#one day ill be good at armor

[serafphim]

[gurugirl]

[1] It's Good to Be King | mean king!harry

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Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.

Ch. 1 Word Count: 8,282

Ch. 1 Warning: smut (not w/Y/n), funeral scene, parental death, manipulation and coercion, corruption kink, humiliation

. .

The sky was gray, which seemed fitting for the occasion, and a single bell from the watchtower at the kingdom's town center slowly clanged the funeral toll.

It was a sad day for the prosperous kingdom of Thornekeep. The king’s funeral was quite the spectacle. There was not one citizen with a dry eye, for King Augustus Styles was beloved by all. The townsfolk stood along the cobbled road as two steeds pulled the king’s covered coffin to the cathedral for a ceremony that would end the elder King Styles’ reign and make way for the prince to be crowned by birthright.

The young prince was at the front of the procession riding on a lone horse wearing battle armor, along with his father’s shield and sword. No one could read his expression as he kept his eyes on the road ahead toward the cathedral. The people of the monarchy were not so keen on the prince. He was not as warm as his father, and he often ruffled feathers. Some would say he was downright mean. But what could they do? He had been brought up for this very thing. To rule and protect the kingdom and its people. They would have to put their trust in him no matter what.

The ceremony was attended by the royal court, Privy Counsellors, Lord Mayor, Realm High Commissioners as well as the family of the King. Prince Harry Styles sat on the woven red wool chair at the front as the announcement was made by the Council and the accession declaration was called before the Prince stood to receive his crown.

When the ceremony had concluded the old Sovereign’s casket was taken again by steed for the final burial where the whole of the kingdom stood in wait as their new King made his proclamation over the land and the kingdom to the public.

And so it was. The new Sovereign of Thornekeep, King Harry Edward Styles, would rule over the people henceforth.

.           .           .

“Your Majesty, we apologize for the intrusion, but it is time to get to the order of official business.”

“You wouldn’t have to apologize if you weren’t intruding, now would you?” Harry’s groggy voice spoke as he remained sprawled on his back in his warm velvet bed with three naked women lying draped over his limbs still fast asleep and unaware of the two men standing at the King’s chambers door.

“May it please Your Majesty if we return in one half-hour’s time? Our Lord Mayor and the Orders of Council are awaiting you in the Great Hall. This is a very important meeting, Sir.”

Harry knew he had a meeting set up. He knew it was important to keep it and he understood the gravity of it all. But he couldn’t resist when he took three lovely young things with him to his chambers the evening prior and they each let him do as he pleased. He’d just been crowned King for Christ’s sake! He deserved to sew his wild oats before things got heavy and real and it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty of his new stifling responsibilities.

“I will find myself in the Great Hall in one half-hour’s time. No need to return.”

“Yes, Sir. And what should we tell the Lord Mayor of your tardiness?”

“Fuck’s sake! I don’t care! Tell them I’ve got my privy member sallying forth and I’m in the sack with three concubines if you like! The Lord Mayor can wait a half hour. Give him a thumb of brandy. Tha’ should keep him with a smile.”

It was this very attitude that had the folk of Thornekeep nervous. Harry’s proclivity for saying what he pleased with little regard for the people he was saying it to.

The two men bowed their heads and backed out the door, closing it behind them before Harry sat up, pushing the women from him and stretching his arms overhead.

His first full day as King. He’d not looked forward to wearing the crown. But he knew what he needed to do and he had no choice just as the kingdom had no choice but to accept him as he was; full of grit and scandal, haughtiness and ego.

His bare feet landed on the heavy wood floors and he scratched his member before draping a sheet over the naked women in his bed. They’d all had too much to drink and Harry figured they could stay put until he returned. Maybe another round or two would do him some good and sober him up before he kicked them out to get back to their duties. Whatever those were.

He robed himself that morning and even though he’d been offered a personal dresser to assist him, he declined. Harry didn’t like the idea of having a valet in wait unless he was feeling like making them watch him fuck whoever he took in his bed for the night. That could be fun… Harry liked being watched. Maybe he’d reconsider and take a personal assistant after all.

The council and mayor were sitting in their places in the Great Hall when Harry sauntered in, unkempt and smelling of muff. Everyone stood and waited until he took his seat at the head of the long wooden table. Light poured in through the stained-glass panel behind him and everyone awaited the King’s call to order.

“We may begin,” he spoke. And so it started.

It was laid out for Harry the major issues that always needed tackling, allocation for funds and the people of Thornekeep, the Kingdom’s allies, and enemies, projects left undone that were awaiting signatures or provisional work. Then there were the upcoming events and additional contracts that needed sorting.

But there was also the concern of the King’s marital status.

“You’ll need a Queen. Someone to continue the Styles’ lineage for Thornekeep. The people will want to know they are under the rule of a stable Sovereign.”

“What does it matter how the people feel? I can rule without a Queen. I’d rather not be hindered.” Harry waved a hand as he spoke unconcerned.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, how do you expect to have a child out of wedlock?”

The cheeky grin that pulled up on Harry’s face had his advisor suddenly standing to stop the King from answering that question but Harry only laughed and looked at the man. “Sit. Do not interrupt me again. I think Our Lord Mayor would like a lesson in biology and I’m not one to turn down a teaching moment.”

The advisor relented with a sigh (what was he to do? tell the King not to speak?), sat back down and Harry began. “One does not need the burden of wedlock to create offspring. It’s quite simple you see…” All the men knew where this was going as Harry continued. “All I need to do is stick my fiddle within the sweet quim whiskers of a beautiful woman and keep it in until I’ve done my duty. Could take a few rounds to set but I imagine soon enough the woman receiving my bounty will be heavy with child and upon the moment of birth will provide me an heir. No need for a marital contract of any sort.”

The men of the council looked around at one another in near shock at Harry’s dismissal of tradition as the Lord Mayor spoke. “That will not do. It is imperative that you find a Queen, my Lord. You need a woman that will raise said heir in the castle with you, bring them up properly, and teach them our ways. This will be your legacy. You must see that.”

Harry knew of course that his words would fall on deaf ears. He knew he’d have to marry and make a show of it. But he did rather enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of the fancy and feathered men, all tensed with their sleek coverings of velvet and wool and white tights tucked into silk and leather shoes with shiny silver buckles and heels that made them appear taller than they were.

“Fine. I’ll have my selection in a fortnight.”

His selection. As if he were choosing a dish to be served for dinner. But that is how Harry saw it after all. He would have his choice of dishes just as he would have his choice of women. It would be the roasted venison with piping hot potatoes, smothered in butter, and artichokes for his dinner, and for his wife, he’d take the pretty redhead with the plump bottom and big bosom lying in his bed. She had the kind of tummy that would take a child well he figured.

Making his way to his chambers he whistled a tune to himself, his mood not diminished by the news of his new tasks, for he was about to wet his fiddle once again. The redhead did seem quite desirable in that moment. But instead, upon entering his room, the redhead was missing.

The two others were lying on their backs and turned to see the King enter. Sitting up quickly Harry pulled his robe off and shut his door. “Where is the redhead with big breasts?”

“She was gone when I woke, Your Majesty,” the one with dark hair spoke.

“Well, bullocks. Do you know her name?”

Both women shook their heads no. “No, King.”

Harry sighed and continued removing his clothes. Well, if he couldn’t find a wife that night, he’d enjoy what was leftover in his room. He had a fortnight after all. Plenty of time to find someone he could tolerate. He had no intention of selecting anyone from the pool of suitable women the advisors told him about. That was a bore.

“You.” He pointed at the fair-skinned girl. “Sit in that chair and face the bed.”

Harry’s undervest was pulled off and he was left naked as he walked up to the one with dark hair and grinned at her. “You’ll suck my cock while she watches.”

He enjoyed his position of power. Women never told him no. Not when he was a prince and certainly not now as King. He had the young woman take him down her throat and checked in with the fair-skinned girl. “Keep watching. Want to make sure you get a good look at how well she does it. Just like last night. This one knows how to suck.”

Her slick mouth encased his girth and he groaned as he stood at the bed, the girl on her hands and knees taking the King on her tongue and gagging violently around his length.

“Oh, a noise maker!” Harry moaned, “Keep up the good work my little whore…”

The girl sputtered and pushed away from him, gasping as she looked up at him. “I’m not a prostitute! I’m–“

Harry interrupted, balking, “I don’t care. Think of it as a term of endearment. Get back and finish the job. It’s much better when you don’t speak.”

“King… perhaps you could just fuck me? My throat is starting to hurt.” She rounded her eyes at him.

He sighed as if it were an annoyance. “Okay. Turn around, face down.” He looked over at the girl on the chair. “Still watching?”

She nodded. “Yes, King.”

Harry poked himself into the pretty woman and she was already slick for him. He enjoyed a cunt just as much as he enjoyed a mouth and the view he had was rather delightful. He rocked into her and watched as her pussy lips gripped him, her insides coating him with a glisten that smelled like a proper cock wrapper.

His heart began to thud harder as he thrust into the hilt, smacking his hips into her soft round bottom and moaning in gasps as he felt his testicles squeeze and tighten. 

The girl was making her own little grunted noises but Harry wasn’t concerned if she finished or not.

Harry’s breathy moans changed into something deeper and more guttural the closer he got and he began to pound into her harder.

“Ahh! Oh!” She hollered as she was spread open by the King’s large cock.

But before she could even find her end Harry was pulling himself from her and spraying her back with his royal come and moaning in delight at his release.

The girl fell into the bed with a whine and the King noted the one watching was sitting at the edge of her seat with her eyes upon his cock.

“S’nice in’nit?” He turned toward her with his member in his palm. “Clean it off. Let’s make my knob shiny and new again.”

The girl was quick to lean in and take him in her mouth, licking off the slick from the other one who was left unsatisfied on the bed.

And when he’d had quite enough and his prick was deflating he parted from the girl and patted her cheek. “There we are. Off you go. Both of you. I’ve got to find myself a Queen.”

 .           .           .

Y/n had seen the procession with the new King from his father’s funeral at the cathedral. He was a handsome man with a strange emotion set on his face. She couldn’t tell what it was, but sadness, it was not. She’d heard all the talk about him from when he was a Prince. An ass of a man with an ego the size of Rome. And now, worries of the new King’s reckless attitude being trouble for Thornekeep.

No one could know exactly what to make of it. He’d not yet really had a chance to do much of anything. As Prince, he served in the Royal Army. It was said that he led a very strict outfit during times of conflict and was good at negotiation. That he loved confrontation and could coordinate a group of soldiers to be the best and most feared on the lines. But what did that mean for the citizens of his kingdom? The monarchy relied on his strength and wits to lead. While it was a promising thing that he was good at combat and negotiation, what about the finer details of being a sovereign leader? How would the people fare?

 “Right prat our new king. Doesn’t give a shite about us lot. You wait and see. S’gonna fuck the poor til we’re caged up like hogs. I don’t trust ‘im.” Lane was three quarts of beer in and Y/n watched as he guzzled from his tin.

The pair were sitting outside in the cold near the corner of the factory where the middle-income earners worked. Hoping for any scraps they might be willing to part with.

Y/n was a beggar. She would hold out her fabric basket or her satchel and try to look as haggard and tired as she could. But most just sniffed at her and walked past. She was young and while not the picture of health with her greasy hair and bones protruding, she was not fully unhealthy either. Most who gave to the poor were poor themselves. So she tried to look worse off to get anything she could.

A loaf of bread, a small salt fish, and whatever fibrous mash of grains and beans could be spared was allotted to each household weekly. And for Y/n, that was not enough food for her parents, her grandmother, and her three little sisters. She often went without eating and was the only one who could handle the chilled air for hours at a time to beg anyone who would spare a morsel.

Thornekeep was a rich, thriving kingdom but as was the norm for every city, town, and kingdom across the land, poor people did exist. Y/n had heard tales of other kingdoms that never allotted any food to households. And how some didn’t even have a roof over their heads at all. She was told she should be thankful that she wasn’t sleeping on the streets with the rats and their excrement as was common elsewhere.

But she wasn’t thankful. Her lot in life was hell. No one deserved to be treated as she was even if she was given a monthly stipend.

The debutante was held a week after King Harry’s crowning. Of course, Y/n would not attend. She was not of that world nor even close to being in a league where one would want her hand in marriage. What a laugh! Y/n imagined herself being presented among all the young beauties in their fine dresses with jewels and pinned and curled hair. What man would look at her and think he’d offer a proposal?

The young ladies and their mothers were all dressed to the nines. Shoulders held back, hair pinned high, fake smiles plastered on their faces… They were there to show the kingdom they were eligible for marriage and to compete for the king’s eye.

King Harry would be in attendance to select a bride for himself. He seemed to reject the normal route of having a queen selected for him. There were many who were raised up for that very thing and so his choice should have been easy. But he was stubborn. No one was surprised. Every woman presented to him, of those that his court felt would be a good match, he hardly even looked at before rudely sending away. 

Gossip traveled through Thornekeep as the ball was held to show off the citizens’ most beautiful and affluent daughters around. If he didn’t want the perfectly crafted, and trained young women fit to be his wife and queen, then perhaps he’d find one at the ball.

As always, Y/n sat perched near the castle gates holding out a small fabric basket for anyone to give anything and, as always, the scraps she did get were barely fit for filthy stray street dogs. Most of the people on that day were tucked away and out of sight in their covered carriages, horses trotting past, kicking up mud. She was used to being disappointed. Used to being ignored. Used to going hungry at the end of the day.

 "Dungworms, all 'em. Don't care if they dress in linen and fur. They're nothing but beetle-headed rot. Hate all 'em," Lane moaned as a coach passed them by. He threw a vulgar gesture toward them, but only after they were out of sight. It wasn't worth it to get in trouble over.

"S'true. Can't wait for the Spring. At least then we'll have the sun warming us while all the ratbags pretend they're better than us."

They laughed as they looked into the gates that were opening for the carriage. The castle was a majestic landmark. Y/n imagined that inside it was warm with fireplaces in every room and a hot stove in the kitchen that was constantly cooking food for the king and all his staff.

Maybe one day she'd be lucky enough to sneak inside without being caught. She could hide in one of the many rooms and pilfer food little by little and warm her bum at night by one of the fires.

She sighed at the silly dream, as her stomach growled and the gates clanked shut.

 . .

The young women were all pretty enough. Harry was sure any one of them would be a fit. It wasn’t like he needed to do more than fuck the new queen until she was pregnant anyway but still… He found the freshly washed, smooth-skinned, rose and powder-scented young ladies of Thornekeep to all be a bore. And what good was making such a boring selection? Harry wanted people to watch. He wanted to see as all the advisor’s jaws fell to the floor. He wanted to make a scene. None of these fancy-frocked girls would do. He needed something more exciting that would really ruffle everyone’s feathers.

Stepping away from the pomp and circumstance of the ball he stood out on his balcony and watched out over the front of the castle yard with people milling about and stringed music floating up toward him. The gates were open with guards at the stand as new arrivals made their way in but he noticed a small group of peons sitting not far from the wall with their baskets and tins held out hoping for a scrap.

And he had a sudden idea. Using his small telescope he fitted it against his eye and lengthened the eyepiece to get a better look. Among the group of menials was a young woman. She was thin (too thin) and she had a scowl about her face but the thing that really stuck out to him was that she was… pretty. Not pretty in the way that many would notice but with a month or two of larded foods and sugared pastries, she’d be just as pretty as any of the girls in the ballroom. 

Even better, she was of peasant stock and the kingdom would lose their mind over such a pairing. It was perfect. He could simultaneously cause a stir among the lowly proletariats, the middle-class bourgeoisie, and the affluent magnates at the same time. No one would expect it. And no one could stop it.

Harry descended the stairs as everyone in the room had eyes on him. The King easily dodged anyone looking for attention or conversation and pushed through to the front as he exited the castle. His guards followed close behind with Fred, one of his men in waiting, scrambling to catch up with Harry’s long-legged strides. 

“King Styles! Where are you going?”

“Off to meet a young lady who sits opposite the wall. I think I’ve found my Queen.” 

The King’s approach felt like slow motion. Guards surrounded as he sauntered along the path toward the gates and Y/n couldn’t imagine why the King himself would be walking through them and not be driven in a carriage. Mud was kicked up on his fine dressings and shoes but he seemed unbothered by the mess.

“You.” He pointed, his finger (adorned with a heavy gold ring) appearing to be directed right at her. “What’s your name?”

Looking to her left and right she furrowed her brow as she looked back to the young king.

“Can you hear or not? You, the one with the fabric basket, what’s your name?”

Putting her hand over her chest she responded. “Me? Your Highness, forgive m–“

“Said– what’s your name, girl?” He spoke in a clipped, annoyed tone.

He stopped in front of her feet, standing tall over where she sat upon the dirt and brick. “My name is Y/n. Your majesty.” She bowed her head.

“None of that. Up. Stand up.”

She felt his hand groping underneath her armpit as she was pulled upward, clutching onto the empty basket.

"How old are you?"

Y/n looked behind herself toward Lane and then back at the king. "I'm 20, your majesty."

His odd inspection had her feeling a bit miffed. She would have told him to watch his hands and to be gentler but this was the king. She couldn’t have imagined what interest he had in her but when he turned her around and held her out in his arms to view her backside he spoke. “We can work with this. Bit skinny but soon enough she’ll be well fed.”

“Your Highness… sir, the young women in the ballroom are far more… Why you can’t possibly–“ his attendant spoke.

“I can do as I please and I say this is the one, Fred.” The King spoke before he twisted Y/n back around and examined her rag of a dress before speaking. “Bring the coach around. I need to have her come in quietly at the back where the servants enter and then brought up to the Rose Room forthwith. We’ll need a few ladies-in-waiting as well. Do that for me without running your mouth to anyone and I’ll give you the night off.”

She watched with wide eyes, confused as the man called Fred scurried off back to the castle and then turned to look up at the king. “Your Majesty, I don’t understand. What is your business with me? Have I done something wrong?”

“On the contrary. Your luck is about to change. With a little sprucing you’ll be quite darling I think. You’ll live with me in the castle henceforth.”

Her lips parted as she dropped her empty basket and looked down at Lane who was also in shock with his mouth agape at the whole encounter before looking back to the King. “I don’t understand. Why will I live with you? Am I being sequestered or summoned for a servant’s job?”

“Oh no. Nothing like that. In one month’s time you’ll be crowned Queen. You and I will produce an heir to the throne once our nuptials bind us for good. You’ll be given your own room with your own attendants and we’ll fatten you up in no time to prepare you for carrying my offspring.” 

She gasped and felt everything around her spin and spin and spin until all was dark and her mind stopped reaching for answers.

Harry caught her in his arms before she fell to the ground. He wasn’t surprised she fainted, given how malnourished she appeared. A guard and two of his aids helped bring her inside once the carriage arrived and up to the room that would be hers. A down mattress, silk and velvet bedsheets and blankets, a fireplace lit with a pot of warm water on the hearth, and a tray with a bounty of food were all waiting for her.

And if she was shocked by the King’s announcement about her being the Queen then waking up in such a lavish room that smelled of flowers and the smoke of a warm fireplace surely had her confused.

When she sat up, she felt the weight of a goose-down blanket draped over her body heavily. Blinking her eyes she saw a flickering fire and the ornate details of the room she was in.

“Madam…” A woman was suddenly stood at her side with a towel draped over her arm. “The King has requested that you bathe and eat before we bring you to him. Which would you like first?”

She shook her head, unsure of what was going on exactly. “I… is this for me?” She gestured toward the tray of food. Colorful fruits and a loaf of hearty bread caught her eye. She could go for a meal.

“It is. Would you like anything more?”

She quickly slid her legs from under the blanket and stepped toward the tray. The bright red apple beckoned her so she picked it up and took a large bite of the skin and flesh before tearing off some of the bread and stuffing that in her mouth as well.

There were blackberries, pears, bilberries, plums, a bowl of boiled potatoes, and cream. A pitcher of red wine beckoned with a pretty crystal goblet to drink out of. There was a whole smoked and salted fish, a gob of butter, and her favorite, a plum tart.

She’d nearly eaten the whole tray when she realized the woman had filled a tub with warm water and perfumed oil. She sat down the emptied glass feeling buzzed from the wine and stuffed so full that her ribs ached.

The room she was in was easily twice the size of the slum housing her family was given. The room was opulent and lit with fuel sconces and lanterns. A fireplace kept the space warm and the furnishings were a feast for the eyes. She imagined that the porcelain bowl near the tub would pay for a month of food for her family.

"Your bath is ready, madam. If you'd like I can leave you alone while you bathe or I can assist."

Y/n stepped in closer to the bathtub. It was one of those built-in tubs that you stepped down into, not the metal ones you had to climb up in. Her family didn't even have their own tub. It was shared with the men from the workhouse across the way and set at the back of the buildings outside.

But here, the tub was inside in a warm room and there was even a ledge to sit. Privacy. She'd love a little privacy.

"I'll be fine on my own. Thank you."

The woman nodded and left the room after folding a cloth and placing it near the tub. Y/n began to take her clothes off, the dirty rags left in a stinky pile on the wool rug before she dipped a toe into the bath. The water was hot. She could see the steam rising from it as she slowly slunk down inside and settled her bottom into the seat ledge. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the water surround her body and soak away the dirt and grime between all her bits and crevices.

And the scent wafting from the water was glorious. Like a flower with honey and tea caressing her skin. She used the small cloth to wipe herself down and then dunked her head to clean her face. The last time she had a proper bath was over a month prior. Her usual cleanup method consisted of a wetted rag wiped over her privy area and underarms.

But to have a hot bath scented with herbs and flowers by a warm fire in a room decorated with the finest fittings was a dream. A real-life fantasy come true. She couldn't wait to tell Lane about the whole thing. It almost all had her so distracted she'd forgotten the reason why she was there in the first place.

She let her limbs float outward as she closed her eyes and basked in the delicious silence. Everything in her life was chaos and noise and panic. But in that moment, none of that existed. Not until the door of her room was being opened and the young woman who'd filled the tub had returned with heavy material and silky fabrics draped over her arms.

She laid the clothes out on the bed in a row as Y/n watched from her spot in the tub.

"I've an outfit here the King has selected for you. I'll help you put it on once you're ready."

Y/n stretched her neck and peered toward the bed. "The King. Will I be seeing him once I'm dressed?"

"Yes, madam. He would like to see you when you're ready."

The reality of it all was heavy when she was helped from the tub and felt the prick of chills run over her skin. As warm as the fireplace made the room, it was still winter outside and she shivered as she dried her skin.

The young woman helped dress her. Y/n'd never worn such frocks before. It was a complicated task, getting dressed in fine clothing. She lost track of all the layers as she was fitted and the material tied around her and her body tossled. But even she could admit, once all the fabric was put into place and the woman began to fuss with her hair she looked quite captivating.

For a beggar.

She was led through a carpeted hall that seemed to stretch the length of the whole of Thornekeep until they were stopped at a wide doorway that opened up to a pair of mammoth wooden double doors. The young woman glanced back at Y/n before she rapped her knuckles over the heavy door firmly.

The door didn't open right away. Moments went by as Y/n shifted on her feet and the young woman nervously smiled at Y/n.

"I'm Phoebe. Think I forgot to introduce myself," she spoke quietly as she trailed her sight over Y/n's dress. "Hopefully the King is kind to you. He's been… difficult—"

The door was pushed open and a beautiful woman with olive skin stepped past them. "He's all yours," she spoke in a sultry voice that Y/n could only hope to one day mimic.

Phoebe gestured for Y/n to pass through and Y/n stepped into the King's chambers. If she thought her room was spectacular, his was a sickening show of lush wealth and haughty, needless adornments.

She was startled when the king spoke from his lounge. "Come. Sit."

Y/n and Phoebe walked deeper into his room and stepped down into a sunken seating area. Harry sat up straight and motioned toward Phoebe. "Not you. Leave us."

When it was just Y/n and Harry and she'd delicately sat her bottom at the furthest spot from the king she could find, Harry got up and placed himself next to her. "Are you scared of me?" He asked with a bright tone, as if it amused him.

"Your majesty, I don't know how to act. I've never seen such indulgent things in all my life as today."

He nodded and looked her over. "What are you wearing?" He lifted at her skirt and she batted his hand away on instinct.

"Phoebe said you picked it for me."

"Who is Phoebe?"

Y/n blinked and looked toward his chamber doors and back at the king in confusion. "The lady who helped dress me and… She was just here with me. The one you sent away."

"How sweet that you learned her name already. And I didn't pick this for you." He plucked at the fabric. "I asked that you come here in nothing but a robe so I could inspect you."

She scooted away from him, her heart racing at the idea of showing herself to him without clothes. Harry laughed and leaned himself back into the large cushioned seat and draped a leg over his knee as he watched her curiously. "You are scared. Good. You should be. Take off your clothes."

Shaking her head she squished herself as far from him as she could but he simply reached his leg out and hooked his foot under her ankle to pull at her. "Don't do that. Said remove your clothes, girl."

"Yo– your majesty… I don't even know how these were put on. I don't know how. I… I've never…" Her heart was racing and she felt her fingers tremble as he sat and grinned at her like this was a game to him.

"What? You can't remove your coverings because you don't know how? I can deal with a timid vazey, but not a liar. Off with your things."

"No! You're rude! I will not!"

The king scoffed, surprised at her disrespect, as he pushed himself up to stand and stood over his bride-to-be. "I am rude, you'll learn well. But I have needs and you're here to keep them. Look at me when I speak to you."

Hesitantly, Y/n lifted her face upward to look into the eyes of the man who she could hardly believe would be her husband. That part—that didn't feel real. Not at all. It couldn't be.

"Have you ever been touched by a man before?"

She thought she might pass out as her skin heated under the scrutiny of his gaze. "No. Of course, not. I'm unwed."

He laughed. "Plenty of unwed ladies get their fannies fucked and fingered, my poor feather-brained girl. You're a virgin?"

She nodded, keeping silent, though not happy about the insult to her intelligence. Perhaps she wasn't as smart as someone with a royal education but she knew how to read and could do basic math, which was more than almost everyone in her social stratus.

"I see." Harry sighed and reached down to grip her jaw and look her over like she was an animal. "Surprised no one has warmed their member with your quim yet. Rather sickly but you are pretty. Have you ever seen one?"

She gulped loudly. "Seen… seen one? What?"

He clicked his tongue and smirked. "A cock, my dear. Have you seen a cock?"

Y/n, though a virgin, wouldn't call herself a prude. She was used to crash speak and rude men but the king was a shock to her. She never imagined someone with his pedigree could be so filthy. "Yes."

He let go of her jaw, keeping his eyes set on hers as he lifted his brows. "Oh, you have. And did you play with it?"

"No!" Y/n looked down at her lap and inhaled a breath. She couldn't believe the conversation she was having with the king.

She felt his long fingers at her jaw again, forcing her to lift her gaze back up at him. "Don't look away from me when we're talking."

She knocked her head up and down and he dropped his hand away from her.

"Would you like to see mine?"

Her eyes widened and she shot her gaze down toward his crotch and then back up to his face. "No."

He smiled and let out a hearty laugh as he began to unbutton his forest green silk tricot coat. He eyed her, waiting to hear her protest again but when she simply watched him he continued to undo his outer layers until he had access to his breeches and tucked his fingers into the buttons at his front flap. Raising a brow he paused to give her a chance to tell him to stop.

But she only watched, flicking her gaze from his hands up to his face. She wouldn't admit it but she was curious. Scared a little of his demeanor and that he was the sovereign and could do as he pleased with her if he wanted, she still wondered what it might look like.

His pink lips curved upward slowly as he unhooked one button and let the fabric drape dangerously low. "I'm not going to make you suck it or anything. But if you want, I won't deny you your pleasure."

Y/n bristled and blinked her eyes away from him to the edge of the room before looking back up at him. "You're rude."

He smiled sweetly, a handsome dimple dipping into his cheek like he wasn't just about to whip out his big fiddle and show her. "You said that, yes… Keep going? Or stop? Up to you. I've got plenty of others I can show it to. They're all waiting, just hoping you disappoint me. They'd love to be in your shoes right now. Vying to be the next Queen of Thornekeep. If you don't want to be here you may leave and go back to the street. What will it be?"

She inhaled slowly and fought the stinging embarrassment that needled at her insides. She wasn't keen on seeing the king's privy member but his handsome face was alluring and if she said no, would she not be kept as Queen? Did she even want to be Queen of Thornekeep? She could say no and he'd send her back out into the cold with her old brown rags and her fabric begging basket. She'd have quite the tale to tell but that would be it. Everything would go back to how it always was. She'd continue sitting in the street and asking for kindness from strangers who wouldn't even offer her a glance, as the excruciating pain of hunger slowly ate her alive.

"Continue," Y/n spoke as confidently as she was able to. She didn't want that life anymore. Though she had no idea what she was getting herself into with the king, she figured it was better than life as a beggar. Cold, dirty, starved, angry, riddled with pain in her bones like she was an elderly woman… Being fed, bathed in perfumed oils, and dressed in fine silk and wool skirts, inside a warm castle, with a bedroom all her own wasn't just tempting, she wanted it. Even her bed and its heavy down blanket were to die for. Worth the humiliation.

Plus, if she told herself the biggest truth of it all, he was dashing. More than just dashing. He was the most fine-looking man she might have ever laid eyes upon. But she wasn't ready to admit the way his green eyes had her pulse fluttering like a small bird.

Harry reached down to run a finger over her jaw gently while he unplucked the second button from the front flap. "Keep your eyes on mine for a moment."

She tried to wet the dry desert of her throat as she steadied her eyes on him, which turned out to be quite the task when she could see at the limn of her vision his hand working something fleshy just in front of her. His cock was out, she knew that much, but she wanted so badly to take a quick glimpse.

"Mmm… Your eyes are pretty," he spoke, still moving his hand about. "How many cocks have you seen?"

Blinking her eyes softly she puffed out a shaky lungful of air. "I don't know. The men at the workhouse who use our tub just walk around nude."

"And they never touched you?" His finger felt sweet on her face and for a moment she thought he was a man she could find herself trusting, loving even. Perhaps she was too naive.

She shook her head. "I wouldn't let them."

"They tried?"

"A few."

He clenched his jaw and stretched his neck as he lifted his sight away from hers. She resisted the urge to peek at his crotch even though she could have gotten away with it right then as he wasn't looking at her.

When he returned his gaze down at her he stepped in closer, pushing her legs apart to stand between her feet. He glanced down at himself and moved his hand from her jaw. "Look at your king's cock."

Y/n swallowed hard and blinked as she shifted her stare downward until she saw the big thing in her face, swollen and thick. And long. His big palm was wrapped around the space of him that grew out from a thatch of dark hair.

Now, she'd seen cocks before. Soft ones, hard ones, weird and infected ones… The workmen didn't care who saw when it came to bathtime and some of them even tried to get her to participate if she were anywhere near them. But Harry's was… well, it looked fit for a king she supposed. Maybe all royals had clean, pretty pricks.

"Touch it."

She glanced up at him, struggling to even breathe. Not only was the corset pulled too tight around her ribs, but the king's vulgar words and his cock in her face were making her feel quite fettered and discombobulated. Her chest heaved so hard she was worried she was about to burst the stay lace that held the corset together.

She reached her fingers upward and focused on the very tip of him where there was a small slit that carved outward like it was draped in a blanket made of smooth flesh. The rest of him was a little more crude with veins that ran along the rigid flesh. When she touched the top of it with her fingertip she gasped and pulled her hand away. It was like a warm small naked creature that'd been warmed by the fire for a bit too long.

"He's not going to bite. He might spit at you, though." He laughed. "Touch it. No need to be virtuous with me. You'll have to get used to handling it anyway."

"It's the first I've touched. I… Where should I place my hand?" She was genuinely worried she'd do it wrong, and he was the king so she was cautious.

King Styles reached down to grab at her hand and he spat a big glob of slick from his mouth that pooled into her palm. She winced as he placed her hand on the long shaft of himself, pressing her fingers around his girth and guiding her upward to his smooth tip.

"What do you think? Not bad, right?"

When he let go of her hand she slowly continued smoothing his spit over his flesh and peered closely at the organ. It was a curious thing to touch a penis. She was surprised by how warm it was and the mechanics of how all that worked were still somewhat of a mystery to her. She understood that men used their pricks to stick babies into women and that it hurt and it was disgusting.

"It feels funny. S'really warm."

"Is it?" He smirked down at her as she examined him, her hand still sliding in very stunted strokes up and down. He quite enjoyed the way she looked at it in awe. Of course, the way she was handling him did him no good. That wasn't going to do anything for him but she'd learn soon enough what he liked. Whether she liked it or not.

"How does it feel for you?" Y/n knew enough to know that for men, it felt good and that while what she was doing wasn't sex, it should be favorable for him.

"You'll need teaching but your little hand will never feel quite as nice as your mouth or the warm treasure you're hiding between your legs."

She stopped and frowned at him. "I haven't ever—"

"Yes, we know. You haven't touched a man before. But we'll change all of that, won't we? Keep going with your hand and spit on it."

Sliding her palm over his tacky skin she spat over the spot just above her fist and smeared her saliva upward. "What will I tell my mum and dad? I should tell them where I am and—"

"Oh, girl." He patted her cheek condescendingly. "Let's not talk about mum and dad while you're working my knob. Tomorrow we'll fetch them."

She swallowed and tried to focus but everything was so overwhelming.

"Are we going to have intercourse?" She looked up at him with big pretty eyes.

"Of course we are. How else do you expect to find yourself with child?"

"I don't know… I'm scared to do it. I don't like the idea of it."

Harry pushed her hand away and tucked himself back into his front flap as he sighed. "You're no good at this. And if you don't want to learn how to be good for me then there's no need for you."

He turned to walk away, leaving Y/n sitting on his plush sofa she sat up straight, confused. "Should I… What shall I do?"

Harry pulled his jacket into place and rebuttoned it as he looked at her with an indifferent expression. "Go to your room or stay here. I don't care particularly either way. I was disappointed by you so I'm going to have to call in someone who can please me properly. Someone who can do the things you can't. If you want to stay and watch and learn then so be it."

Y/n stood up quickly and clasped her hands together in front of her hips. "Your majesty, please—"

"My King. You'll address me either as My King or My Lord. Yes?"

She nodded quickly, stepping closer to him. "Yes, my King. I only need a little more time to learn. I promise tomorrow I'll be better for you. I'll do whatever you need. Please don't replace me."

Harry lifted a brow, his still unreadable expression was worrying to Y/n but the way he scraped his eyes down her frame made every inch of her body burn. He wouldn't tell her but he was pleased with her already despite what he'd told her. She was desperate and quite pretty and that was all he required. She played into his rude affront exactly as he hoped and it had her worried he wasn't going to keep her. He had no plans to touch anyone else now that he had his mind made up. She'd do just fine once she learned to be more obedient and malleable.

"We shall see." He flicked a hand in the air and then gestured toward his door. "Off you go. You'll try again to be better tomorrow. You'll have one more chance to prove yourself to me."

She felt defeated. Walking slowly past him she turned to look back once more and watched him step out onto his balcony, the lace curtains blowing in the wind as he moved out of view. Pushing at the heavy wooden door she bit down on her lip to keep herself from crying. She didn't know if she was more upset with herself for not being bolder, or if she was angry at how the king had just treated her so poorly and insulted her. The situation was discouraging but she was determined. She'd dealt with worse, hadn't she?

Phoebe met her outside the doors and walked her back toward her room. Y/n wasn't sure how she was going to work up the courage to be enough for the king. She didn't want him to find another to take her place so she needed to do something. But what?

"Would you like anything, madam?" Phoebe asked.

"Are there books here in the castle? A library?" Perhaps she could read about pleasing a man if such a thing existed.

"Yes. A grand library. I can't read myself. Are you able to?"

Y/n nodded. "I can read, yes. I'd like to see it. Would you show me there?"

. .

next part >>

. .

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“Sugar”

No Outbreak!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

Based on a request I got on my DMs

Summary: You return to your hometown to care for your ailing father and your brother with special needs, leaving behind your bakery—and your dreams. Overwhelmed and alone, you find unexpected comfort in your neighbor, Joel Miller

WC: 7k

Warnings/Tags: fluff, smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, undisclosed age gap, undisclosed illness mention, stress, references to behaviors commonly associated with ASD.

The screen door creaked the same way it did when you were a kid — rusted, unchanging, stuck in the same soft whimper it made when your mom was alive. It groaned under your hand as you pushed it open, the sound like an old ghost stretching its bones.

You were coming home with tired eyes and a back that ached from early mornings spent kneading dough. You had your name on the window of a tiny bakery four hours away, a reputation for sourdough that could make grown men cry. People used to line up before the sun came up. You’d smile, tuck flour-dusted hair behind your ear, hand over something warm and sweet and know, just for a second, that you were good at something. Needed. Steady.

But now, all of that had to be left behind.

Your father had taken a fall—nothing life-threatening, just enough to leave him limping, bitter, and suddenly in need of help. And then there was Caleb—your younger brother, your heart. Nonverbal, sweet, and sensitive to noise and touch, Caleb needed structure, softness, predictability. You didn’t trust anyone else to give him that. You couldn’t. So you packed up, closed the bakery temporarily—you told yourself—and came back.

You wiped your hands on your apron and nudged the oven door closed. Muffins. Your brother’s favorite. Blueberry, if you could swing it. The kitchen was too small and too hot, the ceiling fan rattling like it might fall down any second, and your hands were cracked from too much soap and not enough sleep, but at least baking made you feel useful. Like something still worked when everything else didn’t.

Later that day, you walked outside to look for your brother and glanced over just in time to catch a tall, broad man in jeans and a gray T-shirt looking your way. Arms crossed, one brow cocked. He nodded once.

You gave a half-smile, a shy tilt of your chin.

That was all.

You had enough to carry without adding neighbors.

…

It wasn’t long before you met him properly. Joel Miller.

He introduced himself a week later while helping you lift a sack of potting soil out of your trunk. You’d been starting a garden in the back—tomatoes, squash, something about it reminded you of home before everything cracked. Hoping the rhythm of planting, watering, tending might calm your nerves. Joel had said something about the soil being too clay-heavy and offered to help you mix in peat moss. He was quiet, observant. Lived alone with his daughter, Sarah—bright, friendly, called you “ma’am” with a little grin.

…

Joel Miller doesn’t mean to spy.

But when his truck rumbles into the driveway around 6PM each night, there’s always that moment where he glances across the fence and sees you. Bent over, carrying groceries inside, or pushing a wheelchair ramp into place. Once, he watched you chase your brother barefoot down the yard, laughing even though you were out of breath, even though your smile looked like it might crack in half from exhaustion.

He’s got a good eye for people. Years of working construction will do that to a man—you learn how to read a room by the way someone holds their shoulders. Yours? Always tense. Drawn up around your ears like armor. Always trying not to show how heavy it is.

He noticed the way your hands trembled by 10 a.m., the way you always carried two bags of groceries and never asked for help. He watched you gently calm Caleb when the trash trucks rolled by and overwhelmed him with noise. The way your voice changed—soft, steady, full of practiced comfort. He saw you clean up after your father, even when the old man snarled, humiliated by dependence, too proud to say thank you. He heard you mutter it’s okay, it’s okay, when you thought no one was listening.

He watched you wear yourself down to threads.

All for people who didn’t know how to say how much they needed you. Who probably didn’t even know how tired you were.

And Joel saw the cracks in your armor.

The nights when your lights stayed on too long. The way you sat on the porch after Caleb had gone to bed, face in your hands, shoulders trembling just a little too hard to be blamed on a breeze. He didn’t say anything. But he stayed on his side of the fence, porch light still glowing, just in case you looked up and needed someone to wave at. Just in case you needed to know you weren’t invisible.

He doesn’t say much. Not at first.

Just nods at you over the fence line, a muttered, “Evenin’,” as he wipes sweat off his neck. Sometimes he leaves an extra bundle of firewood near your steps. Pretends it just fell off the truck.

But Joel notices. Everything.

And he’s starting to realize—he can’t stop.

One Thursday, the heat finally breaks.

The air is thick and wet, but at least it’s moving, the storm that rolled through the night before cracked the sky in half and left the streets smelling like dust and ozone. You’re carrying too many bags of groceries for your arms to possibly hold, the plastic handles cutting into your fingers, sweat trickling down your spine when you hear a voice behind you — low, familiar, and warm.

“Howdy,” Joel says.

You pause, breath catching, a carton of eggs nearly slipping from your grip.

“Oh, hey…” you say, catching your balance.

“Joel,” he reminds you, offering a small, crooked smile.

“Joel, right.” You give him a polite smile in return, shy, a little breathless.

“You need a hand with that?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for you to answer. His hands are already reaching, already taking the heaviest bags from your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s okay, really,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction — and you don’t protest.

Joel just walks beside you, carrying the load like it’s nothing.

“Never seen you before around here,” he says as you both step onto the cracked walkway to your front door.

“No… I… I left a few years ago,” you say, shifting the bag in your hand. “But I’m back now. Had things to take care of.”

Joel doesn’t press. Just nods.

He steps into the kitchen and sets the bags down gently on the counter, like he belongs there, like this isn’t the first time he’s crossed the threshold of your life.

“Well, if you need help with… anythin’, I’m right next door.”

“Thank you, Joel.”

…

And it starts like that. Small things.

Joel changes the porch light when it burns out. You don’t ask—he just notices, brings his ladder over, and does it without saying a word. He helps you haul a busted dresser from the curb, his hands firm on the edges while you mutter something about termites and too many memories. He lets Caleb sit in his truck while you run to the store—“You like country music, bud?”—and doesn’t blink when Caleb claps too loud at a Willie Nelson song. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stare. Just grins when Caleb taps the dashboard like a drum.

And you?

You bring him pie. You bake too much when you’re anxious, when the world feels too loud and too full of things you can’t fix.

“Peach,” you say shyly, cheeks pink as you hold out the tin wrapped in foil. “Hope it’s not too sweet.”

Joel bites into it right there on his porch, standing barefoot in a white T-shirt that clings just slightly to his chest, sun catching the lines in his face. He groans, low and honest, the sound curling in your stomach.

“You tryin’ to kill me or marry me with this?” he says around a mouthful of pastry.

You choke on a laugh, startled and pink to your ears, trying to hide how much you’re blushing.

He just smiles — slow, warm, real.

Not the polite kind, not the distant one he gives most folks in town.

Just for you.

And suddenly, all those heavy days feel just a little lighter.

It happens on a Saturday night.

You’re sitting on your porch, elbows on your knees, the wood warm beneath your thighs even after sunset. There’s a half-melted glass of water by your side, untouched. Your body hums with exhaustion — not the sharp kind, but the kind that sinks into your bones after a week of taking care of everything and everyone but yourself.

Your eyes are half-closed when his voice rumbles through the quiet.

“You ever take a minute for yourself?”

You blink and sit up, startled. Joel’s leaning on the fence like he’s been there a while, two sweating bottles of beer in hand, the porch light catching on the edge of his smile.

“Sorry?” you ask, caught off guard.

“I said,” he smirks faintly, “Do you ever rest?”

You glance at him, then down the street like you’re looking for a way out of the question. “It’s not really about me.”

Joel doesn’t like the sound of that. It’s too familiar. He’s heard it too many times—from women who carry the weight of the whole damn world on their shoulders and call it love. From people who forget they’re allowed to need.

“I see you,” he says, and his voice is lower now, softer. His eyes flick over your face, your slumped shoulders, your tired mouth. “Always runnin’ around. Cookin’. Haulin’ things. You look tired.”

You open your mouth. Then close it.

Something in your throat tightens.

Joel scratches his jaw, like maybe he regrets saying it. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Just… if you ever need a hand with somethin’. I’m around.”

You nod. A small, barely-there smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Thanks.”

He steps up to the porch with one of the beers extended toward you.

You take it. You’re not much of a drinker — never have been — but tonight, the cold glass feels like kindness. Like relief.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

“You brought me a beer,” you say with a weak laugh. “It’d be kinda rude if I just kicked you off.”

Joel chuckles and climbs the steps with that familiar grunt, the kind men his age make without realizing it. He leaves a respectful bit of space between you as he lowers himself down beside you. The wood creaks under his weight. He hands you the bottle. You take a sip, and the beer is sharp and cold and exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

You don’t need him to. That’s the thing about Joel, he doesn’t talk to fill silence. He lets it stretch, lets it breathe.

“I used to sit out here every night,” you say eventually, eyes fixed on the dark yard. “Back in high school. Pretend I didn’t live in this house. Pretend I was anywhere else.”

Joel nods, slow and thoughtful, his gaze on the distance like he’s seeing it too.

“It’s hard,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Coming back. They don’t mean to… but they pull at me. All day, every day. I feel like I’ve been running on empty for months.”

You let out a shaky breath, the truth bleeding out of you like water through cupped hands.

“I know I’m strong. I’m not helpless. But God, Joel… sometimes I just want someone to tell me I don’t have to be so damn strong all the time.”

Your voice cracks on the end of it. You bring the bottle to your lips to hide the way your eyes burn.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then, slowly, he shifts behind you. Closer. The boards groan under his weight.

“Here,” he says, voice low and rough by your ear. “Lemme see your shoulders.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re wound so tight I can hear your muscles beggin’ for mercy. Just let me help a little.”

You hesitate. But something inside you cracks. Not loud. Just a quiet fracture — a tired, trembling thing that gives way.

You nod. Set the bottle down.

Joel’s hands are large. Warm. Calloused from years of work. He starts slow, thumbs pressing gently into the stiff muscles behind your collarbones, and you suck in a sharp breath at the pressure.

“You carry it all right here,” he murmurs, his voice low, a kind of reverent hush. “All of it. Like if you let go, the whole world’s gonna fall apart.”

Your throat works around a swallow. “Feels like it might.”

He doesn’t rush. His hands move in steady circles, drawing out knots like they’re made of memory.

“Let it fall, then,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to hold everythin’ alone.”

Your eyes sting. You close them, head dropping forward slightly. The weight of his hands, his words, his presence — it grounds you. In a way you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

…

Later, Joel sits alone on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced.

The house is quiet. Sarah’s gone for the weekend with her uncle, and the stillness makes everything louder.

He hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

The massage — hell, it wasn’t even a massage. Just a gesture. A small kindness. A way of saying: I see you.

But the truth is, when his hands touched your skin, something in him shifted. Something broke loose. It wasn’t lust, not exactly. It wasn’t clean, or easy. It was older than that. Deeper. Lonelier.

He hadn’t expected the way your skin would feel — soft and warm beneath his palms, like something fragile trying hard not to break. He hadn’t expected the sound you made — that little sigh, that barely-there release, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected the way it would wreck him.

And then you’d leaned back. Not even thinking. Just trusting.

And that had been the end of him.

Now the bedroom feels too quiet. Too honest.

He knows what this is. Knows what it could turn into if he let it.

But he also knows what the mirror shows him every damn day. The years. The scars. The cracks that never healed right.

You? You still had time. A whole stretch of road ahead. And Joel… Joel had already walked through fire and come out carrying ash.

But still, he can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at him tonight. Like maybe you didn’t care about the years, or the scars, or the weight.

Like maybe you just wanted someone to sit with you in the dark and say, you don’t have to be strong right now. I’ve got you.

And God help him.

Because he wanted to be that person for you.

More than anything.

One evening, you were sitting on the porch steps again, your head bent over a cold cup of tea, fingers curled around the mug like it might hold you together.

The sun had gone down an hour ago, but you hadn’t moved. Not since your father slammed the screen door and disappeared down the hall, grumbling about the cable being out, blaming the weather, the neighbors, you, whatever he could throw his anger at without having to face himself. Caleb was inside, stacking soup cans like building blocks, humming under his breath. Happy, for now.

But you looked like you were trying not to cry.

You missed your old life, missed baking, you could almost smell the scent of fresh dough, yeast rising sweetly in the air, mingling with the rich, buttery aroma of pastries just pulled from the oven.

Baking had always been your escape, your way of shaping comfort and joy out of simple ingredients. There was something sacred about the quiet hum of the ovens, the soft clatter of mixing bowls, and the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time a batch of peach pies came out golden and perfect—just like Joel had said.

Your jaw was tight. Your shoulders hunched. The porch light painted shadows under your eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago.

“Hey there, sugar.”

Joel’s voice was low, careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. But it did. You looked up, eyes wide, smiling and blushing at the pet name—Sugar. There was something about the way he said that word that sounded both sweet and incredibly hot at the same time.

He stood at the edge of your yard in a flannel shirt and worn work boots, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands stuffed into his pockets. Like he’d just stepped off a shift. Like maybe he’d been watching for a while and only just worked up the nerve to speak.

“You eat yet?” he asked.

You blinked. Shook your head without thinking.

“I was thinkin’ of makin’ chili,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “Sarah’s got a sleepover. Too much for one.” A pause. “Come over if you want.”

Your stomach growled before you could answer. You hadn’t eaten more than half a sandwich all day. Maybe less.

Your voice came out small. “Okay.”

He nodded once, slow, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “C’mon then, sugar.”

You stood. Left your mug behind. And followed him across the lawn like it was the easiest decision in the world—though something about it made your chest ache. Like the gesture was too kind. Like it might undo you.

It was the first time in weeks someone had taken care of you.

Joel’s house smelled like cumin and garlic and something deep and rich simmering on the stove. It wrapped around you like a blanket the second you stepped inside. There was warmth here, not just from the food, but from the space itself.

Lived-in.

A coat hung over the back of a chair. Sarah’s sneakers kicked off beside the door. A half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. A photo of the two of them smiling under a Ferris wheel, framed and proud on the mantle.

It was a home.

You lingered in the entryway, awkward, hands clasped like a kid at someone else’s birthday party. Unsure if you should sit, take your shoes off, or run back outside and cry behind the steering wheel of your truck.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

You swallowed. Nodded. Your shoes stayed on.

“It ain’t much,” he added, already pulling bowls from a cabinet, “but the chili’s good. I promise.”

You sat at the kitchen table with your spine stiff, hands in your lap. Watched him move like he’d done this a hundred times—grabbing spoons, stirring the pot. There was a rhythm to him. Something grounding.

He ladled two bowls full, steam curling into the air. Grabbed a spoon. Then paused.

“Cheese or no cheese?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He looked up. “I always ask Sarah. She says yes. I say no. Figure I better ask you too.”

And that—that—made you laugh. Soft. Unbidden. Like a cracked window letting in the breeze.

“Cheese,” you said. “Please.”

He gave a small nod, grating sharp cheddar with slow, even strokes. Slid your bowl across the table. Then sat opposite you.

You ate in silence. But it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. You were too hungry to pretend you weren’t. And the chili—God—the chili was perfect. Spicy, earthy, just sweet enough to settle something hollow inside you. You scraped your bowl clean.

Joel looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Just sat with you. Not pushing. Not prying.

It didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like patience.

Eventually, you broke the silence. Because the warmth in your stomach had spread to your chest. Because you were full for the first time in days and it made your guard slip.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

Your voice was quiet. Barely more than a breath. The spoon stilled in your hand.

Joel didn’t speak.

“My dad… he’s not a bad man. Just… proud. Stubborn. And Caleb, he—he’s good. He’s sweet. But it’s all the time, you know? Like my brain never shuts off. And I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until the first tear hit your wrist. You wiped it away fast, ashamed.

“I used to run this bakery,” you said, voice breaking around the memory. “My own place. I’d wake up at 3 a.m., roll dough, bake till noon. And I loved it. Every part of it. But I gave it up to come back here. I keep telling myself it’s temporary, but… I don’t know anymore.”

You looked down at your hands, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you. I just… I guess I needed to say it out loud.”

Joel leaned back slowly in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. He didn’t look away.

“You’re doin’ everything for everyone else,” he said, low and even. “And no one’s doin’ a damn thing for you.”

The truth of it hit like a gut-punch. You stared at him, stunned, not because it was harsh, but because it was true.

“You ain’t weak for bein’ tired,” he added, voice quieter now. “You’re human.”

You blinked fast. Tried to breathe around the lump in your throat.

“Sometimes I think about just packing Caleb up and leaving. Taking him back with me. Starting fresh. But that would mean leaving my dad behind.”

Joel frowned, jaw tightening. “And what about you? When do you get to matter?”

Your voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

And then he did something you didn’t expect.

He reached across the table. Covered your hand with his. His palm was big, warm, rough—like everything he’d ever built still lived in the skin of him.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry it all,” he said, softer now. “Not by yourself.”

Your shoulders trembled. You nodded once. Fast. Because if you opened your mouth, you’d sob, and you couldn’t bear to fall apart in front of someone who had been nothing but kind.

But something inside you shifted.

Maybe it was the warmth of his hand. Or the way he didn’t fill the silence with empty words.

Maybe it was the first time in months someone looked at you—really looked at you—and didn’t expect anything in return.

Maybe it was the first time you believed someone might stay.

You still remember the first time you kissed him.

The porch had gone dark again—that same damn fixture that chewed through bulbs like candy, flickering out after barely a week, and you were up on a shaky old stool, arms stretched, fingers fumbling with the new bulb as dusk slipped toward dark.

You were just tightening the last turn when the stool wobbled—a sharp, treacherous lurch of one leg off the uneven wooden plank.

“Shit—”

Your breath caught, heart leaping into your throat.

And then strong hands caught you.

Warm. Steady. Unmistakably Joel.

One arm braced firm around your waist, the other coming up beneath your thigh to guide you gently down. You didn’t fall—you landed against him, your feet scrambling awkwardly to the porch floor, your whole body pressed to the solid wall of his chest.

“Careful, sugar,” he muttered, breath hot at your ear, voice rough and close and a little too soft for your thudding heart. “You tryna give me a heart attack?”

You let out a breathless laugh, more surprise than humor, your hand still clinging to his shoulder. Your face tipped up automatically, and the porch light, freshly fixed, cast a glow over both of you. Warm. Intimate. Like a spotlight on something neither of you had dared name.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, quieter than you meant. Maybe because he was still holding you. Maybe because you didn’t want him to stop.

Joel didn’t let go. His hands lingered low at your waist, thumbs just brushing the edge of skin beneath your hoodie.

“Still,” he said, voice steady but heavy, like he was trying not to say more. “Lemme do this kinda thing next time.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He hadn’t shaved. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his chest from yard work, and the ends of his hair curled slightly where it stuck to the sides of his face. But it was his eyes that got you—soft, warm, focused entirely on you, like you were fragile and rare and he didn’t want to break anything.

And suddenly, the lightbulb didn’t matter at all.

You climbed down slowly, but your hand, deliberately or not, brushed against his chest on the way down. And neither of you moved.

It was a moment suspended in air. Like standing at the edge of something tall and dangerous and beautiful. A quiet hum beneath your skin.

Joel’s voice dropped, barely audible. “I been tryin’ not to look at you like this.”

Your breath hitched. “Like what?”

He reached up—so gently, so slowly it felt like your body moved before your brain caught up—and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. His thumb skimmed your cheekbone, a soft drag that made your whole face warm.

“Like I want you.”

Time cracked open.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because you did, you wanted him, had wanted him for weeks. Longer, maybe. Longer than you were ready to admit.

The kiss, when it came, wasn’t fire—it was smoke. Slow and curling and inevitable. His lips brushed yours once, tentative, like he didn’t believe you’d let him. But when you leaned in, just a little, he deepened it, his hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring you to his chest like he needed to feel all of you at once.

Your hands found his shirt, fingers curling into damp cotton, needing to hold on to something, anything.

His arms came around you fully then, pulling you in until you could feel every line of him—broad chest, firm stomach, the barely restrained tension coiled beneath his skin. The kiss shifted, turned warmer, messier, like a need finally slipping through the cracks.

You broke away just to breathe, lips still brushing his.

“Joel…” your voice was a gasp, a question, a plea.

He kissed you again, slower now, like he was savoring something he’d been denying himself for a long time.

His hand drifted lower, beneath your hoodie, callused palm sliding across the bare skin of your waist. You shivered—not from cold, but from the sheer tenderness of it.

He groaned low into your mouth, the sound tugging at something deep inside you. You pressed closer, hands sliding up beneath his shirt, seeking skin. His breath stuttered. His hips shifted—just slightly—but enough that you felt him, hard against you.

And then—he stopped.

Abrupt. Breathless.

His forehead stayed pressed to yours as he sucked in air like he was drowning.

“Shit.”

You blinked, disoriented. “What—what is it?”

Joel’s hands were still on your waist, holding you like he didn’t want to let go. His eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back just enough to see you.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, voice tight and raw.

You froze. The words hit like a slap. “Oh.”

He saw it—the flicker of hurt in your eyes—and rushed to speak.

“It’s not you, sugar,” he said quickly. “Jesus, it ain’t you. It’s just—” He stepped back fully, ran both hands down his face like it hurt. “I don’t wanna start somethin’ with you just to make your life more complicated. You are too young f’me, and you already got so much on your shoulders, and I—fuck, I care about you too much to be one more thing you gotta manage.”

Your heart twisted in your chest. “Joel…”

He looked at you like it broke him. “You’re…” He shook his head. “You’re incredible. And I want this. I do. But you deserve somethin’ else. Somethin’ that’s not me.”

You stood still, the air between you suddenly cooler. But you understood.

This wasn’t rejection. It was protection. Restraint sharpened by care.

And that, somehow, made it ache even more.

Because he meant it. And you believed him.

That didn’t make it hurt any less.

But it made you trust him more.

It was past nine when you showed up at his door.

No call. No warning. Just you—hoodie zipped halfway, face pale, eyes dull from the weight of the day. You didn’t even knock properly. Just a soft, hesitant tap of your knuckles, like you weren’t sure you deserved to be there.

Joel opened the door in a T-shirt and sweats, hair mussed, a faint line of exhaustion on his brow. His eyes widened, not in surprise exactly, more like fear. Like he thought this might be a dream.

“Hey,” you breathed. Barely audible. Fragile. “You alone?”

He nodded. Didn’t ask a single question. Just stepped back silently, let you pass, and shut the door with a quiet finality that felt like safety.

You stood there in his dim entryway, fingers twitching at your sides, tension radiating off you like static.

And then—you cracked.

“It was a bad day,” you whispered, like admitting it made it real.

Joel didn’t move. Just listened.

“My dad fell again. Caleb lost it in the store because they moved the cereal aisle and I didn’t know. He screamed and sobbed while people stared like he was a fucking exhibit.” Your voice broke, trembling. “I cried in the car after. Not because of them. Not even because of him. Because I didn’t know what cereal he wanted.”

You let out a laugh that was more of a sob—wet, broken, raw.

Joel’s face—God, the way it fell when he saw you hurting like that—was almost too much to look at.

“I haven’t had one goddamn second to myself, Joel. Not to bake. Not to read. Not even to shower without someone banging on the fucking door needing something. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”

Your breath caught, and you looked up at him, eyes wide, glassy.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

And that was it. The unraveling. The surrender.

Joel stepped forward so quietly you didn’t hear it, just felt it. His presence. Solid. Grounding.

Tears rolled down your cheeks.

“I need you,” you whispered. “And I know we aren’t… anything. Not really. But I need the way you look at me like I’m not some empty shell holding everyone else’s bullshit together. I need you.”

That shattered him.

He gathered you into his arms like he couldn’t stop himself, like the second he felt your body hit his, he knew he wouldn’t survive letting go. You collapsed into him with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a sigh—just something deep and painful and desperate.

He didn’t say much. Just held you. Tight. Warm. Real.

“I’m here, sugar,” he murmured, mouth against your hair. “Right here.”

You nodded against his chest, shivering in his arms. “I don’t wanna do this alone anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” Joel said thickly. “Lemme help. Lemme be here f’you.”

Your eyes lifted to his, swollen and rimmed with tears. “Even if it’s messy?”

His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and careful. “Especially then.”

And when he kissed you—fuck, there was no going back. No restraint. No apologies. Just need. His mouth slotted over yours with aching tenderness, but his grip on your waist was possessive, like he needed to feel your bones under his palms, needed to know you were real.

He kissed you until your lungs burned, until your body arched into him without thinking, until you couldn’t remember why you were crying in the first place.

A rough, needy sound escaped his throat—low, primal, like he was holding something back and failing.

Then he walked you backward, lips never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You gasped when you dropped onto the cushions. He followed—a heavy, hot presence between your thighs, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly up beneath your hoodie.

“I tried to stay away,” he rasped, mouth brushing your throat. “Told myself you had enough goin’ on… that I was too damn old, too broken for you.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, voice trembling. “Joel—”

“But then you show up at my door,” he growled, “and all I can think was how fuckin’ stupid I was for leavin’ that night on your porch with your lips still warm on mine.”

He tugged your hoodie up, his hands reverent, like he was peeling back something sacred. You let him. Raised your arms. Gave him permission. Gave him you.

And when he looked down at you—bare under the soft glow of the lamp—you saw it in his eyes.

Worship. Hunger. Need.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re fuckin’ divine, sugar.”

You pulled him down, crushed your mouth to his, wanting more. Needing more.

His hand dipped past your waistband, calloused fingers skimming hot and slow over bare skin. You whimpered against his mouth—a needy, broken little sound—and he swallowed it whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice like gravel. “Say the word, baby. I’ll pull back.”

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please… don’t stop.”

That was it. That was all it took.

Joel groaned—a filthy, desperate sound—and kissed you harder. Rougher. His hand slipped lower, fingers dipping into your slick heat, and the moan you let out damn near broke him in two.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he rasped. “You come over here wantin’ me like this, baby?”

You nodded, hips grinding shamelessly against his palm. “Needed this. Needed you.”

Two fingers pushed inside —slow, steady— filling you with a stretch that made your eyes flutter shut. He curled them just right, and your back arched, thighs trembling as your breath stuttered out in ragged little gasps.

His fingers worked you open, pressing deep, curling, teasing your walls. The wet, obscene sound of his fingers moving inside you filled the room, only broken by the soft, strangled cries you kept trying—and failing—to hold back.

Each stroke was deliberate, meant to pull every sound out of you. He didn’t just want you wet, he wanted you trembling, messy, ruined for anyone else.

“Please, Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Don’t stop—feels s-so good—”

“Tonight is all about you. About making you feel good, just like you deserve. You work so hard… let me give this to you.” His voice was low, reverent, like prayer—like worship—and every word seemed to sink into your skin like heat.

He watched every twitch, every gasp, like it fed something primal in him. His thumb dragged over your clit, a single, devastating swipe, and your whole body jolted, your hips bucked helplessly. A strangled sob ripping from your throat as pleasure crashed over you in waves.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did. And the way he held your gaze—steady, reverent, hungry—made your whole body tighten with want.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured as he kissed down your chest, then your belly, pausing to mouth gently at the soft skin above your hip. “How you’d feel. How you’d taste. How you’d fall apart if someone just… took their time.”

You whimpered, breath shaking. “Joel…”

“Gonna take care of you, sugar. Gonna make you feel worshiped.”

Then he moved, sliding down between your thighs, kissing over your belly, your hip, his beard scraping your sensitive skin in the best way.

He spread your legs with steady hands, thumbs grazing your inner thighs like he had all the time in the world. Like this was something sacred.

“You smell like fuckin’ heaven,” he growled. “Bet you taste even sweeter than that peach pie you make.”

His breath ghosted over your skin, so hot it made you squirm, your thighs instinctively trying to close—until he spread them open again with a low, possessive growl.

“You deserve to be worshipped, sugar. Deserve someone who sees nothing but you, someone who lives to make you feel good.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, devastating.

You gasped when his tongue met you, soft and slow at first, just a gentle press, then firmer, deeper. He groaned like he could live off the way you tasted. Like he needed it—your slick, your heat, the way you melted under his tongue.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, steady, while his mouth worked—kisses, licks, teasing sucks that made your hips jerk before he calmed you with a firm hand to your belly.

“Easy now, sugar,” he muttered, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision. “Let me take my time with you.”

That tongue was sin itself—warm, deliberate, unforgiving. Every flick felt like it rewired your nerves. Every slow drag had you twitching, clenching around nothing, aching to be filled.

His tongue licked a slow stripe through your folds, then circled your clit until your back arched and your fingers clawed at the cushions.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t give you a single breath to recover.

You were panting, whining, rutting up against his face without shame. He didn’t even blink, just held you wider, lower, like he wanted to drown in it.

He fucked you with his mouth like he meant to memorize every twitch of your body, every whimper, every desperate moan that spilled out of you.

His mouth worked in tandem with his fingers—two thick digits fucking deep, curling just right, pressing to that spot that made your toes curl.

Every push dragged another broken sound from your throat, and the slick, wet squelch of your body around him only made him growl harder.

“Lemme feel you fall apart, sweetheart,” he groaned into you. “Lemme drink you in.”

You sobbed. Literally sobbed. The pleasure was too much, too deep, like he’d reached inside and touched something you didn’t know you were allowed to feel.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasped. “Look how good you take it. Like you were made for this. Made to be loved like this.”

His fingers pumped faster, his tongue relentless, and you were unraveling so fast you couldn’t even think. All you could do was feel the rhythm of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the drag of his beard catching slick against your thighs.

He sucked your clit harder, just once, and your whole body seized. A tremor ran through your thighs like a live wire.

You couldn’t speak. Only moan, high and breathy, fingers threading into his hair, hips lifting into his mouth before he pinned them again with a low, warning growl.

“Uh-uh. Lemme. Lemme have this.”

And when you came—it was loud, wild, wet—a cry tearing from your throat as your whole body spasmed under his mouth. He held you through it, murmuring your name like a prayer, even as you trembled and gasped, your body giving out beneath his hands.

Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop—licking through your release like he’d earned it, like it was his right.

Joel moaned like he was coming too, grinding against the couch, keeping his tongue on you, licking you through the aftershocks while you trembled, boneless and wrecked.

When he pulled back, his beard was slick with you, lips swollen, eyes dark and wrecked.

But he didn’t reach for himself. Didn’t demand more. He just hovered over you, brushing hair back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw, thumb tracing your thigh.

You nodded, dazed. “No one’s ever… no one’s ever made me feel like that.”

Joel leaned in, kissed your forehead. “That’s the only way I know how to touch you now.”

You looked up at him—face flushed, eyes glassy—and whispered, “Can I have you now?”

He stilled. Blinked.

You reached for him. “Please. I want to feel you. All of you.”

“You don’t gotta ask me twice,” he rasped. “But I need to hear you say it again. Need to know you want this.”

“I do,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his. “I want you. Not just tonight. Not just because I’m tired or broken. I want you because it’s you, Joel.”

His control shattered.

He kissed you again, rougher this time, like he’d been holding back and finally let himself feel how badly he needed you. His body pressed down over yours, the heat of him unmistakable through the fabric still between you.

He tore his shirt off in one motion, sweatpants shoved down to his thighs, cock heavy and thick, flushed dark with need. It slapped against his stomach, leaking already, pulsing with need like it was aching to be inside you.

You opened for him, no hesitation. Just yes—in every movement, every breath, every inch of skin you offered.

Joel braced over you, gaze locked to yours.

“Still okay?”

You nodded, chest heaving. “Need you inside me.”

He lined up and pushed in—slow, careful, so fucking deep—and you gasped, arching, clutching at him as he filled you inch by aching inch. Thick, hot, unrelenting, he opened you up with the kind of stretch that made your whole body seize.

The stretch burned in the most perfect way, your walls gripping him tight, pulsing around him like your body didn’t want to let him go. Your cunt clenched like it already knew who he was, like it belonged to him.

You’d never felt anything like it.

Like being claimed. Possessed. Worshiped.

He bottomed out with a broken moan, hips pressed flush to yours, like he never wanted to leave.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel like—fuck—like I’ve been waitin’ for this my whole fuckin’ life.”

He stayed there for a second, buried so deep you could feel the throb of his cock against your cervix, like he was trying to become a part of you.

“F-fuck, Joel,” you whimpered, voice catching in your throat as he sank in deeper, stretching you open with agonizing, delicious slowness. “S-so big.”

“Can you take it, sugar?,” he growled, voice rough and ragged against your ear. “I want you to feel good.”

A helpless sob spilled from your lip. “I-I am,” you gasped, barely able to breathe.

He thrust deep and slow, grinding his hips with every roll, letting you feel all of him, every thick, perfect inch. His cock dragged against your walls just right, pulling wet, slick sounds from your body that had him groaning like he was losing his mind.

Your nails dug into his back, mouth parted in soft, breathless cries.

The drag of him was obscene, slick and hot and thick, your body clenching tight around him every time he pulled back.

You were soaking him—dripping down his length, soaking the base of his cock, the couch beneath you a mess of heat and sweat and need.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped.

“Never,” he promised. “Not with you.”

Joel groaned like it hurt, like being inside you was too much, too good. “You feel—Christ, sugar, you feel like heaven.”

His thrusts turned rough, frantic, filthy—skin slapping, couch creaking, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest as he fucked you like he meant it. His balls slapped against your ass with every stroke, the wet, messy sound of him slamming into you filling the room.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, hips grinding into yours. “So fuckin’ tight, sugar… can’t believe I waited this long—”

You clung to him, breath coming in soft, desperate moans. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back to pull him even deeper, faster.

“Joel,” you gasped, “I want it—want you all the way. Please, don’t stop—”

He kissed you hard, swallowing your plea with a growl as he drove into you faster, deeper, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“Not stoppin’. Can’t. Not when you’re takin’ me so good—fuck—look at you.”

“I’m close,” you whimpered. “Joel—please—” You were trembling, cunt fluttering around him, desperate for release.

You cried out, hands scrambling to grip his forearms, needing something—anything—to anchor you while he drove into you with slow, punishing thrusts. Each one landed deeper, harder, until it felt like he was carved into your core.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wide and desperate. “Look at me. Want you to see me when I cum inside you.”

You did. You looked at him and it was all it took for your second orgasm to explode inside your body, ripping through you like a fucking firestorm, your whole body locking around him, crying out his name like it was the only word you remembered.

And when he came, he let out a deep, broken moan, thrusting hard, grinding into you with everything he had—his seed spilling deep inside you, filling you, claiming you. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, every spurt making your walls flutter, milking him for everything he had.

“Fuck… fuck, baby…” His voice went ragged, his rhythm stuttering, hips jerking with every pulse as he emptied himself inside you like he meant it.

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him through it, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

You felt full. Claimed. Loved, even if neither of you had said the words yet.

He stayed there for a moment—still inside you, skin against skin—like he couldn’t bear to leave that closeness.

He kissed your temple, murmured your name low and warm. And then, quieter still: “You don’t gotta carry everything by yourself anymore.”

Your breath hitched, and he pulled you closer.

“You hear me, sugar? You don’t have to be strong for everybody all the time. Not with me.” His lips pressed against your hairline, voice like gravel wrapped in honey. “I’m here now. I’m not goin’ anywhere. We’re gonna figure it out. Together.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just wrapped your arms around his broad back and held on like your life depended on it.

And maybe it did.

Joel’s hand stroked slow, soothing patterns across your spine. “You got me, sugar. All of me. Always.”

And in his arms, for the first time in too long, you believed it.

A/N: Thank you to the person who requested this for your patience. I loved the idea and hope it meets your expectations🫶🏻

Thank you too to everyone reading this for supporting my work and for your nice words🩷

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Jester x Reader

The bells are the first thing you hear every morning—soft, chiming, almost birdlike in their laughter. They come before the footsteps of your advisors, before the clanking of platters and wine goblets, even before the rooster crows.

They are his bells.

He arrives with dawn, skipping into the hall like a child and bowing so low his nose brushes the cold stone floor. “Good morrow, Your Majesty,” he says, voice bright and breathless, eyes hidden behind a fan of red and gold silk. “The sun rises late, it seems. I’ve missed your light.”

You allow yourself a small smile, if only because your court expects it. He is your jester—your fool, your clown, your painted shadow—and he is beloved by all, even those who should know better.

Especially you.

He calls himself Jovian, though you suspect that is not his real name. No one knows where he came from. He appeared one storm-soaked night three winters ago. No one summoned him, no scroll bore his seal, and yet he walked through the palace gates as though he'd lived there all his life, trailing puddles and laughter in his wake. The guards said they let him in because of the way he smiled. As though he knew them. As though he owned them.

You’d been colder back then. Harsher. Too young for your crown, yet already dulled by the weight of it. You didn’t laugh easily. You barely smiled. Your court feared you and rightly so. But he laughed. He made you laugh. His first performance was impromptu. A whirling dance of mimicry and mockery, calling out your advisors by name and miming their worst faults with such ruthless precision that you remember the sound of goblets dropping to the floor.

You’d clapped. Once. Slowly.

And that was enough.

From then on, he never left.

He’s always there now. In the corners of your vision. In every reflection. Behind every column. Sometimes it seems even the shadows bend around him, accommodating his whims.

He wears bells on his wrists and ankles, dozens of them, and yet you never hear him when he shouldn’t be there. When he shouldn’t be anywhere near you. When you’re in the bath. Or asleep. Or alone with someone else.

You’ve stopped being alone with anyone else.

And still, your court adores him. They call him harmless. They say his painted smile is just that—paint. His laughter, an illusion. But they don’t see the things you see. They don’t feel his eyes.

You do. You feel them when you dress. When you undress. When you touch the ring he slipped onto your finger “as a joke” during a performance and which now cannot be removed.

This morning, as always, he somersaults to your throne and throws himself at your feet, dramatic and boneless, like a puppet without strings. His laughter echoes off the marble pillars.

“Another day, another chance to make you smile,” he purrs. His voice is sugar and venom, always. “Shall I juggle your secrets, sire? Dance with your demons? Or would you prefer I remove them entirely?”

You glance down. His painted face grins up at you, the red of his mouth smeared just slightly too wide. There’s something red beneath his fingernails.

“Jovian,” you say, your voice carefully neutral. “Did you sleep at all?”

He tilts his head. “Sleep?” he echoes. “Why would I sleep when you might dream of someone else?”

The court titters. They think it’s another of his jokes. You know better.

You haven’t had a restful night in weeks. Not since you complemented the captain of your guard. She vanished the next morning. Her armor was found folded on her cot. Her sword was never recovered.

Your steward once suggested restricting Jovian’s access to your chambers. The steward now speaks in a strange whisper and doesn’t meet your eyes. He says it was an illness.

You know better.

“Tell me a story,” you say. It’s safer, usually. He loves to perform. It distracts him.

He rises with a flourish, sweeping his arm in a theatrical arc. The bells sing.

“A story,” he says, eyes glinting like cut glass. “A tale of love and laughter? Or one of bones and betrayal?” He leans close. Too close.

You do not flinch. Flinching would only amuse him.

“Whichever you prefer,” you say, and your voice, to your credit, remains steady. “But keep it short.”

Jovian’s smile grows until it threatens to tear the painted mask of his face in two. He twirls away from the dais in a single, liquid motion, his bells trilling like birds startled from a tree. His arms rise, fingers splayed, as if he’s about to cast a spell. And in some ways, you think he is.

“Once,” he begins, “in a kingdom not unlike this one, there lived a ruler whose heart beat only for order. They surrounded themself with straight lines and silent halls, with iron laws and colder dreams. Their people whispered that they had ice in their veins, frost in their marrow. They were not cruel, no—they were clean.”

The courtiers laugh again, the low, uncertain ripple of those who know they are part of a performance but aren’t sure whether the joke is at their expense. You watch him move, pirouetting between pillars, his shadow elongating oddly behind him despite the hour.

“One day,” Jovian continues, “a man came to the palace. A stranger with bells on his wrists and madness in his smile. He danced into the throne room and bowed so low that even the spiders looked down on him. And the ruler, who had not laughed in many long years, tilted their head. And then...smiled.”

He stops dancing. Stops everything. The silence that follows is unnatural. The kind that weighs on your ears. It stretches too long.

Jovian stands now in the center of the chamber. He faces you. The fan is gone. His face is fully visible.

No one laughs.

“But the smile,” he says softly, “was not theirs.”

Something shifts in the air. You feel it like a sudden pressure drop before a storm. Your fingers tighten around the armrest of your throne.

Jovian’s eyes—not the bright, painted mockeries from moments ago but something deeper, older, more aware—lock onto yours. The courtiers around you begin to shift uneasily, the illusion fraying at the edges. Perhaps they, too, feel the change, though they’d never admit it.

“They say,” he goes on, his voice honeyed and low, “that when a fool dances too close to the fire, he risks getting burned. But what if the fire... finds him cold? What if it feeds him? What if it makes him real?”

He turns his head slowly, unnaturally, like a marionette guided by invisible strings. “Would you like that, my liege? To be real?”

Your mouth is dry. Your ring—the one he “joked” into placing upon your finger—burns against your skin. You press your palm into your thigh to stop yourself from reaching for it.

“What are you?” you whisper.

He hears. Of course he hears.

He laughs again, but this time there’s no joy in it. It’s empty. Hollow. The sound of dry leaves spinning down a long corridor.

“I am yours,” he says, all false brightness restored in an instant. “Your reflection, your shadow, your secret kept too long. I am the whisper in the mirror when you do not recognize yourself. I am what your court would be if it were honest. I am... love.”

He’s at your feet again. You didn’t see him move.

“I am love,” he repeats, and his voice cracks on the last word like porcelain under pressure.

Then he reaches into his coat and pulls out a feather—white, long, unmistakably from a dove—and places it on your knee.

You stare at it.

You think of your high priest, who hasn’t been seen since last week’s festival. You remember the dove he always kept with him, a symbol of peace, of renewal. You remember how it used to coo from his shoulder even during sermons.

You haven’t heard that cooing since.

“Your story,” Jovian says, rising again, brushing off his sleeves like dusting away ash, “is unfinished. But it’s getting better. Don’t you think?”

You don’t answer.

He leans close, until his lips nearly brush your ear. “I’ve been writing it in your dreams,” he whispers. “Do you like what I’ve done with the ending?”

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you force yourself to remain still, regal. You are a monarch. You are not afraid.

You are terrified.

The bells sound again as he twirls away, laughing once more, but it is an echo of an echo now, like wind whistling through an old crypt.

He performs the rest of the day for your court, delighting them with riddles and songs, with lewd jokes and elaborate impersonations. He flirts with the ladies, mocks the lords, kisses the hem of your robe as though nothing has changed.

But everything has.

That night, as you lie in your bed, the ring still burning on your hand and the feather tucked in a locked drawer, you dream.

And in the dream, Jovian stands at the foot of your bed, his smile stretched wide, his bells silent.

“You found the ending,” he says.

And the room fills with laughter that isn’t yours.

Masterlist

If you are confused

[izzih22]

just paige being a big baby when she’s sick and on her period or something and crying over everything and azzi comforting and taking care of her

Just Let It Out

Note: hope I hit the mark.

Paige wasn’t just sick.

She was sick and on her period.

Which, in her words — delivered with a raspy voice and tears in her eyes — meant she was “basically dying and no one understood the depth of [her] suffering.”

Azzi did understand. Paige had explained it at least five times that morning, sniffling dramatically from the mountain of blankets she’d curled into on the couch. There were tissues everywhere. Gatorade bottles lined the coffee table like sad little soldiers.

Azzi stood in the kitchen, pouring soup into a bowl while listening to the latest whimper from the couch.

“Azzi,” Paige called pitifully, her voice full of congestion and pure despair. “I’m not gonna make it.”

“You are gonna make it,” Azzi called back, trying not to laugh. “You just have a cold and cramps.”

“I can’t do both,” Paige whined, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “This is… this is inhumane.”

Azzi returned with the soup and a spoon, her eyes soft as she placed everything on the table and sat beside Paige. “I warned you not to go out in the rain the other day.”

“It was romantic,” Paige sniffed, nose red and eyes watery. “You said so.”

“I didn’t mean for you to full-on spin in the middle of the street like you were in a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

Paige blinked at her, lower lip trembling. “You didn’t like my spin?”

Azzi immediately sobered. “Babe—no. I loved the spin. It was a great spin. I’m just saying you also got soaking wet and now your body is punishing you. That’s not my fault.”

Paige burst into tears.

Like, actual tears. She put her head in her hands and started crying like the world was ending, snotty and hoarse and miserable.

Azzi sat back, startled for half a second before reaching out and wrapping both arms around her.

“Okay, okay, no, come here,” she whispered, pulling Paige into her chest like she weighed nothing. “Shh. I didn’t mean it like that. I loved the spin, I swear. You looked beautiful and free and slightly unhinged.”

Paige sniffled against her hoodie. “You think I’m unhinged?”

“In a hot way,” Azzi promised, rubbing soothing circles into Paige’s back. “Like, mentally ill with style.”

Paige let out a soft, broken laugh that morphed into another sob. “I just feel so gross. My body hurts, my stomach hates me, I can’t breathe, and my favorite hoodie smells like cough drops now.”

Azzi kissed the side of her head. “We can wash the hoodie. And I’ll get you a heating pad for your stomach, okay? I’ll make it better.”

“I don’t wanna be strong today,” Paige murmured. “Everyone’s always like ‘oh Paige is so tough, she doesn’t cry, she fights through everything’ but I don’t wanna fight. I just wanna—like—melt.”

Azzi’s heart broke a little at the sound of that.

She was used to Paige being strong. The one who gritted her teeth through ankle pain and smiled through pressure. The one who stayed calm in the final seconds, who reassured teammates, who took hits and walked it off. But this? This was Paige without the armor.

Just a girl. Hurting. Tired.

Azzi cupped her face gently and tilted it up. “You don’t have to be strong today. You don’t have to be strong ever when you’re with me.”

Paige’s eyes filled again, and Azzi just kissed her forehead.

“Let’s just have a sick day, okay? No pretending. No toughness. Just me, you, and a whole lot of soup.”

“I can’t taste the soup,” Paige sniffled dramatically. “My taste buds are dead.”

“Okay,” Azzi smiled, brushing her thumbs over Paige’s damp cheeks. “Then we’ll just eat it… for emotional comfort.”

⸻

The rest of the day was a warm blur.

Azzi tucked Paige into the couch like a burrito, complete with heating pad, extra fuzzy socks, and a water bottle she didn’t let her forget to sip from. She put on one of those feel-good romcoms Paige pretended to hate but secretly loved. And every time Paige started to spiral—over a character dying, over a commercial with a puppy, over accidentally sneezing so hard she spilled her water—Azzi was there with calm hands and gentle reminders that it was okay to cry.

At one point, Paige got weirdly philosophical.

“Do you ever think,” she whispered hoarsely, curled up in Azzi’s lap, “that maybe life is just one long series of pain and occasional soup?”

Azzi kissed her temple. “Yes. But I’m glad I get to go through it with you.”

Paige blinked up at her, eyes bleary. “You’d still want to be with me even if I always looked like this?”

“You look so cute right now,” Azzi smiled, brushing her thumb over Paige’s nose. “Like a sick little bunny who could absolutely beat someone up if she had to, but mostly just wants cuddles.”

“I do want cuddles,” Paige whispered.

“You’re getting cuddles,” Azzi whispered back.

⸻

That night, Azzi finally convinced her to go to bed, coaxing her out of the blankets with the promise of fresh sheets, a heated blanket, and Vicks on her chest “like a grandma.”

Paige stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth slowly, then paused.

Azzi leaned against the doorframe, watching her with soft eyes. “What’s wrong now?”

Paige looked at her in the mirror, toothpaste foam in her mouth. “I don’t wanna brush my teeth standing up.”

Azzi walked forward without a word and gently turned Paige so she could sit on the closed toilet lid. Then she crouched and held the toothbrush steady for her while Paige brushed with the enthusiasm of a very tired koala.

“Better?” Azzi asked softly.

Paige gave her a sleepy, teary nod.

Azzi smiled. “Okay. Bed time, baby.”

⸻

In bed, Paige curled into her chest like it was the only place in the world that felt good.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” she murmured. “Even when I’m gross and snotty and weak.”

Azzi tightened her arms around her. “You’re never weak. You just need someone to hold you sometimes. And I like holding you.”

Paige sniffled again, but this time it was soft.

“Next time you’re sick,” she whispered, “I’m gonna return the favor. I’ll be the tough one.”

Azzi smiled into her hair. “I don’t doubt it baby.”

They fell asleep like that—Paige warm and swaddled, Azzi protective and still, holding all the broken little pieces together until her girl was whole again.

[animelovelover123]

Hii! So I’m new to writing requests, but would you like to write headcanons about Sparda boys + V (if you’d like but not necessarily) reacting to their love interest wearing their clothes? Anyway I hope you’re having a nice day! :)

DMC - Wearing His Clothes

Pairings: Dante, Reboot Dante, Vergil, Reboot Vergil, Nero, & V x Reader

Synopsis: One thing that I kind of struggled with in this one is being vague about reader’s body shape. When people hear the concept of “stealing boyfriend’s clothes”, typically the first image that comes to mind is a girl wearing a hoodie too big for her. But not everyone/everyone's OC is a petite female. I didn’t want to exclude men, fluffy people, muscular people, curvy people, etc, so I have to keep things vague.

I originally planned to write out scenes, but I feel like the reaction of the boys, generally, would change depending on how their partner fits their clothes, so instead I did this. Hope it’s okay ^^;

Dante

Dante will say that you're just trying to entice him or tease you that you are too lazy to do laundry, not that he exactly has the right to talk.

What he does not admit, though, is how much he loves seeing you in his clothes.

It can be sexy, like when you wear something of his that is tight on you or revealing, like the coat he wore when he was first setting up shop, but more often it is comforting.

There is a sweet domesticity to you wearing his clothes. Whether they are tight on you, too big, fit well or are a bit awkward on your body, you wearing his things makes your relationship feel so much stronger than it has ever felt before.

What is yours is mine, and mine is yours, that's a marriage thing, right?

It’s hard for Dante to explain or understand, but if he had to sum it up in one sentence, he would say that you wearing his clothes makes him feel like you care and want to stick with him for a long time. And with his track record with loved ones, you staying with him is all he needs.

Reboot Dante

Dante pretty much always assumes that you wearing his clothes is an invitation for sex.

When he comes home to find you wearing a pair of his pants must mean you missed him and want him in your pants ASAP.

You wearing his coat out and about must mean you are staking a claim on him and want him to show everyone who he belongs to.

You slip his shirt on after sex must mean you're raring to go again.

And you know, you wearing his jacket while you fuck, maybe even give you unloaded Ebony and Ivory to hold and point at him with, now that sounds like and fucking amazing night.

Vergil

Vergil does not own that many clothes, so when you take some of his, he is not very impressed.

More often than not, he will tell you to give them back and to wear your own clothes, they actually look good on you unlike his thick, heavy, armored clothes.

Despite this, if he sees you trembling from the cold or fear of demons, he is quick to shrug off his coat and drape it around your shoulders. He’ll even insist on buttoning it up if your body shape allows it.

And you have also woken up from a few impromptu naps to find his coat draped over you like a blanket. If you try to call him sweet or something of the like for doing that, though, he will brush it off as you being incompetent and helpless without him.

Reboot Vergil

Vergil’s clothes are almost all tailor made so no matter what, they are not going to fit you properly. They are going to bunch up and be strained in odd places.

Vergil thinks that, though on the rare occasion ill-fitting clothes works for you, more often than not they make you look frumpy, which is a shame because you are attractive, but that doesn't come through in his own clothes.

He would rather you wear your own clothes.

However, if you really are determined to wear his clothes, and for some reason his loose pajamas are not enough, he will invest in some stretchier articles of clothing, like a turtleneck winter sweater, that can fit pretty much any body type. He can make it work, and the aura of joy and comfort you exude when you confiscate it is worth it.

Nero

Before Nero awakens his demon side, he has the typical response of seeing someone wear your clothes without warning or reason; a bit annoyed, confused why you can’t wear your own stuff, but also doesn't see it as that big of a deal as long as you give it back and don’t wreck it. At most, he may think it's a bit cute or hot, depending on how you fill it out, but all that will do is make him blush and look away.

Once his demon side comes in, things start to change.

His sense of smell gets stronger, and you wearing his clothes makes your scents mix together in this perfect way. It was similar to the scent created when the two of you cuddled the morning after sex. It is the smell of comfort, peace, and love.

It is also a mark of connection. When you wore his clothes, humans could see, and demons could smell, that he was your partner. And if they knew anything about him, they knew it was also a warning to not get too close to you.

Nero unconsciously makes a habit of rotating through a few choice tops and leaving them out on the couch or a counter. Somewhere you will find it, somewhere it can beckon you to put it on so you both can feel that connection a bit more.

V

V has a particular style that, though not really good for borrowing and lazing around in, is more suited for social events or simply wanting to be more fashionable. As such, permission is more often requested, or you ask where a specific article of clothing or accessory is because it would complete your outfit.

V enjoys this aspect of your relationship. There was a sense of pride in you liking his clothing and accessories enough to want to borrow them, and it was fun styling outfits together.

And couples outfits, though being a delicate balance, were something you two pulled off amazingly.

V also wishes to borrow some of your clothes and accessories, if that is alright with you. Even if your style is completely different from his, working it into his outfit can be a fun challenge.

And every time he sees you wearing his clothes, especially one of his rings, he thinks about how badly he wants to get you that one, specially made ring and slip it onto your finger.

[heliosunny]

Hiii I absolutely love your writing style!! ❤

I was wondering if it's possible to write Gepard in lucky egg!

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Gepard x Reader

The egg sat quietly on your desk, encased in a faintly glowing layer of frost. It had been three days since you got it from the Lucky Egg Dispenser, and you were starting to wonder if anything would ever happen.

You leaned closer to inspect it, marveling at the intricate patterns of ice that had spread across its shell. It felt cool to the touch, yet the chill didn’t bite, it was strangely soothing, like a gentle winter breeze.

Suddenly, a soft crack echoed through the room. You froze, eyes widening as the egg quivered slightly. Another crack followed, then another, until thin fractures began to spiderweb across the frosty surface. A cold mist seeped out, curling around your fingers and spreading across the room in a delicate swirl.

The final break came quietly, a soft shattering sound as the egg opened, revealing a glowing, icy core. From within, a figure emerged, tall and commanding. He stepped out slowly, his armor shimmering with a faint frost that seemed to catch the light in every movement.

His blond hair kissed by a faint dusting of ice. Blue eyes, as sharp and cold as a glacier, met yours with an unwavering focus.

For a moment, he simply stood there, his expression unreadable. Then, in a smooth motion, he placed a hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “My name is Gepard Landau” he said, his voice calm yet resolute. “You are the one who brought me into this world, are you not?”

You nodded, still trying to process the figure before you. The icy aura that had accompanied him lingered in the air, but it no longer felt intimidating, it was protective, a shield against the unknown.

Gepard straightened, his gaze softening slightly. “If that is so, then I pledge my strength and my shield to your service. From this day forth, your safety is my responsibility.”

The frost at his feet began to fade, but his presence remained steadfast, as if winter itself had chosen to stand by your side.

The lingering chill in the air made your nose twitch, and before you could stop it—

“Achoo!”

The sneeze echoed through the room.

Before you even registered what was happening, a heavy weight settled over your shoulders. A thick, warm coat, one that definitely wasn’t yours. You blinked, looking up to see Gepard standing over you, his expression slightly furrowed.

“You’re cold” he stated matter-of-factly, adjusting the coat around you to ensure you were fully wrapped up. “You should take better care of yourself.”

You stared at him, bewildered. “…That was just one sneeze.”

“One is enough” he countered, completely serious. “It could be a sign of an oncoming illness.”

You sighed, realizing arguing would get you nowhere. If wrapping up in warmth kept him from worrying, then you’d just go along with it.

Deciding you needed a break, you waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll rest for a bit. You can… do whatever you want in the meantime.”

Gepard hesitated for a moment, as if unsure what to do with the sudden freedom. But eventually, he gave you a small nod. “Understood. Call for me if you need anything.”

While you settled down, you figured it would be a good idea to order food. Summoning a person into existence was already exhausting; cooking on top of that? No thanks.

When the food arrived, Gepard helped you set the table, his movements precise and careful. He sat across from you, surprisingly composed despite the unfamiliar setting.

As you both began to eat, you noticed the way he occasionally paused, glancing at his food before taking slow, deliberate bites.

“You okay?” you asked, watching him.

“…Yes” he replied after a beat. “I’m simply unfamiliar with dining like this. It’s… different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

He pondered for a moment before finally saying, “It feels… peaceful.”

Something about the way he said it made you pause. There was no grand declaration, no formal tone, ust quiet sincerity.

You smiled slightly, taking another bite of your meal. “Well, get used to it. We’ll probably be eating together a lot.”

A faint warmth flickered in Gepard’s blue eyes, something almost akin to contentment.

“…I look forward to it.” he said softly, returning to his meal.

After a productive day at the guild and dungeon, you were making your way home when Gepard suddenly slowed his steps. You followed his gaze to a small painting workshop, where people sat by easels, brushing strokes of color onto canvas.

He seemed… intrigued.

“You want to try?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He hesitated for a brief moment before giving a small nod. “I’ve never done something like this before.”

That was reason enough. You led him inside, paying for a session, and soon the two of you were seated with blank canvases before you. The instructor gave a simple guide on basic techniques, but Gepard, ever the disciplined soldier, took it far too seriously, studying the brush like it was a tactical weapon.

Then, he began.

You tried to hold back your reaction, really, you did. But when you snuck a glance at his canvas, it took everything in you not to laugh.

The painting was… an attempt. His strokes were stiff, his proportions questionable. What was supposed to be a landscape ended up looking like a battlefield of colors at war with each other. And that was putting it kindly.

Still, you could see the determination in his expression, the way his brows furrowed in concentration. He wasn’t just doing this randomly, he was genuinely trying.

“It’s… unique” you said, choosing your words carefully.

He turned to you, eyes searching for sincerity. “You think so?”

You nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “Yeah. It has a lot of character.”

Gepard glanced back at his painting, as if analyzing your words, then gave a small hum of consideration. “…I see.”

You weren’t sure if he actually believed your compliment or if he just decided to trust your judgment, but either way, he seemed satisfied.

And when he carefully packed up the painting to take home, you couldn’t help but smile.

As the evening settled in, you turned on the TV while handling housework, hoping the background noise would keep you motivated. The screen flickered to life, landing on a music program featuring a well-known band. The lead guitarist took center stage, fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings, their movements commanding and passionate.

A shift beside you caught your attention. Gepard had paused in the middle of folding a towel, his blue eyes locked onto the screen with an unusual intensity.

“You like it?” you asked, turning up the volume slightly.

He blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, but nodded. “It’s… impressive” he admitted. “They play with such precision, yet it feels free.”

You chuckled. “That’s the beauty of music. It’s structured, but it has emotion behind it.”

Gepard hummed in thought before resuming his task. Despite his usual soldier-like demeanor, he moved with an unexpected ease as he helped you around the house. Whether it was wiping down the table or putting away dishes, he assisted with quiet diligence, as if integrating himself into your routine naturally.

Later that night, after everything was done, you both sat on the couch, a couple of drinks in hand. The air between you was relaxed, the dim lighting casting a warm glow over the room.

“You’re good at a lot of things” you mused, swirling your drink in the glass. “But I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be interested in music.”

Gepard took a slow sip before replying. “It’s not something I’ve had the time to appreciate before.” He glanced at you. “But I think I understand why people enjoy it now.”

A comfortable silence settled, broken only by the occasional clink of glasses. The atmosphere felt… different.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or maybe just the way the day had played out, but there was a sense of familiarity now, a quiet understanding forming between the two of you.

“You’re adjusting well” you said, offering him a small smile.

Gepard studied you for a moment before nodding. “I have you to thank for that.”

His voice was softer than usual, carrying an honesty that made your chest feel oddly warm. The faintest of smiles tugged at his lips as he raised his glass slightly, an unspoken toast between you.

And as you clinked glasses, you couldn’t help but think- maybe having him around wasn’t so bad after all.

The moment you stepped into the dungeon, you felt it, a deep, biting chill that seeped into your bones. The walls were coated in frost, the air crisp and unforgiving. You hadn’t expected the dungeon to adjust itself based on Gepard’s presence, and now, you were paying the price.

Despite your best efforts to push forward, your body betrayed you. A shiver ran down your spine, your fingers numb as you tried to keep up. Gepard noticed immediately.

“You’re not well” he stated, concern flashing in his blue eyes. Without waiting for a response, he stepped in front of you. “Stay back. I’ll handle this.”

You wanted to argue, but another wave of dizziness hit, forcing you to stumble. That was all the confirmation he needed.

Shield in hand, Gepard charged ahead with a precision that left no room for doubt. The monsters that lurked in the frost-covered halls barely had time to react before he struck them down with swift, calculated movements. He moved like a force of nature, every step steady, every blow decisive.

By the time he finished, he didn’t even spare a glance at the loot. His priority was clear.

Without warning, he lifted you into his arms. His grip was firm, protective.

“We’re leaving” he declared.

And with that, he carried you out of the dungeon without hesitation, his warmth shielding you from the cold that had drained your strength.

You were barely aware of your surroundings, drifting in and out of sleep as your fever made your body feel unbearably heavy. The warmth of the blankets did little to soothe the exhaustion weighing down on you. Your mind was hazy, consciousness slipping in waves, but something felt… off.

You forced your heavy eyelids open just enough to see a shadow moving in the dimly lit room. A stranger, someone unfamiliar, was rifling through your belongings, their hands quick and practiced as they reached for your bag.

Your lips parted, but your voice came out weak. "Hey… stop…"

The thief barely paid you any mind, convinced you were too sick to do anything. But they didn’t get far.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Before you could process what was happening, the sound of something slamming against the wall jolted you fully awake. The thief let out a strangled gasp, their body pinned against the cold surface by an overwhelming force.

Gepard.

His armored hand was clenched around the thief’s throat, effortlessly lifting them off the ground. His expression was cold, merciless. Ice formed beneath his grip, spreading along the thief’s clothes, freezing them in place.

“You’re awfully bold” Gepard murmured, voice dangerously quiet. “To think you could take what’s mine right in front of me.”

The thief gasped, clawing at his arm. "I-I didn't—!"

The air around Gepard crackled with ice, his fingers tightening. "You did." His gaze flickered toward you, scanning your face, checking your condition. Seeing your half-conscious state, something in his expression darkened.

"You woke them up" he said, almost as if it was the worst offense of all.

The thief’s eyes widened in terror. "Please—I won’t—!"

"You won’t" Gepard agreed, his voice final. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the thief crashing onto the frozen floor, ice creeping up their limbs and holding them in place. “Because you’ll never get another chance.”

You tried to sit up, the sight of him like this making your sluggish mind alert. "Gepard…"

Immediately, his attention snapped to you, his expression shifting. The cold in the room lessened ever so slightly as he crossed the space to your side.

“You shouldn’t be moving” he murmured, kneeling beside you. His hand pressed against your forehead, frowning at your fever. “You’re still unwell.”

Your gaze flickered to the thief, still trapped in ice, barely conscious. "What… are you going to do with them?"

Gepard didn’t even spare them a glance. "They don’t matter."

After recovering from your fever, you decided to stretch your legs, stepping out into the cool evening air. Gepard followed, of course, walking beside you in silence. His presence had been constant, hovering, protective. But now that you were feeling better, you figured he’d ease up.

You were wrong.

As you reached the market district, a merchant you used to chat with spotted you. A friendly face in the bustling street, they waved and approached.

“Hey! Long time no see!” they greeted warmly, their smile wide. “I was wondering where you disappeared to. It’s been a while.”

You smiled back. “Yeah, I—”

Before you could finish, a heavy presence settled behind you. Gepard stepped forward, placing himself between you and the merchant, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the conversation.

The merchant blinked, their gaze shifting to him. “Uh… and you are?”

Gepard’s eyes were cold. “Someone they belong with.”

The merchant chuckled awkwardly, clearly picking up on the tension. “I was just catching up. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

They took a step back, sensing the shift in the air. That’s when you noticed, the temperature had dropped. The once-warm evening breeze now carried an unnatural chill, and frost had begun creeping along the stone pavement beneath Gepard’s feet.

The merchant shivered. “Uh… right. I’ll just—”

“Leave” Gepard finished for them, his voice deceptively polite but warning.

The merchant didn’t need to be told twice. They hurried away, casting you a puzzled glance before disappearing into the crowd.

You turned to Gepard, heart pounding. “What was that?”

He tilted his head, his expression frustratingly calm. “They were getting too close.”

“They were just talking to me” you argued.

“They didn’t need to.”

His tone was final, absolute. The frost at his feet slowly melted, but the tension in the air didn’t dissipate.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. The way the air subtly shifted when he was near. The way the room always seemed to cool when he was in a bad mood and warm when he was content.

But now, after what just happened with the merchant, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. Even now, as you stood there staring at Gepard, the unnatural chill from earlier still clung to your skin. Your breath fogged faintly in the air, not from the weather, but from him.

Realization settled like ice in your veins.

It wasn’t just the surroundings he affected.

It was you.

Your body reacted to his emotions as if it had attuned itself to him. When he was happy, you felt comfortable, at ease. But when he was displeased, when something irritated him, your body responded with a creeping, suffocating cold. Not enough to hurt, not yet, but enough to remind you that his presence was inescapable.

You took a slow step back, needing distance. His eyes flickered, sharp, watching your every movement.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was calm, but there was an undertone—like he already knew what you were thinking.

You swallowed. “Gepard… have you noticed it?”

“Noticed what?”

You hesitated. If you said it outright, what would happen? Would the air turn colder? Would he pull you closer instead of letting you go?

Would he even let you go?

“…Nothing” you murmured, testing him.

His blue eyes studied you carefully. Then, slowly, he smiled. And just like that, the air around you warmed again, wrapping around you like a protective embrace.

His hand reached for yours, fingers brushing against your chilled skin. “Good” he said, as if that was the only answer he would’ve accepted.

His fingers curled around your wrist like a silent reminder.

You belonged by his side.

And if you ever tried to pull away, you weren’t sure you’d like the consequences.

[charlie-shmarlie]

When he protects you: Loki Laufeyson headcanons

The god of mischief protecting you from a group of creeps

Warnings: icky creepy dudes, Loki being protective 🛐

Currently taking headcanon requests :)

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Loki is (quietly) very protective over you. He knows you can handle yourself, but he still can't help but worry from time to time. Whether you notice it or not, he's always got an eye on you. So naturally, when he catches wind that you're being confronted by a group of suspicious men in a shady part of the city, he's there in an instant.

Shows up in full armor for pure intimidation factor, and a grin that's way too pleasant for the spiraling fury and ill intent cooking up inside him.

Pretends that he just happened to stumble upon the whole situation, which is an obvious lie.

PROTECTIVE HAND ON YOUR WAIST. PROTECTIVE HAND ON YOUR WAIST. PROTECTIVE HAND ON YOUR WAIST.

He will try to remove you from the situation as quickly and smoothly as possible but will NOT hold back if the creeps persist in any way.

Oh, they looked at you wrong? Dead. They made a nasty comment? Dead. They dared to challenge him?? Deady dead.

That man has powers beyond the perverts' comprehension, and he won't hesitate to use them whatsoever.

Remember that one scene in the 1893 episode of the Loki series where the dude knocked off his hat and he poofed him away in a puff of green smoke right on the spot? Yeah, it'd be like that.

Except he might stab them first just for good measure idk

Definitely scolds you for going to that part of the city without him. Loki hates feeling scared, and you being in danger scares the hell out of him. He might give you the whole "what were you thinking??" speech and be a little sharp for a while, but it's only because he was so worried about you.

But, if the whole situation has you shaken up, he'll soften. His pride doesn't allow him to admit it often, but you're his weakness, and seeing you frightened and upset makes him cave without question.

Takes you into his arms and holds you close against his chest, keeping a secure hand on your back and in your hair, softly mumbling against your locks.

"It's alright now, I've got you...I would never let anyone lay a hand on you.."

He'll likely take you straight back home after all of that, tightly holding your hand and paying extra attention to all of your surroundings.

It's subtle, but if you pay close attention, you'll notice Loki staying a bit closer to your side for the rest of the day. Not in a clingy way, he won't smother you, but he might follow you to the next room, keep a hand at your waist, or just let his eyes follow you around more often.

If you plan on going anywhere else, he'll go with you. Just in case..

Hates it when you point out that he's being overprotective. How dare you rightfully accuse him.

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[witcheshollow]

If you feel the need to gift your chronically ill friends things for whatever reason, here is my "starter pack/gift guide"

A pack of their favorite gateorade flavor, great for hydration, tastes good, easy and quick. Body armor, prime, etc are also good options if they dont like gateorade

Some of their favorite powder electrolytes. Liquid IV and drip drop are some good options. There are also the generic brand electrolyte packets at Walmart, I think they taste good. There is also bouy if they like the squeezy ones, i dont but if they do bouy has an unflavored one as well as like 30 different options

Kt tape. Regular, extreme strength, cooling, heating, literally any type of kt tape. They can probably find a use for it. Most ((not all but most)) chronically ill people, at least the ones I know, suffer from some type of joint issues and kt tape is a life saver. On this vein, I would stray away from braces unless you know what joints/muscles specifically give them the most trouble, kt tape is a bit more versatile

Compression socks, there are cute ones on Amazon, Walmart, many small business sell some nice ones. I would go for a higher compression, or at least upwards of 15 mmhg, for the best chance of them being worth it

Temperature devices, im putting these in the same bullet point bc it felt unnecessary to put ice packs and heating pads in different points. Ice packs are really nice for swelling and heating pads are really good for pain. Both are a good option ALWAYS. I will say, the reusable ice packs give you a better bang for your buck than the single use crack and use ones.

Their comfort foods. A bit of an ed tw for this bullet point, but i have noticed quite a few of my fellow chronic illness sufferers deal with an ed, and while it isnt all of us, those who do probably find it a bit extra hard to eat on rough days. So comfort foods/snacks

If they have to take their blood sugar for things, lancets. They usually come in like 100 packs for really cheap, like under 5 bucks cheap. Just check to see the brand of their lancing pen before you buy them tho

Batteries, it sounds weird but stay with me. Do you know how many medical devices I have that require batteries?? MANY. My hr monitor, my glucose monitor, my blood pressure monitor- like bro, a pack of triple a batteries will mean more than you think trust

A weighted blanket/stuffie. Stuffies are cute and easy to carry around, blankets are nice when you need some extra weight

If they have a service animal, an accessory for their vest/leash/collar could be nice

One of those reacher things that grab things for you. I want one of those. When your stuck in bed, cant move, ill, in pain and suddenly drop your mother fucking phone cord off the side of your bed and now you have to MOVE and grab it- 10/10 worst experience. One of those grabby things would be amazing

A migraine cap. I got mine from target but I have seen them at Walmart, on Amazon, weirdly one on depop, some on shein, some at places like tj maxx, etc. Migraine caps are especially wonderful for those days where your shut in your room, blinds drawn, fans off, three ice packs on you in constant rotation, barely mobile and for some gods forsaken reason your blinds wont close all the way so the light keeps catching your eyes and making you want to lose your ever loving shit bc you cant move to fuck with them. And more normal experiences Im sure lmao

If your short on funds, just being there with them, listening to them, watching a movie, body doubling so they can get some help with chores, running errands with them, literally anything so they remember their a human person with human feelings that you love and care abt. Who knows, it might help you feel better too

More than anything, listening to what they want and need is a bigger gift than most think

[jerryandersonsdaughterinlaw]

gf!abby comforting you on a bad mental health day/ caring for chronically ill partner headcanons blurb ❀

You hadn’t eaten much, and hadn’t really wanted to talk either. Abby noticed. Of course she did. She’d give you space. Wait a little. Then pad into the room with a glass of water and the softest sweatshirt she owns, carrying it over her shoulder like a peace offering, crouching next to the bed. “Want something warm?”

She’s already helping you sit up, steady hands careful as she pulls the sweatshirt over your head and guides your arms through the sleeves. She’d sit beside you and gently coax the glass into your hands. “Drink a little. You haven’t had much today.” She brushes her thumb over the edge of your knee, quiet, anchoring you there without demanding anything. “Do you want company, or just quiet?”

She’d curl up together with you in bed, your head tucked under her chin, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding, steady. No pressure to talk. Just presence, murmuring things like, "You're okay." "I'm right here." "You can stay like this as long as you want."

Later, she’d offer to help you into the shower. No expectations, just a soft "Come on, I'll turn on the water for you" kind of support. She might stand outside the curtain and talk softly while you wash up. Or if you wanted a bath instead, she’d climb in right behind you. Warm water and soft touches as she helps wash your hair when your arms are too tired.

She’d comfort you— in the Abby way. She might tease a tiny bit, soft smile, "Coddled, huh? That the official request?" but she immediately makes good on it.

She brings you chamomile tea with honey, and leaves you little post-it notes. Scribbles and drawings or single phrases like "I'm proud of you," "you're safe," sometimes just a hand drawn heart.

Puts on your favorite comfort show or movie you've both seen a hundred times, without you even having to ask. Something like Pride & Prejudice, Howl's Moving Castle, or Planet Earth (because she secretly finds David Attenborough's voice comforting). She climbs onto the couch with you and bundles you both in a blanket cocoon, even if it's warm. For safety. Containment. Holding you like something precious.

Abby's not a gourmet chef, but she'd make soup, grilled cheese, or even just heat up leftovers without being asked. She knows what you can manage to eat when your appetite is low, so she’d make something simple and warm. She’d keep a heating pad ready if you have body aches, placing it gently against your back without a word. Bring you meds or water without prompting, memorizing which ones you might forget on rough days.

She’ll sit beside you in silence, letting you lean into her whenever you need. She’d pull out her laptop and browse, occasionally showing you funny animal videos or cool science facts without expecting a big response, just to share a little spark. She’d read aloud to you— quietly, just until you fall asleep on the couch or bed. Abby's voice is low and steady, perfect for it.

She offers her lap or shoulder to lie on, adjusting pillows so you don’t have to move much. Softly rubbing your back or stroking your hair with slow, steady movements that don't require conversation. Brushing your hair gently while you’re lying down. It's one of those quiet things that feels safe and grounding.

Paints your nails while you rest, just for the soft tactile care of it. Maybe tiny stars, or a shimmer she knows you like. She gives your hand something to hold— sometimes her own, sometimes a small tangible object (Abby's learned what helps you self soothe).

Gently pulling you into her lap, strong arms wrapping completely around you like armor. Not letting go. Resting her chin on your head, murmuring, "I've got you," into your hair. She sways a little while holding you, like muscle memory from dancing without music. Calming. Subconscious.

And if you needed more head rubs, kisses to your temple, soft affirmations, Abby would give it freely. Earnestly. Even if it doesn't come naturally to her in everyday moments, she's incredibly intuitive when it counts. If you want to be coddled, Abby will make that space. No teasing, no weirdness. Just warmth. Abby isn’t one for many words, but her actions fill every silence, cradled in quiet devotion.

[bwat5-blog]

Quick Response To Some Fresh Lunacy

**Spoilers For Arcane**

So while I have only delved into the sheer bedlam that is the Arcane Critical tag once, every now and then one of those feisty little diesel drinkers makes it onto my feed and I am treated to something like this as reasons season 2 supposedly sucked (their phrasing was much more unpleasant):

1. The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it. 2. Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters. 3. Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn. 4. Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid. 5. Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured. 6. Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover. 7. Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character.

Okay... breathe deep... it hurts.. I know it hurts. It hurt me as well to read such a strong concentration of felonious stupidity all in one place as well. But we must never falter. There are a lot of ways I could respond to this. And perhaps at some point I will go more in-depth. But the simple fact is nothing here requires a long, drawn out, point-by-point defense. Because I have seen the show. Which clearly gives me the upper hand here. So, I am going to give each of these the amount of attention they deserve.

The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it

Hey there. Remember him? Does it seem like once he pacified Piltover he was just gonna call it a day, get back in his gigantic astral hamster ball and fuck off back to the compound? No. His goal was the evolution of humanity. Not Piltover. Jayce spells this out clearly. "This isn't a fair request". But it is the truth. And regarding the uniforms. The average Undercity character is seen is some variety of leathers/cloth/wool whatever that usually is displaying a decent amount of skin. THE ENFORCERS WEAR ARMOR.

Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters

Okay. I am going to make this is as simple as possible so you can follow along with me:

As we know, Silco is not there. Jinx is essentially working this out in her own mind through these hallucinations

Her status as Silco's daughter, being a symbol, his influence and shadow, it is all tying her to the past which as we know is filled to the brim with delicious sugary trauma.

Even though he was a monster, she views him as a father figure. And as much as it sucks to say probably more than Vander. She was so young when Vander died. She was with Silco during her real formative years. And I would bet she has pushed Vander away mentally to protect herself after everything that has occured. So while Vi sees Vander in the barfight when she wants to give up, Jinx sees Silco.

Silco is giving Jinx the permission Jinx realizes she has to give Vi to save both of them.

Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn

Again. HUMANITY ENDING THREAT. Also ya know her fucking sister wanted her by her side.

OH NO! OUR MURDEROUS MENTALLY ILL TERRORIST IS HEALING AND TRYING TO TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY FOR HER MISTAKES! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! NOT CHARACTER GROWTH!

3. True. In that moment she felt she needed to die.. because as she says, she feels "there's no good version of me". I know it's unfair you have to watch the whole scene to get it. But you have taken a profound moment of Jinx's love for her sister and her recognition of how Vi loves her and made it.. whatever this was supposed to be.

Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid.

I have done this so... so many times. I am not doing it again. I will go with the same blanket statement I have been using lately: A non-lethal crowd dispersal weapon in targeted locations against dangerous drug lords and a terrorist who likes blowing shit up? Seems like a decent plan.

Well done. You have taken a beautiful moment of meaning between these two characters and simplified it down to the utmost degree. There are numerous thoughtful, in-depth and heartfelt breakdowns of this scene available and I promised myself I wasn't going to waste a bunch of my time responding to this mind-melting ignorance. So I will just say this. If that is all you see in that scene, I really am sorry for you. I hope someday things improve.

Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured

Because it wasn't about Piltover or Zaun you crusty dishrag. Viktor was trying to purify all of humanity after a life-time of seeing the imperfections and weaknesses in himself as a start. Jayce loved Viktor. I'm not even getting to romantic or platonic, he LOVED VIKTOR. I suppose you would have preferred for him to look at Viktor and yell "You know what you diseased freak you have a point! Good for you taking everyone's humanity. WELL DONE!"

Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover.

Heimerdinger is very aware of his failings. You have to watch in season one. Again.. watching the show you talk about.. very hard I know. And as close as he and Ekko are in season two I think we can safely say they are on the same page. Never mind that Ekko has shown he has no trouble calling out anyone who needs it.

Ekko and Vi are family. So while it is true he may be angry and we don't see it, I think a character of immense heart like Ekko who loves Vi would actually talk with her. You know.. rather than the savage degradation of Vi some people seem to wish for.

AGAIN FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY

Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character

She is a side character. Sorry but she is. But after a lifetime trying and failing to stand for Zaun she becomes their first ever voice on the council. She is the representative of every person she has wanted to protect. Sorry if that doesn't cut it.

When exactly would we have seen this? I also would have been curious to see her reaction but they were dealing with the whole ya know.. war?!

Same to above. I wish we could have seen Jinx rallying the undercity with Ekko. I actually give you this one. I think this was a missed opportunity.

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING

I'm sorry scary Viktor. I don't know why they keep forgetting you.

[weclassygirl]

scheme

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: reader meets her shadow in the flesh as two riders enter Eregion

warnings: some blood (fake wound)

word count: 2,8k

author’s note: he's finally here! might take a moment before i update (i need to rewatch season 2 for him), but the next chapter.... ugh i can't wait to post it. enjoy! (previous part -> deception)

He doesn’t, for weeks he doesn’t reach out, does not even give you a sign he’s alive. You wish you could rip him to shreds once you see him again even if his very essence would slip through your fingers.

Celebrimbor notices you’ve become distracted, your work becomes sloppy, where once was attention to details and strive for perfection now lay curses under your breath when another piece of work is ruined. 

He comes to your side and places a hand on your shoulder. “Rest.” 

You turn to face him, the hammer still in your hand as well as the chisel. “I have to finish—“ he places your tools down, you don’t protest.

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone and your mind is not where it’s supposed to be.” you sigh, he’s right even he does not know the true reason. You take off your apron and put it on the stool before leaving the forge. 

You wander to the gardens and around Eregion trying to clear your head. You try to see past the trees, behind the horizon, maybe he’s out there. Wishful thinking. 

You’ve heard of the attacks on the Southlands, men fighting against orcs and the destruction it placed over the land. They call it under a different name now. Out of the corner of your eye you see horses, a rider clad in armor and a man. A messenger, probably. Eregion always had news to answer and these days it seemed more than ever. 

You come back to the forge after a while despite Celebrimbor’s refusal. You needed to occupy your mind, the blade you’ve been working on was nearly finished. You’ve been mixing metals to try and combine them into a nearly ethereal glow, mithril was far out of your reach. You’ve helped with the construction of the tower, not like the might of the Dwarves but your work has been appreciated. 

Elrond came before spring to help Celebrimbor and he secured it when Prince Durin sent his for forces to Eregion. The secrecy has been languid, you knew what Celebrimbor was hiding, he knew of mithril, knew that the very light of the Elves was fading, yours included. You felt it, more than the others, you considered Sauron’s offer to bound yourself to him completely but called yourself a fool for such thought. This is not the time you spoke of, you know it, see it as behind a mist, the future of Eregion and all Middle-Earth. Glimpses that always end with fire and blood.

A guard comes into the forge and calls out your name. Your head whips around as you look at him. 

“Your assistance is needed in the healer's quarters.” he informs you. 

“What of the Warden?” you ask, surely the master of healers would accommodate to the unexpected guests who arrived through the gate, should one of them be injured.

“Busy with other matters.”

You sigh but put away your tools once again. “Very well.” you say and follow the guard. 

You didn’t mind healing others but sometimes the injured or ill irritated you to the point your started to regret you were acknowledged as a healer in the first place. People came to you with the smallest cut or barely a cold, a proper herb and warm water would do most of the work.

When you arrive in the healer’s quarters your feet feel stuck to the ground at the sight of the person in front of you. 

“Galadriel?” you couldn’t believe it. “I thought you left for Valinor.” 

She’s clad in armor, her face dirty and sweaty from the journey. If she stayed in Middle-Earth you hoped she only heard the good things you’ve done while in Eregion, you do not wish to have her as an enemy.

“Fate decided I stay here.” she responds. She looks you up and down, the scars visible from your days under Morgoth, however no black fingertips. The darkness hasn’t consumed you or so she thinks. “I’ve heard of your progress here.” 

You feign flattery. “Yes, I owe it to Lord Celebrimbor.” 

“It’s impressive how much you swayed from darkness, not many can.” 

You chuckle slightly, oh if she only knew. 

“Yes, well, my punishment here proved to bear fruits.” you respond and you remind yourself why you’re here. You look her over. “Are you injured? I’ve been summoned as a healer rather than a smith.” 

“My friend is, if you could tend to him.” she starts walking down the hall and when you enter the room you see him, his face so familiar to his but you don’t want to make false assumptions. 

She tells him who he is and you turn to her with a question on your face. “King of the Southlands? How is it your path crossed with his?” you come closer to the man on the table and lift up the bloodied piece of clothing, he grunts as the dried blood tears away with the fabric. When you look to Galadriel her eyes tell you everything you need to know. Her task in Middle-Earth was not yet complete. 

You inspect the wound and Halbrand watches you carefully, you dare not to speak. Is it him? After all this time? Should you voice your thoughts? The questions plague your mind. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” she says as Elrond comes closer, you’ve conversed with him while he remained in Eregion and helped Celebrimbor in securing the work force to assemble the Great Forge. He’s been travelling constantly between Eregion and Khazad-dûm, the High King deceived him of his purpose here at first but the alliance between Dwarves and Elves grew. 

When they are out of your sight you look to Halbrand. An interesting name he has chosen, so many meanings, every single one fitting his image. Admirable, shadowed, exalted. You nearly laugh under your breath.

“Is my state that amusing to you?” he asks and the corner of your lips rises. 

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” you’re still unsure if you can speak freely in front of him, he may just be a face that he saw once, that felt suitable for him to wear when appearing in your visions. You tear the fabric that laid on his wound, you discard it and grab a cloth with warm water. “What has happened?”

“Enemy lance, six days ago.” he responds and grunts as the cloth makes contact with the wound. You wonder if he truly sustained the hit or it was another illusion. You were certain the red blood was.

“Is it truly like they say? Turned to dust and ashes?” you ask, curious as ever.

“The Southlands?” you nod. He watches as you tend to him, grabbing a bit of Elvish herbs, athelas and mixing them in a mortar. The paste thickens with each turn and you put it aside to grab other herbs needed. After a while, he gives you the answer. “Yes.”

You grab an herb and bring it up to his mouth. “Chew on it.” you tell him.

“What is it?” he eyes it warily before taking it. 

“It will replace the taste of iron from the blood in your mouth.” you don’t answer his question directly but he listens. As you smear the paste you mixed up he smiles under his nose, the sight doesn’t go unnoticed by you. 

“Most people would be in pain and yet you react as if it’s a common cold.”

You’ve seen people wither in anguish from a single touch of Elvish medicine before it took its desired effect, it’s strange for a common man to not react to it. Perhaps he wants to show that he’s stronger than many. You go to the table to gather a clean dressing when you hear his response, so silent but makes you freeze in your steps. “Now I’m the first to give myself to you at my deathbed.” 

Was it him or your persistent shadow speaking? Could you distinguish the two now? The voice so familiar but not muffled like many times you’ve heard it, this was real, raw.

You turn to him but his sight is already set upon you. Any evidence of pain gone from his face as you step closer to the bed with a bandage in your hands. You search his face for any sign of falsehood and he awaits your reaction. You smack the piece of cloth you were holding onto him when he grabs your wrist and pulls you closer. You lock eyes but yours slip down to his lips, he notices and smirks. It feels as if he’s drawing down to him, if he did you could just…

“Violence goes against what you should stand for.” he taunts and lets you go. You glare at him, you told yourself you would rip him to shreds the next time you see him. 

“I should let you bleed out.” you retort, he looks down and gathers some of the red blood from the wound.

“So it’s a convincing illusion, I take it?” he smears it on his fingers and it turns pitch black. You huff in annoyance. 

“You’re insufferable.” you clean your hands in the basin, leftover herbs floating in the water as you dry your hands. You hear him shift on the bed.

“Are you not glad?” he begins to get up and stalk closer to you. 

When you turn he’s met with your brows raised and laugh on your lips. “Glad? I believed you to be dead.” you deadpan.

“Did you mourn?” he asks.

“Would you care?” you bite back.

It takes a moment before he responds, his voice soft. “Yes.” he stands right in front of you and takes your hand. The illusion you cast is perfect, leaving not a speck of dark that would have peeked from it. He inspects it, so much power that could come from them. “Don’t hide it.”

Your anger starts to disappear as he holds your hand. You never thought that you would see the day where he’s in the same room as you, in the flesh and not a black mass. “Defeats the point if I don’t.” you look up at him with question. “Why Eregion?”

“You’ve gained his trust, I intend to use it.”

“For what?”

He smiles. “Everlasting peace over all Middle Earth.”

You pull away from his touch. 

“Under your rule.”

His answer comes quickly with no hesitation as if his mind is already set upon it.

“And yours.” you’re confused. He bound you to him, not completely but alas, you did not expect that answer. He looks to the entrance, listening if anyone comes by before looking down at you. ”Our paths are already intertwined, tangled whether you wish to cut them. I do not intend to let your talents go to waste after I’m done.”

His words compel you, a malicious intent behind them and yet you fall for them like the stars from the sky. 

“A power over flesh?”

He nods. “I owe it to you, this idea, this scheme.” 

You don’t have the time to respond when you hear someone walking down the halls, as the master of the healers enters, you step away from Halbrand or rather Sauron to you. 

“Your Majesty, you should be resting.” he says as he sees him standing next to you, the blood on his fingers red.

“I needed to test my strength.” he lies swiftly and goes back to the bed. The Warden nods at you and tells you that he will take over. You bid Halbrand goodbye and glance at him one last time before leaving. 

Not a day passes when you hear him talking with Celebrimbor. The workshop was quiet in the morning and you needed to gather your notes. The High King ordered every Elf to be moved to Lindon, one last gathering before your time passes.

You did not expect for Sauron to take actions so quickly but it does not surprise you. 

“Might there not be some alloy to amplify the qualities of your ore?” he asks Celebrimbor as he hands him the piece of mithril.

“Well, that is… an intriguing suggestion.” you remark as you enter. You nod in greeting towards both of them and walk closer. Halbrand takes his eyes off of you. 

“Call it… a gift.” Celebrimbor inspect the mithril in his hand before you stride to your work bench. Notes scattered, splashes of ink spilled on the table. 

“You should be packing for Lindon.” he tells you and you gather whatever you can, some of the ink making it’s way onto your hand. 

“I needed to grab my notes, shame to let them go to waste.”

Would any Men take them after you have passed to the Undying Lands? Would they appreciate them?

“You’re leaving?” Halbrand asks you, surprise in his voice. 

You look between the two men. “High King’s orders, as much as I would like to stay. I have no choice but to obey.”

It pains you to say it, a witch following orders of a King, but the ruse must hold. Celebrimbor’s mind seems to be at work, Halbrand’s words resonating with him. It is then he remembers that you may not know who he is. 

“This is Lord Halbrand, King of—”

“The Southlands, yes we’ve met.” you interrupt. “Galadriel sent for a healer at hand and I was the only one available at the time.” you look to Halbrand. “You should be resting.”

“No use if I’m bedridden when your people need aid.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You wish to help?”

“If you allow me.” he directs these words to Celebrimbor and he smiles as he looks between you two.

“I believe we can work something out.” 

The three of you part your ways when he caughts up with you. The halls are empty, occasional guard posted but nothing more, the vines flow down the vast architecture surrounding you.

“I never realized you’ve made quite a name for yourself here.” he expressed as he started walking next to you. You nod occasionally at the guards as you pass through, some other smiths you work with. 

When out of their sight you speak. “It was demanded.” you stop in your tracks, both of you now standing on the parapet connecting two buildings. “Would you let an Elven Witch roam around your kingdom so freely? Her darkness poisoning the very air you’re breathing?” your voice low should anyone listen to your conversation. He studies you closely, eyes softening in his low-man form.

“You, yes. Another I might consider throwing over the walls.” he remembers why he joined you. He has an occasion to properly talk to you, no visions to hold him back now. He goes back to his first statement. “People talk.”

You look down at the few Elves roaming in the courtyard, Fëanor’s statue illuminated by the soft light of the morning. “And what have they said of me?”

He leans against the balustrade. “An Elf once cast out by her people, called Morgoth’s servant despite doing it to survive and when fled chained once again by her own kind. Fulfilled her punishment here in Eregion and started to move away from darkness within her, became a trusted Elven smith and a healer where her work only blossomed.” he looks down to the ring on your finger, worn out by time however you never corrected it, the broken stone still held. He says it like reading a passage from a book, you don’t turn to look at him. Your voice barely above a whisper.

“They trust you so easily.” you’re almost jealous and he knows. 

“They have not come to know me like they did you.” he reassures you. Once they do they will cower in fear.

You turn to face him, you sense the scheme within him. “You plan to use mithril. For what kind of weapon?”

“Not a weapon, it shouldn’t be too obvious. Something far more precious.” he looks down at you and smiles. “You’ll see, I believe it will be to your liking.”

“You think that Celebrimbor will let you into his workshop, a low-man?”

“Why wouldn’t he? I suppose I left a good impression.”

“Ah, of course.” you shake your head and smile under your nose.

The silence weighs between the two of you, some guards pass you by and the morning sky shines mercilessly. You start walking away from the parapet and into the streets, the small crowds surround you as you go by the merchant stalls, tall towers and small courts. 

“It’s refreshing. Seeing you here, feeling your presence, it’s… stronger.”

“Few hundred years had made their mark.” you respond and stop by a fountain, the water hums in your ears. 

“So did I.”

You look up at him and try not to roll your eyes. You admit he gave you tremendous help but the years you’ve spent in Eregion fell upon your shoulders. You knew you had to endure your stay a little longer, for his sake and yours. 

“Thank you.” you find yourself whispering. He knows you well enough to give you a small nod in exchange.

“Do not think that I will release you of the practice over your craft.”

You smile, this is what you needed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

next part -> bewitched

[catsuspenders]

examples above. info under readmore

base colors with lines:

half body: 30 usd, additional characters 15 usd per person

full body: 45 usd, additional characters 25 usd per person

if theres a preference of brush to use for lines or colors, let me know in the email. i will default to one of the more paint-y pieces

(will look like the first and third image for paint-y, second and fifth for other)

painting over lines:

half body: 50 usd, additional characters 20 usd per person

full body: 75 usd, additional characters 35 usd per person

(will look like the third image and the general painting style of the last)

background piece:

this ones negotiable depending on a lot of factors, but i would need good references and/or a detailed guide of what you're looking for and may refuse. a base price would look like ~120 usd. example example example

will draw:

ocs, media characters (if you have a design you prefer with references, will go with that), anthro, armor (if it being a little simplified due to my style is a-okay)

won’t draw:

gore, real life people, anything i am uncomfortable with (ill let you know)

contact/payment:

you can email me at catsuspenders@gmail.com. if i havent responded to the email you can send an ask nudging me. the money will be sent via paypal or venmo. please note, ill ask to be paid in full after i send a simple sketch to see if you like the idea (i will send updates since my art process isnt as simple as a nice looking sketch to finished, but a general idea will be presented), then it will have a turnout of 7-21 days after getting paid. there will not be refunds.

thank you!

[fakeboy-breeder]

sir but like i’m a knight and you’re my squire. you want so desperately to be a knight, but you’re a girl. or at least your cunt says so, you’re blatantly convinced your a man in a woman’s body. so, you disguise yourself, chop your hair, and bind your chest down with fabric wraps. you’re able to pull off scrawny young boy well enough, despite being years older than any other squire, and you’re elated. you’ve found a way in. you’ll just keep your slowly growing tits and pretty pink cunt hidden until you’re the strongest knight in the realm so no one can stop you anymore.

but then you’re assigned to me. i’m known for being brutal and going through squires like mugs of ale, breaking boys quickly so they understand they’ll never be a true knight unless they work for it. i’m also known for fucking my way through every town we enter, leaving every girls pussy gaped, needy, and flooded with my cum. even the kings best mathematician couldn’t begin to predict how many bastards of mine are running around the country and i take pride in it. cunts are to be bred, are they not?

after a few weeks of backbreaking labor and constant jabs at your feminine face, your clear weakness, your insufficiency with a sword, i’d start to take a liking to you, though you’d never guess. my treatment stays exactly the same, but i privately think i’d like to keep you around for a while, as you’re pleasant company. one day, your chest wrap breaks. you’re in the middle of doffing my horses saddle and you feel a rip, the cloth falls, and your tits begin pressing at your tunic. you try desperately to angle yourself to hide them, but in the couple months you’ve been binding them down they’ve grown enough that it’s impossible. and i’ve seen.

in that moment i push you against the outer wall of the castle. my quickly hardening dick rubs against your plush ass while i force your face into the stone. i’d ask you how you possibly thought you’d become a knight with udders like those. i’d strip you if your ill-fitting squires’ clothes and inspect your pretty cunt. i’d almost start laughing. the pretty little squire i liked is truly a delusional whore.

i’d fuck you then and there. force my fat cock into your virgin cunt out in the open, where any knight, servant, squire, or nobleman could stumble across your defloration. i’d keep my armor on, let the metal bite into your ass and thighs. when i finished, i’d be to force it deep in your cunt, flood your womb so you can make me another bastard

if you were good and learned your lesson, maybe i’d convince my king to allow me to take you as a bride. if you didn’t, if you tried to tell me some nonsense about being a man, i’d ride you down to the nearest whorehouse myself and sell you for barely enough to fund my next night at the tavern

[deny-the-issue]

Love Thy Nature

Summary: Set in the "Baldur's Gate 3" epic tale, you struggle with ongoing body image issues while pining after Halsin, hoping to earn a special place in his heart.

Thank you so much to my lovely beta readers @juniper-sunny and @sirenofzaun <3

AO3 link

link to divider

Thank you everyone for the overwhelming amount of interest in this fic! I hope you all enjoy <3

[MDNI] [Halsin x fat!Reader] [no mention of gender pronouns] [reader has vulva/breasts] [body image issues] [whatever height you are, Halsin is taller] [whatever weight you are, Halsin can lift you] [smut] [fluff] [angst] [happy ending] [oral sex] [vaginal sex] [teasing] [5580 words]

Chaos. Those first few hours were absolute chaos. In Baldur’s Gate shopping for vegetables one moment, infested with a slimy tadpole the next. At least you aren’t alone. 

Even if they intimidate you. 

You all have a common goal, and you wear this safety like a blanket. With companions like these, maybe you’ll have a chance to live. If you don’t get caught in between Shadowheart and Lae’zel, that is. 

Stomach rumbling, feet aching, thighs raw, the nights end with you silently crying yourself to sleep. You are distinctly unsuited for this life. The others say nothing, but you feel like you’re letting them down when you lag behind them during the day’s journey. You simply cannot keep up with Karlach and Lae’zel’s pace, and with the dismal amount of food for dinner, you’re starving. 

You’re not the only hungry one, but you are the only one that eats away from the fire, in solitude. Even in the city you preferred to eat alone. Judging eyes haunt your every bite, but you know the shame comes from within. You know you have no right to complain about being hungry when you have the most weight to lose.  

So you suffer in silence. 

Your armor consists of ill-fitting cloth and leather which you have to repair frequently. The cloth is thin and your thighs can rub it away to nothing within a single, travel-heavy day. The others have found armor that suits them quite well, and you’re happy for them. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t envious of the ease at which they can find things that fit. 

It’s hard not to dwell on your size. How it would be easier to find armor if you were skinnier. How much easier it would be to keep up. How much more confident you would be. 

You see your travel companions flirt and cast lewd looks at each other. It lightens the heart to see, yet stirs a deep yearning within that has been your constant bane over the years. To love is something you have known many times, but to be loved is another story entirely. Truly loved for everything you are, inside and out. It seems impossible to behold when you cannot fathom loving yourself in that way. 

Maybe one of them would have given you a chance, if only you had the confidence to try. 

As the days go on, you learn more about each other, some willingly and others forced. Just when you think no one else is hiding something, another secret arises. Every single one of them has enough problems without the threat of becoming illithid, and you start to see the people underneath the mask of intimidation you assigned to them. 

Despite your best efforts to keep your distance, they start to grow on you. Their troubles become yours, and a warm feeling of belonging takes root in your chest. 

The grove is a delightful little community. Their harmony with nature is beautiful, your curious eyes take in every part and crevice. 

Maybe too curious, since you had a near scrape with the guards due to the little shit, Mol. She’s too smart for her own good–trouble will surely follow her wherever she goes.

Just as it does you.

Just as it does him, too, apparently. Breaking a bear out of a dungeon is a first for you, but watching that bear transform into the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen becomes a keystone memory. 

Already you are filled with conflicted feelings, more thankful everyday this horrible thing happened to you because it brought you to them. All of them brilliant, all of them flawed, and all incredibly beautiful. 

You cling to the hope of his companionship as you prepare to protect the grove. Halsin’s knowledge instills fear in your bones, more defined than it was before. Now you have an idea of what you’re up against, and it’s all much bigger than you can fathom. Getting to know him personally casts away the worrisome thoughts; his words a honey-sweet distraction to the storm clouds gathering overhead. 

You leave his company with a smile straining your face, but it doesn’t take long for the bite of loneliness to nip at your heels. Halsin’s answer about lovers echoes through your mind, a deep spiral into well-trodden waters. 

“Right now? I bed down alone, I’m afraid. Perhaps once I talk less of curses and parasites, my fortunes will improve.”

How foolish of you to think he might warm to you. You’re sure his fortunes will improve, only with someone else. Someone more deserving of him. 

These depressing thoughts do not stop you from befriending him. Quite the opposite, in fact. By casting aside your hopes for romantic love, you feel as though you can finally start to be yourself in camp.

And you’re surprised to find they like you. Your spirit and sense of humor return to you in troves–making some poor sod kneel for Lae’zel has everyone laughing at camp that night.

Yet you still make off alone with your bowl of stew when dinner is served, until a large obstacle blocks your path. 

“I do not pretend to know why you dine alone, but you are most welcome to join us.” Halsin smiles kindly.

“I know, it’s ok. Thank you, though,” you try to dismiss him, but he doubles down. 

“Do you not find our company agreeable?”

“No! I mean, yes? You’re lovely–you’re all lovely,”you stammer, heat rising to your face. 

“Good, then you’ll have no problem joining us,” Halsin’s eyes sparkle with amusement, no doubt from watching your mind implode. 

The prospect shouldn’t be as terrifying as it is, yet you cannot help but feel extremely uncomfortable. 

You beat down the slight panic and return Halsin’s smile, unwilling to argue your case further. What would you even say? Laying your insecurities bare to a man you just met is not on your agenda for the night. 

His large hand touches your shoulder as he makes his way to the fire, confident you’ll join him. So warm and rough with callouses–the contact lasted but a moment but you can feel it still, like an invisible badge of affection. 

“Come on, Soldier, grab a stump! I already picked the slugs off for you.” Karlach laughs at your grimace. 

“Thanks,” you walk over to the offered seat. “I’ve had enough slimy things for a lifetime.”

A chorus of agreement and various stages of grief crosses the face of each companion as you join them around the fire, a part of the pack for once. As much as you begrudge Halsin for pulling you out of your comfort zone, you never spend another night eating alone, and your heart is all the fuller for it. 

The battle for the grove was hard won, and the celebration that followed was a well-needed respite for everyone. Surrounded by friends, plenty of food, and drink, you felt more alive than you had since it all began. Whatever shame you were harboring faded away with the alcohol settling into your rosy cheeks, and you sought out the man you’ve been pining for. 

Weeks of hard living have left you as lightweight as Halsin claims to be, but the confidence to mingle in his company is a welcome boon. Oh, to see him tipsy–better still if you are the first person he sees. Is he handsy in his affections, or reserved, you wonder? 

But what does he mean by calling you resourceful? 

You’ll have to ponder its meaning after some sobering sleep. Nothing could sway your mood tonight. He may have turned you down, but he was surely flirting with you. Even with the short time you’ve known him, you know he is not the kind to lead anyone on. 

Enjoyable. A night with you would be enjoyable; the thought has you grinning for the rest of the celebration, and biting your lip later, when you’re alone in your tent with roaming, lusty hands.

You’re able to find suitable food, but with life’s ever-increasing hardships, it continues to take a toll on your body. Hiking is not as hard as it once was, though, and you are thankful for it. With a body such as yours, it would take a considerable amount of time before you’d be deemed ‘thin’, but the loss of weight is undeniable. 

Your clothes are loose, for one, and the little armor you have shifts uncomfortably, always needing adjusting. The others have started noticing as well. 

Karlach gave you a, “Lookin’ good, soldier!” the other night and you never wished to cast an invisibility spell so much as in that moment.

This slightly-slimmer body should make you happy, but the success is tainted in your mind. It’s not as if you chose to lose weight, to starve, to walk endlessly every damned day. What happens when– if-- you can live a normal life after this? The same mistakes will surely be made as before, and you’ll go right back to the size you so hate. No lesson has been learned here, not in regards to food. 

Even if you do somehow lose all this weight, you still will not be pleased with yourself. Stretch marks and loose skin, you could never look the way you want to. 

The frustration grinds your spirit down, but no one notices. Hells, you hardly notice. The Shadowlands dampen the mood of everyone, infecting the camp even without touching it. 

Fighting has never been easy for you, and you’ve managed to hold your ground so far. But every person’s luck runs out sometime, you suppose. One awkward move and you get a knife in your side. The armor should have protected you–would have–if only it fit you better. 

Halsin gathers you in his arms, carrying you despite your weight. A mad rush back to the Last Light inn saves your life. As you’re placed in a healing sleep, you hear echoes of Halsin’s soothing voice. You can never make out the words, but they calm your turbulent mind, keeping the nightmares at bay. 

When you wake, you are mostly healed. The skin is healed, though a scar remains, and the pain is manageable while lying still in bed. Halsin greets you with warmth and a small amount of haste.

It seems, while you slept, Halsin talked to both a tailor and a leather-worker on your behalf. What is more surprising is the light scolding you receive.

“You should have spoken up, we cannot afford such a loss in these dire times.”

“And we can afford this?” You doubt, knowing how much new, custom armor costs. 

One stern look from Halsin, and you concede.

Everyone pooled their gold together to buy you fitted clothing and armor, a gesture that means the world to you. What have you done to deserve such kind friends? Just as you took on their troubles, they’re taking on yours without a second thought. 

There is one part of their gesture that gives you pause. They need your measurements, and you need to stand for it. With abdomen muscles still healing, you require Halsin’s help to get out of bed, leaning heavily against him. 

So close to him, you breathe in his scent, take in his warmth, and relish the contact. It’s almost enough to distract you from the embarrassment of having a stranger shimmy a measuring tape around your body. You hide your discomfort as best you can, but Halsin notices.

He always does. 

He must have read it as pain, because he hastens the person along so you can lay down and rest again. Another unsaid deed that shows his care for you, soothing the stinging humiliation. 

“Let me call the healers over, I am sorry for disturbing your rest.”

You grab his hand, stilling his movements. “Wait, please.”

“What troubles you, friend?”

You shake your head. “Thank you. For carrying me back and for the clothing. Words cannot describe how grateful I am.” 

Halsin takes your hand in his gently, “This fight would not be the same without you by my side.”

You blink away a rogue tear as Halsin brings forth a healer, and drift into a deep, healing sleep with a smile on your face. 

When you wake, you’re fully restored, and your new armor and clothes are atop the bedside table. The sight should fill you with excitement, but all you feel is dread.

What if they don’t fit you? What if they’re too small?

Retreating to a corner with a privacy curtain, you hesitantly try them on, thankful that your party isn’t here. To your surprise and great relief, they all fit–as they say–like a glove. The leather armor comes with a learning curve with all the straps and strings, but after a few mistakes, you figure it out.

It’s genius, really. With overlapping leather and lacing on the side, up the arms, and down your legs, its size is fully adjustable. Up to a point, of course, but extremely useful for the days to come. You’ll probably lose more weight as the journey is far from over, and now you have armor that can account for size changes in either direction!

You choke back tears of happiness, never once having known the feel of well-fitting clothes until now. Everything has been uncomfortable in some way or another, always with minor inconveniences, and never once did they look good. 

In these clothes, it doesn’t matter how you look. You feel good in them, and for once in your life, that is all that matters. A burden has been lifted from your shoulders whose weight you never noticed before now. 

Could you truly be comfortable within this body of yours?

Later, when they all come back to the inn after adventuring, the party makes you spin for them so they can get a good look at your new attire, and although shy, your smile is brighter than it has ever been. 

Saving Thaniel is no easy task, and you probably have a few more gray hairs after that battle. With Halsin’s life at stake if you fail, you fight tooth and nail to protect the portal. 

Even though it is not enough to lift the curse, Halsin’s eyes soften whenever he looks upon you, and that is all the reward you need. 

Your love does not end with Halsin; each party member has wormed their way into your heart. So when Shadowheart embarks on her quest with you at her side, you trust her to make the right choice. 

Dame Aylin is truly something to behold. The daughter of a goddess, and a god in her own right. To be reunited with her love after so many years is a love story of the ages. You’re lucky to bear witness to it, although it tugs at the heartstrings. 

The longing for a love such as theirs does not linger on your mind, not with the battle for Moonrise Towers looming overhead. 

Is this the end? Will you be free to live your life once more? The end does not feel as near as you are led to believe. Not all of the pieces fit together yet, and the unknown scares you. 

As you suspected, Ketheric Thorm was just one head of the hydra. There is much more to be done, and the journey ahead weighs heavily on your shoulders. You try to focus on your triumphs; the Shadowcurse is lifted, the land can begin to heal, and Halsin promises to remain by your side. 

A heart full of joy can only do so much when you’re running on fumes, requiring a warm bed and a few days rest. Your friends help distract you from the wear and tear of the past few weeks, always bickering about this or that. Usually you stay out of it, but Halsin has other plans on the journey to Wyrm’s Crossing, it seems.

Freeing Thaniel, and moreso, the land, has earned you a special place by Halsin’s side. You did not expect that place to come with an honorary nickname. 

Two simple words. It, at first, fills you with a sense of kinship, but soon begins to wear on your mind. As much as you love the affection it implies, one of those words hasn’t pertained to you for a long time. 

You find him that night at camp, voice hesitant. “Halsin, can I ask you something?”

“What is it, little duck?” He greets you with a pleased smile. 

“Well, that’s what I need to talk about. Little duck.”

“Does it not please you?”

“No–it’s not that. It’s just,” you pause, crossing your arms as you take a deep, calming breath. “I’m not little.”

“Are you not?” he inquires with a hint of mirth. 

Confused eyes lift to find his hand hovering above your head, a silent judgment of your height. 

Your stoic facade breaks with a smile, then with laughter, and you nudge him with your shoulder playfully. 

“You got me there,” you surrender, grinning ear to ear. 

Halsin laughs with you, but retains a more serious composure. “As much as that pleases me, should I call you by another name?”

“Please don’t,” you answer swiftly, needing no arduous thought to decide. 

From then on, anytime he says those two words, it fills you with warmth. 

Reuniting with the refugees saved from the Shadowlands brings you joy, but not as much as a real bed and a roof over your head does. 

Freshly washed and bathed, you almost forgot what it’s like to be clean. The quest to save the city is as grave as ever, yet all you needed was some self care to feel ready to take on the Elder Brain. 

The nights in Elfsong Tavern are anything but quiet, and you feel Halsin’s attention grow with each night, like he’s working up to something.

Maybe it’s just hopeful thinking, but you feel the chemistry between the two of you. Laughter and conversation is always easy with him, and he’s been touching you more. 

Nothing serious; grazing your arm, wiping a smudge of dirt off your face, his hand lingering on your shoulder. The contact, although small, brightens your mood, and you begin to yearn for it every time he’s near, even if you still think romance is out of the question. 

It’s almost comedic, how wrong you are. 

Not a week passes before Halsin confesses his feelings for you; how he yearns to feel your skin against his in a romantic night under the stars. You barely hear his next words over your heartbeat pounding in your ears. 

His heart stirs for you, just as yours does for him. He seems so vulnerable, just now. Nervous, just as you would be in his shoes. You feel as though you are seeing a piece of him rarely shown, or perhaps you did not wish to see past the brawn. Your souls are of the same gentle nature, and just a rest away from uniting in bliss.

Fidgeting in your sheets, you try to calm your turbulent mind, but it is hopeless. Each shift calls attention to the throbbing in between your thighs, their thickness both a blessing and a curse. But your mind is still eager to race into dark territory. The night of your dreams is accompanied by your mountain of insecurities. 

You’ve been intimate with others before, but that was of a low time where you hid parts of yourself to please others. 

There will be no more of that. He will know you. All of you. Even if it means he does not want you after. 

With mind set, you find him in the clearing by the lake, his large hand upon the rough bark of a tree in silent communion. When turns to greet you, the relief and excitement in his eyes brightens the world around you both, and instills you with courage. 

All thoughts of revealing your most authentic self blow away with the breeze when Halsin relieves himself of his clothes. Standing proudly naked before you, he sweeps you up in his arms, his kiss as passionate and devouring as he promised, with roaming hands settling on your plump rear.

All of your insecurities come back to nag you all at once, and you break away from the kiss. “Wait, please.”

“What is it, my love?”

Crossing your arms, you begin to pace. The movement helps focus your thoughts, and you take a deep breath before speaking.

“I’m fat,” you begin with the simplest statement of your imagined deficiencies. “For most of my life now I’ve been various sizes of fat, and I’m probably always going to be fat. I don’t want to be. I didn’t choose it. I have stretch marks, flabby arms, back fat.”  

Your voice begins to shake as tears well in your eyes. “Yes, I’ve shrunk a bit these past few weeks, but it’s not enough! Not nearly enough. Because even if I do lose all this weight,” you pause, feeling the pressure build within–a truth so long known but never said aloud, ready to burst out of your chest whether you will it or not.

“I will still hate myself!” The first sob rips from your throat as the emotional dam is broken, shaking your entire being.

Halsin rushes to you, enveloping you in his embrace, cradling your head to his chest. 

“Beauty is not about size, little duck. Variety provides necessary balance in nature, and there is no shame in taking joy from its fruits. Your inner peace is what truly matters.”

Only now it occurs to you that he has also been judged for his size. Maybe not all negative, but that is not to say it did not have an ill-effect on his self-esteem and outward personality. 

After you stop shaking, he coaxes you to meet his gaze. Eyes red and puffy, you do as he wishes, taking in every beautiful detail of his face before settling on his eyes, as serene as the lake before you. 

“I love you as you are, stretch marks and all.” He strokes your face gently and then takes your hands in his. “Let me show you.”

Halsin guides you to the lake’s edge, and positions himself behind you, leaning both your bodies forward. The view is exquisite, but you know it is not what holds his attention. Cautious eyes follow the ripples of the water, slowly casting down until you see your reflection. 

Halsin smiles when you meet his mirrored gaze, wrapping his arms around your waist. The angle is unflattering, to say the least, but you are willing to try this for him. The heat off his bare skin is a comfort, but also a reminder that your clothes are what separates your skin from his. 

“If you are comfortable, I’d like you to undress. To look upon yourself as you do, and be comforted in my desire.”

Comfortable is not something that would describe you in this moment, but you feel ready to reveal yourself to him. Closing your eyes, you still your mind to the symphony of the world around you; crickets singing, a light breeze coming off the lake, and Halsin’s steady breathing as he nuzzles his nose into your hair. Heart fluttering in your chest, you take your shirt off with nervous hands. 

After helping you discard the fabric, he is instantly upon you, trailing kisses down the side of your face until he’s sucking at your neck. You melt into him, tilting your head to reveal more skin for him to worship with his soft lips. 

Rough fingers tickle at your waist with feather-light grazes, you giggle at the feeling and place your hands over his. Lacing your fingers in between his, you move with him as he explores your waist. 

Heat rushes to your core as you feel his cock twitch against your back. You grow impatient, moving his hands to hold your breasts. He moans into your neck, pulling you against him while gently squeezing. 

“More, please. I need to see all of you,” he pleads breathlessly in your ear, thumbs pulling down the hem of your bra. 

You pull away for only a second, the ambient temperature feels so cool compared to your combined heat. Gooseflesh prickles at your arms, and as you discard your bra, you can’t help but admire your form in the water below. Nipples hard from the cold air soon find shelter in Halsin’s large hands, and his heat blankets you in a blissful stupor once again. 

Lust pools in your mind, overpowering any insecurities still swirling within. Only thoughts of him remain, and you need no further instruction to take the next step. Your panties cling to your pants as you pull them down. Halsin provides an arm for you to balance while slipping them off, and you come face to face when you toss the unwanted clothing further onto land. 

You’d pounce on him, but he quickly turns you around to face the lake again with a playful chuckle.

“Almost, my love. Look how extraordinarily beautiful you are, just as nature intended.” 

There you are, indeed. There’s your belly that you’ve loathed, the fat thighs that have been your bane, your double chin that distracts you from your beautiful face. Yet, with him at your back, your perspective begins to change, and you can see this body as yourself instead of some ugly, fat thing.

Halsin trails one hand down your stomach, over your stretch marks, and cups the plush overhang, squishing slightly as he smooths his palm back up your body, feeling the entirety of your curves.

All of your fears dissipate with the irrevocable proof of his attraction digging into your back, and you turn to face him. This time, he allows you, his hands grabbing your ass greedily. You run your hands up his body, relishing the feel of his coarse hair covering his chest and stomach. He moans softly at your touch, but something else starts to happen. 

His eyes begin to glow as he backs away from you in haste. The transformation is something you have seen many times, but never did you see the emotion behind it.

There is nothing as flattering as a partner losing themselves so utterly in a shared moment. Changing back just as fast, he flashes you a sheepish grin. 

Halsin starts to speak, but your patience is at its limit, and you run up to him, pulling him down for a kiss before he can utter a single word. 

Having regained his confidence through your kiss, he leads you back to the tree he was initially at, kneeling at its base. He leads you down to him, laying you down on the softest grass you’ve ever felt. There is a fleeting taste of his passion-full lips as he kisses his way down to your breasts, taking his time to kiss each one before descending further. 

Halsin’s lips against your stomach tickle in a touch-starved way, adding coal to the fire raging inside your core. He slips his arms underneath your knees, bending and spreading your legs. Supporting himself on his elbows, he reaches around, parting your lips by pulling your flesh toward your belly button. 

The first soft kiss upon your exposed clit has you gasping for air, hands grabbing fistfuls of grass at your side. It was only the calm before the storm; a single taste of honey is not nearly enough to satiate the beast between your thighs, and he shows you no mercy. 

Tongue lapping at your cunt from entrance to throbbing bud, Halsin has you squirming under his touch. Just as you think his pleasure is at its peak, he suckles your clit.

Toe curling, back arching, you scream his name as you reach carnal heights you never thought possible.

You whine when he stops, but when you see his swollen cock twitching between his legs, you know exactly what he needs. He lets you push him back onto the grass, helping you straddle him with a steadying hand. Cock nestled perfectly between your folds, you nuzzle his nose with yours before he pulls you into a passionate kiss. The taste of you is intoxicating as you drink in his moans, slide your hips against him, obscenely slick.

Ever hungry for more, you explore his body with your mouth, hips never ceasing their slow but steady rock. Thick, muscled neck, tender for kissing. Pronounced pecks perfect for light, teasing bites. Sensitive nipples ripe for sucking. Veiny arms that your lips could kiss for days. The faded but still visible stretch marks around his shoulders that now hold a special place within your heart, and you kiss each one of them.

You worship him, mind and body just as he does with his burly hands ever present on your lust-driven body. His touch now bruising, he tries to push into you with each thrust, soft moans turning into desperate grunts.

He catches at your entrance, but you tilt your hips so he passes over your clit once again. You shiver at the feeling, and cannot help the laugh that accompanies the bliss.

Teasing Halsin is just so fucking hot.

With an animalistic growl, he rolls you onto your back, having had enough of your shenanigans. Your sounds of glee quickly turn lewd as his cock finally finds purchase, stretching you delightfully with his mighty girth. 

Even with a mind lost to passion, he takes your comfort into account, pushing in slowly to let you adjust. His hungry mouth kisses your face, your lips, your jaw, your neck, until your canting, impatient hips break the last thread of his self control.

Burying his nose in your hair, one hand holding your breast, hips pumping, he makes love to you under the stars. You wrap your arms around him, holding onto his back to keep from being pushed away from the force of his hips. Your voices are a sweet, rhythmic chorus to nature as you feel a fluttering grow in your core. Halsin relinquishes his grip on your breast, hooking his hand underneath one of your knees to spread you further.

He reaches new heights within you, and you feel his cock harden more than you thought possible, readying to fill you with the nature’s bounty you’ve been craving. Your hands slip down to his ass, needing all of him inside you.

Your wants ever his desire, he buries his cock inside you and ruts, massaging the bundle of nerves deep within. Your fingers cling to him, leaving red lines down back unintentionally as the chord within finally snaps. Walls fluttering around him before clenching down, the waves of pleasure overtake you both, and he is a helpless passenger in its wake. He says your name like a prayer as his hips stutter in their rhythm. 

Cradling him close as you feel his cock pulse, you whisper in his ear, “I love you, Halsin.”

That mystical night under the stars with Halsin was legendary. Its memory, as well as the man himself, helps you through the rest of your quest, picking you up when you are down. All you need to do is close your eyes, and you’re right back in that clearing by the lake with him beside you.

You do not know if you would have gotten through it all without him. By the time you defeat the Netherbrain, you are the thinnest you’ve been since childhood, and also the most sickly. Stronger muscles and better food is not enough in the face of true exhaustion, and it shows in your gaunt face. 

The celebration with Halsin that night is sweet and gentle, containing all the relief of a battle hard won. You cannot help the tears that fall from your eyes as you reach your climaxes together.

It all feels like a dream. How could you have made it through all that alive and relatively well? With him at your side? A man as loving as he is large, he still does not impose anything on you. Talking as if there could be a chance you wouldn’t be going with him to resettle Moonrise Towers. 

You depart in the morning with nine wagons full of kids of various ages, all without families or homes, and your bear at your side. 

The savior of Baldur’s Gate is a bit rich for your liking, but it does give you a certain air of respect when you have to give them time-outs.

Halsin calls them all his ducklings, and it is so very fitting with how they follow him around from dawn till dusk. 

When you receive a letter with shaky lettering inviting you to the place where it all began, you’re more than happy to reunite with everyone. The time without doom hanging over your heads has certainly made you both plump and happy. You still struggle with body image issues, but you feel comfortable in your skin more often than not. A battle that is waning in your favor, with once barren fields blooming with slow acceptance.

Your appetite for life has always been large. Giant partner, a heap of kids to call your own, and enough tall tales to last them well into adulthood; you want for nothing in the years to come. 

With Halsin you build a loving home–an ending you never thought you deserved. 

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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@ashrio20

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Arvin and kieran meeting a shy but sweet new girl with this team.

Tapu koko who through some magical shenanigans can't be more then a mile away from the girl with out falling incredibly ill.

A motherly salazle who has a charm that allows her to talk English

A blood moon ursaluna who's the girls main body guard and hes very protective

And a female iron valiant who acts like a big sister. Who threatens anyone that if they hurt the girl she'll cut them down

Gotta say I appreciate the addition of Blood Moon Ursa. Officially my fav gen 9 ground type <3

............

Arven

The moment he met you, he realized you were too nice for your own good sometimes...being the shy and sweet transfer student who winds up being his partner in many classes.

He might tease you from time to time, although he lightens up only after he realizes Mabosstiff likes you--which mean he has to like you as well and not accidentally be too rude.

During battle studies, you two have a match and he's shook when you suddenly bring out Tapu Koko.

Somehow you have a powerful Alolan Guardian deity wrapped around your finger...yet you never once bragged about it.

But Arven fully believes you have a Ditto or Zorua who just chooses to impersonate a Tapu, wondering when it's gonna drop the act.

Soon he finds out that nope, it's the real deal, and you have some strange connection that doesn't allow it to wander too far from you.

Otherwise, it falls violently ill and its magic abilities are weakened.

You're certain it was hexed by someone who wanted to punish it for its mischief, so you've been travelling around hoping to find a "cure".

And ofc that meant Koko had to abandon its duties at Melemele Island and become your Pokémon. It was reluctant at first, but quickly became a loyal friend to you.

Eventually Arven meets the rest of your team, including a female Iron Valiant that escaped from the crater and made herself your ally after saving you from trouble.

She's your literal knight in shining armor, acting like a big sister figure instead of an emotionless robot programmed to attack.

Oftentimes she comes out of the pokeball herself if she senses you're in any kind of danger.

Blood Moon Ursaluna is another bodyguard of yours....who is MASSIVE and utterly terrifying.

All you did was go to Kitakami on a school trip and you suddenly come back with an ancient Ursaring variant/evolution??

How tf are you picking up so many dangerous Pokémon?

Just when he thinks Salazzle is the only "normal" one on your team...

He finds out that she can actually talk, addressing him by name and asking what he was cooking one day.

For a split second he thinks her pheromones/toxins were making him hallucinate...until he sees you having a full blown conversation with her.

It turns out that she developed the ability to speak human language, using it to scare off a group of male Salandits who were threatening you.

At first, she only ever said random words she picked up from humans, but you taught her how to speak coherently and gave her some books...and now she's 100% fluent in English.

All in all, Arven finds your team very...diverse.

You don't really do many Pokémon battles, as they all act like your bodyguards/friends instead. But then again he's never been too battle-crazy either (unlike a certain girl he knows who'd give ANYTHING to battle Tapu Koko).

Kieran

Your personality kinda reminds him of his old self: shy and sweet, oftentimes hiding behind protective figures, etc.

Part of him kinda hated it, but he was good at hiding it.

Was instantly impressed by your Pokémon team, especially the robotic-looking Gardevoir/Gallade hybrid.

Although being a country boi he's bewildered about her LED eyes and her robotic trills, and is definitely not too thrilled about all Pokémon looking like her in some distant/potential future.

Tapu Koko leaves him bewildered, especially when you explained your connection to it while it roamed around the coastal biome, reminiscing about its home in Alola.

He's heard rumors of the Blood Moon Ursaluna back in Kitakami, not caring for it as much as Ogerpon, but he NEVER expected to see that someone like you could have tamed it.

During a battle, Incineroar's flames almost burned you, and your Ursaluna was enraged and knocked him out with one Headlong Rush. Completely unprompted.

Since then Kieran made a point to instruct the feline to be more precise with his fire attacks..lest he became weak.

You impressed the League Club with your talking Salazzle...but at first he believes you're just being irritating and distracting..

Until she talks to him directly, and he's like "...oh wowzers..so you can understand me????"

That's the most shocked anyone in the club has ever seen their leader...

Being motherly as she is, your Salazzle often asks how he's feeling and how Hydrapple is....and he usually shuts down and tells her to mind her business.

But after Area Zero's events, when she asked him again he broke down crying and the poison/fire lizard lowkey panicked.

She had to get you to calm him down.

Since then you two have become close friends, and while in the beginning he was envious of your unique team (that also reminded him of somebody else), he realizes you thought his Hydrapple and battle setups were unique, too.

It honestly made his day.