#like a heavy heavy book worm

[omgeto]

i need ur thoughts on nerd geto cause he’s living rent free in my head ever since i read kazushawty’s post abt him 🎤🎤

book worm!geto who is super well read and articulate and can't help but rant and rave about any and all types of fiction, even when you have no clue what he's on about.

"c'mon suguru, I thought you got in the bath with me so you could do me, not read to me," you whine, tapping the book he has in his hand lightly with your foot to get his attention.

"well actually you got in the bath with me," he lifts the book up, his eyes meeting yours as he chuckles. "but listen, I think you'd really like this author."

"fine tell me all about them," you agree, as you inch closer to him, and he lets you rest on his chest, as you fit in between his legs in the water. his eyes light up as he continues to rave about the latest book he's reader, a genre and author you had no interest in but you didn't care as hearing him speak with so much passion really made your day.

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Trinkets

Five presents Jason brought you back from his adventures and one you asked for. (+ one) ~1.2k words of fluff

Jason Todd brings you home gifts from his missions, which wouldn't be a problem, but he never really explains what they are.

The first time it happened, you had laughed at the green ring with a lantern symbol in the middle. It looked cheesy, like one of the fake ones you can buy from the superhero merch stores littered around malls and outlets.

You'd kissed his cheek in thanks, put it on your shelf, and never gave it a second thought.

At least you didn't, until a bright green glow woke you up from your sleep. You'd sat up immediately, jaw practically dropping to the sheets as the ring lifted itself off your shelf and flew out the window.

Jason barely budged, his arm still thrown over your waist. He let out yawn and cuddled closer before speaking, voice groggy and heavy, "Huh. Didn't think they noticed that one was gone."

"They," You half yell, voice pitching as you stare at his outline, hidden in the shadows of the room.

"The Guardians, babe," he yawns out, "They're in charge of the space cops. Just go back to sleep."

Naturally, you do not go back to sleep. You drag him to the kitchen, make tea, and demand he explains why a Green Lantern ring was in your apartment. (He's very happy to)

The second time it happens, you're much more wary of the gift he brings home. But to be fair, he can't really pass off an Amazonian steel sword as something he just picked up.

It doesn't take as much convincing as it should for you to let him mount it on your wall. But it's a sword! No one can blame you for thinking it looks cool in your living room.

It turns out keeping it around is pretty useful, because a few weeks later, your boyfriend crawls through your window, dressed head to toe in armor.

"Hey, doll," he drawls, "Can I borrow your sword?"

"Sure," You chirp back, more preoccupied with your book as he saunters over to the sword, "what for?"

"Artie's got confiscated, and we haven't gotten to steal it back yet," he supplies, stopping long enough to pull his helmet up and kiss your head.

"Oh, that sucks," You answer, offhandedly, "Give her and Bizzaro my love."

"You got it, babe," he chirps already halfway out your window.

He does bring your sword back, covered in green blood, but no worse for wear. It still looks great on your wall.

He brings you a box next. It's kind of ugly looking, but you thank him nonetheless.

"Be careful with it," he tells you as you flip it over in your hands, "It opens boom tubes."

You almost drop it, and if you hadn't already experienced the power ring, you would have shrieked at him. Instead, you manage to put it down very carefully and calmly ask, "It does what?"

"Open boom tubes," he answers, which clears absolutely nothing up, "I figured we could use it to country hop for our next date night. You know, dinner in Paris, drinks in Dubai, dessert in LA."

"Okay," You answer slowly, as if that makes complete sense.

It turns out, it does. Date night is lovely, and making out with your boyfriend on a random beach in Spain is very, very nice.

Batman waiting in your apartment to take back the boom box isn't so nice, though.

Jason tells you it was worth it. He's absolutely right.

The third thing Jason brings you is a plant. Flowers aren't a rare show of affection from him, but ones that move are.

"Uh, thank you, Jason," You start, prodding at the moving petals, they nuzzle your fingers the same way a kitten would, "But I don't know how to take care of these."

"Same way you take care of any other plant, water, fertilizer, nutrients, all that fun stuff," he says fondly, stroking a few of the petals.

"What if it gets sick," You ask, uncertain.

"We'll call Ivy," he says, unbothered.

"Right. Ivy. Poison Ivy. Who you know," You mumble, but the little plant is already worming its way into your heart. (You affectionately name it Daisy, for no other reason then it sways happily when you say that name)

The fourth thing Jason brings you makes you laugh because you know exactly what it is, "Jason, we can't keep this."

"Why not," he pleads, shaking the bright green quiver filled with arrows at you.

You giggled harder, smiling wide as you shake your head at him, "We don't even know what those do. Don't some of those explode?"

"So what," he huffs, practically pouting, "We can ask Roy. And it's not like I don't know my way around explosives."

"I guess so," You relent, trying to stifle your laughs as you inspect the bright green arrows, "How did you even get this?"

His eyes light up mischievously, "Do you really want to know?"

You stop short and narrow your eyes at him, "I would lose my plausible deniability."

"But you wanna know," he says, sly and playful.

You do. (It involves mutated chickens, tar, and one distracted Oliver Queen. You hang the quiver next to the sword)

Jason's getting ready to leave, bags packed and helmet lazy held under his arm, "Can I bring you back anything specific, doll" he asks, his free hand resting comfortably against your cheek, "Lasso of Truth? Maybe something with magic?"

You grin at him, leaning into his touch, "I actually do have something in mind."

"Oh," he prompts, eyes glinting with excitement.

"I want to complete my batarang collection."

He falters, "Your– what?"

"No one has," You exclaim, pulling away to showcase your collection, "I have Nightwings, Batgirls, Batmans, yours, of course, one of Robin's. But I'm missing Spoilers, Batwomans, Signals, and Red Robins."

He blinks at you, "That's– if that's what you want."

You giggle at how dumbfounded he looks, practically bouncing back over to him to kiss him, "Thank you, Jason."

He catches your waist and pulls you back in for another, longer kiss that leaves you both breathless and panting. His voice lowers, like it's a secret, "I'll bring you back some batarangs. See you in a few days?"

"See you in a few days," You echo, and he winks at you as he tugs on his helmet, leaving out your window.

Sure enough, you get your batarangs when he gets home. It takes some convincing, a few kisses that leave you senseless, but you get Jason to help you mount your batarang collection alongside the sword and quiver.

"I should get you a plasma rifle next," he drawls, admiring your growing wall of weapons.

"I think I'd fall over if I tried to shoot one of those," You point out, all smiles.

"I'll teach you," he tells you, hooking an arm around your waist to draw you closer.

Jason's a man of his word, and sure enough, he brings you home a plasma cannon after his next mission.

You only destroy most of the shooting range in the batcave when he lets you try it out.

[teddybeartoji]

彡 GUARDIANS OF THE TINY SEA URCHIN BOY

☆. contains: satoru gojo x gn!reader; fluff!!!, non-curse au, idk what this timeline is but both reader and satoru are adults and gumi is tiny + reader is his kindergarten teacher wc: 3k

you love you job.

you love taking care of the kids, teaching them, caring for them. and that of course applies for megumi, too. he's a pretty quiet kid, very straightforward and doesn't seem too affected by his guardian being away on a work trip when you ask him about it. you've never met the guy but it always makes you snicker whenever megumi's nose scrunches when he's brought up. or the little pout that tugs on his lips – the grumpiest and the fakest one to ever be conjured in the history of the world. you know it's fake; you've seen the care and devotion the little boy puts into the cards and the art he makes, always promising to show them to his keeper in a hushed voice.

but then one day... he's a quieter than usual, stares at you a little more than usual (he's so sure you don't see him)(or the way he's fiddling with the hem of his shirt). it's playtime and you're comfortably sitting in a bean bag, laughing with some other kids, eyeing the little sea urchin from the corner of your eye. after giving the other kids an impossible mission to complete outside, you usher the boy closer.

"gumi, come here."

and he does the cutest little eye roll known to mankind but nevertheless makes his way over to you. not pressuring him, you let him stand while you ask about the new comic book that came out (you heard him mention it once or twice) and oh, how his eyes widen. you surpress a giggle at the boy, and when you see his eyes flick between you and the bean bag you're sitting on, you finally motion for him to take a seat next to you. and he does.

he still feels a little unsure; like he wants to keep the information threathing to spill inside, despite the want to tell you all about it. seeing this, you decide to start talking about your own little hobby, doing big gestures as to try and crack a smile (it works)(he tries to hide it but you know better). and in the end he does relax and subconciously leans toward you when he starts introducing the comic.

digging out your phone, you let him show you the characters, the powers they have and how cool they all are. the smile on your face is making your cheeks hurt; glad that the boy feels secure and safe around you to tell you all this. some other kids bump in a few times, showing you the worms they dug up or beg for a napkin to wipe their face after they sneezed so hard that snot flew out. megumi's little scrunched up face only made you laugh more.

after a while you can feel him melt into you, his talk almost slurring, his eyes growing heavy. deciding to put away the phone, you move in your spot but a pair of hands clutch onto your arm. "'m not going anywhere." you assure him with a gentle smile as your hand finds its way into his hair, pushing through the unruly strands. he doesn't look at you, hiding his face into your shoulder.

"if i tell you something, do you promise you won't tell anyone?"

it's a ghost of a whisper, buried into the sleeve of your shirt. vulnerable.

"never. i would never."

it takes him another second to gather up the last pieces of confidence. the last pieces of strenght to open up his little tiny heart.

"i-i miss him." his little hands stay clutching onto your sleeve, not enough to stretch the material but just enough to let you know how hard this is for him. how he's taking the big step, how he's inviting you in with a shaky voice.

the hand in his dark hair never stops its movements, staying combing through it, feeling him nuzzle deeper into you. "oh, sweetheart. i'm sure you do." you hum quietly. "he's gonna be back really soon though. i promise."

you feel him nod against you. when another kid emerges from the outside, you quietly ask for her to whisper and swallow another giggle when she starts dramatically tiptoeing closer to you, ready to tie a newly made bracelet over your wrist. it's beautiful.

you stay like that for almost two hours – sitting in the bean bag with your arm locked securely in megumi's hold as he's letting out small little snores. you don't mind. you don't mind at all.

most of the kids have already left, their parents having come after them. they always greet you with a smile and thank you for keeping their kids happy and safe and it always warms your heart. there's nothing else you'd love more than this. and how the kids say bye... some of them hug you, some of them land a fat smooch on your cheek, one of them always shakes your hand (very firmly)(a lot of people could learn a thing from him). and all of them always wave with the brightest smiles on their faces.

you're eyeing the warm late afternoon sun from your spot on the bean bag when you hear the door open and close, a pair of loud footsteps approaching. megumi's guardian, surely.

tearing your eyes from the sun, you turn to meet the man and oh... his mouth is ajar as if he was about to yell out for megumi in the most dramatic way possible (he was). his crystal blue eyes shine in the very same light you were just basking in, taking in the sight before him. his lips close and reform into the warmest smile before he's whispers a small hi.

"hi." you answer with a smile of your own. nobody told you that he was gonna like that. sure, you've seen megumi's drawings but no offense to the boy – they do not do him justice. this has to be to most handsome guy you've ever seen. and he's your age, too. "you're here for megumi, right?"

he nods, leaning on the doorframe. "satoru."

after you introduce yourself, he repeats your name, tasting it on his tongue - and you're now stuck with the memory of one of the older faculty members saying something about how it's always very unprofessional to have crushes on the parents and whatnot. and whatnot.

he makes his way over – keeping his eyes on his beloved boy, sleeping oh, so comfortably in your arms. the way his chest is rising and falling steadyly, his fingers digging into your shirt. his heart swells.

kneeling in front of you, he smiles at the boy before turning his focus to his keeper. the golden sunlight is making your eyes shine and when you give him a shy little smile, he knows megumi is in safe hands.

"you're new?" he whispers.

"mhmm. and you don't actually have to whisper." satoru's eyes flick to megumi and you understand his question without him asking it. "oh, he's out. like a light. we've been sitting here for what?" you look at the clock before continuing. "two hours?"

satoru's smile widens at that. "he's kept you locked up for two hours?"

raising your hand from megumi's hair, you cover your mouth, hiding a grin. "he's cute, no harm done."

satoru hums. "he is. pretty sure you're the first teacher to see him like this."

"yeah." lowering your hand back down, you brush a few strands from his eyes, making his nose scrunch up and making the two of you swoon over the pouty kid. "i'm very honored."

satoru's eyes flick back to you. there's a certain softness in them, despite the deep dark purple peeking out from underneath the skin under them. you don't know what kind of a job he has but you know it sometimes requires him to be away for a while. it must be hard for him too; hard to leave his boy in some stranger's hands. but satoru is already convinced that you're no stranger.

"i'm glad he has you."

you feel a tint of blush making its way over your cheeks because of the sincerity in his tone. he really means it.

"but seriously, though? you've been sitting in the same spot for two hours? you're telling me your feet aren't dead?" he deadpans with a smirk.

lowering your head, you confess: "i have to go to the bathroom so badly."

he almost doubles over, holding a palm over his mouth, hiding the laughter ready to burst out. you try to glare at him but it's useless – you're holding your laughter with him a second after.

your body shakes with the giddyness, making megumi stir and you still. caressing his cheek, you try to make sure he ignores the two giggling adults next to him and stays asleep.

"and yes, my arm is dead but c'mon, how was i supposed to say no to this?" as if on cue, megumi lets out a content breath, his lips molding into his usual little pout, which in return makes the two of you look at him fondly. again.

"no, don't worry. i understand – he's a real charmer." he whispered. "what got him in this mood, anyway? nothing happened, right?" his eyes widen as the words leave his mouth, concern painting his face in a second.

trying to soothe his worry, you immediately shake your head. "no, no. he's okay. nothing happened." satoru exhales deeply, hand covering his heart. you don't think he even knows how worried he looked just now.

"but?" his voice breaks the small silence. "i feel like there's a 'but' here."

giving him a smile, you look the sleeping boy locked onto your arm. "i promised i wouldn't tell, though..."

"wha-?" the grown man's lip pull into a pout and you realize that the boy really does take after him. "but i need to know..."

deciding to make sure that megumi is still in fact, sleeping, you check his breathing – steady as ever, so you beckon the man a little closer.

"he missed you that's all."

it's so quiet. not even a whisper but satoru hears the words loud and clear. his eyes fall to his boy once more, something so tender in them – making your own heart beat a little louder. "but don't tell him i told you. i promised i wouldn't."

"never. i'd never take this from you." he rests his one hand beside your thigh on the bean bag, while the other goes to smooth over his cheek. the poor boy would die of embarrassment if he were to witness all this affection bestowed upon him. "thank you for telling me."

your gazes meet again, the love in them mixing together into a warm goo, filling the room and connecting the three of you forever.

"of course."

there's a comfortable silence between you and the man. a man you met mere minutes ago but when he bends over to pick up the bracelet made out of red string and continues to tie it back on your wrist without a word, you're certain you know him. or maybe knew him in another life; whatever the case, you were meant to meet again.

you thank him but he casually brushes it off as if it wasn't a big deal, as if he did it on instict, his fingers already itching to do things for you.

"is your bladder about to explode, by the way?" teasing. his tone is teasing and you can't help but reward him with another smile. his favourite pay.

"yes– yes, it fucking is." it takes you a second to realize what just slipped from between your lips. eyes growing twice their size as you stare back at satoru, who's, of course, already silently laughing, the corners of his lips reaching his ears. "you heard nothing."

"this is who's been taking care of the kids? wow, does the faculty know of the foul mouth you're sporting?"

"hey!" you whisper shout at him and before you can even register your own movements, your free hand lands a soft punch against his strong chest. it's always very unprofessional to have crushes on the parents. this time real heat paints your cheeks and the tips of your ears.

"sorry– i'm sorry." the only thing you can do is to mutter a quick apology - you're embarrassing yourself and you can't even run from it, the sleeping boy keeping you in your place and you're honestly ready to spiral because you just kind of hit (punched, even) him - this is definitely you crossing a line. and what if he really gets mad now and actually tells the faculty—

another wave of laughter breaks you from your thoughts. and then his own hand makes contact – landing firmly on your thigh; not to far up to make it like that but it's there to reassure that he's not a snitch of any kind and that's he's truly happy to have you as megumi's teacher. nothing better than having a real person looking after your boy.

but it is satoru gojo – it wouldn't be him if he didn't tease you properly at least once. "you're so cute like this. curses and hits being thrown here and there, whew! a great rolemodel for the kids, for sure."

you're burning up, almost afraid that you'll wake gumi with the heat emitting from your body. satisfied with the result, satoru gives your thigh a squeeze. "i'm kidding, i'm kidding. no harm done, right?"

he's gazing at you, borderline burning his eyes into yours with a sly smirk and now you also understand why megumi keeps calling his guardian very annoying every chance he gets.

"yeah." you quirp. "anyway, my ass is getting really sore now, so i think it's best to-" in attempt to escape the stealth attack on your heart, you try to change the topic, even when the weight of satoru's eyes stays on you for a second longer.

you shift your gaze to megumi, raising your hand to his face, gently tracing down his nose and booping it. you brush more of his hair from his face, trying to pull him from his dreamland as softly as you can. "megumi, look, who's here...."

his lips press into another pout as you land a second boop on his nose, finally making him stir. his eyes open ever so slowly, gazing up at you as he raises his fist to rub out the sleep.

"hey, gumi."

satoru's voice stills the boy. his body doesn't move, his eyes alone turning from you to the source of the voice. and the second his green eyes meet the blue ones – he's burying his face into the crook of satoru's neck. you observe their little reunion; megumi's hands are so tight around his neck, most certainly choking the man but he doesn't mind. he doesn't mind at all. satoru's arms wrap around the boy, holding him safe and sound right to his chest, to his heartbeat.

"missed me?"

megumi grumbles something into him, something unintelligible but most definitely something that resembles a kid's insult. satoru's mischievous eyes meet yours and you bite your lip, trying to look as stern as possible when the both of you know that you're just holding back another beautiful smile.

"let's go home, yeah?"

megumi nods as satoru stands with the boy in his arms. when you start pushing yourself up, he lends you a hand - his warm fingers easily engulfing yours in a quick motion. the touch lingers, skin on skin longer than needed. neither of you say comment on it – the butterflies in your stomach would gladly do all of the talking for you. you walk them to the door, staring at the sleepy little megumi, who's glancing at you over satoru's shoulder every two seconds.

you hand satoru megumi's pack and then gently place his jacket over his shoulders before giving one final rub on his back. "be good, yeah?"

he hums back, green eyes finding safe haven in yours. another smile is threathing to show when you wink at him, so he buries himself back into satoru's neck, making the man laugh loudly. this is the first time you hear it for real. it ripples through his whole body, his chest –shaking megumi as it does, it bounces off the walls of the room and finds its way to you and your ears. it's irresistible – you can't not respond with the same when he does it, the current just pulling you along. and it'll keep you for a long time.

"it was nice to meet you. finally."

"oh, you've been waiting for this?"

...

yeah, you walked right into that one, you admit your unfortune, but luckily megumi is there to save you by giving him a hard nudge on the back.

"okay, okay, little guy.... can't even hit on his teachers in peace..." he sighs, earning a way stronger hit and a way darker blush on your cheeks. "it was really nice meeting you too. finally."

you give him a small nod, fingers playing with the bracelet. you watch him carry the boy toward the door, ready to go home and calm your heart.

"wait-" satoru turns just as he steps outside into the sunlight. his eyes shine now even more than they did inside, almost blinding you. "how come you're not running to the bathroom? i thought you were dying."

"well, i was trying to be polite and wait until you leave, so you know..." lowering your voice, you tell him: "fuck off already." flashing him one final smile, the one he's gonna think about for the rest of the night (for the rest of many many nights), you motion for him to move along.

a quick little bye is all he gets before you close the door after him, leaving him standing in from of the house with a stupid smitten grin on his face. if it weren't for megumi, he'd probably stay standing there. "they said fuck." the boy whispers.

"fuck yeah." he laughs before he ruffles megumi's hair, finally making their way over to his car. "by the way, you're an awful wingman, buddy..."

[gepards-beloved]

playing with his hair

w/ blade, jing yuan, dan heng, gepard, luocha, sampo

" what are you doing?" a groggy voice calls from your lap. when you glance down, you are greeted with a crimson orb and a pair of pinched brows - the crease dissipates when you kiss BLADE on his forehead. " your hair is so long," you grin, playing a portion between your fingers; it had a faint waft of your shampoo. " do you want me to stop?" he blinks at you, handsome face unveiled when not having a curtain of black over his eyes. he looked cute like that— and it felt particularly special when he dropped his cold demeanor in favor of displaying a more vulnerable side; one you have been privy to on many occasions. if you hadn't known better, you'd say his face has gradually softened since you've locked eyes. " no," he whispers, screwing his eyes shut. " this is good." when you resume untangling his roots, he thinks he's found something even more comforting than your kisses. it surprises him, even as his body resumes to sink in your lap— but you continue to find ways to worm into his heart. the thought of complaining never crosses him.

oh, JING YUAN, elegant, refined, and adroit in both marksmanship and leadership. the great general can only fall pilant to one certain foe— you. your hands sift through his hair, locks of snow terribly soft and frizzy in all directions. " it's so soft," you pull the loose strands into makeshift hairstyles of sorts. he looked enchanting as ever, golden rays of light catching his locks in a replenishment shine; then again, he always looked picturesque. the room was quiet, save for his deep sighs that sent a flutter to your heart. jing yuan turns his head to glance at you, but you quickly usher him to sit still as you work out the knots. he couldn't help himself. he just wanted to see your cute face scrunch up in concentration and kiss your jutted lips. he finds appreciation in these details, signaling your endless care for him. he gently pries away one of your hands, placing kisses along the knuckles. " don't worry, my dear," he smiles, moving to kiss your wrist. " i'm all yours." (honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if you found a bird hiding deep within the roots. he merely chuckles, kissing your thigh in a show of tenderness. he's far too entranced with your hands tangling in his roots to concern himself with the actual nest he's housing.)

DAN HENG was reading a book, and his hair was just there; loosely tied together in a neat presentation. honestly, how could something taunt you so much, and how could he look so ethereal by just reading?? he notices see you in the corner of his eye, his curiosity already piqued before you even got his hair. " what trouble are you stirring up to this time," he blatantly inquires, serious as ever but deterred by a gentle tone he always speaks to you in. "oh nothing," you giggle. "carry on reading." he cocks a brow but remains quiet. despite himself, he couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from twitching when you start to weave your hands in the strands. you tended it with care, combing it out with your fingers and dan heng couldn't bring himself to foucs on the words anymore. he nearly shivers when you suddenly press a kiss to the nape of his neck, his sharp exhale occupying the silence. after a couple blissful moments, he pulls away, book long discarded on the table. you hardly got the chance to whine, not when he gently brings you to sit on his lap. " standing won't be necessary," his hand settles on your hips, pecking you on the cheek. " you will be more comfortable this way."

the skeptical look in GEPARD'S eye progressively falters the longer you curl your fingers in his roots. instead, a form of bliss comes to blend into his countenance, and his lips gape into an 'o' pair with a rosy blush in brew from the proximity. it was hard not to get butterflies in your chest when he rubbed his cheek into your palm. and his eyes went heavy when you scratched the area beneath his ear; he was almost like a puppy of sorts. " you're the most handsome man I know," your lips brush the corner of his mouth, the skin growing warm from your words. before you could pull away, his hand grabs your face and brings you in for a kiss proper - it's messy and hurried, still lacking experience but nonetheless effective in sending a wave of anticipation up your spine." can we stay like this forever?" he shuffles closer to you, nose bumping yours; your hands were still buried deep within his blonde hair and he nearly whines when you brush your thumb over his scalp. the sensation, coupled with your synchronized inhales and exhales was nearly numbing. without realizing it, gepard tucks a loose strand of your own behind your ear, a lovestruck grin finding his lips. when you nod, his smile reaches his eyes.

its no secret that LUOCHA adores your touch. you weren't sure how long he's been using your lap as a pillow, sleepily blinking at you as his hand stroked your thigh. a hum escapes him when you experimentally ran a nail down his head; the way his eyes fluttered shut was almost instantaneous, and he tilted his head to the side to grant you more access. he pushes back the temptation to squirm when you curl your hands on the back on his head, the baby hairs responding to your touch. luocha thinks he might just fall asleep like this, his grip turning lax against your clothes. it's only when you move to twirl his bangs around your pinky that it returns stubbornly. " are you teasing me?" he chooses to ignore the way his heart tickles when you cup his face, batting your eyelashes at him. " i'm just looking at you, you're handsome." he smiles against his own rationality, the expression warming you up far more than the sun's rays ever could. he pinches your chin gently, pulling you down until your lips meet in a sloppy movement, tasting like the jam you had fed him earlier. when his eyes fall shut you had the opportunity to fully admire his bliss expression, lopsided and bright. " thank you," he guides your hand back into his hair but not before pressing a kiss to the palm. " indulge me a little more, my love?"

SAMPO was being oddly quiet. so much so, it was growing unnerving. rather than being met with cheesy one-liners or random kisses to your neck, you were greeted instead by silence and a sampo who laid at your lap unmoving. huh, it seems he's fallen asleep, you thought, taking the advantage to run your fingers through his unkempt hair. it was unruly, increasingly so as you meander your fingers along the roots. sampo forces back his grin when you cup the back of his head, baby hairs elevating to your touch. he does, however, release a sigh when you start to detangle it mindlessly, the outside world momentarily forgotton. your stupor is broken when a drawled "y/n~" intrudes the silence, punctuated by a pinch to your arm. you don't know what was more humiliating: your yelp or the way your body went taut. " were you faking this entire time?" you reeled back, frowning at the mirth glazed in his eyes; you don't get too far when he captures your hand, peppering kisses along the wrist. " don't be so surprised," sampo gives your pulse point a teasing nibble, relishing in the reaction it coaxes from you. " i have tricks up my sleeve too."

[beloveds-embrace]

hey this worm in my brain just told me a crazy scenario where duchess reader is reading a book in the bedroom with gaz feeding her grapes one by one and while he's feeding her she's at the part of the book where there's a scene of a character inserting their fingers to another character's mouth sensually, and bad good news is that she's ovulating and she (not so) accidentally dragged her lips a bit longer on gaz's fingers when he fed her a grape and-

i think this worm is saying some important info and i think u need to know about this

smooching that worm and its host <33

The gentle rustle of pages filled the warm, golden glow of the your chambers, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. You sat nestled in a mountain of pillows, a novel open in your lap, the silk of your nightgown brushing your legs. Your beloved Kyle sat beside you on the bed, feeding you grapes one by one, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they pressed the sweet fruit to your lips.

You had grown so used to the comfortable intimacy of their presence that it never occurred to you how the simplest gestures could spiral into something far, far more tantalizing.

Kyle’s eyes followed the slow movement of your lips, mesmerized as they closed around the grape, your tongue brushing the pad of his finger in a way that made him inhale sharply. You didn’t notice his reaction- not at first. You were too engrossed in the book, your cheeks warm as the current scene unfolded: a stolen moment between lovers, where one character sensually slid their fingers into another’s mouth, the intimate act charged with forbidden tension, unable to tear their gazes away from one another even as drool trickling down the receiver’s chin, down and down to the valley of their throat.

The description sent warmth spreading through your belly, and without realizing it, your lips lingered on Kyle’s finger a beat too long when he fed you the next grape. His breath hitched audibly this time, and you froze, eyes widening as they flicked up to meet his. Realization came to you equally slow and fast.

“Duchess…” Kyle murmured, his voice low, rough around the edges, like gravel softened by rain. His eyes darkened, gaze heavy with something that made your pulse quicken. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

Your lips parted, and you stammered, “I-I’m not- ” But the denial died on your tongue as Kyle’s hand lingered near your face, his thumb grazing your lower lip. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your abdomen.

The book slipped from your hands, forgotten.

Kyle tilted his head, his mouth curving into a slow, mischievous smile as he leaned closer. His scent- clean, woodsy, and undeniably masculine- filled your senses, and you instinctively leaned back into the pillows, though you didn’t shy away.

“You’ve been distracted all evening,” he murmured, a velvet murmur the caressed your body. “The content of that book has left you quite flustered. That’s unlike you, my Duchess.”

Your breath hitched as his hand, warm and steady, cupped your cheek. He brushed a stray lock of hair away, his fingers tracing your jawline before skimming down your throat. The touch left a trail of fire in its wake- and it coalesced in your belly, warm and demanding.

“I-I was just reading- ”

“Mm.” Kyle hummed, clearly unconvinced, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip again. “Reading something interesting, I’m guessing. Care to share?”

His voice was teasing, but his eyes were locked on yours, dark and unyielding. Your skin burned under his scrutiny, and your mouth moved without thinking.

“It… It was about… a man… and his fingers…”

Your voice trailed off, your face as warm as a furnace. Kyle’s smile turned wolfish, and his thumb pressed just slightly into your mouth, grazing your teeth with no opposition.

“His fingers, hm?” His voice dropped lower, the rasp sending a shiver through you. “And what was he doing with them, Duchess?”

You couldn’t answer. Words failed you as Kyle slowly, forcefully, pushed his thumb past your lips, testing the waters. Your tongue brushed against it instinctively, and the low groan that rumbled from his chest made your thighs clench. And then it was your turn to moan softly when he pinned your tongue down, the rest of his fingers cupping your jaw.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, smug. “You’ve been craving, haven’t you, wife?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, leaning in closer until his lips were a breath away from yours. His hand slipped lower, trailing down your neck, his thumb retreating only to be replaced by his mouth capturing yours in a searing kiss. You gasped against his lips, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that left you dizzy and breathless, and yet chasing the feeling again.

Kyle’s hands didn’t stay idle. One slid to your waist, pulling you closer, while the other found its way to your thigh, pushing the silk of your nightgown higher as his fingers caressed the bare skin beneath.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” he confessed against your lips, rough with restraint. “Every look, every smile, every touch… And now, this.”

His fingers gripped your thigh firmly, tugging you closer until you were straddling him, the novel long forgotten on the bed. His hands roamed your body with a possessiveness that left no doubt of his intentions, and the warmth between your legs grew unbearable.

“Kyle.” you whispered, your voice trembling but laced with want.

“Yes, my Duchess?” His lips trailed down your neck, sucking and biting gently at the sensitive skin, leaving behind little marks he knows he will obsess over later.

“I… I need you.”

The admission was all he needed. His hands slid to your hips, lifting you effortlessly as he guided you into his lap. The hardness pressing against you made you gasp, and he chuckled darkly, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised, molten honey and soft silks. “I’ll give you everything you need, and then some.”

You didn’t doubt him for a second.

[eightstarr]

what's mine — ellie williams.

summary: the day you left for this assignment, ellie remembers thinking it would be okay— or maybe it was you who said it, your hands over her tense shoulders, her fingers tugging at your shirt, “you’ll be okay.” she goes home and knows it to be true, like words from a god. she’ll be okay and you’ll be back. what’s left to do but count the hours?

warnings: descriptions of violence (not very detailed), suggestive content near the end!

notes: uhhh i love being dramatic and i think it shows here. all i think about is the action of coming home to someone who loves you and how it is as meaningful now as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be in a hundred years but whatever haha sorry about that guys. if you read this i love you btw

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・。.・゜✧・. ────

Being without Ellie is disorienting. The first week feels like walking alone in a dark room, feeling the walls for a light switch, running into sharp corners that stab your sides. You miss her like it's a sickness, less a longing and more a threat to whatever you’re made of.

There's a small community way outside of Jackson offering a trade. Maria makes it sound simple, like everything else. “They know us, it’ll be quick. You pick up the supplies, drop off our part of the deal, and come back.”

It takes 26 days. The exchange is simple but the journey less so, you and three others have to carry home the much needed medical supplies through herds of infected and a heavy storm that slows you down and cuts off your communication for three terrifying nights.

Ellie wanders the house and feels like a stranger, sickly, a sleepless corpse searching for living blood. The light coming through the windows feels too bright and her skin abnormally cold. She knows, or thinks, that if she’s not careful she could get lost in it— merge every wall together until there’s nothing left to see but a stark flatness, an unfamiliar box. The space is not huge. It's not a tall castle or a manor in the countryside or anything fitting to the theatricality of loneliness, but it’s your home. So much of you is in it. Ellie finds herself focusing on a different thing each passing day, clinging to them with a nauseating desperation, a hundred random pieces of you scattered like breadcrumbs to keep her sane. A book with a folded corner somewhere along the first half of the story, your favorite mug next to the sink, an old pair of jeans ripped at the knee on your side of the drawer. Too many things for you not to come back.

“Do you think I'm losing my mind?” she asks, a soft wrinkle between her furrowed brows, her eyes focused on a random spot ahead. “I mean, it’s been two weeks,” she’s trying to sound like it's not as bad as it looks, like she finds any of it funny or interesting instead of plainly horrifying. The sole of her shoes hits the floor in an anxious rhythm, mocking her— tap, tap, tap, tap. “Isn’t that fucked up?”

Dina curses at the lighter until it flickers back to life with a weak orange flame, holding it near the end of the half finished blunt. She inhales and passes it over, breathing out, “You’re not crazy.”

A pause. Ellie lets the comment comfort her for a single second before it flies right through her head, sounding more quiet than usual when she admits, “...I have this feeling like someone took something from me.”

Dina raises her eyebrows, her chuckle cut off by a short cough, smoke itching her throat. “You mean, like… what’s her name?” she squints her eyes and tries to remember. 

The name worms around Ellie’s head like it has been for days, bold letters, clear as day. She makes no attempt to let it pass through her lips, self aware and unrelenting at the same time, maybe finding some indefensible satisfaction in the fact that it can be forgotten. Cruel, you'd tease, and Ellie would smirk a lot like she tries not to now.

Dina gives up a second later, “Whatever— the girl that volunteered to go with them before you could. You're blaming her?”

“I guess.”

“Hm. That’s a little…”

“Don’t say crazy—”

“Crazy.”

“Fuck you,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“So you’re not jealous?”

Ellie scoffs, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. Dina argues unlike anyone else. She’s confident, her goal clear and her strategy already lined up before you get a word in, loaded like a gun. But her strongest contender, perhaps the only one, might be Ellie’s simple stubbornness. “I’m concerned. She got picked over me even though I've studied that route a hundred fucking times. I could've done a better job,” she says, steady and tireless like bulletproof glass.

“At getting the supplies or at taking care of your girlfriend?”

“You’re starting to sound like Maria.”

Dina pauses for a short moment before she shrugs. “Maria makes good points.”

Ellie takes one last hit of the blunt and flicks it across the room to die out somewhere on the permanently damp floor. She tries to believe it. No one took you, she thinks, you left dutifully like anyone else in Jackson would've, like Ellie would've. It’s a dangerous trip but a job like any other, the same risk of deadly infection that comes with any of them. She should be used to it by now. Does it not also exist every other day of the year?

Still, she can't remember the last time she didn't see your face for this long. You’ve been dating for a little over three years, living together for half of that— it's a terrifyingly meaningful chunk of your young lives, months and months of seeing you everyday, of falling asleep with her face on the crook of your neck and waking up with your fingers pressing into her waist. You've built a world where things like this don’t happen, where all Ellie can think about as she leaves home is the way you hum in the mornings, soft and sleepy and so fucking cute, when you wake up to her back against your chest and her hair on your face. She thinks about her own laugh, how shy it sounds, how your lips press to her head before she turns around to claim a proper kiss.

But now you’re not here, and she’s too terrified to even utter the words out loud, and there's a hole in her chest where you should be that makes her feel insane everywhere she goes. It's an open wound leaving a hazardous trail of shame and memories, humming in her ears like a boiling kettle, who took what's mine?

Ellie has never considered herself to be the jealous type, but she never was the type to sleep with her back turned to someone this comfortably, either. It’s different with you. It's theatricality, it’s the coldness of that bed at night, it’s your legs tangled with hers like growing roots now disjointed. It’s a thing, breathing and alive, screaming at nothing— I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

Is that girl you went with hanging from your every word in that way she always does? Is that a shameful thought to have? Ellie wipes it clean in a second and finds it immediately there again, at the front of her mind like a message on a cloudy mirror. She can't think about anything else. Is the storm keeping the two of you awake? Does a part of you find the girl brave for volunteering? Is she turning to look at you and asking, just loud enough, are you asleep? That fall earlier was rough, how are you feeling? Is she looking at your wounds like they matter more than doing a good job? Is your blood, warm and red and yours, on her hands now?

The last of the smoke spills past her lips in a sigh. Ellie pulls her knees closer to her chest and tugs at the loose thread on your ripped jeans.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

There’s a comfortable weight that keeps you under, the loving press of her arm resting over your chest, her thumb brushing your chin. The sun feels warm where it’s draped across Ellie’s back, white tank top wrinkled slightly up her waist.

She watches you until you let out a little sigh, squint one eye open and then slowly the next, a smile stretching your lips as soon as your sight focuses on her. She looks beautiful. She looks just like she did before you left, your girl.

It’s weird— you’ve showered, scrubbed your hands clean and raw, changed clothes. And still you feel like you’ve brought in something dirty, like it’ll be stuck on you for a while, the grime, the guns, the storm. Your muddy shoes must still be sitting by the front door. Something in your head screams that you should get rid of them, burn them like an evidence of guilt. Do you look anything like you did before you left? You feel like a worn version of yourself, sticky and darkened. It’s a ridiculous worry to have, but the thought comes hand in hand with embarrassment and you can feel it crawling up your neck. You cover your face with your hands and groan tiredly, shy.

Ellie laughs, warm like musk, salve on a wound.

"Are you watching me sleep?" you mutter, voice ridden with exhaustion and joy all at once. The thing, love, obsession, both— breathes along with you. "Freak."

"Yeah, I was,” she shifts to sit on your lap, one knee on either side of you, spilling her confession easily. Ellie leans over to push your hands away from your face and press her lips to yours, passionate but short lived, still softly brushing against each other when she says, "I missed this face."

You chuckle, eyes tracing over her freckled cheeks, hands squeezing her thighs, feeling strangely like you’re being washed clean. “I missed you.”

Ellie closes her eyes and rests her forehead against yours, her fingers caressing your cheeks, looking at you again when her thumb brushes against the ridge of a scar. It’s a warped line that almost follows the shape of your cheekbone, from your hairline to somewhere near the corner of your lips. She'd seen it last night, nauseous with worry and relief to have you back, her vision clouded. The morning reveals it in a different, heartbreaking light. It’s okay, you’d said during the night, your hands on either side of her face much like hers are on you now, didn't even need stitches. Ellie tries to let that sink in, make the guilt feel any better. But it can't. Maybe you’d been saved the prick of a needle, but she knows it still hurt, she knows it bled and stung. It feels like a betrayal. If I can't save you the pain, she thinks, I owe you the witnessing, the chance to clean its wry edges, pat it dry. "How'd you get this one?" she asks, as softly as she can.

You’d been prepared for the question but not the devastation in her eyes. It falls over you like a ton of bricks, her love making your chest ache and sinking you back into the memory.

There was an empty house, or what looked like one. Pieces of broken glass scattered over the rotting wood of an old, wobbly table. A man's hand placed forcefully on your head. The side of your face rammed into the table with a thud when he pushed you down, the faint pain of something slicing into your cheek made worse by your struggle to get free. A kick and he stumbled back. A slice of your knife and he fell dead. You don't think the fact will do much to comfort Ellie. So, in hopes of sparing her, you hum and shake your head. "Come here," you say, or beg, a hand on the back of her neck like fond guidance. "Let me kiss your pretty face."

She feels soft like satin on your lips, tastes like honey and black tea. Ellie kisses like she argues, experienced and unruly all at once, with a point to make— I need you and I want you to know it. Her tongue slips past your parted lips and brings a muffled sound from your throat that almost makes her pull slightly away, if it weren't for the feeling of your fingers tightening on her neck to have her closer. A faint thought crosses Ellie’s mind, a feeling like pity for the person she was before you, whoever that was, an old self who couldn't know what it's like to be devoured so caringly.

She brushes her nose against yours and you let out a sigh that sounds painfully like a prayer, her short hair a dark veil over your eyes when she turns her head to press kisses on your cheek. "You can't leave me like that again," she breathes out.

You swallow her words, a confused wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Ellie—”

A kiss cuts you off. You slide your hands up her thighs to her waist, a surprised hum vibrating against her lips when she wraps her fingers around your wrists and squeezes, as if to keep them there. She leans back and stares into you, and for the first time since you’ve known Ellie, you can't tell if she's commanding you or begging. “I won’t let you.”

It’s a gesture. It goes beyond the reality of your lives, the fact that any day either one of you could be made to leave again, that any day either one of you could die. It means I missed you. It means I need it to be me who looks after you. It means I love you.

Your stomach flutters, hungry with an urgent craving. And like you have every day since you’ve known Ellie, you find yourself unable to deny her love or the indulging promise of a different world— but maybe those mean the same thing. "I'm not leaving you," you say, breathless, and it might as well be true.

Ellie makes a sound in response that feels painfully close to a moan, a soft mmhm that clouds your head of anything that may or may not exist outside of this room. The tip of her nose brushes against your neck and then continues its way down, her fingers sneaking inside your shirt, pulling up the fabric and pressing kisses over the skin that’s revealed. "I love you," she says, almost near the band of your underwear, her blushed lips parted. You feel her breath against the burning fire in your lower stomach, reaching out to cradle her cheek against your hand. She feels hot, flushed pink under her freckles, and you’re not sure if she hears you say I love you, Ellie as much as she watches you mouth the words. She presses her face further into your hand, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, begging as if she’d ever have to, “Baby, I need— please.”

You don't hear yourself say yes, but the look in her eyes says you must have.

[weasvlys]

Band Rehearsal

Rodrick Heffley x Y/N (Fem! Reader)

Warnings: Smutty, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected sex, sexual graphic content, explicit language, interrupted sex.

Word count: 1579.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Math..." you said under your breath as you looked for your book in your locker, until suddenly a hand closed it, "ahhg" you gasped, Your gaze immediately settled on the worm-eaten black nail polish, without a doubt, it was Rodrick Heffley, "What is your problem?" You asked him angrily, ever since you entered the band it seemed like he never got tired of bothering you, he had a smile from ear to ear, a bit mischievous, he clumsily put his hand on his head and his elbow on the locker, trying to... flirt?, “Band Rehearsal, at 6, and don’t be late!” he said, emphasizing the last sentence, and vanished.

It was frustrating to be with him, his joking look and his mischievous smile, always feeling his gaze on you, it made your legs tremble, and when he reached his hand a little lower on your back, a little higher on your leg, or he came a little closer than normal, you could feel your heart beating faster, and the most frustrating thing was not knowing if he did it on purpose, to make you nervous and lose focus, or worst, it simply didn't mean anything to him and he did it accidentally.

You arrived at his house, expecting the garage door to be open, however, it wasn't, frustrated you went to the front door, you rang the doorbell twice and waited for the answer from his cheerful mother, who always welcomed you with a kind smile, and regularly a "you look beautiful today", however, you didn't receive that, you heard some heavy and fast feet coming down the stairs and when the door opened you saw an agitated Rodrick, "Hello…" you said in a sigh, you could avoid getting nervous at his look, "Can I come in?" you said in a sigh, you couldn't help but get nervous at his gaze, immediately Rodrick opened the door wider, letting you into his spotless house "It's the kitchen door" he said, referring to where the garage was, as soon as you walked in and saw that, again, you were the first to arrive, "They're late.. again" you said, "Today it's just you and me", Rodrick said, that, for some reason made you feel butterflies "How come?", you ask, and Rodrick gave you a look, confirming your biggest fear, on that occasion, it would be just you and him.

The practice started, you were the vocalist, and just that time you couldn't concentrate, and you couldn't reach any note correctly, so, by the fifth time you stopped Rodrick's rhythm, he got up from his stool so hard that it almost flew away, he threw the drumsticks to the wall in front of you, that genuinely scared you, "What's wrong with you?!" You asked upset, "Y/N, this is the fifth time we do this, can't you concentrate? Y/N?!" he said, putting in front of you, "What's wrong?", his voice was starting to calm down, he looked you in the eyes, that made your voice crack, "I-I don't know..." you said, his eyebrows raised, worried, he bent down a little to be right at your level, "Y/N" he said in a sigh, almost sexual, "What's wrong?", that tender and soft way he spoke to you made you let it all out, "I'm nervous, okay?!" you said, frustrated, "And if we perform in front of an audience, will you still be nervous too?" Rodrick said, "No! I-" you tried to retort, but that one couldn't seem to get out of your throat.

"Look, here's what we'll do" he said as he sat down on the couch in front of you, "I'll sit here, I'll look at you and I need you to forget the nervousness. I won't stop until you do..." those last words seemed to have a different kind of connotation, you decided to ignore him, there was no chance to think what could be inside his mind "One.... Two... Three..." as soon as he finished you started, looking him straight in the eyes, however, by the second verse, his mischievous smile made you lose your concentration again, you suddenly shut up and lowered your gaze, Rodrick snapped his mouth, sighed and said "Have you ever heard of when we are nervous we have to imagine the audience naked?" Those words made you tremble, you nodded your head without saying more, "We'll do that, but literally" his voice became deeper, he got up from the couch, and without taking off his lustful look, he lowered his hands by the edge of his shirt and lifted it, slowly, letting you see his thin, but marked abdomen, that took your breath away "Start again" he said, "Rodrick-" you try to reply "Just do it" he said interrupting you, you rolled your eyes and started again, but after a few seconds, the smile that was forming on his lips weakened you, "Wow, I didn't think it would be that easy", he lowered his hands again, this time to his pants, he placed his slender fingers on the buckle of his belt, he opened it slowly, with a mouth open, his fingers traveled to the button of his jeans, he opened it, and pulled down his pants, revealing his boxer, where you could perfectly appreciate his bulge, big and juicy, bigger than expected. 

You could not avoid looking at his crotch and he, looking at your reaction, laughed, "Do you like what you see?", he asked laughing, he knew what he was doing, he sat down again "Start again", he commanded, but the words were not able to come out of your mouth "Do what I tell you to...", that second reply made you feel weaker, you could not resist, and you started to sing, that situation, unusually, made you concentrate a little more, but not quite, you went out of tune again and Rodrick, without saying anything, got up from the couch, came closer to your face, gave a soft and sweet kiss on your cheek, then on your jaw, on your neck, and you couldn't resist moaning, he started to lower his kisses, and when he reached your crotch he knelt in front of you, he put his fingers in the edge of your jeans, unbuttoned them, and started to pull them down, without letting his gaze off, "Keep singing", he said, almost in a whisper, and you followed his order, every note was perfect while you felt his hot breath on your panties, and without further ado, he put his cold fingers on the edge of your panties, and he began to pull them down along with his kisses.

He opened his mouth,letting his tongue out, which made a line right across your entry to your clit, where he dedicated some soft and gentle strokes, not taking his eyes off you for one second, to then the band rehearsal was officially over, and now your mouth only let out pornografic moans, which sounded across the four walls.

He stood up, looking at you to the eyes and said in a deep full of lust voice “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear”, took you by the neck and passionately kissed you, which you replied, you took your hands inside is boxer to found his big hard-rock cock, the moment you touched him he deliciously moaned, like he was dying for it to happen, “Yes~…” he said, he pulled his boxers down and you finally saw hies 9 inch dick bounced out of his jeans, with a red trobbing tip, waiting to be inside you.

“Get in the couch baby, please~…” he said, in such a desperate way, almost begging, you got in four, shaking your ass, waiting for him to enter, he places his tip on your crotch, and even he was desperate for it to happens, he started to torture you, letting it in a bit, your as soon as he did, que took it out, in exasperation, you gasped, “Please Rod… Let me feel you…” you said, you never thought you’d would he saying that, “You wanted in?” He asked, almost growling “yes… please” you responded, “how much?” He replied, letting it a bit more, “Aggh~Fuck… so much” you said, moaning, and with no further action he strucked his 9 inches right inside you, letting the wet noices out, followed by a fast in pain and pleasure “Awwh, you are so wet, and so hot…” he said, so loud that could be heard outside, he late his big cock out again, and stuck you, one more time, allowing him to feel your sweet spot, “Yes Rod!” You screamed, and all of the sudden, key noices started to sound, and the sound of the lock on the front door, “Rodrick?! I’m home!”, Mrs. Jeffrey was home, and with no hesitation you and Rodrick started to get dressed up, as quickly as you could, the steps came closer and door opend in a blink, fortunately, you where already all dressed up, “Oh! Hi hon’, didn’t knew you were home” she said, “where in a rehearsal, mom.” Rodrick said in a shaky nervous voice, “Oh, sure thing, I thing I heard you outside” she said and left the room with no further action, and laughs came out of the both of you, “Next time, we’ll do it in my place”, you said, “Next time?” Rodrick replied in that same teasing way.

[k4marina]

— iii. Stormborn || Heart of the Dragon

synopsis: as plans to conqour westeros begin, daenerys and i are met with an unknown visitor

warnings: got cannon violence, war, battle nothing super graphic. this chapter follows the storylime of Stormborn (S7 Ep2) so spoiler warning ig

a/n: all dialogue italicized is in Valyrian & important note at the end!!

series masterlist || next part

4.9k word count

game of thrones x modern!fem!reader

[gif found on pinterest]

“Your Grace summons you to the Painted Table.” The servant had said after I had gotten back to my room from my morning training. Daenerys had gotten busier in the last few weeks as she planned ahead for the upcoming war. 

I found her standing by the fireplace with her back turned towards me and the table that was in the shape of the Seven Kingdoms. A few figurines of different houses of Westeros were laid out in their appropriate places. 

“You called?” 

She takes a moment to turn, collecting her thoughts. 

“In a few days Olenna Tyrell, Ellaria Sand, and Yara Greyjoy will be here to pledge their allegiance to me and further discuss our plans to take the Iron Throne.” She rounded the table, walking closer to me. “But before they arrive is there anything I must know?”

I furrowed my brows, thinking back or ahead in the future? Nonetheless, I wracked my brain for anything that would be useful. 

“Oh,” I remembered. “An ambush. There’s going to be an ambush.” 

A flash of concern comes across her face. “Who?” 

“Euron Greyjoy. After your meeting you ordered Yara to escort Ellaria and their troops to Sunspear. But along the way Euron ambushes them.” The whole ordeal was hard to read. Daenerys’ campaign was going so well until that point. 

“It was catastrophic. So many died and so many ships destroyed they were still finding wreckage when I was born.” I turned towards the map, thinking back to where we were told the ambush had taken place. 

 “Here. 50 miles north of Sharp Point in Blackwater Bay.” I pointed out. “That’s where they were ambushed.” 

“The damage?”

“Significant. Euron, Yara’s uncle, takes her and Ellaria Sand and her daughter as hostages for Cersie and imprisons them in King's Landing. And, his ships are equipped with Scorpions.” 

She takes in a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. Her eyes look down at where I’ve pointed just a moment ago, weighing her options and thinking of a new plan. 

“So what do we do?” 

I smile. “I have a plan.”

—

Rain had been pouring down for the past three days and it showed no signs of letting up all while the entire castle prepared for the arrival of Houses Greyjoy, Martel, and Tyrell. I sighed, walking away from the floor to ceiling windows of the library and back to the roundtable full of books. With the rain getting heavier Grey Worm had decided to postpone my lessons which left me in the library of the castle, hunched over a mountain of books.

“Not very fond of the rain?” Missandei asks from the table, peering over a book. “I am. Just not very fond of the dreariness of it.” I reply, sitting down across from her. “It’s interesting how something as simple as the weather can change a person's entire mood.” 

She nodded, setting the book aside. “In Essos it barely rained. Whenever it did, the sky would be clear and the temperature hot. Here, the rain is so…” 

“Heavy.” I finished off. “Whenever the weather gets like this all I want to do is sleep.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Missandei beams. “I just want to curl up under the hearth with a cup of tea and a good book.” 

I laughed, “after all the reading I’ve done, it’s the last thing I’d want to do when I’m relaxing.” 

We both shared a laugh before falling into a pregnant pause. I could tell that she was still apprehensive about me. When she came to me this morning, asking to join me in the library, I was shocked. Out of council meetings and occasionally bumping into each other we had barely talked. 

“You don’t trust me,” I said. 

She watched my expression as she replied. “Can you blame me?” 

I shook my head. “No, I’m glad that you are, though. I’d be more concerned if you’d blindly trust me. Especially with my.. sudden appearance.”

Out of everyone in Daenerys’ council I knew from the start that Missandei would be the hardest to build a relationship with. She’d been with Dany for years. She’d seen her at her lowest and highest. Which is why she would be one of my most important allies, other than Daenerys. 

“You also don’t trust us,” Missandei says. 

“Wrong,” I correct. “I trust Daenerys. You. Grey Worm, and Tyrion.” 

“Not Lord Varys?” She asks. 

“No. Varys is… different, in a lot of ways.” I needed to tread carefully. I couldn’t just outwardly say that he would betray Daenerys and be the reason why Misssandei would die. But, I could sew in the seeds of doubt. 

“He’s.. somewhat unpredictable.” I pursed my lips. “His origin and journey is admirable, don’t get me wrong. It’s just his methods and means and history that are a bit questionable.” 

Everyone knows that Varys has his “little birds” but they don’t know the truth behind them. Missandei didn’t say much after that, letting my words sit in her mind for the rest of the day. I knew what I had said had left her stumped and that she would tell Daenerys of our conversation. I just hoped that the seed had been planted deep enough. 

—

The storm had raged on into the night. I was getting ready to turn into the night when a servant informed me of a small council meeting at the Painted Table. Quickly, I made my way over, seeing that everyone else was already there. 

“I hope I’m not late.” I say to no one in particular. Missandei and Grey Worm give me a few nods while Tyrion and Varys watch Daenerys who had her back towards us, deep in thought. 

“On a night like this, you were born,” Tyrion remarks. 

“I remember that storm. All the dogs in King’s Landing howled through the night.” Varys adds.

“I wish I could remember it.” Daenerys says, finally turning around. Her face was somewhat stoic as she walked over to the table. “I always thought this would be a homecoming, this doesn't feel like home.”

She’s upset, I noted. Did Missandei and I’s conversation work?

“We won’t stay at Dragonstone for long.” Tyrion reassures. 

“Good.” She says, looking at the figurine on the table. “Not many lions.”

“Cersie controls fewer than half of the Seven Kingdoms. The lords of Westeros despise her. Even before your arrival, they plotted against her. Now…” Varys says. I don’t know why but the tone of his voice makes me want to jump into the sea.

“They cry out for their true queen? They drink secret toasts to my health?” Daenerys walks closer to Varys, almost as if she were sizing him up. “People used to tell my brother that sort of thing, and he was stupid enough to believe them.”

Everyone in the room watches carefully as she picks up a dragon figurine from the table. “If Viserys had three dragons and an army at his back he’d have invaded King’s Landing already.” 

“Conquering Westeros would be easy for you. But you’re not here to be the queen of the ashes.” Tyrion interjects. 

“No,” Daenerys puts down the dragon figure. 

“We can take the Seven Kingdoms without turning it into a slaughterhouse,” I say. “We already have three great houses supporting your claim.” 

“I agree,” Tyrion nods my way. “With the Tyrell army and the Dornish on our side, we have powerful allies in the south.” 

Daenerys looks at Varys. “I never properly thanked you for that.” Though, her voice lacked any bit of gratitude. 

“They joined our side, my queen, because they believe in you.” Vays says.

“You served my father, didn’t you, Lord Varys?”

“I did,” He replies. 

“And then you served the man who overthrew him?” Her tone shifted. 

“I had a choice, Your Grace– serve Robert Baratheon or face the headsman's axe.” Varys says defensively.

“But you didn’t serve him long. You turned against him.”

“Robert was an improvement on your father, to be sure. There have been few rulers in history as cruel as the Mad King. Robert was neither mad nor cruel. He simply had no interest in being king.” Varys countered. 

“So you took it upon yourself to find yourself a better one.” She pressed further. 

Tyrion, feeling the tension in the room, comes to Varys’ defense. “Your Grace,” Daenerys turns towards Tyrion. “When I was ready to drink myself into a small coffin, Lord Varys told me about a queen in the east who–” 

“Before I came to power,” Daenerys turned back to Varys, “you favored my brother. All your spies, your little birds, did they tell you Viserys was cruel, stupid, and weak? Would those qualities have made for a good king in your learned opinion?”

“Until your marriage to Khal Drogo, Your Grace. I knew nothing about you, save your existence and that you were said to be beautiful.” Varys deflects. Daenerys looks past and towards me. 

“Are you sure?” I hummed, catching everyone’s attention. Varys’ face hardened and he glared towards me. “Because from what I remember, you’ve always known about Daenerys.” 

I stepped forward, standing behind Daenerys. “Matter of fact, you were the one who planned Daenerys’ marriage to Khal Drogo with Illyrio.”

Varys opened his mouth to speak, but Daenerys beat him to it. 

“You and your friends traded me like a prized horse to the Dothraki.” 

“Which you turned to your advantage.” He was starting to panic. It was clear the Varys didn’t like to have his back against the wall. 

“Who gave the order to kill me?” 

“King Robert.” He replies quickly. 

“Who hired the assassins?” She steps closer to Varys. “Who sent word to Essos to murder Daenerys Targaryen?” 

“Your Grace,” you could hear panic set in his voice. “I did what had to be done–”

“To keep yourself alive.” Daenerys says firmly. 

“Lord Varys has proven himself a loyal servant.” Tyrion says, trying to calm the situation. 

“Proven himself loyal?” I scoffed. 

“Quite the opposite.” Daenerys, turned towards her hand. “If he dislikes one monarch. He conspires to crown the next one. What kind of a servant is that?”

“The kind the realm needs.” Varys says firmly. “Incompetence should not be rewarded with blind loyalty. As long as I have my eyes, I’ll use them. I wasn’t born into a great house. I come from nothing. I was sold as a slave and carved up as an offering. When I was a child, I lived in alleys, gutters, abandoned houses. You wish to know where my true loyalties lie? Not with any king or queen, but with the people. The people who suffer under despots and prosper under just rule. The people whose hearts you aim to win. If you demand blind allegiance, I respect your wishes. Grey Worm can behead me or your dragons can devour me. But if you let me live, I will serve you well. I will dedicate myself to seeing you on the Iron Throne because I choose you. Because I know the people have no better chance than you.”

Silence lingers in the air as Varys’ words settle into the room. The rest watched the three of us carefully, holding their breaths. 

“Swear this to me, Varys.” Daenerys’ voice is calm, and no longer holds any edge. “If you ever think I’m failing the people, you won’t conspire behind my back. You’ll look me in the eye as you have done today, and you’ll tell me how I’m failing them.” 

Feeling satisfied that he’s in the clear, Varys stands straight. “I swear it, my queen.” 

“And I swear this– if you even betray me, I’ll burn you alive.” She quickly warns. 

Varys smiles. “I would expect nothing less from the Mother of Dragons.” 

Amidst back and forth a servant had entered the room, informing Grey Worm of a visitor. 

“Forgive me, my queen. A red priestess from As’shai has some to see you.” 

––––

The doors to the throne room open, revealing a woman in red standing alone. She had red hair and dark red-ish eyes. Could this be?

The woman bows, her eyes linger on me before addressing Daenerys in Valyrian. “Queen Daeneys, I was a slave once, bought and sold, scourged and branded. It is an honor to meet the Breaker of Chains.” 

“The Red Priests helped bring peace to Meereen. You are very welcome here. What is your name?” Daenerys replies. 

“I am called Melisandre.” 

“She once served another who wanted the Iron Throne.” Varys says from behind us. “It didn’t end well for Stannis Baratheon, did it?”

“No, it didn’t” Melisandre replies with no emotions. 

Not only did it not end well for Stannis, but it also didn’t end well for his daughter who he burned alive under Melisandre’s orders, but if you ask her it was the “Lords” doing. 

“You chose an auspicious day to arrive at Dragonstone.” Daenerys turns to look at Varys. “We’ve decided to pardon those who served the wrong king.” 

Varys doesn’t reply and just bows his head, thankful that Daenerys hadn’t fed him to Drogon. 

Daenerys turns back to Melisandre. “The Lord of Light doesn’t have many followers in Westeros, does he?” 

“Not yet. But even those who don't worship the Lord can serve his cause.” 

“What does your Lord expect from me?” Daenerys questions. 

“The Long Night is coming. Only the prince who was promised can bring the dawn.”

I sucked in a breath through my nose. We were getting closer to Jon’s arrival and everything else that would follow suit. 

“The prince who was promised will bring the dawn.” Daenerys repeats. “I'm afraid I'm not a prince.”  

“Your Grace, forgive me, but your translation is not quite accurate.” Missandei corrects from the side. “That noun has no gender in High Valyrian, so the proper translation for that prophecy would be the prince or princess who was promised will bring the dawn.”

“Doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it?” Tyrion comments. 

“No, but I like it better.” Daenerys turns back to Melisandre. “And you believe this prophecy refers to me?” 

“Prophecies are dangerous things. I believe you have a role to play, as does another. The King in the North, Jon Snow.” Melisandre explains.

“Jon Snow?” Tyrion says, shocked. “Ned Stark's bastard?” 

“You know him?” Daenerys asks. 

Tyrion nods. “I traveled with him to the Wall when he joined the Night's Watch.” 

“And why do you think the Lord of Light singled out this Jon Snow aside from the visions you’ve seen in the flames, that is?” Varys inquired. 

“As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch he allowed the Wildlings south of the Wall to protect them from great danger. As King in the North he has united those Wildlings with the northern houses so together they may face their common enemy.” 

Even after hundreds of years after the events of this time, Jon’s heroism is still marveled  upon. The North still remembers the King in the North.

“He sounds like quite a man.” I say.

“Summon Jon Snow. Let him stand before you and tell you things that have happened to him, the things that he has seen with his own eyes.” Melisandre urged Daenerys. 

Tyrion nodded, “I can’t speak to prophecies or visions in the flames, but I like Jon Snow and I trusted him, and I am an excellent judge of character.” 

“If he does rule the north, he would make a valuable ally. The Lannisters executed his father and conspired to murder his brother. Jon Snow has even more reason to hate Cersei than you do.” Tyrion added. 

She glanced up from Tyrion to me, asking if it were true. I gave her a subtle nod and she turned back to Tyrion, smiling. 

“Very well. Send a raven north.” She says. “Tell Jon Snow that his Queen invites him to come to Dragonstone… and bend the knee.”

–––

Our new allies arrived early in the morning, just as the sun rose over the horizon. I wore a black dress with a wool outer layer with silver clasps running from my collarbone to above my navel. The shoulders, forearms, and collar had a dragon scale pattern. It was simple, but still full of detail, but most importantly it kept me warm in this dreaded weather.The rain had stopped overnight, but the clouds had stayed, blocking any sunlight.

Everyone was gathered at the Painted Table, all ready and waiting for Daenerys to make her entrance. As I entered the room, conversation between our guests dulled down as they couldn’t look away. I didn’t have to look to know what they were thinking. 

Another Targaryen? 

The room was cold from the night's rain and the cold sea so I threw more wood into the hearth and stood by Missandei as we waited for Daenerys. I glanced around the room, watching as Yara, Ellaria, and Olenna talked but occasionally glanced towards me. 

“They seem to be interested in you.” Missandei comments. 

“I thought they’d have a bigger reaction,” I say. “Maybe a few jaw’s on the floor, or a few gasps of shock.” 

Missandei chuckled. “I’m afraid all you’ll get is a few stares and gossip.” 

“I guess I can take that.” I hummed. 

The doors swung open as Daenerys entered. Everyone stood at attention as she made her way to the front of the room. 

“I want to thank you all for making the journey to Dragonstone. Now, let us begin.” 

Yara was the first to speak. “If you want the Iron Throne, take it. We have an army, a fleet, and three dragons. We should hit King's Landing now. Hard. With everything we have. The city will fall within a day.”

“If we turn the dragons loose, tens of thousands will die in the firestorms.” Tyrion shook his head. 

Ellaria looked towards him with disgust, which was noticed by all. “It's called war. You don't have the stomach for it, scurry back into hiding.”

“I know how you wage war. We don't poison little girls here. Myrcella was innocent.” Tyrion bit back. 

Ellaria scoffed. “She was a Lannister. There are no innocent Lannisters. My greatest regret is that Oberyn died fighting for you.” 

“Oberyn was a grown man. He made his choice, no one can change that. Myrcella was a child, she didn’t do anything. I think we all here know that a child isn’t responsible for their fathers sins.” I said from the sidelines, giving her a pointed look. 

“That's enough. Tyrion is the Hand of the Queen. You will treat him with respect.” Daenerys reminded. Both Tyrion and Ellaria backed down, Ellaria giving me one last look. “I am not here to be the Queen of Ashes.” 

“That's very nice to hear.” Olenna said from across the table. “Of course, I can't remember a queen who was better loved than my granddaughter. The common people loved her, the nobles loved her. And what is left of her now? Ashes. Commoners, nobles, they're all just children really. They won't obey you unless they fear you.”

“I'm grateful to you, Lady Olenna, for your council. I'm grateful to all of you. But you have chosen to follow me. I will not attack King's Landing. We will not attack King's Landing.” Daenerys says, genuinely. 

“Then how do you mean to take the Iron Throne? By asking nicely?” Olenna asks. I smiled at the older womens sass. 

Daenerys looked towards me and I stepped forward. “We will lay siege to the capital, surrounding it on all sides. Cersei will have the Iron Throne, but no food for her army or the people.” 

“But we won’t use Dothraki and Unsullied.” Tyrion adds. He walks around the carved table, “Cersie will try to rally the lords of Westeros by appealing to their loyalty, their love for their country. If we besiege the city with foreigners, we prove her point. Our army should be Westerosi.” 

“And I suppose we’re providing the Westerosi?” Ellaria clarifies. 

“You are.” Tyrion reached down, picking up a figurine that resembled a Kraken in a longship. “Lady Greyjoy will escort you home to Sunspear and her Iron Fleet will ferry the Dornish army back up to King’s Landing.” He walked over to the south of the map and picked up a figurine that resembled a sun. Taking both figurines, Tyrion places them at King’s Landing. “The Dornish will lay siege to the capital alongside the Tyrell army. Two great kingdoms united against Cersie.”

“So your master plan is to use our armies? Forgive me for asking, but why did you bother to bring your own?” Olenna asks Daenerys. 

Tyrion reached down, picking up a figurine that looked like an Unsullied helmet. He walked around the map. “The Unsullied will have another objective. For decades House Lannister has been the true power in Westeros. And the seat of that power is Casterly Rock. Grey Worm and the Unsullied will sail for the Rock and take it.”

He stops in front of Casterly Rock, a lion figurine sitting on the Rock. Tyrion takes a moment before knocking over the lion with the Unsullied figurine to everyone's pleasure. 

A clam settles and Daenerys addresses the room. “There is another matter to discuss.” Everyone looks at her, caught off guard. “I’ve come to learn that there will be an ambush in Blackwater Bay led by Euron Greyjoy under Cerseis’ order.” 

“What?” Someone says. 

“Your Grace,” Varys steps forward. “Forgive me, but I’ve heard no such thing to take place.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Perhaps you’re mistaken.” 

“There have been no mistakes, Lord Varys.” Daenerys says. I moved to stand on Daenerys' side. 

“Euron will strike at night.” I explain. “His ships are equipped with Scorpions, they’re deadly and will tare your ships to shreads.” 

Yara’s face drops. “What the hell do we do? Our ships aren’t fully equipped to take on his.” Theon, behind her, is equally terrified. 

“We know,” I say, calmly. “That is why I’ll be escorting you.” 

“Forgive me, my dear, but what can you do?” Olenna asks. 

“I’ll be on dragonback. I’ll be flying high enough to go unnoticed, but close by to help when the attack happens. There will be casualties on our end, that's certain, but this is war.” The others look at Daenerys and I in shock as they try to find the words to speak.

“But you’ve never flown into battle.” Tyrion says. 

“So?” I shrug. “I’ll have to fight at one point, might as well start now.”

“My Lady, you’ve never flown out that far, you’ll be all alone.” Missandei says. 

“No I won’t. I’ll have my dragon and I’ll have our new allies besides me.” I say, nodding towards Yara and Ellaria. “When I bent the knee to Daenerys and promised to get her the Iron Throne, I meant it. This is what I have to do.”

Daenerys gives me a reassuring look. She turned towards the room. “Do I have your support?”

Yara glances between Daenerys and I. “You have mine.” 

“Dorne is with you, Your Grace.” Ellaria says. 

Lady Olenna nods her head in agreement. 

“Thank you all.” Daenerys says, somewhat relieved. “Lady Olenna, may I speak with you alone?” 

Everyone bows and leaves the room. Before leaving I turned towards Daenerys, “I’ll go get ready for my departure.” 

She nods. “Stay safe, sister.”

I smiled. “I will. When I’m back I’ll let you put a braid in my hair.” I say, leaving. 

I stepped out into the hall and down to where my room was where everything was already ready for me. When I first had my conversation with Daenerys about the ambush I had also asked for some armor to be made for me. And with the help of the servants I was able to get into it quickly. It was simple but protective and it allowed me to ride my dragon without hurting either of us. I took two daggers that I’d also had made and placed them into their places on my hip.

Afterwards I headed to where the ships were docked and where Viserion was waiting for me. I stepped outside and saw everyone getting ready to leave. I spotted Yara and Theon were still on the docks giving orders to their crew. 

“Is everything ready?” I ask. 

“It is, My Lady. We’ll be leaving shortly.” Yara says. 

“Good. You’ll leave first and I’ll be behind you not far off. We need to make it look like you’re alone and unsuspecting.” I explained. I glanced back at Theon who still hadn’t said anything, but had something on his mind. “Is something bothering you, My Lord?”

Theon looked taken aback, surprised that I was talking to him. “I’m not a lord.” 

“You’re not?” I repeat. “You are Balon Greyjoy’s son, are you?” 

He nods, not fully looking up at me. 

“That makes you Lady Yara Greyjoy's brother, yes?” 

He nods again, still not looking up. 

“Then that makes you a Greyjoy, an Ironborn. You are every bit of a lord you are now and when you were born on Pyke, do not forget that. What’s happened has happened, no one can change that. All we can do is move forward. We Do Not Sow, yes?”

He nods, finally looking up at me. 

––––

The ships had cleared out of the docks and were making their way into Blackwater Bay. I stood near the cliffs, ready to leave, when Tyrion came to stand beside me. 

“What you’re doing is heroic, My Lady.” He says. 

“I guess it is. I’ve never done anything like this.” I flexed my fingers. “My entire body’s buzzing. Was this what you felt before the Battle of the Blackwater and defeated Stannis’ army?” 

Tyrion nodded. “It did. I felt like throwing up and shitting the floor at the same time.” We both laughed. “I had to drink a few glasses of wine to calm myself down. Perhaps it would help you, My Lady.” 

I laughed, shaking my head. “No, I’m fine. I need a clear head. But, you can save me that glass for when I get back. Then we can talk about everything that needs to be talked about. Don’t you agree?” 

“I do.” 

––––

It was pitch black and cold. The heat from Viserion’s body was still keeping me warm, but the cold wind blowing past my face was getting to me. Even from up there I could hear the waves crashing down which meant that I’d be able to hear when Euron’s fleet attacked. 

“How you feeling, big guy? Good?” I asked Viserion. He let out a small purr, his entire body vibrating. I sighed, looking up at the sky above. The stars and the mood were my only light as we flew further out. 

“Okay,” I say out loud. “Let's go over our plan. When they attack our ships we fly down and torch them, but we have to be careful not to get too close or else we’ll be caught and we have to watch out for the Scorpions. One hit with that and we’ll be recreating Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes. And keep your eye out for Euron, we need him alive.” 

Viserion purrs again and I take that as a sign that he agrees with the plan. The last few weeks I’ve flown with him were good, we’d stay around Dragonstone, the furthest we’ve been was Driftmark, so this was a huge risk. 

When I had explained to Daenerys my plan she was apprehensive. It was clear that she didn’t want either Viserion or I to get hurt, but she knew that we also couldn’t risk our fleet and our army. 

A loud crash brought me out of my thoughts, and a glow erupted from below. The steady waves of the ocean now clashed against one another as Euron began his assault. 

This was it. 

“Now.” I command. 

In an instant Viserion flies down past the clouds and we’re met with Eurons fleet fighting against Yara’s. Almost instantaneously my body and mind knew what to do. Without a word Viserion flew down and prepared himself. 

“Dracarys.” 

Fire erupts out of his mouth and lights the enemy ships below us ablaze. He lets out a loud scratch, gathering everyone's attention below before striking again. It takes them a minute before they aim their Scorpions up towards us. The massive arrows fly past us as Viserion weaves between them while burning Eurons fleet. 

It doesn’t take long for the battle to die down, the air filled with the smell of burnt wood and flesh. Our fleet was damaged but Eurons was completely destroyed. Anyone who could have survived the dragonfire were either killed or taken hostage. Like planned, a Targaryen flag is flown under the Greyjoy’s on Yara’s ship, Black Wind.  

–––––

Once I’d landed back on Dragonstone I quickly said goodbye to Viserion, letting him rest, and made my way down to the docks where everyone, minus Grey Worm, would be waiting for me. 

Daenerys was first to see me, giving me a tight hug while the others nodded my way, smiling. 

“Well done, My Lady. You’ve done well.” Tyrion says. 

“Thank you, but we’ve still got work to do.” 

Right on que, a ship comes into the docks. The crew works quickly to anchor down and disembark. The Ironborn and a few Dornish step off before Theon and a few of his men step off. He’s a little bruised, and he’s got dirt and ash on his face, but overall well. He bow’s towards Daenerys and I, giving me a small smile before he steps aside and allows his men in front who are dragging a beaten up Euron Greyjoy. 

“We’ve got him, Your Grace.” Says Theon. 

“Good,” Daenerys’ eyes never left the unconscious Euron. “Bring him to the dungeons.” 

The men hull him off and everyone makes their way back into the castle. I turn over to Tyrion. 

“Let’s have that drink.”

@wotcherpeak @music-luver25 @your-favorite-god @radiantdanvers @cluelessteam @daenerys713 @ministark @laanswife @idohknow @jromanoff @bdudette @bitchyfestivalbouquet @glitteryobjecttaco @cantbecreative @lovelyteenagebeard @the0twst0shrimp0mc @sucker4seresin @marytargaryen @naneko31 @9tailedfoxfire @illsenewman @natblidaclexa @bluebirdseatblueberries

!! A/N: I will be going on a hiatus for a few months. I've got some personal stuff going on so I won't be updating any of my series including this one. I don't know when I'll be back, but when I am I'll get you guys a new chapter so hang on tight. Thank you for all the support you've given so far. I know thing are only just getting started story wise but I have a lot to do and I'll make it up to you all when I'm back.

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

The Beggar Student by Dazai Osamu

"I could feel the hands of fate upon me. I'd been caught. In his heart of hearts, the student is a thirty-two-year-old drunken poet."

"Not even the wisest reader knows the anguish of the writer who has sent a truly awful piece of writing to a magazine in order to survive. Here goes nothing, I told myself, pushing that heavy envelope into the mailbox. It hit the bottom with a thunk. And that was that. Another crummy story. On the surface, it pretends to be a mirror to my soul, although I know as well as anyone the slimy worms of compromise are wriggling in the muck at the bottom. It's a work in which the work is far from done. ... It makes me so ashamed I want to scream and run around in circles. I promise you, it's terrible. A lousy piece of trash. I have no right to call myself a writer. Such is my ignorance. No insights to impart. No illuminating views."

"I wish I could just cut my belly open and let all of the words come spilling out. No matter if it's gibberish, as long as it's my flesh and blood doing the talking."

"My work will disgrace bookstore windows all across the land. Critics will sneer; readers will give up. That hack writer has outdone himself again, they'll say, setting a low bar for writers everywhere. Tough to beat."

"I'll have you know, I may look like an ass, but I'm not a total moron, and when I say I lack conviction, I only mean it relative to my own high standards."

"You ought to try this out sometime, dear reader. Sit yourself down on the sofa of a coffee shop or bar, facing the fireplace beside the madam of the house, so that both of you are staring at the flames, and talk as if you're speaking to the fire - I promise, up against even the dullest mind, you'll be able to sustain a lively conversation for hour after hour. But take heed, reader: you must not look into each other's eyes, not even once."

"I couldn't shut up if I tried. The only way I can stand being alive is if I'm playing the buffoon."

"One might call reason the glue that holds society together. In that sense, the order we enjoy is artificial, but we need this artifice if we want to go on living."

"Even if I feel bad for a person, I'm certain of the cold hard fact that I can't do anything for them, which leaves me feeling even worse."

"Growing up, I found the name incredibly embarrassing, so despite being a string bean, I've been publishing as Osamu Dazai, a name that makes me sound like a street fighter who might break your neck."

"...This guy's a good person. Not egotistical like you." "Hold on," I said, bristling at being labeled a good person. "I'm plenty egotistical..."

"When something pushes me over the brink of fear, I have a nasty tendency to begin laughing like an idiot. A disturbing, wild laugh. I lose control, can't hold it in. An expression not of brazenness, but extreme cowardice that takes me to the limits of delirium."

"Truth is that grownups are the same as kids, except a little worse for wear. Kids ask a lot from grownups, but grownups ask at least as much from kids. It's a real mess. But it's the truth. We count on you to hold it all together. ...To put it gently, we're always one step away from being overwhelmed. To put it harshly, we're all babies who cant' take a word of criticism."

"Next time life gets you down, curl up in a blanket in your rented room and open a good book."

[wendichester]

୨୧₊ ⊹ would you still love me if I was a worm?,

summary. existential crisis questions make the best topics.

pairing. sam winchester x reader

wordcount. 506.

Sam is hunched over at the war room table, papers spread out in front of him and his laptop open to some lore-heavy website. His hair falls in loose waves around his face, and he absentmindedly pushes it behind his ear as he reads.

You’re sitting across from him, pretending to be invested in your book, but really, you’re watching him. The way his lips purse when he’s concentrating, the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly—it’s unfair how distracting he can be.

“Hey, Sam?” you say, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up, his fingers still scrolling on the touchpad.

You close your book, leaning forward with a grin. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

That gets his attention. He blinks, tilting his head as he finally meets your gaze. “A worm?”

“Yes,” you say seriously, fighting to keep a straight face. “Like, if I magically got turned into a worm. Would you still love me?”

Sam leans back in his chair, his arms crossing as he gives you a look that’s equal parts amused and incredulous. “How the hell do you even come up with this stuff?”

“Just answer the question,” you say, grinning now.

He sighs, but there’s a playful glint in his eye. “Okay, fine. Yes, I’d still love you. I’d carry you around in one of those little terrariums with fancy dirt. Maybe even give you a cute name, like Wiggles.”

You snort. “Wiggles? Really?”

“What? It’s fitting,” he says, shrugging with a smirk. “I’d keep you safe. Make sure no birds got to you. You’d be the happiest worm alive.”

You giggle, leaning your chin on your hand as you watch him. “That’s... surprisingly sweet.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Well, yeah. You’re my girl, worm or not.”

Your heart does a little flutter at that, but you school your expression into mock seriousness. “That’s very noble of you. Because if the roles were reversed, I definitely wouldn’t love you if you were a worm.”

His jaw drops, and he stares at you like you’ve just betrayed him. “What? Are you serious?”

“Worms are disgusting,” you say, wrinkling your nose.

“You literally just asked me to pledge eternal love to Worm-You!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up.

You shrug, biting back a laugh. “Yeah, but that’s different. I’d be a cute worm.”

Sam groans, leaning forward to rest his head on the table dramatically. “Unbelievable. This is the thanks I get for indulging your weird hypotheticals?”

Reaching across the table, you pat his hand, still laughing. “Come on, don’t take it personally. I’d totally make sure you had a nice patch of dirt to live in.”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you, though the smile tugging at his lips ruins the effect. “You’re lucky I love you, even if you’d throw me to the birds.”

You grin. “What can I say? You’re a better person than I am.”

“Clearly,” he mutters, shaking his head as he tries—and fails—to hide his amusement.

taglist ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ֶָ֢ @deans-daydream

[shhhsecretsideblog]

Would love for you to work your magic on this prompt 💜 @shhhsecretsideblog

Heavily pregnant and overdue, she’s been waiting in line for over an hour to meet her favorite author. Unfortunately, the baby’s decided to arrive now. If she could just make it a little longer, she could ask her all of her burning questions about her novel and tell her how appreciative she is of her work!

(birth denial, inconvenient birth, public labor)

What an amazing prompt, your ideas never fail to inspire me!! Thanks my lovely for the ask, really hope you like it 💜

[fpreg, 2500 words]

Dedicated Book Worm

The contractions had started on the bus ride into town, but she ignored them. A few twinges was nothing to worry about, certainly not today; today Ricki was going to the release and book signing of her favourite author’s latest novel. Her stomach was bubbling with excitement and nerves. She'd been a fan of this writer for years now but had never had the opportunity to get anything signed before, let alone meet the writer in person.

Unsurprisingly it was a very popular event at the bookstore and the queue was already pouring out the doors and lacing down the street. She was glad to have gotten here so early, with only a few dozen people in front of her. The downside of arriving so early meant having to wait in line, which wasn’t so great when you were over 40 weeks pregnant.

Ricki rubbed the taut skin of her stretched belly and exhaled a long quiet breath. The cramping had started to ramp up on the bus journey and she tried to dismiss them, but after standing outside for the best part of an hour she was slowly realising these pains were the real deal - consistent and definitely getting stronger. She debated texting her partner, to tell her she was having contractions, but then she’d have to leave this event. Looking longingly through the glass window of the bookstore and seeing the rows of chairs all set up for the author’s reading of the new book, Ricki nodded to herself, determined. She would stay. She had time to get her copy of the new book, listen to her favourite author, and get it signed before she’d have to tell her girlfriend about the baby’s expected arrival. Labour took ages, and this baby certainly hadn’t been in any hurry to be born.

The line was slow-moving when they started letting people in, everyone inching forward every few minutes. As her large belly regularly tightened, Ricki found herself holding it and swaying slightly as she waited eagerly in the queue, thinking about what she might say when she met the famous writer. Her stomach flipped with nerves but then spasmed aggressively, resulting in a soft moan slipping out her mouth as she exhaled. The person in front gave her a worried look after clocking the large and low baby bump hanging off Ricki’s hips. “This little one is just as excited as I am to get a copy of the new book.” Ricki tried to joke and reassure the concerned looks she was getting. But her mind couldn’t help noticing just how frequently her belly was cramping.

All this standing around had put a serious strain on her back, but there was something else, something new; a weighted pressure sitting deeper in her pelvis. Maybe the baby had finally got in the right position. It would be about bloody time, but they wouldn’t be ruining this afternoon for her, Ricki thought to herself.

Eventually she got to the front of the line and presented her ticket for the event. Ricki would be glad to sit down, her back was killing her and the constant cramping of her heavy belly was draining all her energy. “Wow, you look ready to pop.” The bookshop employee said, scanning her ticket and letting the heavily pregnant woman into the cordoned off area. Ricki managed a half-hearted smile, trying to keep her face from showing any signs of discomfort.

Despite the need to sit down, the weight and pressure between her hips was squashing her bladder and Ricki made a beeline to the toilets before the reading started. Thankfully the single unisex toilet was vacant and she disappeared inside. She used the privacy to let out the pained groans she’d been holding in for the last hour, as her belly contracted yet again. “Mnnnnghhhh…. Oh why now…” Ricki moaned, palming the walls of the bathroom and shifting her hips around in large circles. “You can wait a little bit longer. You were quite comfy in there last week on your due date.”

When the contraction faded she used the facilities, noticing quite a bit more liquid leaking into her pad, and hoped that wasn’t the start of her waters breaking. Standing up from the toilet seat Ricki felt the weight quite literally drop back down in her pelvis, the head of the baby wedged harshly against her dilating cervix. “Ooof!—” she clasped her bump, taking a moment to get used to the heavy feeling and the pressure that it brought.

The hustle and bustle of the bookstore was getting louder, the sounds of excited people entering the event seeping through the bathroom door. “Come on bubs, let’s go hear all about the new book.” Ricki said to her bump before leaving the bathroom and going back into the store.

Unfortunately for Ricki the contractions were still coming and getting closer and closer, now almost impossible to stay standing. After waiting in another line to collect her copy of the latest book she had to grasp onto the counter and swallow down the grunt she so desperately wanted to make.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” The girl behind the desk asked, panicked.

“Mmm-hmm.” Ricki gritted and nodded her head, pulling her lips into a forced smile. “Just a c-cramp.”

She needed to sit down, and fast. The labouring woman took the first empty chair she could find in the back row and sighed a heavy breath of relief. She would be okay. She just needed to rest, yes, that was it. Her excitement was heightening everything, that’s all. Holding her copy of the new book in one hand, she rubbed her swollen stomach with the other and prayed the pains would slow down enough to enjoy this event.

Typically there was a delay in the start time, the author had only just arrived and it would be a bit longer before the event could begin. Ricki was sweating by this point, squirming in her seat and trying to keep an even and subtle breathing rhythm. The pressure in her pelvis had suddenly built to astronomical heights and she found herself rocking and quietly humming on the chair. Her hands gripped the edges of the seat, knuckles turning white, as the waves got stronger and stronger. She tried not to clasp her bump so as not to attract unwanted attention, but god did it hurt. The contracting muscles contorting the shape of her pregnant belly was almost visible through her clothing.

She was wearing a pair of wide legged dungarees patterned with sunflowers, a thin black cotton t shirt underneath. Even through the denim like fabric Ricki could see as well as feel the way the whole sphere of her belly hardened, squishing into a solid and narrow torpedo shape over her thighs. “Ooohhhhhhh….” She used the book to fan her damp and sweaty face, no doubt looking flushed in the bookstore, which was already getting steadily warmer as more and more people filled in.

Eventually the host took to the stage and introduced the special guest and Ricki’s eyes widened with glee at seeing her long time favourite author in person, standing only a few metres away. Her belly seized again in that moment, bringing forth a wave of pressure deep between her hips, and she couldn’t stop the groan from escaping her lips. Thankfully her labouring sounds were swallowed by the loud round of applause. Without thought, and focussed entirely on the beloved person at the front of the crowd, Ricki’s legs widened automatically on her chair. Unconsciously finding any way to relieve the building pressure.

Then, the room was silent, the writer stood centre stage with an open copy of her latest book. Ricki was going to hear a new extract, read aloud by the glorious female writer herself, and she waited like everyone else with bated breath.

As the reading began the heavily pregnant woman tried to focus, tried to give this once in a lifetime fangirl moment her undivided attention, but the pressure was getting unbearable. Every few seconds Ricki’s mind was pulled back to the baby in her womb, the feeling of the hard skull sinking deeper into her birth canal, her baby determined to be born today. She panted, as quietly as she could. The thought of attracting unwanted attention right now was mortifying, if anyone discovered she was in labour— No, she was not going to let anyone see her struggle, or give any reason to stop this talk and pull focus from the rightful star.

She lasted about 15 minutes into the reading before it happened, something instinctual and primal tripped a warning siren in her mind. The pressure, it had built too much and now… oh god, now she needed to push. She really needed to push.

It was automatic, she had no control. Ricki’s body slumped slightly in her chair and gripping her book tightly with both hands her uterus contracted and squeezed and…pushed the baby further down. Oh fuck. Her legs were wide on the chair, encroaching into the space of her neighbours. But she couldn’t close them. It felt like she was sitting on the baby’s head. Trapped in another bout of pushing Ricki sucked in a lung full of air and bore down once more. Silently as she could.

The labouring mother lost all track of what the author was saying or reading. Occasionally she’d hear the audience laugh or “awww”, and she was missing everything. All that she could focus on was not giving birth right here in the bookstore. She could make it. She had to. Her girlfriend wasn’t here, and her book hadn’t been signed. She had to make it just a little bit longer.

With every ounce of determination she could muster, Ricky shifted herself upright and painfully pulled her legs together. God it felt like she was sitting on a bowling ball. A whimper slipped from her throat and her eyes screwed shut. The person beside her gave Ricki a concerned look. The labouring woman gritted her teeth and forced a friendly grin.

The reading eventually came to a conclusion, Ricki having succumbed to another half a dozen pushes in that time, but any progress was halted by her posture on the chair and the unforgiving fabric of her dungarees. The owners of the bookstore advised everyone to start making an orderly queue to get their books signed, gesturing to a table and lines of rope set up nearby. Ricki was so close, so close to meeting her idol. Unfortunately the baby was keen to join in.

As she stood the boulder in her pelvis pressed fiercely against the walls of her birth canal and Ricki had to grasp the chair in front of her and instinctively bear down. Oh fuck… she wasn’t going to make it. Her primal grunt wasn’t noticed through the sounds of chairs scratching the floor and numerous conversations erupting around the room. The baby was so low, dangerously low. Feeling like it was sitting just behind her lips, bulging obscenely into her wide-leg trousers.

The crowd around her moved as one, all the guests making their way to the line for autographs. She should have said something, should have excused herself, the baby was quite literally trying to come out right here in the bookstore. Instead, Ricki got caught in the sea of people and somehow ended up in line and surrounded by excited people waiting for autographs.

Just a little bit longer bubs… please. She pleaded with the swell of her belly cradled in her palms. Sweat was dripping down her neck beneath her long hair, her black t-shirt sodden with the exhaustion of her labour. How Ricki managed to stay standing she did not know. Oddly the pain in her hips was easier to manage when upright but gravity was making the pressure unbearable. Whenever a contraction hit she was forced to give in, to bear down with the squeezing muscles, knees bendy subtly and her mouth clamping shut.

They were productive pushes… she was sure of that fact. The baby’s head was slowly but surely spreading her open, her gait unnaturally wide as the baby inched further into the world while she stood and waited in line. Oh god, just— just wait.

This queue moved faster than the one before and Ricki was shuffled forward every few seconds. The author was there, within metres, hair perfectly curled and wearing a flawless outfit. The mum-to-be looked around nervously, realising how stuck in the crowd she had gotten - the only clear way out was forward. Two people, there were just two people in front of her. She had to meet her idol, she couldn’t walk away now, not when she was this close.

Maybe she could time her pushes, was there enough time between them to say Hi, big fan, please sign my book before she had to push again? One person in front now. So close.

Another contraction, oh fuck, and Ricki widened her legs slightly, bending knees ever so subtly and bearing down. The crown in her underwear was getting bigger. It burnt, bringing tears to her eyes. The head was coming out!

“It’s an emotional time isn’t it? Meeting someone you’ve admired for so long.” The person next to her said, bouncing on their toes and excitedly watching the writer sign another book. Ricki couldn’t reply, couldn’t even nod, as her body fully committed to pushing out her baby and bringing it almost to a full crown.

Next. Ricki was next in line. Fuck, what was she gonna do? Before she could form any cohesive thought someone was ushering her forwards towards the desk, towards the friendly smiling face of her idol. The woman’s hand stretched out, ready to take Ricki’s copy of the book to sign.

“Who shall I make it out to?” The author asked kindly, despite having said it numerous times over.

“R-Ricki… w-with an ‘i’…. Oooohhhh….” She stuttered, trying to hold back the groan. Her hands were clasped beneath her contracting belly, every muscle tense and trembling as she fought to hold herself together.

“Are you alright my dear?” The writer asked, staring too long at Ricki’s swollen stomach and the way her fingers were gripped at the fabric of her clothing, knuckles thin and white.

“….no…..” Ricki admitted. “Ooooohhhhh….” The next wave of pressure suddenly hit her like a steam train and any previous plans shot straight out the window. She had to push…. She had to bear down right now…. this second. The burning, the stretching, it was all too much, she had to get this baby out—

“Mmmnnghhhhh!!!!!!!” Grabbing the edge of the desk Ricki bent her knees and dipped her hips as she pushed ferociously, bringing the baby beyond a crown, shoving it past her lips and almost birthing the head in one go.

“Oh my goodness, you poor dear. Someone call an ambulance! This woman is giving birth.” The author said, jumping to her feet and rushing around the desk. “What are you doing here in your condition?” The kind words were accompanied by the writer rubbing her back and holding her hand.

“I just— I just really wanted to meet y-you.”

[loganhowlettshousewife]

the librarian

logan howlett x latina!reader

summary: after the events of logan (2017), in a world where logan survives, he and laura move to a small town to start a new life. laura quickly becomes very attached to the librarian, and seeing you with his daughter makes logan fall hard.

warnings: swearing, insecurity on logan's part, potentially slightly out of character but i’m choosing to believe that logan softens up a bit after laura

this is the longest oneshot i've ever written so please be kind because it took a lot of time. my first language is not english, so please do not be rude when offering feedback. i am also not latina, so feel free to offer constructive criticism if you notice anything wrong in the fic.

special thank you to @raeinyourdreams for the spanish dialogue.

series masterlist - my masterlist

you love your job. the library is quiet, peaceful, and you spend every day surrounded by your favourite thing: books. those who come to the library are typically kind, hardly do you have to deal with rude comments or entitled behaviour. you get to plan fun events for the towns kids and toddlers to introduce them to the joys of reading. and on every school day, between 3:00 and 4:00 pm, you get to see laura howlett.

the first time she came into the library, it wasn’t planned. you live in a small town, with an even smaller school, and when laura’s dad failed to show up on time to pick her up, she was sent over to the library next door. she’d stomped through the automatic doors, her small frame tense with irritation, her jaw clenched, slamming her bag down on the ground beside her as she sat down at one of the small circular tables set up in a corner of the small building.

she crossed her arms and stared at the door as if her dad might finally show up if she thought about it hard enough, never sparing you a second glance. so you’d left her alone to stew in her rage, putting away books from the return pile, glancing at the clock every few minutes.

you couldn’t hide your staring when her (extremely attractive) dad finally showed up, heavy footfalls crossing the doorstep and thick, tanned biceps filling your vision. laura cursed at him in rapid spanish, and he grumbled that he didn’t understand a word she was saying. you giggled to yourself at the thought that you never would have gotten away with using such language at her age.

the next time you saw her was a week later, and this time, despite her heavy glare and intense ‘don’t talk to me’ attitude, you approached her. her gaze was suspicious and distrusting as you spoke, asking her in your native tongue if she wanted a book to read while she waited. she’d stared at you for a long minute before saying, “¿hablas español?”

she slowly opened up to you after that, like a flower blossoming in the springtime, short sentences turning into longer rants, into admittance of her inner thoughts and worries and struggles. you give her book recommendations that are popular within her age group and help her with her homework when she struggles with the material, translating words she doesn't understand perfectly. in return, she tells you about her school and home life, about how she’d moved here with her dad, about how she’s only really known him a few months.

you don’t know her past, only the glimpses she’s given you here and there, anecdotes she drops into conversations before changing the subject just as quickly, but you know that she’s struggled with adjusting to all the changes in her life. you’re grateful that she’s allowed you such insight into her mind, that you can help her even in small ways. you can’t help it - she’s wormed her way into your heart, with her quick quips and short temper and snide comments.

“¿crees que mi papá es guapo?” she asks you suddenly. it’s an evening like any other, the two of you working through her science homework together. you choke on your saliva as an image of logan howlett flashes through your mind, his stern face and the hard intensity of his eyes, his large stature and broad back that you always watch, entranced, when he walks out of the library with laura in tow.

“¿por qué preguntas?” you ask her instead of answering as you erase a mistake on her paper, blowing away the leftover scraps the eraser leaves behind.

“las mamás de thea estaban hablando de lo guapo que es.” laura replies, a grimace twisting her face. her eyes narrow as she observes your carefully blank expression. “¿tu opinas igual?”

you shake your head, clacking your tongue against your teeth, “mejor concéntrate en tu tarea.”

the howletts live two houses down from you, on a street of mismatched suburban houses and carefully manicured lawns. sometimes you’ll see logan outside, smoking a cigar on the porch in a thin wife-beater that shows off his large arms, watchful gaze observing the neighbourhood as though surveying the area for potential threats. 

he seems oblivious to the stares he receives from both women and men passing by, walking their dogs or going for a jog, faltering when they pass his house, interest and attraction and jealousy, staring for a few moments too long to be casual. he never gives any of them the time of day, doesn’t respond to their small-talk questions or smiles. his frown just deepens, putting emphasis on the lines that mark his face, a physical manifestation of a life of constant worry and pain.

you’re admiring him from afar as you often do, peering through the window above your sink as you rinse your dishes, when you notice a gorgeous woman approaching his house. she’s all long legs and glowing dark skin, walking right up to him with all the confidence in the world.

and logan howlett, the brooding, mysterious man who keeps to himself and hardly interacts with anyone unless absolutely necessary, smiles at her. it’s a barely-there expression, a softening of his usual gruff persona and resting bitch face, but you notice it nonetheless. the woman is clearly emboldened by his response and leans into his space as she speaks, pressing a hand to his bicep, skin against skin, mouth moving in words you can’t hear.

you look away, pulling the curtains closed on the window, preferring to watch the pale fabric sway slightly than whatever interaction is happening there. you scrub your dishes a little harder than necessary after that, but no one is there to see it but you.

laura packs up her bag, shoving the papers inside randomly, no reason or order to it. you grit your teeth at the thought of how wrinkled and disorganised it’ll all be later, when she needs to find something specific or when it comes time to hand in her work to her teacher, but you keep your mouth diligently shut, because if there’s one thing you know about laura, it’s that she’s stubborn and temperamental and doesn’t take well to criticism.

logan stands beside the front desk, not far from where you’re flipping through the pile of books that had been returned while you were busy with laura, his hands on his hips as he watches her somehow both rush through the task and simultaneously take much too long to complete it. there’s obvious adoration in his eyes, a fondness that can’t be faked by the best of actors.

“do you-,” he starts, stops, an unfinished question that lasts a few seconds while he chases the right words, “laura really likes havin’ you around. talks about you a lot when you’re gone. so i - uh - wanted to invite you over to dinner. no pressure.”

you beam, books all but forgotten, “really?”

he grunts in response, shrugging. it’s not much as far as responses go, not terribly enthusiastic, but he wouldn’t have brought it up to you if he was against the idea, you assume. so you place a hand on his arm, more for your sake than his, enjoying the feeling of his sun-warmed skin and the smooth dark hair against your fingertips, catching his attention so his eyes fall on you instead of laura.

you think of the woman you’d seen speaking to him a few days ago, and a thrill runs through you, a stupidly possessive thrill that you have no right to feel. there’s nothing going on between you and logan, just mutual care for a troubled girl who hasn’t made any friends in school even after weeks.

this is for her, you tell yourself. to make sure she has a support system, people she trusts, to hopefully get her to open herself up to the possibility of other relationships, friendships with children her age who can help her learn what it means to let go and be a child for a bit. but in your mind, there’s still a rather large part of you preening at the fact that you’re going to have dinner at the howlett’s, and you bet that other woman can’t say the same.

“just let me know when,” you say, “i’m not typically very busy so whatever works on your schedule.”

“¿podría ser hoy?” laura asks, bounding up to the two of you, “porfis.”

you can’t say no to her wide eyes and hopeful smile, so you close up the library early. it’s fine, you live in a small town and no one ever really visits the library late at night anyway. the only person who may want to visit has her own key, a copy you’d made after finding the same teenage girl sleeping on the floor of the library six days in a row, having broken into the building each time.

it’s a short walk to the howlett’s house, laura talking your ear off the entire way there, ignoring the looks logan shoots her when she inevitably switches into spanish seemingly without noticing. but you know what it’s like to speak more than one language, you know the way conversations flit in and out between languages, and you can tell it’s often purposeful, done to get a rise out of logan.

“it’s good that you can understand her,” logan says as he unlocks the front door, his daughter running into the house and leaving the two of you behind, “i can’t, half the time. probably makes me sound like a shit dad.”

“it doesn’t,” you assure him, “laura talks about you all the time when you’re not around and she thinks you’re wonderful. she said you’ve only been in her life a few months? you can’t be expected to learn a whole language in that time.”

logan ignores your praise just as you’d expected him to do, “i think you remind her of home. it was fucked up but there were good parts. and i took her away from there. i did it for her but she still had to leave everythin’ and everyone she knew.”

“i’ll gladly be that piece of home if she needs it,” you say softly, “you got her out of a bad place. i don’t know much but i know that. her home is wherever you are.”

talking to logan is frighteningly easy, and the conversation continues as he heads into the kitchen. their house is nice, clean but sparsely decorated, not the artfully minimalist look of a magazine cover but rather the home of someone who never really knew how to settle down, how to allow a place to become more than just a shell, a temporary refuge to eventually be left behind. it screams logan, and makes you wonder what exactly he’s been through. 

but laura’s things are strewn around the place, a jacket of hers thrown on the couch, comic books that have seen better days piled on the coffee table, school papers on the countertop. it chases away the cold feeling that would otherwise linger between these walls.

you help logan cook, not willing to stand around doing nothing while you wait for the food to be ready. you admit to him that you’re surprised at his talent in the kitchen, and for a moment his jaw tenses like he’s going to tell you something difficult but he doesn’t. his arm brushes against yours as you hand him the spices that he requests, and goosebumps raise on your arms at the feeling.

laura eats like she hasn’t had food in days, and says the meal tastes better because you helped make it, which makes you laugh and logan roll his eyes. chiding laura on her table manners reminds you of your childhood, and an image flashes in your mind, unbidden, of you in this very same setting but as laura’s mother and logan’s wife.

it’s a vision you push away, one you’ll allow to linger as you’re falling asleep but that has no place in your thoughts now.

“next time we should do this at my house,” you comment, without really thinking over your words, your attention on laura and logan’s hand that lingers close to your thigh under the table, not touching you but present enough to offer a good distraction, “to make things fair, i mean.”

“next time?” logan repeats, and you falter, realising what you’d offered. there’s a familiarity in the way you’d made the offer, a throwaway comment, a familiarity that doesn’t exist between you and logan - at least not yet.

“if you’d want,” you offer slowly, “and if laura wants. i just - had fun tonight. it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to do it again.”

and you do. approximately once a week you start to have dinner with the howletts, switching between their place and yours. they’re a familiar presence in your life now, enough that you don’t startle when one of them sneaks up behind you, impossibly light on their feet, the stealth of hunters stalking their prey. you’d told this to logan and he’d raised an eyebrow at you and smirked but refused to explain his reaction to your words.

you start to teach logan recipes from your childhood, the sweet spices and flavours that bring you back to being laura’s age filling the kitchen. you argue with logan about not needing a recipe, saying you just know when it’s right.

though she never comments on it, you see the way laura’s smile brightens every time you place a dish on the table. you hope it brings her a modicum of comfort, reminds her of her place of birth the way it always does for you.

you haven’t felt so free in a long time, and you come to the belated realisation that you’ve been lonely lately, something you can only differentiate now that you feel it shifting. you love your friends but they have busy lives of their own, and you love your library but books can’t compensate for human contact, try as you might. 

“te noto estresada,” laura comments, poking your hand when you stare off into space for the third time that day.

“lo estoy,” you respond, “se averió una tubería y ahora tengo que llamar al plomero, pero no quiero..”

most kids wouldn’t care to have a conversation about these more monotonous, adult subjects, but laura pauses in her homework to give it a genuine reflection. she taps the eraser-end of her pencil against the table, nodding to herself like she’s just come up with an obvious solution.

“no tienes que. mi papá sabe reparar cosas,” she says, “pídele el favor.”

you hate to take advice from a child, even if that child is laura, who often acts much older than her age, and you hate to bother logan even more, but you don’t make much as a librarian and if there’s any way to save some extra money, you’re willing to embarrass yourself in front of the hot man you may have a slight crush on. 

you broach the topic when he comes to pick her up as usual, and to your surprise, he agrees easily. you don’t even have to ask the question, as soon as he’s heard the problem he’s offering up his help.

he shows up at your house later that night, deeming it fine to leave laura home alone since there’s only a 40% chance she’ll break something. he’s dressed in only a thin wife-beater, biceps on full display as he hunches under your sink, the muscles in his back flexing as he works. you stay in the kitchen, using the excuse that you should make sure he’s not making it worse, but spend the entire time staring at the shape of him, large and broad and everything you want.

“thank you,” you tell him when he’s finished, handing him a beer that you’d bought specifically for when he showed up at your place.

“no problem,” he says, shrugging, not making eye contact with you in a way that’s uncharacteristic of him, “no point havin’ you pay someone to do it when i can do it just fine.”

“but you had no obligation to help me,” you remind him softly.

“you help me all the time,” he responds gruffly, “you deal with laura’s shit and don’t complain. you spend time with us even if you got your own life to worry about. it’s only fair.”

you frown at that, “i enjoy spending time with you, logan. it’s not a favour of some kind that you have to repay.”

he grunts an acknowledgement that you don’t quite believe, quiet as he finishes the rest of his beer, and then he’s gone.

it’s hard not to know everyone in a small town, forcing you to make polite small talk with people you walk by who ask about your life and your family and friends and how’s your job going? it’s frustrating, one of the reasons you plan your errands for later in the evening, when the crowds are thinner and most of the people in the grocery store are people like you, who don’t want to be bothered, and teenagers wreaking havoc in the aisles.

you’re looking at fruit when you hear someone call your name, a voice that’s not immediately familiar, which raises alarm bells in your mind, the sound crescendoing into a siren as the click-clack of heels approaches. you resolutely keep your eyes in front of you, hoping that if you look very busy choosing avocados, perhaps you won’t be bothered.

this technique fails immediately, a woman coming up to your side and picking up the avocado you’d just put back, squeezing it to check if it’s ripe. the act is innocent, trying to put you at ease, but you know better. if she was just here to grab groceries she wouldn’t have called out your name, wouldn’t be tilting her head towards you with a saccharine smile.

you’ve seen her around, though you can’t remember her name, an older woman with two boys whose divorce was the talk of the town for a few months last year. from afar she appears put-together, dressed in business-casual attire indicating that she hadn’t had the time to change from her work clothes, blonde hair slicked back into a bun. but up close you can see the strands of hair that had begun falling out, the way her eyes were tight at the corners. a tired single mother.

you feel a pang of guilt at the way you’d immediately wanted to dismiss her, remind yourself that you have the day off tomorrow so you can sleep in, and smile at her.

“so, i heard a rumour, and you know i’m not one to gossip,” she glances your way expectantly, so you prompt her to continue, “which is why i’m asking you directly. you and logan howlett… do you have something going on?”

you pause, considering. it wouldn’t be a lie to say yes, as there is something going on between you and logan, though you know how she’ll interpret the words. you know that she would return home and immediately call everyone she knows to spread the news, and since the townspeople hadn’t left logan alone since he’d moved here, it would eventually spread to him, someone or another asking him about it, pressing for details.

“we’re… friends,” you settle on eventually, “i help laura with her homework sometimes after school and we got to know each other from that.”

it’s a truthful answer, if not deliberately vague. you hate to be the center of drama or attention - there’s a reason you chose to work at a library, quiet and unassuming and not interesting enough to be the subject of speculation.

she giggles, a true laugh, her expression softening with a hint of relief. she bumps you with her shoulder as if speaking to a longtime friend and says, “well, just between you and me, i know a lot of women who are going to be relieved to hear that.” 

you and logan grow closer, to the point where laura no longer initiates most of the time you spend together. you introduce him to your favourite movies when he mentions how long it’s been since he watched one, evenings spent giggling at the television screen while laura sleeps upstairs, having gone to bed long ago.

hours pass so quickly with logan by your side, until the sky resembles a painting, and he walks you home under the constellations of stars. he hangs by the door for a while longer, the both of you drifting, not quite ready to part ways, but you both have jobs in the morning and so you reluctantly bid him goodnight, letting the door to your home shut behind you, hiding the way you beam when he says it back.

dinner comes and goes like any other week, and soon enough you’re standing in logan’s kitchen helping him clean the dishes. this is the part where laura leaves the two of you alone, not wanting to be dragged into the chore, slipping out in that creepily silent way of hers.

there’s a tension that clings to logan tonight, a darkness that’s permeated over the evening, one you’d noticed when he’d come to pick up laura from the library and had almost said something to you but stopped. it wasn’t unusual for logan to be silent, letting you fill the majority of the conversation with your stories and laughter, responding with comments that make you laugh, proud smiles tugging on his lips when your body curls into him.

you’re not surprised when he puts the final dish in the washing machine and turns to face you, something akin to determination in his eyes, though you hardly know anything that could be the cause.

“another parent asked me out today,” he says, “the mom of someone in laura’s class.”

“oh,” you say, certain being stabbed in the heart would hurt less. you’re suddenly slightly nauseous, and you briefly consider using it as an excuse to go home early, but you’re not a coward. you won’t run from a conversation that’s inevitable.

one day logan will meet someone, whether that day is today you aren’t sure, and he’s going to fall for them. you consider the possibility that that person could be you, but you’re normally good at reading people, at seeing the subtleties in body language to indicate attraction, and logan has never given you any signs of your feelings for him being reciprocated.

it could be that he’s generally just a difficult person to read, that over the course of his life he’s had to learn to bury his emotions in a way many people don’t. it’s possible, believable even, with how long it had taken you to learn the intricacies of his expressions, the way the slightest tension between his brows could mean several different things. or, you think, he’s just not into you.

“is that good?” you ask, instead of voicing your current thoughts, which are a mantra of: fuck, fuck, no, fuck, please no.

“no,” he replies like it should be obvious, “her son is an asshole who tried to bully laura on her first day of school. she punched him.”

“good for her,” is your only reply.

you feel awful for the way his vehement denial makes you feel, a pleased warmth spreading in your stomach, a happiness you’ll carry with you all the way home. it’s not your place, and yet here you are, hoping that he doesn’t find love, thinking that you’d rather he be alone forever than with someone other than you. it’s selfish, cruel, makes it hard to keep your expression neutral over the disgust you feel at yourself rising.

logan’s watching you carefully, “it is good for her. she almost got suspended but i think even the principal was afraid of her.”

the conversation pitters out, your answering hum the only reply you can give with your mind wandering. it’s the perfect time to ask, the conversation relevant enough that it won’t be coming out of nowhere, a casual query that he can refuse to answer if he so desires.

“but otherwise,” you say, “if there was no history between her son and laura and she’d asked you out, what would you have said?”

“no,” he says again. quick, easy, painless and yet horribly painful for you.

“is there anyone in town that you’ve noticed?” you ask because you can’t help yourself, the pull of curiosity is too strong, almost as strong as the pull that always brings you into logan’s orbit when you stand close enough, bringing you unconsciously closer.

there’s a pause long enough to make your heart race, the beat so loud you can hear it ringing in your ears, a hard rhythm that’s much too rapid to be healthy. you wonder what logan can see on your face, following the way his impassive gaze traces over you, catching on your eyes and the quirk of your mouth.

when he speaks at last you can hardly hear it over the rushing sound of your anxiety. “i’ve noticed you.”

“what?”

“you,” he repeats, shrugging like it doesn’t matter, “but i’m old and worn. too much for a pretty thing like you. and there’s so much you don’t know about my life, horrible shit i’ve done that’ll make you look at me different. i’m angry and violent and i drink too much to deal with my emotions, even if i’ve cut back since laura. and her, laura. i got a kid now. can’t force that responsibility onto you too.”

you lift a hand up, silently asking him to stop, to allow you time to process the words you’re fairly certain were not a hallucination. he refuses to look at you, jaw clenched, staring instead at his hands the way one would stare at a murder weapon, an angry glare that speaks of hatred, pain and resentment.

it’s that look that makes the decision for you. you place your hand on top of his, dark glare now pointed at your hand, faltering when your fingers trace the grooves between his knuckles. you allow him a moment of silence to process, content to wait now that your mind is no longer racing, overthinking every breath and creating unlikely scenarios. rather, you feel calm, and you hope that the way you squeeze his hand transfers some of that peace to him.

“is this your version of asking me out?” you ask when his eyes lock on yours, a raging storm hiding behind the calm facade of his careful mask, “because normally people don’t try to convince the other person to say no.”

“i’m not asking anything,” he replies, voice hoarse, “i know how i feel about you. but i’m a mess and i can’t ask you to deal with that.”

“alright, well, even if you’re not asking this is me saying yes,” you tell him, turning his hand so his palm faces up, lacing your fingers together, skin still slightly damp from the washing you’d been doing.

he doesn’t let go of your hand, but he changes the subject. you don’t argue. logan has some sort of feelings for you, though he hasn’t put them into clear words, and for now, that’s enough. you can wait while he wades through whatever self-hatred spiral is happening in his mind, the excuses he’ll give you for why you can’t be together. because he was holding back before, when he’d explained why he wasn’t good enough for you. he’d forced himself to stop talking, but you can tell there’s more behind that angry rant.

so instead of pushing, you let the rest of the evening pass as it usually would, playing monopoly with laura, her temper rising when the game doesn’t go her way, cussing at the board in spanish. she’s creative with her insults and you press your lips together tightly to hold back a laugh. you’re certain logan knows what she’s saying, or can at least make an educated guess, but he doesn’t comment on it.

she heads upstairs when she loses, stomping her feet down on every step, a strange contrast to how she often moves like a shadow. you’re content to let her walk away, knowing the anger isn’t real - she’ll grumble and stew in the loss for a bit before moving on as she always does.

“you need to know what you’re getting into,” logan says, and it takes you a while to piece together what he means, your earlier conversation pushed to the back of your mind during monopoly. “if you agree to this and then realise it’s too much and leave - i don’t think laura’d be able to handle it.”

there’s an unspoken, and me, in the way he watches you, vulnerable, something logan loathes to be. so you wrap your arms around him, not for the first time, but it hasn’t yet lost its novelty. you feel his body heat despite the layers of clothing separating the two of you from making direct skin-to-skin contact, sighing in pleasure as you relax with your head on his chest.

“we’re not strangers logan,” you say, “i know who you are, how you treat me, how you treat your daughter. and if more of this is what it’s like to date you, to be with you, i don’t see myself leaving.”

diversity december taglist: @raeinyourdreams @meetmypointlessaddiction @chubbyhedgehog @yxtkiwiyxt @isepod @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes

latina!reader taglist: @naggywaggy @mami-veracruz @spencerswh0r3 @gl1ndathegoodwitch @taextannie

[skygoldart]

Cod Grian Cosplay Build!

The fish man himself, season 10 Grian!

Reference Sketch

Some notes:

I always end up changing somethings from the reference when making the actual outfit, although I stayed pretty close it it this time.

I initially drew him with a handlebar mustache and goatee to mimic the whiskers of a fish, however I switched to a fluffier mustache beard to match the guy from Frozen.

I also opted for my turtleneck shirt over the red sweater+collar to go for more of a fisherman vibe

Since Grian is usually drawn with parrot wings, I wanted to call back to that with red yellow and blue feathers on the bobbers.

The tail and fins

I wanted to lean into the “fish”er man design and gave him fish fins and a tail.

It’s design is based on a cod fish with striped fins based on the feathers of an osprey

To make it, I drew the tail pattern on a large piece of paper, cut it out, cut each section out of the respective fabric times two, sewed the two sides together, and lastly filled it with a ton stuffing.

The tail is heavy, but it’s fun to wack people with it.

The fins for the arms and beanie are made in a similar way, each hand sewn onto the beanie/bracers once stuffed.

The Overalls

I had originally planned for him to be wearing waders, but wanted to make the outfit more wearable for everyday wear without overheating. So I opted for some brown corduroy overalls instead.

To add a “wet” look to each pant leg, I briefly dipped each one into some black fabric dye before rinsing and drying.

The green pixels on his skin look like they could be kelp or patches so I decided to go with the latter and dug through my scrap fabric to find these green pieces.

I embroidered the edge of each piece with a unique stitch and placed them randomly on each leg.

The snails!

Of course we can’t forget about the snails

There are three snails for this project with two more eventually on the way (a plush pink snail, and a plush brown snail).

I made the clay blue snail first with polymer and attached tie tacks to the underside so I can use it like a pin and stick it anywhere on my clothes.

Same goes for the pink worm snail which is also made of clay.

The blue plush snail is based on a pattern from Etsy by willowynn with some slight modifications, mainly to the eyes/feelers, and doubling the size.

Facial hair

This was one of the parts I was the most excited about for this cosplay and the only part I didn’t do myself. I commissioned @basic-amoeba to make a custom ventilated beard, styled and everything. This part turned out so good!

Some final notes for this project

This cosplay took from Feb 20 to March 15th to complete since I was so determined to finish it before Grian changed his skin. Haha look at me now. He still hasn’t changed it.

Not pictured (cause why can I only add 10 photos 😭) is the mending book with a fish hook I made using scrap faux leather, cardboard, and some cut printer paper. I painted in galactic the word mending and sprayed the whole thing in my “enchanting” spray paint (a blue to purple iridescent glitter spray paint)

A small fun backstory to the fishing rod:

My grandpa is an experienced fisherman and has dozens of fishing poles. When I talked about this project with him, he brought me out to his workshop and pulled down the dustiest fishing rod there. He told me he had fished this fishing rod from a lake one day with the line and bait still attached. Can’t get anymore accurate to Minecraft fishing than that lol.

Obligatory cosplay photo:

[allurilove]

I’m sorry but personally, the crashout I would have if I found out my yan!husband was thinking and writing about another woman, specifically his ex, in his diary after spending years worming, and physically, emotionally and mentally manipulating his way into my life and molding a whole white picket fence household with 2 kids????

There would be no coming back, I’d already have the divorce papers in the bedside table already signed and filled out, my lawyer being my first phone call and some ex boyfriend being the second

Ooop, yandere husband is literally getting dragged in my asks after that post omggggg. I never thought that this day would come.

if you wanna know what he wrote, its down below.

(He's not about to write 'Dear diary' lol, so its straight to the point)

10/4/2024

I’ve been thinking about her lately. It’s hard not to think about what could have been—or rather, what was—especially with my wife on my case. And my wife, she’s becoming… restless lately. I catch her walking around the house, her mind preoccupied with things that don’t involve me or Henry, and she mutters things under her breath. I often find her clutching her leather bag to her chest, looking through it, and sighing in relief once she’s satisfied with whatever it is she’s worried about.

She's unapologetically distant too.

I find myself desperately needing to touch my wife-- to have skin-to-skin contact with her always. I like having my hand on her breast. I like drinking coffee, and solving the morning puzzle with my free hand, while the other is busy with her heavy tit. I have been doing it for years, but now she seems to hate it. This morning, my finger had brushed up against a fabric instead. It had some padding to it and oddly covered her chest from my intrusions.

I found out what it was late at night. My wife wearing a bra could perhaps be the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Like seriously, how could she wear that atrocious thing? I thought women didn't even like wearing one??

Anyway, I think it stems from my past relationship. Back then, I wasn’t used to physical touch or affection; I had sort of an aversion to it. When my father made clothes for me, he had me stand upright for hours. And whenever I moved—because I felt my muscles stiffen—tiny little needles would "accidentally" prick at my skin. Some days, he didn’t have time to yell at me and would resort to hitting my hands or the back of my head.

Whatever qualms I had about physical touch didn't matter, because I knew she liked it. She liked holding hands when we walked besides each other. She wanted all the kisses I could offer her in the back seat of my car after date nights and often put my hand on her thigh when I drove her back home. She sometimes got pouty whenever she deemed that I didn't give her enough attention, so I learned that more was best.

I did whatever my ex wanted. I had her bent over whatever surface I could find. I grabbed at her chest, thighs, and ass. Her skin was practically my second.

I suppose it turned into a habit overtime.

A habit that I guess I should unlearn now that I'm with my more ...prudent wife.

10/13/2024

I got into another argument with my wife today. Henry unfortunately witnessed some of it. I am really in the doghouse this time.

I had genuinely thought that my wife was cheating on me. Cheating on me with that freak neighbor of ours.

I wonder if my ex would have fought with me like that. It was blissful when I was with her. We barely argued or had any screaming matches. It went well until she broke it off with me.

I wonder if--

(and then the page is ripped cause nosy toddler Henry got into his diary and treated it like a coloring book lol)

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Baba Jaga’s Books

݁ ⛧ ₊ Part one

݁ ⛧ ₊ @johnwickb1tsch’s requested book/antique store au (bc she and @sweetwolfcupcake put up with all my shit on the daily and I love them).

݁ ⛧ ₊ Cw: oversized anatomy, dreams, dubcon but reader 100% is into it, creepy old buildings and cobwebs and dolls, implied female plus size reader, heavy blood, gore and horror, NSFW. This is 6.2k words!!!

݁ ⛧ ₊ Art from Pinterest, but I couldn’t find the original source & apparently google image search isn’t a thing anymore? Dividers from @isisjupiter & @plum98

The woman that greets you at the weathered door is smiling brightly. “He is dead,” she says, delighted, and you blink a few times in response, because what are you supposed to say to that?

She shoves some rusted, ancient keys into your palm and leads you through a corridor lined with shelves of books and porcelain and dust.

She’s light on her feet, quick through the moth-devoured, high pile halls, but you can make out some oddities and bobbles along the way: a little clown doll in a shimmery cotton candy jumpsuit, a whole row of assorted dog figurines in pristine condition, a pearl vase with what looks to be real jade clusters at the base, an old rocking chair with an ancient language engraved on the head.

You’ll have time to explore all of this later, so you hurry to catch up with your host once you realize you’ve fallen behind and can only hear the light thump of her footsteps ahead, scared to get lost in the labyrinth of relics and tomes.

She’s made coffee, by the taste and temperature of it probably long before your arrival, but you garnish it with a little cream and sugar anyway and slurp the dark roast down. “I’m sorry,” you tell her, fingers smoothing over the mouse nibbles in the old green upholstered couch. “About the old owner.”

She shrugs, taking the deep velvet chair across from you with hot tea. “I didn’t know him. Have you ever worked at an antique store before?”

“No,” you reply, “but I sell independently, and I’ve worked retail.”

She’s still smiling, like the Chesire grin is permanently etched into the wrinkles of her pale face, and if you’re being completely honest it’s starting to freak you out a little bit.

“And you’re used to ghosts?” she nods, sipping at her cup.

“Ummm. Depends on what kind?” Even though she’s smiling, the joke seems to heavily sour whatever palpable, stale mood is already established between the two of you.

“Winston, he was haunted by an entity in this shop for the longest time. When his memory started to slip…” She presses her spindly fingers to her temple, then lets them tumble down toward the floor with her head tipped to the side. “Well, he called it The Boogeyman, can you believe that? The old fool.”

You really can’t help yourself. “I thought you said you didn’t know him?”

“Who?” She takes another sip of tea, and you get the sudden urge to cackle with the absurdity of this meeting.

“The…owner?”

“Oh, he’s dead. Good man. Out of his mind.”

“But you said you didn’t know him just a little bit ago and—” You’ve misinterpreted her smile, you realize. It’s not disdainful, it’s blank, like the expression on that cheery little clown doll you passed by so hastily.

An icy worm inches his way up the ladder of your spine before nesting a shiver into your spongey cerebrum. “Nevermind.”

She goes on, still smiling. “The keys I gave you are master. Do not lose them, it is the only set. The orange one is for the store, and the less orange one is for the garage.”

She’s in a hurry to go, it seems, bundling up in her oversized coat and hat, handing you a crumpled, yellow stained list of daily upkeep activities from her pocket.

You don’t mind, always preferring the silencing calm of solitude over lingering company, anyway.

You wonder, as you watch her pull away in a beat up buggy, if the owner was her husband. Or maybe a clandestine lover. Either way, you doubt you’ll be hearing much from her anymore.

The sales room is nothing like you expect based on the gothic, decrepit looks of the rest of the brownstone; it’s domed in a high-reaching skylight of wintery sun, with shiny dark hardwood flooring instead of matted, once-red-now-brown carpet. A wispy spider descends through a beam of dust and sunlight, and reminds you of the woman’s delicate bony fingers tumbling from her skull. There is a large oak desk still smelling of fresh, spicy wood in the very center of the room with an updated, computerized filing system and cash register. In the middle of a far wall, next to a gaping dark corridor, is a large painting of what you assume to be father and son.

He is tall, looming, with jet black hair that curls under his ears and satiny dark eyes that you think could mesmerize a corpse. His bones are strong and sharp under golden hues of flawless skin and neatly trimmed facial hair, and the red tie looped expertly around his collar would be the only color he sports if not for the plump rose of his lips. Without thinking, you reach out to touch the intricate piece of art and jump back when you feel that familiar gritty texture under your fingertips.

Just a moment ago, you were behind the desk, with a panorama of the entire room, and now you are inches away from this handsome man framed in rose gold.

You pull your fingers back and itch the lingering texture off on your blue jeans.

“He painted that.”

The voice from behind makes you jump again, now in the opposite direction, where you slam into the cold frame with the bony blade of your shoulders. You’re much too worried about the beautiful piece of sentimental decor, rather than your own sharp pain, and you turn to make sure you didn’t disturb it, horrified to find that you absolutely did, and scrambling to lift it up and hook the dangling corner back onto its wall fixture from whence it came.

A deep chuckle rumbles behind you, like warning thunder over the crest of rolling hills, and a pair of hands the size of bear paws gently lift the painting back onto the wall.

You turn to look up at him, and he is close, and his features are sharp and pronounced and familiar. You look back at the painting, just to make sure his likeness is still captured there, too, and did not somehow escape and form into solid matter before you.

“Hello, I’m John. Winston’s son.” He holds out his hand, and you don’t really take and shake it, but rather become enveloped it its warm, calloused sanctuary.

If his voice is thunder, his eyes are the lightning that precedes it, striking and shining—deep pools of dark lake water slivered with moonlight. You have to look away from him, because his real time stare is far more intimidating than the painted one.

“When my father told me that someone wanted to buy this place, I didn’t believe him,” he tells you.

“Oh…why?” Your dry throat longs for the water bottle left forgotten in your truck.

“It’s…burdensome.”

Your smile is tight. “Maybe I know how it feels.”

Well, you’ve said too much already, that is apparent by the bewildered, bemused look on his face. “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. Hello, I’m John. Winston’s—“

“—son,” you finish, taking his hand again, maybe a little firmer this time. You feel emboldened by the strange tension brewing here, and have the courage to maintain his gaze…

For about one second.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you add.

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“Do you…live here?” Oh, that would be awkward.

“No, right next door. I was going to buy, renovate, and use it as a gym when he died.”

You snort. “Well, guess you’ll just have to keep paying for a membership to the Y.”

A little part of you is grateful that he can match your sass instead of getting offended as so many men tend to do. “For your information, it’s Planet Fitness.”

A bigger part is worried that this camaraderie only extends so far until you run your mouth just a little too much, as youtend to do, and either wind up publicly shamed or dead—you’re not so sure which is worse anymore. “righhhht, my bad, John.”

He smiles at you, those dark eyes twinkling in the natural light cast down on them from above. You think, maybe, you see him read you right then and there and decide he likes the synopsis. It shouldn’t make you preen, but his playful grin and starry orbs are hard to snub—at least, you think they are, from the minimal glances you’ve managed to steal.

“Did you have an okay time with Marjory? She can be a little strange.”

“Oh, we had loads of fun,” you reply, after a moment of wondering what he’s talking about with those sinfully unfair plush lips. “Right after she tried to steal my soul.”

He sighs. “Not again.”

You laugh together, and already his underlying aura of danger is fading away.

Replaced with…suspicion—he’s too easy to get along with.

After a minute, he says: “she was his last wife.”

“I knew it!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in victory. “Uh, sorry.”

This is the third time you’ve made him laugh, and you’re really trying not to get a big head about it but it’s damn near impossible. One more deep chuckle and you’re going to start strutting around here like the bedazzled pet peacock of a wealthy warlord.

He’s looking at you again, and it’s making your skin feel tighter on your bones and your head a little woozy. One man should not have that much power in a single gaze, nor be allowed to look that palatable in faded blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. You do what any woman with a libido would, and deflect with humor.

“So, who’s this guy in the painting next to your father?”

It can’t be him. If it is, he doesn’t age. Winston looks twenty years younger in this painting than the recent online photos you’ve seen, and the real man before you looks exactly the same as the painted one.

“That’s my older brother.”

“Oh, what? He looks nothing like you.”

He smiles, more to himself. “Especially not now.”

You take that bait like a hungry trout. “Why?”

“He’s dead.”

“God, I’m sorry, John, any surviving family?” It occurs to you a millisecond too late that was an insensitive question, and you have the sudden urge to bite your tongue clean off.

Tact will never be your specialty.

“Just a sister, but she lives in Rome and we’re not on speaking terms... Hey.”

You tip your chin at him and give a little wave. “Hey.”

He snorts, leans a shoulder on the wall. You try not to notice how good he looks doing it. “Time to tell me about yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve told you so many things about me, and you haven’t even told me your name. I think it’s fair, don’t you?”

You hesitate, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh, it’s okay, though, if you’d rather not.” You feel guilty about his downturned mouth, and realize you’ve probably killed the atmosphere, but that’s for the best, anyway. This man would devour you, bones and all.

“I just don’t wanna bore you,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. “But I’m y/n. Nice to meet you.”

His lips press together, probably holding back a dry retort, as he grabs your hand again, startling you, making you flinch back.

He drops your palm, takes a step away for himself. “I’m sorry, I thought—“

“It’s fine,” you wave him off, trying not to start spiraling into a fever fantasy about how warm he is, and how he makes every nerve in your body harmonize like a vengeful choir with just a touch. You try to compose the treacherous axons back into silence.

“Alright, fine, you can open up more as we clean. Until then, I’m not telling you a thing about myself.”

You blink at him stupidly. “What?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you? I’m helping you. Took the entire day off and everything.” He grins proudly, and you see a whole different, youthful side of him.

“Oh?” You smile again. “Where do you work?”

“Nice try, y/n.”

You giggle, hand pressed over your mouth. “Ah, damn. Almost gotcha…I don’t need any help, though, really. I got it.”

He looks around the big room with his hands shoved into his pockets. “Alright, I’ll just watch, then.”

“I’d actually prefer some solitude, if you don’t mind…”

You commend him for that expertly crafted wounded look, but you will not fall for it. Even hungry wolves can sometimes look like the sweetest puppies.

“Are you sure? I know where his supplies are.”

“I brought my own.”

He kicks some dust, looks away. You shouldn’t feel bad for wanting your space, but you absolutely do. “Alright, if you say so.”

Maybe you can soothe him a little bit with your next inquiry. “Anything you want from the building before I start going through things?”

He shakes his head. “No, if I have to look at one more book from childhood cluttering my house, I’m going to throw up.”

“Take it easy,” you rib. “What did Charlotte's Web ever do to you?”

“Stole my lunch money,” he teases.

Maybe it would be nice, to have his company. He doesn’t seem so bad—

No. Nope. Bad y/n. Slippery slopes are always captivating and luminescent from a distance…

“Anyway,” you tell him. “I should get to work. Nice to meet you, John.”

He tips his head down at you. “The pleasure is mine.”

You’re not religious, but you would swear to God himself that you put your ladder in the truck bed. But it’s not here, and you’re not a good climber, and the chances of you growing a foot taller right now are slim to none.

Grumbling, you lug your cleaning supplies in the door, and almost run into John, who looks like he’s taking his leave.

“Oh, actually,” you ask sheepishly, letting him help you set the heavy bucket of rags and sprays down, “do you know where the ladder is?”

The piece of decaying wood he pulls from a nearby closet won’t hold a toddler let alone you. You test the first moldy step and it immediately crumbles under your foot, spilling damp rot over the carpet. “Fuck,” you say.

He snickers, and you glare at him, which turns the visible laughter into a subtle clearing of his throat and a shy glance away from your wrath. It shouldn’t be adorable. It shouldn’t breathe life into your little dead heart.

“Let me show you something,” he says, and walks over to a tall shelf, reaching up on the balls of his feet to touch the spine of the highest book. “Still sure you don’t need me?”

Is it just you, or is he a little bit of a cheekier bastard than originally thought?

You huff at his timid grin. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, his devil smile and twinkling eyes whisper, to have a tall, strong man around to fight those evil top shelves…

“Looks like I have to go to the store,” you conclude.

“Ouch.”

“Why do you wanna help so bad?”

“It was his last dying wish?”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m lonely.”

You look him over, from head to toe, skipping those intense eyes, and cock an eyebrow…

“Double bullshit,” you conclude, because there’s no way in hell a man like this is lonely unless if it’s by choice.

“Earlier, you asked me if there was anything I wanted to take. There is, but I don’t know where it is.”

“What is it?” You ask him.

“It’s a book. My brother wrote it.” He looks pensive, eyebrows pulled down.

“What’s the name?” You ask.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s it look like?”

He runs his nimble fingertips thoughtfully over the spines of some dusty dictionaries, and the spiders nesting in your marrow quiver. His thick veined hands are almost as dangerous as his eyes.

“I don’t know. It was his manuscript. I was supposed to receive it before he died, but my father kept it from me. Hid it. I broke in many times to look for it.” His fist clenches at his side and all you can think about is how big his knuckles are, and how bad they would hurt striking, and how good they would hurt curled up inside you or brushing softly against your cheek.

You must have taken a step away from him, or adopted some feeble prey expression, because he turns to you and softens, jaw unsticking itself, shoulders falling back. “I’m sorry.”

No, please, anything but showing someone your soft shy underbelly right off the bat in this new town…

Luckily, you can think on your feet.

You give him a big, triumphant smile. “Made you talk about yourself again.”

“You little…” He tsks, narrowing his eyes; for a moment you think he’s going to chase you down the corridor, and the electrical conduction of your heart seizes.

You try to act like you’re not scared, or titillated by the thought of that.

“When did your brother die?” You ask him while you’re rummaging through boxes of porcelain cups, faux gold and silver jewelry tangled together in a tight wad that it takes hours to dig through, a menagerie of plastic animals and colorfully dressed figurines that fit into a miniature circus model, occult literature from the early 1900’s.

There are so many fascinating items in this collection, some of them worth more than your truck or apartment. Trinkets infused with cultural significance, bobbles laden with ancient tales and silent history. And the books—god, the books.

Tomes of famous Russian poets, scholars, eccentrics. Vintage romance novels in mint condition. You can’t wait to curl up on the old couch with some tea and a hefty stack of Agatha Christie and Anne Rice.

“A year before my father.”

You wince and fold a weathered Dickens paperback into your lap. He is pulling them from the shelves, glancing at them, and then handing them to you to sort into piles. “That’s so much.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, sitting beside you with a grunt and whoosh of air. “You want a drink?”

“I’m not thirsty,” you say, motioning to your water bottle.

“I meant something spirited.”

“Oh, well in that case, of course I do.”

He opens a bottle of sweet whiskey in the kitchenette, and you drink it from coffee cups with freezer burned ice.

He downs it without flinching, and you enjoy the view of his Adam’s apple bobbing under five o clock shadow and durable skin, more courageous now thanks to over half the liquor from your cup.

“Sorry it’s not something fancier.”

“Whiskey’s perfect for the occasion,” you tell him, motioning to your grime and dust covered self. “I think I should head back home after it runs its course, though. I’m tired. This is a big place.”

You apologize to him, because he looks exhausted, too, and he has helped you make three times the progress you would have achieved on your own with his extra foot of height…and still his brother’s book is nowhere to be found.

However, you want to see him again, and that means you should never see him again, so you withhold any invitations.

He’s been a perfect gentleman. Good company. He doesn’t need to talk to feel comfortable, and the long silences shared between you, working through boxes and cobwebs, have been pleasant. Your initial resistance to him was unwarranted, even if he is a dark looming shadow with inescapable eyes.

He is a nice man, and that is terrifying. You need to stay far, far away from him. You would put a continent between the two of you if it wasn’t for your life savings recently sinking into this bookstore.

But when he asks to come back, you fold like wet parchment, not even trying to be reluctant or resist his deep, enchanting gaze.

You’ve become soft. You’ll have to work on that.

He insists on walking you to your truck, because it’s dark outside, and this little snowy town is short on street lights. Outside, autumn is employing winter to cover some of its crunchy dead leaves in crispy white tufts. You love the smell of transitioning seasons, and as you tip your frost bitten nose up to the air to take a big whiff, John watches.

“It’s pretty out here,” you say, looking around at the mixture of Halloween, Thanksgiving…Christmas decorations just starting to sprout. Lights twinkle along rooftops, lifting the night up in rainbows.

You’re too busy paying attention to the scenery of small town magic to notice the slight dip in the sidewalk next to your truck. Your foot catches it at the right angle for disaster, and a split second too late, you realize your soft skull is headed for the hard metal of a door handle.

You screw your eyes shut, waiting for the impact, for the crack and the pain and it just never comes…In fact, seems the soles of your feet have been placed back on solid ground, and your back has been formed into something warm and diuturnal behind you.

His hands really are big, Jesus. His palms fold into the curves of your sides, long fingers resting against the soft beginning swells of your tummy, sending fizzy warmth down through your hips and deep in your guts.

Resembling a feral animal, you jump out of his arms, as if you’ve never been touched by another human or as if he’s made of spikes—it’s more to get away from the feeling of his touch—from the feeling it causes—rather than he himself

Luckily, you don’t have time to think about how much of a pathetic waste of human you are, because you’re tumbling right off the curb again in your haste to get away.

This time, he wraps his gentle hands around the divot of your lower back, and guides you up against your freezing door with a bewildered, dazzling smile.

Shit.

“Are you okay?” He asks in a white puff of warm minty breath.

You look up at him to speak, but his sharp features are highlighted in candy apple red from the nutcracker decoration mounted on a street lamp next to your truck.

When you were young and saw a venomous snake for the first time, it was a viper, locked inside a thick cage of glass with eerie red lights shining down on its sharp little head and black almond eyes. Generally, you had never been afraid of reptiles, because they were ostracized and feared, and you maybe knew how that felt a little too well…

But you were afraid of the viper—some primordial instinct traveled through time to warn you not to fuck with that animal, just as it’s doing right now. The once excited butterflies in your middle are suddenly desperate to break free, gnawing and sucking at the lining of your gut, digging their tiny barbed claws into tender pelvic tissue.

He sees it in your eyes, maybe, as they blow two sizes wider, and backs away, hands stuffed inside his pockets. “I’m sorry—“

“It’s okay,” you say too quickly, too sharply. Fear is such a potent thing, filling you up until you’re leaking it from every pore and orifice.

“Get home safe.”

You nod, hop into the front seat, and speed away after fumbling with your keys in trembling hands for what feels like a good five minutes. Your shakes are not from the cold snow descending upon the town.

When your eyes decide to disobey direct commands from the sympathetic nervous system and look at him in the rear view, he’s standing under the red light, on the street, watching you drive away.

In your dreams, the calm day spent rummaging through books is forgotten. There’s no peace here, trapped inside your mind. The one place you can’t hide.

It’s the same scene every night.

You are running under thick overgrowth, sharp wet earth tearing up the delicate plantar surface of your feet. It’s cold, dark, maybe right before dawn or just after sunset. The thorns snatching at your skin, the branches and vines whipping gashes into your face—these sensations are nothing compared to the adrenalized fear overtaking you.

They’ll take you back to freezing metal bondage and endless gray walls and the blistering, assaultive smell of bleach over blood. You want to live, desperately. You’ve never wanted anything more than a beating heart and expanding lungs, but you’d rather die than go back with them, so under cover of a weeping tree, you grab your little stolen pocket knife and press it to your throat.

Life, shining and wet, leaves you in gushes and spurts. It’s messy work, takes a few good sharp, haphazard digs at the jugular, and they find you just as you hit crimson gold and feed the muddy ground with your blood.

You don’t know why you still try; to die, to live, to fight. The dream captures your memories, freezing them in time, and solidifying your fate. You will yourself to struggle harder, hit, kick, scratch, bite, scream, beg, pray—to a God who has forsaken you—for just a little bit of fucking mercy for once.

Mercy looks nothing like you expect.

He is as tall as the surrounding trees, at least 9 feet, with inky black tendrils of thick hair growing down his back.

Massive, clawed hands perfect for hooking and ripping mortal flesh; he lops a head off with one finger, like opening a bottle of coke—tips the body upside down and gulps, greedily, blood and grisly clumps of viscera. Your pursuer’s heart is a tasty, candy gush sweet in his palm, and he swallows it whole.

You are covered in red, so saturated that trying to run is impractical and useless. The forest floor is garroted with it, slick and impossible. You fall into a bundle of pointy thorns and vines and the thick, muddy soup of blood.

It can’t all be yours—

It’s not. It’s theirs. He is tearing them apart. Two at a time. Under the rising silver moon, their plasma has an easy and graceful Grande Jete.

He skewers someone through the chest, and your stomach lurches at the sick crack of pulpy bone.

But you can’t puke, not now.

You need to run. You grasp at the thorns holding you, ripping at your skin, peeling layers off.

The screaming and popping and splintering and wailing ends abruptly, and in the eerie silence, as you freeze in fear, trying to listen for the creature, all you can hear is the drumming beat of your own pulse inside your head.

You have never been small-waisted. In your youth, when you still had stupid hopes that true love and chivalry could find you, you longed to have the same natural slim lines and desired smoothness of your female counterparts, watching enviously as a masculine palm could fit easily into the small of their back to lead them, protect them, court them.

He fits you in one hand just like that, and the gentle nature in which he handles you makes you audibly gasp. These long, sharp fingers, that just effortlessly took apart bone and skin and muscle, dig into your side politely, bluntly, holding you in a way you’ve never considered to be attainable.

You writhe against him, pushing your palms down to feebly pry his long fingers off your hips, but he traps you effortlessly in his arms, and lifts you to his face.

There are razor sharp fangs in place of his upper canines, and they are dripping fresh, hot blood over his bearded chin, his torso, your breasts and tummy. His hair is long, ethereal, soft, floating as if he is in water, smooth tendrils feathering around your shoulders tenderly.

His mouth is just too wide for his face, and if he grinned, it would make any mortal man tremble. You start to recognize the hard lines of his expression underneath these subtle uncanny features…and then you look into those eyes.

They are narrow and dark, and impossible to keep, just like you remember. You glance away, overwhelmed with their intensity, the second before they soften.

You should be terrified, intimidated, screaming, but those eyes prick at your heart, bead a heady drop of life’s blood. This feeling, it’s familiar and centuries old—It’s yearning, agony, imbued and heavy in your very marrow.

You gasp, and writhe against him, but now for another reason; delicious, agonizing need breeds from his touch, infecting your body and spreading through every piece of you like a ruthless pathogen.

His eyes are the key to something inside of you that you wrestled, chained and imprisoned a long time ago, and you sob with the intensity of it bursting free.

You try to hide your face in your hands, protect yourself from whatever natural, effortless connection is happening between you and this unnatural man, but he grabs your head between his thumb and forefinger, tenderly pinching at your puffy cheeks. “Look at me,” he says, voice unmistakeably deep and rough and so human.

But a mortal man could never, ever make you obey so easily without force or pain—with just the heavy infliction of his tone. Your traitorous eyes lock onto his of their own volition.

He brands your soul with black fire, makes your whole being ache, toes and fingers curling against the onslaught of it all, chest heaving with the force of your breath. Your fate is sealed, your time is up, it’s curtains, you’re fucked.

For years, you’ve been painstakingly arranging a wall against the world, against your own pedky emotions. He knocks it all over with a look, and the tough woman that built it is whimpering like a baby as the fallout buries her alive.

“Please stop.” You hardly recognize your own voice when it’s sweet and pleading.

“I…can’t.” There’s something pained in his expression, maybe confused, like he’s just as bewildered by what’s happening here between you.

A loc of his hair slithers around your neck like a curious snake. It’s alarmingly soft, like thick silk ribbons trailing over your skin and between your heaving breasts. You reach out to stop him, because it feels too good and it’s too much, and he wraps your pesky arms behind your back, binding them with the same satin coils collecting at the base of your heartbeat, tickling at the underside of your breast where your very life stems from, where you are soft and tender and feminine.

If you could think straight, you would hate yourself for the way your hips twitch and shudder as an aching throb worms its way into your heart, travels through your bloodstream, and nests inside your cunt.

He hums his approval. “Me too, little witch.” His long mouth curls at the edges like a hungry wolf’s, and it’s terrifying, but you have no sense to be afraid. Instead, you want to touch—feel through the heavy black cloak of shadow covering him, right into his heart, if he has one…

You whine, because you can’t do anything else, reduced to this pathetic mess of a woman, and test the bonds he cradles you with. They are comfortably snug. Undreakable. You are secured.

It’s been so long, since anyone has touched you with reverence, gentleness. You hate it.

Not because it doesn’t feel good. Because it feels far too good, when he folds you up in that strange cashmere darkness that emanates from his being, and exposes all your coveted vulnerability…inside and out.

And you’re just…helpless. Like a stuffed doll in his sure grip.

It takes about two seconds for rationality to drown—sink deep into the blackness again and leave you quivering and warm and wanton.

Velvet serpents test you, first at your fingertips and toes, then your palms and soles. Your calves, thighs, cheeks, collar.

It’s a libidinous swarm descending upon you, swallowing you whole. The last thing you see is his mirthy, onyx eyes before being completely consumed.

The sound you make as he slips over the dusky tips of your breasts is more animal than human. You wretch your head back and forth, because it’s the only thing you can move before he traps it, too, and you swear you hear an impish chuckle before this darkness fills your ears and takes your hearing.

He covers your mouth, your eyes, your cheeks and nose, puts you in total sensory deprivation where every caress, tease, flick, kiss…suck is amplified tenfold.

You growl like an angry little kitten as he finds the sensitive, ticklish spot at the back of your knees.

Then, you sob, or at least you think you do, while slippery little tendrils wrap around the swell of your nipples and press at the soaked fabric of your underwear and mold against all the curves of your tummy

You’ll have time later to hate yourself for rolling your hips against him, for silently begging him to touch your throbbing cunt—to delve under thin cotton and test your wetness before filling every little inch of you up with shadows inside just as thoroughly as he is out.

It’s been a long time, since someone has touched you there. It’s been…never that someone has touched you like he is.

If you were trapped here for eternity, you’re not sure if you would call it heaven or hell.

As he slides past your underwear and flicks your swollen clit, your vote is on the former. When he does not increase the pace or the pressure of these teasing touches after several agonizing moments, your vote is on the latter.

He devolves you from his shadows, placing you upright on the ground, pulling out from the curves of your body with swollen pops, smoothing your hair back against your face.

In an attempt to soothe your animosity, he runs a finger down your cheek, and you bat him away with your hand, taking a quick step back, slipping on fluids—

He catches you. You push him away again. “Get away from me.”

“It’s your dream.” He raises an eyebrow, dark mouth titling at the corner. It’s absurd—you’re arguing with a terrifying bloodthirsty creature of the night like it’s casual when you should be running and screaming.

And…well…he certainly has you there.

“Go away,” you say, because obviously you’re the epitome of wit.

You feel his eyes slide up and down your body, inspiring a deep shiver and a timid step back and a good look at yourself—oversized, ratted band tshirt, old cotton panties. Blood in various stages of drying patching your skin.

You feel your neck, and there is no gash. The thorns and sticks embedded in your palms and soles are gone; not a scratch or scrape or tender stinging place on you. It takes you a second to realize he healed you.

As if he can read your mind—maybe he can—he says, softly, “I am not all death.”

When you’ve woken up from this repeating nightmare in the past, it’s usually been with a panic attack; heart racing, mouth screaming, hands grabbing your stuffed dog to press him into your chest for some warm comfort.

This time, you’re gasping, soaked in—you have to look down at yourself to make sure it’s not blood—sweat, uncomfortably slippery and sticky between your thighs, twitchy and irritated.

You’ve never had a wet dream, not in all your adult years, and having one about a man you just met is just fucking ridiculous.

He is not that great, you tell yourself. You just met him, for God’s sake.

First handsome man that’s nice to you in years and you become a delusional school girl? No. Hell no.

Boundaries need to be established, here. Rules need to be set. You need to put your foot down, have a little bite behind the bark, and tell John, Winston’s son, to go away.

Just like you did in your dream.

Notes: when I was describing the monster, I was thinking of something like Alucard from Hellsing or Dracula from Castlevania.

[lh44girl]

“Dreaming Together”

The late afternoon sun poured through the windows, casting a golden glow over the living room. Roscoe was in full play mode, darting between you and Lewis as you both sat cross-legged on the floor, tossing his favorite toy back and forth. Lewis had invited you for a Sunday roast dinner among family & friends at his house in LA after the chaotic burst of Las Vegas GP. A get together with close friends & family. You both have known each other (friendly encounter) for almost 4-5month ago ( but who is counting ) Lewis felt from the first time meeting you, that you’re family(as if he knew you in a past life) ,someone special ,worm & kind like the warmth of the sun during a winter afternoon & a breeze of fresh air during a summer day .

“Come on, Roscoe, I thought you were faster than this!” you teased, crawling on all fours to grab the toy before Roscoe could.You always had a soft spot for pets (dogs) & kids,even though you had none of both of your own.The bulldog gave an excited bark, beating you to it with a triumphant wiggle of his little tail.

Lewis laughed, leaning back on his hands. “You’re really out here losing to a dog, huh? Shameful.”

You shot him a playful glare. “I’m going easy on him! Don’t make me take you on next.”

“Oh, is that a challenge?” Lewis grinned, inching closer as if preparing to wrestle. Roscoe, not to be left out, plopped himself directly between you, earning another round of laughter.

Eventually, the playful energy faded, replaced by a warm, quiet contentment. Roscoe flopped onto his back with a happy groan, demanding belly rubs, and you both obliged, your hands bumping together as you showered him with attention.

“Alright, mate, you win,” Lewis murmured, lying down beside Roscoe and letting his head rest on the floor. He looked over at you, his smile soft now, his eyes catching the sunlight. “I think he’s officially tired us out.”

You lay down too, propping your head on your arm as you looked at him. “Speak for yourself. I could go another round.”

Lewis chuckled, his voice low and warm. “Sure you could,” he teased, his hand lazily reaching out to tap your arm before resting near Roscoe’s belly.

Roscoe shifted, nestling himself snugly between you, his warm body a comforting weight. Even though the house was full of people roaming around but in that area between kitchen & living area it was quiet ,the afternoon slipping into stillness. As your eyes grew heavy, you inched a little closer to Roscoe—and by extension, to Lewis.

It felt natural, the way your head found its place near his chest and how his arm instinctively draped over your waist. His fingers brushed against your back, a soft, absentminded gesture that sent a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the sunlight.

Before long, both of you had drifted off, tangled in each other and the warmth of the moment. Roscoe snored softly between you, his presence grounding the tenderness of the scene.

When Lewis’ mum came in later from the outdoor terrace into the kitchen , she stopped in her tracks. There you were, curled up on the floor with Lewis, your legs intertwined and your head resting against his chest. His arm was wrapped protectively around you, his face relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen in years. Roscoe lay nestled between you, snoring blissfully.

She smiled, quietly pulling out her phone to snap a picture. Miles, peeking over her shoulder, come inside ,grinned. “This is one for the memory books,” he whispered.she nodded & smiled .

When you stirred awake a little later, you felt the steady rise and fall of Lewis’ chest beneath your cheek. His arm tightened slightly, as if even in sleep, he didn’t want to let go. You blinked up at him, your heart fluttering at how peaceful he looked, and for a moment, you just stayed there, soaking in the warmth and closeness.

It was simple, unexpected, but it was perfect. In that quiet moment, for the first time since you met him , something unspoken settled between you—soft, natural, and undeniably real.