#nothing is more welcoming than a book that knows exactly what it is and loves being that thing

[mephisto-reporting]

In Those Little Things With Rafayel

Plot: You adapt and adjust your routines to make your fishie more comfortable, more loved. But little did fishie know that these things were what makes you indispensable to him. This request was the reason for this fic Pairing: Reader x Rafayel (can be MC or non MC) Note: Rafayel and reader are in a relationship. This is purely fluffy. If you want to be included in my taglist, please let me know in DMs, Comments or my inbox.

The art studio smelled faintly of turpentine and paint, a mingling of chaos and creation. Rafayel sat cross-legged on the floor, a canvas propped against his knee, his brush moving with a flourish as streaks of fiery orange and deep indigo merged into a seascape that looked more like a dream than reality. He hummed a low tune to himself, though it faltered as you set a mug of coffee—exactly how he liked it—on the small table by his side.

He didn’t acknowledge you at first, too focused on his painting, but the slight tilt of his head told you he knew you were there.

“You’re predictable, you know,” he said after a moment, his voice dripping with his usual teasing tone. “Let me guess. Coffee, my way?”

“You’re welcome,” you replied, crossing your arms. “And yes. Two sugars, no cream. But I made sure it’s not too hot this time. You complained last time, remember?”

He glanced at you then, his dual-toned eyes catching the light, a spark of amusement dancing in their depths. “Oh, so you do listen. How charming.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t miss the faint blush that dusted his cheeks. You sat a few feet away, cross-legged on the floor, a book in your lap as you stole glances at him. It had become your routine to quietly occupy yourself while he painted. You knew better than to disturb him when he was in the middle of a creative streak, but you also knew he liked having you nearby. There was something grounding about your presence, something that softened the sharp edges of his usually aloof demeanor.

“Do you ever get tired of just sitting there?” he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. He didn’t look at you, but the faintest smile played at the corner of his lips.

“Do you ever get tired of painting the same thing over and over again?” you shot back, smirking.

“Touché.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. “But for the record, my work is timeless. Yours is… well, questionable at best.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a laugh. “My ‘questionable’ work brought you snacks, didn’t it?” You gestured to the small plate of fruit and crackers you’d set beside him earlier.

“Hmph,” he muttered, grabbing a piece of fruit and popping it into his mouth. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”

This was how it always went—Rafayel’ s bratty attitude paired with your patience. Over time, you’d learned to see through his barbs and teases, recognizing the warmth he tried so hard to hide. It showed in the small things: how he never truly asked you to leave, how his brushstrokes slowed when he noticed you were watching, how he’d sigh dramatically but let you adjust the light in the studio so he wouldn’t strain his eyes.

And it wasn’t just in the studio. It was in everything you did. You couldn’t pinpoint the moment you’d started making small changes for him, but they had become second nature.

You remembered your last trip abroad. While you had picked up the usual trinkets and souvenirs, you’d gone out of your way to find something special for Rafayel—a small, intricately carved figurine of a Lemurian charm. When you’d handed it to him, his eyes had widened, and for a moment, he’d just stared at it in stunned silence.

“It’s nothing special.” you’d said, trying to downplay it. “I just thought you’d like it.”

He’d scoffed, his ears turning red. “Obviously. You have decent taste, cuite.”

When you’d brought him a rare shell from a coastal village a few months back, he’d stared at it in stunned silence for so long you thought you’d done something wrong.

“Where did you even find this?” he’d asked, holding the shell up to the light.

“I saw it in a shop and thought of you,” you’d replied casually, as though it hadn’t taken half a day of bargaining with a grumpy shopkeeper to convince him to part with it. Rafayel had turned away quickly, muttering something about you being “too much.” though you didn’t miss the way his fingers lingered on the shell, tracing its delicate patterns.

From that moment, it became a habit. Wherever you went, you’d return with something small but thoughtful—a book on ancient Lemurian myths, a sketchpad made from handmade paper, even a piece of driftwood that reminded you of one of his paintings. Each time, his reaction was the same: a scoff, a dramatic roll of his eyes, and a mumbled, “You’re insufferable.” But the way he carefully placed each gift on his shelf told you all you needed to know.

Then there was the time you cooked shellfish for him, even though you were allergic. You remembered how his jaw had dropped when you set the dish down in front of him.

“Are you insane?” he’d asked, staring at you like you’d grown a second head. “You could die just touching this!”

“I’m not that fragile…” you’d replied, laughing at his exaggerated concern. “And I made something else for myself. Relax.”

“Relax?!” he repeated, his voice rising a pitch. “You’re literally risking your life just to feed me! This is madness!”

You’d only shrugged, brushing off his dramatics, but the way he devoured the meal told you he appreciated it more than he let on.

Then there were the major changes you made for him, for things he probably thought went unnoticed by you. Like how you moved your rental apartment from the third floor to the ground floor after you realized his fear of heights. He’d never said it outright, of course, but the way he avoided your balcony like the plague was a dead giveaway. He’d pretended not to notice at first, but one morning, as you sat together on the balcony with coffee, he’d murmured, “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know,” you’d said, smiling. “But I wanted to.”

He’d gone quiet after that, fiddling with his mug as a faint blush spread across his cheeks.

There were so many moments like these. You’d always make time for his galleries, no matter how busy you were, standing in the crowd with a proud smile as he presented his latest masterpiece. You’d memorized how he liked his coffee, how he sometimes liked snacks while he painted and other times didn’t, and how he’d pout if you didn’t let him go first during a game of Kitty Cards.

And then there was the way he indulged you too, even if he’d never admit it. He’d listen (mostly) patiently when you rambled about your hobbies, offering the occasional sarcastic comment but never actually telling you to stop. He’d pause his painting to help you carry something heavy or fix something in your apartment, grumbling all the while but never refusing.

You were different for him. He’d never say it outright, but you could see it in the way his teasing softened around you, in the way he let you see parts of himself he kept hidden from the rest of the world. To others, he was aloof, cunning, and untouchable. But with you, he was bratty, dramatic, flirty and—when he thought you weren’t looking—vulnerable.

But lately, you’d noticed something a little different.

It started with small, subtle things. Like the way he’d hang around you more often than usual, offering “advice” on your projects when he wasn’t even asked. He’d randomly appear by your side when you were reading, throwing his arm around your shoulder and acting as if he had better things to do—despite clearly not wanting to leave.

“You’re reading that again?” he’d scoff, his chin resting on your shoulder as he peeked at your book. “Couldn’t you pick something better?”

You’d grinned, nudging him off. “Says the man who stares at the same canvas for hours.”

The more you did for him, the more he found himself unable to ignore the fact that you were slowly but surely becoming indispensable to him. He’d always been used to taking care of things on his own, to relying on his own charm and wit to navigate the world. But you? You were different.

He never expected you to be the one to adjust your life to fit into his, but somehow, you’d managed to do just that. At first, he’d brushed it off, telling himself that it was nothing special. After all, it was just a few adjustments. Moving your apartment to the ground floor, bringing him snacks, going to every gallery opening without complaint. Nothing too remarkable, right?

But then it started happening more and more.

You stood in the doorway of your guest bedroom, surveying the space. You had cleared out the clutter, shifting furniture around to make room for his materials. The bare walls, once adorned with your own eclectic taste, now felt like a blank canvas for his work.

As you worked, you heard him outside the room. “Is this it?” Rafayel asked, peering in from the doorway, looking at the setup you had prepared for him. His eyes moved over the rearranged furniture, the large desk by the window, the extra shelf you had cleared for his materials.

You nodded, giving him a slight smile. "Thought it might make for a good workspace. I’m sure it’ll be cozy enough."

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Cozy, huh? Well, as long as it’s functional, that’s all that matters.”

He stepped inside, glancing over the scattered papers and books you had placed neatly on the desk. “I’m starting to think you have a secret obsession with me. First, the little things, now this.” His voice was laced with teasing, but there was a certain warmth to it too. You didn’t respond, instead turning to gather the last of the supplies for him.

He caught your eye as you worked, his expression changing ever so slightly. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. But I guess I do appreciate it.” He offered you a quick, almost awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. Just, don’t expect me to start painting you any damn portraits or anything.”

You chuckled under your breath, watching as he turned toward the desk, already eyeing the pile of books you had set out for him. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased back.

The room felt less like a guest bedroom and more like a space that belonged to him now, the air thick with the scent of books and paint. It wasn’t exactly what you had imagined, but somehow, it felt right.

Even your habits started mimicking his. It wasn’t intentional at first. You had simply chosen a deep purple scarf to go with your outfit that day—an old piece you hadn’t worn in ages. As you checked yourself in the mirror, adjusting the soft fabric, you realized that you had unconsciously paired it with a sea-blue blouse and white pants.

When Rafayel arrived, you could almost see the flash of recognition in his eyes. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at you as if trying to piece something together.

"Is that...?" He trailed off, eyebrows knitting together in confusion before he smirked, that trademark playful gleam in his gaze. "Matching my colors now, are we?"

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you, adjusting the scarf once again. “I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you said, shrugging nonchalantly.

He crossed the threshold and came closer, eyeing the colors of your outfit. “No, it’s definitely intentional,” he teased. “Purple, white, sea blue... You’re starting to blend in with my aesthetic.”

You shot him a playful glance, shaking your head. “I didn’t realize you had such an ‘aesthetic.’”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “I’m a man of style. You should try to keep up.” His voice held that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement, but there was a subtle pride in the way he looked at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as if trying to hide something more genuine.

“Don’t get too excited,” you quipped, running a hand through your hair. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Sure, sure,” he muttered with a knowing grin, giving you one last scrutinizing look before turning away. “But I’ll admit it—seeing you in my colors isn’t half-bad.”

The comment made your heart flutter, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you simply smiled and shook your head, feeling a warmth spread in your chest.

And then there was your enthusiasm to learn Lemurian. You sat across from Rafayel, the soft hum of the evening filling the air as the warm glow of the lamp illuminated the pages of the text, he had given you earlier. You were holding the ancient Lemurian textbook with a certain amount of awe, the foreign symbols dancing across the pages in an almost hypnotic swirl.

"Okay, let’s try this one again," Rafayel said, his voice a little softer than usual, though you could still hear the playful edge beneath it. "You’ll need to pronounce the vowels differently. Remember— ‘a’ is ‘ah’, not ‘uh.’"

You squinted at the strange script, nodding with determination. “So… ‘Rala… rah’?” Your attempt was far from perfect, but you felt like you were getting somewhere.

Rafayel’s lips twitched at the sound, and you could see a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He leaned forward; his arms folded across his chest as he tried to hide the soft amusement in his eyes. "Not bad," he teased lightly. "Though it’s more like… ‘Raaa-lah’… with emphasis, like you mean it. You sound like you're hesitating."

You let out a groan, embarrassed, but refused to give up. “This is harder than it looks! How did you learn it so quickly?”

He chuckled, leaning back and giving a shrug, his smile widening at your frustration. "I’ve had more practice, that’s all. I’ve been hearing it for as long as I can remember." His voice dropped just slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "It’s my native tongue, after all… though a dead one, unfortunately."

You furrowed your brow, half-sensing the weight behind his words. He’d been raised with this language, but you could tell there was something more to it than mere fluency.

Rafayel raised an eyebrow, his voice becoming teasing again. "You just need to relax. And don't rush it. Take your time."

You focused, clearing your throat. “Fine. Fine. Rala… rah…”

You could swear that this time there was a subtle blush creeping up his neck, though he quickly masked it with a grin. "Hmm… not bad, but you’re still not quite hitting the right tone," he said with an exaggerated sigh, though the teasing lilt in his voice betrayed his soft spot for you.

You couldn't help but smirk at his response. "Oh? And what's the right tone, then?"

Rafayel leaned in a little, his voice turning even softer as he spoke the word again, his accent almost melodic. "Rala… rah…" His lips curled in a smile that seemed both fond and slightly embarrassed.

For a moment, you just stared at him, surprised at how his voice seemed to change when speaking the words in his native tongue. There was something almost sacred about the way he spoke the syllables, and you could tell it was a part of him that wasn’t easily shared with just anyone.

“You sound…” you hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it. “You sound different when you say it.”

He blinked at you, his smile fading just slightly before he leaned back and cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual confidence. "I’m just making sure you’re doing it right." But the blush on his face was undeniable now.

“Sure, sure,” you said teasingly, feeling a little triumphant. “You just don’t want me to butcher your precious language.”

Rafayel huffed and rolled his eyes, but you could tell that the teasing wasn’t entirely genuine. "Oh, please. As if you could ever butcher something so beautiful." His voice was a little more sincere than you expected, and you caught the wistfulness behind it, even though he tried to cover it up with his usual teasing demeanor.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him—trying so hard to maintain his usual bravado but failing to hide the warmth in his eyes. It was moments like these that made the lessons feel less about learning a language and more about getting to know him in ways you never expected.

“Well, I guess I’m improving,” you said lightly, trying to steer the conversation back to something playful.

He smirked, though there was a soft flush still lingering in his cheeks. “Yes, but you’re not getting away that easily. Try again, but this time, put some feeling into it.”

You mimicked his earlier attempt, this time adding a little more of the tone he was asking for. As soon as the words left your mouth, you saw his blush deepen, and his teasing smile waver.

"Now you’re just trying to make me blush, aren’t you?" he said, though his voice had softened with something almost tender. You caught a glimpse of something that looked like admiration—and embarrassment—flashing in his eyes before he quickly turned his gaze away.

You chuckled softly, enjoying the way the lessons had become more than just learning a language. They’d turned into something a little more... intimate, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for it. "Guess I’ll have to keep practicing then, huh? I can do so after work. I’ll put in a few hours for it."

You always made sure he had what he needed, even if it meant sacrificing your own comfort. His heart had raced, and he knew that something had shifted. The way he felt about you was no longer something he could hide behind his usual aloof exterior.

From that point on, his clinginess began to show in all sorts of subtle ways.

During your usual gallery visits, Rafayel would no longer keep his distance as much. He’d stand close to you, hovering near your side, his hand occasionally brushing against yours. He’d pretend it was by accident, but the way he lingered was all too obvious.

“You can’t leave me alone for a second, huh?” you teased one afternoon when you felt his hand settle on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

He scoffed, but his ears flushed pink, his eyes avoiding yours. “You’re just... distracting, okay? I can’t focus with you looking all... cute.”

“Cute?” you echoed, surprised by his admission.

He immediately turned away, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Forget I said that. You’re not cute. You’re—”

“Not cute at all?” you finished for him, amusement in your voice.

His response was a dramatic huff, a slight whine escaping him. “Fine. You’re perfect, okay? But stop distracting me. I have work to do.”

You chuckled, noting how tightly he kept his arm around you as you walked to the next room of paintings.

On your next business trip, he found himself waiting by the door when you got back from your trip. He’d pretended to be busy with something on his phone, but the moment you walked in, his usual playful demeanor slipped.

He couldn’t help himself. He’d gone up to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you close in a way that was unmistakably clingy. It wasn’t like him at all, but when you’d leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, he’d quickly turned his head and stolen a kiss on your lips instead, his heartbeat rapid.

“You’re late…” he muttered, his voice low and slightly sulky.

“I wasn’t even gone that long.” you teased, smiling as you pulled away, but his arms stayed firmly wrapped around you. He didn’t want to let you go.

“I missed you.” he said, his voice soft and surprisingly sincere for someone who usually wore such a careless mask.

You raised an eyebrow at him, noticing the slight blush creeping up on his cheeks. “Oh? You, the great Rafayel, missed little ol’ me?”

He let out a dramatic sigh, though the playful edge in his voice was gone. “Yes, yes, it’s terribly tragic. I’m just a lovesick fish now…” he teased, though the hint of vulnerability in his voice made it hard to believe he wasn’t speaking the truth. “Do you realize how long you’ve been gone?” he whined; his voice muffled against your shoulder. “It’s been forever. I almost went insane.”

You smirked, patting his back as if consoling a child. “I was only gone for a few days, Rafayel.”

“I don’t care. Days is as good as an eternity” he grumbled; his voice muffled against your shoulder.

And you realized, in that moment, that your small, quiet acts of affection for him had transformed into something more than either of you had anticipated.  You knew that you were just as much a part of his world as he was a part of yours.

When you looked up at him, a soft smile on your face, he’d finally admitted what he’d known for a while but couldn’t bring himself to voice:

“I think I might be in trouble.”

“In trouble?” you asked, your voice teasing but with a hint of curiosity. “With what?”

He sighed, his grip tightening slightly around you, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “With you,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, but... you make everything harder to ignore. I don’t know how to make sense of it, but I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

You blinked, processing the words that fell so freely from his lips. Rafayel—aloof, sarcastic, always in control—had just admitted to being unsure. And it wasn’t just about his work or his usual stubbornness; it was about you.

The realization hit him like a wave, crashing against his chest, and suddenly the studio didn’t feel like just a place of creation anymore. It was a place where something deeper was growing, something between you both that had been simmering under the surface for a while.

“I’m saying you’ve been on my mind,” Rafayel said, his tone half defensive, half earnest. “More than I’d like to admit. I’ve never been good at handling things like this, and I don’t really know what it means. I just know I don’t want to mess this up.”

His usual bravado was nowhere to be found, and what remained was the side of him that you rarely saw—the side that needed to let down his walls, if only for a moment.

You blinked again, processing his words, then a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Rafayel...” you started, as if tasting the sound of his name in this context was something new. “You’re not messing anything up. I’ve been... I’ve been right here all along. And well,” you said softly, “if it makes you feel any better, I think I’m in the same kind of trouble.”

His gaze flickered to yours, and you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He looked at you as if he was waiting for you to laugh, to dismiss it as some sort of joke. But you didn’t.

“I think I’m in trouble, too,” you repeated, your voice steady and sure. “Maybe even more than you.”

A beat passed, and Rafayel let out a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since you’d walked through the door. The corners of his lips curled upward, that familiar, teasing smirk returning, but now it had a different kind of warmth to it.

“You’re not as good at hiding it as you think,” he said, his tone still playful but with a hint of affection. “You’re just as bad as I am.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess we’re both in over our heads then.”

“You’ve ruined me, you know that?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of something much heavier than just simple frustration. “I was fine before you came around, convinced I didn’t need anyone. But now? Now I can’t seem to get you out of my head. You’ve completely messed with my mind, and I can’t—” he paused, a low exhale escaping him. “I can’t imagine being without you anymore.”

He reached up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers trembling ever so slightly against your skin. “And, honestly, I don’t think I want to. You’ve ruined me for anyone else. Not that I need anyone else when you’re around.” His voice cracked just slightly as he admitted it, the weight of his words hanging heavily between you. You could hear the love in his tone, the longing, the quiet desperation he always tried to bury under layers of sarcasm and bravado. But now, in this moment, it was all laid bare, raw and unfiltered.

It wasn’t just his admission of vulnerability—it was the way he stood there, so completely bare and open in a way he never had before.

“Well,” you said with sincerity, “lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere.”

"You don't have to say anything," he said, his voice hoarse, pulling you closer. "But just know that I’m ruined for anyone else. I don't want anyone else, and I don't ever want to let you go."

There was no teasing in his voice now. No sarcasm. Just the overwhelming sincerity of someone who had let their guard down, vulnerable and exposed. And for once, you could see him for what he truly was—entirely yours. And you? You were unapologetically his.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[cressidagrey]

It's a Love Story - Chapter 11 (The End)

Summary:

Azriel's shadows find their master a wife.

Azriel would just really like his heart not to get broken again.

And Sky...well, she's just really surprised that that far too handsome male is interested in her at all.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), I classified this as Azriel x OC, even when it't technically Azriel x Sellyn Drake (but we kinda know nothing about Sellyn Drake other than that she writes books so Sky is kinda an OC), Cassian is kinda a good guy for once, Azriel has a horrible time, as usual... Stuttering, toxic families (For once I do not mean the IC), Self-Esteem Issues, Secret Identity, Body Image Issues, Fat Shaming, People being utterly horrible. Racism against Illyrians/Lesser Faes?

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

I could write more, but quite frankly, I think I would kinda drag it out and the first major arc is tied up with a neat little bow! There are definitely be threads left dangling for me to pick up whenever I want to write more about Sky and Azriel, but I think around 50k is a good place to stop for now ❤️

Even the Spymaster of the Night Court paid taxes.

That was the only reason why Rhysand even found out where exactly Azriel‘s home even was.

Azriel’s home was in the outskirts of Velaris, near the mountains. A little lake cabin. Rhys hadn’t even known that Azriel owned it but apparently he did.

Rhys shouldn’t go there. He knew that.

Rhys should be giving his brother space. That was probably the least he owed him. But he couldn't stop himself. He needed to know Azriel was alright. That he was happy.

Rhys needed to apologise. He needed to make amends…

And Azriel was ignoring him. Mental shields as shored up as they ever had been, shoving back at Rhys at every opportunity…

He had never seen Azriel's mental shields like this before, and it concerned him. He knew Azriel was angry at him, had ever right to be angry,  but Rhys hadn't expected his brother to shut him out so completely.

Reports were still arriving on his desk punctually as always. But Azriel seemed utterly uninterested in actually talking to Rhys. 

It was a small comfort, knowing that Azriel was still working, but Rhysand couldn’t shake off the feeling of guilt that had settled deep in his gut. He knew that he had hurt Azriel deeply, and he couldn’t blame his brother for shutting him out.

Rhys wished he could turn back time and fix things, but he had messed up terribly. He knew he had to give Azriel space, but the silence between them was deafening . It was a constant reminder of just how much damage he had caused.

As the days went on, Rhysand found himself consumed by thoughts of what he could have done…should have done… He tried reaching out to Azriel mentally, only to be rebuffed each time. 

Cassian showed up alone for debriefings and if Rhys showed up at the House of Wind for Valkyrie Training, Azriel was nowhere to be seen. 

So finally…Rhys had enough. So he showed up at that house. 

It was a nice house too, a secluded cabin at a mountain lake. Rhys knew that he wasn’t welcome, not after everything that had passed between them, but he had to see Azriel. 

Rhys raised a hand, knocking gently on the door. He could hear the faint sound of movement inside. Rhysand sighed. He should leave. He knew he should leave. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

And then suddenly, to his surprise…the door opened. 

“…C…Can I….can I h…help you?“

She was brown haired and short… with deep blue eyes and freckles smattering over her nose.

Rhysand looked at the woman in front of him, taken aback by her appearance. He didn't know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn't a small, curvy, freckled brunette.

"I, uh..." Rhysand stammered, his mind blanking. "I was looking for Azriel." he finally brought out. 

The small female studied him carefully, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Az…Azriel's n…not h…here," she stuttered.

Rhysand's heart sank, but he tried not to let it show. "Do you know where he is?" he asked, desperate for any information.

The female hesitated, biting her lip slightly. She seemed to be contemplating her answer, her brow furrowing in thought. After a moment, she finally looked back up at him, her expression unreadable. "He…He's...o…out f…for t…the d…day," she said finally, not giving him anymore than that.

Rhysand tried to keep the frustration out of his voice, but it was difficult. He was so close to his brother, and yet so far away. "Do you know when he'll be back?" he asked sharply.

She nearly flinched away from him at that tone of voice.

He opened his mouth to apologise, but he didn't even get to that. Because some thing with wickedly sharp claws, launched itself at his head with a hissing sound.

Rhysand yelped as the mysterious creature swiped at his face, growling all the while.

"HECTOR NO!" The female shrieked.

Rhysand stumbled backwards, trying to dodge the sharp claws.

Just at that moment, he felt more than he heard his brother's arrival.

Azriel materialized between them with a loud flapping of wings, his siphons blazing. He stood protectively in front of the small female, his expression murderous.

"Hector to me," he snapped. The thing, a cat ...an incredible ugly , murderous looking cat let off Rhys with another growl and slunk back to Azriel's side, heeling like a dog. The woman quickly scooped him up in her arms.

Cassian's laughter washed over him, at that moment, as Rhys was still laying on the ground, bested by a cat .

"Taking down by a cat now, Rhysie?" Cassian asked him with a snort, offering him his hand to gain his feet.

Rhys already knew that he was never going to live this down.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Azriel hissed, his voice filled with anger. His wings were spread wide, and Rhysand could see the barely contained ferocity beneath his brother's cold facade.

Rhysand winced at Azriel's harsh tone. He knew he had messed up, and he didn't blame his brother for being angry with him. "I just wanted to see you," he said, feeling small under Azriel's penetrating glare.

Azriel's expression didn't soften at his words. "You had no right," he said sharply. "You can't just show up here unannounced, Rhysand. This is my home, and you're not welcome here. You terrified Sky!"

Sky. Sky. That was the name of his brother's mate...of the pretty brunette that was standing behind him, fussing over her murderous cat.

Rhysand glanced over at Sky guiltily. "I...I'm sorry," he said to her. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Sky hesitated, before nodding stiffly. Her face remained guarded, her arms still wrapped protectively around the mangy cat. Rhysand couldn't help but notice how small she looked compared to Azriel's imposing form…and the absolute massive cat. 

"I am sorry," he turned to his brother, swallowing. The apology wasn't enough. he knew that. And it wasn't going to fix the fact that Azriel didn't trust him anymore or... *Az. Please.*

"How did you find this house?" Azriel demanded.

"I checked the tax reports," Rhys admitted with a grimace.

Azriel's expression darkened even further, and Rhys braced himself for a reprimand. Instead, his brother let out a harsh, bitter chuckle. "Of course you did," he said flatly. "Just can't stay out of my business, can you?"

Rhysand felt a pang in his chest at the hostility in Azriel's voice. He knew he deserved every ounce of resentment his brother felt, but it still hurt deep to hear it out loud. "I...I was worried about you," he said lamely.”I just needed to see you." he added. "To apologise."

"You don't even realise the lines you keep crossing, do you?" Cassian asked him flatly. "Ever thought about the fact that maybe you should have waited until Azriel was ready to hear you out?

Rhysand winced. Cassian's words struck a nerve, and he knew his friend was right. He had been rash and insensitive in coming here unannounced. "I...I wasn't thinking," he admitted softly.

Cassian shook his head, his expression still stern. "That's the problem, Rhys," he said bluntly. "You never seem to think these days. It's like you're so caught up in your own head that you don't consider how your actions affect those around you."

Rhysand's gaze dropped, shame washing over him. Cassian's words pierced straight through him, and he struggled to find a response. He knew he had been making mistakes, but hearing them laid out so bluntly still stung.

"What do you want?" Azriel asked him flatly. "Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to apologise," Rhys said weakly. "I...fucked up. I know that. I want to...fix things."

Azriel's face remained impassive, his eyes hard. "You can't just fix things with an apology, Rhys," He said curtly. "You crossed more than one line, and you shattered my trust. Do you really think saying sorry is enough?"

"Az," his mate said softly, her voice quiet. "H..He's blee..bleeding all over our front lawn after my cat at..attacked him. At least let him sit down and give him a healing salve…"

Azriel turned to look at his mate, his anger softening ever so slightly at the concern in her voice. He let out a heavy sigh, before nodding stiffly. "Fine," he said gruffly. "But no more than that."

Rhysand nodded gratefully, relieved that Azriel was willing to let him in, even if only slightly. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I...I really am sorry."

Azriel didn't respond, turning away from him and herded Sky and the murder cat into the house. Rhysand watched him go, feeling a pang of sadness. It was clear that his brother's anger was far from abated, and he knew it would take a lot more than just an apology to mend their fractured relationship.

"Come on," Cassian prodded him up.

The first thing that Rhys realised about the house Azriel shared with his mate was that it was absolutely stuffed full with books. The second was, that Azriel clearly doted on the Murder Cat that got a crystal dish with tuna on it put on the floor before Azriel even went in the direction of the healing salve, which he slapped down on the table in front of Rhysand. .

"I…I am so��sorry," Sky apologised to Rhys, bright blue eyes apologetic. "H…Hector has nev…never done anything like that before, I swear."

Yeah, somehow he doubted that. But he also doubted that it was going to help his relationship with Azriel if he was going to annoy his mate about her beastly cat. The thing had a worse personality than Amren . 

"Don't worry about it," he said, with what he hoped he was a gracious smile. "I think your cat and I just got off on the wrong foot." He looked over at the cat, who was now happily devouring the tuna as if it hadn't just tried to claw his face off.

"Good Boy, Hector," Azriel said warmly.

Rhysand could just stare.

Azriel, the feared Spymaster of the Night Court, was cooing at a mangy cat like a proud parent. He never would have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.

"Who knew the Spymaster had a soft spot for cats," Rhysand remarked with a faint smile. Azriel shot him a warning glare, but the sternness was lost at the tender way he was petting the cat. "I am really sorry," Rhys apologised again.

"You said so. Numerous times," Azriel shot back.

Rhysand sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He knew Azriel was still angry with him, but it was hard not to feel the guilt weighing down on him. "I know," he said softly. "But I want you to know that I mean it. I am sorry, Azriel. For everything."

Azriel's expression remained impassive, but Rhysand could see the flicker of sadness in his eyes. He knew his brother was struggling to forgive him, but he hoped that with time, Azriel would be able to find it in his heart to do so.

"I just want to make things right," Rhysand said earnestly. "I miss you, Az. I miss my brother."

"You'll need to decide one of those days," Azriel said sharply. "Am I your soldier or am I your brother?"

Rhysand flinched at the words, feeling the weight of the accusation hit him hard. 

He had always tried to balance his role as High Lord with his relationship with his brothers, but he knew that…that he hadn’t been fair to Azriel for a long time. "You're right," he conceded quietly. "I have been treating you like my soldier instead of my brother, and that's not fair to you."

"You have been treating him absolutely deplorably," Cassian cut him off.

Rhysand hung his head, feeling the weight of his mistakes settling heavy on his shoulders. "I know," he said quietly. "I've been so caught up in my own problems and responsibilities as High Lord that I lost sight of what really matters. And I've hurt Azriel because of it."

"And you stuck your nose in things that are none of your business," Cassian continued. "I get it that you are tired of fighting, Rhys, we all are, but you can't keep conflict out of our family by ordering Azriel to behave in the way you would like him to."

Rhysand winced, knowing Cassian was right. He had been trying to control things, to make sure everyone was safe and happy, but in the process, he had driven a wedge between himself and his brothers. "I...I know," he admitted reluctantly. "I was…I was stupid. I am tired of war. Of fighting. And I was just trying to protect him, but I went about it all wrong."

" Protect me?" Azriel asked him, his voice dripping with disdain. " Protect me from what ?"

Rhysand looked away, feeling the shame rise within him. He knew he had overstepped, and he knew that Azriel was angry with him. "The consequences that would have arisen," he said delicately. He didn't know what Azriel had told his mate...didn't know how much she knew, but she was watching him with an expression on his face, he couldn't quite place.

"Well, I am an adult, Rhysand," Azriel snapped. "I am perfectly capable of protecting myself."

Rhys knew that. He knew Azriel was more than capable of taking care of himself. But he still felt the need to protect him, to shield him from harm.

"I...I know that," Rhysand said quietly. "I just didn't want to see you get hurt." He glanced over at Azriel's mate, who was still watching him warily. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being evaluated, judged for his mistakes.

Azriel let out a dry chuckle. "Well, it's a little late for that, don't you think?" he said bitterly. "You've seen to that already." Rhysand winced at the accusation, knowing that he deserved every ounce of Azriel's anger.

"I know," he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I am sorry for that. I see now that it was the wrong way to go about it." He looked into his brother's dark eyes, pleading for understanding.

Azriel met his gaze, his expression softening ever so slightly. "Protecting me by making decisions for me is not protecting me, Rhysand," he said quietly. "It's...it's suffocating. It's demeaning."

Rhysand nodded, knowing that Azriel was right. He had been trying to control everything, trying to make sure that nothing went wrong, and he had lost sight of what was truly important. "I understand," he said quietly. "And I am sorry for making you feel that way. It was wrong of me."

Azriel studied him for a moment, before finally sighing. "Just...stop it," he said simply. "No more interfering in my personal life, no more giving me orders like I am one of your soldiers."

Rhysand let out a shaky breath, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. "I promise," he said earnestly. "I won't do it again, Az. I...I'll respect your boundaries, and I'll never overstep again."

Azriel snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said gruffly. "And if you do...if you try to control me like that again, I swear Rhysand...it won't end well."

"You'll ha…have He…Hecctor to contend with," Sky said, her voice even.

Rhysand looked over at Hector, who had finished his tuna and was now licking his chops.  Rhys swallowed. "He does seem to be a force to be reckoned with," he said carefully.

Sky gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. "You could say t…that," she said, her tone neutral. Azriel snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he watched his mate. It was the first genuinely carefree sound Rhysand had heard from his brother…in a long time.

Despite the earlier tension, Rhysand found himself smiling too. There was something about the way Azriel looked at his mate, the way he looked...happy, that made Rhysand feel like maybe everything would be alright.

Hector chose that moment to let out a loud meow, his voice sounding like a rusty hinge in the otherwise quiet room. Azriel looked down at the cat, rolling his eyes. "Alright, alright, I'll get you your second helping, spoiled brat," he said, a hint of fondness in his voice.

Rhysand chuckled, feeling the tension that had been weighing him down lift just a little. Things between him and Azriel weren't repaired yet, they had a long way to go, but for the first time in a long while, he felt hopeful.

“They do say the pen is mi…mightier than a sword,” Sky said suddenly. “You treat Azriel like that again and you’ll see just how mighty my pen is.”

Rhysand's eyebrows shot up in surprise at Sky's unexpected threat. It was clear that she wasn't messing around, and Rhys couldn't help but admire her boldness. He glanced over at Azriel, who was trying to suppress a smile.

"I'll keep that in mind," Rhysand said, trying to hide his amusement. "Though I have to say, I can’t imagine a pen being as terrifying as Hector."

Cassian snorted. “Oh you have no idea,” he muttered

Rhysand's eyes widened in curiosity at Cassian's comment. What on earth did that mean? But before he could inquire further, Azriel's voice broke through.

"Don't worry about it," he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Let's just say that you don't want to get on Sky's bad side, especially when she has her writing instruments within reach."

"Duly noted," Rhysand said, nodding seriously. He had a feeling that Azriel's mate was not someone to be trifled with, regardless of how harmless she looked, and he had no intention of finding out first-hand just how mighty her pen truly was.

Hector, having finished his second helping of tuna, let out a satisfied meow before padding over to Sky and rubbing against her leg. She reached down and scratched him behind the ears, smiling as he purred contentedly.

Rhysand watched the scene. He had never seen Azriel so relaxed, so happy, and it made him realize just how badly he had missed his brother. It was a reminder that family was more important than anything, and that he needed to cherish the people he cared about.

“Seems like you aren’t Sky’s favourite,” Cassian drawled.

Azriel snorted. “Nah, I come a distant third behind Hector and the shadows.”

Rhys watched with a swallow as these shadows that he had seen torturing people came over to Sky and twined around her hands. Azriel's words were said in jest, but Rhysand could hear the fondness in his voice. It was clear that Azriel adored his mate, and that the shadows had taken a liking to her as well. Rhysand tried not to let the slight sting of jealousy show on his face.

As he watched, the shadows danced around Sky's fingers, like they were alive and had a mind of their own. Rhys had seen the shadows in action, had seen how Azriel used them to fight and spy, but he had never seen them act this way before. There was a tenderness in the way they twined around Sky that was almost...beautiful.

Rhys turned to Azriel, who was watching his mate with a soft expression on his face. "They seem to like her," he commented, keeping his voice neutral.

"That's an understatement," Azriel said drily. "They're obsessed with her. They won't leave her alone."

Rhysand could see that clearly, but what surprised him more was how comfortable Sky seemed with them. She wasn't scared or even bothered by their presence...

It did make sense he supposed. The shadows were Azriel's weapon, his most trusted companions...that they would like his mate.

Rhysand watched as Sky looked up from where the shadows were wrapping around her fingers, a faint smile on her face. She seemed completely at ease with the strange entities, as if they were just another part of Azriel that she had accepted and embraced.

And it was also a sharp reminder of how much trust Rhys had destroyed through his actions. It was very clear who Azriel preferred, who he trusted more. Who he gravitated towards. Who even his shadows doted on, these strange, creatures that Rhys was quite sure would stop at nothing to keep their master safe.

The realization stung, but Rhys knew he had no one to blame but himself. He had caused this rift between them, he had pushed Azriel away, and now he was paying the price for it. But he was determined to make it right, no matter how long it took.

As he watched Azriel gently brush away a stray strand of hair from Sky's face, Rhys made a silent vow. He would do whatever it took to repair their broken bond, to regain Azriel's trust and respect. No matter how hard it was, no matter how long it took, he would make things right.

***

"You want to talk about it?" Sky asked him quietly, after Cassian ad Rhys had gone. 

She was fine now. Content. No more pulling at the mating bond so harshly and pushing all her fear at him. It had shaved at least a century of his life, to feel that from her when Casisan and him had been sparring and he knew that she was supposed to be safe at home.

He had expected near everything…but he hadn’t expected to arrive to the view of Hector scratching Rhys’s face with all his might. 

Azriel took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day's events bearing down on him. He wasn't sure if he was ready to put his tangled emotions into words yet, but he also knew that he couldn't keep it all bottled up inside.

"Rhys gave me some orders that I didn't agree with," he said drily. "Stuck his nose in things that he had no business to interfere with. He treated me...treated me like my feelings didn't matter. That I didn't matter....It took a really bad fight on Solstice for this apology to occur," he said with a grimace.

"You don't think he means it?" Sky asked him curiously, turning to look at him.

"No, he does mean it," Azriel said with a sigh. He did believe that. “He wants to fix things. to rebuild trust...And I do want that too. Regardless of how much of an asshole he can be on occasion he is still my brother ."

Sky was quiet for a long moment, watching him intently. Azriel felt the weight of her gaze, knowing that she was analyzing the situation, trying to understand what he was feeling. Finally, she spoke.

"You're worried that he'll disappoint you again," she said softly. "That he'll make promises that he can't keep. That he'll go back on his word and hurt you worse than before."

Azriel's throat felt tight. The words hit him hard, because Sky had put a voice to his deepest fears. "Yes," he admitted. "That'sexactly what I'm afraid of. I want to believe him, I do."

But it was hard to trust Rhys right ow. Especially with Sky. Trusting Rhys with the most important, the most precious part of his life...

"I can loan you Hector whenever he pisses you off again," Sky offered him seriously, and Azriel couldn't help but laugh.

"Thanks," he said with a small smile. "I might just take you up on that." He pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair. The scent of caramel and hazelnuts enveloped him, calming his racing thoughts and easing the tension in his shoulders.

"I love you, he whispered into her skin and she hummed. "Regardless of what happens, you  have me," Sky promised him. "I'll be behind you, every step of the way. regardless of whatever you decide."

Those words were like a balm to Azriel's soul. The fear and doubt that had been plaguing him since Rhysand's unexpected visit receded, replaced by a sense of safety and certainty. He held onto Sky tightly.

"I love you too," she murmured, the words barely audible even in the still apartment.

They stayed like that for a long moment, simply holding onto each other.

*I don't think I ever thanked you.* he told the shadows softly as he held his mate in his arms.

The shadows fluttered around him, wrapping around his arms and shoulders like a comforting embrace. They didn't say anything, but Azriel could feel their response. They had been with him through thick and thin, protecting him, guiding him, and never once asking for a word of thanks. And yet, he knew that they understood his gratitude, that they could feel it…

*Thank you for finding her.*

[happy74827]

Love Me Like A Sailor

[Wade Wilson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: It’s rare that dreams can turn into reality, but it isn’t impossible.

WC: 5537 (trust the process friends 🙏)

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends + Lovers, Wade POV, Mentions of the Past {TW: Self-Deprecation, Wade having insecurities, Not Proof Read}

Where are all the fics of this man? I can barely find some for him and it’s making me go crazy. Like, your honor, I love him. Gimme more.

Anyway, I figured I would write a Wade fic that’s around the same premise as my Wolverine one (since SO MANY OF YOU ate it up), so if anyone actually finds this… you’re welcome 🫶✨

『••✎••』

He was always in love with you. Always.

Wade Wilson had never been the smartest tool in the shed, the prettiest girl in the room, or even the tallest guy. In fact, he was a little bit of the opposite. He had a face only a mother could love, he was always cracking jokes at the wrong time, and his voice was too loud and too obnoxious for his own good. And while all of these traits might be endearing when it came from a handsome man with a voice as smooth as silk, the same qualities were irritating at best when it came to Wade.

He knew that. He wasn't blind. He knew he was annoying and ugly and too loud. However, there was one thing he was certain of: Wade Wilson was in love with his best friend.

Wade Wilson was not in love with just any best friend. He was in love with the only person who had been there since the beginning, the only one who had stuck with him through everything he had been through.

He was in love with you.

And you were in love with him, or so he hoped. He couldn’t tell because you were the most gorgeous, sweet, caring, thoughtful, and wonderful person on this planet, and he was none of those things.

He could barely bring himself to think of the words that could be on the tip of your tongue whenever he was around. He didn't deserve you. He was damaged.

But sometimes, he couldn’t help but hope—hope that you would return his feelings, hope that maybe you felt the same way, hope that you could be more than just best friends.

Every time the thought crossed his mind, his heart would pound in his chest. He was always so close to telling you, to confessing, but then he would stop himself. It was a constant back-and-forth.

One night, after a particularly long night of kicking names and taking asses, Wade decided to visit his gal pal, and by visit, he meant to break into your house and steal your food.

So, like Krampus, if Krampus had a thing for chimichangas instead of children, Wade climbed through your bedroom window as it had been left unlocked. You had told him a thousand times to use the front door, but Wade couldn’t do that. If he did that, he would feel too normal. And as much as Wade enjoyed breaking and entering, he would be damned if he made it boring for himself.

He only wished he could stick the landing.

In his defense, he had only fallen off the window ledge by an inch or two. However, the thud that his body made when he landed on the hardwood floor of your bedroom was louder than he had anticipated, and it sounded like an explosion.

A big one, too, like someone who had a little too much Taco Bell and took a nice walk through Barnes & Noble. Oh, yes, he knows exactly what you book nerds do when you’re approaching that infamous bathroom sign.

But, regardless of his loud entrance, he jumped back up to his feet and brushed the dust off his suit before making his way to the kitchen.

The smell of vanilla wafted through the air as Wade entered the kitchen and saw nothing but cleanliness and order. He opened the cupboards and frowned at the lack of food.

This was a problem.

A major problem.

There was nothing he could eat. No tacos. No chimichangas. No candy. Not even a damn Dorito.

What kind of animal would do this?

Wade had never been so offended. He was going to have to talk to you about this. You couldn’t have a guest over and not have snacks.

He decided to call you. Maybe you could talk some sense into yourself.

You answered after the second ring.

You didn't seem surprised at all to hear his voice on the other end of the line. Wade was used to your nonchalance when it came to him and his shenanigans. He loved it.

You always kept him on his toes, and the fact that you had become desensitized to his crazy was both amusing and infuriating.

And it really worked out to his benefit tonight.

Because when he started complaining about the lack of food in your apartment, instead of telling him to get his ass back to his place and stop breaking into yours, you told him to sit tight.

That you would be right over.

And that's how Wade found himself waiting for you on your couch, his leg bouncing with anticipation as he waited for you to get here.

His heart was pounding against his rib cage as his fingers drummed a nervous beat against his thighs. He so wanted to marry you the moment you walked through the door.

He would make sure that was the first thing out of his mouth.

And when you handed him his bag of Checkers, he couldn't stop himself from blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

"Wanna get married?"

He fully meant it, too—the whole shi-bang.

Till death do us part.

Till the cows come home.

Till the last dance.

And every single second after.

You played it off as one of his usual antics. One of the jokes that Wade always cracked whenever he was hungry or when you surprised him.

Of course, why would you think he was being serious? His life was a full-blown comedy, a slapstick routine that would have even the biggest comedian crying with laughter.

Wade knew that. But, for once, he wished his life became less of a joke and more of a fairy tale.

A happily ever after. If they even exist.

It seemed life always had an extra curveball for him. A twist. Something unexpected. Something that made him feel even less human.

He could never catch a break even if the closest thing he could imagine to heaven was standing in front of him.

So, with a heavy sigh, Wade took the bag of Checkers and plopped himself onto the couch, hoping to enjoy the sweet taste of victory in the form of sugar and carbs.

And then you did something that made him fall in love with you even more.

You sat next to him.

Wade didn't even try to hide the wide grin that spread across his lips as he watched you sit beside him, a smile of your own on your pretty face.

You were beautiful. So, so beautiful.

Wade had always known that. He could tell the moment he first met you. He could also see the panic, the fear, and the terror in your eyes when you saw him.

And he was hot then, too—supermodel level.

Fun fact: the reason why you two met was that Wade might have gotten the names mixed up on his gold card and had ended up at a very fancy restaurant, and, well, his idea of the target was the one serving him.

You.

It was a bit awkward.

But, after you realized he wasn’t going to murder you and that he had no idea how much a glass of water cost or how his steak was literally the size of the entire restaurant, you started talking.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

It was love at first sight. In his mind, at least. He couldn’t imagine life without you.

Wade was in deep.

And the way you were looking at him right now, a glimmer of happiness in your eyes, a soft smile of contentment on your face, and your body turned towards him, well, it made him melt.

Wade had always been a sucker for romantic movies and romance novels, and the way you looked right now was straight out of a Nicholas Sparks movie.

He wanted to kiss you.

No.

He needed to kiss you. To feel your lips against his. Your hands in his. The warmth of your body. Your heartbeat.Everything.

He needed it all.

Call him a horny bastard, but you looked absolutely beautiful sitting there, eating one of his favorite fries from the bag.

Wade had always loved the little things. He loved watching you eat. He loved seeing you play with your hair. He loved it when you babbled to yourself. And, right now, you were doing the cutest thing ever.

You were holding the bag out to him, a fry halfway to your mouth, your eyes wide, and a bright smile on your face. You looked so happy.

Wade was happy, too.

"Want some?"

Nuggets. He didn’t even know Checkers had nuggets.

He hadn’t seen these bad boys since high school. And even then, they were the cheap knockoff, frozen food nuggets.

These were the good shit.

"Oh, baby, I'd take you and all your chicken nuggets to prom," Wade said as he reached forward and plucked a chicken nugget out of the bag.

He popped it into his mouth and let out a satisfied hum.

You giggled and shook your head as you pulled the bag back towards yourself and set it on your lap.

"You're a dork, Wade."

"The dorkiest."

"That's true."

You took a sip from your soda and leaned back, letting out a content sigh as you did so.

"Thanks for coming over," Wade said as he grabbed his burger and began eating.

"Well, I do live here," you replied, your eyes darting toward the bag of nuggets. "I can't really go anywhere else."

Maybe you can’t, but he can go inside your—

"I was actually thinking we could spend the night together," you continued, oblivious to the naughty thoughts running through his mind. "We haven't done that in a while."

Wade nearly choked on his burger.

He swallowed quickly and let out a small cough before grabbing his soda and downing the entire thing. For once, the liquid soothed his parched throat.

"I mean, uh, yeah, sure, totally. It'll be just like the old days. You, me, Netflix, and chilling."

He couldn't help it, okay? Flirting was just one of the many things that Wade Wilson did naturally.

Just like his regular occurrence of having 207 bones in his body.

It wasn't his fault that his words came out suggestive. He fully meant it—every word.

Every single flirtatious word that tumbled out of his mouth. Every joke that came out as a compliment. Every compliment was more of a sexual innuendo than anything.

It was who he was.

It was the only way he knew how to talk to people. Especially the person with whom he was in love.

He couldn't just go up to you and tell you that you were the most amazing person he had ever met, or that your smile was so beautiful that it made his heart skip a beat, or that he loved the way you looked at him when you were happy, or the way your voice would turn into a squeal when you laughed, or the way you would blush when he flirted with you.

He couldn't say all those things because they were cheesy and cliche, and you would think he was lying.

So, he made jokes. He made innuendos. He made you blush and giggle and roll your eyes.

Because that was the best way to get through to you.

That was the only way.

Or, at least, that's what he had thought.

Now, the truth was a bit different. The truth was that Wade was scared. Scared that you wouldn't feel the same way. Scared that he would ruin everything. Scared that you would leave.

So, he flirted. And joked. And tried to act like everything was normal. Like he was still in his younger, good-looking, more handsome days. Like if he made himself delusional enough to believe he was still attractive, he could convince himself that he would always have a chance.

Because he wasn't, he was old, ugly, and damaged. And no one, not even someone as beautiful and kind and wonderful as you, would want someone who had gone through the things he had.

Who had done the things he had.

You didn’t show any signs of disgust or resentment when he showed up on your doorstep for the first time after his incident or even the next time. Or the times after that.

But Wade couldn’t help but feel like it would eventually happen, and you would eventually get tired of him that you would realize how damaged he was. How broken he was.

That he wasn’t worthy.

"Remember that party?" Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts. You had a fond smile on your face as you looked up at the ceiling. "When you snuck into my room and convinced me to sneak out and have fun with you?"

Yes, yes, he did. He remembered it far better than you. And he knew that, even though you hadn’t said it, he knew that this was a memory he treasured more because… ironically, it was the only time you had ever done something rebellious.

You had been so shy and timid and afraid to stand up for yourself. You had always been afraid of going against the grain, of doing what other people told you to do.

Wade had always wondered why. He had always wondered what was holding you back. So, when he was able to drag you out of your shell and make you experience a night, you would never forget, well, he was a happy man.

It was also the night he realized things that he had never been aware of before. Physically things.

There was a moment he remembered vividly. The two of you were about seconds away from getting a picture taken by some drunk dude with a Polaroid camera. Wade, being the good friend he was, had wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close.

In that moment, he happened to glance at you when the flash went off and, well, it was a picture perfect moment.

We’re talking slow-mo, people becoming blurred background characters, a spotlight shining down on you two, his heart pounding in his chest, and butterflies flying around in his stomach.

The only thing missing was a sappy love song playing in the background.

He had always assumed that the sudden fluttering feeling in his stomach and the way his heart was pounding was due to the fact that he hated his picture being taken.

Or that he had accidentally eaten the wrong thing at the buffet.

But, as he stared at you, he started noticing every single detail. How pretty your eyes became with the extra glint of the flash. How your smile was as bright as a baby’s bare ass. How you were so oblivious to everything else except for him.

How the world suddenly became a blur, and all he could focus on was you.

How the music faded away. How he forgot how to breathe. How his heart felt like it was about to explode.

It was at that moment Wade realized, for the first time, what love was.

Wade had never been the one for grand gestures. He didn't know how to express his emotions in ways other than jokes or sarcasm. So, when it came to romance, he always preferred to keep things simple.

Like now, break-ins and food were his version of a romantic dinner.

However, when it came to the actual feelings part, the emotional part, and the vulnerable part, Wade had a hard time with that.

This was why, when you turned your attention towards him, he couldn't stop the words from spilling out of his mouth.

"Why haven’t we ever dated?"

You blinked.

You stared at him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, you responded, "You’re really affected by getting Checkers, aren't you?"

Wade could see the amusement in your eyes and he could hear the faint traces of humor in your tone, but, somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that you were avoiding the question.

He couldn’t tell if it was because you didn't want to answer him or if it was because you didn't know what to say.

And, for a brief moment, Wade hesitated to push you. He didn't want to make things uncomfortable. He didn't want to put you on the spot. He didn't want to scare you away.

But, then again, if there was anything Wade Wilson was good at, it was pushing people to their absolute limit.

So, he pushed.

"Skip the foreplay," he said, his voice firm and steady but not unkind. "Seriously, why have we never dated?"

Wade kept his eyes on yours, his expression serious, his body tense. He waited for you to speak, his heart pounding in his chest and his stomach churning.

You were silent for a long moment, staring at him with wide, confused eyes.

"Because we're best friends," you answered finally, your tone matter-of-fact, almost as if you were stating a fact. "And, I… I just never thought about it.

Wade felt his heart sink. He knew that you weren’t lying. He could see it in the way your lips curled downwards, the way your eyebrows furrowed, and the way your shoulders slumped forward.

You were telling the truth.

It was a truth Wade didn’t want to hear.

He opened his mouth, prepared to apologize, to change the subject, to say something to make you laugh.

But, before he could utter a single word, you spoke again.

"Besides, it's not like you've ever been interested."

There was a hint of bitterness in your voice, a tinge of hurt in your tone.

It was a subtle reminder that Wade had a track record of being a player. A serial flirt who was never serious. A guy who flirted with every girl, who was constantly on the lookout for the next big thing.

He was the type of guy who would rather have fun than get attached. Or, at least, that's what everyone assumed.

At the tone of your voice, Wade immediately perked up, his eyes widening in surprise and his heart pounding.

The guttural laugh that escaped his lips caught you by surprise.

You flinched slightly and stared at him, your mouth agape, your eyes wide, and your expression bewildered.

"Sorry," Wade apologized quickly, his voice quiet and strained. He cleared his throat and shook his head. "But, goddamn, that’s… oh, man. You do not know how wrong you are."

"Oh, don’t even, Winston Wilson, this is not the time for your jokes," you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Oh, middle names, huh? Are we there already? Because I have to say, I didn't think you were the type of girl who'd use a guy's full name to show her disappointment, but I have to admit, it's kind of hot."

Wade smirked at the annoyed look that crossed your face, but it soon faded as he realized that you didn't find the comment amusing.

Instead, you seemed to grow even more frustrated.

"Wade," you started, your voice soft and low, your tone filled with frustration and sadness, "I don’t want to get into it right now, okay? Can we please just eat our food and watch a movie or something?"

You turned away from him, focusing your attention on the bag of Checkers.

He couldn’t let you avoid this.

"Look, I'm not trying to be a jerk," he began, his voice soft and gentle, "I'm just… did you seriously never think I would want to be with you?"

You paused and turned to look at him, a confused expression on your face.

"Of course not; why would I?"

The genuine shock in your voice and the innocent look on your face nearly broke his heart.

He thought he was being the most obvious motherfucker on the planet, but apparently, you had been as blind as a bat.

"I've been flirting with you for years," he reminded you. "I've been complimenting you, and asking you to hang out, and giving you gifts, and—"

"That's just what you do, Wade," you interrupted, shaking your head. "That's what you do to all girls. You flirt with them. You ask them out. You do the whole charming and funny routine. I’m sure if you knew their addresses, you would break in too."

Okay, ouch.

You weren't exactly wrong, but still, that kind of stung.

"That's not what I'm talking about," he insisted, his voice growing louder, his tone firm.

"What are you talking about, then?"

"I'm talking about you, okay? You’re like the Goldie Hawn to my Kurt Russell. Or, if I'm being completely honest, you're like chimichangas and tacos, and not just because they're both delicious, but because, let's face it, I'm addicted to you."

Your expression remained neutral, your eyes still boring into his.

"You're my best friend," he continued, his voice growing softer, his tone gentler, "and, yeah, maybe I used to flirt with other girls a lot, but I don't care about them. I don't even really know them. And, besides, none of them would be able to look me in the eyes right now, the way you are."

"Don’t start with that," you mumbled, averting your gaze and looking down at the floor.

"Start with what?"

"Being self-deprecating."

"It's not self-deprecating," he said, his tone growing defensive. His whole confession was momentarily forgotten. "It's true. I am a walking nightmare, and not just because I look like Freddy Krueger and Leatherface had a baby, but also because I've killed more people than I've seen naked."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I haven't seen you naked," you retorted, a playful smirk forming on your lips.

"Hey, don't tease me. I'm already emotionally vulnerable enough."

You snorted, but your grin was soft and warm.

"Okay, sorry," you said, your tone apologetic, your expression serious, "but, seriously, though, you’re not a nightmare. Not to me. I mean, sure, you look like a melted wax figurine, and your personality is like a mix between a hyperactive 10-year-old and a 70-year-old alcoholic, but, you know, I don't mind."

"Oh, you're too kind."

"My point is, it doesn't bother me, Wade," you assured him. "And it never will."

"Even if it does," he said, his voice quiet, his tone low, "it won't change the way I feel about you."

Your expression softened, the playfulness fading from your eyes. You looked about ready to let out some tears, but Wade had a feeling that they weren’t because you were sad.

"Did you really think that all this time?" you asked, the softness in your tone making his chest tighten. "You wanted to date me?"

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Yeah," he answered, his tone casual, "you’re hot, toots. Even hotter than me in my prime."

You rolled your eyes, a faint smile on your face. "I don’t know, Wade. The suit does you justice."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Is that your way of telling me that my ass looks good in this thing?"

"Oh, Wade, I don't need to tell you that," you replied, smirking. "You know how amazing your ass is."

You’re right. Captain America had nothing on him.

He let out a deep breath, his eyes fixed on yours. He was silent for a long moment, just taking in your appearance.

You didn’t change much from that day at the party. Maybe your facial features matured a little, and maybe your body grew a little more, but besides that, you looked the same.

The only difference was the look you gave him. The softness of your eyes. The affection in your expression. The gentleness of your smile.

It was the same look he constantly gave you when he thought you weren’t looking.

It was the look of someone who cared deeply for you. Someone who cherished you. Who wanted to make you happy. Who wanted to be by your side forever.

Someone who loved you.

"Do you ever wonder what would've happened if we kissed that night?"

He didn’t expect you to know exactly what he was talking about. Random question and all that. But, you surprised him once again.

"Why didn’t you?"

The question caught him off guard.

He was used to the playful banter, the light teasing, the random flirting. He wasn’t used to you being so forward. So blunt.

He was the blunt one. You were stealing his thunder.

"I was a cowardly bitch."

His honesty surprised both of you. He didn’t even plan on saying that. It was just the first thing that popped into his head.

It was true, though.

"Are you still a cowardly bitch?"

"I think so," he said slowly, "I think the main difference is, now I'm a cowardly bitch that knows what he wants."

He saw the way your cheeks reddened, the way you avoided his gaze, and the way you shifted your weight from side to side.

Wade Wilson may not be good at emotions, but he knew what those signs meant.

He was making you nervous.

He couldn’t help the small grin that spread across his face. He liked that. He liked that he made you nervous. That he made you blush. That he could make you flustered.

And, most of all, he liked that he was able to make you feel that way.

He couldn’t remember the last time a woman was that shy and timid around him. Most of the girls he met were bold, confident, and loud… just like him.

He preferred your type, though. Sometimes, he even needs a break from his own obnoxiousness.

"So," he started, his tone casual, his posture relaxed, "you chill with the idea of ruining a perfectly good friendship and getting in a relationship with me? A crazy, scarred, murderous man who doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut?"

He watched you take a deep breath, your eyes focused on his, a faint smile on your face.

"I'll consider it," you responded, your tone playful, a mischievous glint in your eyes, "but you have to answer one question first."

"Oh, a quiz? Can we have a prize for the winner?"

You chuckled.

"What's the question?"

You smiled.

"When you said that you've killed more people than you've seen naked, was that true?"

"Yes." He answered without hesitation. Something told him that lying was not an option here.

"And, when you said that the suit does me justice," he started, his tone casual, his eyes bright, and his smile mischievous, "was that your way of telling me that you want to see me naked?"

"You wish, Wilson."

"You're right. I do."

He didn't mean to sound so sincere, but, damn, the words just slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Wade watched as you smiled and turned your attention toward the bag of Checkers momentarily, and, for a split second, Wade worried that he had taken things too far. That he had scared you away.

He shouldn't have been worried.

Because, when you moved the bag to the table and stood up, his eyes immediately focused on the way your lips were twisted into a smirk and the way your eyes were locked on his.

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to. He was already nodding along for whatever plan was formulating in that pretty little head of yours.

And, when you straddled him and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in close and leaning in close, it was like he was back at that party.

It was the same feeling.

The nervousness. The anticipation. The excitement. The anxiety. The giddiness. The rush.

Everything was the same, except this time, it was actually happening. And, he was sober.

As you pulled him in, he leaned forward and closed the distance between you, kissing you slowly, his eyes closed, his hands on your hips, and his lips pressed against yours. The mask that had been halfway covering his face was now tossed aside by him to indulge in the kiss fully.

It was better than he could have ever imagined.

You were better than he could have ever imagined.

But then, his insecurities kicked in, and the reality of the situation hit him. In his mind, he had imagined this moment with his younger, healthier self. The buffed-out arms, the clear skin, the perfect jawline. He still had that scruff of a beard in his mind, and the outlines of his eyebrows did not melt completely.

But, when he felt your lips against his, and the softness of your touch, the warmth of your body, the taste of your tongue, he was reminded that you didn’t picture him as he once was.

You were seeing him as he was now. Hairless, deformed, scarred, a hot mess, and a complete disaster. And you were still kissing him. You were still touching him. You were still here.

It was better than anything his imagination could conjure up.

Because, for once, reality was better than fantasy. For once, he realized that maybe his face wasn’t a face only a mother could love and that maybe his looks weren't a dealbreaker for a certain somebody.

You broke the kiss and pulled away, staring at him, your face inches away from his. He stared at you, his eyes meeting yours.

He was searching, trying to read you, trying to figure out what was going through your mind. See if you had those second thoughts. If you regret this.

All he found, though, was that pretty little smile of yours. The one that made his heart skip a beat. The one that made him smile back.

"Well," you started, your eyes sparkling with mischief, "if it's any consolation, Wade, I think our friendship was pretty fucked the minute I decided to give you my number."

He raised an eyebrow, a grin forming on his lips.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm," you nodded, biting your lip and leaning in close. Your hand reached up and cupped his cheek, stroking the skin softly. He shuddered. "I should've known the minute I decided to become friends with a guy who would willingly call himself Deadpool that it was a done deal."

He smirked, his fingers dancing across the small of your back.

"I'll try not to feel too offended by that."

"Trust me, you shouldn't," you murmured, your hand sliding down from his face to his shoulder, resting there. "It's not a bad thing, really. I mean, it's pretty awesome to have a friend who can take a bullet for you."

He smiled.

"Damn right, baby girl."

Your hand slid down from his shoulder, slowly moving down his arm, until you were grabbing his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

"But, Wade," you continued, squeezing his hand lightly, your eyes focused on his, a frown on your face, "you have to promise me something."

"Anything," he replied instantly.

You hesitated.

"Promise me," you started, your voice firm, your expression serious, "you’ll start to see yourself as I do."

Wade blinked, surprised.

That was not what he was expecting.

"You have a crush on my scars?"

He couldn't resist. He had to crack a joke. He was nervous. When wasn’t he cracking a joke?

He was also confused, but, hey, the joke was funnier.

"No," you replied, rolling your eyes, a faint smile on your face, "but I see past the scars."

"And, the crazy?"

"That too."

"And, the murderous tendencies?"

"Yes, Wade, everything," you answered, grinning, your eyes bright. "I see all of it, and it’s about damn time you do too."

"Yeah," he breathed out, "well, it's not as easy as you make it seem."

"Nothing is, Wilson."

You stared at him, the softness in your eyes, the gentleness in your smile, the affection in your voice.

He couldn't believe it.

But he couldn’t help the grin that appeared on his face, the warmth that filled his chest, or the butterflies in his stomach.

"I'll try."

For one of the rarest times in his life, Wade’s tone was completely sincere. Not a hint of humor or sarcasm. Just pure honesty.

And, judging by the way your face lit up and the way you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in close, hugging him tightly, you appreciated his sincerity.

You rested your chin on his shoulder, your eyes closing.

"Good," you whispered. "That's all I ask."

His arms wrapped around you and held you close, his fingers running through your hair, his nose buried in your neck. He took in your scent, letting it fill his nostrils, his senses.

And, for once, everything was quiet. Everything was calm. Everything was perfect.

He didn't feel the need to crack a joke. To make a comment. To ruin the moment. He didn't want to. He just wanted to sit there and hold you, listening to the sound of your heartbeat.

He was content.

And he was happy.

Happy that you were with him.

And, most of all, he was grateful that he broke into your apartment and made himself comfortable on your couch.

[kooqitas]

#pairing: ex-virgin!dino x reader.

#genre: smut MINORS DNI | #w.c: ~1800

!!! CLICK HERE TO ENJOY THE PART ONE

#synopsis: things have been weird since you took lee chan's virginity, but now you're in a library together and well… anything can happen.

#warnings: vaginal sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f.), soft dom dino, public sex. cute ending

#notes: i'm a little drunk (yes, again

★ m.list | inbox :D join my taglist

things with dino got a little... weird the next day, i mean, in the morning you still had coffee together before he left giving you a warm kiss, but after that things were definitely weird.

you didn't talk to each other in class, not even to tease each other, to the point where jeonghan asked you what the hell had happened to make you be like this...

"wait, you took WHAT from him?" jeonghan literally screamed when you told him about the night you had, he seemed more shocked by lee chan's (ex) virginity than by the sex between you exactly. "well, as the says, the person sucks your tits like a stray calf and then pretends they don't know you"

"literally no one says that, jeonghan!"

"well, i'm telling you..."

then jeonghan looked at his phone, and said that mingyu was calling him in the library, you ended up going along and well... that's the situation you're in now.

dino is sitting next to you at the table, trying to discreetly touch your knee, and you really want to punch him in the face, but that would end up with you having to explain how pathetic college fights turned into sex... yeah... things really were complicated.

"i think the right answer is letter b." dino says kindly to mingyu, who insisted that the answer to the question was f.

"you don't even study dentistry to know this, why don't you shut up and study your course instead of meddling in other people's business?" you retort.

"maybe because not everyone is as self-centered as you, sometimes people have a little empathy and think about others." he says without looking at you directly.

the whole table is in silent... even though jeonghan is the only one who knows that you had sex, everyone there understood that something more than just a simple college fight had happened.

"and maybe you should shut up and wait for someone to teach you how to do things right when you do it for the first time." you retort stupidly.

"you must love teaching people how to do things for the first time, huh?"

silence.

"ok, what did i miss?" joshua asked innocently, trying to figure out what the hell was going on at that table.

"NOTHING" you both yelled together.

pathetic.

dino tried (not very discreetly) to caress your thigh and waist, it made you feel... things, the cold hand of the air conditioning in contact with your hot skin was driving you crazy, but at the same time irritated, lee chan ignored you right after you took his virginity and now he was acting like this?

you roll your eyes when you get a message from dino on your cell phone, but you end up answering him.

you roll your eyes, getting up and leaving, but the next second you felt someone grab you by the waist and take you to the 'religious books' section.

'seriously, chan?'

"i'm the one asking you, what the fuck happened?"

"what the fuck happened? YOU started ignoring me completely after... you know."

"you let me cum inside you?"

"after you stopped being a pathetic virgin."

"i'm NOT a pathetic virgin"

"well... you're welcome?" you tease him.

dino looks at you, he seems to be thinking about whether to say something or not and this leaves you feeling a mix of stressed and sad at the same time. it's obvious that you were never best friends, but damn, disappearing after you took his virginity was cruel, you wondered if you had done something wrong.

"i just... okay... look..." he took a deep breath. "you can laugh... but i was afraid that i hadn't been good for you" he admits, sighing afterwards "like, when i choked you wrong..."

"you fixed it later" you roll your eyes, thinking he was making some pathetic excuse.

"baby... i'm not lying, i just... i wish that if things happened again i would be better..." he kisses your neck, causing you to shiver that you liked.

"stop with this shit!"

he takes advantage of your skirt, rubbing his middle finger right on your cunt, making you sigh at the sudden touch.

"do you really think i wouldn't wanna fuck you again? i told you, you're mine. i just wanted to do things better, but you're so fucking impatient that you can't wait a few weeks to have my cock inside you again."

he teases his finger inside your entrance, over your panties, making you tremble under his fingers.

"son of a bitch."

"let me show you what i've learned..."

you think about asking him how he learned something for a few seconds. the idea of ​​him having 'trained' with someone makes you jealous, but any thoughts end the moment he bends down and kisses your panties.

your leg falters, fuck, lee chan is in the middle of the library, kneeling, with his head between your legs...

"stop it, fuck, someone might see us..."

"that's the fun, doll"

he moves your panties to the side, giving a gentle kiss to your wet hole, while rubbing his nose against your clit.

"fuck, lee chan"

you grab his hair, and you don't even know how, but your left leg is now on his shoulder.

the first contact of his hot tongue makes you moan loudly. the problem is that you're in a library, and even though the religious books section is abandoned, someone could still walk by...

you put your hand over your mouth, and dino laughs...

"you know... I had to learn by myself since you didn't want to teach me that day... so if it's bad or clumsy..." he looks you deep in the eyes, making you tremble. "teach me."

you gasp, because his tongue fucks you so well it seems like magic, you grab the bookshelf, trying not to pay attention to the fucking bible next to you, and the fact that anyone could walk by there, fuck, it would be so hard to explain why dino was kneeling between your legs...

but you don't think about it, in fact you can't think, his tongue on you is so good that your only concentration at the moment is not to moan out loud.

it's so good the way he sucks you like his life depends on it, like you're the last thing he'll ever eat in his entire life, the way he murmurs how hot you are and how much he's always dreamed about this.

you're gonna cum soon, and you know it, that's why you basically grind on his face, pulling his head against your legs in an attempt to get him to go even deeper, even though that's completely impossible.

"fuck, stop being desperate!" he scolds you, and you tremble at seeing him so authoritative, giving you even more pleasure. you end up rolling your hips a little more, who knows, maybe he'll talk to you like that again.

but maybe you're fucked, i mean, that's what you think when he spits on your pussy and stands up.

dino unbuckles his belt, then immediately puts the leg that was previously on his shoulder on his waist. he pulls your hair, giving you a hot, wet kiss, his tongue sliding possessively inside yours, you feeling your own taste mixed with the soda he had drunk earlier.

the way he kissed you was a little aggressive, but still affectionate, and you liked this 'new' lee chan.

he looks at you with his cock already inserted in your hole, silently asking for permission that he knew he had.

you like being 'subjected' to sex, you like being 'forced' to give in, but... consent is also fucking sexy, and you feel like you can cum just by saying 'yes, you can fuck me'

it's funny because he seems just as desperate as the first time, but at the same time he seems more 'firm' in his touches and you can't help but moan a little louder than you should.

"fuck, shut up, they're going to get us!" he whispers, you feel his balls pounding your hole, and the sound of his belt rubbing against the fabric of your skirt isn't low either.

you keep your mouth open, moaning words that you don't even know what they are, but it feels so good, the heat of his body against yours, the obvious need you have for each other...

"fuck, can't you keep quiet?"

you don't answer him, and in the next second three of dino's fingers are touching the back of your throat.

"my princess needs to always be full, right? completely..."

you hold on to the bookshelf, trying to release your lust through any part of your body that's possible.

"i'm not yo-"

"we've already gotten past that phase, right? you know you're mine, so much so that you're going to cum on my dick again, you're gonna let me fill you up again, and you're gonna let everyone know that I WAS the one who marked you."

"wha-?"

and the next second, dino's mouth was on your neck, leaving a hickey that you would only see later, but that everyone would notice as soon as you returned to the table.

"i'm gon-"

"cum for me, love, cum for your man."

"you're not my m-"

"i am... and you're mine. only mine."

ironically (or not), you cum with dino calling you 'mine' and he cums right after...

it takes you a few seconds to catch your breath. then dino moved your leg down and kissed your forehead...

"i hate you," you said...

"you can hate me, but you're still mine..."

"lee chan..."

"it was really fear, okay? i thought i had done something wrong and you didn't try to talk to me when i walked away either, i thought i had been horrible to you that night... i'm really sorry."

you take a deep breath, knowing he meant it.

"i'm sorry, i didn't mean to confuse you."

"but you did." you answer him rudely.

"i know, i'm sorry about that. but i care about you... not just in a sexual way... give me a chance, okay..."

"i hate you."

"yeah," and he kisses you again.

you don't wanna go back to the table, but you know you have to. you want to be with dino, whether it's to have sex like before or just to stare at his lost puppy face...

"you're mine."

"yes, i am," you answer without thinking much, making him laugh and give you another kiss, this time calmly...

someone passes by the hallway and you're thankful that you're now dressed and just kissing, but at the same time a thought comes to your head and you can't help but ask.

"who the fuck taught you to eat like that?"

###

@highvivvy @bath1lda @unlikelysublimekryptonite

[lostinlovingrevery]

Prince Charming

Old Man Logan X F!Reader

Plot: He's really no Prince Charming, but he is to you, and you'll treat him like one too.

A/N: I really just wanted to write old man Logan being taken care of...and also being a little softer because he had someone taking care of him...I just want to give him a hug (and other things...)

Warnings: Smut (18+ only!!), Oral (M recieving), Fluff too!! reader gives Logan a massage (in more ways than one ;) ) pet names like princess and baby used, reader loves Logan a lot, a small section of angst but not really?

Word Count: 2401

Soft jazz played in the background as candlelight flickers against the wall of your…bedroom- if you could call it that. Curtains pulled over large windows, fluffy rugs on the floor, a few pieces of furniture placed carefully around the room, with pictures and decorations and a lamp that gave the room a warm, soft lighting- creating an inviting atmosphere that was nothing but welcoming and cozy. The sound of a shower running in the background added to the relaxing atmosphere that you managed to create inside of a smelting plant. 

So, was living in an abandoned factory what you imagined you would be doing when you grew up? Not exactly; especially considering you’d always wanted a castle… an old smelting plant can be kinda like a castle, right?

But, did you get that ‘prince charming’ you always dreamed of?

Well…maybe not everyone would call him Prince Charming…

But you did. Handsome, brave, intelligent. He was someone you’d always dreamed of sweeping off your feet and he did exactly that. Your Prince Charming has adamantium bones, lived over 200+ years (he probably met your great grandfather!), and is the crankiest motherfucker some days when there’s rain coming and his old metal bones get a little rusty and needed oiling like Tin man from Wizard of Oz (Did he see that when it first came out in 1939?). You adored him, and everything else was noise. 

Maybe Charles questioned your taste in men one time when he was feeling a little moody- but what does he know? He had a situationship with a guy who controls metal, and was, by the way, a bit of a nut.

You were curled up in your shared bed reading a book. When you first moved in- and eventually began sleeping in a shared bed, his bed had torn sheets, flat pillows, and a blanket that barely covered his large figure. He didn’t necessarily see an issue with that- but once you surprised him with memory foam pillows, silk bed sheets, and a huge soft duvet, he quickly changed his tune. He’d come home from a long night at work, collapse into the bed, and his aching bones would melt into the mattress as he’d fall asleep almost immediately, you’d wake up in the night- tucking him in at your side and kiss him on the cheek, and go back to sleep.

That’s what you did, you took care of him all the ways he didn’t take care of himself.

You heard the shower turn off, and in a moment Logan came in, towel wrapped low around his hips, his hair wet on his forehead, and he pushed the wet strands back as he walked to the dresser that sat parallel to the bed. You bit your lip as you admired his figure, watching water dripping down his hairy chest and abs, as your eyes trailed down to the prominent vein that disappeared below the hem of the towel, curse that towel.

“I did your laundry today-” You informed him, snapping out of your lustful state, and he looked at you, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and a warm smile came across his face.  

“Thanks princess.” He says in a low voice, walking over to you and leaning over to give you a peck on the lips- something you happily returned, settling on your knees to meet him halfway. He groaned as he attempted to straighten back out.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” He grumbled, hand going to his back, “Back s’just killing me from sitting in that damn car all the time.” 

You look at him sympathetically, when an idea strikes your head. You crawl backward and patted the bed. “C'mon, lay down.” You say. He raised a brow, unsure of what you wanted, 

“Feeling frisky baby?” He grinned, and you rolled your eyes- but you couldn’t help your smile. Maybe you were, but that wasn’t what you were planning. Yet. 

Shaking your head, you patted the bed again, “Lay on your belly. Off with the towel too” You say. He gave you a questioning look once more, but eventually obliged. You were never one to do something he wouldn’t have enjoyed anyway. He dropped the towel, giving you a nice view of his member, before he climbed onto the bed, and landing on his stomach; He wrapped his arms around a pillow, face planting into it as he waited for you to do whatever shenanigan you were planning for him. You smiled at his resting figure, reaching over to pinch one of his buttocks

“Ay!” He growled. You giggled, holding your hands up to show you wouldn’t do it again, and returned to your task. 

Reaching over, you grabbed your favorite scented lotion, before moving to straddle his back, around his waist. He let out a soft groan, not because of the weight of you- it was slightly comforting to have the pressure of you there, relieving some tense muscles over where you sat. 

Flipping the cap of the lotion off, you squeezed a generous amount onto your hands, clasping them and rubbing the lotion into them, before you placed your hands on Logan's shoulders. You gasped at just how knotted and tense they felt- you’d think the shower would have loosened him up a bit…

He let out a small groan as you pushed and pulled at the muscles in his shoulder, slowly- but surely, you began to loosen the knots as you massaged the lotion into his skin. Using different techniques, like rubbing your thumbs in circles in various spots- that really made him groan, something that sounded almost erotic. You grinned, as your hands moved down to his shoulder blades and upper back.

“Keep moaning like that and even Caliban and Charles will hear you.” You comment, he grunted.

“Let em, I don’t care.” He mutters into his pillow, turning his head so you could understand him. A small giggle escaped you, as you continued your ministrations over his back, palming at tense points and working at his large muscles, thumbs pressing into knots and loosening them, you ran your nails up and down his back- scratching the skin that sent shivers through his whole body. 

You admired the scars on his skin; as you felt every ridge and bump as you ran your hands over his back and up his arms. You knew it wasn’t a good thing, that he doesn’t quite heal like he used to. You still saw them as a part of him, a beautiful part of him that made him a survivor, that kept him alive and kept him coming back to you. You didn’t know how close it would be before those wounds couldn’t heal up, when he may not make it home. You weren’t one to worry about the future though- not when he was here with you now, and you could take care of him the way he deserved. 

You worked him over for an hour, and at one point you were pretty sure he fell asleep, waking up after and claiming he didn’t fall asleep. You sat up on your knees, and gently pat his side, urging him to now roll on his back, which he does so in a slow movement. 

“That was great baby.” He muttered, his eyes half-lidded, and his large hands moved to rest on your thighs that hugged his waist as you sat back to straddle his waist. You smiled, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, pressing your hands to his chest. 

“I’m not done yet.” You say softly, kissing the tip of his nose, and then his lips. Your hands smoothed down his chest and over his stomach, your fingers twining through his coarse chest hair. You ran your nails down the skin- making his stomach flex in reaction and you grinned. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks at the sight of your amusement. You smiled down at him and nodded, before moving your hips- grinding against him. Something serious came across his face, as his hands began to squeeze your thighs, leaving dimples in the skin. You rolled your hips again, and you could feel him getting harder underneath you. “So you were just getting frisky hm?”

“I’m just taking care of you Lo-” You say innocently, fluttering your eyelashes at him, you wiggle your hips down, shuffling down his body, where you start pressing kisses over his chest. Your eyes looked up at him as you ran a tongue over his nipple, eliciting a muffled groan as he tightened his jaw, and squeezed his eyes shut, chest rising and falling as he felt anticipation surge through him at every touch you pressed on him. You moved down his stomach, reaching the vein you were staring at earlier, sticking your tongue out, you licked down it- right to his pelvis, and he let out a shaky breath.

You felt slick between your legs at the sound of Logan becoming worked up. He always acts like the boss, the protector, and the provider. The moment you go down on him though, treating him like the prince you saw him as he melts in your arm like putty, appreciating the soft tenderness you give him, and the care you take to make sure everything feels good for him- that he enjoyed you the way you enjoy him. It turned you on hearing what you do to him.

“You’re something else, princess…” He mutters under his breath. You grinned against his skin, as you took in the smell of him, he smelled of cedar and whiskey, the scent of a soap you got him a while back. You bit the skin of his pelvis, making him thrust forward with a groan, as you soothe it over with your tongue. Your hands continued running up and down his belly, as you finally made contact with his erect member. You licked your lips as you sized him up. He was large, the prominent vein from his stomach traveling up to a swollen red tip that leaked a generous amount of precum- beautiful

Logan was an old man, but you never had trouble getting him up. 

Planting yourself between his legs on your belly, you kicked your legs playfully behind you as you took his member in your hand, tapping his tip against your lips, before sticking your tongue out, licking the vein from the bottom of his shaft to the top, as your other hand fondled his balls. He groaned. 

“You like playing with me don’t ya princess?” He rasped, sitting himself up on his elbows so he could get a nice view of you and watch as you took care of him.

You smiled sinfully up at him, and you felt his cock twitch in your hand. His lips parted as he took you in before him, his eyes full of lust. “I’m just helping you not be so tense baby.” You cooed, beginning to stroke his member up and down, he tipped his head back, as you began stroking faster, before taking his tip between your lips, swirling around him and moaning at the taste of him on your tongue. You never truly enjoyed the taste of someone until you met him, and some days it felt like you couldn’t get enough. 

His hand went to your cheek, carefully caressing it- before reaching to pull your hair out of your face- holding it back for you as you worked over him. 

“Look at you darling, so damn pretty…How’d an old man like me get someone like you?” He muttered. You took him deeper into your mouth, slowly working your tongue around him, as spit began to dribble down your chin as you messily sucked him off. He moaned, his hips moving forward, his length going deeper into your mouth, his tip nearly at the back of your throat. You knew he was getting desperate, eager- just barely holding back from shoving you down on him and forcing you to take him completely. You moaned at the thought, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, you feel so good, princess.” He breathed, his voice losing that deep timber, wavering- signaling to you that he was getting closer. 

Your hands braced against his thighs, as you took him in fully down your throat, gagging a bit before you force yourself to swallow, allowing you to bob up and down on his throbbing cock without as much trouble. His hand that held your hair back set the desired pace as he brought you back up to his tip, and down the base, where your eyes began to water, as his very hairy crotch tickled your nose. He was panting, and you now let him take over, as spit covered you chin and his cock, he began thrusting his hips up into your mouth. You felt his thighs begin to shake, and he was cursing under his breath before finally pulling you down over him- head tipped back, a loud curse escaping him, and you felt hot spurts of his cum going down your throat. The pure sight of him was enough to make your legs shake, your stomach tensing as small spasms of an orgasm ran through your body. He let go of your hair, body shaky as you continued to suck him until he rode through his orgasm, and pulled off of him with a pop. You licked your lips, wiping your chin off of the spit. 

He fell back onto the bed, a groan escaping him as he brought his hand up to his face, running it down.

“Fuck princess, you’re something else.” He mutters, and you clambered over him, giving him a sweet kiss. “I love you.” He says softly, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek. 

“Love you too honey.” You purred, kissing his cheek and then his jaw, before curling into his side, his arms wrapping around you. “You feel better?”

“Much.” He mutters, and you could hear he was falling asleep, making you smile. “I’ll return the favor, don’t worry.”

You hummed. “Not a favor Lo. I like taking care of you.”

You felt the small exhale of his chest, and you knew it was an exhale of relief. One where he is silently asking, “What did I do to deserve you?” and you knew simply that all it was, was that he was your prince- and you were his princess. 

[menteycorazoncito]

Háblame - Pedri González

ᥫ᭡: pairing: Pedri Gonzalez x reader

ᥫ᭡: warnings: angst to fluff, breakup, lmk if forgot smth

ᥫ᭡: a/n: I was listening to Tayc while writing and the idea to combine some lyrics in the fic came to me. Criticism and feedback are always welcome. Enjoy :)

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It has been a few weeks since you had last seen Pedri, a few weeks since you have heard his voice, felt his warmth or laughed about his foolish jokes and humorous banter. It all used to seem insignificant, yet now, it was all you could think about. Still holding onto the faint memories for dear life.

Things had changed between you two. It was nothing dramatic. No big fight or disagreement, just a dull emptiness that replaced the connection you once had. You got too caught up in your own life and insecurities to even notice. So close, yet so out of reach.

Pedri laid wide awake in his bed, staring out the window at the beautiful Barcelona skyline, wondering when he got to the state he was in right now. Long sleepless hours, filled with thoughts and regrets that drove him crazy. He didn’t exactly know what he had done wrong. But there must have been an explanation as to why you left.

His phone on the bedside table mocked him with its silence. He grabbed it and for the umpteenth time that night his finger hovered over your contact, before setting it back down and sighing into the darkness of his empty bedroom. 

He missed you. The way your perfume lingered in his flat, even after you left reminded him of you, and it was killing him slowly inside. 

Pedri couldn’t get himself to call you; not in the state he was in. He desperately needed to see you.

You were sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, reading your book. Yet, you found yourself rereading the same page multiple times, unable to focus on the words. Your thoughts drifted to a certain Spanish brunette.

You jumped at the sound of doorbell ring. Who could it be at this hour? You asked yourself in denial because deep inside you knew who it might have been. 

“Pedro.” you said, his name stuck in your throat, as you opened the door.

He stood in the hallway of the building blankly staring at you, looking worse than ever. The shadows under his eyes more prominent than they already were, his hoodie wrinkled, and his hair messy. His posture reminded you of a lost puppy. It looked like he had cried, eyes red and puffy. Did he really let himself go like that? 

He stared as if you would disappear if even moved his eyes ever so little. You on the other hand tried to keep composure after seeing him.

“Can I come in?” he finally spoke.

“Why are you here?” you asked, desperate to know the reason for his visit at this hour. 

“We need to talk…” he said, his voice barely audible. “I deserve an explanation.”

Against your better judgement you opened the front door wider to let him into your flat. You stepped aside as he shuffled inside and sat on the sofa of your living room. 

You trailed behind him and for a moment there you didn’t believe the sight in front of you: Pedri, the man you love(d) sat in front of you in utter silence. His big doe eyes glazed with tears, reflecting a sadness that mirrored your own.

The room was silent, broken by the sound of Barcelona’s traffic outside. Both of you did not know what to say or do. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife, as you wondered how it has gotten this bad.

“What happened to us…” he finally asked.

You were silent, the words got caught in your throat. Truth is, you had imagined this moment endless times. Each scenario playing differently in your mind. Yet nothing could have ever prepared you for this encounter. 

“I though we were doing fine. All of a sudden it’s like we don't know each other. You gave up on us at the first hardship of our relationship. It’s like you never even fought for us, at least not like I did.” he said, his voice cracking. 

Utter silence. His words hung heavily in the air. Still you remained silent.

“Talk to me…” he urged. “Talk to me, even if it’s to insult me. Tell me that you hate me, just don’t ignore me”

Tears filled your eyes as you realised how much you actually hurt him. “I didn’t fight for you because I thought you’d be better off without me, Pedro” 

He flinched at the use of his actual name, since you always used nicknames with him. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

“You think I would be better off without you?” he scoffed, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You are everything I have ever wanted. Do you know how much it killed me to hear nothing from you? I analysed every single move I have ever made in our relationship to see if I ever wronged you. It killed me to see the person I love slip away from me day by day. I did everything I could to at try and make you stay but I wake up one day, your things are gone, and I am blocked everywhere.” His sadness quickly turned into frustration. 

You blinked emptily at him. His words hit you like a tidal wave and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to crack.

“I- I thought I was protecting you. All the pressure, the media, the traveling. You were away half the time, and I didn't know how to deal with it. It was never my intention to hurt you. I thought letting you go would be what’s best of us, before any of us get attached. No matter how much it hurt me. I was so selfish that I ended up hurting you too in the process. Plus, it was too late when I came back to my senses. The damage was already done, and I don’t know how to fix it,” You confessed, your voice quiet and high pitched. Pedri wouldn’t have heard you if you weren’t sitting so close to each other.

“So that’s it? After everything, you’re just giving up” He was growing more frustrated by the minute

“I never felt enough for you. You are this amazing footballer that all girls dream of, and I am- I am just… me. Plain me.”

The walls you had built came down, showing how fragile you were in reality. Ashamed of your vulnerability, you looked away, finding a sudden interest in the bookshelf of your living room as the realisation hit you like a thousand bricks.

You had ruined everything. You lost everything to your own insecurities. 

“Mira cariño, I didn’t come to fight,”  he reassured you softly, his gaze softened at the sight of the tears glistening in your eyes. “You were enough. You always were. I came here because I really miss you. This emptiness is killing me.” 

He scooted closer to you, taking your hand in his, looking at you with a look of sympathy. The same look he had always given you when you were upset. As you allowed the tears to finally fall, he gave your hand a squeeze. 

“I miss you too.” your voice cracked in between the sobs. “I miss us.”

He cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in his eyes that make you fall in love over again. 

“We can fix this, mi amor, you just need to want it too.” he reassured you, getting his own hopes up.

You nodded, not knowing what else to do. As he pulled you into a hug you began to sob even more (if that was even possible). How missed him. The scent of his woody cologne filling you with nostalgia of what you had, the way his arms wrapped around you, the way he made everything into a joke. You put your head on his chest as he put his chin on your head whispering sweet nothing to you. The sound of his heartbeat calmed your sobs a bit and for the first time in weeks you felt a little bit of relief.

“I want you back,” you admitted through tears. “No matter how much I tried to move on and live without you, but I found myself hanging onto every single things that reminds me of you. I can’t sleep without you here, the bed feels too big and the flat feels quiet. I can’t live without you, Pedrito.” 

The two of you spent what was left of the evening, silently in each others arms. Pedri occasionally pressed kisses to your head and hands like he always used to do. And for the first time in what felt like forever, a sense of peace and a flicker of hope warmed your cold heart. 

“Estoy aquí para ti, siempre” he whispered reassuringly in your hair before you two drifted into a deep sleep.

Maybe, just maybe, this time you would get it right.

[wri0thesley]

my heart a frozen thing (I of III)- capitano x reader

the tsaritsa's handmaidens are enviable indeed; perfect, chaste, and honoured beyond measure. a well-oiled machine. but you do not quite fit in. lucky, then, that the tsaritsa herself has intervened, to find you a position that befits who you once were - to arrange your marriage to one of her most trusted lieutenants.

cw: arranged marriage, mentions of death/freezing to death, corpses, weird religious themes, bullying. reader is referred to as a 'handmaiden', wears a gown, but no pronouns are used. wc: 5.4k. sfw.

a/n: capitano and his little handmaiden are a little thing i've wanted to explore for a while; i don't usually do series, but i have a very clear idea of where this is going and i hope i can get it there! in my head this ought to run to three parts, but here is the first! i had a lot of fun just making up background for this honestly fbgnkjgbfn.

i.

The halls of Zapolyarny Palace have never felt so cold. 

They are halls that you have walked a thousand times, at the behest of your Goddess; chambers that you have traversed for as long as you can remember. You learnt yourself here - so much so that the person you once were, the family you once had . . . that has faded to nothing. You have been a ward of the Tsaritsa since you were six years old, and you would not have had it any other way. 

After all - are you not one step down from divinity? Do you not follow in her wake, untouchable and lovely? Do you not provide her with anything she could need? You see the Fatui members who walk these halls, the Harbingers - their hands are stained with blood up to the elbows, their figures stooped from war, their faces twisted with their troubles. They have clawed their way up the ranks -

And you? You have done no such thing. Something about you had called out to the Tsaritsa and she had welcomed you to her bosom and you had accepted, allowing yourself to be draped in furs and glittering crystals, to stand proud and haughty, to kneel for her and ensure her skirts are never dirtied, her every whim is met . . . 

Until today, you suppose. 

Her lips had felt like ice when she had kissed you on your forehead, and you had known then that you would walk from her chambers freezing cold and stripped of everything you held dear. You have always known that your fellow handmaidens did not like you; that they had envied you the Tsaritsa’s favour, that they have whispered that you are unworthy. Such things are easy to ignore when you know that you are cherished, though - and you had ignored them. You had ignored how they had ripped holes in your stockings and sent you on wild goose chases and errands, how they whispered behind your back when you fell into formation looking harried and rushed and imperfect because you had not been able to find your hairbrush in the morning. 

But the handmaidens of the Tsaritsa are supposed to be a unit. You are all supposed to see one another as siblings; to think of nothing more than Her, and how you may serve Her. It is this that the Tsaritsa had said to you in your private meeting, as you had shivered and burned with the cold ice of humiliation. 

“I love you,” she had said, with her voice as lovely as shattering crystals, as she had pressed that traitorous kiss onto your forehead. “Do not worry, little one. I shall ensure that you will not be thrown to the wolves.”

And then she had told you exactly how she was ensuring that, and you had had no choice but to stand before her, trembling, chin jutting proudly up - and pretend that you agreed with her decision. 

There is nobody in the dormitory when you go to pack what little things you have; you are glad of that, at least, so that those who have brought you down to this station in life cannot gloat at you. You do not have many things of your own; of course, the handmaidens are given fine clothes, but they are more uniform than ordinary wardrobe. You pack your hairbrush, a book, a few other creature comforts - but you are supposed to be a homogenous unit, after all, and to make yourself too individual would simply not do. 

One of the Tsaritsa’s servants is waiting outside of the door for you when you emerge. You shiver in the cool air, but try to keep a thread of your calm; give her a trembling smile. She looks at you with curiosity in her gaze, but she does not pry; that is not the way of things here. You soon lose track of where she is taking you.

In Zapolyarny Palace, there are paths that you walk every day; to the chapel, to the Tsaritsa’s chambers, to the hallowed halls and meeting rooms and anywhere else a handmaiden may be needed. But you do not wander freely beyond that. You know there are offices and spare bedrooms and studies and libraries galore - it is a most magnificent work of architecture - but you are not at liberty to explore them. So you soon lose your bearing as the servant brings you through hallways you’ve never seen, past doors you never knew existed. You feel your heart begin to beat too fast in your chest, anxiety crawling up your throat. 

You do not know what is to happen to you now. 

You know in theory what the Tsaritsa expects to happen, and you ought to believe her - find her infallible, as your Goddess and Archon surely is - but you have learnt, today, that nothing is infallible. You do not think any handmaiden in the history of Her Majesty’s service has ever been let go like you - and, too, you know none of them have suffered the humiliation of being--

You can barely even think the words. You think of the first Harbinger again, the one directly beneath the Director; the looming presence, the always-worn mask, the whispers that follow in his wake . . . you cannot imagine yourself on his arm. Cannot imagine yourself in his bed. Cannot imagine yourself standing beside him at an altar, promising him eternity--

“We’re here.” The servant’s voice is timid; even though she must surely know that you are disgraced, there is still - in your bearing and in the fine white furs and silks you wear - the reminder of what you were before disgrace came knocking at your door, and she has been taught that the Tsaritsa’s handmaidens are pure and perfect and precious. How you wish you felt that way. 

“Thank you,” you say to her, swallowing to try and clear the dryness in your throat, trying to summon a smile. She bobs an awkward curtsey and inclines her head before she scurries away down the corridor, no doubt to whisper to someone about the scandal that is unfolding within the palace’s halls. 

You look at the door to your new life. It is carved with swirling snowflakes; a solid impenetrable wooden shield from the rest of the palace. You do not know if it will stay your door, but you have nowhere else to go now. You cannot go running back to the dormitory of the handmaidens; surely, by now, they will all have been told exactly how you have been disgraced--

Your gloved fingers fasten about the doorknob as you force your traitorous heart to beat evenly. You must take things as they come; there is no point getting too frightened just yet. Some of the Harbingers do indeed keep quarters in the Palace - Pantalone, you know, has a wing set aside for his use. And Pulcinella, too, needing to be near the beating heart of Snezhnaya, has rooms here. 

It is in the nature of a handmaiden, you remind yourself, to be calm. To keep their wits about them. It is proper of you to maintain an even voice and a pretty face, to be ready to be called to your service at a moment’s notice; and though you are not, really, a handmaiden any more . . . your entire life has been governed by these rules, and such things do not desert one so easily. So you keep your head held high as you step into the room, your chin jutting out, your eyes wide, your face proud--

And you do not let the tears fall, like your life is collapsing into the sea around you and leaving you adrift with no safe harbour (your beautifully designed ice sculpture of an existence), until the door is closed and nobody but you and the sharp coldness of the mirror mounted on the wall opposite is there to see it. 

ii.

You are expecting to be brought before him, as would befit a man of his status - a status that now far outranks your own. You are expecting Fatui grunts or serving maids to come and fetch you from the neatly appointed little room of the Palace, to drag you before the Harbinger you are to become reliant upon, and to have every part of you scrutinised. Perhaps he will find you wanting, you think bitterly; perhaps he does not want to be a part of this mockery any more than you do. Perhaps he will snarl beneath the mask and despite the Tsaritsa’s attempts to save your life, will have you banished to some cold unfeeling corner of the Palace where you will freeze to death and nobody will find your corpse. 

(It would hardly be the first time such a thing has occurred in Snezhnaya). 

You are not expecting that the first of the Fatui Harbinger, he of the war glories, second only in the chain of command to the Director himself, would lower himself to come to you. 

But come to you he does. 

The room that you have been given is lovely if impersonal; a bedspread patterned with sprigs of blue flowers, an ornate mirror, a wardrobe and a shelf of knick-knacks. You, as a handmaiden, have never had cause to tend to the guest rooms - that is for those whose service is less important, whose place in the world is less holy - but you do at least know enough to know that is what this is. And you suppose, too, that is what you are now too. 

No longer somebody who truly belongs in the Palace; no longer one of a flock of beautiful befurred doves, cooing and twittering over who will be granted the honour of smoothing Her Majesty’s dress, of combing her hair. Simply a guest - a person waiting to see what the next step in their life will be. Perhaps Zapolyarny Palace will be a pitstop; perhaps your new betrothed will have somewhere else to put you like an ornamental doll. 

Perhaps he will take you to his camps, his fields of war, install you in his tent until you have forgotten the luxury of silks and glass and the blood he sheds stains your white furs red. Your nails dig crescent moons into your palms at the thought of it; of all of the ways your life could spiral into decay and dirt when it has only ever been pristine and beautiful before. 

You are sitting on the bed when the knock comes, when the door is opened before you can even call out. You see the faintest outline of some Fatui soldier, before his bulk is silhouetted in the doorway and your breath is robbed from your chest. 

Seeing him pass by you in hallways, or at the table when you have been called to the Tsaritsa’s side, does not do the man justice. He seems to tower over you; his presence in the room makes it seem like a dollhouse more than anything functional. Your eyes flitter, afraid to rest upon him too much lest you see something terrifying staring back at you. 

You cannot describe it, but your entire body seems to go into a freeze response; you sit there, exactly like the ornament you are so afraid of becoming, your gloved hands neatly balled into fists upon the luxurious fabric of your handmaiden’s gown, your eyes wide with surprise and fear.

You expect him to stride in; to take what he has been given, self-assured as only a member of Her Majesty’s most esteemed lieutenant can truly be. Thoughts flash through your head; of him throwing you upon the prettily patterned bedsheets and having his way with you, of him grabbing you roughly and letting his hands explore the merchandise he has been granted. 

Certainly, the visual of him makes those seem the most likely course of action. The massive stature, the shadows that his shoulders throw across the room. The impassive iron mask; the armour that he dons, whether he is on official business or not. Your shoulders draw up against your ears, preparing for something, though you know not what. You catch a glimpse of eyes, bluer than the hottest fire--

And then Il Capitano sinks to one knee in front of you and reaches for your trembling, gloved hand. Your breath catches in your throat as he draws it closer to himself - but then, he presses his mask against the fabric in an echo of a kiss, and from beneath the helmet he wears comes a voice like an echo in an iron chamber. 

“Little handmaiden,” he says - and then, “I regret not coming sooner.” 

“I--” Your tongue will not work around the syllables. It trembles in your mouth; only your willpower alone stops your teeth clacking together like some awful grisly musical instrument. “My Lord Harbinger, I . . .” 

“Do not worry,” he says, his voice still a strange echo - you cannot imagine getting used to it, cannot imagine it whispering words of love into the shell of your ear. You can imagine it, though, booming across a battlefield, and the thought makes your heart seize in your chest. “I have no intention to hurt you. I am . . . most honoured by the privilege that has been entrusted to me.” 

You realise with a start that you are the privilege; that this is punishment for you, but it does not seem so to him. The thought gives you pause. 

Even the word . . . ‘privilege’. He does not call you a reward; does not act as though he has been given you as some Archon-won right, to do with as he pleases. For the first time, you let yourself wonder if perhaps your fate is not to be as cruel as you had feared. 

“Thank you,” you say to him, your voice a thready little mouse-whisper of noise. Capitano does not move from his place before you, kneeling upon the parquet flooring of the room - his hand does not let go of yours for a moment, as if he cannot quite believe that you are real flesh and blood there before him. You cannot properly see his eyes behind the helmet - only that bluefire suggestion, the glow of something behind the ornate visor - but in your time as a handmaiden of the Tsaritsa, you have grown used to the sensation of being looked at, and that is certainly what he is doing. 

“I intend to do this properly.” He tells you, with the door still open, with the Fatui soldiers who had accompanied him still stationed outside of the door listening to every word that he says. “I intend to make you mine in the eyes of the Tsaritsa and everyone else who matters.” 

You think once more of the altar; you think of your uniform of pure white furs, traded for something lacier and gauzier, something more of a wedding gown than a ritual dress. You think of being chained to this man for all eternity--

And though he has been kind to you in these few brief moments, though your Archon had said she wished to see no harm come to you . . . once more, you think of Capitano’s reputation. Of the war fields and the bloodshed, of his victories and his spoils, of the way you have heard he throws himself into conflict like it is the only thing that keeps his blood pumping through his veins. 

But you cannot say a thing. 

“Tomorrow,” he tells you, and he says the word like a sacred thing - a prayer on his breath. “Tomorrow, I will marry you, and I will take you home.”

He does not leave his words in a question; there is no space for you to reply. You swallow your protestations as he stands back up and bows his head like a gentleman, though you know he is stained with blood in a way you had never expected to be yourself. 

(You think of his hand on yours; imagine bloody fingerprints where he had clung to you. Marked. Soiled. No longer pristine and pure; no longer one of the Tsaritsa’s favourites. You stand upon the precipice of becoming something else, and it terrifies you). 

“Tomorrow,” you echo, but the door has already closed behind him. 

iii.

You cannot sleep. 

The bed is fine; finer, perhaps, than the one in your dormitory that you have slept on for decades. The blankets and coverlets, with their pretty patterns, are warm (warmer than you are used to; the handmaidens are kept close to Her Majesty, and coldness permeates the air wherever she dwells. You had not realised just how cold you were used to being until you had slipped into this bed in a guest-room of the place you thought of as your home).

But your mind will not quieten. 

You cannot stop thinking of Capitano, and all that his future entails; cannot stop the whisper of his voice, constrained as it is by his helm, when he says the word ‘home’. What is a home for you, now? At this moment in time, ousted from Her Majesty’s Service and not yet yoked to the first-ranked Harbinger, you are a creature that has nowhere to lay down their roots. 

If you slipped out of this room, and out into the cold Snezhnayan winter . . . you would be another nameless person, another corpse frozen to a block of ice. You have not been out amongst the general populace in some time - that is not a duty that befits one of the handmaidens - but what memories you do have, before six, remind you that you would hardly be the first. Indeed, finding some poor soul frozen into the next life is an occurrence that happens to all citizens of Snezhnaya, eventually. 

A memory rises unbidden to the forefront of your mind; another child, who looks like you but older, concentration writ clear on their face as they try and unbend fingers from a poor man rimmed with frost with lips of pale blue. An older woman, shouting - a sickening snap--

You squeeze your eyes shut and force the memory away. There is nothing, you remind yourself, before the Tsaritsa’s tender care. If there ever was, it has gone the way of snowstorms and blizzards; there is no use remembering. It has been so long that all of the figures in your memories, too, are perhaps no better than markers in the frozen ground. 

If you cannot sleep, you tell yourself forcefully, you are not going to allow yourself to be haunted by nightmares of your own making. You will lie here, in this lovely little room. You will let yourself think of the warmth that seeps into your bones; you will let yourself remember it. 

One final night; the first night you can truly remember where you are free. 

And as for what tomorrow holds - as for the thought of standing beside Capitano, as to the thought of his home - be it tent or wing of rooms or little shack or anything in between - you will not think on them. You will think of how, if you wished, you could toss and turn and no other handmaidens in the dormitory will hiss anger at you beneath their breath. How you could sing in this room, like a pretty bird, and nobody would shout for you to shut up as they throw their pillows at you.How there will be no ringing bell in the morning, no sidelong glances from your fellows who do not think you deserve to play the role you are given. 

There is blissful silence; the luxury of having a bedroom to yourself, of being an individual when you have for so long been an entity made up of so many. 

You do fall into sleep, eventually. 

You dream of being a beautiful white horse, your hooves leaving distinct prints in the snow, blending alone into the barren landscape of your homeland. 

When you awake, there is a dress hanging on the wardrobe opposite the bed. 

You do not question it; how they found time for your measurements, who made it, whether it is Capitano’s design. Your training does not fail you; things happen, and you must accept them. The easy freedom of last night is gone, and the weight of what you are to become settles like a mantle around your shoulders. 

It is still service, you tell yourself, as you bathe in the little basin in the adjoining room. The soaps and potions that are lined neatly up on shelves are scented like something fresh and clean and floral; the kind of flower that makes you think of rolling hills and ticklish breezes. The handmaidens used toiletries scented with spearmint and frostflower, as the Tsaritsa had chosen - you wonder if these bottles here are the choice of your betrothed, or merely coincidence. 

You perform your ablutions and ignore the fact that you are preparing yourself for something you do not fully understand. If you stop to think too hard upon what it is you are primping and preening for, you do not know if you will be able to keep the thread of your calm - as it is, your hands are shaking when you step into the gown left for you. 

It is undoubtedly a wedding gown. 

It is not cut in the Snezhnayan fashion; there is no trimming of pale blue diamonds, of furs or feathers or warmth. This is the gown of a beloved maiden in a tower; something to be worn whilst dreaming of gardens, all pretty eyelet lace and delicate embroidery. Wearing it, after being so used to the garb of one of Her Majesty’s attendants, feels almost like being naked. 

There is nothing for your hair; you leave it unbound. There is no other ornamentation; you suppose, when you think about it, your glimpses of Capitano have never suggested him to be a man of excess. If it were one of the others you were to wed - Pantalone, perhaps - you have no doubt you would be draped in jewels. 

If it were Pantalone that you were to be wed to, you think, he would not have been satisfied with a mere ceremony, rushed through the next day. You know from gossip he is a man who thinks he deserves better than the world has given him, that he would never take less than excess. A brief gladness that it is not the Regrator that your Archon has given you to flashes across your mind--

And then you remember Capitano, the size of him, the mystery of what lays behind his mask, and you swallow the lump in your throat. 

There is a serving maid at the door, holding a bunch of flowers in her hand - they are delicate things, white petalled and lovely, scattered with pink roses. You breathe in the scent to calm yourself and recognise them as the same scent that lingers on your skin and in your hair - and the serving maid gives you a small, nervous smile. 

“They’re Cecilias,” she tells you. “from Mondstadt. The Captain asked for them specifically.” 

She says his name in the same way so many of the citizens of Zapolyarny Palace do; with respect, and reverence. There is none of the fear that edges those who whisper of other Harbingers in her voice - you have heard horror in the tones of those who speak of Dottore, the Doctor . . . But Capitano seems to command awe and respect. You want it to be comforting - but you cannot help but wonder if it is merely that those who know his true nature are quieted by his sword. 

“Thank you,” you say, for you cannot make your voice shape any other words. Your tongue has grown leaden in your mouth, the moisture gone from it completely, and you know the thing that has sapped your ability to speak is fear. She gives you another smile, and looks at you in your gown. 

“You’re beautiful,” she says to you, as if to reassure; perhaps misunderstanding your terror of your bridegroom as the normal nerves of someone about to tie their life to someone else’s in matrimony. The whispers of your dismissal have had time to grow their own stories, after all; few things move faster than gossip in a place like this. “Come. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

You’re helpless to do anything but let her lead you. The hem of your gown trails on the floor behind you, but the Palace is spotless; it does not gather dust or dirt. You pass through the halls like a ghost, and you wonder if that is how you look. 

As a handmaiden, you had moved with purpose, with the assurance that you were Somebody. As the betrothed of a Harbinger, you move like somebody sentenced to execution, your heart pounding in your throat. The halls seem silent around you. You wonder, if given the chance to do it all again, how you would stop all of this so you would not find yourself in this position, walking to what could very well be your own doom. 

“Here,” the serving maid whispers, stopping by a door. You look at it with dumb terror in your heart, but you keep your face an impassive mask as you have been taught to do. You know where you are; you know this chapel to be the Tsaritsa’s most sacred place. You have been given access only a handful of times; the handmaidens who serve your Archon here are far more senior than you. In time, you had hoped you would become one of her most trusted, one who could sit with her in prayer in this private sanctuary--

You suppose that is a dream that will never come to fruition now. 

You give her a smile - a trembling thing, but you have been taught how to behave - and as she opens the chapel door for you, you square your soldiers and summon all of the courage you have (what little there is; courage is not a thing that is encouraged amongst the handmaidens, amongst those who must move and act as one), and you place one foot in front of the other as you begin your walk down the aisle. 

You tell yourself you will not look at the pews - hewn of glass, the more to resemble the Tsaritsa’s beloved ice - but as you begin a walk that feels as though it lasts forever, you cannot help it. The chapel is still a sanctuary; it is almost empty, in fact, but for a few faces sitting at the very front. 

The Tsaritsa herself presides, and you immediately lower your eyes to the ground. You have seen her before, of course - have tended to her when called - but it would not be proper of you to stare. She is still your Archon. Your fingers tremble where they are wrapped around your bouquet. 

Capitano stands, as patient and as still as a massive statue, at the altar. He is dressed still in his armour; the only concession he has made to the idea of a wedding is a buttonhole tucked into his chest, of matching roses and Cecilias to your own. You can see that burning bluefire from across the room, and as you walk closer and closer to it you are hit by the urge to laugh at the thought that perhaps you are simply walking into hellfire. 

And a few other familiar faces fill the first row; that is Pierro, you know. The Director. He sits ramrod straight, the second-largest man in the room, his cloak serving to highlight the severe lines of his face. There is The Knave, too - in her beautifully-cut suit. There is the smallest smile playing on her lips, as she looks from you to Capitano and back again. 

Not all of the Harbingers have come to see this spectacle - you are silently glad of the absence of the Doctor - but there are enough there that you feel sweat prickle down your spine, gathering in the small of your back. You force yourself to swallow and to breathe. This chapel’s aisle has never felt so long before. 

But even though it feels as though the aisle will never end, end it does - too soon, too quickly, and you are at the end of your last walk as somebody free and unmarried. You are standing beside Capitano, ready to pledge yourself to him as your Archon has demanded you do. 

You wonder if he is smiling beneath the helmet. Your own face, you’re sure, must have the look of a deer staring down a bow and arrow; wide, frightened, terribly aware suddenly of its own mortality. But there is nothing a doe can do when she is a hunter’s quarry, and there is nothing you can do now either. 

So you say the words, after they issue forth from the Tsaritsa’s lovely voice and she commands you to repeat them. You listen to Capitano make the same oaths, his voice still a strange echo. You do not hear them, not really - but it does not matter, because they are binding in the eyes of your Archon and it is your Archon who has witnessed them being said. 

Your hand is shaking when Capitano takes it to slide the ring upon it. It is plain, too; a silver band, etched all over with some decorative scrollwork and words in a language you do not understand. 

You have never seen a marriage. The handmaidens do not do such things - they are chaste, and pure, and when they are done with the service of the Tsaritsa they remain so even when cast back to the powdery snow. But you have read books, and you know that a marriage usually ends with a kiss; a sealing of the pact that two people who love one another have made. 

You steel yourself, then, to see below Capitano’s mask. You try not to dwell on possibility; the idea of him being monstrous or disfigured or perhaps even just perfectly ordinary. You try to prepare yourself for the feel of another’s lips upon yours. 

But the Tsaritsa never decrees that it is time for Capitano to kiss his spoils. 

Indeed, Capitano takes your hand - his own like a massive claw, yours delicate and tender in his grip - and leads you back down the aisle. He does not look at you as he does it; but you have the strangest sensation that he is . . . uncomfortable, with the way that everyone is looking at him. That such pomp and circumstance is perhaps not something he would generally choose. 

In fact, when the door closes behind you - when you and he are briefly, briefly, briefly along in the corridor . . . something in him seems to unknot. He lets forth a rattling breath, his shoulders sagging just a touch, that would perhaps be invisible to any other eyes but the eyes of a frightened, lonely little mortwal who has been torn from what they thought was their purpose in life and thrown to the whims of somebody that may yet be a monster. 

“Little handmaiden,” he rumbles, from somewhere low in his chest, and you wonder if it is indeed relief that makes his tone seem almost comforting. “The formalities are done with. You are mine, and I am yours.”

He tilts his helmet, and that bluefire burning behind the visor finds your own eyes; almost imperceptibly, perhaps because he sees the terror in your gaze, he seems to soften at the edges. 

Hesitantly, he reaches out a gloved hand; just as hesitantly, he cups your face, the metal cool against the softness of your cheeks. He turns your face towards him, with a grip that you expect to be rough and possessive but is as gentle as the first layer of snow upon a shooting leaf. 

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

Home brings to mind your dormitory; the identical rows of beds, the identically dressed handmaidens, the comfort of routine. Home whispers in the back of your mind of something cooking in the oven, of a rowdy family gathered around a battered old table, of three children older than you and three children younger than you. 

You cannot return to either of those places. 

So all you can do, then, is smile for the man who could be captor or lover or liberator, but is now, inarguably, your husband. 

And let him lead you home. 

[birdy-bat-writes]

You've Got the Real Thing Right Here

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

A/N: I kid you not, I wrote this in 30 minutes in a Gatorade-induced, TikTok-fueled romantic fit of filthy feelings. So…it’s probably not edited well and I’m so sorry haha. But I hope you like it:D

Summary: You come across a scene in a book and wonder, is this really attractive? Luckily, your boyfriend is there to show you that it really is.

Content Warnings: almost smut, really borderline smut, fluff, Jake being a sweetheart, Jake being way too hot to handle, and some swearing. Let me know if I missed anything :D Minors DNI!!!!

Word count:  1047

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You didn’t usually get many days off, so today was a rarity. Your boss left for a personal vacation and since there was nothing to do at the office, you were told that you simply didn’t have to come in. It was impromptu and random, but you knew exactly how you were going to spend it. There were only 8 more chapters left in your book, and you’ve been dying to find out of the two love interests finally get together.

It was a little cold out today in San Diego, another rarity. After a warm shower, you slipped into some cozy leggings and your favorite of all your boyfriend’s sweatshirts; a gray and burnt orange Longhorns crewneck subtly scented with his cologne, your perfume, and the smell of brownies from your shared baking excursion last weekend. You opted out of wearing anything under the sweatshirt because why not? It was your day off, after all. With a cup of hot chocolate, you sat down by a window and opened your paperback to its little crocheted bookmark and let yourself sink into the story.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed by the time you closed the book and placed it on the coffee table. You started at 10:00 am and now it was 3:00. Emotions were swirling within you, and you couldn’t help but twirl around your living room, smiling. They finally got together! Oh god, that was so cute—and a few pages later, so hot. Still grinning like an idiot, you decided to head on over to the kitchen and grab lunch. You microwaved last night’s leftovers and let your mind wander. Every romance book you’ve read has the same scene; the guy leaning on the doorframe and looking down at the girl. What’s up with that? It makes you feel warm every time, and you just know that whatever scene comes next is bound to be good but what the heck makes a doorframe attractive? It’s just leaning; something you do every day.

Your thoughts were interrupted by keys jangling at your door. Jake was home! You leant over in your chair, putting yourself in his line of sight. “Hey, Babe, welcome home.” Jake could hear the smile in your voice.

“Why, thank you, Darlin’. What’s got you in such a good mood?” he asked, walking over to you and placing a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Nothing much,” you replied as he walked to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. “How was work?” Jake started talking, and you’re sure you heard some of it but from here on out, another thought consumed your mind entirely. Jake isn’t that much shorter than your kitchen door….

“…so I told him that was crazy. Right?” Jake looked to you to find you absolutely spaced out. “Y/N? Everything okay…?”

“Uh, yeah! Sorry, what were you saying?” Jake grinned, amused at the light blush that was dusting your cheeks.

“No, no, what’s got you so distracted?”

“Nothing, I promise.” You insisted, standing up to join him in the kitchen entrance.

“Sweetheart, you’re great at a lot of things,” he started, putting his hand in yours, “but you’re a shit liar.” You giggled with him and looked down.

“Okay, okay. Can you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Alright, uh,” you didn’t expect to suddenly get as shy as you did. “Could you just put your hand up here, on the doorframe corner and like, lean over a little?” Jake, with his Gatorade still in hand, looked down at you, confused, but still did it anyway.

“Like this?”, he asked.

“Yeah! Now, bend your elbow a little. Lean naturally into it.”

“Is there a reason for this or…?”

“Satisfying my curiosity.”

“Gotcha.”

“Okay, perfect.” You took a small step back, one hand still on Jake’s chest to get a look at the full picture and…woah. Okay, now you get why curiosity killed the cat, and why every book had this scene. It was freaking hot.

Jake’s green eyes were darkened by the shadows of his lashes and his lips had the slightest shine from the Gatorade. God, you bet he tasted like lemon-lime right now, and his posture…you knew he was tall, but did he really always tower over you like this? His biceps were on full display along with the tan skin of his neck and, god, he was so close, and so big and his cologne was intoxicating. You felt hot.

Jake saw it immediately. He knew that look; he saw your lips part and the way your legs squeezed shut. Oh. He took a long drawn-out look at your figure up and down and he knew you were done for.

Smirking, he asked, “Y/N, Honey, you okay there? You look a little red.” A teasing tone lacing his voice. He reached toward the coffee table to put down his Gatorade and he saw it. It’s that book you’ve been reading. There it is. Jake curled his hand around your waist, snaking it under your his sweatshirt, making you shiver as he pulled you close. His fingers were icy against your hot skin from holding the cold bottle. You gasped when he pressed you flush against his chest. “All this because of a book?” he took his other hand down from the doorframe to place it on your cheek, stroking it softly with his thumb. “Baby, you’ve got the real thing right here.” He whispered, lips ghosting over yours before pressing into you for a rough, heated kiss. You wrapped your arms around his waist while his fingers pressed into yours. He peppered kisses along your jawline, feeling the warmth of your skin on his. The sensation of his stubble on your neck went straight to your core and made you whimper, an act that tore down what little resolve Jake had left. He pulled away and took you by the hand out of the kitchen.

“Jake, why’d you stop?” You uttered, breathlessly.

“I didn’t. Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“The bedroom. Oh,” he took two steps back to the coffee table and reached for the bottle of Gatorade. “Better take this. You’ll need it by the time I’m done with you.”

Moral of the story? Read books, stay sexy.

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[universalcas]

Dean wakes up and it's the 24th of January. His 46 yo body aches in new parts that he knows were fine last year but it's nothing he really minds nowadays. Sometimes he can't even believe he made it that far, so if the punishment these days for defying Chuck and Death several times in the past is backpain and some aching joints, that's more than welcome. 24th of January it's like any other day for him. He hasn't celebrated his birthday in years, maybe since he was eight and just because he stole a biscuit and some candles that clearly didn't add up to the right number. A birthday celebration is something Sam always had because he damn well made sure of it. So this year, the 24th of January lands on a Friday that looks like every other Friday when you are (finally) retired from hunting and you live in a big house with your now husband that came back from the Empty and decided to stay for good after a very heart-touching reunion where everyone cried like a baby (including Sam). Said husband is now missing from the shared bed and his side is slightly cold but since he put all the cards (and his heart) on the table, a missing Cas isn't something that scares him anymore.

Sam's in the kitchen, drinking something that's doesn't look like coffee but fortunately isn't a smoothie either. The rays of morning sun that enter from the kitchen windows reflects on his face, his skin looks healthier as it does his own since all of them left the bunker, and Dean is so glad he got to live enough to see his little brother grow and become the man he is today.

"Hey! Where's everyone?" He asks, ruffling Sam's hair quickly enough to avoid retaliation.

Sam huffs and closes the book he's currently reading. Something on civil rights that probably has to do with the online degree he started to pursue a year ago but maybe it's Sam's morning lecture because that's what lawyers-to-be like to read. Dean prefers novels and fiction in general and his growing library is a testament to that.

"Cas and Eileen went grocery shopping" he says. "They took Miracle for a walk and Jack tagged along".

Jack has been spending some time in Heaven these days. There are a lot of things to be fixed and rebuilt under God's supervision but most days, when he isn't needed, he loves to stay in his room reading some comics, gardening with his Dad or going fishing with Dean (the first time he said "Dad! Look what I caught!" Dean cried so hard he couldn't stop for what felt like hours, scaring all the inhabitants of the lake and the poor boy in the process). So, yes, Jack has things to do Upstairs but he wanted to be at home when Uncle Sam and Uncle Eileen came visiting and decided to stay for the night.

He hears Baby's rumble accompanied by a happy bark soon followed by a soft crack of the main door. Both Cas and Eileen carry an excesive number of grocery bags for a single meal for today and Dean doesn't understand why since he know the pantry is more or less full but that feeling is quickly forgotten when Cas makes a beeline (bags and all) to put a kiss directly on his lips. It's quick and chaste, just a brush of lips on lips, but Earth-shattering anyways. Some form of a ritual between them, kissing the other one every time one of them come back from an errand or from just staying outside gardening or giving Baby some maintenance. The kiss means I love you, I'll always come back to you, and it hasn't lost his meaning after all these years.

Dean's voice comes as a squeak after that and he tries to mask it with a manly cough that fools exactly no one. Less alone Cas, whose big smile holds the brightness of a thousand lights.

"Do you need some help with that?"

"We are fine", Eileen says at the same time that Sam says "We should continue fixing the basement, don't you think?"

And that's a weird thing to say because the basement has been Dean's work in progress since he and Cas bought the house four years ago and the second thing Dean's hands love doing the most after touching Cas (out of the bedroom that means everywhere whenever he wants but inside most of the time there are rules) is fixing things. And Dean loves his brother's company, he really does, but he can't do jack shit in that regard so Dean works on it in his time alone. But he follows Sam anyways and lets Cas, Eileen and Jack do their thing since, after coming from the Empty, Cas discovered an interest in cooking (with varying degrees of success) and probably he wants to handle that today.

And ok, maybe being retired from active hunting (not from training new recruits, mind you) has softened Dean's instincts because he should have suspected that there was a plan behind everything because, when they go back to the house, the dining room has been decorated with birthday paraphernalia and the table is full of food and the people he loves the most are wearing a small party hat (even Miracle!) and matching smiles. He doesn't cry when a big pie is placed in front of him with two candles shaped in the form of a four and six and Jack proudly announces that all of it was made from scratch by he and Dad. He doesn't cry when Miracle comes with a box in her mouth that contains a ticket "to anywhere in the country, just you and me, Dean". He doesn't cry either when Sam and Eileen give him a gift of their own in the shape of an envelope that contains an ultrasound of who's going to be a future Bobby or Mary Ellen. And he definitely doesn't cry when he is suffocated in a big hug by his whole family and Cas whispers "I love you so much, Dean" and Jack says out loud "I love you, Dad!".

The question that has been trapped inside his chest the whole day escapes from his mouth only when he and Cas are alone in their room at night.

"Why all of this?"

Cas kisses him. Soft, languid and slowly, like the passage of time.

"I can remember you been proud of us everytime we achieve something" he says. "When Jack built a chair for his room without using his powers, the first time I changed Baby's oíl without your help, when Sam announced he wanted to study Law again, when Eileen got the job she wanted. You were so happy for all of us, Dean, but you should be celebrated too".

There are a lot of things Dean wants to say but none of them come to mind. He's also at lost for words when Cas produces a small box with a ribbon from a lingerie shop he recognises.

Cas's smirk and raised eyebrow are full of dirty promises and sexy rules he's more than happy to follow. But that's, well, that's a story for another time.

"

[freyito]

"ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴘɪʟʟᴏᴡꜱ" || ᴊᴏʜɴɴʏ ᴄᴀɢᴇ & ᴋᴇɴꜱʜɪ ᴛᴀᴋᴀʜᴀꜱʜɪ

✧ a/n: can't believe my first piece of 2024 is a part 2 to this booby fic... but goddamn i need my head in kenshis boobies rn. it'd make everything better...

🗒 cw: gn reader cause everyone can have boobs, bonus points!, not proofread

✎ wc: 750

⎯ Johnny Cage

Good GOD does Johnny love burying his face in your chest any time he can. He mainly does it when he's had a bad day. It's a great way to destress, he says. He promises there's nothing more to it. And he's right.

Sure, Johnny can be provocative and that charm doesn't exactly disappear. But seriously, this is like way too comforting for him. The stress of directing, making something worth it, it all dissolves when he's face first in your chest.

And he talks. He talks and talks. Will not stop yapping. His entire day, whatever he's done, something about movies. Every word muffled because he refuses to leave, or even lift his head off your chest.

So, when you return home after a particularly bad day, you decided to try Johnny's method of destressing. Johnny's on the couch, watching The Princess Bride for like the 27th time. It's the perfect time to strike. And strike you do.

Before he can properly welcome you home, your face is pressed between his tits within seconds. Sweet, sweet heaven. You understand now. You understand everything. Your stress dissipates, tensions of the day gone, immediately.

You can barley hear Johnny giggling and joking, you're too caught up in a euphoric daze. You only lift your head when it feels like you can't breathe. Johnny stares down at you with the biggest knowing grin ever. He's not gonna make fun of you, even with that hint of mischief in his eyes.

⎯ Kenshi Takahashi

Kenshi is disciplined, he likes to think. So he doesn't he really even think about burying his face in your chest. On top of that, he's pretty busy. The OIA, the Taira, the Yakuza... it's a lot. You don't seem him at home much.

However, in those rare moments he gets with you, some time's he'll lay his head on your stomach or your thighs. He enjoys the kind of connection, some sort of contact after a hard day of work. It grounds him.

But oh, come on. We've seen how big this guy is. Massive tits. C'mon. It takes you a while to build up the courage to go for it. But when he's wearing tank tops, compression shirts, etc... it's so hard to restrain yourself.

Kenshi KNOWS. Sometimes he does it on purpose. But when you start stalking him, keeping your distance, plotting... he wonders what's gotten into you. He makes it a game, kind of. But you're winning. As hard as he's trying to keep up with you.

You find the perfect time to execute your plan. You two are cuddled up late into the night, savoring the rare moment of touch. Without warning, you seize your chance. You roll over onto his chest, head first into those big naturals. Silence cascades over the both of you. Oh, it's even better than you imagined it. Soft... warm... inviting... it's a shame he keeps them hidden. Kenshi doesn't know how to react. Eventually, after several minutes of agonizing silence (and pure bliss between this guys pillows), he finally wraps his arms around you and even pulls you a bit closer.

⎯ Hanzo Hasashi

Hanzo also considers himself controlled. He's above acts like that. Or so he thinks. He won't outright plank into your chest, but when there's downtime, he quite enjoys laying on your chest, with your arms around him. Reading a book or something. That's just the way he likes to wind down.

We've all seen the side-boobage on this man though. Untapped market right there. It'd be a shame NOT to put your head between those pecs. Like, it'd be a sin not to.

One night, during some much needed time alone, you find yourself wrapped up in Hanzo's arms. It's a quiet night, he's finding it hard to fight off sleep. He's been busy, and it's been a hell of a week for him.

His defenses are down, so you take up the opportunity. Awkwardly, you wiggle in his arms, flipping from your back to your face. What awaits you is reminiscent of the gates of heaven. God, you could live like this.

Hanzo's mind is fried, so he doesn't quite understand. To him, you feel more like a weighted blanket. Which ends up making it even harder to stay awake. He's trying to savor every moment with you, but sleep is quickly catching up with him. Waking up to you still resting your head on his pecs however... part of him is glad he was too tired to understand.

© freyito, 2024 | masterlist | queue | kofi DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

End Game 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your gaming buddy asks to meet up but it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: have a great friday, dudes.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Maris Street. You rarely go that way. It’s near the core of the town, closer to the west end where green hedges and white picket fences cordon off the suburban elite from the commoners like you. It suits him, doesn’t it? You assume this is what he’s used to. 

The venom roils in your gut as you approach Oxford Drive. You stop before the sleek grey exterior. The black trims and large golden moniker in all caps add to the extravagant effect. Flowers boxes stand outside the windows that glow amber with rich ambience from within. The nicest place you ever went was the Korean Barbecue your dorm mate dragged you to; this is well beyond that. 

You take a breath and look down at yourself. You’re still wearing the black jeans and plain tee you sport for your job. Former job. Your beat-up sneakers perfectly match your thrifted aesthetic and the purse strap twisted around your hand and wrist frays as if to assure everyone that you don’t belong. 

You go to the front door and pull it open. You step inside to the low drone of stringy music and the subtle clink of glasses amid the low murmur of voices. You chew your lip as you approach the tall round desk where the hostess stands over the open reservation book, like some mystical keeper of scrolls. How very Skyrim of her. 

She gives you a look, one you expect. You sniff and cross your arms, the strap of your purse further straining your circulation. You exhale and peek over at the dining room. 

“Hi, I um...” your cheeks pinch as you find it difficult to speak. “I’m meeting someone.” 

“You are?" Her skepticism drips from her voice, “are you certain they’re... here?” 

“Yeah. I don’t know if he made a reservation or whatever. Obviously, I’m not a regular,” you snipe back. You’re too exasperated to hold back. You don’t need her judging you too. “Older, beard, uh, tall... Andy Barber. Is he in the book?” 

She flutters her pretty lashes and looks down. You watch her. She’s a few years older than you. Tall, balayaged hair, slender, perfectly bowed lips. What about her? Or someone like her? Why wouldn’t he want that instead? Why is he bothering you? 

“Barber,” she nods, “yes, he’s here.” 

She seems surprised by that. She steps out from behind the desk and tells you to follow. You obey. You have to. This is all just pulling teeth. He has you toothless already. 

You keep your head down as you trail behind her. You only look up as you sense a figure on the other side of her. Andy stands as you approach and you nearly choke. You want so bad to just turn around and run away. 

A line deepens in his forehead and disappears. He smiles as the hostess waves you forward. He comes around to pull out the other chair before you can. You retract your arm and barely withhold your frustration. Can’t he understand you want nothing from him? 

You sit stiff and fix your bag in your lap, slowly unwinding the strap from your wrist. The hostess promises a server will be with you soon and struts away. You stare at the table cloth and as Andy sits, darkening the edge of your vision, you turn to glare at the far wall. 

You feel even more demeaned sitting there in your jeans in tea among the crystal and tall-stemmed lilies. The tinkle of the soft woodwind music makes your head buzz yet the smell of the food teases your empty stomach. Your eyes drift to a group of older women, laughing over wine, a symbol of what you’ll never be. Happy. Free. 

“Thanks for meeting me. I guess you’ve never been here before,” Andy begins. 

You shake your head and flick your eyes to the ceiling. You grit down on his words. Why is he acting like this is normal? 

“Nice place, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” you snap and look at him directly, nearly growling in his face, “very nice. Upscale. Well above me.” 

You cross your arms and sit back, your purse strap still loosely clinging to your wrist. His chest rises and he exhales through his nose. He leans forward and his cheek ticks. 

“I brought you here for dinner, so we could talk, get to know each other--” 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” you insist, almost teary-eyed from your rage. You don’t like being angry. You’ve never been very good at and more times, you end up blubbering. “Kara, my friend--” 

He tilts his chin up and sets his gaze firmly on you, “we’ll get to that.” 

“No, now,” you hiss. 

He huffs through his nose. He looks around, silently chewing his agitation. He sits up and replaces that manufactured smile as a server approaches. 

“Good evening, can I get you started with drinks?” He asks, his dark shirt finely pressed and buttoned to the very top. 

“No thank--” you begin. 

“We’ll take a bottle of cabernet,” Andy interjects, “for the table. Oh, and could we get some fresh bread. This has been sitting out.” 

The server acquiesces and takes the basket as Andy hands over the wine menu. You barely keep from rolling your eyes. You’re not here to eat and drink and be merry. Kara is quite possibly behind bars. 

You glare at him and wait. The server leaves as you keep your arms folded, fingers clamped tightly. He looks at you as if there’s nothing wrong. As if this is all normal. 

“I want to know what’s going to happen to Kara. You said you can help--” 

“I can,” he says casually, “so let’s have a nice dinner and then I’ll do just that.” 

“But she’s--” 

“They’ll have her in holding, question her, then they’ll have to figure out charges, yada, yada,” he explains, “don’t worry, I’ll give them a call after, tell them my client is invoking her right to an attorney.” 

Your chest thumps and your ears ring. He’s so confident. He already knows you can’t say no. Not to him or this dinner. You have to sit there and celebrate his victory that came with your defeat. It’s not right. It’s... it’s... deranged. 

“Why?” You croak. 

“Why?” He shakes his head. 

“Why are you doing this? Why me? Why not someone... someone you can relate to? Someone your age?” 

“Why you? You’re perfect, sweetheart. Perfect for me,” he coos, “come on, we get along. We did. I know I messed things up but it can’t change that we had fun. We did, didn’t we?” 

You swallow and shrug. Those nights you stayed up and mined or raced or whatever, they were fun, they were nights you look forward to. But every single one was a lie. 

“Sure, but... what if I’d lied to you? What if I wasn’t me? What if I was some guy in a basement--” 

“You weren’t.” 

“But what if--” 

“I know you weren’t.” 

“How could you know--” 

“I just did. You’re so genuine, so... kind, that can’t be fake,” he insists. 

You sink down, slumping your shoulders, and look away. What can you do? You’re exactly where you never wanted to be. With less options. With none. 

“What do you want from me?” Your dry mouth crackles around your words. 

He’s quiet as the server returns. He sits back and you lift your chin as you watch the server uncork the bottle. He pours the wine and Andy asks for a few more minutes with the menu. Again, you have no appetite. 

When you’re alone again, Andy takes a breath and shifts in his chair. He brings his hands together, pinching his left ring finger as if he’s missing something. He quickly pulls his hands apart. 

“You. That’s all I want,” he breathes. 

You stare at him. You don’t understand. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to. If you keep denying it, it might not be the very idea that makes your skin crawl. 

He reaches for his glass of wine and holds it out. You stare at it, then look him in the face. You can’t wipe the horror from your face. 

“Cheers to us, sweetheart,” he says, “me and you.” 

You shake your head as he waits. Slowly you take the glass before you and raise it. He clinks the crystal between you. 

“It’s the first day of the rest of our lives,” he declares, “we can both build the home we always wanted. Together.” 

🎮

Andy pays the bill as you wallow in futility. This is it. Your life is over. All because of one mistake. All because you trusted the wrong person. 

He stands first and you follow. He grabs the to-go box of the food you barely touched. You’re in such a fog, you can barely think. He gestures you towards the door as he nudges you with the box. You hug your purse to your stomach and walk between the tables. 

The cool night air wakes you up. As you come to the sidewalk, you stop. You turn back to him and wet your mouth, a hint of wine on your tongue. 

“Call. Right now,” your voice shakes. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart?” He inclines his head as if he doesn’t understand. 

“The police. Call. You said you would help Kara,” you insist. 

His brow arches and he nods. He holds out the container and you take it stiffly, letting your purse dangle from your shoulder. He pulls out his phone as he stares at you. Finally, he looks down and scrolls. He clears his throat before he puts it to his ear. 

“Hi, yes, this is Andy Barber, I’m an attorney for a woman in your custody. Yes, I do.” You listen to the piecemeal conversation, “name is Kara Orascio. Yes, she won’t be talking to the police any longer. That’s correct.” He pauses and listens intently, “I’m out of town but I can be there tomorrow. Sure.” 

He hangs up as his eyes cling to you still.  

“So, looks like we need to pack,” he says. 

“What?” You utter. 

“Don’t you want to see your friend?” He challenges. 

“Well, yes, but I thought you--” 

“I’m not coming back here again. So, you’re coming. We’ll deal with your friend’s charges then we’ll go home.” 

You blink, “home?” 

“Sure, sweetheart, I got it all ready for you,” he turns down the sidewalk and takes your hand. 

You have the urge to rip your hand out of his. You want to tell him not to touch you. You want to scream and run away. You don’t because you want to save Kara more. 

“I meant what I said before. I can get you into school down there,” he guides you along, “you’ll like it. It's close to Boston. Place called Nelson. You ever been to Massachusetts?” 

“Hm, no, didn’t travel much.” 

“That’s okay. We can do some of that too. Still got lots of summer left. We could go somewhere sunny,” he drawls, “you know, it gets gloomy in the fall so we may as well enjoy it while we can.” 

“Sure,” you murmur. 

Your feet are heavy, your head too, every part of you just wants to give up. Haven’t you? Isn’t that what this is? You surrender.  

“You okay, sweetheart?” He stops and lets go of you, fishing around in his pocket. 

“I’m...” your vision narrows in; just like the moment you first met him. As Andy. As the real him. As the twisted man you just sold your soul to. “...tired.” 

“Aw, yeah, well, it’s been a long few days. For both of us. You wanna come back to my hotel. The bed’s really cozy and the tub is deep. You could relax for the night before we gotta get on the road,” he offers. 

You shake your head, “n-no,” you stutter. The last thing you want to do is be alone behind closed doors with him. “You said... pack. I should... do that.” 

“Ah, I did. Alright, I’ll take you to your grandma’s. I’ll have to come early so we can get to your friend.” 

“Right,” you agree coarsely. 

“Trust me. I know how to handle cops,” he chuckles and pulls out his keys, unlocking the car right beside you. He opens the door and steps back, “I’ll call ahead. Get us a room as there too. I guess you’re going to want to catch up with your friend while we’re there. Might be a while before you see her again.” 

You wince and look at him. A while. You look around at the street lights. You’re not unhappy. Leaving this place doesn’t matter to you but leaving Kara, possibly forever, that’s a knife in the chest. But forever is easier if you know she’s okay. If you know she doesn’t pay for your stupidity. 

You nod and get in the car. You can’t speak. If you even try, you’ll bawl. The end is there, you feel it closing you in with the car door. 

[janeyseymour]

When There Is Love, There is Life... pt 2

I had a few ask for a part 2, so here it is! I hope it's worth the read!

Part 1

WC: ~2.9k

Valentine’s Day had come and gone, and you meant what you told Melissa when she figured out that you were the secret admirer behind all of those gorgeous flowers that she received for the holiday. You are willing to wait for her- she is absolutely, 100% worth it to you. There is no doubt in your mind that Melissa Schemmenti is worth waiting for.

So you’ve been waiting for about two months now, and you entirely understand that these things take time. You’re in no rush.

Honestly, nothing has changed between the two of you since you confessed your feelings for her. The two of you still innocently flirt with each other. You’re there for her, and she’s there for you. She still brings in extra portions of her lunch for you, sometimes you spend your evenings lounging on her couch and drinking wine. She still stays with you during preps and any other opportunities the two of you have to spend together throughout the school day. When teachers are allowed to go home, the two of you walk out together.

It’s nice, it’s simple, it’s warm. It’s exactly what Melissa needs in order to continue to heal her heart from the breakup with Gary, and you are more than happy to be there for her in any way that you can be.

But lately, Melissa’s been thinking: it’s you. It’s always been you. Sure, Gary was fun and she could’ve stayed with him for the rest of her life, but… you’ve always been there. You’ve always acted as more of a life partner to her than Gary ever was. Even if it was just platonic at the time, she couldn’t shake the feelings that she had for you, no matter how hard she tried. When she told you that you were a big reason that she didn’t want to get married and officially broke it off with the vending machine man, she was serious.

It’s been two months. Two months. There was no rebound for her, and she certainly didn’t want to make you feel like a rebound. But two months is a long time, and she thinks she’s ready to start getting back into the game… get together with you.

But when you made this beautiful gesture to her, the redhead knew that she had to make a gesture that equaled your initial efforts. You’re worth it.

The flowers that you had given her all had meaning behind them, and she loved that. She actually pressed quite a few of them before it was too late so she could keep them forever. She’s planning to put them in resin to keep them on display forever. 

So she decides to take a page out of your book.

During your preps, she tells you that she has a few parent phone calls to make, a simple white lie that will keep you out of her room without becoming suspicious.

“Oh, good luck with that one,” you chuckle as you head for your own room. “If you finish them up early, you know you’re always more than welcome to come down.”

She nods. She feels a bit guilty lying to you, but she knows it will worth it.

She spends most of her prep period researching the different meanings of flowers. She knows you love roses though, and roses come in all different colors and signify different things. She’s able to order a custom bouquet of roses, and she’s decided that she’ll put them around the school for you to find throughout your day when she’s able to pick them up. All she wants to do is make you feel as special as you made her feel. You’re worth it. She plans to buy a dozen roses, in an assortment of colors, before planning out where she’ll put them all. By the end of her research and planning, there’s only ten minutes left of her prep. Deciding that she wants to see you, she plans to order the flowers for you while she’s waiting for you to come over that night. Satisfied with her work, she closes her laptop and heads for your room.

When she gets there, she refrains from knocking for just a few seconds, taking in the sight of you.

You’re just sitting at your desk, looking at your laptop. But the way that the sun is hitting you makes you look like you’re glowing, and there’s almost a sort of angelic effect that the light in providing. One leg is crossed over the other, and the slit in your dress shows off just the smallest bit of your skin. Your blue light glasses are set on your face, and she can’t help but think that you look adorable with them on. She knows in that moment (not that she didn’t already) that she’s making the right choice. She licks her lips subconsciously before knocking gently on your door frame.

You glance up, and a smile washes over your face. “Hey. How’d the calls go?”

“Oh they went alright,” she tells you. “But it’s exhausting. Care to join me for a cup of coffee in the break room before we have to pick up our little gremlins?”

You laugh as you move your glasses so they’re on top of your head. “You know I can always use the jolt of caffeine.” You stand and make your way over to her, looping your arm through hers and heading for the staff room.

As she’s waiting for you to arrive at her house for dinner, she orders the bouquet of flowers that she’s going to give you piece by piece. 

The order gets confirmed just as you text her to let you know that you’re in her driveway. She closes her laptop and heads for the door, ready to greet you.

You look perfect to her. Golden hour is upon the two of you, and she has to refrain from pulling you into a kiss right then and there. If she does that, then her flower gesture just won’t be the same.

She picks up the flower the next morning before heading into the school earlier than she ever has. She has to beat you to the school if she’s going to pull this off. Quickly, she drops her bag at her desk before grabbing the little notecards she had prepared the night before. She organizes the flowers and gets to putting them into the different places she wants you to find them. Once every flower is in its right place, she makes her way back into her classroom to actually prepare for her day with the students.

You come wandering in not fifteen minutes later, eager to see the redhead. You take your bags into your classroom and you go to set them down on the top of the desk, but you stop. Sitting there are two gorgeous yellow roses, and there’s a note tied around them neatly. You recognize the handwriting to be Melissa’s right away.

The note reads in her beautiful script, As much as I wanted to hate you, I just couldn’t. So we started off as friends… just friends.

You pick them up and bring them to your nose, delighted with the sweet aroma they let off. You drop your bag before heading over to your cabinet and plucking out the vase that you keep at the school. You fill it with water before heading over to her room to thank her.

Taped on the door though, is another rose. This one is orange, and there’s another note tied to the stem.

As I watched you settle into your role here, I couldn’t help but admire your excitement to get to make a difference. I couldn’t help but adore you… both the personal and professional side. You made work exciting.

You pull that one off the door and stick it in your vase before you knock gently three times. Her eyes flit to you, and she smiles warmly.

“Good morning,” she says in her usual tone, as if she isn’t up to something.

“These flowers are gorgeous,” you tell her as you make your way over to the redhead. “Thank you.”

She just smiles at you softly. “Of course, hun. I’m glad you like them.”

“How did you know I love roses?” you ask as you perch yourself on her desk, admiring the beautiful flowers being held to your chest.

“You have to remember that I’ve seen you walk in here with various bouquets over the months to liven up your room… they’re always roses.”

“I didn’t know you paid that much attention,” you shrug.

She chuckles softly. “It’s hard not to pay attention to you… coffee?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you laugh. The two of you start to make your way out of her room when you notice something taped to the inside of her door. It’s another flower- this one gold.

“How many flowers do you have hidden around here?” you ask as you gently pry it off the door and glance at the note. She ignores your question and instead gestures for you to read what she had written to pair with this rose. 

Watching your loyalty to not only your students, but this school and your work family has been nothing short of beautiful- like you.

You practically swoon at that little note, and when you look over at Melissa, she’s watching you with a fondness in her eyes. You place the flower into the vase and carry it down with you to the staff room.

You make your way over to where the coffee mugs are in order to start prepping the pot of coffee that you need to make. When you open the cupboard. there, in your mug is a beautiful yellow rose that has red ends, much like the one that you got her.

Somewhere along the line, our friendship turned into more.

As you hold that flower close and smell it, she wraps a gentle arm around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. You turn your head ever so slightly, and you look at her with a hopeful look.

“Is this going where I think it is?” you ask softly.

She shrugs. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But you’re not even halfway to the amount of flowers, so I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but you’re willing to play along with her game. You half expect another rose to be waiting for you when you open the other side of the cabinet with the coffee grounds in it, but there isn’t one. You go about your morning with more pep in your step than usual, and when your crew starts to filter in to the room, they all look at the two of you curiously. Neither of you says anything, choosing to stay in this little bubble that you’ve created for yourselves. Instead, you sip on your drinks and watch the news with them like you would any other day.

All too soon, it’s time for your group to disperse for the day. You head for the vending machine as you usually do, to grab your bag of chips that you have during snack time with the kids. In the machine is a blue rose. It has a note on it, but you can’t quite see it. Sighing, you insert your money and pay for the blue rose that clearly is meant for you.

As it drops, you feel a warm hand settle on your waist again.

Our friendship had turned into more, but it was impossible. There were too many pieces to make the puzzle fit, so it didn’t happen.

You look at her, a sad look in your eyes. But there’s a sparkle in her own green ones that tells you that this still might turn out okay.

As the two of you are walking down the halls, arm in arm, you ask her quietly, “How’d you manage to get that in there? Gary usually fills our machines, and I know he isn’t about to be doing you any favors.”

She shrugs. “I know a guy.”

You laugh at that. Of course she knows another guy who could open the vending machine for her to plant the blue rose.

“Have a good morning, hun,” she tells you as she drops you at her room. “I’ll see you during prep.”

You watch her as she saunters down the halls, hips swaying just a bit more than they usually do. You have to stop yourself from drooling at the sight. 

You set the vase on your desk where you can see the beautiful flowers, but you take all of the notes off. You slip those in your purse before admiring the beautiful little bouquet that you’ve created. 

Your kids are all too thrilled to see the different flowers.

“Miss Y/N!” one of your kids grins when she walks in. “Those are beautiful! Where did you get these ones?”

You grin. “A special someone gave them to me.”

The class lets out a chorus of ‘ooh’s, and you deal with quite a line of questioning before you can convince them to continue on with your morning.

The kids are wonderful for you as always, and before you know it, you’re dropping them off at art class. The art teacher hands you two beautiful roses, one light pink and one dark pink. Attached to them is a note.

“What does it say?!” one of the girls in your class questions. They don’t let you leave the room until you’ve read the note aloud.

“And even through all of this, you’ve been nothing short of perfect. These two flowers symbolize the thanks and appreciation I have for you, all that you do, all that you’ve done, and all that I know you’ll continue to do,” you read. Again, they let out a chorus of cheers before you turn on your heel and head down the hall to your favorite coworker’s classroom.

She’s all grins as you enter with the two flowers in hand.

“I see Sheila was able to deliver the flowers to you,” she smirks.

“I’m starting to think that she’s my secret admirer.”

She rolls her eyes and nudges you playfully. “Please.”

“Too bad I’m not into her, and I have a thing for this one other coworker of mine instead… sweet redhead, if I can admit that,” you flirt.

The two of you spend your prep quietly, both of you working on things that you have to get done for the rest of the day and preparing for future days. It’s soft, it’s warm, it feels like home. Melissa feels like home.

But that time is up all too quickly, and the two of you have to go pick up your kids.

When it comes time to pack your bags to head out for the night, you can’t help but admire your flowers again. Although they look a bit… more full. Without you noticing, there’s been two white flowers slipped into the bunch, a note attached to them.

I am worthy of you, and you are worthy of me, the note reads. It’s simple. Your heart nearly melts.

You take a picture of the bouquet that you’ve gathered before grabbing your bags and heading down the hall to Melissa’s room.

“How did you manage to slip those last two in there?” you ask her as you saunter in.

She just gives you a shy smile. “Every once in a while, it pays off to have your kids be familiar with me… like when I asked Jamal if he would sneak them in there while you were busy monitoring the kids packing up. It doesn’t help when I’m out at recess duty and they come up to me crying with their drama.”

You chuckle at that. It’s the same for you with her kids. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And? You love it.”

“I do.”

“I’ll see you at my house in an hour?”

“I wouldn’t miss a homemade Schemmenti meal,” you grin.

The two of you walk out together, but this time she gently slips her hand into your own, interlocking your fingers. You glance down at them, a blush creeping into your cheeks.

She walks you to your car, before getting into her own.

You pull up to her house the promised hour later, a nice bottle of wine in hand. You don’t even have the chance to knock before she’s opening the door for you. In her own hand are two red roses. There’s a note attached to them. And before you can even take the offered flowers, she takes your hand gently and pulls you in. She kisses you softly yet passionately.

When you pull away, your smile matches the one written into her face. You glance down at the flowers, reading the note.

From friends, to an impossible love, to something that I’ve found is worth fighting for.

“Red?” you whisper. “That means…”

She nods. “It means I love you.”

Those words take your breath away, and you have to control the tears that threaten to pour over onto your cheeks as you pull her in for another kiss.

“I love you too,” you whisper once you’ve pulled apart. Your forehead rests against hers.

“I’m ready,” she tells you quietly, but with confidence.

  Yeah. She was worth the wait. 

[animeyanderelover]

I'm almost through with the second season of Vampire Diaries and whilst I would love to write something for Klaus already, I still know too little about him. Since I love rocky poly!relationships I decided to instead dip my toes into a little image with the Salvatore brothers when they find out that they both love the same darling.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, stalking, threats, g/n reader

Imagine this...

The rustling of paper cut through the thick silence hanging in the room, the unspoken tension crackling like fireworks about to go off. Blue eyes flew over the pages filled with elegantly written words, narrowing when he stumbled over a line or nickname so romantic that Damon felt the need heave. His hands tightened around the elegantly bound book, his jaw clenching as he felt a familiar feeling bubbling up within his chest. His gaze slowly darted over to the other pile of books placed right next to him, all filled with the same content that he knew would have him ripping apart everything within a frenzied rage if he were to continue reading.

Unable to read on and feed that growing burn within his dead heart, Damon slammed the book shut with more force than needed. Putting it away, his body leaned back against the couch. His eyes closed for a few seconds as he tried to stuff the uneasy feelings within his chest away. He could not do this otherwise. Footsteps circled around the couch he was sitting on, slow and apprehensive, before they paused right in front of him.

"Damon."

As soon as the older brother opened his eyes, he was met with the guarded expression of Stefan. Arms crossed over his chest, the younger brother observed him with a gleam of caution. That in itself was nothing new, Stefan had rarely welcomed him exactly with open arms since both of them had been turned into vampires. Still, perhaps Damon would have liked a more warm-hearted greeting. Especially since both brothers apparently had a new... should he call it passion, to bond over.

"Brother!" Damon exclaimed, his tone worringly enthusiastic as he stood up from the couch, a smirk on his face as he walked closer to his younger brother.

"Perfect timing! I was waiting for you. There is something that I really, really wanted to talk with you about."

Green eyes pointed a fleeting look at all the notebooks scattered across the couch before they met the blue eyes of Damon. Already Stefan could tell that this wouldn'e be an easy conversation. Not with someone like Damon.

"You know, whilst I was waiting for you, I found this," one of his hands grasped one of the notebooks laying around on the couch, “And I just couldn’t help myself but take a look inside. To see what could possibly be on my dear brother’s mind.”

His fingers flew across the pages in a quick tempo, his blue eyes still able to take in words and sentences. Stefan took one step closer to him, worried that any second now Damon would rip it apart. He knew his older brother after all. That chipper tone he used coupled with that foreboding gleam within his eyes never meant something good.

“Why you never tried your luck in poetry is above me, you know? I mean, the stuff that you have written down here is enough to make any poet envious. Joseph von Eichendorff and Friedrich Schiller would have been green with jealousy if they would have read this.”

Abruptly the notebook was taken out of his hand, Stefan’s fingers smoothing over the crinkled paper that had just been about to be ripped by Damon. He didn’t think it was a conscious decision, more a slip of strength from his brother’s side but it was that unpredictable impulsiveness that made him so wary of Damon.

“They’re not the ones green with jealousy right now,” Stefan replied after a few seconds, more bite to his voice than he had intended. The notebook was clutched protectively to his chest yet he stood straight, his gaze cautious yet firm as both brothers glared at the other. Damon tilted his head slightly as he inspected Stefan, his blue eyes revealing condescending surprise as he took in his younger brother’s words.

“Come on. Loosen up, Stefan,” Now it was Damon who started circling around Stefan with long and slow strides, his blue eyes ablaze with unspoken feelings, “You don’t have to be so uptight. I’m your brother after all.”

Stefan followed every movement of his brother sharply, the tendons in his muscles taut with tension as if he was expecting a sudden assault at any moment. At the mocking words of Damon he could only release a deep breath through his nostrils.

“I know that you’re my brother. That’s exactly why I’m worried.”

A wry smirk crossed Damon’s face as he was confronted with Stefan’s serious expression. “Now you’re just breaking your older brother’s heart.”

“Damon…” Stefan began, his voice hesitant as he searched his brain for the right words, “Please don’t turn this into your personal vendetta against me by dragging (y/n) into this.”

Within less than the blink of an eye Damon stood right in front of him, intense blue eyes clashing with Stefan’s green orbs. For one short second Stefan could see the way Damon clenched his jaw, the emotions of betrayal and hurt flaring up. Within the next moment his older brother hid it all behind that mocking smirk though, shaky as it was.

“And why would I do that, Stefan? Go on, enlighten me.”

There was a hiss to that tone, the bitterness seeping through no matter how hard Damon was trying not to show it. This situation was too much of a Déjà-vu for him to remain nonchalant and Stefan knew this. He searched for something within Damon’s eyes, anything to stop this conflict from escalating.

“I don’t want us to be like this,” he confessed, refusing to weaken his tone so that it would sound like he was begging. Damon would only sink his fangs into his words if he were to plea after all.

“Really?” Damon taunted, his eyebrows arching up in false shock, “I don’t believe that.”

His index finger started jamming forcefully against Stefan’s notebook, the pressure strong enough so that the younger brother could feel it.

“Because based on what you wrote in here I’m pretty sure that this,” his other finger pointed back and forth between him and Stefan, “is exactly what you want us to be like.”

The shadow hovering over Stefan’s face disappeared as Damon pulled away, stepping away without removing his piercing gaze from his younger brother.

“And if that is how you want it to be, then I am more than prepared to play this game. Little warning for you though, I don’t plan on playing nice.”

Two pairs of hands yanked him forward, fingers curling into fists and gripping his jacket in a tight grip.

“If you want to be angry, be angry with me! But don’t drag them into this only to mess with me!”

The growling warning of his brother elicited a scoff of disbelief out of Damon, one corner of his mouth lifting up as he leaned his face closer to that of his younger brother.

“Being angry doesn’t suit you, Stefan. Did you forget? You’re supposed to be the good brother between the two of us.”

“Knock! It! Off!” Stefan hissed, each single word punctured by the way he shook Damon. Part of him knew that he shouldn’t get so worked up because this was exactly what Damon wanted. However, he couldn’t help it. Not when it involved you.

“Or what?” Damon growled challengingly, his own hands grasping the collar of Stefan’s shirt, “What is Prince Charming going to do if I act like I always have been?”

A brief flicker of something. Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps it was regret. Perhaps it was something entirely else. Whatever it was, it was gone too quickly for Damon to decipher it. Instead he watched as Stefan’s expression hardened, dark veins appearing beneath his eyes as the next snarl of his lips revealed sharp fangs.

“Then I’ll make sure that you won’t get to even touch them! I won’t let you have your way with them, Damon!”

The same dark veins that had already appeared on Stefan’s face now blossomed on Damon’s, a snarl of his own tearing through his throat.

“Oh, I’d like to see you try that, little brother.”

[talia-black]

RELATIONSHIP HEADCANNONS

Mondstadt Boys

Nothing sexual is explicitly mentioned in this, only vaguely suggestive for Venti. For all of the younger characters it is strictly romantic. (And before you come at me in the comments, I went to high school. I’ve seen close romantic relationships between teenagers that never even verged on sexual and would never even consider writing an underaged character in such a light.) 

This is also my first time making a post like this, so please be nice. Any advice is welcome since I’m still relatively new to Tumblr.

Kaeya-

Kaeya would never in a million years consider dating someone with serious romantic intentions, even if his feelings were fully reciprocated. His past, his secrets, his ties to so many dangerous factions would put them in immediate danger at all times, and if there’s one thing we know about Kaeya it's that he would do anything to protect the people he loves. Including breaking both his and their hearts in the process. But if he was free from all of that, Kaeya would love an SO who he could just relax around. Just be Kaeya instead of everything else. They would be his safe space, his only true home outside of Dawn Winery, and the true meaning of freedom for him. 

What Kaeya didn’t know he wanted in a significant other was someone who could see past his masks instinctively. They never commented on his half-truths, his bluffs, his misdirections. But through the briefest of eye contact he knew that you knew exactly what he was doing. He comes back home in the early hours of the morning with bloody knuckles and open wounds, they are still up and bandages him while talking softly about whatever gossip had been hot on the market that morning. 

Kaeya is flirtatious by nature, and his playboy attitude extends to them in public so many don’t think their relationship is that serious. But behind closed doors, with his heart open and gently placed in their hands, you would think they were divine in nature. They laughed at the attempts of other people to flirt with him, because they already knew that his heart belonged to them.

Diluc-

Much like Kaeya, Diluc knows he lives too dangerous a life to consider a romantic relationship. Unlike Kaeya though, he craves that connection just a little more fiercely than Kaeya. While Kaeya is constantly surrounded by the friendly comradery of the Knights, Diluc is far more isolated. Of course he has Adeline, Elzer, and the other workers at the Dawn Winery who’ve known him since he was a child, but he doesn’t share any close friendships that goes to on a regular basis. What Diluc knows he would want in an SO more than anything else is companionship. If he could afford to, he wouldn’t care where they’re from or what their background is if they were able to make him forget about his responsibilities for just a little bit. Someone he can come home to. 

What Diluc didn’t know he wanted was someone who could help him repair his stunted relationships. Someone who invites Kaeya over for tea while they know he will be home and eventually coax both of the brothers to dig up five years worth of skeletons and come to a much better understanding. Someone who helps him at the bar after long days working in the vineyard, keeping an ear out for anything people might not otherwise let slip near the intimidating man. Above all else, Diluc did not know what he wanted was a true partner who was as dedicated to his own wellbeing as he was to theirs.

Diluc would not be showy about his affection beyond what was appropriate for a gentleman. Arm hooked around yours, hand against lower back, and maybe a quick peck on the lips if they had relative privacy. Back home though, this man is so touch-starved that he will be wrapped around his SO for as much time as possible. Playing chess? Too bad, they have to move their pieces while sitting on his side of the board. Reading a book? Someone’s head is in the other person’s lap. Sleeping? They only use a thin sheet because Diluc is a heater and plasters himself to his SO’s back and tucks them under his chin like a stuffed animal. 

Venti- 

Wow. You thought the previous two were traumatized? Venti has watched entire civilizations be wiped from remembrance at the whims of the Heavenly Principles and does everything in his power to make Monstadt seem like less of a threat in order to prevent the same thing from happening to him. Nearly all of his significant relationships have been ended by death or time, so the thought of having an SO, especially an immortal one, would terrify him. Contrary to popular thinking, I think Venti would want an SO who is mortal. 60-70 years of bliss, forever immortalized in song, and out of reach from the claws of the Heavenly Principles. 

What Venti didn’t know he wanted was an SO who was an artist themselves. He was so used to being the performer, the one expected to entertain the audience with story and song. With just a little instruction (and maybe a blessing made on a bet) they were already able to rival Venti’s prowess with a lyre. It made quite the stir in Mondsadt, as Venti had been unmatched for years, and soon fan clubs were formed. Whether they were being shipped or slandered, there was none who could deny the inherent chemistry between Venti and his rival. In fact, there was no clear confirmation on their relationship until Venti drank nearly half of the Angel Share’s stock on a dare and kissed them full on the mouth. And even then the heated debate persisted. Until one day, they climbed on top of the church and belted out a serenade for all of Monstadt to hear before proposing to their “cheeky, bird-brained, bastard who also happens to be the love of their life”. Yeah, Venti may or may not have caused a mini hurricane to knock them off their feet so he could sweep them away to Starsnatch Cliff. 

Venti is flirty, but after he starts seriously courting his SO he noticeably tones it down. Creative and blush-inducing complements to his audience were still common, but nothing truly improper. In private… he shared an ungodly amount of characteristics with those cats he’s allergic to. Spoiled with kisses and cuddles, demanding when he goes without their attention for more than a few minutes, and if they’re open to it, always ready for more exciting activities. Like stated previously, Venti doesn’t want his SO to be immortal. As much as their death will hurt, at least he was able to make sure that their short life ended peacefully and with a full heart. He will sing your songs and tell the tale of the two bards who had captured each other’s hearts. Besides, even he will return to the winds one day. And then will be able to reunite with them, and all of his old friends. 

Razor- 

Honestly, Razor’s concept of a romantic relationship between two humans is either completely nonexistent or radically underdeveloped. He’s seen wolves court and mate (Though Andrius keeps Razor away during mating season. Young pups should not witness such things) so I think that any kind of romantic action would just come off as heavily platonic or familial. He’s never thought about finding any sort of life-partner, all he wants is to protect his family, so whatever vague idea of an SO or “mate” Razor has would involve him taking care of them and being taken care of in turn. 

What Razor didn’t suspect was that his SO would be so willing to be accepted into his Lupical. While he had friends like Bennett and Klee who were nice to him whenever they saw him around, but most people still tended to avoid Razor. It hurt a bit, but as long as Razor had his Lupical and his friends, he never gave anyone else much thought. Until one day, he found an adventurer freeing a wolf cub who had gotten its paw stuck in a hunting trap. Such traps should not have been so close to the wolves’ territory, and Razor found out later that they had come on a commission from the Knights to investigate. However, Razor noticed how in the process of freeing and bandaging the pup, they had torn open their hands. He had immediately gone looking for Wolfhook, and waited until night when they had fallen asleep to sneak in and apply the berry paste. He didn’t want to frighten them, and instead opted to watch over them while they slept. He fell asleep sometime during the early morning, and only awoke to the smell of meat cooking. He opened his eyes to see the adventurer watching him from the opposite side of the fire, a plate of berries and steaming meat set near him. 

Razor was quickly enamored by the lone adventurer. They were a new recruit, and had actually heard of Razor from Katheryne when they accepted the commission. Over time, the adventurer ended up taking every opportunity possible to visit Razor. The boy’s excitement whenever he caught their scent on the wind never lessened, and both of them often spent nights in the middle of Wolvendom in blissful silence. Razor never felt like he had to talk much around them, and the same could be said of them. The two were able to discern most of what they needed to from body language, facial expressions, and scent in Razor’s case at times. It didn’t take long for them to be introduced to the rest of Razor’s Lupical. The pup they had rescued recognized them immediately and spent the entire evening receiving head scratches. As midnight approached, the older wolves nudged Razor towards their slumped over form. They had passed out with most of the pups on top of them, and Razor immediately curled up behind them with his chin resting over their exposed neck protectively. Just as he had watched the wolves do with their mates. 

Albedo- 

Wow. Kinda a mix of Kaeya and Razor; he is flirty (His teapot voice lines startled a blush out of me the first time I heard them) but way more subtle about it. But I also don’t think he has ever seriously considered a romantic relationship with someone. While the thought had crossed his mind once or twice, who could he possibly meet who would be compatible with him? His personal identity as a homunculus and a creation of Rhinedottr means he is already a nonhuman entity, and his title as Mondstadt’s Chief Alchemist and his work keeps most of his relationships strictly professional. Even his friendships are mostly cordial, though he does enjoy the company of others at times. This man is always doing something, so entertaining romantic notions for anyone has never entered the picture. However, I think he would like a SO similar to Fanon!Traveler Lumine (And I’m not just saying this because I’m on the Albelumi ship I promise). Someone who managed to catch Albedo’s attention would need to have something inherently unique about them. Someone who manages to keep his attention on them for a significant period of time would have to have an equally appealing, lighthearted personality that practically lit up the room whenever they walked in.

What Albedo did not expect from his SO was someone who showed so much care for him. Someone who is curious about Albedo’s work, even if they don’t fully understand it. Someone who may not understand art, but recognizes the effort Albedo puts into his drawings. Someone who invites (read: coerces) Albedo out of his lab to go eat at Good Hunter or take the evening off to relax at Angels Share. Their occupation and background doesn’t mean much to him personally, the information is only relevant if it pertains to their health or behavior. Only one issue with this set up, even if feelings are completely reciprocated. Albedo has no clue what these feelings are and where they are coming from and will spend far too much time deliberating on what he should do to them. Much to the exasperation of all of the Knight and his fellow alchemists. Once Albedo does a full analysis of himself (bloodwork, brain scans, chemical analysis, a few experiments to see how he reacts to certain stimuli, this man is nothing if not thorough) he will come to the conclusion that he is in love. (Sucrose sighs when Albedo brings the test results to her.) And he immediately launches himself into a new kind of research. He asks around about the best way to confess, and eventually decides to cultivate a new species of flowers specifically for them and then just cut to the chase over a private picnic under the stars. This man already has no filter, so once he manages to correctly identify the emotions he is feeling, the length of time between then and the actual confession would be much shorter. 

Those flowers Albedo cultivates in their honor would be everywhere once his SO admitted their feelings were mutual. He dedicated an entire section of the alchemists’ greenhouse to them and ordered for no one else to touch them except for him. They would find the flowers in their hair, in between books, scattered around Albedo’s workspace, and somehow in their house. Similar to Diluc, the few times Albedo and his SO were out together in public people would know that they’re dating, but beside the fact that the two were almost always holding hands and the occasional peck on the cheek, neither were overly affectionate in public. Albedo would also be incredibly flexible in private when it came to their dynamic. He likes both giving and receiving affection and doesn’t really have a preference as long as he can spend as much time as possible in their company when he’s not working. They like to follow him on his expeditions to Dragonspine, mainly for the excuse to snuggle with Albedo every night when they get cold. The rest of the Knights adjusted well to Albedo’s SO, even if Sucrose needed to take on more work at times so Albedo could spend more time with them. The Knights closest to Albedo watched with fascination as the typically workaholic alchemist actually took lunch breaks, got in late, and left the moment he was satisfied with the progress of his experiments. What they don’t see is how the way he treats his SO in private is almost reverent. They are his muse, his lover, and his eternal companion (because unlike Venti, Albedo would 100% find a way for his SO the share his lifespan if they so chose to) and in one of his dark moments, Albedo realizes just how much he would ruin if it meant they stayed safe. 

Also, Alice would 100% show up for the first time in years just to help her son get ready for his first date. 

Haven’t played Bennett’s hangout quest yet and don’t know enough about his character so I will probably post him with another nation once I get around to it. 

I’ll get around to doing Liyue if enough people decide they like this.

[azsazz]

Keep It Up

Kinktober Day 19: Nesta x Reader [Praise]

Summary: Nesta let's you know just how good you are for her.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, FF

Word Count: 2,328

Notes: Don't come for me it's my first time writing FF.

_________________________________________

“Would you look at that,” Nesta says, blue-gray eyes drinking you in as she rounds the bed. You crane your neck, following her movements, desperate to watch her reactions, to hear those words you want to hear fall from her lips. 

You’re naked, legs spread wide for her to see. Your body is flushed from head to toe, chest heaving a little as you come down from your first orgasm of the night. The one where Nesta had sat on the plush couch across the room and watched you, demanded it from you. You whimpered loudly, back arching off of the plush bed as you worked your fingers through your folds, circling your clit as you stared at her, eyes wide and nearly begging for her words.

She hadn’t given them to you. Not yet. You know how Nesta likes to play, you earn your praise like the good girl you are or you don’t get her hands, her mouth, her words. “Look at me,” and you did. “Another finger,” and you obeyed. “Cum for me.” Yes, yes, yes.

“Please, Ness.”

Your cunt glistens in the soft lighting dotted along shelves stuffed with books. There’s no warmth in the room, not a fire in the hearth, and your nipples hurt from the tightness, the cold licking over them. You ache to have her warm mouth on them, licking, sucking, biting. Gods, you need her.

Nesta prowls closer. She moves with such grace, it’s a surprise she hadn’t been fae her entire life. With a preternatural elegance, she slowly unhooks the straps of her dress from her shoulders, revealing pale, perfect skin that dips down to her glorious, full breasts. 

You hadn’t seen her in days, off on a mission in the Winter Court on Rhysand’s command. It hadn’t been anything terribly serious, emissary duties with an ally of Night shouldn't have taken as long as it did, but the stipulations had changed on Kallias’ part, and you’d been told to stay within the ice palace until you could convince them to agree to your High Lord’s terms.

And you’d done it, but not without missing your mate. The crystals hanging from the ceilings reminded you of her eyes, her sharp wit and less than warm personality. It’s what you love the most about her, though, because while she may be cold and unfeeling towards others, with you, she’s different.

You get the greatest gift of all, her warmth. There isn’t enough to share with the rest of the world, so it’s mostly kept within the confines of your bedroom. You don’t mind, though, because there are often times where you don’t leave the chambers for days. And those are your favorites. And exactly where you hope this night is leading to.

“All pink and pretty for me, aren’t you?” Nesta praises, coming to kneel between your legs. She drinks in the sight of your glistening cunt, shining just for her. Your fingers are still stuffed inside of yourself, moving at a slow pace as you try to work through the sensitivity from your orgasm. “How about a proper welcome home?”

“Yes,” you hiss, spreading your legs wider for her to see the entirety of your eager, dripping cunt.

Icy fingers trail the expanse of your warm legs, from calf to bent knee. Nesta’s gaze is pinned to your weeping cunt, begging for her to touch. The softness of her stroking fingers doesn’t surprise you, she looks more enamored with how ready you are for her than anything else.

“Did you miss me, mon amour?” she questions, right as she brushes her knuckles across your throbbing clit. Her gaze finally flickers to yours, catching how your lips part to suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, your breasts rising with the action.

“I missed you so much, Ness,” you add softly, taking a moment to meet her gaze full on, nothing but honesty in your eyes. Her gaze softens, and you send those yearning feelings down the bond, diminishing now that you’re back together with your mate. “It hurts to be away from you.”

She sighs softly, a shiver working up her spine. It’s a comfort, to know that you feel the same as she does, like she’s missing a limb when you’re not around. She tends to lock herself away from others while you’re out of town, more irritable when you’re not there to keep her calm. 

Nesta leans over you, pressing her lips against yours. It’s slow, soft, and sensual, everything you’ve been missing all in this kiss right here. Paired with a finger sheathing into your cunt, all the way to her knuckle, it’s everything.

“We’re together now, mon amour, let’s make the most of it.”

She knows exactly what she’s doing, too. How to work your clit in tight circles, the quickest way to get you to reach your orgasm. You whine. You don’t want this to be fast, you want all of her attention on you all night, and the morning, and the entirety of your time until you’re whisked away on another mission from Rhys.

“Ness,” you mewl, eyes wide and pleading.

Her chin is lifted, eyes looking down at you and she jerks her fingers faster, twisting them to brush across the bundle of nerves you’re crying out for her to touch. Her pose exudes dominance, even though there’s no one else she needs to be proving this to, with you pinned by the movements of her fingers, it’s pretty clear what role you’re playing in this sexual act.

“Don’t hold back,” your name is a demand on her lips, and the tightness coiling through your cunt tells her that you’re trying to keep yourself from cumming, all to keep her fingers inside of you a little longer. “Cum for me, and I’ll give you my face.”

Her words make you explode, fingers digging into her soft skin as you cling to her, trying to claw your way through the dark. Your mind is muddled and Nesta keeps up her quick actions, sliding her fingers in long strokes, working you through that incredible feeling coursing through her body until you’re limp in the bed, unable to open your eyes.

“That was…” you trail off because you can’t find the words. Incredible. Magnificent. Extraordinary.

“You’re doing so well for me, mon amour,” Nesta says, finally leaning down beside you. Your naked bodies press tightly together as you roll, facing her. Her eyes have gone a touch soft and she lifts the hand between your legs, hushing you softly when you whimper from the loss. You’re all wet and warm, but the ache for her never ends, not really. 

Nesta lifts her glistening fingers between the both of you, pressing them against your slightly parted lips. There’s a hunger in her eyes that has you clenching your thighs again, but she’s wedging her leg between yours, and you grind down on the muscle of her thigh. 

“Be a good girl and clean me up,” she says, and you don’t hesitate, sucking her fingers into your mouth. The taste of yourself floods your senses and the bond in your chest goes warm. It makes you preen, when she shows you her delight by shooting soft feelings down the tether of your souls. It’s almost as good as hearing those words coming from her lips. “That’s it, just like that.”

You moan, gyrating against her leg, soaking her skin. Your fingers find her body to hold her tightly as you do, stimulating yourself on newly formed muscles from Valkyrie training. One particular grind has you weak and desperately trying to work yourself faster.

Nesta watches you with bright eyes. When any semblance of your slick is gone from her fingers, coating your mouth, does she finally remove them, grabbing your hip and pulling you further into her body. She leans in, devouring your mouth, licking your taste as you brush your tongue against hers, giving it to her eagerly. 

In a bold—needy—move, you snake your hand between the two of you, sliding between her legs to touch her. She’s warm, wet between her legs and she gasps against your mouth when you slide your fingers between her folds, brushing right up against her swollen clit. In retaliation, she nips harshly at your lip before soothing it over with her tongue.

You can be daring when you want, when you need to feel her as much as she needs you, and Nesta loves it when you do. So, you make work of it, falling into the feeling of her mouth, her thigh between your legs and your fingers between hers, working each other up as you kiss, touch, and grind against the other, a pile of tangled limbs in the middle of your plush bed.

The heat in your gut is present again, a burning through your loins that has you panting against Nesta’s mouth. “I’m—mph—I’m going to cum.”

“Louder,” she moans into your mouth, accepting it. “Let me hear you.”

Except, that she’s pulling away. And it hits you like a wave against a rocky shore, that she isn’t asking to hear your cries of pleasure, but those begging ones that you sound so fucking pretty making. 

“Please, Ness, I need to—”

“Need what, mon amour? Need to cum? How? Want my mouth? My hands? My cunt?” Nesta teases, licking hot down the skin of your throat. You arch off of the bed, flattening your head to the pillow to give her more space to work. She climbs down your body, pressing her hips flush against yours as she works. You can hardly even think when she suctions a tight nipple into her mouth, laving over the nub with her tongue. She nips at them, sucks harshly, her free hand playing with the one she doesn’t have her mouth on. Your fingers bury in her long hair, caressing the nape of her neck as she works. 

The bucking of your hips for friction does nothing to distract her. That’s your Nesta, hard-willed and determined. Determined to leave her mark across your skin in any way possible, love bites sucked into skin, bruises shaping your hips, teeth marks gone red with nearly broken skin. If you could tattoo her on your skin you would. Maybe you should make a bargain with her so that fantasy can come true. You want your skin, your aura, to reflect how you feel for Nesta on the inside, the mating bond thrumming with love.

“I need to cum,” you pant, but that much is obvious. Nesta licks a long stripe from your navel to the base of your throat and blows air on it. The sensation turns you dizzy. “Want to cum on your cunt, Ness.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” she grins against your skin, pulling away to give you what you ache for. She slots herself against you and you groan from the sensation of her hot cunt pressing against your own. Unable to control yourself, you roll your hips, enjoying the sound of pleasure Nesta releases as you take charge. “C’mon, mon amour. Show me what those hips do.”

Fervor consumes you. You’ve orgasmed once on Nesta’s fingers and it hadn’t been enough. To edge you further, she’d nearly had you cumming against her thigh as you rutted into her like a teenager getting off for the first time. It should’ve been embarrassing, but with the way she was kissing you, you were anything but.

The remnants of your lost orgasm creep back slowly. Nesta’s noises help a lot, and the way she’s grinding just as desperately against you, throbbing clits pressed tightly together with each stroke of your hips, adds to the building in your stomach. 

You’re both so wet for each other, soaked cunts slick and noisy as you move. You bite at the skin on her pale throat as her head is thrown back and she cries out with a wail that makes your clit pulse, beating in reaction.

“Gods, Ness,” you sigh, “You’re fucking beautiful.”

She hums, pulling you closer, hands guiding your hips as you fuck against her. The position she puts you in stimulates you more, like a part of your subconscious had been holding back, wanting to fuck your mate for as long as possible. 

“Right there,” she croons, lashes fluttering over intense gray eyes. “Right there! Yes, yes, that’s my good girl—”

Those words always unlock something within you. You lose all control of your body but Nesta’s there to guide you through it, soft words pressed into your skin as she encourages you towards the orgasm clenching your cunt.

“Right there!”

“If you keep making those noises, mon amour, I’m going to cum.”

You keep it up, releasing yourself and falling fully into it. You moan louder, more languid, drawing it out until Nesta is jerking against you and cumming with a cry of her own. Her grip on your body is strong, as if locking the muscles on her convulsing body will stop you from grinding yourself against her. It doesn’t. You move faster, reveling in her soft moans she makes, the bite of her fingers against your forearms. You’re chasing your own orgasm like hell, and the pool of Nesta’s hot cum that slides across your cunt is what does it for you.

“Fu-uck, Ness!” You cum with a cry and now you’re both a mess of jerking limbs and clinging to each other like the searing heat coursing through your blood is trying to separate you. You bury the rest of your noises in her mouth, needing to feel her against your mouth as euphoria wracks your body.

“So good,” she sighs, when the both of you melt into each other, the bed. She brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it sweetly behind your ear and presses her lips to your cheek in a chaste kiss. “So good for me.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

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Promised Me The Sky, Tossed Me Like A Stone

A/N: It’s been a bit since I’ve posted on this blog so uhh here ya go! I was listening to In Pieces by Linkin Park and got inspired. That song is about Gale’s feelings toward Mystra, I stg (I’m joking but it screams “I was tossed aside by my goddess lover” to me with some of those lyrics). Enjoy tho!- Mod Ghost

Summary: Stargazing and philosophizing with the rizzard known as Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep

Pairing: Gale Dekarios x GN!Tav

“…may I speak with you about something that’s been on my mind recently?” Gale began, breaking the silence between the two of you as you lay together in the grass to stare up at the starry expanse of night with intertwined hands.

“Yes, darling?” You replied, turning to lay on your side so you could look at him instead of the inky blackness above the two of you. He was much more interesting than some blips a few trillion miles into space.

“I’ve been wondering…why didn’t you take the chance to be with Halsin? When he asked you to?” he spoke in a soft tone, one you’d never heard from him before.

“I’m…not sure what you mean. It’s exactly as I told you then, I’d rather be with you. You’re the one I love.” You mimic the cadence of his voice, empathizing with the pain he was clearly feeling somewhere deep within him as you gently stroke your fingers through his hair.

“Why? He’s much more of a man than I, and could prove that to you any day,” He chuckled, but there was no mirth to his expression. It felt cold. Flat. As if he was simply trying to lighten your mood as well as his own.

You felt your heart clench with an aching despair as you took in his question, moving to sit up as you continued to hold his gaze. Even if he wouldn’t tear his eyes away from what was ahead of him.

“Gale…look at me.” You whisper tenderly, taking hold of his chin between your thumb and forefinger to turn his face toward your own in order to urge him further, “You are the one I love, the one I adore, even. Not Halsin, not Astarion, not Karlach…you, and I will continue to tell you the very same even after the day you finally are able to feel that. To know that I would give anything just to see your smile, to hear your laughter. Alright?”

The wizard simply lay there, in stunned awe, for a moment. As if he just didn’t understand that someone could love him so readily, so deeply. It startled him but he was warming up to the idea, letting himself welcome it. How could you find him so alluring anyway? He’s just…

Gale.

He’s just some wizard, a man that spent most of his life with his nose pressed into one book or another. Mystra’s discarded guard dog. If he wasn’t good enough for a goddess of all people, how could he even possibly begin to deserve love from you? The being closest to perfection that he’d ever encountered, let alone been with. The one who makes him forget his goddess, makes it tolerable to live again without her and brightens all the colors of the world just by being there. You were his everything and more, but he’s been so used to giving his all to Mystra only for her to give him scraps in return that weren’t even fully his.

To her, he was one of many. A mere drop in a plentiful ocean of lovers, to the point where it didn’t matter that he was her chosen. When she’d initially picked him, brought him into her good graces, he thought that might change things. Gale quickly learned that wasn’t to be the case, because to her, he was nothing but a mediocre experience at best. She had been what his entire existence was devoted to, and he’d been working to correct that. To slowly detach himself from all the threads that she had sewn into his soul. You make that easier for him, though, by treating him with such gentle care that he was only just now starting to truly believe he deserved.

“…Gale, honey, please…? Say something?” you insist, inching closer and adjusting to hold his face with both of your hands, “It’s quite rare that I’ve ever heard you be silent.” you continue with a tease, trying to summon some kind of reaction from your wizard.

He merely chuckled once more at first, before he spoke, “You…astound me. I have never in my life felt so out of my depth. I’d have plenty of reason to believe you were a siren if we were at sea, showing me my greatest desires as if it were as easy as breathing. Or even a god yourself, but that simply isn’t the case. None of the gods I’ve ever tangled with have shown close to half of the divinity you possess. I truly feel that you were sent from the heavens, but it has taken some doing to realize that it was specifically for me. I love you, too, with all of my heart and soul.” his voice came in almost a whisper, the wind carrying it gently from him to you.

It was more relieving than any balm sold by the best healers in the realm to hear him say that. You smiled, tugging him closer and laying your head on his chest while his hand settled on your lower back. Staring upwards while you lay in his embrace, the vast blanket of stars above you seemed much less daunting now, knowing that whatever was ahead would be conquered with Gale. Getting this far in your adventures together had been treacherous, but it felt effortless at his side. You now realize that it was love that fueled you, that urged you on all this time. To see this through with hopefully a bright future on the other side.

It’s what Gale, as well as you, had more than earned.

No matter what it cost you, it was what you were more than willing to give to him.

“Have you ever thought about killing Mystra?” your voice tore through the silence, almost startling him before he spoke himself,

“What?”

“What? She’s done nothing but–”

“You wish to kill the goddess of magic for…what, for me?”

“Why do you say that as if it’s so ridiculous?”

“Because it’s the goddess of magic!”

“I’m well aware of that–”

“We are not killing the goddess of magic. I use magic entirely too much for that.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, “and that’s the only reason?”

“I’ve long since stopped from trying to tell you that killing is wrong, my love.”

“How very clever of you.”

That ended the lighthearted threatening of Mystra’s life, at least for now, and left the two of you in silence to stargaze until you fell asleep where you lay, a few miles away from camp and wrapped in each other’s arms.