefoot, empty hands. Intruders would attempt to be quiet, would they not?

You are met with Benedict tumbling straight into you. His body is heavy with the lack of his own coordination to support it and you struggle to hold him upright. He recovers before you can fall, stemming a hand against the doorframe.

“Whatever are you doing here?” you yell-whisper, sleep still clinging to you in such a way that it seems absurd and almost dreamlike to find him in your room.

Benedict giggles. He does not laugh, he giggles. “I am here to see you, of course.”

His lull is evident and reality clicks into place. “I believe you are quite drunk!”

“I believe I am quite in love,” he corrects. “And is that not the same thing?”

Suddenly you feel very bare in your sheer, lace-trimmed nightgown with your hair undone and face still crusted with sleep. Benedict is hardly noticing your state, half-leaning on your shoulder, half-leaning in the doorframe. He smells of liquor and smoke.

“Where are you coming from?” you ask, trying to steady him with your hands. He is falling against you again, though you suppose he is doing it to be closer now and not for lack of balance.

“Spent the night with my bro‘ers,” he explains. “A ugh… tradition.”

“Getting drunk the night before our wedding? You are going to feel awful tomorrow!”

“I am not that drunk,” he argues, though his pupils appear wide in the relative darkness of the room. “Just enough to… calm the nerves. Now, do I get my goodnight kiss, pretty please?”

“You are too drunk for a kiss,” you argue, even though his exaggerated pout is rather convincing.

“I am not that drunk, love, I swear.”

“Too drunk to know that you should not be here. Have you lost your mind?”

Another pout, this time, unfairly so, combined with that pleading tone you can never resist. “I had to see you. Make sure you’re… still here.”

His words confuse you more than they enlighten you and you know that the noise combined with your talking might wake someone else any moment now. You cannot draw attention to the rather compromising position you find yourself in, no matter how soon the wedding takes place – if only to save face in front of your relatives.

He may not be too drunk to walk but his unsteadiness is concerning you enough to make an impromptu decision. “Let me take you to bed.”

He giggles again, clearly misunderstanding, and rubs his nose against your cheek. You stop, returning the clumsy embrace you find yourself in. He continues to nuzzle, inhaling deeply in a way that tickles your neck in all the sensitive spots and his hands wrap so tightly around you that he squeezes the very air from your lungs. Your heart swells. Being in his arms unties every tense knot in your body. It is the home you never knew you were missing.

“Oh Benedict,” you whisper, “whatever have you done to me?”

“To bed, hm?”

You gently push him off of you. “Yes, but not mine.”

He grunts but his complaints stay silent as you usher him back into the hallway. You can tell he is more coordinated now but when he uses you as his crutch you allow it anyway. To your dismay, you realise that it is going to take you forever to get to his room. His pace is sluggish, multiple times you have to shush him and he refuses to walk without touching you in some shape or form.

By the time you finally arrive at his bedroom, you are not sure if you’re sleepwalking or actually awake, the sudden rush of excitement upon waking up now slowly catching up with you. It is sheer luck that you enter without anyone taking notice. Benedict exhales a loud yawn that rivals the roar of a lion. You use the opportunity to undress him.

Perhaps it is for the greater good that you do not get further than his waistcoat. He rather suddenly drops himself onto his bed and drags you right with him. The impact has you tumbling across his body, landing in the soft sheets and pillows that are as yet untouched. Benedict pulls you close, eyes half-lidded and heavy. His hands roam your body but it is not sexual at all. He follows your curves as though it is the natural thing to do and with only your nightgown covering your skin his hands feel closer, warmer than ever. You raise a hand to brush back his curly hair, tracing the tired lines of his face, connecting each freckle like the stars in a constellation of your own making.

You think he must be falling asleep, lulled by your gentle caress, but then he suddenly furrows his brow. His eyes find yours as though he suddenly remembered something important.

“You won’t say no, will you?” he asks. “Leave me standing by the altar a fool?”

You smooth out the crease on his forehead. “Are you truly afraid that I would?”

“You must admit… this all rather feels like a dream.” His hand stops at the dip of your waist, resting in the natural valley underneath your ribcage. “A part of me is still waiting for the painful morning after when I wake up and realise that none of it was real.”

“It is real, so very real, Benedict.” You smile, reassuring him. “Though I daresay it is natural to be nervous the night before your wedding. Is this why you came to my room?”

He ignores you, fingers denting your flesh in insistence. “Tell me that you will say yes. Promise me.”

“Of course I will. I promise. There is nothing I want more than to marry you.”

He seems satisfied, eyes falling closed again. His lashes tickle his reddened cheeks. They feel hot underneath your thumb as you smooth it over his skin and you hope he won’t feel too exhausted tomorrow. Even now he is so very beautiful, so lovely, so yours.

“Don’t be scared, please,” you whisper, and then, because it feels right, “I love you.”

His eyes blink back open, the words, so explicit, a novum between the two of you. Your reward is the crooked smile you so adore and he presses his forehead to yours. “I love you.”

You decide that he earned his good night kiss now. It is soft, unexcited, but it lingers and he does his best to kiss back. You note a bitter hint to his taste but it does not bother you. When you break away Benedict is practically asleep and by the time you finally control your love-sick smile you can hear his quiet snores.

You slip from his bed on the empty side and bring your hands to your lips, touching them as though you just kissed him for the very first time. The way back to your room feels like a dream in itself. But you know, you are so perfectly sure, that you will wake up to the happiest day of your life.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

+1 Wed

Mornings start with a soft press of his lips to your shoulder.

No matter which position you find yourself waking up in, it is always the first thing you feel. The kiss is so soft that it tickles and you can never pretend that you are asleep for much longer. Benedict won’t let you because the first kiss is always followed by another and another and another. So many kisses that you can’t hold back your giggles, not when he reaches the ticklish spot by your ear.

You think it is the very reason he does it.

A heavy freckled arm wraps around your front, dragging you across the mattress until you are met with the solid chest of your husband. He is warm against your back, familiar, welcome.

Benedict hums, a hand closing around your breast and squeezing. His lips return to your neck but they are less soft now. If you do not pay attention you have to walk around with your silk scarf again. Paying attention, however, is hampered by his other hand sneaking down your belly and dipping between your legs.

“Good morning,” he whispers, “my beautiful wife.”

“Good morning,” you echo, still quite hazy with sleep.

The bright light streaming in through the curtained windows tells you it is rather late already. However, your eyes flutter closed the moment his fingers slide between your folds. He rubs you gently, waking up your body with the tingles of carefully built pleasure. You can feel his hips shifting forward as well, his cock growing hard against the small of your back, and suddenly getting up is the last thing on your mind.

By now you are customarily late for breakfast.

For the past few days he has done nothing but explore the previously unknown land that is your body, map out its hills and valleys and find the sweetest spots to linger. No matter how much information you thought you had clandestinely gathered, nothing truly prepared you for what it means to love someone, to lean into your passions so freely. But then perhaps Benedict makes it easy.

You gasp when his finger probes further down, slipping into you effortlessly. He adds a second digit soon after. Even so he remains unhurried, taking his time to gift you the sweetest strokes, the gradual build-up of warmth and desire you now know is the most rewarding. The rhythm of your bodies is slow like a dance to one of your ballads but soon your moans grow louder and you roll your hips into his hand with impatience. Your peak draws near and his other hand knowingly rolls your nipple between his fingers, lips pressed firmly to your neck. The touch is enough to take you to the release you so crave. You keen and shiver in his arms as it tears through you, one hand grasping at his biceps and the other buried in the sheets.

“Ben–” you whisper and he chuckles at your breathless voice.

It is evident that he enjoys showing you how good he can make you feel. That it pleases him to worship you whenever an opportunity arises. Mornings in bed are drawn-out, nights short and sleepless, slow hours during the day filled with spying for empty rooms and available surfaces. You wonder if you could extend your honeymoon indefinitely, to spend your days like this forever.

Benedict gives you a mere moment to breathe before his hand releases your breast and cradles your cheek instead. He gently turns your head, thumb pressed to the tender underside of your jaw, and then his lips descent with an impatient hunger. You bury your hand in his soft hair, one of your favourite things to do, and he groans when you tug at his strands. His body has become familiar to you as well, your own map of him ever-expanding.

Slow as your mornings begin, they quickly turn sensual and needy. His other hand grabs your thigh and opens you for him, spreading you apart. You can feel his cock hard against your wet cunt, an anticipatory whimper leaving your throat. Benedict slowly pushes into you, making sure to avoid any discomfort you might feel before he finds a more satisfying pace. Your limbs are still tangled in the sheets, every movement bringing forth a symphony of rustling of fabric and the rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin.

Kisses deepen, lips swell and your bodies move in practiced sync. You feel the warm tingles spreading into every corner of your insides, his softer moans and your higher ones drowning out the world around you until all you know is him. You are still tender and when you come the pleasure feels like liquid fire in your veins. You hiccup as he picks up his pace with you still tight around him, prolonging the sensation. Then he rather suddenly stills, smothering a deep moan with an uncoordinated kiss. You feel his release warm inside of you and smile.

As the world comes back into view, you begin to stroke his hair and lace your fingers with his. He laughs, satisfied, then kisses you again with less insistence. His arm once again wraps around your middle, pulling you close while his lips stay firmly planted on yours. His chest is damp and your own body feels hot as well. You’re grateful for cool sheets and silken pillows.

“I don’t think we should rise today,” you decide, eyeing the window.

“Mhm, I don’t think we should either.”

───── ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ ─────

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

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[4linos]

the apology in crayon

bang chan x fem!reader

synopsis: after a silent anniversary, chan makes a small but meaningful gesture, and their daughter’s drawings help restore love and understanding.

wc: 884

Silence weighed heavily on the night. It was the kind of silence that, despite the fact that neither of you had said much, spoke volumes. Despite all of your attempts to keep yourself calm, you had that usual feeling of regret when your phone alerted you to your fifth wedding anniversary and you realized that Chan had once again been distracted with work. Every time, even if it wasn't the first time, it hurt. Unable to ignore the pain that was rising in your chest, you had softly crept into bed. The coldness of the pillow next to you spoke louder than words tonight, and you lacked the energy for a confrontation.

Chan hadn’t said anything either. No "Happy Anniversary," no sweet words, no recognition. As the hours passed, there was only the slight sound of him tapping on his laptop in the living room. Although it was more painful than you had anticipated, it wasn't as if you hadn't anticipated it. You had tried to be patient, but work had taken up all of his attention for weeks. However, that didn't make things any simpler. So you turned your back on him and went to bed without saying anything, falling into a heavy, hollow sleep.

You woke up the following morning to the sound of gentle laughter. You opened your eyes to find your 4-year-old daughter standing next to the bed, her tiny face gleaming with delight. She had a stack of carefully drawn art that had been scratched with crayons. "Mommy! Look, look!” She gave you a drawing and exclaimed in a cheerful voice. "This is for you!" Still feeling a little dazed, you sat up and rubbed your eyes. They were only stick figures of her, Chan, and you. There were smiley pictures and hearts, and you could barely make out the words, "Daddy is sorry," in her still shaky handwriting.

You blinked as you became aware of what was happening, the haze of sleep fading. With a guilty expression on his face and sleep-puffed eyes, Chan peeked at the doorway. "Hey," he said quietly as he moved closer, his hands twitching at his sides. "I—"

Your daughter pulled at your sleeve before he could continue. "Mommy!” She smiled up at him and chirped, "Daddy says sorry!" He lowered himself to her level and ran his fingers through her disheveled hair as Chan's eyes softened.

"I do," he murmured in a hushed tone that was full of the remorse you hadn't heard the previous evening. "Baby, I truly apologize for forgetting. I didn't even understand how badly I had hurt Mommy because I was so busy with my work.” For the first time in a long time, there was no sign of worry or preoccupation when his eyes met yours. Just being genuine. Even though the disappointment from the previous night was still heavy, you could feel your heart lighten. Even if it wasn't the extravagant gesture you had hoped for, it was impossible to remain upset when you saw your daughter's helpless face and the drawings she had created.

Just then, you noticed the soft flickering light coming from the dining room. Chan had set up a candlelit breakfast on the table—a simple but thoughtful attempt to make up for his mistake. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was clear that he’d put in effort, just as much as your daughter had with her drawings. He held out his hand toward you.

"Will you join us for breakfast?" His eyes were filled with hope and remorse as he asked quietly. You inhaled while suppressing a smile. You tried to seem serious when you added, "You really should've remembered last night," but it was difficult to maintain the act because of the warmth in your chest. “But thank you for this. Yes, I will.” Eager to follow, your daughter pulled at your hand once more. "Mommy, hurry up! Come have some food!

You nod and get to your feet, kissing her on top of her head. You said, "All right, let's go," after following her and turning to face Chan. "We'll talk about it later." Your favorite food—nothing excessive, just the kind of hearty meal that made you feel at home—was on the table when you walked into the dining room.

The room was softly lit by the candles, and your daughter's big eyes were dancing with the light. Sitting across from you as you started to eat, Chan repeated again in a firm voice, "I'm really sorry." "I'll make sure I don't let this kind of thing happen again."

You looked at him for a while, the memories of the night before still vivid, but you realized that sometimes apologies take unexpected shapes after witnessing the effort he made this morning and your daughter's sincere attempts to make things right.

"Thank you," you replied quietly as you looked him in the eye. "We're alright."

And the tension of the previous evening started to fade as the three of you sat together and laughed at your daughter's silly stories about her attempts at drawing. The fact that it wasn't about lavish celebrations or flawless anniversaries was more important now. As usual, it was about the small things that restored the sense of balance and the straightforward affection that filled the space.

—

nini’s notes 111724

happy sunday! i hope you’re having a good weekend 😊👍 here’s some dad!skz ..

asks are always open if you have a question, concern, or request!

-🎀

[aspenmissing]

ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪᴏɴ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜱᴘɪᴄʏ || 1341 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴘɪᴄʏ, ᴍᴀᴋᴇᴏᴜᴛ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴅɪᴍʟʏ ʟɪᴛ ᴏꜰꜰɪᴄᴇ, ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴇꜱᴄᴀʟᴀᴛᴇꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴀꜱ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ ʙᴜɪʟᴅꜱ, ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ ᴘᴜꜱʜᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴇꜱᴋ, ɪɢɴɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ, ʀᴀᴡ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴜɴᴅᴇɴɪᴀʙʟᴇ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

The dim light from Silco’s office flickered as the rain poured relentlessly outside, casting soft shadows across the room. The air in Zaun was thick with both moisture and the weight of the past few days. You had been working late, just as you always did. Silco’s operations required constant attention, and there was no room for mistakes—not in his world, where loyalty was both a weapon and a currency.

You had grown used to the silence that dominated his office, the only sound the occasional clink of a glass or the rustling of papers. Silco was no stranger to solitude, but tonight something felt different. It was as if the very air around him crackled with an unspoken intensity.

You stood by the desk, eyes tracing the sharp angles of his face. Silco was a man of precision, both in his actions and his words. There was something about the way he carried himself—his posture, the coldness in his gaze—that made him seem untouchable. Yet, beneath it all, you could see the flickers of something raw. Something you couldn’t quite place, but something you longed to understand.

“Is something on your mind?” Silco’s voice broke through the stillness, smooth and commanding. His eyes never left his work, but you knew he was aware of your every move.

“Just wondering how long you plan on burying yourself in work tonight,” you replied, your tone light, but there was an edge to it—an unspoken challenge.

Silco’s lips curled into the slightest of smiles, the kind of smile that promised danger and pleasure in equal measure. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wooden surface. “I don’t bury myself in work, Y/N,” he said, his voice lowering ever so slightly. “I embrace it. It’s the only thing that keeps this place standing.”

You could hear the bitterness in his words, but there was also something else—a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface. It stirred something within you, but you kept it buried, hidden beneath layers of indifference.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, and the tension thickened, hanging heavy in the air like a storm about to break. You could feel it, just beneath the surface—the electric pull between you two. The way his eyes, dark and intense, seemed to study you, taking in every detail, every shift of your posture.

“You’re not one for small talk, are you?” you finally said, leaning against the desk, arms crossed. You could feel his gaze on you, but you refused to let it unnerve you.

“Small talk is a waste of time,” Silco replied, his voice a soft growl, a sound that seemed to reverberate in your chest. “But you, Y/N... you intrigue me.”

Your pulse quickened, and despite your best efforts to remain composed, you couldn’t help but react. You pushed yourself off the desk and moved toward the window, the sound of the rain growing louder as you stared out at the dark streets of Zaun. You could feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze pressing against your back like an invisible hand.

“You think you understand me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, but Silco’s hearing was sharp. His steps were quiet as he approached, his presence a constant pull, drawing you back toward him.

“I don’t need to understand you completely,” he said, his voice just behind you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body despite the distance. “I just need to know you’re mine.”

The words hung in the air between you like a challenge, a promise, and a threat all at once. You turned slowly, meeting his eyes, and in that moment, everything shifted. The tension that had been building for so long was finally palpable, crackling in the air around you.

You didn’t respond immediately, instead taking a step closer to him, your breath quickening. Silco’s eyes narrowed, studying you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. You were close enough now to feel the warmth radiating off him, the tension between you both almost unbearable.

“Is that what you want, Silco?” you asked, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside. “For me to be yours?”

Silco didn’t speak, but the way his gaze flickered to your lips and then back to your eyes said everything. You could see the conflict in him—the part of him that wanted to control, to dominate, and the part of him that was, perhaps, just as desperate for connection as you were.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek. The touch was almost tender, but there was something darker behind it. Something that promised far more than just a fleeting moment of affection.

“I don’t want your submission,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “I want you to want this as much as I do.”

Your heart raced, your breath catching in your throat. There was something dangerous about the way he spoke, something that ignited a fire deep within you. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he held himself, the way he made you feel both vulnerable and powerful at the same time.

For a moment, you thought about stepping back, about maintaining control and pushing him away. But something inside you wanted to let go. Something inside you wanted to dive into the darkness with him, to explore whatever this was between you two, even if it scared you.

Before you could speak, Silco’s hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you closer with a gentle yet firm tug. His lips brushed against yours, soft at first, testing the waters. You hesitated for only a moment before responding, your lips parting to meet his, the kiss deepening with a hunger that surprised you both.

It was as if a dam had broken. Silco’s other hand moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him. His body was solid, warm, and the moment he felt the press of your chest against his, he was lost. In one swift motion, he shoved you back onto the desk, the force surprising you, but the roughness only ignited the tension that had been simmering between you for weeks.

Your breath caught as the edge of the desk dug into your back, and Silco was right there, his eyes dark with hunger. You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, feel the subtle shake in his hands as he fought to maintain control.

“Careful, Silco,” you warned, your voice hushed, but the thrill of the situation was too intoxicating. His hand moved from your waist to your throat, but instead of constricting, it merely rested there, a gentle reminder of his power.

“I’ll never be careful with you,” he rasped, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Not when you’re this close.”

You could feel the desperation in his words, the rawness in his touch. It was more than physical. It was an unspoken need between you two, something that transcended the world you lived in. The moment was brief but intense, the tension hanging thick in the air.

Silco leaned in, his lips hovering over yours, the intensity of the moment almost unbearable. His eyes searched yours for something—permission, perhaps. Or maybe an acknowledgment of the raw, chaotic attraction that had pulled you both into this moment.

But before either of you could speak again, Silco closed the distance between you. His kiss was insistent now, his hands gripping the desk on either side of you as he pulled you deeper into the embrace. There was no turning back from this, no running from the desire that surged between you like wildfire.

And in that moment, as you gave yourself to him fully, you knew this connection, this spark, was only the beginning. The game had changed, and neither of you would ever be the same again.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Imagine yet another scenario with the Player being a parental figure to Doey or specifically, the three kids that make up Doey ( Matthew, Kevin and Jack ). The Player just being an absolutely doting parent with as much affection and attention the kids want 🥹🫂

This ask reminds me of these drawings by leydraw. If you have the time, maybe check it out! Also, this takes place while the Player is still in the factory.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Mathew, Kevin and Jack & parental Player

★ You want to give them all the hugs, so you do. Matthew might act like he’s too "grown-up" for being babied, but don't be fooled. He adores every moment of it. Kevis is shyer and still unsure of you, if you try to touch him, he might get upset. So good luck there. But Jack? He soaks up every bit of love the Player has.

★ He finds some scraps of food? "Oh, good job! It's very kind of you to think about others." You say. Patting Doey on the back for his efforts. Every little accomplishment is met with praise. Because sometimes It's the little things that matter.

★ The Player’s soft spot for Doey quickly grows into a bond. Over time, Doey’s guard lowers. Though he’s naturally self-reliant, he starts to see the Player as someone who he can ask for help. Each time you tell him you're there for him, he believes you a little more.

★ After seeing everything he does for the Safe Haven, you make the decision to step up and help. He shouldn't need to take care of everyone by himself. Not anymore. So, you start to clean up the rooms whenever Doey isn't looking.

★ He sees cleaning the Safe Haven as "his job" and feels guilty if you do it for him. If he catches the Player tidying up without him, he’s immediately defensive. “Hey, that’s my job! You don’t have to do that!” Panicking ever so slightly.

★ Jack loved you from the beginning. From the first time the Player showed him kindness, he was attached. And he’s not afraid to show his need for attention, saying things like, “Can I sit with you?” or “Look what I found! Isn’t it cool?” Whenever Jack feels scared, he holds your hand.

★ Whenever the player tells Jack about the world outside the factory, his imagination runs wild. Thinking about all the animals, food and places he has vague memories of. “I think... I remember the smell of pancakes, what real?” he asks softly. Unsure what memories are his.

★ Mathew warmed up to you after Jack. Even as Jack ran up to the Player with open arms, Matthew hangs back, watching from a distance. Still wondering if the Player’s kindness is genuine or just an act. Over time he begins to realize that you genuinely care. If you hadn't, why would you have stayed?

★ Despite acting older than he really is, Mathew still wants the Players attention. He tries very hard to present himself as the mature one. But you know better. A simple “Good job, Matthew!” can make his day, even if he just responds with “Oh! Um, thanks.”

★ Kevin is the last to accept you. He didn't like you at all, because you were an employee. But the more the care you show, the more Kevin lets down his guard. He doesn't even realize how much he likes you until he finds himself feeling jealous over Jack and Mathew.

★ “Maybe they’re not all bad,” he begrudgingly admits to himself. Kevin might not openly seek the Player’s attention, but his actions speak louder than words. He starts lingering nearby, pretending to focus on something else but clearly hoping they’ll include him.

★The first time Kevin lets the Player hug him, it's after a particularly rough day. He approached you looking for support. Grabbing onto your shirt and refusing to look in your eyes. Though he’s initially stiff, he slowly relaxes into the embrace. Finally, allowing himself to trust you.

[dismalflo]

dinner to stay!

sirius black x reader ✩ 2.1k words

summary: dates with a particular barista have been going exceptionally well. tonight, Sirius is determined to cook dinner for you.

coffee to go! (part 1)

cw: barista!sirius, fluff, alcohol, little bit of awkward n nervous reader

an: all i thought about while writing is the phase of a relationship where domesticity is all new and fun and sweet.

Sirius—the barista who made you dumb—has taken you on a few dates now.

The first was coffee, naturally. He picked a quiet spot tucked away from the bustle, one he'd deliberately chosen because it wasn’t somewhere he’d ever worked before—which, as it turns out, rules out a surprising number of cafés in the city. He made a joke about being a “former coffee mercenary” as he slid your drink across the table, fingers brushing yours just a little too long. You pretended not to notice. Or maybe you didn’t pretend very well.

The second was the art museum, where you drifted together through tall, echoing halls and laughed quietly in the corners of exhibits no one else cared about. That turned into a long walk through the city as the sun sank lower, painting everything gold. Shoulders brushing, and when your hands bumped once, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

Then there was dinner. The kind where you both forgot what time it was until the restaurant started dimming the lights and wiping down tables. You left only because you wanted to keep talking, feet wandering nowhere in particular until you found yourselves tucked into the corner booth of a dimly lit bar, music playing just loud enough to let your conversation slip into something softer, closer. Neither of you really wanted to leave.

Each night has lingered longer than the last. Not on purpose, not exactly. Just a pattern you’ve both fallen into, stretching the time like taffy—one more street to walk, one more drink, one more story. An excuse to stay just a little bit longer.

So when he asked—grinning, eyes lazy and knowing—if he could cook you dinner, you said yes before he even finished the sentence.

He’s sweet. Ridiculously so. The kind of sweet that sneaks up on you, folded between his sharp jokes and even sharper cheekbones. He’s kind, too—gentle in the way he listens, thoughtful in ways he doesn’t draw attention to. And unfairly handsome. But beneath all that, he’s a gentleman, through and through.

Except when he isn’t.

Like when he claims he meant to call your mum, not you.

So when he opens the door barely five seconds after you knock, you already know what’s coming.

“Fuck,” he groans, and the corner of your mouth twitches, betraying the grin you’re trying to hold back. “I thought you were your mum.”

“I know,” you sigh, mock-disappointed. “She’s busy with her other boytoy, so she sent me instead.”

He guffaws, already tugging you inside and into a hug. “Oh, you’ve got jokes now? I miss when that kind of talk made you all flustered.”

“You’re too predictable for your own good, Sirius.”

He ushers you in with a grin that’s more boyish than smug. And then—too casually—a kiss is dropped to your cheek. Just a whisper of lips. Barely there. But your heart stutters anyway, completely ignoring your best efforts to play it cool.

“You look lovely, poppet.”

It’s sweet. Too sweet. The kind of compliment that should feel smooth, effortless—but from him, it lands somewhere between disarming and dangerous. You're still learning how to navigate this version of Sirius—the soft-spoken flirt who says things like that and means them. Or maybe he doesn’t. You’re not entirely sure yet.

What you are sure of is that it's becoming comfortable, but even so, you linger in the doorway to the kitchen unsure of what to do or where to place yourself, where you are and aren’t allowed to look. It feels a little like you’re intruding, despite the fact that Sirius’ invite was as enthusiastic as you’ve ever seen him. 

Your eyes follow him as he moves around the kitchen, the ease with which he works is both impressive and amusing.

 After a few seconds of watching you from the corner of his eye, he turns fully, brow raised.

“Why are you still standing there, love?” His voice is warm, teasing—but not unkind. He flicks a hand toward the table. “Come on, make yourself at home. Sit. You’re not gonna be any help in here unless you fancy stirring the sauce?”

It’s an olive branch, and you know it. A very thoughtful attempt at making you comfortable, giving you options. You latch onto it like a lifeline.

“I—I can stir,” you say, the words tripping out too quickly, like your brain wasn’t sure whether to joke or accept. A half-laugh slips free after, nervous and breathy, before you nod like you’re convincing yourself it was the right answer

He smirks, leaning one elbow on the counter like he’s posing for a portrait. “Oh, so you are trying to impress me tonight?”

“In your dreams,” you fire back, but your voice lacks the usual snap. There’s a smile tugging at your lips you can’t quite hide. “I’ll just sit here and let you work your culinary magic, then.”

With a theatrical sigh, he steps toward you, takes your wrist gently and leads you to the table like a dance partner guiding the first move. His fingers are warm. His touch lingers a little longer than it should. You try not to notice, but your body does anyway—heat blooming low and traitorous. Every touch from Sirius is golden.

“Just sit there and look pretty,” he says over his shoulder, like it’s nothing. But there’s a wink with it. A twinkle. It’s enough to send your pulse skittering again.

“That’s more than enough. Anyway—drink? Wine?”

You raise an eyebrow, daring him. “Good wine?”

He snorts, crossing the tiny kitchen like he’s gliding. “You’re about to find out, darling.”

He grabs a bottle of red with one hand, corkscrew already in the other. The ease with which he uncorks it is borderline ridiculous—like he was born in a vineyard. You can’t help but watch the way he moves, the light in his eyes when he’s showing off, even if he pretends he’s not.

He places the glass in front of you with a small, almost shy smile—like he’s waiting for your verdict. You take it with both hands, fingertips brushing the stem like it might steady you.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, gently clinking his glass against yours.

You smile—really smile this time—as the glasses meet.

-

Dinner, as it turns out, is incredible. You don’t even try to hide it when you take the first bite. Sirius watches you expectantly, elbow on the table, fork hovering in mid-air, invested in your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you say around a mouthful, borderline scandalized. “You made this?”

He grins like he’s won an award. “I did warn you I was a man of many talents.”

“You did not. You said, and I quote, ‘I mostly survive on toast and charm.’”

“Which is technically true,” he says, raising his glass with a smirk. “This is a very special occasion. I had to dust off the actual pots.”

You snort into your wine. “Is that why you had to waft the smoke alarm with a tea towel?”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay that was sabotage. I swear I didn’t even burn anything.”

You laugh, and the warmth of it stays with you even after the plates are cleared, glasses topped off, and the kitchen starts to dip into darkness. You offer to help clean up, and Sirius waves you off with a dramatic “Not on your life, doll.” So instead, you find your way to the sofa, toes curling into the rug as you settle into the cushions.

A moment later, he drops down beside you with a satisfied sigh, two fingers brushing casually over your knee as he settles the wine bottle on the coffee table.

And then… you’re just there. Close. Close enough that the heat from his shoulder warms your skin. Close enough that your knees are almost touching. You hadn’t meant to sit this close, but neither of you makes a move to change it.

He turns his head slightly toward you, hair falling into his eyes. “Comfy?”

You nod, and then—with a breath you hadn’t meant to say anything on—you murmur, “Thank you. For tonight. For all of it.”

His brow quirks, smile softening. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do, though,” you say, turning to face him more fully. “It’s just… this has been really lovely. You’ve been really lovely.” Your voice dips, a little unsure now that it’s actually coming out. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t expect to feel so… happy. Being around you.”

His eyes widen slightly, just for a second, before he beams—this wide, unguarded smile that lights up his whole face. It hits you right in the chest.

“I’m glad,” he says, voice lower now, more sincere than you’ve ever heard it. “Because I feel the same. Every time we hang out, it’s like…” He trails off, looking at you like he’s trying to find the right word. “It’s just easy. Being with you feels… right.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like you're some kind of rare find. A small silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Then, as if drawn by something invisible, your hands find each other in the space between you. His fingers wrap around yours, slow and certain, like he’s done it before in a dream and is just now remembering how.

You glance down at your interlocked hands—his thumb brushing over your knuckles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Then you look back up at him.

“That’s what it feels like,” you say quietly. “Right.”

He hums softly at your words, and something shifts behind his eyes—like he’s turning a thought over and over in his head, polishing it until it shines. Then, slow and deliberate, his hand slips from yours.

His fingers brush your cheek first, warm and sure, before they trace upward—tucking a stray lock of hair gently behind your ear. The touch is impossibly tender. It makes your breath catch, your chest rise and fall a little faster. He lingers there a moment longer than necessary, his knuckles brushing against your skin.

His hand drops back to his lap, but the space between you stays charged. Like a wire has been strung taut from his heart to yours, and neither of you wants to pluck it just yet, too scared it might snap.

Swallowing, you think maybe you should say something—but what? That your heart is trying to climb out of your chest? That if he doesn’t kiss you soon, you might never recover?

But you don’t have to say anything. Because Sirius leans in.

Just a fraction.

His eyes flick to your lips. Once. Twice.

He’s giving you time to pull away. Room to say no. But you don’t.

You don’t want to.

So you meet him halfway.

And when you do, it’s like slipping into something you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

His lips are soft, warm—familiar in a way they shouldn’t be, not yet. Not after only a few dates. But they are, and that’s what startles you the most. Not the kiss itself, but the way it fits. Like it was supposed to happen, like the build-up wasn’t nerves or chance or coincidence, but inevitability.

It’s not rushed. Not some fiery, frantic first kiss born from impatience. It’s slow. Lingering. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, memorizing it for later. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw—fingers light, thumb grazing your cheekbone—and the gentleness of it nearly undoes you.

You sigh against him, and he catches it with a hum, like he’s been waiting to hear that exact sound.

There’s a moment, brief and dizzying, where time feels completely suspended. Just the press of your lips, the curve of his smile when he realizes you're smiling too, mid-kiss.

When he finally pulls back, it’s by millimetres. He stays close, forehead brushing yours, noses nearly touching.

His breath is still warm on your lips when he murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do that since you tried to flirt with me by giving me the wrong number.”

You laugh, too surprised to be embarrassed. “That wasn’t flirting! I was nervous.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough and smiling all at once, “I thought you were gonna melt into the floor.”

You hum, a little dazed, a little dizzy with the closeness. “Still might.”

His hand slips down to yours again, fingers lacing easily. His thumb brushes over your knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of them. His voice drops even lower.

“Don’t,” he says. “Stay.”

And you do.

masterlist <3

[akanemnon]

Hey, how are you?

Hope your doing fine....

I have been reading the comics and loving the posts you make. I wanted to ask you genuinely how are you feeling about all this. It must be very taxing to keep up with a fan base that wants more and more of your work and mind, I just hope your not stressing and overworking yourself. I'm now in my second year of college and I've had meltdown and shutdowns over my assignments (I do games and animation btw), I have just calmed down to start thinking properly and I have released that THIS IS how content creators deal with.

(Also I'm sorry if I'm just repeating a question that someone else asked)

I don't post here alot but I do on other platforms for fun but nothing too serious just silly lil art pieces :P

I hope this comment tells you that we really are grateful for all you've made for us to enjoy together!

Lots of love for me! 💖 I hope you have a nice day.

HA YOU'VE LOWERED YOUR GUARD!

Get punched in the butt .w.

I've said it before, but I never expected all of... THIS.

I never was a big artist and I would rather throw myself out of the window than to view myself as such. But I kinda have to come to terms with Twin Runes being popular. By all means, I am VERY grateful for every reader. For every person who engages with the story. For everyone who holds emotional value in this story. I know for a fact there are people out there like that.

There are people out there who translate this comic into other languages. There are people out there who put their heart and soul into dubbing it. HECK, there are even people who make music for it. I STILL don't get it. But I am honored that people would put their time and effort into honoring the comic in their own ways. Guess it means I'm doing SOMETHING right.

But I dunno if I'm doing a good job at being an online presence. I only know I'm doing a good job drawing and and doing an alright job writing a story. I don't know how to engage with an audience, but I'm trying. Part of me wants to scream at times. And the other part of me tells the one that wants to scream to shove it.

I try to treat people with respect, but I sometimes wish it happened the other way around as well. But I've noticed that people are either intimidated by me, or absolutely have no filter at all. (The kinds of asks I get are concerning at times...) I guess that is what you're getting into when you become a decently big online person.

Despite that I never expected this story to make it big at all, I am very glad I ended up creating it. Because there's always something to learn. I wanna be better. Not just as an artist.

[see-arcane]

Hearing today's interaction with the General, Comtesse and 'Millarca' out loud really strikes home 1) how elaborate a setup the charade is, which also highlights 2) how little Carmilla ultimately gives a damn about her eventual snacking spree on the lower class women of the village once she gets around to Laura's home. Because look at all the effort that went into planting her with Bertha and the General. It didn't have to be them, of course. Bertha just caught Millie's eye. But the point is the place it happened: a giant extravagant Rich and Important People masquerade.

The General mentions that he's the closest one to a 'nobody' there, just as Laura's father exists in the shallow end of the well-to-do pool--while still living in a castle with servants. And isn't it something how Millie and her crew have sniffed out targets within that balancing area. Obviously well off (not peasants, lame) but also obviously not big enough in the hierarchy to draw attention if a tragedy were to befall them; at least not enough to go hunting after the crew. (Give or take a General with a vendetta.)

I keep circling it now. How Carmilla/Millarca/Mircalla can and does very easily very quickly target random victims to her taste in the village entirely on her own and drinks them to death in no time. No invitation. No theatre-quality ruses with la Comtesse and company and staged tragic happenings. Just her and her own power, settling for the unpolished girls she has access to in order to preserve her honeymoon period with Laura a little longer.

All this pageantry to attach herself to Bertha, to Laura, and, we can guess, other pedigreed victims in the past, is just that for her. Pageantry. Picking her next meal with her pinkie up. And I think that's important to acknowledge when examining the difference between that MO and her attachment to Laura, regardless of what future chapters will try to insinuate otherwise.

Because if Laura had been any other upper(ish) class girl, she would have been as dead as Bertha ages ago. Drunk and loved to death and promptly ditched. But Carmilla is committed to her and to collecting her into vampirism to drag along with or without consent; a decision the novella never shows her making with any other victim. It's just been corpses all the way down. Either with hasty throwaway meals in the village or dragged out loving suppers made of girls like Bertha. However complicit Carmilla is or isn't in her own monstrosity, she is making choices within it, those choices are classist and self-serving to an undead aristocrat's palette, and they have all ended with her victim, treated with care or not, dead.

And Laura breaks that habit. She isn't just another case of Carmilla playing with her food. She is a spur of true love cracking through who knows how many lifetimes' worth of playacted romance with victims past.

For those who think I am taking le Fanu's wedged in explanation, no, I am not agreeing with the bullshit stance of 'all vampires are faking their love for their victims all the time always! especially the gay ones!!' that the story ultimately tries to pin in place. I'm saying that Carmilla has shown she proves that assumption wrong in both directions.

She doesn't seduce the peasant girls. She just breaks in, chugs them, kills them, and moves on.

She does star in intricate traveling theatre setups to get planted in more than one plush abode with a pretty daughter in it. And with them she does bother with friendship, charm, romance, et cetera, because she sees them as worth bothering with.

And Laura? Laura she latches onto with all the possessive bottomless love that the story implies was thrust upon her once upon a time; the same kind of Love that brought her into undeath. A love she hasn't felt herself once since then, not enough to collect any companion into vampirism. Except for Laura.

Apart from being grateful at having the podcast turn up old stones in this story that I'd either forgotten or completely overlooked. It's a refresher in how genuinely complicated Carmilla is as a character and as a villain. I've run into reads of her that are all purely sympathetic to the point of sanding down all her actions into being someone else's will, it's not her fault she's like this, there's nothing to take away from the story that paints her in a bad light that isn't just the man characters being wrong about vampires and lesbians and lesbian vampires!

And I didn't understand why that irked me so much until I realized that this borders on the same edge of Dracula's defanged makeover into a patchwork woeful dreamboy caricature made of traits that belong to anyone other than himself. Because we like Carmilla. We love Carmilla. She is The Classic Lesbian Vampire and Can Do No Wrong!

Except she does. She very much does, regardless of what biases are there to read in the male characters' framing of vampirism/homosexuality/impurity/Other etc.

The classism is there. The needless serial killing (VS taking a few sips and running) is there. The longing so great it demands she must steal Laura away is there. Just as the love is there, bringing with it the bitter agony and self-made misery of fear that Laura, her Laura, will learn the truth soon, that Carmilla's willpower is second to Carmilla's wants, and she will conscript the girl she loves because that is how a monster loves; it was how she was 'loved' and made what she is.

And God! Think of what would come after Laura being turned! Not just the revelation of what Millie has forced on her, but everything Carmilla has done for ages. All that death she's breezed through for so long is now suddenly a sword hanging over her head, held up by the thread of Laura's affection and her ignorance to what said beloved has been up to on her nights out.

Carmilla isn't a tragic monster because she's inherently innocent and the narrative has simply maligned and mistreated her. Carmilla is tragic because she's been a casual, canny and far from helpless monster for well over a century and is only now being tripped up by the bittersweet fact of her love and all the dread and shame that comes with being a bastard (gender neutral) and knowing that any moment your paramour will learn the truth of what you are.

tl; dr: Today's chapter hit me with an epiphany stick. Just as Dracula didn't deserve to be defanged by over a century of sanitizing and sexifying, Carmilla doesn't deserve to have all her sharp edges blunted into a helpless anti-villain/antihero because Girl. She's in on this gothic horror villain shit. Said villain shit needs acknowledging to make the reality of her romance with Laura stand out as truly tragically shattering to her undead lifestyle.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

This Year is Different - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

hehe🌝🌝

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.26k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It’s hot.

Not just warm—thick. The kind of heat that slows everything down, that presses against your skin like something personal. The air hangs heavy with the buzz of insects and the smell of dust warming on old wood.

You’re not sure what draws you outside.

Maybe it’s the stillness. Maybe it’s the way the afternoon feels… off. Like something’s shifting just beneath the surface. Like something’s waiting.

You spot him before you even make it to the porch.

Haymitch.

Slouched on his porch swing, elbow braced on the armrest, glass in hand. His second, maybe third. Hard to tell. He’s not loud. Not laughing. Just quiet.

That’s what tells you something’s wrong.

You pause at the edge of your yard.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has and just isn’t looking.

There’s something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders tighter than usual, jaw set, like the act of holding still is taking effort—that makes your chest twist.

So you walk over.

You don’t say anything. You just climb the steps and lower yourself onto the porch swing, letting your legs stretch out in front of you like it’s any other day.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

The silence between you isn’t sharp—it’s thick. Still.

But you stay.

Because something’s wrong.

And even if he’s not ready to say it, you can still be here.

The minutes stretch.

There’s no breeze—just the slow shift of sunlight across the porch, the soft creak of old wood under your legs, and the sound of ice clinking quietly in his glass every time he lifts it.

You keep your eyes forward.

Let the heat melt through your shirt. Let the stillness settle in your bones. Let him sit beside you without pressure, without questions, without expectation.

It’s not easy. But it’s right.

With Haymitch, it has to be his choice.

So you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Until finally, somewhere between one sip and the next, he says “This day always feels worse.”

His voice is low. Rough. Like it hadn’t been used in hours.

You don’t look at him.

You don’t move.

You just listen.

He takes another drink—longer this time. The kind that makes your throat ache just to hear it.

“Used to think it was just the heat,” he mutters. “Then I figured out it wasn’t.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

Doesn’t explain what it is.

You don’t ask.

But something in the way he says it—the tightness in his jaw, the bitterness just under the surface—makes your chest pull tight.

The silence between you folds in close.

He swirls what’s left in his glass, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Some days just take more effort than others.”

That’s all he gives you.

That’s all you need.

You nod—small, steady, more of a promise than a response.

And then, softly, “I can stay.”

He doesn’t say yes.

But after a while, you feel it—his knee brushing yours. The edge of his arm shifting closer.

You don’t move.

You don’t look at him.

You just let your eyes follow the cracks in the porch boards, the ones that run long and splintered like they’ve been stepped on a thousand times.

Then—quiet, because it’s the only way you know how to say it, “July’s hard for me too.”

You feel him shift beside you. Not much. Just enough to let you know he’s listening.

You breathe in.

Hold it.

Then let it go.

“July seventh,” you say. “It’s his birthday.”

You don’t say his name.

You haven’t said his name in a long time.

“He’s dead now. Been dead since I was sixteen.”

You pause, pressing your thumbnail into the edge of your sleeve.

“I was fifteen the first time. My first time.”

You swallow the shake in your voice.

“I was drunk. Like… blackout, don’t-remember-how-I-got-there drunk. And he wasn’t. He was sober. I remember that part. I remember him smiling and saying I was pretty when I couldn’t stand straight. I remember thinking it meant something.”

Your voice stays steady, but it feels like it shouldn’t.

“I don’t think he thought he was doing anything wrong. I don’t think he ever thought about it at all.”

You look down at your lap. At your hands. Anything but him.

“But I think about it. Every year. Every time that date rolls around and I feel sick and I can’t figure out why until I remember. And then I get angry.”

You take a shaky breath.

“And then I feel guilty. Because he’s gone. And he didn’t get a future either. And I don’t know if I’m allowed to be mad at a dead man.”

The quiet stretches.

You wait for it to feel like too much.

It doesn’t.

Because he’s still there. Right beside you. Solid and silent.

And then—just barely—his hand shifts. Finds yours. His fingers don’t tangle, don’t grip. Just rest there.

Still.

Warm.

Present.

Like he’s saying, You are allowed.

Like maybe he’s angry too.

You don’t say anything else.

You just let the silence hold the parts of you that you can’t.

And he does too.

The silence holds.

Long enough that you start to think that’s it—that you’ve said too much, that maybe he won’t say anything back.

But then his thumb shifts just barely against your knuckles.

And he says, voice low and dry, like it costs him something just to say it out loud, “My birthday’s tomorrow.”

Your breath catches.

You turn your head slowly, just enough to see the side of his face. Still set. Still tired.

But bare.

You don’t say anything.

Because your brain’s already doing the math.

Tomorrow. July fourth.

And suddenly you remember what that date used to mean.

The Reaping. This year is the first without one.

Your stomach twists.

Because of course it was that day. Of course whatever higher power there is made it that day. And of course he never told anyone.

Of course he’s just been sitting here, drinking and swallowing it down like it’s nothing—like he always does.

Your chest aches.

And before you can stop yourself—before you even think about stopping yourself—you shift.

You turn toward him.

And you wrap your arms around him.

No warning. No explanation. Just arms around his middle, face against his shoulder, like your body decided for you.

He freezes.

Completely.

Then—slowly—his hand comes up. Not sure where to land. Not sure what to do.

And finally, it settles at your back. Light. Careful.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

But you feel it—the way he breathes, just a little deeper. The way his fingers curl, just barely, like maybe he doesn’t know how to take comfort, but he’s trying.

And you just hold on.

Because he shouldn’t have to carry it alone.

Not this year.

Not ever again.

And then—quietly, like it slips out before he can catch it, “Didn’t think anyone’d care.”

His voice is rough. Not sarcastic. Not bitter.

Just… honest.

It hits somewhere low in your chest.

You don’t let go. You tighten your arms just slightly, just enough that he feels it.

“I care,” you say, soft but certain.

He doesn’t answer.

But after a long pause—so long you think he won’t—he murmurs, “Forty-one.”

You blink against his shoulder.

“What?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be forty-one.” A beat. “If the liquor doesn’t kill me first.”

You huff a laugh, watery and small.

His hand shifts at your back—just a little. Still light. Still unsure.

But it stays.

“You’re not allowed to die,” you say, nose brushing the fabric of his shirt. “I just got used to having you around.”

That gets a sound out of him. A small breath, almost a laugh, but softer.

Like it surprises him.

Like it matters.

You stay like that for a while.

Just holding him.

Just… there.

Until the heat starts to settle into your spine and your heart finally stops trying to claw its way out of your chest.

Then—slowly—you ease your arms back.

You don’t pull away all at once. Just enough to shift. Enough to look at him.

His eyes are already on you.

Not guarded. Not unreadable.

Just tired. And something else underneath it—something that looks a little too close to grateful.

You blink, heart still beating in your throat.

“I can stay,” you say softly. “The rest of the day. If you want.”

His brow twitches, just barely.

You rush to add, “You don’t have to talk or anything. We can just… sit. Or ignore each other. I’m very good at sitting quietly and pretending things are fine.”

He huffs, but it’s gentler than a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

And then, almost before you realize you’re saying it—“Or I could… I mean, if it gets late or if you—if you don’t want to be alone tonight—”

You stop. Swallow. Try again.

“I could stay. The night. If that’d help.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. You stare somewhere over his shoulder like maybe the railing will offer you a way out of this moment.

But he doesn’t make it weird.

Doesn’t joke.

He just studies you for a second longer. And then says, “…Yeah. I’d like that.”

Quiet. Steady.

And honest.

Your chest tightens, but not in a bad way.

You just nod. Once. Like a promise.

The sun sinks lower.

The heat softens, golden and slow, stretching across the porch in long shadows.

You don’t talk much.

Just sit there a while longer, legs bumped together, the silence easier now. Like something’s been let out into the open and made room for something else. Something quieter. Softer.

Eventually, your stomach makes a very ungraceful noise.

Haymitch snorts. “That you or the floorboards crying for help?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “I’ll let you guess.”

He makes a move to stand. “I’ll cook something.”

You blink at him. “You?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I do know how, honey. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not solely sustained by bitterness and bourbon.”

“Tempting as that sounds,” you say, standing before he can, “absolutely not. Your birthday’s tomorrow.”

“So?”

“So.” You point a finger at his chest. “That means special treatment starts tonight. That means you’re not allowed to cook. Or clean. Or lift a finger.”

He stares at you.

Like you just recited a poem in fluent French.

You roll your eyes and gesture toward the door. “Go sit down.”

“You serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” you say, already heading inside. “Go. Lounge. Be useless. I’ve got dinner.”

He doesn’t argue.

Which is how you know it matters.

You hear the quiet creak of the porch swing as he drops back into it. Then nothing.

Just the sounds of summer outside, and you, barefoot in his kitchen, boiling water and chopping garlic and humming a little under your breath like this is a thing you’ve always done.

You settle on pasta—simple, summery, the kind you don’t need a recipe for. You add sliced tomatoes, fresh herbs, olive oil, the little chunk of soft cheese you know Peeta snuck into his fridge last week. The smell fills the kitchen, warm and sharp and homey.

At some point you glance toward the doorway.

He’s standing there.

Not saying anything.

Just watching you.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that you’re here, in his space, making him dinner like it’s normal.

You glance at him. “What?”

He shrugs, voice low. “Just figuring out if I’m hallucinating.”

You huff. “You’re not.”

And then, quieter—without thinking, “You’re just cared for.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he stays.

And when you hand him a bowl and sit across from him at the kitchen table, you swear he looks at you like you hung the moon.

And for once, you don’t look away.

The food disappears between bites and soft conversation, the kind that drifts between nothing and everything without ever needing to land. You talk about the heat. About the garden. About how Peeta’s latest bread creation was so good it made Katniss say “Huh.”

Haymitch laughs at that—really laughs—and the sound warms something low in your chest.

You finish eating. You stand, reach for his bowl.

And of course he moves to stand too.

You pause, bowl in one hand, and turn to look at him.

He freezes halfway out of his chair.

“What did I just say?”

He blinks. “That you’re terrifying when armed with a fork?”

“Close,” you say, snatching his dish out of his hand and gesturing toward the living room. “I said special treatment. Birthday Eve rules are in effect.”

“Is that a real thing?”

“It is now.”

He eyes you warily. “You’re really not gonna let me help?”

“Go sit down, Haymitch.”

He opens his mouth like he might argue.

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs—deep, dramatic—and drags himself out of the kitchen like you’ve sentenced him to exile.

You smile into the sink.

It doesn’t take long. The dishes are easy. The quiet of his house settles around you like something earned.

When you finally dry your hands and pad into the living room, he’s exactly where you knew he’d be—slouched on the couch, legs stretched out.

He looks up when you walk in.

And he’s staring at you again.

Like he did in the kitchen.

Like he doesn’t know what to do with you. Like the weight of being seen—really seen—is still catching him off guard.

You freeze halfway into the room.

“…What?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just keeps looking.

Soft. Quiet. Like maybe if he blinks, you’ll vanish.

You cross your arms. “Okay, that’s the second time tonight you’ve looked at me like I’m secretly glowing.”

“Maybe you are.”

You blink.

And now you’re the one short-circuiting.

He shrugs, eyes still on you. “You show up. You cook. You make me sit down and breathe and then you do the dishes? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

You stare at him.

Then, carefully, you walk over and sink down onto the couch beside him.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

Until eventually, just to fill the quiet, you murmur, “Your couch is absurdly comfortable. Is that where all your victor money went?”

He snorts. “I’ll have you know this couch is a cherished family heirloom. Came from a guy who lost it in a game of cards.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You stole it.”

“I won it,” he corrects, smug. “And the guy was too drunk to remember he even owned furniture, so really, I was doing him a favor.”

You shake your head, smiling into the cushions. “And now you’re letting it be tainted by my commoner presence.”

“Oh, I’ve accepted the risk.”

You nudge his leg with yours. “Very noble of you.”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts a little—closer—and lets his arm drape back along the couch behind you.

This time, his fingers brush your shoulder deliberately.

You glance over, but he’s looking at the ceiling like that’s where the most interesting part of the conversation is happening.

You lean into it.

Just a little.

Not quite touching him, but not not either.

“So what else in this house has a shady origin story?” you ask.

He hums. “The kettle’s stolen. The non-Capitol bookshelf was built out of salvaged fence posts. I’m pretty sure the bedroom mirror is cursed.”

You laugh. “Oh, definitely. I looked into it once and immediately wanted to cry.”

“Exactly.”

You turn your head to look at him, still grinning.

He’s looking at you too now.

Closer than you realized.

His arm is still behind you on the couch—wrist bent lazily over the back cushion, fingers just grazing your shoulder.

And then, like it’s nothing—like it’s habit—his thumb brushes lightly against your arm.

Once.

Then again.

Not pressing. Not purposeful.

Just moving in slow, absent-minded strokes over the fabric of your sleeve. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

But you feel every one.

You don’t say anything.

You just stay there. Let the warmth settle. Let his touch ground you in that quiet, flickering way it always does.

He shifts a little closer.

And you lean, just slightly—enough that your shoulder touches his chest. Enough that your thigh fits a little more snug against his.

Neither of you reacts.

You just keep talking.

Like you’re not both dying inside.

The air’s gone still again, but not heavy.

Just quiet.

You shift your leg a little closer to his, shoulder still tucked gently against him, and he doesn’t move away. His thumb keeps brushing absent circles along your arm like it’s second nature now.

“So,” you murmur, “are all the days before your birthday like this?”

He huffs. “What, tense and full of unsolicited affection?”

You grin. “Exactly.”

He pauses like he’s actually thinking about it. “Usually I just drink until it stops feeling like the day before The Reaping.”

Your smile fades a little.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just keeps going anyway.

“Never felt like it was my birthday, just a day they sent kids to the slaughter.”

You nod slowly. “That makes sense.”

“Doesn’t matter that it was always that way. Still felt like they ruined it. Like they took something I never even got the chance to want.”

You don’t say anything to that.

Just let it hang there, heavy but honest, resting between you like something sacred.

And then, after a moment, Haymitch exhales through his nose. “But this one’s different.”

You glance up at him.

He’s still not quite looking at you—just past you, eyes half-lidded, voice low but lighter.

“This day,” he says. “Today. It hasn’t felt like the others, even though it did at first.”

You feel your chest pull tight.

Not in panic.

Not in fear.

Just… in recognition.

And maybe a little disbelief.

You’re quiet for a beat too long, and he picks up the slack—because of course he does.

“Must be the pasta,” he adds, mouth twitching. “You buttered me into sentimentality.”

You snort. “I did not use butter.”

“Oil, then,” he corrects. “Same crime.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “You get vulnerable for two seconds and immediately run screaming into food slander.”

“It’s called balance,” he says, deadpan.

You give him a look. “It’s called avoidance.”

“Same thing.”

You shake your head, but the tension that had been coiled up between your ribs loosens just a little. You let your shoulder settle more fully against him.

His thumb hasn’t stopped moving.

Slow, thoughtful circles over the fabric of your sleeve.

And now, the rest of his arm shifts too—just a slight bend at the elbow. Enough to draw you in a little more. Enough that you feel your side meet the warmth of his chest.

You don’t speak.

You just… let it happen.

And when he leans his head back against the couch cushion and lets out a soft, tired breath, you think maybe—for once—he’s letting himself feel it too.

The kind of closeness that would’ve sent you into orbit a few weeks ago, but now feels like breathing.

After a few minutes, you murmur, “So what’s your actual favorite food? Not whiskey. Not something you say to annoy Peeta. The real answer.”

He hums, low in his throat. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Why?”

“Because if I tell you, you’ll try to make it.”

“And that’s… bad?”

He lifts his head just enough to look down at you, one eyebrow raised. “Honey. I’ve seen how seriously you take seasoning.”

You gasp. “Are you saying I’m too competent?”

“I’m saying you might accidentally marry me with basil.”

You choke on your laugh. “Okay, noted. No basil until we’ve signed paperwork.”

“Reasonable boundaries.”

You grin into your sleeve. “But seriously. Favorite.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then, softly, “Chicken soup.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Homemade. Not the canned garbage. My ma used to make it every winter, she’d gather ingredients the whole year. Big pot. Carrots too soft, noodles falling apart.”

You glance up at him. “That’s kind of adorable.”

He shrugs. “It was warm. It meant she was in a good mood.”

The quiet settles again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t explain more.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you say, “Mine was strawberry cake. When I was little.”

He looks at you, something fond slipping past his usual guarded expression.

“My dad used to get me one from the bakery every year even though it was more than we could really afford,” you say. “It was always lopsided and the frosting melted if the weather was warm, but he’d let me eat a piece for breakfast anyway.”

Haymitch nods once. “Smart man.”

“He was,” you murmur, and the ache behind your ribs is softer than usual. “He really was.”

Neither of you speaks after that for a while.

Just the creak of the couch. The chirp of insects outside.

The soft hush of two people realizing this might be something they want to keep.

Eventually, he shifts beneath you—just a stretch at first, his muscles rolling slow and tired.

Then he says, “Think I’m gonna head up.”

You nod, slow, not really moving. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

He rises with a quiet groan, stretching one arm overhead until his back pops. The couch shifts without his weight, the space beside you suddenly cooler.

He heads a few steps toward the stairs.

And when you don’t follow, he turns back.

Brows lifted. Voice dry.

“You coming?”

You blink.

Look up at him, startled.

“What?”

He shrugs. “You’ve already slept in my bed once.”

Your face goes warm in a way you really hope isn’t visible in the low light. “That was— I was comforting you.”

“Still counts.”

“Haymitch.”

He smirks. “What? You offered to stay the night. This is me accepting.”

You blink at him again.

He doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t make it a joke.

He just waits.

Like it’s normal. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not making your heart stutter in your chest.

So you stand. Slowly. Carefully.

And when you reach him at the bottom of the stairs, he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t say anything.

He just starts walking.

And you follow.

Because maybe it is casual.

Or maybe it’s not.

But either way, you’re going.

And either way, he wants you there.

The bedroom is dim when you walk in, lit only by the fading spill of moonlight through the half-open window.

You stop just inside the doorway, unsure of where to stand. Or look. Or breathe.

Haymitch steps past you, casually rifling through a dresser drawer like this is nothing. Like this is normal.

And then he turns, holding out a t-shirt. “Here.”

You blink down at it. It’s soft. Worn. Faded in that way old cotton gets after years of too many wash cycles.

You take it with both hands, fingers curling into the fabric.

He nods toward the room. “You can change in here. I’ll take the bathroom.”

And just like that, he’s gone—door clicking softly behind him.

You stand there for a second.

Just… holding his shirt.

Then you exhale, quietly, and peel off your clothes, slipping the shirt over your head.

It’s soft.

And huge.

It hits your thighs and clings to the warmth of your skin, smelling like cedar soap and summer air and him.

You sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying not to overthink it.

And then the door opens again.

You look up.

And your brain immediately stops working.

Because he’s shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just completely shattered your internal operating system.

His steps falter.

Because he sees you.

Wearing his shirt.

And for a beat—just a beat—you both freeze.

You in his clothes.

Him in absolutely too little clothing.

Neither of you speaking.

Just standing there.

Staring.

You clear your throat. “This shirt’s comfortable.”

His mouth twitches. “Looks better on you.”

You blink.

He blinks.

Silence.

Then, like synchronized swimmers of denial, you both look away and move to get into bed.

Because you are normal.

And this is casual.

And you are absolutely not freaking out.

You pull back the covers.

He climbs in beside you.

And you both lay there—facing the ceiling, not quite touching, hearts pounding loud enough to echo through the mattress.

And still, neither of you says a thing.

Because this?

This is fine.

Totally fine.

The quiet stretches.

Long and steady.

You just lie on your back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it might give you answers.

It doesn’t.

So—slowly—you shift onto your side, turning away from him, tucking your hands beneath your chin.

The sheets rustle.

A pause.

And then—his arm wraps around you.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a warm, solid presence curling around your back, chest against your spine, hand settling low on your waist like it belongs there.

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t speak.

He just stays.

And after a long second—after your heart remembers how to beat—you let yourself soften into him.

Let yourself be held.

And in the silence that follows, your eyes slip closed.

Because maybe it’s not casual.

Maybe it never was.

But it’s real.

And right now, it’s enough.

Next Part

[oh-theseus]

bloody stones

pairing: astarion x gn!reader, astarion x gn!tav summary: you nearly die and astarion still can't bring himself to be honest with you. word count: 4,018 a/n: first time trying to write for astarion (or just bg3 in general) & i'm not sure it came out how i wanted it to, BUT i hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless <333 i kind of wrote this to be like a background for a future thing i think... but no promises bc i am anything if not inconsistent 😭

warnings: descriptions of blood & injury, canon typical violence, mentions of past abuse. lmk if i should add more!

You were fairly certain you had never been as close to death as you currently were. Even while trapped inside of the nautiloid ship, you had felt like you would make it out. Granted, that might have been because you thought Lae’zel was going to kill you if you died, but still. Even then, on a ship that was actively crashing from hundreds of miles in the sky, you’d thought you’d make it out.

That hope is nowhere to be found as Z’rell drives her ax into your lower leg. You have been injured in battle dozens of times but this is the first time your injury has ever made you fall to your knees within three seconds of receiving it. There is next to no pain at first, but then she pulls her ax from your leg, and it feels like… well, like your leg was just split open.

Blood gushes down your leg, and you can’t stand up again, but by the grace of one of the gods, you manage to block her next attack. Her ax meets the blade of your sword with a loud clang that you can hear over the sounds of other blades clashing and spells being conjured. Anger blazes in Z’rell’s eyes and she surges her weapon further with as much strength as she can muster. You met her with the same effort, but you’re losing so much blood so fast. You’re not nearly as strong as she is.

A noise that is somewhere between a cry and a grunt falls from your lips. But you are certain this is it. You’ll die here. In Moonrise Towers with a parasite wiggling within your skull. You’ll die in a blighted land and your friends will go on without you. If they survive, that is. You can feel your arms wobbling, about to give out. Her ax will come down on your neck and you’ll sit here choking on your own blood until you die. Maybe she’ll dig the Illithid parasite out of your skull and consume it just as your Dream Guardian had urged you to do so many times before. You doubt Z’rell would have qualms about it though - if fact, she might just keep you alive while she digs around in your skull. She seems like the type.

But then there’s an arrow embedded in Z’rell’s neck. And now she’s the one choking on her blood, her weapon faltering. You don’t have time to be grateful, not when she’s determined to make a killing blow and take you out with her. It takes all of your effort to roll out of the way, her ax bouncing off of the bloody stone floor where your head had just been seconds previous. Your head is spinning from the movement, and your leg feels like dead weight, but you manage to draw your dagger and shove it deep into the disciples stomach.

Z’rell falls to her knees. Then forward, onto her face. Dead. 

Hands are underneath your arms, dragging you away from the rest of the battle before you even have time to process that you aren’t dead. You have half a mind to kick and struggle, but when you try to push the hands off of your body you stop your fighting. You know these hands.

“Astarion,” you choke out, tilting your head upwards to see him above you, carefully dragging you behind a turned over table. You can feel a trail of blood being left by your leg; for a moment you wonder if Astarion had smelled your blood before he saw it.

“Don’t talk,” Astarion scolds, propping your back against the table. Blood is splattered on his face and armor, his bow slung across his body. Your eyes shift to his quiver where only three arrows remain. If you weren’t so busy trying not to pass out from blood loss, you might have told him you were right when you’d told him this morning he needed more arrows. But you can hardly convince yourself to breathe, let alone make a joke.

Astarion’s face is twisted into an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen him wear before. There is determination there as he examines your wound, cursing beneath his breath. There’s concern too. But something else dances in his crimson eyes that makes you tilt your head to the side curiously. 

Fear.

Astarion is scared. 

“How bad?” you force out, leaning your head back against the overturned table. Your eyes lock on the ceiling of Moonrise. This had been a temple once. Briefly, as you fight to keep your eyes open, you decide that it might’ve even been beautiful.

“Not terrible,” Astarion lies. You know it’s a lie, and he knows you know that, too. You might’ve looked at him, tried to assure him you would be okay if you believed it. But you’re not quite sure that you do, so you keep your eyes on the ceiling, listening to the sounds of battle slowing down behind you.

Astarion stops talking after that. Your silence and sudden interest in the ceiling is enough to make Astarion certain his heart will start beating again just so it can race in fear. But his hands are quick in grabbing a healing potion from your belt and helping you get it down. They’re faster still as he shuffles through his discarded back for cloth to press to your wound. 

Blood quickly soaks the white cloth and Astarion’s hands, but the vampire doesn’t mind. He can’t be bothered to think about how potent your blood smells, how easy it would be to just take some for himself. He is certain that if you’d been bleeding out in front of him like this when you first met that he would’ve taken every last drop of blood that he could get. But right now… Astarion wasn’t sure he had ever wanted to puke at the sight of blood more.

Astarion isn’t sure he’s ever felt a panic quite like this before. Perhaps when he’d woken up in a coffin six feet underground. Maybe when he’d realized he was a slave to an evil vampire lord. But other than that? No, Astarion had never felt fear like this. Fear that clutches him by the throat, makes his hands start to tremble. Fear that won’t let him focus on the battle coming to end. Not even to see if his companions - his friends - had survived. All he knows is you, your blood coating his hands, and terror coursing through his entire being.

He’s so consumed by his fear that he doesn’t notice you’ve finally passed out. Nor does he hear Shadowheart approach until she’s shoving Astarion away from you, her hands immediately coming to rest above the gash in your leg. She starts to mutter the words of a healing spell and even Astarion can tell that she’s completely spent, that she’s using her last bit of magic and strength to coax your skin back together.

“Wake them up,” Shadowheart hisses, her eyes still locked on your leg. “Wake them up now, Astarion!”

The near crack in Shadowheart’s voice stirs Astarion from his fear driven stupor. His hands are on your face immediately, your name falling from his lips once, twice. His fingers find the pulsepoint at your neck, and Astarion doesn’t dare to move until he feels it. It’s faint, but it is there.

But your eyes are still closed, and no matter how hard Astarion tries, you will not wake up. You’re still breathing, but it’s hard and labored, and Astarion is certain that if he looks away from you for even a moment you will be gone for good. He didn’t know much, but Astarion did know that a world without you was not one he was willing to return to.

By the grace of… something, Shadowheart manages to mend the skin of your leg. She’s exhausted and can hardly stand by the time she’s finished, but she does it. You’re still out cold, and Astarion is not sure whether to start crying or to find something else to kill to distract himself.

“It’s the blood loss,” Wyll assures him quickly, hauling Shadowheart up from the ground with her arm over his shoulders. “They’ll live. But we need to move them. Now.”

The Blade of Frontiers does not waste another moment, leading Shadowheart across the main floor of Moonrise Towers, down into the basement. Astarion doesn’t hesitate to do the same with you, his blood coated hands holding you so, so carefully.

When you wake up, you’re pretty sure you’re dead. You didn’t know what you expected the afterlife to hold, but it certainly was not a stone floor and the smell of mildew. For a second you think that maybe you could be somewhere else (somewhere where you are not dead) but you can’t think very clearly right now. All you can feel is a distant throbbing in your head and a bone deep cold. Your leg… You could feel your leg. That was good, considering the last thing you could recall before passing out was taking Z’rell’s ax to your shin.

And Astarion. You remembered his familiar grip, pulling you to safety. You remembered his crimson eyes, the fear you’d seen in them. But that was it. You didn’t remember passing out or how light you had felt while blood seeped from your leg. For a moment, it troubles you that you can’t remember. But if this was truly your eternal resting place… maybe it was a good thing you couldn’t remember. You’re not sure that it's really something you’d enjoy dwelling on for the rest of eternity.

You’re not sure how long you lay there. You don’t move your body, and your eyes keep falling closed every once in a while. You feel lightheaded, yet impossibly heavy at the same time. All you can bring yourself to do is stare at the ceiling. Maybe there is a god here, because you’re gifted the memory of doing the very same thing before passing out the first time. And this ceiling looks remarkably similar to the one in Moonrise Towers.

That voice, too. The one you can hear in the distance - almost as if they are shouting for you from the other room. The voice is so similar to…

“Astarion?” You breathe out, your eyes finally shifting away from the ceiling. They fall instead to the person beside you. At first, they’re just a jumble of white curls and red eyes. But then your vision clears and so does your hearing. Astarion’s repeating your name, asking if you can hear him. All you can do is nod. At least you know you’re alive, though. Or at least, you’re pretty sure. Your brain is still foggy. The lingering effects of blood loss? Or perhaps one too many healing potions?

You somehow manage to force yourself into a sitting position. Astarion’s right hand splays against your lower back carefully, his left one hovering in front of your body to catch you if you fold in on yourself. When you straighten your back, the room spins so fast you’re certain that Gale’s cast a spell to make it do that. Your hands grip Astarion’s left arm to keep from falling over.

“Easy, easy,” Astarion says softly. You’re not certain of many things right now, but you are certain that you have never heard Astarion use that tone before. One so gentle, so soft. Even when he’d told you of Cazador and the scar that tainted his back. 

“I’m okay,” you reply after a moment. Your hands still grip his arm but neither of you seem to mind it. “I’m okay, promise.” The sentiment is just as much for yourself as it is for Astarion.

Astarion only hums in reply. His eyes are flickering over your face. Like he’s taking you in for the first time - or perhaps even the last. His hand on your back is a welcome weight and the feeling of his forearm under your fingertips keeps you grounded. This is real. You are here.

You are alive.

“Holy shit,” you curse. Your eyes widen and your breathing slowly begins to pick up. You’d been so close to dying, to bleeding out in a cursed land so far from home. You’d never thought you’d be one to care so much about something like this, but the fear that you could’ve died is gripping you by the throat, pinning you beneath its clutches. 

Astarion notices this. Of course he notices. He notices everything about you. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. How you shift your weight from foot to foot when unsure about something. How your hands flex when you’re growing frustrated. So of course he notices your breathing picking up, your grip on his arms becoming just slightly tighter.

“You’re okay, you’re okay. You need to breathe, love.” He says your name softly then, still in that foreign tone of his. The hand at your back comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “Breathe,” his voice is firmer now, one you’re used to from him. Maybe it’s that tone of his that compels you to listen. Maybe it’s his hand cradling your face like you might slip away as soon as he lets you go. Or maybe it’s the fact that his eyes are still swimming with that fear you’d seen before you lost consciousness.

It takes a few moments, but you manage to even out your breathing. Those invisible claws at your neck retract, fading into the shadows of the room. The basement of Moonrise Towers, you realize. That was why the ceiling looked similar to the one upstairs. 

Everything returns to you then. The battle, Ketheric, the ax, the amount of blood you’d lost. Astarion’s arrow in Z’rell’s neck.

“You killed her,” you say, as if Astarion had not killed dozens of other enemies during your travels. “Nice aim.”

Astarion visibly deflates as soon as the joke leaves your lips. Your lips quirk into the smallest of smiles despite yourself. But then Astarion retracts his hand from your face, and that small smile falls away slowly. Astarion pretends not to notice it. You pretend like you don’t either; your attention shifts to your right leg, studying the skin exposed by the large tear in your pants. You make a mental note to find new pants.

Your hand trembles slightly as you remove it from Astarion’s arm and bring it down on your leg. Gingerly, you pull the ruined fabric back more and take in where the wound should have been. Instead, your skin looks near perfect. There is a thin scar from where Shadowheart’s healing had knitted the skin together but that is the only indication that your flesh had been torn apart that very same day.

“For a woman who worshiped the Lady of Loss, Shadowheart was rather good at keeping me - us from losing you.”

Your eyes shift to Astarion’s at his slip. You try to not let your face fall when he pulls his arm from beneath your other hand. He leans back in the chair that matches the table you’re laid out on top of, crossing his arms and screwing his face into that expression you’ve grown to recognize as a mask. A flash of hurt floods through you. Selfishly, you wonder how much more you will need to do to prove yourself before Astarion finally, finally trusts you.

“Shadowheart is a good healer,” you say instead of what you want to say. You want to comment on him being scared. You want to point out that he had literally saved your life. You want to tell him that that is not something you just do for someone you’re looking at with sheer indifference. “I think you’re the only one who doubts her.” Your own tone has changed. Despite the hurt in your heart, your tone is sharp.

“I do not doubt her, my dear. I don’t trust her. There is a difference,” Astarion replies with a wave of his hand. You don’t like this game. You hate this game. Why must he insist on playing it?

“Do you trust anyone, Astarion?”

If you were anyone else, Astarion would’ve had a quick retort. Or if you’d said it with anger in your voice. But you’re you and the question comes out with far less frustration than you had wanted it to. Instead, you sound sad. Hurt. And somehow, seeing you look like this is almost as bad as watching you bleed out. He predicts your next words before you say them, but he still winces at them all the same.

“Do you trust me?”

Your question hangs in the air between the two of you. Maybe it’s the lack of blood in your system that makes you say it. You never would have dared to ask something so vulnerable just a few feet from the rest of your companions normally. Maybe it’s the fact that you had almost died. Almost died with so many unsaid words swimming through your mind. Maybe that’s why you say it. Or maybe you’re just tired of not knowing what Astarion is truly thinking and feeling.

“You know I care for you,” Astarion replies after a moment. And you do know - how could you not when you’d seen his fear at the prospect of losing you with your own two eyes. How could you not know that he cared for you when he was so gentle every time he took your blood? How could you not know that he cared for you when he had sat beside you on sleepless nights? 

But that was not what your question was. 

“That’s not what I asked.” You intend to sound firm still. You fail, though, and you sound every bit as hurt and frustrated as you feel. “Why not?” Why didn’t he trust you? Or better, why did he not trust you enough? He trusted you enough to tell you about Cazador and what his former master had done to him. But he didn’t trust you enough to be honest about his emotions - especially his emotions towards you. Why? Why?

You watch as Astarion shifts in his seat. At first, you think he’s going to get up and walk away from you. Instead, he shifts forward, and his left hand finds yours. Your eyes fall to where your skin meets, they watch as Astarion holds your hand on top of his gently. His own attention is drawn to it, watching carefully as his other hand fidgets with your fingers.

“I thought you were going to die.”

His confession is soft, heartfelt. You might even be able to convince yourself he sounds like he might cry. But when he looks up to meet your eyes again, his crimson eyes are clear of tears. But there is pain there. Pain and torment and that fear. 

“I thought you were going to die and I would… And I would have to live with -” He gestures to himself with his hand that had been fidgeting with your fingers. “This.”

Your eyebrows knit together at his words, but you say nothing. You had long since learned that when Astarion was on the verge of opening up, it was best to let him get the words out on his own. Pressuring him had never gotten you anywhere. Well, except for right now. Every other time it had been entirely fruitless. 

“You have shown a kindness to me that I am unfamiliar with. With Cazador… His version of kindness was letting me eat instead of starving. But it always had a price. Always,” he can’t look at you anymore, instead looking intently at your hand in his. “Your kindness - I am learning - comes freely.”

“You are waiting for the other boot to drop,” You say, understanding what he is trying to tell you without directly saying it. When he nods, you swallow thickly. Words seem to fail you as you search desperately for the right thing to say. But there are no words that feel good enough.

Astarion also seems to be at a loss for words. Carefully, you place your hand not holding his under his chin and tilt his face upwards, so that your eyes meet once more. Your hand slides to cup his cheek, and your heart swells when you feel him press into your touch gently. 

“I am not him.”

Astarion’s eyes close at your words. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything except sit there for a long moment. So long that you think he isn’t going to reply. But then he turns his head, and he kisses the palm of your hand. Then where your hand meets your wrist. Then the inside of your wrist. As he places the third kiss to your skin, you let your hand fall away and watch as he picks it up with his free hand.

He doesn’t say it, but you know he understands. He knows you are not Cazador. And you don’t say it, but he knows you understand. You know he is trying. And neither of you say it, but both of you see those three words swimming in each other’s eyes. But you both know they’re there.

“Thank you,” you say after a long minute. “For not letting me die. Not that I expected you to, but…”

But you knew he wouldn’t have saved you a few weeks ago. 

“I mean it. Thank you.”

The fear in Astarion’s eyes finally melts away and that smirk of his falls onto his lips. But this was not his mask - no, this was his real joy. His real happiness at your not being dead and at being able to let a joke slip past his lips knowing you didn’t expect anything because of it.

“I can think of a few ways you could show that gratitude,” he says suggestively. A smile of your own spreads across your face, despite the color that floods it, too. Weakly, you shove his hands off of yours and roll your eyes at him. “You are welcome. I’ll save you a thousand times over if it means I get to see your smile once more.”

“Oh, don’t get soft on me now,” You say through your grin. But you’d like nothing more. A soft Astarion meant a healed one, a safe one. If that meant you were subjected to a few sappy lines here and there, you wouldn’t mind it.

“Hard to be soft with you around.”

“Astarion,” You hiss, realizing the joke you’ve walked yourself right into. For a second you debate getting off of the table and smacking him over the head, but when you shift your leg just slightly, that dizziness returns and has you gripping the edge of the table. 

Astarion is on his feet within a moment, noticing the change in you as soon as it happens. His hand has returned to your back, steadying you as the room starts to spin again. With your head a little clearer now, you recognize the feeling as similar to what you feel when Astarion drinks from you. With how strongly you’re feeling it… you don’t want to think about how much blood you must have lost.

“Rest. Please,” Astarion says in that soft voice again. And truly, who are you to deny him when he’s being so gentle? You let him coax you onto the table, onto the soft pile of fabrics you hadn’t realized had been under your head until just now. You want to stay conscious, to talk to Astarion more, but as soon as you’ve settled back down, you realize just how tired you are.

When you stir hours later, you’re tucked into your bedroll within your tent. And Astarion is sitting not far from you, reading. You don’t say anything as sleep overtakes you again, but you’re pretty certain you could get used to waking up to the sight of Astarion.

And Astarion’s pretty certain he wouldn’t mind it either.

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[iichfilwypj]

little devil | percy jackson

ღ percy jackson x reader: with the special participation of their dog, Zoë! ღ warnings: none? idk i think it's a bit dumb and funny ღ wc: 1.081

She had completely lost track of how many times she had to wipe the sweat off her forehead and lean over the famous ‘blue cookies’ recipe once again. Her arm was aching from the  effort, and she swore she could feel her body burning.

Percy remained asleep in their room, likely covered up to his head and snuggling with Zoë, the little Golden Retriever they had adopted a few weeks back, when they moved together. 

The girl was very excited to be the one cooking breakfast for her boyfriend, even though it wasn’t going great; the color of the batter was green, there was flour everywhere, and the mixture was way too thick. 

“This shit-!” Her hands shot to her face after sending the whisk flying somewhere across the countertop. “What did I do wrong?”

Her elbows slammed hard against the cold marble as she leaned closer to the paper, scanning the lines for her mistake. Her eyes widened as she realized what she had forgotten; the eggs. 

“Are you serious?” 

She didn’t hear her boyfriend’s grumbling about Zoë licking his face, footsteps drawing near the kitchen, or his whistle when he spotted her in the kitchen. Percy did make sure she felt the smack on her butt.

“Hi love,” he said, his tone far too casual as he opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “How are you?”

She turned her face toward her boyfriend, scanning him; Percy was barefoot, with his dark hair messy and wearing nothing but pajama pants despite the chill. Contradictory, with how hot he looked.

“Bad.”

“Oh, okay—What is this?,” He approached her side, one hand on his girlfriend’s lower back and the other on the bowl, inspecting its contents. “Is this… edible?”

“Don’t touch that!” she said, slapping her boyfriend's hands away. “Your mom told me you'd do this—and it’s not even done right!”

Percy’s face was picture-worthy at her outburst, all surprised and confused. As she grabbed the bridge of her nose, he glanced at Zoë, who was sitting in a corner, observing everything with her tongue out and tail moving happily.

“What is wrong with it?” He blinked, baffled. “If it’s because it’s not baked, I'll turn on the oven and we can—”

“I forgot the eggs,” she murmured, crossing her arms.

“What’d you say?”

“I forgot the eggs!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “And there are no eggs!”

“Oh—” Percy couldn't help it. A small laugh escaped him before he quickly looked away, clearly trying to hide his laughter.

She saw it. His shoulders shook slightly as he fought to suppress his grin.

“Are you laughing at me? I—” she had to bite her lip to stop herself from joining him. She couldn’t deny it; it was kind of funny.

“No—no, I’m—” Percy couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst into laughter. “How do you forget the eggs?”

“Don’t laugh at me about eggs!” 

Soon, they were both laughing, tears threatening to spill as Percy leaned against the counter for support; she knew it was probably because he had just woken up, adding to his amusement. 

“Are you done yet?” she huffed, still smiling.

“Oh, God, I adore you,” he said between gasps, pulling her into a tight hug.

“Yeah, yeah, me too.” She rolled her eyes but melted into his embrace, sighing as his hand traced soothing circles on her back.

“We’ll go out for breakfast,” He pulled away just enough to look her in the eyes. “Thanks for trying,”

She stayed quiet for a moment, her hands resting on his chest. Then they moved to his hair, making her stand on her tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a smile, before softly adding, “Asshole.”

Before he could reply, a sudden loud clatter from the counter shattered the moment, making them both freeze in place. They glanced at each other, their eyes wide. Without moving, Percy broke the silence.

“Zoë’s eating the batter, isn’t she?”

She didn’t even need to look, already knowing the answer. A resigned look appeared on her face as she sighed.

“Yeah, probably,”

“Your dog is a little devil. This is the third time since she learned to reach the counter.” Percy muttered, stepping away from her and scanning the kitchen for Zoë.

“Sorry, you mean our dog?” she shot back, already grabbing some paper towels to start dealing with the mess. 

But Zoë suddenly appeared from behind the island, her little nose covered in green batter, grabbing their attention. Percy’s eyes widened in disbelief as the puppy bolted toward the living room, a happy glint in her eyes. 

“Absolutely not!” he said, abandoning all pretense of dignity as he took off after her, his voice rising in panic. “Zoë, stop! Get away from the couch!”

And his girlfriend didn’t stay behind. She was quick to run after them, grabbing the digital camera from the nearby table and turning it on to record the scene. She filmed how Percy cornered Zoë, scooping her up in his arms, only for the dog to reward him with a batter-covered lick straight to his face. 

“Gross, Zoë!” he exclaimed, trying to wipe his cheek with the back of his hand as he struggled to hold the squirming dog.

But it didn’t help. The batter was stuck there, and Zoë kept wriggling in his arms, her tongue swiping at his face again.

He sighed deeply as he stretched his arms out, carefully pulling Zoë away from him. 

“Just Gross!”

“You’ve had worse stuff on you!” 

His gaze shifted to his girlfriend standing in the doorway, laughing uncontrollably, her cheeks flushed with tears. Seeing her like that softened his chest, and a grin tugged at his lips.

“Want some?” he asked, not giving her a chance to respond before he moved toward her with Zoë still in his arms.

Her eyes widened in mock horror, and she lifted the camera like it was a weapon. “I’ll kill you!” 

Zoë barked happily, her tail wagging excitedly, and the sound was contagious, making them both burst into laughter.

hii! i just wanted to make something basic, i wasn't finding myself with my writing and this wouldn't fail!! promise i'll be more creative! but how are youuu?

[thefandomsfervent]

Personal Pigments Viktor x Reader (Part 1) - Cadmium Yellow Deep Hue

Heimerdinger forgets to warn the science bros that an artist is coming in to visualize them and Hextech, a collaborative program between a Piltover art school and the academy for some new hall meant to be unveiled at an upcoming progress day. Large paintings can take years to do, with Hextech’s promising growth they are to be started in a preemptive manner. Reader is from Zaun, not sure what I’m going to do with this yet. Takes place in the coming months after they first get council approval, hexgates aren't complete. Wrote an imagine (here) and now I’m needing to see it through, would y’all want more?

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Viktor should be focusing. He is, but not on the right thing. His hands still fiddle with cogs as he looks to you for the umpteenth time this hour. Your brows were furrowed together as you compared pastels and pencils together.  Your lips pursed to the side as if you were biting your cheek in concentration. He would have been worried about being caught starting but your focus was elsewhere.

You had papers clipped to a drawing board in front of you.  The stool you usually sat on abandoned by the small table next to you.  He watched as your hands turned colored sticks over, looking for something. He didn't know what, but he appreciated the view regardless. 

In this summer heat the lab was humid, Jayce had gone out for water and Viktor himself had forgone his vest. You were starting to sketch something in wide yellow strokes, the smooth scrape of pressed pigment to paper filling the heavy air. You hummed a sound of affirmation, as if finally approving your choice before grabbing another stick in blue. As you continued your efforts, he took in all of you. A loose button up over a tank top, well fitting trousers, simple boots. The same attire you'd worn for weeks, but today something was different. The tank-top was a lower,  looser cut. Likely chosen for the heat plaguing Piltover this summer. Your warming up sketches facing a daylit window. 

“Composition, speed, and colour work.” The words you had said months ago lingering in the back of his mind. “You can never practice too much.”

He sees you from the side, the strap had been half way off your shoulder all morning. Innocent enough. Not truly your fault in any way.  

The white over shirt unbuttoned. Also loosely caught by your elbows, draping over your work surface. Picking up colors and dust. He follows the sleeves up to your hands, to your arms. He should be working. Reading a section in another overdue library book. Not watching you. Not following the gentle way you pick up and set down your pastels, certainly not the way today’s heat has exposed your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones and how they lead to the hollow of your neck. He looks away for a moment. Steeling himself. 

Surely he is not ogling you. That would be inappropriate. Yes, it has been a long time since he has been able to indulge in thoughts of that manner. But he shouldn't start down that kind of path here.

A clattering sound pulls his gaze back to you, a soft curse leaving your lips as you have to bend down to grab a pencil that rolled off your desk. His breath catches in his throat, your tanktop drooping lower when you lean down. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your bra revealing itself in a sinful second. The moment was very quick, and to his luck you didn't notice. The lab door opens as Jayce walks in. Ice cold water in a pitcher, three glasses on a tray. 

He sets one down on your desk looking over your shoulder. "The window today?"

"Just something quick, the sun is hitting the glass just right." You punctuate your sentence with the wave of a pencil towards the shaft of light illuminating a stack of books.

"I see," he says as he walks over to one of the many messy tables near you to set down the tray. He brings another glass to viktor. If he notices the red flushing his partner's face he doesn't say.  Maybe he assumed it was this wretched heat. In a way, it was the fault of the weather. 

"Thank you," Viktor says, just before he downs the whole glass. 

He gets an acknowledging pat on his shoulder before Jayce settles in his own station.  Each of you returning to your own work. The silent hum of drawing and tinkering becomes a soothing balm on the room, and on the tension in his shoulders. He fiddles with his engraver, marking runes onto various metal bits. He wonders to himself how he even got into this position. How he finds his thoughts, and apparently his eyes, wandering to you. 

He remembers that first day, how many months has it been since you’ve come here? 

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-------------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ Part 2.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .---------------------

------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------

[koenigami]

tags : fem!reader, fluff, suggestive wc : 990 synopsis : he makes you forget about time and space... and tara's party. - It takes a while for your sleep ridden mind to register that the sudden consecutive bangs and sounds of people cheering loudly, are not part of a vivd dream.

You groan as you try to sit up, wanting to properly take in your surroundings, yet somehow you can't. Move, that is. A heavy arm is locked around your waist, keeping you fixed on your bed and pressed flush to someone's warm body.

"Xavier-" You dazedly mutter his name, trying with the little force that you still have left in you to wriggle free from his arm, though your efforts are for naught. Accepting your defeat, you huff and let your head loll to the side, facing the large balcony window.

Bright radiant lights grace the night sky, colouring your rooms in all kinds of colours after each loud bang. Such pretty fireworks, you think and tiredly close your eyes for another brief serene moment.

...

Fireworks?!

Hastily your body jerks up but you don't even have time to triumph over finally having budged your immovable force of a boyfriend. Your gaze searches the clock on your bedside table even though you have to admit that you'd rather prefer not to look at it at all, knowing that your suspicions will likely only further be confirmed.

Eventually, when you snatch your phone from the ground and curse at the sight of a dozen missed calls from Tara, only then does the mentioned immovable force beside you stir awake.

"Mmh... why are you so loud? And turn the lights off, it's still too early." Xavier yawns and buries his face into your side to shield himself from the bright illuminations of the fireworks that are still going on outside.

"Xavier, it's past midnight. Not only have we missed Tara's party, we also missed the countdown."

Drowsily, he lifts his head and squints through the room before his eyes fall on the scenery outside. A quiet oh, is the only reaction that you get from him before he shifts his gaze back to you. His hand wanders from your naked waist down to your hip, but you quickly slap it away before he can get any lower.

Those seemingly innocent gestures of his are what has gotten you in this situation in the first place.

"It's all your fault!" You sound anything but genuinely upset when you pout childishly and mutter something akin to "horny idiot" under your breath which only makes Xavier chuckle delightedly.

"Hey, now-" He interrupts his own words with a big yawn before he decides to perch himself right over your body, balancing on his forearms as he traps your body between his thighs. "You know I can't control myself. Couldn't help myself when I saw you in that dress."

His warm breath tickles your face when his nose gently brushes against yours before it starts leaving a soft trail across your cheek and further down to your neck. He inhales deeply, as if trying to burn your smell into his memory even though you're convinced that by now, you smell more like sweat and him, than the perfume you've put on before he attacked you like a hungry hyena.

"We didn't get to kiss on midnight." Your voice sounds as if you're genuinely upset, though Xavier can't help but smile against your neck.

"Yeah, what a shame." He doesn't sound sorry at all. With a falsely sympathetic expression on his face, he thumbs at the fresh red marks along your neck. He's sure there must be a few more between your thighs. "I guess these were not enough, huh?"

"Xavier, I'm serious. This was our first-" You haven't even noticed that one of his hands has travelled further south your body, until all your nerves seem to activate, and you flinch when the tips of his fingers graze your lower parts. His smug smile is quickly replaced with genuine concern when you whimper in response.

"Love? Are you in pain?" His thumb draws calming and comforting circles over your hipbone as he keeps you still beneath him, like a hawk watching over you for any other signs of ache. You believe that there's not even an ounce of regret in him for the way he had pulled one orgasm after another out of you, until you were nothing but a shaky mess. But the pain etched on his face once he becomes aware that he's responsible for your discomfort truly makes your own chest ache and swell with love at the same time.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you can't even bring yourself to look him in his eyes, opting instead for the sky outside which has returned to its usual dark self, with little stars sprinkled like droplets of white colour all over a black canvas.

"No, I'm just a little sensitive and sore because someone couldn't control himself." You mock and bite a grin back when he sighs and leans down to playfully nibble on your cheek. The pillowy skin of his lips leaves tender caresses along your face as he promises you to clean you up soon, but not before he lets himself fall back beside you with a soft grunt.

With his face so close that the tip of his nose nearly touches yours, all you see is Xavier. Your own starlight that only shines for you. Ever so bright and always guiding you and keeping you company, never leaving you alone in the dark.

"My love." His voice is nothing but a whisper as he tucks your hair behind your ear, and closes the little distance left between you. You breathe a weak gasp against his lips when his warm palm grabs your thigh and throws it over his hip, fingertips delicately dancing along the delicate flesh and leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Happy new year."

The new year has come, yet something is telling you that the night has barely begun.