#reckoning // break the chain

[lazyfox411]

Here it is! First 2 chapters are posted. Featuring hurt/comfort, tucker pining, and wash reliving some of his worst nightmares.

[hoseoksluna]

BOOKWORMS | knj

pairing: boyfriend!namjoon x reader

genre: smut; fluff

word count: 4.4k

summary: namjoon thinks of you when he reads a smut scene in his book.

warnings: boyfriend namjoon!!!, kimi namijoon reading, mentions of sex (riding), oral sex (f. receiving), nipple play, the importance of consent, teasing, raw sex, breeding kink <3, big dick namu!!, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, joonie's chain dangling in ur face, tummy bulge, creampie, bruising, hickeys, aftercare:(

note: it took blood, sweat and tears (hehe) to write this and i'm so happy it's finally here!! i loved writing about namjoon. he's my whole soul and the entirety of my heart and i have to write abt him again soon. please take your time reading this and enjoy urself! let me know what you think in the comments mwah (or tell me anonymously in my inbox) and as i always say please like and if u want to - reblog, but i won't pressure u baby. love love you!!

side note: if you want to jump straight to the smut, it's right under the asterisks &lt;;3

You revel, you truly do, in seeing your boyfriend in such a serene state of mind. 

Nose buried in a book, Namjoon pays no mind to the surroundings fleeting by him with each flutter of his eyelashes. It goes unnoticed by him, strangely so, how you tidy up the apartment you share. How you feed the two cats that chose you and him to be their human parents. How you fondle their soft ears. How you bend over the furniture to whisper ‘pspsps’ at them when they need a moment away from you just to see their round eyes look up at you stupidly. Namjoon usually observes these moments; this utmost natural behavior of yours. He draws strength from the homeliness of it all with each and every swell of his lungs. Needs it to survive. That is until he gets a hold of that one papery portal and sits comfortably on the couch, one ankle propped over the knee. Then, he ceases to exist in this world. 

You’re happy for him. Over time, you’ve come to find that you have a certain fondness for the way he remains stoic. Because you always know what kind of book he’s reading, a smile blossoms on its own over the line of your lips whenever your eye catches the sculpture-like look on his face. It’s like even if he let himself hold his breath, his consciousness would waver back to the earth and the wretched awareness that he’s here, among mortals and the unfair capitalist system aftermath, would stream in his bloodstream, poisoning his experience. It takes the leisure out of it and makes the bed for misery instead. He doesn’t like it. Hates it, in fact. It’s a necessity that he focuses, as he embarks on the journey, because he does it for you.

Namjoon confides in his feelings and his literature with you almost on a daily basis. On the same couch, with the same cats snoring faintly, their small bodies spilling over the perimeter of your tangled legs. Doesn’t matter if it’s his thigh or the curve of your hip. The animals always find a warm crook to doze in, eavesdropping in, with their curious little ears, on the conversations you’re having. Though you reckon they like the meat of his thigh the best. You do, too. Can’t really blame them. The same serenity that intimately knows the person of Namjoon perceives the person of you when he prompts you to rest your head on his lap while he brushes his book-kissed fingers through the silky waterfall of your hair. Thoroughly explains the intricacies of the plot he’s invested in to you. Describes the characters as if they’re real people he’s become acquainted with. They are real to you as you listen. As you ask additional questions and gaze up at his eyes just to catch that one body of a shooting star fiery hot in the glossiness of his eyes. As you wonder, openly, what will happen to them.

“I’ll tell you when they tell me.” He sunk the promise onto the smooth skin of your forehead with the pucker of his lips.

It’s how you discovered, in all seriousness, that the plaster of his stoicism breaks during these literary moments.

Various colors of emotion tug and twist his features, the bare kind. The unrestrained kind. You know it’s a relief for him when the dam bursts open, soaking you in the beauty of humanness one only finds in literature these days. You can’t help but fall in love with him all over again when his eyebrows furrow. When his orbs nearly burn a hole in the ceiling when he’s trying to think of the right word that will ultimately help him convey the unfolding of the storyline. When he gives up and weaves English into his sentences, relying on his hands to say what his overstimulated brain fails to do. 

He reads to pass knowledge to you. The serenity whispered it into the chambers of your heart, a puff of hot breath in winter’s cold. It soothingly rubbed his shoulders when Namjoon told you there used to be a time when he couldn’t stand the sight of his books lining up the walls of his apartment. Wanted to burn it down and watch as the evidence of his melancholy dies in front of him. Because that’s what most of his book collection consisted of back then. The innermost shadowy faces of his pain. Loneliness. Sadness. Despair from life, from it not being enough for him, from it not saving a spot there for him–not once throughout the course of his life. That’s why he reads different kinds of books now. Ones that do not reflect his survival before you.

The reader has to get wiser, ruffled by life in order to gain more, gain what they need from those once deeply loved pages. It’s what the serenity believes. It’s what you believe and hope for Namjoon. That one day, somehow by the healing of the love you give him, he will look back and pick a souvenir from that moonless country of pain. Put it up somewhere between the spines of his new cluttered collection. Look at it from time to time and sense that it’s telling him something. Something that will fill the stitched-up cracks in his heart with sunlight. Something that he will pass over to you. It’s your love language after all. Namjoon reads because you read. It’s his own personal healing thing. 

You two are just a pair of two bookworms. Unfit for the world outside. Fit for the land you two created. Whose soil you take care of together.

***

Dinner is almost ready by the time you feel his fingertips gripping your hips. You hum, acknowledging his presence. Glad for the homely heat that radiates off of his body and seeps into your bones as you stir the risotto you decided to make on the stove. Coldness had been embracing you all day while he read so you’re overjoyed that he ripped it away from you.

Namjoon places a kiss on your temple and you sigh in relief. You might be too dependent on him, but so is he. He wouldn’t be nuzzling his face in your hair, squeezing your waist, peppering kisses on your tender skin if he wasn’t. It’s the perfect balance. And it’s not that you’re not able to be away from each other. The principle of looking forward to one another is what makes it so sweet, so endurable for the pair of you. Of the coming back and coming into contact at the end of the day. It’s natural. Simple. Human.

“Missed me?” Namjoon husks into your ear. 

You smirk and turn off the stove, turning around to face him. “Terribly.”

His body is clad in a black T-shirt that fits his broad figure well and a pair of baggy sweats of the same color, having discarded the warm crewneck he was wearing earlier somewhere in the universe of his book. A long silver chain twinkles in the middle of his chest in the yellow light. You caress it with your fingers and leave your palm there, on the hardness of his pecs. 

“I finished the book,” he says and you blink up at him. You’re not surprised at all. “Couldn’t put it down.”

Sleepy wrinkles have left their mark on his face from the cozy position he laid in for too long on the couch. His short sunlit hair, grown healthily from his military service, is tousled in all directions and you smooth it down for him. How did God bless you with such a beautiful man is something you’ll wonder about for the rest of your life. 

“What happened to Theo in the end?” you ask, genuinely curious about whether one of the characters you’ve grown attached to is okay after all the shit the author put him through. 

Namjoon was reading a coming-of-age book about a boy named Theo. A panorama of his childhood and adolescent life, you’ve heard all about it. Namjoon cared a lot about this story, cared a lot about the protagonist’s emotions and reactions to the reappearing storms. What made him stick with it, despite the nearly triggering themes, is the fact that Theo never let go of his optimism no matter what. It was incredibly inspiring for Namjoon. Something new. Something that he never thought could be possible. You’re proud of him for daring to read a book so reminiscent of his past.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” Namjoon says, a blush creeping along his cheeks.

You raise one of your eyebrows in question. 

“Theo got laid,” Namjoon reveals, laughing softly. “I’m so happy for him.”

You gasp and burst into giggles. “What?”

“He got some!” 

Your laughter rises in volume. “He lost his virginity and that’s the end?”

“It was a big moment for him. A triumph of some kind. Like he shed his old skin and left that broken life behind. It was amazing.” Namjoon’s eyes glint with tiny shooting stars and you melt. He always finds poetic meanings in the varieties of the character arcs. You think you just fell in love with him all over again. 

“That’s really beautiful,” you admit. It reminds you of something. Of something quite personal. “My first time with you changed my life as well.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows curl in tenderness. Dragon eyes widen and round in fervent emotion. He squeezes his arms around you, enfolding you in a hug. Kisses you warmly. Strokes your hair down your back. Your own eyes pool with little tears with the intimate knowledge that you chose the right person to unfold your raw femininity with. No one, no man other than him could have created such a safe for that to happen.

“Tell you what,” Namjoon says a bit hoarsely. “I saw us in it.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue. Crave for more of his thoughts and confidential findings. Its fire spreading through your body, as each word of his registers in your brain, always makes you feel phenomenally alive. You’re not timid to avow that it’s your addiction. Shame doesn’t know you.

“Elena was on top and he was watching her. In awe of her,” he murmurs, caressing your cheek with the tip of his thumb. “Made me think of our last time. A life changing experience of mine as well.”

You welcome the fire and suspire with sudden desire, eyes lidding. Your heart begins to thump. Namjoon studies your reaction. 

“You remember well, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against yours. “I was in awe of you just the same.” 

It’s impossible not to remember. The memory consumes your mind every waking hour. Gets you needy in ways you haven’t felt before. Namjoon had you sat on his lap among the fluffiness of your innumerable pillows and plushies. Had you do all the work as he focused on the sleekness of your freshly moisturized calves, its coconut aroma interfused with the scent of sex and the euphony of your bounces, ragged breaths and broken moans making his head all fucked up. He was loud himself, more loud than you ever recalled him being. Reading your body at the mercy of the pleasure his hard length was giving you with his bottom lip sucked between his teeth. Not once did he take his eyes off of you, not once did he help you. Just gripped your calves. Your thighs. Your tits all in his face. Only when you came hard, out of your own delightful merit, did his eyes roll back. You left his hips glazed with the evidence of your well-deserved orgasm, a porcelain statue made glossy.

A little later, during your pillow talk, he told you he’d found the idea of you using him while getting yourself off extremely hot. Made him more hard than he’d been in a while. Begged you to be even more selfish next time, adding an indistinct, ‘well, of course, if you want’ to the end of his sentence because he’s Namjoon.

“I do,” you breathe. “Touched myself to it this morning while you were still asleep.”

Namjoon groans. “God.” He kisses the side of your neck. Gets close to your ear. “You wanna do it again, hm? Wanna fuck me?” 

You might burst. His closeness, his heat, his need to ask for your consent turns you unstable. You’re choked up on your words, mind too fuzzy to say something. Turned on. Fucked up.

“You wanna show me how you touched yourself?” Namjoon continues, but you shake your head against the side of his face. 

You had touched yourself in the shower. Couldn’t say no to the impulse. Sharing that part of you for his eyes to see isn’t something you’re quite ready for. To you, it’s still something that’s yours. Something private. A courage you have yet to pluck up. You’re afraid to give him this last part of your femininity.

“Not today,” you whisper, planting a kiss on his neck. Feel him shiver. “I’m sorry. Do you mind?”

Withdrawing from your neck, Namjoon looks you dead in the eye, brows twisted in stern seriousness. “Don’t ever apologize for something like that again. Hear me when I say that.”

You squeeze his shoulder, the corners of your mouth lowering in a pout. Thankfulness grips your heart and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. 

“You know this is why we do this right?” he asks you. “Why I ask you these questions? I need to always know what you’re comfortable with so I don’t make a mistake.”

You nod. “Yes, Namjoon, I know and I’m so thankful.”

“Good. I’ll never push you to do anything you don’t want. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“Okay, I won’t.” 

“That’s my girl. 

You grab him by the back of his neck and engulf him in a hug. Luckiest girl in the world? That you are. The fact that you’re his is still something you can’t wrap your head around.

“We can stop. We don’t even have to do anything tonight—”

“No, Namjoon.” You withdraw. “Look.” Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you slip his hand beneath the confines of your panties. 

His breath shakes when he reaches your soaked folds. He traces your hole with his middle finger and your hips follow his movement, the pleasure so faint but so good that you flutter your eyes closed.

“Fuck, baby.” 

“Yeah, I need you. Need more,” you breathe out. “Can’t leave me like this, can you?”

Namjoon hums. “No, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of this pussy.” 

He kisses you. Massages his tongue against yours. You buck your hips into his hand and Namjoon hears your body language. Takes his fingers up and rubs your swollen clit from side to side, quickening his pace as he swallows your moans down his throat. Gets angry at your tight leggings hindering him in giving you more, so he gets on his knees and swiftly pulls them down along with your underwear. 

“Sit on the counter.”

You comply right away. Namjoon takes your feet in his hands and gently removes your slippers, removing your garments fully so they don’t pool around your ankles. He needs your legs spread and he needs them spread wide for what he’s about to do to you. 

Torso long enough to reach you, he remains on his knees. Runs his hands up the back of your thighs to guide you into the position he wants you in. “Lock your arms around the back of your knees. Don’t let go.”

You do as he says, biting your lips in nervousness. Intertwine your hands together. Prepare yourself to die. 

Namjoon studies your dewy pussy, index and middle finger mimicking the letter V as he slides them up and down your folds, squeezing just right to hear you mewling. Your knees being so close together makes her look a lot more pillowy and you hear Namjoon breathe hard, absolutely hypnotized by the beauty of your flesh. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re dripping down my hand.” He withdraws his fingers to show you how your slick trickles down the lines on his palm, changing the course of his life once and for all. 

Your clit throbs, breath matching his. “Please, Namjoon.”

He curses inaudibly. Brings his fingers back down to your folds, squeezes your lips and your clit together. Hisses at the sweet whimpery sounds spilling out of your mouth. Presses tighter so you whine needily for him. Takes you into his mouth when he accomplished what he wanted, tonguing your clit in slow agonizing circles that has you buckling your hips again. Puts his hands on your thighs to keep you down, flicking fast to absolutely abuse the fuck of you. Dragon eyes zeroing on yours, he gives you the hypnosis that your pussy did to him as he sucks on your bundle of nerves. You can’t even scream. Can’t breathe. The pleasure overwhelms you wholly and straps you down. There’s nothing you can do but take it. 

You come hard on his tongue. Namjoon laps it all up gladly. And when he’s finished, he stands up and slips those two digits that ruined you into your hole. Doesn’t move them. Lets you adjust instead.

“One more,” he mutters. “Please.”

You nod.

“Use your words or we’re stopping.”

You groan and close your eyes, your thighs visibly shaking in your iron grip from your orgasm. “Yes, Namjoon, one more. I’ll come for you.”

Namjoon places a wet kiss on your thigh to praise you, and to thank you as well. Begins to move his fingers promptly, but can’t seem to get enough of your skin. Proceeds to make it shiny with his liquid love, sucking it to bruise you. To remember this moment a little more fondly in the morning. 

Creating a trail up to the back of your knee, his digits pick up the speed. The pool of slick you left in his palm sloshes with each rapid thrust of his hand. He looks back at you and sees you lost in the pleasure, eyes lidded and unfocused. “Look at me.” 

You do, weakly.

“Just a little bit more and I’ll fuck you, all right?”

You’re about to nod, but decide against it. “Mhm, yes, Namjoon, fuck.” 

He smiles down at you. Your relief inches closer. “I’m so proud of you for speaking up today. For letting me know.” 

You could cry right now. Because of his fingers making you feel so good. Because of his kindness making you feel so safe. It all closes in on you and you whimper. 

Abruptly, Namjoon unravels your grip on your knees and kisses you, tongue slipping in. You come all over his hand, without meaning to, and he doesn’t stop. On the contrary, Namjoon fucks you harder. Takes all four of his fingers and strums your clit, prolonging your orgasm, swallowing down all of your moans. 

“Come on.”

Namjoon helps you down. If it weren’t for his arms holding you steady, you would’ve collapsed on the floor. Your legs shake, muscles taut and tense. 

“I got you.”

Sat on the floor with his joggers and boxers pulled beneath his crotch, he pulls you down on his lap. A wisp of precum adorns his tip and you wrap your hand around it, collecting it with your thumb. Watch him as you swirl your tongue around the digit before sucking on it, letting go with an obscene pop. Namjoon licks his lips, hands clasping your hips hard enough to bruise you. Twitches in your other hand.

“Don’t fucking do that to me, baby.” 

You laugh almost inaudibly, drunk on him. “Are you gonna come in me?” 

He replaces your hand, holding his length at the base for you to sink down. And you do, gasping softly at his thickness. Your dewiness helps it to be a smooth ride.

“Gonna pump you full. Leave you dripping,” he promises, voice restrained. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.” 

One thing about Namjoon, he’s a man of his word. 

Seated perfectly on him, he waits for you to adjust. Alleviates the tremble of your thighs with his palms, massaging the muscles. Takes off your shirt and flings it across the kitchen. Gropes your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers. You start to grind on him, throwing your head back. He latches onto your nipple and flicks the nub with his tongue. You lose your mind, leaking down his balls. 

“Ready?” he asks against the fullness of your breast. 

“Yeah, fuck me, Joon.” 

He thrusts into you once to watch you fall apart. Locks your arms behind your back. Grabs your forearms for his use.

“You forgot something.”

He thrusts again, harder this time.

“What?” you breathe out, meekly. 

“What word do you use when you want to ask for something?”

He watches you as you work it out in your brain. Fucks into you three more times, equally hard, to disrupt you. 

“Fuck, sorry. Please, Joon, please.”

He grinds, hips rotating in circles. 

“Uh-huh, that’s right. Now use it.” 

Namjoon envelops your tit in his mouth, swirling his tongue around your areola. Sucking. Keeping up the agonizing pace. Groaning when you clench down on him. 

“Please, hmph, fuck me.”

Your breast bounces back when he lets go, biting his lip. “Knew you could do it,” he coos. “Smart fucking girl.” 

He begins to fuck you properly. Thrusting up and down as he holds you steady, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As he takes control of your squirming, leaving his fingerprints on your forearms and waist. You’re breathless, whimpering, on the verge of sobbing. So turned on and needy for him that the emotions brim in you, threatening to spill over. 

“Aren’t you?” Namjoon continues. “Aren’t you a smart girl?” 

You nod, knowing exactly what he wants to hear. “I’m a smart girl.” 

He spanks your ass to reward you and you arch your back. Tits all in his face. He’s mesmerized watching them bounce and nearly slap against each other, nubs hard and pointed. He licks them up, flicking them with his tongue. You round your shoulders a little in pleasure, his strong grip not letting you fold like your body wants. 

“That’s right. So smart and good for me. So fucking wet. Making me lose my mind.”

Namjoon kisses you. Inhales you. Withdraws only for a mere second before he’s back, tongue in, toying with you the way you like it. You feel your relief calling your name.

“Namjoon, I’m so fucking close. I’m so close. I’m gonna come,” you whine, forehead pressed against his, face twisted in ecstasy.

Namjoon stops out of the blue and slips out of you. You whine loudly, but before you know it, he carries you to the couch and lays you down on it. Takes off all of his clothes until only his silver chain remains, shining bright in the dim light. He spreads your legs, one limb over the backrest, the other around his thigh. Grips his length and tugs at it a few times, the feeling of your wetness making him slippery pulling moan after moan out of him. 

He enters you again and resumes his fast pace, holding your calf in his hand. “Smart girls come on the couch, not on the floor like whores. You got that?” 

You nod almost too eagerly, fucked out beyond measure. “Yes, Joon, please make me come. Please, come here.” 

Namjoon leans towards you, propping his elbows by your head, cradling you. “I’m here. I’m gonna make you come.” 

From this angle, he fucks you more deeply than before, his tip reaching your cervix. You roll your eyes back, but bring them right back to his face when his chain taps you on the chin. You find it so hot that you grind your hips against his, meeting his thrusts, encouraging him to fuck you harder. The chain meets you in erratic staccatos and you scratch your nails down his bare back, the sword-like pendant hurting you in a way that you like. 

Namjoon notices. Slows down his movements. Pinches the chain from the back of his neck. Prompts you to lift your head and slides it over, letting it rest in the middle of your breasts. Then fucks you back into the couch.  

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna breed you. Hm. You want that, don’t you?”

The cord tightens in your lower belly. The bulge of where his tip is hitting you nudges him in his stomach and he looks down. Curses. 

“Look.” 

You follow his eyes and moan. “Namjoon, Namjoon, please come in me. I’m so close. Wanna feel you. Please.” 

He grunts, nodding his head. Licks his fingertips and presses them against your clit. Pleasures you in fast and swift jerks until you’re knocking your head back. Only when he grabs your jaw and kisses you does the cord snap, his lips being your ultimate undoing. 

Namjoon presses you down with his body, keeps you calm and collected. Kisses you all through it, your jaw, your neck, your cheeks. Then his thrusts turn sloppy and his cock twitches in you. He gives you one final hard thrusts and fills you up, groaning against your mouth.

You’re smoothing down the sting of your scratches on his back when he pulls out of you and his cum drips out of you. You wish you could see what he sees, hand on his mouth, careful to catch his drool. You push out more for him and he curses, fondling your pussy with his thumb before he pumps it back in. 

He comes back to you and kisses you. Fixes your hair. Caresses your cheek. Helps you stand on your feet as he leads you into the shower. Washes every inch of your body, heedful of the bruises he left on the back of your thigh. Lathers your hair in your favorite shampoo. Wraps you in a towel. Wanted to moisturize your body, but you told him off, knowing both of you would get horny again. You let him brush your hair, though, placing a comb in his hand. He’s gentle as he undoes the knots, then he blowdries your hair. 

And you do the same for him.

Once the pillow touches your cheeks, you’re both out like a light. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Just wanted to say I LOVE your work! Especially with the inclusion of a black reader/character 😭🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

This is a personal lil thought of mine, BUT

John Price wouldn’t say he was dating a black woman, but there would be signs. Even though his style would be fine beforehand, He’d be dressing nicer, his hair and beard would always be well groomed and overall put together.

I think Gaz would be the first to peep something different from his Captain cuz he recognizes the work of his own people lol

And you're right because suddenly this man's beard is lined up too nicely and that damn hat is gone. Check it below the cut love.

Rating: gen audience

It all started a few months ago with a simple, "Hey Captain?" Johnny says, "Nice cologne, the hens in the media bay can't stop talking about it."

Price only shrugged, not really paying attention, "Just trying something new."

Kyle agrees, it's new, and he thinks it fits his Captain nicely.

Then, things escalate from that one-off comment.

Kyle is perplexed. Confused. Genuinely thrown for a loop because why is his Captain sporting a tapered fade that connects tastefully to his beard? With the side burns fading into the connect?

Kyle just shruggs it off as someone at his boss' super cuts trying and talking him into something new.

Only the new hair style stays and there are plenty of women and men staring at him with lust filled eyes.

The next thing Kyle noticed was the glittering shine of a simple gold chain around John's neck. It's thin, and within regulations, the clasps are too small for his co's large hands to actually put on. Kyle peeps the little gold cross that's just dangling there when he leans over the desk to point out things in their mission dockets. Hm when did he find religion? It's not really his business.

Okay what the actual fuck? Kyle is wondering where John heard the phrase "Do I look like Boo Boo the fool" to be able to understand that he needs to not answer that question with anything other than "no ma'am". They are working with another task force that's headed by an older black woman who's a force to be reckoned with. But that's beside the point because, since when did he learn that and whom did he learn it from?

John Price isn't one to actually keep up with eating lunch at work. Kyle remembers having to drag and threaten and get Simon and Soap to help him get their leader to at least try and eat lunch and not work through it. Nowadays? This man brings in lunch, and it's not what you expect. What Kyle is expecting, well...he's not really sure what he is expecting, but seeing this man eat a fried plantain sends him.

It all comes to a head when the four of them are leaving a debrief. They are shipping out at the start of next week. Set to be gone for like maybe a few months. Johnny is begging asking for them all to go out for lunch and Price only raises an eyebrow.

"Can't today Soap." Price says as they exit the office building. His eyes scan the parking lot, and a smile breaks onto his face at the sight of a shiny black car. "I've got plans."

Now Kyle knows how to put two and two together to get four. He's had his suspicions, but the reality of John Price even dating never crosses his mind. He really thought it was just the effects of him and Soap teasing him for being an out of touch old man. But no...he crosses the parking lot and opens the car door to help out a gorgeous brown beauty. There's no telling how old she could be because Kyle knows black doesn't crack (he's often called baby face...its why he refuses to shave off the little facial hair he has). Johnny is shocked and Simon just grunts out a small "huh?" as they watch their captain help his girl into the passenger side of the car.

"In hindsight." Kyle smiles and says as they watch the car pull off, "That new cologne he started wearing months ago should have let us know far before the tapered fade."

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader

[Chapter 20] || [Chapter 22]

Pairing: Gaz x Reader x Ghost x Soap || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.2K~ cw: - Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: yikes.

Chapter 21: I BEG YOUR PARDON?

It was a familiar sight.

Gaz across the desk, Soap next to him behind the spare chair, Ghost in the back of the room a foot against the wall and arms crossed.

Except this time, Price was standing up, pacing the narrow space behind his desk, from the window to the wall.

“Explain it to me slow.” He demanded. “Like I’m five years old.” He had his arms crossed over his chest as he paced.

“Well, when Ma and Da love each other very much-” Soap began.

“Soap, I will put your head through the bloody wall.” Price threatened.

The shit-eating grin that had been on the Scot’s mouth was suppressed by a pressing of lips together, rapid blinking, and a nod. He had tried and failed at having a laugh at the Captain’s expense.

“Sorry, sir.” He replied.

“Explain.” Price demanded again, hands folded behind his back.

“I started it.” Ghost said from his corner of the room. “Kept talkin’ with ‘em after you had your little one-night stand.”

The younger sergeants didn’t look over. It’s become a strange thing to see Ghost at work, when they’ve gotten a bit more familiarized with Simon instead, back in your flat.

“Why?” Price asked in earnest as he looked at Ghost, stopping in his tracks to properly face him.

“‘Cause they make me feel good.” Ghost replied and crossed his arms.

Price stared at Ghost and, for a moment, his glare softened and his brow relaxed. “I see.”

With a deep breath, the older man tossed himself down onto his desk chair, legs spread and hands resting on his thighs.

“That doesn’t explain the two of you lot.” He pointed at Gaz and Soap.

“I found out about Ghost dating ‘em after they reached out to me to check on him because he went MIA.” Gaz replied.

“And how does that in you bein’ a bloody… polycule?” Price asked.

“I sort of took ‘em on a date on accident and realized how they made me feel and that I wanted to date ‘em.” Gaz said simply.

“And I thought Gaz and Ghost were dating and then found out they’re in fact also dating the same person and not just each other and-” Soap began to explain.

“Pump the breaks.” Price demanded. “Dating each other?” He repeated, sounding like he was this close to blowing a gasket.

“Nicely done, mate.” Gaz said sarcastically and hid his face in his palm, accidentally dislodging his baseball hat from his head.

“I BEG YOUR PARDON? YOU BLOODY FUCKIN’ IDIOTS ARE DATIN’ EACH OTHER?” Price raised his voice and stood up swiftly, sending the chair rolling back against the cabinets behind him.

When no one replied, he glared specifically at Ghost in the back of the room who, himself, was looking off to the side and looked at Price with an incriminating gaze..

“SIMON’S IN YOUR DIRECT CHAIN OF COMMAND!” Price scolds… Soap and Gaz only. “DO YOU KNOW THE TROUBLE THAT CAN BRING?!”

The three men remain silent, eyes forced open out of worry that blinking again will just set the captain off some more.

“IT’S ALREADY BAD ENOUGH THAT YOU’RE ALL DIPPIN’ YOUR DAMN COCKS IN THE SAME HOLE LIKE THEY’RE SOME SORT OF BARRACKS BUNNY BUT-” Price continued his tirade.

“Calm down.” Ghost commanded as he pushed away from the wall and approached the desk.

“Simon, don’t you tell me to calm down.” John ordered, though his voice sounded a lot more calm indeed.

“I’ll tell you to calm down if I reckon I should.” Ghost quipped and set his hand on the edge oof the desk, using his height to go toe-to-toe with their boss.

“You had fun with ‘em too, didn’t you?” Ghost asked with a cocked brow.

“That’s neither here nor there-”

“Cut the bullshit. Answer the bloody question.” Ghost commanded.

“I did.” Price admitted with a grumble and looked away.

“We’re just enjoyin’ ourselves too.” Ghost replied. “They’re considerate, funny, good company…” He trailed off.

“And they have a bloody flat that we can spend time in, with a proper kitchen for good meals, and a proper bedroom with a comfortable bed, and a proper shower that doesn’t have 20 other blokes bum ass naked-” Gaz joked.

“Right, it’s only 2 other blokes instead.” Soap added and him and Gaz nudged each other, earning a stern glare from the two officers in the room.

“Point is-” Ghost replied as he looked at Price. “You saw they’re nice.” He said directly. “Can’t fault us for likin’ ‘em.” He said directly.

“No, but I can fault you idiots for bein’ involved with each other on TOP of ‘em.” Price argued.

“Okay, so it’s not our proudest moment-” Ghost acknowledged. “But it’s happenin’. And you need to keep your mouth shut.” He demanded.

“OF BLOODY COURSE I’M KEEPIN’ MY MOUTH SHUT, SIMON! Fuckin’ hell!” Price complained and threw his hands up before turning to grab a cigar from his case.

“The brass will have all our bollocks f’r breakin’ nonfraternization rules. You f’r doin’ it, me f’r knowin’ it.” He grumbled as he cut the tip of his cigar with a huff.

“Not to mention I’ve been involved in this mess to begin with ‘cause I let you lot talk me into havin’ a one-night stand with ‘em.” Price continued, murmuring under his breath and scolding them without really scolding them.

“I can never get a ’old of you lot noawadays.” Price explained. “You’re meant to be on call.” He reiterated. “Always reachable. Always ready to fly out.”

“Yet I had to call Soap over 40 times two weeks ago ‘cause he was ‘asleep’-” He continued his rant.

“Aye, I was.” Soap replied, earning a shush from Gaz and a smack on the arm.

“And the moment we dismiss you lot from debriefs or meetings, you’re all running off to go be with ‘em, ‘xcept I didn’t know that was the reason until now, and it’s so much bloody worse than I ‘xpected.” Price complained.

The man was halfway through lighting his cigar and taking a puff when Ghost spoke again.

“If they didn’t find out about Cardiff, London, Cairo, Cabo, or Tel Aviv, they won’t find out now.” Ghost retorted.

Price whipped around so fast the younger lads could swear he’d give himself whiplash. “Don’t you bring that up.” He said to Ghost as he used his cigar to point at Ghost.

“I’m just sayin’.” Ghost replied, completely calm and unbothered. “If the brass hasn’t found out about the shite we’ve done while on the field, they won’t find out about us during leave.” He replied.

“Simon-” Price tried starting before he huffed through his nose and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Ghost simply shrugged and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell.” Price complained and sat back down on his chair, setting down his cigar on the lip of the ashtray and rubbing his face.

“Just get out.” He grumbled and waved them off with a dismissive gesture of his hand.

He didn’t peek from the spot where his face was hidden in his hands as he heard the men shuffling around and leaving the office.

Just as the door slipped to a close behind them, he heard Soap asking Ghost: ‘What happened in Cardiff?’

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!):

@daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @infpt-zylith , @xxshadowbabexx , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark

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[astralis-ortus]

love, am i home?

✱ bestfriend!bc × gn!reader

— how can you tell it's not simply an infatuation?

w.count → 0.6k genre → angst, one-sided love warnings → minor cussing, mention of alcohol but no described consumption a.n → honestly i don't even know what i wrote i am feeling feelings soooo yeah! also, there's a few mentions of bambam as the home owner lol ⋆ see masterlist

“do you reckon i’ll fall in love someday?’

chan’s odd, unprovoked question nearly made you choke on the strawberry-lychee juice you were trying so hard to savor. worse, your heart also took a hit from it—which, frankly, you should have been preparing yourself for from the day you realized that your hiking heart bpm whenever chan was sitting a little too close was not exactly a normal reaction between friends.

“yeah,” you barely managed to quip a reply, setting your half-empty paper cup on the coffee table across the tan leather couch before chan could send another unwarranted hit on your poor heart. “i mean, didn’t you have a few relationships before?”

well fuck—now he’s going to elaborate, isn’t he. good job, dumbass.

sometimes you wonder why you’re trying so hard to be a good friend when you do realize it will only further tighten the chains wrapped around your chest. does bambam have some alcohol in the fridge? also, where the fuck is he?

“fair point,” a long sigh escaped his lungs as chan fully leaned onto bambam’s ridiculously large sofa, eyes tracing whatever interesting shape he could find on the ceiling of their still-missing friend’s apartment, “but i wonder if those feelings were actually… love, you know? not merely infatuation?”

“i don’t, actually,” you playfully snickered, hoping the faint smile on your lips would help in numbing the dull ache spreading on your chest. “i mean, as far as my experience goes, i think it has always been love for me.”

“and how does that feel?”

“how?” the faint urgency in his voice pulled your line of gaze towards chan—unexpectedly meeting his pair of curious brown eyes, and you sighed. are you really going to say it?

you were preparing a joke, really. deflecting, avoiding his question, all that thing.

you really were.

and you know, with every part of your bones, you’re probably going to regret this.

“uh, well, it feels like…”

the butterflies when i see your name lit up my phone screen.

the odd twist in the pit of my stomach when i hear you talk about that new friend you made and how you thought they were beautiful.

the way my lips followed yours into a smile when you excitedly told me about a new song idea and how spring flooded my chest when you said it’s our little secret.

the sudden void when you told me you asked that new friend of yours to go out for dinner, and how my heart went numb when you brightly exclaimed that it would technically count as a first date.

an excruciatingly long roller coaster of emotions,

an endless hike under the scorching summer sun,

a long night staring at where the waves breaks,

and yet…

“it was home.”

“…home?”

“yeah,” you shrugged, fingers hiding inside the sleeves of your hoodie while you pull your knees closer to your chest, “home.”

“it’s everything that is good, everything that’s not quite there, and yet you can’t help but find yourself longing for every piece of it. you accept that it’s not going to be perfect and never will be, and yet you’re still willing to continuously nurture that feeling because, well, you love them, and even if it eventually didn’t work out… you’d still think it’s worth the effort to try.”

you don’t know what the silence between you now meant.

you don’t know, and probably would never want to find out.

you’d hate to know who he thinks about when he opens his mouth,

and you’d forever thank bambam for his impeccable timing with bags full of thai foods in his hand.

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[fandoms--fluff]

Could write a dark Hope Mikaelson were she has fem yn as like her side kick instead of Lizzie

Training

Heretic female reader x no humanity Hope Mikaelson

Warnings: none?

A/n: This is probably not the most exact accuracy, but I haven't watched Legacies in a hot minute, and even then I've only seen it once. So I tried my best from what I do remember. I hope you like it!

Plus i may have made this a romantic ending. and maybe a bit more fluffy than it should be, but I didn't realize it in the moment i was writing it, so I hope you still enjoy it wither way.

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

Alright, how much longer is this going to take? We've been in this crummy motel for the past four days and have barely made progress on Aurora" You lean against the door way with your arms crossed.

It's been a boring couple of days and you need to get out of here, but of course Hope thinks otherwise, the closest you get to to 'leave' is going outside on the balcony. And even then, you're always accompanied by her as if you were to run away. Which would be a stupid decision on your part for even just thinking about it. The humanity-less tribrid is not a force you want to reckon with. Especially considering the sire bond between her and yourself.

It's not even that you're hungry or anything to do with your new vampire side colliding with your siphoner witch side. It's more like you're so sick of staying in the same place with no room to breathe or have any time to yourself. Even when you're in the shower, you can tell Hope is close by the door, listening. Which is in your mind just plain creepy, but you never bring it up, not wanting to make the tribrid mad.

Hope looks up from the desk where she has a contraption of some sorts that looks half put together. "I thought I told you to stay with Aurora in case she tries something." Hope blatantly says, ignoring your question.

You test your luck, "Well, she's been passed for the last three hours and I started to feel a bit creepy just staring at her. And it feels stuffy, can't we do something other than this. Even for just a little while. You seem like you could use a break." You tell her.

She sighs. That's all she does before she gets up, the contraption grasped in her hand and walks past you into the other room where Aurora is chained to the wooden chair.

Before you can even ask what she's doing, Hope plunges it into Aurora's chest. The redhead screams in agony as the contraption sinks deeper in and then causes her to pass out again, her body withering in pain.

Hope turns back to you as if looking for a compliment on what she just did. "What? What do you want me to say? Yay, good job for torturing the red head bitch?" You ask, exasperated.

"Come on," is all she says, nodding to the door as an order to follow her. You glance back at Aurora once more before following her outside the run down motel door.

"What's going on?" You ask as she closes the door and puts a spell on it to make sure no one can go in or leave the room.

"Well, you've been pestering me for how long to get out of here? So, that's what we're going to do, we're going to go to the carnival in town. To test your abilities and to train them" She states while walking down the old creaky steps that lead to the parking lot.

You furrow your eyebrows in suspicion but follow her nonetheless. Climbing into the passenger seat of the car, you do up your seat belt before turning to her. "Should I be worried or turned on about your newfound creepiness?" You smirk.

That gets her to pause, and slowly turn to you, hands still placed on the wheel. "Just do as I say" she finally answers before backing out of the parking spot and going onto the road.

You smile to yourself, proud how even with the sire bond, you could get under her skin...Well to an extent. You don't want to cross a line.

It's quiet on the whole way to the carnival, its quite unnerving. You audibly sigh when you guys finally get there and climb out of the car. Hope pays no mind to it as she leads you guys through the entrance past excited, screaming, and running kids.

"So, when is training going to commence?" You couldn't take it anymore and broke the silence between the both of you.

"Now" She answers, stopping in front of the test your strength game. "Strength is great in a fight, but can also be your downfall in everyday life" She turns to you, and leans in close to your, "Well, un-life." She pulls away and faces the worker in charge of the game.

One second you were watching them talking, the man scoffing at her, and the next, Hope bent down and tapped the surface. The metal piece shot up and hit the highest mark gracefully before plummeting back down.

'"How?.." The man was gobsmacked at what just happened.

The tribrid turns back to you. "Your turn. Try and control your strength to tap the bell and not blow it off" She moves to the side, making way for you to go to the front of the game.

"Okay" You breath out and shake the nervousness out of your hands. You crouch down slowly before reaching out your hand and tapping the surface ever so lightly. So lightly in fact, you barely felt the hard rubber grazing your finger tip.

You watched, breath held, as the piece of metal shoots up the markers and finally clangs against the bell before shooting right back down.

You let out a big sigh of relief at doing something right and not breaking the game. "Did you see that? I think I have pretty good control, don't ya think" You turn back to Hope, a smile lighting up your face.

"Maybe so" She nods, a hint of a smile twitching at the corners of her own lips.

She leads you guys away from the wide eyed man who's practically frozen on the spot, passing all the rides. "Hey, why don't we go on some? You know, instead of testing we could have some fun, maybe bond?" You ask, wanting to have a bit of fun. You haven't been to a carnival since you we're a little kid and you're starting to feel the adrenaline rush of what it feels like being at one.

"And before you say 'no', just think about it. I doubt you've ever been to a carnival before, and they can be so fun if you remove that glare from your face" you point out in the middle of her opening her mouth.

There's a long pause. "...Fine" She basically grumbles. You're right, she's never been to a carnival before.

And that's how you guys find yourselves on the ferris wheel. You're stopped at the top, the view being amazing. "Look at how tiny everyone else is" You say. "Mhm" she says, not really paying attention You gaze down and then turn to Hope. Only to notice that she in fact was not looking at the view and instead her eyes are locked on you.

"Hey! Earth to Hope. You good?" You ask, waving your hand in front of her face. Her eyes snap up to yours which immediately makes you pull your hand away, smile fading from your face.

"Wait a second, are you starting to warm up to me, Mrs. Mikaelson" You smirk, jokingly, hoping that it wont backfire. All you want to do is get her into a good mood. She's been all doom and loom recently.

And even though she has no humanity and killed you, you still care for her and notice when she seems not the 'healthy' amount of careless.

All she does is scoff, but her eyes have different ideas when travelling down to your lips. She can't help herself from leaning in and pressing her lips against your soft ones.

It takes you a moment before snapping out of the shock before kissing her back. The kiss lasts longer than anyone would think between a newly turned heretic and a humanity-less tribrid.

"Not a word of this. To anyone" She says, as if some of her humanity was slipping through. She pulls away from the kiss, surprised at herself for letting her damn 'emotions' getting in the way of her revenge plan.

"Nah, you definitely like me. Even with your cold, no humanity heart. i have proof" You taunt, smiling and tap your finger against her chest overtop her heart. Hope roles her eyes before pulling you back in for a kiss.

A pretty good way to shut you up, might you add.

[gilverrwrites]

nah because I just tought of something.

what if while AK!Jason accidentally hurts the reader while they're..yk,like accidentally cutting then with a pocket knife too deep than intended and while taking a look actually noticing all the other damage he had done,(wich was not to underestimate)and he randomly goes all soft,and it's just confusing af

Not sure if same anon, or if two great minds are thinking alike, but more below:

AK!Jason having one night where he realizes he’s maybe gone too far with you. You made some snarky remark and he retaliated by leaving you tied to a vibrator for a little too long and comes back to find Slade ate you out and is unloading on you, but the tears on your face makes him pull Slade off of you.

He’s used to a few small tears of frustration or reluctant pleasure from you, but these are resigned, exhausted tears and he thinks he maybe hears you plead for Slade to end it in a broken little whisper.

Jason doesn’t outright say he feels guilty, but he leads you to the bathroom and washes you off with a gentle touch he forgot he was capable of. Maybe he didn’t realize quite how many bite marks he left to scar on your body or has to reckon with the fact that nothing that happened to him is actually your fault. But he doesn’t let them linger.

He simply pulls one of his thin white undershirts over your head and actually spares you a blanket. He isn’t nice about it and he makes you say thank you with his gun in your mouth, but there’s a moment where he pretends to feel your forehead so he can fib something about you having a cold to Slade…but really it’s an excuse to stroke you.

He’s very vanilla for the next week.

It's funny that the second mentioned cleaning you up because that's also where my mind went. But I was picturing him dragging you through the base with an unyielding grip on your wrist, purposefully tsking and scoffing every time you stumble over your heavy, shaking legs in an attempt to maintain the uncaring, volatile persona he's chiselled out for you. When he reaches the communal bathrooms, he kicks out any militia and locks the door, leaving the two of you alone.

He genuinely rolls his eyes at your dramatics when you gasp and hiss under the stream of hot water, but as you begin to wash away the grime and dried blood, revealing just how bruised and damaged you really are, the guilt that's been scratching at his chest really digs its claws in.

You struggle, trying to reach your back and though he wants to help, he hesitates, lingering a few feet away until you look at him pleadingly, too embarrassed to ask for help and he figures after all the damage he's done, he owes you this much without fighting or goading you.

So he strips down with you, silently massaging unscented shower gel into your aching muscles, gentle not to push too hard anywhere that's dark or swollen. Snapping at you not to look at him so he can get a good, harrowing glimpse at every cut and abrasion without having to deal with the sad expression on your face that only makes the pit in his guts feel all the more consuming.

Eventually, you're about as clean as you're ever gonna get, and he lets you dry yourself off with a scratchy communal towel before bandaging the worst of your wounds and dressing you in his undershirt,. Then he puts you over his shoulder and carries you to his chambers where he can tell you're trying to hide your excitement at the prospect of sleeping on a real bed.

When he asks if you're gonna be good, or if he's gonna have to chain you to it, you nod vigorously; promising to behave.

He's not so sure, he's been there, making promises to captors with every intent of breaking them but he leaves you be, giving you one last sceptical head-to-toe before departing to tell Slade you're out of service until further notice.

Hours later he returns, finding you curled in on yourself, every blanket and pillow you could find pulled in close,

You wake, frozen to the spot as you feel him crawling in beside you. His cold body silently nestles against yours, the hands that so frequently cause your torment follow your curves until one settles on your hip. The other tenderly brushes over the sore skin at the back of your neck where your former bindings had chaffed. You remain still and silent, not wanting to irritate or arouse him, and eventually, he falls asleep, clinging to you in a way that is both comforting and unsettling.

[whoyacallinyellow]

To The Fallen

Charles Smith x F! reader

Spoilers: major RDR2 events Content: 18+ mdni, m/f smut, drunk sex, angst, tension, possessive, canon typical events / violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes Type: second pov (wc - 3693) / pc: pinterest

Summary: After the gang’s downfall, you join Charles on his endeavors. While roughing it in the woods, you convince him to share a drink with you…

“C’mon Charles, live a little.” 

You encouraged the man, sat upon a log as he tended to the small campfire you shared. He sighed at your relentless begging, gazing at you over the orange flames. Truly torn, he hated to turn you down, but your safety was more important than your idea of a good time. 

“What if something happens?— besides, someone needs to take care of you.” 

The man reasoned with your buzzed mind, gesturing towards the half empty glass you cradled on your knee. 

Your eyes followed him as he joined you, carefully studying his every step before he sat next to you, tobacco leeching off his clothes and filling the air. 

“It’ll be fine.” You reassured softly, watching him glance longingly into the flames once again. His eyes carried a certain sorrow that did not leave since Beaver Hollow. Apathy had stuck to Charles like a ball and chain, burying his friends was a pastime he did not favor, with Arthur being the final nail in the coffin. 

After the fallout of the gang, the two of you spent your time roughing it in sticks, you reckoned somewhere between Canada and northern United States. You felt as if it were the smartest move to be as far away as possible, while Charles was a man who did not like running. He was fully aware the severity of his actions came with a big price— but he was willing to compromise for you. 

Charles always seemed to know what to do, and where to go. He found refuge in your company and trust, the close bond you shared only flourished after being by your lonesome. The man wouldn’t want it any other way, sometimes pondering where he would be, or what he would be doing without you. The doubts he kept quiet and buried deep often resurfaced the moments he was reminded how sweet on you he was. 

“You could use one.” You continued, placing a small hand on his knee with the attempt to break his trance. You so desperately wished to lend him a penny for a thought, but your attempts usually went nowhere. 

The man huffed in defeat, encapsulating his hand over yours tenderly. 

“Maybe just one.” 

Charles reluctantly agreed, his words barely finished before you filled his unused glass with a much needed relaxation aid. 

You scooted closer as a Canadian breeze whipped past, which made his grasp slip politely around you. The man’s arm alone somehow carried more warmth than any blanket could give you. Or perhaps it was the security he offered with each touch.  

“Uh— to the fallen.” 

You propose awkwardly, raising your glass lazily to the man who met you with a stupid smirk. 

With your tipsy state being more than amusing to the outlaw, your words would be teased and mocked in the morning, in addition to gentle kisses as compensation— if you were lucky. 

“To good health, my girl.”  

He compromised huskily, his words presenting a much more giddy side which had been long erased with time. Charles lounged in the moment, the drink would allow a disconnect from his thoughts, unwilling to think about the gang under the grip of a bottle. 

You took his offer with a small clink, the contents of his glass sloshing and spilling into yours. 

Charles always knew you had his best interest in mind, the same he held for you. And with everything that happened in the past year, maybe he’s been too uptight and miserable. He reasoned that self reflection would come after a night of fun, maybe he did need this. 

The night seemed to slip from his grasp after that point. His incoherent banter blew through the trees and vacant wilderness, undoubtedly scaring any animal or man for miles. Charles would often lean against you for temporary support, his hand sneaking through your inner thigh, and lingering for a moment to prop himself upright before continuing his casual slurs. The bottle loosened his tongue more than you expected, allowing him to exaggerate a memory or two. 

You have not seen the man wear such a toothy grin since Sean was rescued, a celebration where he took the liberty of more than one drink. As you walked past the rowdy group by the fire, he would match Sean and Karen by pulling you onto his lap. A drunken stunt he would never dare pull sober in front of the others, denying every bit of the scandal once teased the day after. His leg would bounce effortlessly to the music beneath you, wobbling you tightly to his chest. All you could think about was the stubble of his chin digging into your shoulder, the way his fingertips treaded dangerously close to your waist—as if he was taunting you. His hard bulge you rested on would go unacknowledged by the man as he bounced his leg, but not you.

It was a sick game he played and perhaps enjoyed a little too much, testing your willpower for him every moment available.  

Charles’ one ended up being your three, his glass being long retired in favor of the bottle, swaying between his fingers as he nursed it sporadically. 

As the man went over the deep end you just spectated, you figured the least you could do was take care of him for one night, as he does for you every other. One night off was the very least he deserved. 

“S’enough now, reckon you oughta sleep.” 

Your words interrupted Charles, an unmistakable hum rattling through his chest. It hurts you how much the gang lived within the man, even while blackout drunk, Javier’s rhythms that played years ago flowed through him. 

You arose stiffly to your feet, which the man unsteadily followed, his arms swaying and outstretched to recoup some balance. 

The fire had died down along with his energy, Charles’ half-lidded eyes wandered, barely illuminating off the flame. 

Your unexpected touch at the man’s nether region triggered his reflex with a stagger as you unclasped his taut gun belt. Relieving him of today's responsibilities. 

“Oh hush,” 

You murmured, your concentration ignoring his sudden silence. 

Glancing up at the man who towered over you was now stiff as a board, arms hung by his sides as he stared back directly into your soul. 

His lips parted ever so slightly, but nothing came out besides a sigh, the bottle dulling his expression, but emphasizing fervency. 

All Charles could do was stare, his mind clouding over his better judgment— the thought of you seemed to do that often. 

He remembered a particularly sunny day at Clemons Point, a job gone not to plan. You tended to the man’s wounds as he recovered in a cot. Your eyes heavy and looming over each part of his injured body, a sense of worship you held for his temple he simply did not. White bandages decorated his torso and bicep, a familiarity with his body and scars that only you held. The sacredness and safety your touch gave him made his pride not allow anyone else to see him in such a way, not that he would ever tell you. 

You would not speak while focusing on him, not even to ask for an explanation of the wounds. But your vibrant presence would keep him company in the midst of your silence. 

The feeling would eventually leave him as you wandered off, he would watch your figure lingering in the distance, pondering while gazing off the beautiful lands camp offered you. Your apprehensive mannerisms worried the man, which he mistook as forlornness. Charles would justify the scenarios, a double edged sword he deemed to be second nature— you knew what type of man he was. 

You would bide your time against a nearby tree in eyeshot of the cot, ensuring his peace. But would return before too long, your eyes slightly uplifted in spirit. Once again presenting Charles with the same feeling he had before you left the tent. 

Perched up on the barrel level with the cot, the back of your delicate hand would linger on his forehead before caressing down his scuffed cheek, the same touches his mother would give him as a boy. 

Your silence was louder than any words you could have said, you loved him and he always knew.

—

“M’sorry.”

The man uttered after a needy kiss. Insincerity snuck upon his lips, unsure of what exactly he was apologizing for— was it to you? Or was it guilt of the broken man he’s become?— when exactly did he dismiss the morals he subscribed to? 

Now laying in the tent you shared, your lust for him kept him far from his drunken mind, his pants you had undone tempted his desires over redemption. Charles somehow held no recollection of your hands working down there.

Once again your silence was louder than words, fingertips tracing gingerly over his bulge. Subtly begging him to give into his desires, give into you. Charles always had different plans for your first time together, but the past years haven’t been kind, making the time never right— he never once considered taking you while a drunken idiot. 

But your body would soon be consumed by that very same desire, he would only leave your lips momentarily while clothes were kicked off. 

The unsuitable lighting made the man rely on his hands, touches that were a test of how well he knew your body, by now considering it an extension of himself. 

“Charles,” 

His name deliciously exhaled from your lips at the slightest feel of him. Your voice saying his name in such a manner forever burnt a mark into his mind. You molded into every touch of his, which only encouraged his high. His calloused fingertips ran from your hip bones to your breasts, touching the off guard parts of you to everyone but him. 

“Yeah?” 

Charles eventually answered, his gruff voice lowly exiting his chest with an unforeseen force. 

Stroking himself, the man positioned at your entrance, his tip preparing you extensively. Charles’ neck craned back as pleasure began to soar through him, a sharp sigh being exerted at the slightest feel of himself in you. 

“Think you can take me?”

Less of a question, the man wondered out loud through a slur. The syllables lazily slid off his tongue as he teased his head back and forth through your heat. His jaw had gone slack from a combination of ecstasy and concentration, your wetness and anticipation only grew with each of his strokes. 

He hoped to get more noise from you. So desperately wanting you to be loud for him, no camp, no one to worry about— just you. You were his one and only focus, as it should have been from the start. 

Your silence was temporary, captivated by your lover teasing you between your legs. 

“Go on then,” 

Your voice came out as a pitiful whine, a beg of yours he would not take lightly. 

The large man hummed through his amusement and pleasure, his hands covering every area of skin he could on you. Scooting you closer to his preference came with ease, his pull on your hips united your thighs to his. With how light and sweet Charles’ casual touches were, you sometimes forgot how strong the man really was. 

“Charles!”

Your frustrated moan was music to his ears, it broke through the man’s clouded brain like the sound of a gunshot. A distracted hand was still placed on the base of his cock, threading it through your lips in awe. 

“Okay— ok, sweet girl, don’t know if I’ll fit s’all.”

He contemplated out loud, his voice remained low and primal, glossed over drunken eyes lustfully staring into yours, a hint of playfulness being held within the brown wells.

It was the same look they held the day of your hunting trip for Mr. Pearson. You insisted on joining Charles, less to assist and more to loiter and encourage the man. A simple and innocent request he would never refuse. You held onto his torso as he rode Taima, to his dismay your hands would wander further, and further down, until resting prettily on either side of his groin. You would see the man headbob towards the saddle, infatuated with both your boldness and touch— needless to say, you both returned to camp empty handed that day. 

—

The wind that rippled through the tent canvas sent chills through your bones, your naked frame being consumed by goosebumps which the man took humor in. His rough fingertips wasted no time fiddling with your nipples before covering you with his body. Finally exchanging his body heat with yours that would not be needed for long. 

Now fixated on your upper body, it did not take him long to cover you in his hungry mouth, his shaft still grinding against your lips as he eagerly thrusted, barely touching your entrance with each movement. 

Taking matters into your own hands, your patience grew thin, reaching down and directing the man where you needed him. 

The abrupt contact caused spots to flood in vision, Charles’ pleasure and whiskey filling his palette in a way he did not know possible. A part of him wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop after taking you, afraid he would accidentally hurt you in his drunken stupor. His lack of control over his dire state only showed the desperateness Charles usually hid from you. 

Your fingers laced around the man’s bare chest, little nothings you would mumble as you took his length. Charles still doesn’t know what got into him, all the pent up desire for you finally being spent with a slow and powerful thrust that swooped to your core. Despite his eagerness and your moans, he somehow mustered up enough composure to allow you to get used to his size. 

“So tight for me,”

Was all the man grunted through his drunken lust, he thought you took his size so well for him, almost as if you were made for him as a lover. 

Your fingernails that dragged along his back earned you some groans and abrupt movements that were particularly passionate.  

Hearing him in such a worked up manner only made you tighter around him. It was enough to nearly make the man lightheaded as pleasure roamed throughout the tent. 

Words weren’t needed for Charles to understand that your desperation was mutual to his. Your walls continued to grow wet and clench around him with every adjustment and word of his, making a mess of the bedrolls beneath you both. 

“You should’ve took me that night— at Shady Belle.”

Your unsteady words momentarily stopped the man in his tracks. His body frozen atop of yours as he mentally mapped out just how long you’ve been wanting him this way. 

Charles remembered the look you gave him as he peeled off the layers of his bank heist clothing, gun belt falling to his ankles with a clank. He was the only man to return from Saint Denis that night. You followed him around camp like a lost dog, eyes glued to him, silently begging for an ounce of him. You always knew if any man were to return from a botched heist, it would be Charles Smith. 

Your need for him then would go unfulfilled, his large hands lingered lovingly on your waist everytime he rushed past you to assist what was left of the gang, as if he silently acknowledged your desperation. Charles always carried that sense of urgency and composure you did not— he was the last man with a lick of leadership, afterall. 

You wore a similar look now, needy and willing.  

A lazy chuckle filled the tent before he planted a sloppy kiss on your lips, feeling your breath quiver against him was a reminder to continue. 

“Should’ve said, my girl.” 

Charles rebutted simply, allowing your moans to once again fill his ears as he moved swiftly but rhythmically. 

After all this time Charles knew what kind of lover he wanted to be for you, in his mind he earned you and your desire to be with him in such a way. Which meant you deserved to experience your importance and much more. 

Sensual and with purpose—at least for the first time. Each of his actions would show how much you meant to him. Charles thought about it more than he would like to admit, the days you would patch him up only encouraged the back door thoughts of showering your body in his devotion, your lingering touch merely drove those thoughts further. 

But the whiskey consumed his prior plans of reverence, only to reveal how badly he needed this— how badly he needed you. 

Every last bit of his self-control was thrown out the tent along with your clothes, discarded in the dirt by the fire.  

His hands gripping whatever skin of yours he could, small marks of his fingertips peppered on you, further demonstrating the long overdue tension he held prior to taking you. 

Lips and tongue that traveled on your breasts occasionally came with teeth, his excitement winning and the principals he usually held washed away with the prior drinks you shared. 

These marks the man would notice in the morning, guilt and embarrassment surging through him while planting soft kisses upon the possessive marks— Did he hurt you? Was he too rough?— Was he foolish?— he doesn’t remember, his head hurts. Your words of praise would feel just as genuine as it did the night prior, reassuring the man you enjoyed him just fine.

Your touch ghosted down his chest and to his bucking hips, tracing the muscles that flexed with each thrust. Both of your thighs now sopping, Charles let out a low moan, his stomach knotting and quivering under your spell. He guided your hands back up, not wanting to reach his peak quite yet, and your excessive touch would overstimulate him to that point. 

“Easy now.” 

Charles whispered, his voice gravelly and hoarse, a vague warning which slipped from his lips as smooth as the booze went down. The man knew you were close under his control, and how malleable you were only drove him closer to the edge. 

His braided hair had gracefully come undone from the intimacy, loose strands both dangling over your bare skin and sticking to his shoulders. 

Your body quivered beneath him, sensing your climax was near with excessive moans and breaths you gave him. Hearing you moan his name fully unleashed would replay in his mind for days to come, your pretty lips trembling was a sight for sore eyes. Hoisting himself back to his knees, his bottom lip slid between his teeth, rubbing your clit while he admired how you gripped his cock. So trusting, so excited, so wet, and it was all for him? 

His thrusts became more attentive, each one pressing and lingering deep within you, his back arching to meet your pelvis, ensuring no part of his length went neglected. 

If Charles didn’t know any better, he would have lingered in you a moment longer before finishing, basking in the pleasure your high presented him with. The same high he has been subconsciously chasing since Clemons Point. But instead his shaft planted onto your stomach as he climaxed, animalistic groans exiting the man as he marked you. 

Your lover’s chest heaved, lingering momentarily as he finished. Both soaked and relieved, he weakly lowered for yet another soft kiss. His necklace and hair tickling your collarbone as he recovered from his high. 

The mind fog prevented any sort of disruption of his focus on you. Charles studied your torso as you recovered yourself, the small faded scar he stitched up for you back in Colter now glistened under his love for you, it seemed so long ago to the man. He never once thought in this lifetime the girl he saved from a seemingly fatal stomach wound would be the same stomach covered in his seed. 

“‘Look real sweet like that.” 

He hummed, pride and satisfaction littering his tone. His voice rumbled in his chest, presenting signs of sobering up after his chase. 

“Oh?” Your lips formed into an amused grin, staring at your tired lover laying beside you, his toned figure barely visible in the tent besides the glossy formations of sweat beading down his chest. His dark eyes still hooked onto the mess he created on you.  

“Real sweet.” 

The man affirmed gently, figuring he would put you out of your misery and clean you off. 

How whipped was Charles? He could not tell. Every kiss you would give him later that night threw him over the moon. Your fingertips soothingly outlined the scar on his jaw as he held you tightly, your frame curled within his, thighs that pressed against him unknowingly gave him a certain friction that begged him for another round. 

But he decided you needed the rest, as he felt there would be more where tonight came from. He would make it up to you then. 

The embers cracked in front of your tent, with the trees swaying the distance, the white noise was enough to lull you to a slumber. But the man forced himself awake just moments longer to experience you. Relishing in a feeling he never wanted to leave him. Charles wished the night lasted a little longer, as he did with most good things he was fortunate enough to have come his way. He always wondered what he did to deserve those things, especially with all the sins under his belt. 

He felt as if he were sinking, or spinning, maybe it was spinning, his fingertips tapped rhythmically down your spine in his subconscious state, gaining your attention. 

“Sleep with me.” 

You cooed against his chest, words he could barely make out from your state of delirium. 

The man kissed your forehead in response, his mind that tried running off into the night was anchored back to you. Like most things were.  

Your wish was Charles' command, and he knew it would be the beginning of many more.   

~

[reality-detective]

BREAKING: $980 Trillion Cabal Empire Crumbles, Global Power Shift Begins!

The $980 trillion Cabal fortune has been obliterated, sending shockwaves across the world. Centuries of hidden control over markets, governments, and humanity have been exposed. This is the reckoning we've been waiting for—a seismic blow to the shadow elite.

The Collapse of the Hidden Empire...

For decades, the Cabal secretly amassed unimaginable wealth, using off-ledger banking systems to fuel wars, manipulate economies, and control governments. Now, their empire lies in ruins. The $980 trillion extraction is not just about money—it’s about breaking chains that held the world hostage to corruption.

Global Fallout and Awakening...

Stock markets are in chaos, Cabal-linked institutions are collapsing, and world leaders are scrambling to explain their connections. Protests erupt as citizens demand transparency and justice. The shadow government’s veil has been ripped away, and people everywhere are waking up to the truth.

The Universal Trust Unveiled...

At the center of this storm is the Universal Trust, a secret financial network that controlled unimaginable wealth. It funded global conflicts, suppressed technology, and enforced the Cabal’s grip on humanity. Now it’s dismantled, leaving their plans in tatters.

The Fight Has Just Begun...

The Cabal won’t go down quietly. They’ll try to regain power through media lies, political sabotage, and covert operations. But this is our moment to act. We must stay vigilant, demand accountability, and fight for a new era of freedom and equality.

The Great Awakening Is Here...

This isn’t just a financial shift—it’s the start of a revolution. The Cabal’s downfall proves no one is untouchable. United, we can rebuild a world free from tyranny. This is our chance to reclaim power and reshape our destiny.

Stand firm.

Spread the truth.

The storm is upon us.

Things are about to get ugly, be aware of false flags🚩 the world WILL unite and "WE THE PEOPLE" will be victorious.

Seriously it is the greatest time in ALL of history combined to be alive and most people are sleeping right through it, but they will soon be shaken to their core and will wake up. 🤔

[the-artist-grimm]

one thing im very complexed about is what were baal and ayms rection to narinder after getting resurected. surely they would feel a lot of anger towards him because of what he did.

When Aym and Baal are revived they’re more concerned for Narinder than anything else. Like how can their master, their father go from agonizing for MONTHS over ways to spare the lamb, to in the span of a single week telling them he’s found a way but not elaborating, looking completely heartbroken the next few days after, then when the day of reckoning finally comes telling the lamb in this muted, emotionless tone to sacrifice themselves out of the blue? It didn’t make sense. 

While Aym and Baal are 11 year old kids but they’re not stupid-they know this isn’t how their father usually acts, and something’s wrong. It's why they intentionally get hurt (and accidentally) die fighting Anthea, they're trying to snap him out of it since they didn't know what else to do since he didn't want to talk.

From there it takes 4 months to revive the twins-during that time their souls are trapped inside the gateway by the remains of Narinder's metaphysical chain. Not quite awake, but not quite asleep either-only able to tell they were alone until the voices of their parents wake them up before being yanked into the mortal realm. They’re scared, they’re shaken, they put brave faces on while dying yeah but they can feel the phantom of blade and mana caught in their flesh all over again, but their twin is beside them, and before they know it their Baba has them in their embrace wailing, yet their father is nowhere to be seen. 

Cue them being seemingly ok-ish (read: in shock) while being fussed over by Anthea for the rest of the day (given warm meals, constant hugs and kisses to the head, warm bubbly baths then a long brushing, soft nightgowns that smell like lanolin, all while their comfort kitten plushies they'd given the lamb a day prior to the betrayal in preparation for the 'move' have been returned to their arms), and while they keep asking what happened, the Lamb doesn’t know how to answer them anymore. A month before they would've said Narinder betrayed them all, but they're no longer sure anymore.

(Narinder betrayed them. He betrayed them, but then why did he help them with the resurrection? Why did he stabilize them as they struggled to break the chain, why did he lose sleep the whole week leading up just to help? Following their every word, their every order perfectly, never getting upset when they got snappy?  Why did he the leave the chapel without greeting the boys he mourned over. Why hasn't he tried to take back the crown since his arrival? Why isn’t he fighting them, angry, bitter, anything? Why is he making it so hard to hate and ignore him?)

Anthea eventually has to take the twins over to Narinder later that night since the nightmares are setting in now that the shock's worn off and they both wake up crying for him (they can’t remember the 4 months but that isolation left both with intense separation anxiety from both each other and their parents, and not having seen Narinder was really messing with them), and while that first reunion is them just launching themselves at him to cling to his nightshirt crying, followed by them then refusing to let Anthea leave either and thus both parents are stuck trying to get the boys to fall asleep in Narinder’s room, come morning they’ve calmed down enough that Anthea can leave to do cult things and they can question their father.

They just want to know what happened, and is he ok-he scared them by acting so strange and they're worried. Which kinda breaks Narinder a little because he left the chapel expecting that they hated him. That they wouldn’t want to see him since he betrayed Anthea, is the reason they died, and that their Baba deserved them more than him but here they are worried for him, and it’s the first time in months someone’s said they’re worried about him and he actually believes it. So he tells them everything.

He heard something he wasn't meant to hear, took it out of context, and in his fear over being betrayed again made a mistake. A mistake he thinks he can NEVER fix, and was a mistake he thinks he should NEVER be forgiven for. 

(He didn't trust them. Why didn't he trust them? The Lamb was his friend why would they ever betray him he's terrible Shamura was right to 'hate' him why can't everyone just abandon him already he doesn't understand-)

He thinks that’ll do it, but rather than the twins getting mad, it just clears up what they had already assumed-that something went wrong, and their dad thought he had no choice. They're not angry because he made a mistake since why should they? That just means he has to apologize.

It's that childishly innocent idea that all mistakes can be fixed by talking things out, and while it's more complicated than that, it does hold weight. Aym and Baal are the breaking of the cycle of hiding your emotions, hiding your pain, assuming the worst and self-loathing and destroying yourself as a result. The cycle of not talking to the people in your life and just letting things boil over. Narinder may have held back in some ways when raising them by not telling them to call him ‘dad’, but he raised them as he wished he’d been-teaching the twins that it’s ok to be hurt, scared, to make mistakes, and that they can go to him for anything and he won’t get mad. Anthea’s presence reinforced that-that you gotta talk to people when something’s wrong or else they can’t help. 

The boys are very empathetic and emotionally aware, and thus if they can make mistakes and fix things, why can’t the adults? So no they're not mad at Narinder, they just don't understand why he thinks it's not worth trying to make amends.

[lazyfox411]

.

[alwaysonthemend]

Author’s Note: This one is for all the pirate!Jake lovers out there. I hope I did him justice. 

Word Count: 4k

Content Warnings: Fem!reader, strangers to lovers (maybe), oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v sex, cursing, dirty talk. 18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

You could feel his dark eyes on you from the moment he had walked through the door. They studied you – marking your every move as you wiped down the bar with a rag. They watched you closer still as you took breaks from cleaning to bring jugs of ale and rum to the other patrons. 

He hadn’t ordered anything, only sat in the far corner of the bar, and watched. You’d given yourself a long enough glance to see his long hair spilling out across his shoulders and the way he clasped his fingers – almost each of them adorned with rings, in front of him on the table. You had not been able to see his face clearly. Only a glance of a sharp nose and deep, thoughtful eyes. 

But you had seen the glint of gold at his side, the cutlass sheath hanging low on his waist. And on his other hip, three ornate revolvers. Between those, the plethora of necklaces hanging against his exposed chest, and the weathered, strong hands… It's clear enough what he is. And based on the way everyone else seems to be steering clear of him, all the other patrons know, too. 

Pirate. 

The word carried with it a thrill down your spine. Ruthless, bloodthirsty men who take what they want and bow to no one. Dangerous, untrustworthy, and all together men that you should avoid at all costs. But yet here one is, sitting at your bar. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, that ringed hand raises in the air – two fingers curling in a ‘come hither’ motion. You place your rag down, wiping your palms on your skirts, and glide over to his corner. Finally, you meet those dark eyes of his, taking in his full features for the first time tonight.  

Brown eyes, almost black. Dark lashes that cast shadows along his cheekbones in the candlelight. Plump lips – soft and pink looking in a way that’s completely at odds with the tan, weathered face. Handsome, yes. Very handsome. Perhaps one of the handsomest men you’d ever seen. But that only makes him all the more dangerous. 

Chin held high, you stop at last in front of him. Rough fingertips tap a beat on the wood of the bar. Those lips tilt upwards in a barely-there smirk. 

“What can I do for ya?”

The smirk widens, revealing a flash of white teeth. 

“Oh,” A tilt of the head, hair swishing, “I imagine a great number of things. Or the other way ‘round.”

You narrow your eyes as he grins up at you, eyes glittering. His voice is soft – softer than you’d expect from the mouth of a pirate. 

“Presumptuous.” You say flatly, fighting a smirk of your own.

He inclines his head, the chains around his neck clinking where they rest against his exposed chest. You drop your eyes to his hands, noting the way they still tap on the wood. Then to his forearms, his white shirt rolled up to reveal the sturdiness of them, the tan skin only marred by a few thin scars crisscrossing upwards and disappearing beneath the fabric. 

He clears his throat and your cheeks warm but he saves you from having to defend your wandering gaze. 

“Just some ale. Top shelf.”

“We’ve only got the one.” You tell him, turning away to grab for a bottle from the only shelf that this little tavern has. “Hope it’s to your taste.”

“I’m sure it will be.” 

You pour the amber liquid into the glass before sliding it across the bar to him. His fingers wrap around the crystal and bring it up to his lips. He takes one sip, tongue swiping across his bottom lip before putting it down again. 

“What’s your name, lady?” He asks, just as you begin to turn away. 

“None of your concern, I reckon.” He raises a brow at that.

You meet his gaze with a fiery one of your own, hoping to convey to him that you're in no mood for his attempts at flirtation. But his smile only widens. He clearly hadn't bought the lie.

“And why is that, lass? You’re a beautiful woman. I’d love to have a name that goes with it.”

“If I tell you my name, will you leave me alone?” You give him your best, sweetest smile and bat your eyelashes. 

“No promises.” 

You scowl at him but that smile of his stays fixed in place. It makes you even angrier that it’s just as beautiful as the rest of him. 

“Y/n.” You say at last, turning away. “Now I have other patrons to attend to.”

“You’re not going to ask for mine?” He asks, arching a brow and bringing his glass to his lips again. 

“I don’t care.”

This time, you don’t look back as you move away from him to the other end of the bar. You hadn’t been lying – there are other patrons that need serving so you quickly try and shove him from your mind as you continue to work. 

But you can feel his eyes on you. You can still see his smirk. And the image of his fingertips drumming on the wood, the muscles in his scarred forearm flexing with each tap, is seared into your brain. You can’t stop thinking about it. 

//

The night wears on, others coming and going but he stays right where he is. You fill his glass two more times, not saying a word to him either time despite the way his eyes rake up your form. But he makes no attempt at speaking again. 

At least, not until you take your apron off and hang it up on a hook behind the wall after the girl for the next shift arrives. You see him shift in his seat, pushing his glass away from him before rising. 

Heart hammering, you duck outside of the tavern, eyeing the empty streets. It’s late – most are already indoors, preparing for bed. Before you can even think of a way to escape him, the bell over the door rings and out he steps, a long, dark coat tossed over his shoulders, the ends of it just brushing the ground. 

“Good lady.” He murmurs, smiling at you as he takes pointed steps until he’s standing just a little bit away from you. “Might I ask where you’re going off to?”

“Home.” You answer blandly, shrugging your shoulders. “It’s late.”

“That it is.” Another step forward. “Too late for me to, in good conscience, allow a young woman such as yourself to walk home alone.”

“It’s not far.” You take a step of your own – this one away from him. “I’m sure I’ll be alright.”

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. 

“There could be all manner of men out there, lurking and waiting for someone like you.” There's an edge to his tone now. He's not used to being told no so adamantly.

“And a man like you is a better alternative?” You ask, smirking a little as you cross your arms over your chest at the chilled wind that blows through. 

“Like me?” There’s that smirk again as he places a hand across his heart in mock hurt. “And what type of man am I?” 

“You know what kind.” 

At your answer, he closes the gap between you once again, pressing in so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath and the salt on his skin from the sea air. 

“Yes. But I’d like to hear you say it.” 

“Pirate.” You breathe out, the word tasting sharp on your tongue as you once again become acutely aware of the strength his body holds and of the weapons that hang on his belt. 

“Aye. A terrible, dirty, awful pirate.” He croons, before offering his arm to you. “Shall we?”

With an eye roll and a sigh, you loop your arm with his, the warmth of him instantly easing some of the chill that had begun to settle in.  

The two of you walk side by side through the dark streets, hardly a word spoken between the two of you. He hadn’t been wrong – there’s all manner of evil men that lurk out here in the night and usually you take a long way home in order to avoid all the dark, looming alleys where they like to hide. But with him at your side, you don’t have to. Indeed, any time any of them so much as glance your way, their eyes immediately fall to him instead, and then look away. His aura is powerful – a sense of danger that clings to him as you walk. His steps are casual but his hand remains lazily draped across the handle of one of his revolvers and none of the men are stupid enough to trifle with him. 

When at last the two of you arrive at the door of your small apartments, he lets his grip on your arm fall. You instantly feel the loss of warmth.

“Jacob.” He breaks the silence at last and you tilt your head. “My name.” He clarifies. 

“Thank you. Jacob.” You unlock your door, turning your back to him completely as you begin to step through the threshold. 

“Are you not going to invite me in?” He teases, a boyish smile on his face.

“What for?” You ask, giving him the most innocent face you can. You can’t help but to tease back, that damn aura of his drawing you in like a siren’s song. 

A shrug and his grin turns devilish. 

“I’m sure we could think of somethin’ to do.” 

“You don’t have important piratical matters to attend to?”

“I’m sure my crew can survive without me f’r a night. They’ll have to since I’ve got a beautiful woman standin’ in front of me.” Your cheeks warm. “And I don’t plan on lettin’ her slip through my fingers.”

You widen your door and step aside, beckoning him in to the warmth within. 

“Then I suppose I’ll allow it.”

As the door shuts behind him you make your way over to the hearth, kindling up a fire that washes the room in a warm glow. Jacob stands in the middle, watching as you slip off your shoes and place them on the rug. 

“Are you just going to stand?” You straighten and face him fully, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. 

At last, he moves, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the hook by the door like it's habit before moving to unfasten the belt that holds his weapons. As he does so, his eyes stay focused on you. 

“I was jus’ thinkin’.” He places them on the table with a thud. 

“About?”

“You. All the things I’d like to do, if you’ll let me.” He doesn’t hesitate in his answer and heat floods your core. “Will you let me?”

“What’s this?” You tease, stepping towards him and grazing your fingertips against his jawline. “A pirate captain asking for permission?”

“Don’t tell anyone.” He whispers, a knowing, familiar glimmer flashing through his eyes.  “And how did you know that I’m a captain?” He's so close to laughter but he somehow manages to pull himself together and steel hie expression.

You shrug, fingers dropping down his chest and beginning to work to untuck his shirt from his black trousers, allowing you to ghost your fingers over the sensitive flesh of his stomach. 

“Just a feeling.” You can’t help the smile that tugs on your lips, fighting it the best you can. 

Jacob grins, leaning his head forward and softly bumping it with yours, nuzzling into you softly – the action, you can’t help but think, so similar to a cat brushing up against its owner. 

“So can I?” He asks into the skin of your neck, the words rumbling deep in his chest. 

A single nod from you is all it takes for him to be on you – those plush lips that you’ve been admiring all night finally crashing into yours. His tongue slips through, exploring your mouth as he moans at finally getting to taste you. It’s ravenous, the way you two devour each other, hands wandering anywhere they can to feel each other at last. When your lungs finally begin to burn with your need for air, you pull away, resting your forehead against his. 

“God, I missed you.”

Jacob smiles softly, relieved that the act has finally dropped and he can speak his mind at last. 

“I have missed you every second that I have been away. Every night spent in an empty bed a reminder of how much I wished I was here instead.” 

His lips drop to the column of your throat, nipping and biting as you toss your head back and tangle your fingers in his hair. 

This is a game you play often when he returns from one of his long voyages – playing as if the two of you don’t know each other. The banter, the restraint, the teasing… It's all part of the game. It’s yours and his favorite game to play. But the need outweighs it all now – the need to feel him against you once again. To feel all of him after these long months of his absence. Months of worrying for him as you know well the dangers of his profession. Some days, you can barely stand the fear that he could meet his death out there on the seas and you would never know what happened. 

But you push that thought away, focusing instead on the fact that he is here, solid and real before you and eyeing you like he might devour you on the spot. 

Hooking your fingers around his wrist, you tug him to your bedroom, swiping a candle and lighting it from the hearth on your way. You place it on the bedside, spinning around to Jacob where he stands unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric pools at his feet on the floor and you grip your own blouse in your fingers in order to tug it off. 

“Wait.” You freeze, eyes finding him in the dim light. His lips are swollen and slick as he approaches you, his hands replacing yours where they grip the fabric. “Let me.”

You nod, hands falling limply at your sides. 

Slowly, methodically, he pulls your blouse over your head and tosses it to the floor. Then nimble fingers reach behind you, loosening the ribbon that had been tying back your hair. Then he’s sliding your skirts down your thighs, his eyes roaming every inch of skin as he slowly reveals it for himself. When at last you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, he slowly removes them as well. Bare before him at last, he drops to his knees in front of you. 

“Beautiful.” He whispers, his hands wrapping around your ankles. The cold of his rings makes you gasp a little, wetness flooding between your thighs. Dragging his palms up the length of your legs, he sweeps his eyes up to you. “I missed you, treasure.” 

You close your eyes, just enjoying the feeling of his rough hands sweeping up to cup your behind, squeezing the muscle and groaning softly to himself. 

His hands fall away and you blink open your eyes at him, taking in the breathtaking view of him on his knees before you. A pirate bows to no one… A captain especially. But Jacob always bows to you. He revels in it. Aches for it. Just as much as you ache for him – maybe even more. 

“C’mere.” He murmurs, hands sliding down to grip behind your thighs even tighter to pull you closer. 

He leaves hot, wet kisses along your inner thighs as your core begins to pulse and throb with your need. You can still remember that first time he pleasured you like this – with his hot mouth licking through your folds like a man starved. You’d been stunned at the time, having never even considered that such a thing was possible, as you’d only ever known of sex to be for the purpose of child-bearing. But he had shown you that it could be about pleasure. That sex could be an act of love, unselfish and undemanding as he’d brought you to your orgasm over and over again on his tongue until you physically couldn’t anymore. He’d admitted to you that night that he would happily die between your thighs, content to feast on you and you alone for the rest of his days. 

And now, as he hooks your leg over his shoulder and finally, finally, laps against your swollen bundle of nerves, you really do believe him. You cry out sharply, head tossing back and Jacob moaning in answer. His fingers dig in harshly to your skin as he pools all his focus on you and your pleasure, alternating between circling the tip of his tongue around your bud and slipping his tongue into your entrance. He moves slowly – unhurried, as if wanting this moment to stretch out forever. Perhaps he does. 

“Jacob.” You whine, fingers gripping his shoulders as your legs threaten to give out beneath you thanks to his hard work. 

He groans in answer, head beginning to thrash from side to side as he works you closer and closer. The heat inside you builds, overtaking every nerve ending and making you feel as if liquid fire runs through your veins. Hazily, drunk off the pleasure, you try and focus your eyes on him, on the sight of him losing himself in you. But your attention is snagged instead by the movement of his hand dropping from its place on your thigh and coming to palm himself through his trousers. He moans again, tongue working faster, as he begins to rub himself through the fabric – as if he can’t wait a moment longer for some bit of relief. 

And it's that thought – the thought that bringing you pleasure makes him ache with his own desire, that brings you to your release. The wave inside you crests before finally breaking, washing you in pleasure as your body begins to convulse and shake. Your grip on Jacob’s shoulders tighten and the hand still on your thigh slides up to your hip to steady you as you fight to stay on your feet under the onslaught of the intense pleasure. 

It feels like it goes on forever before Jacob finally pulls away, chin and lips glistening with your release. He licks his lips, wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and then licks that up too. 

“You taste even better than I remember.” His voice is gruff, wrecked with lust. He rises, hands finding your cheeks and caressing them softly. 

You are struck once again with the true paradox that Jacob is. A pirate – rough and sea-weathered, who holds you with such gentle reverence. 

“I need you inside me.” You whisper, breaths still uneven. “Now.”

“So demanding, treasure.” He smirks at you, dirty and full of wicked promises. “On the bed.”

On shaky legs, you climb onto the mattress. You settle onto your knees, arms extended out and palms on the bed. You arch, presenting yourself for him. Behind you, you hear a hiss and the sound of fabric rustling as he takes off his trousers. The bed dips and then he’s hovering above you, the cold of his medallions touching your heated skin making you jump a little bit. He laughs, low in his chest, and swipes a hand down your spine. His fingertips are so rough but the touch is gentle, just barely there, as he makes his way down to your hips. 

“I dream of this.” He murmurs, his other hand fisting his hard length and pumping himself a few times. “Of seeing you like this, of the way you feel. Of the little noises you make that slowly grow into screams and cries when you’re close.” A stuttered moan. “I dream of getting to fuck you again.” 

You squirm and whine, slick dripping down your thighs in anticipation as he speaks such dirty words. 

“Jacob, please. I want to feel you.”

He chuckles, running the velvety tip of his cock through your folds. 

“Ask nicely, my love.” 

“Captain,” You whine, not all embarrassed of how desperate you sound. “Please. Please fuck me.”

“Shit.” He hisses. “I love hearing such filthy words from such a pretty mouth.”

Finally, he spears himself into you. Your eyes water at the familiar stretch of him, at the feeling of him sliding against your walls, at the way his tip buries itself so deeply inside of you. Moans punch out of both of you and Jacob’s palms settle heavily upon your hips, rings clinking together.

He draws back, until he’s just barely inside of you, and then slams back into you again. You arch, jaw dropping open as he sets a brutal pace. His hips slap against your backside coupled with the sound of your wetness and the sounds of yours and his moans create a beautiful symphony of sin – one that never fails to set your entire body ablaze with lust. He pulls your hips back to meet him with each thrust, groaning each time that your walls clench helplessly around him. 

“Fuckin’ Christ.” He bites out, gritting his teeth. “That’s it. So good for me. Tell me how it feels, treasure.”

All you can do is moan louder, babbling nonsense that’s a mix of his name and ‘oh god’s. You can’t get your brain to focus on anything other than the pleasure, of the way he hits that special spot inside of you that makes you see stars. It’s too much, it’s not enough. You can feel him everywhere – every sense completely overtaken by him. 

A sharp crack to your behind makes you gasp and whimper, the sting of his rings a delicious and welcomed sensation.

"Tell me." He demands, driving into you even harder.

It takes every bit of focus you have left to form the words. You have no control over them, the pleasure and lust fogging your brain speaking for you.

"So good, my love. So. Fucking. Good." He growls, eyes fixed on where he's slipping in and out of you. "You feel perfect, Jacob. Don't stop. Please."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Just as the burn of pleasure becomes almost unbearable, as the tears begin to fall in earnest down your cheeks, Jacob stops. You whine in protest but he shushes you. 

“On your back, my love. I want to see your face when you fall apart on my cock.”

You do as he says and as you settle and look up, you finally get to see him in all his glory above you. His chest and cheeks are flushed red, a sheen of sweat over his entire body that glistens in the candle light. His hair, sweaty and stuck to his face and neck, and the tremble to his shoulders. And his cock – red and leaking, where it rests against his belly. 

He guides himself into you again, driving his hips into you and once again setting a bruising pace. He presses his arms into the mattress on either side of your head, his necklaces brushing against your breasts. He attaches his mouth to your nipple, biting the flesh and making you arch your back at the sting. 

Your legs begin to tremble, toes curling and fingernails raking down his back . 

“Jacob- fuck, I’m-”

“I know. I know. Me too.” 

He brings a hand up to your mouth, fingers slipping past your lips. You swirl your tongue around the digits and he whines before pulling his fingers from your mouth and dropping it between the heated spaces between your bodies. His finger makes contact with your clit, rubbing harsh circles in time with his thrusts that grow more frantic and feverish by the second. 

“Cum for me, my love. Please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that ends it. The band in your belly snaps and your vision goes white. Your whole body shakes, thighs clamping down on his sides as you scream his name. Just a moment later he frantically pulls himself out of you, stroking himself only twice more before he’s painting his hand and your belly in white. He cries out, guttural and sounding almost in pain as he strokes himself through his orgasm. 

When the haze of lust finally begins to dissipate, Jacob rises, finding his discarded shirt on the floor to delicately wipe you clean. When he’s finished, he tosses it back to the floor and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft – no haste behind it as all the others had been. 

“I’m glad you’re home.” You murmur. 

His hands settle themselves on your cheeks again – an action, you’re starting to realize, is his favorite. 

“Me too.”

“You were gone for a long time. Longer than usual.” 

He frowns, noting the sadness in your eyes. 

“I know. We ran into some trouble with a French frigate. We had to stop for repairs before coming here.”

Silences lapses, and you shift to climb under the blankets. Jacob does the same, immediately pulling your back against him and nuzzling into your hair. 

Your mind wanders, back to the days when you first met him. When you really did think he was just like all the rest of the cruel, bloodthirsty pirates out there. But he proved himself better. Proved himself to be one of the most loving men you'd ever met, always returning to you no matter how far he went, no matter how much wealth and spoils he finds. Always back to you. But you worry now, laying here, that perhaps one day he won't return. Maybe the wealth of his piratical career will be enough for him and he'll slowly stop coming back.

As if somehow sensing your spiralling thoughts, Jacob pulls you tighter against him, his arm looping over your waist and remaining there.

“Y/n.” A kiss to your neck, then another. “I will always come home to you. You’re the only treasure I care about. Gold, silver, indigo, silk, sugar," his voice is a comforting rumble that threatens to soothe you to sleep, "none of it could ever compare. And one day, when I've got enough of it that you will never have to work another day in that awful tavern... Never have to worry about food on the table, I promise to never leave you again."

You believe him.

~fin

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

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[justanotherrpmeme]

Defiant Captive starters

"You think these chains can hold me? I've broken out of tougher restraints." "I may be your captive, but you'll never break my spirit." "You call this a dungeon? I've seen worse accommodations on camping trips." "You kidnapped the wrong person if you thought I'd go down without a fight." "You can threaten me all you want, but I won't give you the satisfaction of seeing me scared." "Is this your idea of intimidation? Because I've got news for you – it's not working." "I'll be out of here before you know it, and then you'll regret ever crossing me." "You may have me trapped now, but I'll find a way to turn the tables on you." "Don't underestimate me just because I'm in chains. I'm still a force to be reckoned with." "I'll break free from these shackles, and when I do, you'll wish you had never captured me."

[GLARE] - The captive locks eyes with the captor. [STRUGGLE] - The captive fights against the restraints, attempting to break free from captivity. [PROVOKE] - The captive provokes the captor, deliberately trying to get under their skin. [IGNORE] - The captive ignores the captor's attempts to intimidate or coerce them into submission. [DEFEND] - The captive defends themselves against any physical or verbal attacks from the captor. [OBSERVE] - The captive observes their captors, gathering information that may aid in their escape.

[f10werfae]

Baby Subway

Pairing: Husband!Henry Cavill x Shy!Pregnant!Wife!Reader

summary:Henry has to order for his shy pregnant wife when she wants a sandwich and he just has a cuteness explosion over her, and so do some fans (DILF Henry) (req by @stormcloudss )

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated

Henry Masterlist, Full Masterlist

“Come on honey, no need to be shy, it’s only Subway” Henry chuckled holding onto his wife’s hand, the shorter woman stood behind him shyly, her head shaking rapidly; her 7 month bump softly rubbing against his back. His other hand reaching behind his back to smooth over her stomach, feeling the tiny flutter kicks following his touch.

“T-they might think i-i’m weird or something, can y-you order hubs?” She whispered kissing his arm softly, nuzzling her head into it like a puppy, following his footsteps as he walked up to the counter full of ingredients. “Of course pup, do anything for you, just the usual yeah?” Henry turned halfway to bend down and press a soft wet kiss onto her lips, a giggly smile forming onto her lips.

“Yes please, but add mushrooms please” She whispered on her tippy toes, kissing just below his ear, smiling at the hickey she left on his neck from that same morning. Her pregnancy hormones had left her nothing soft of a raging sex monster, she would encourage Henry to take her anywhere and anyway possible, as long as she would be able to feel his cock inside her sensitive pussy.

Whether it be the kitchen table, against the porch railing of their backyard, any of their bedrooms and anywhere where they found themselves needing each other. So this morning when Henry felt his shy wife’s mouth on his hardening cock he obviously had to fuck her to another universe, with her orgasms being twice as sensitive, her swollen tits never leaving his mouth; her husband now obsessed with the growing globes.

“Uhh hi there, yeah, a foot long right baby?” Henry asked looking up at the order board, “U-uh a six inch is okay-“

“Yes a foot long, with uh, tomatoes, cucumber, salami, Mariana sauce and southwest sauce please.” Henry replied politely, wincing when he felt his wife pinch his ass, “OH, and mushrooms please” He chuckled holding both her hands now, seeing her sundress flow through the side of his eye, a new purple floral thing Henry had bought during their trip to Portugal.

“Was that alright honey?” He whispered pulling her to the side as they waited on their order, his hands resting on her hips while she played with the chain around his neck; a necklace that had their wedding anniversary on it. “Y-yeah thank you so much hubby” She beamed leaning up to kiss his beard covered chin, her hands clutching onto the opening of his denim coat. With Henry whispering sweet nothings into her ear, causing his woman to giggly shyly while they hid in the corner of the subway 

“Reckon you can give me your sweet goods later?” He joked feeling her panty lines over her dress, his eyes trained on her cleavage, painted with a thin layer of sweat during the summer months. “Hmm yeah I think so, need you so bad” She whined pressing het body flat against his as much as she could, quickly breaking away when she heard the worker call out the order.

“What’dya say pup?” Henry said intertwining their fingers, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles comfortingly as he urged her towards the counter. “Thank you miss” She said out loud, her heart hammering in her chest, for the longest time she had major anxiety about the simplest things, such as ordering food. So it was a total blessing when Henry the man of her dreams was willing to take that responsibility, basically memorising her order for each restaurant.

“Good job pup, bein’ such a brave mummy, can’t wait for our lil’ girl to come out jus’ like her mummy; so precious n’ beautiful” He said out loud, catching the attention of the older women nearby, Y/n’s face heating up at all the unnecessary attention. “I-I wan’ her to be like you, all warm n’ cuddly like a teddy bear” Y/n said excitedly swinging their arms back and forth, her subway sandwich held in Henry’s other arm; apparently it’s too heavy for his baby to carry.

 ——-

“Wait can I have my sandwich now please, we’re starving” Y/n whined as soon as they got through the front door, her lips turning into a pout, her eyes watering and her brows furrowing. Although her face slowly brightened as she saw Henry was leading them straight to their kitchen, she could practically feel their baby girl bouncing for joy in the womb. “You hungry baby yeah? Want Daddy to feed mummy for you?” Henry joked bending down to her bulging stomach, kissing wherever the baby’s foot kicked, the imprint being seen through the thin sundress.

“I think she said yes, feed me” Y/n giggled sitting herself onto Henry’s lap, her throne as they like to call it. “Whatever the princess baby wants, she gets” Henry chuckled opening the sandwich, cutting it up into bite amounts, smiling when he saw spurts of sauce covering his wife’s face; his hands immediately coming to wipe her face delicately, while she held a wide smile on her face.

“I think she likes the mushrooms” Y/n whispered rubbing her stomach as she ate the last bit of the foot long sub, struggling to stand up with such a full stomach, her body supported by her loving husband’s arms. “I think you did too babe” Chuckling he stood up alongside her, caressing her ass lovingly, even giving it a playful squeeze as he kissed her cheek; her hand coming up to caress his face slightly.

“I think w-we need to take a f-family nap please”  Y/n said giggling patting her belly, pulling Henry with her towards their custom made sofa, the wide plush couch basically fit the both of them snuggly enough. “Want your pregnancy pillow honey? Know you can’t sleep comfortably without it” Henry urged grabbing the massive white worm looking pillow on the other side of the room; helping her to lay down and manoeuvre her body around the material.

The pillow fitting in between her legs, allowing her to hug onto it as if it was Henry, “Wow no room for daddy?” Henry scoffed jokingly spanking her thigh lightly, watching as she cutely shuffled forward, leaving him room behind her body to slip in, making her the little spoon. “H-hubs she’s kickin, feel!” Y/n laughed grabbing his larger hand, and placing it on the front of her stomach,

“We made her baby, the perfect mix of me and you, I hope her brother is the same” He whispered kissing her neck hotly, his hands moving up to grope he swollen sore breasts, making her moan out and nuzzle back against his crotch and chest.

“W-wait brother? Hold on!”

-- Twitter --

@/whitelillies3000: Omg Henry Cavill and Y/n Cavill just came into the subway I work at !! !! HE ORDERED FOR HER AND HE KEPT HER AWAY FROM THE OTHER CROWDS IN STORE BY HUGGING HER AGAINST THE CORNER. I SWEAR SHE IS THE CUTEST THING ALIVE, HE EVEN GOT HER TO SAY THANK YOU TO ME BC SHES SO SHYI NEARLY STARTED BLUSHING. Anyways I love the Cavill couple, YIn is stunning pregnant and Henry just can't keep his hands off her, literally kept touching her up and kissing her; AND RUBBING HER STOMACH (wa) Sleeping in the highway tonight. Next thing you know they're walking hand in hand down the street, she was literally skipping while reaching for her subway but he wouldn't let her carry it so she pouted AND HE JUST KEPT KISSING HER UNTIL SHE SMILED AND GIGGLED AGAIN UGHZ

--

Library blog: @f10werfaes-cosy-collection

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[veritas-scribblings]

radiate - @bartylusmicrofic - words: 1,244 [warnings: discussions of religion]

There’s this church in Mayfair. Every Sunday at 11am, Barty goes to the park opposite and sits on the fence and chain smokes as he waits patiently to catch a glimpse. A glimpse is all he needs. It will sustain him, fuel him for the week to come. It will nourish his soul. Save him. Raise him up. Lift him high.

It never takes Barty long at all to spot Regulus. He’d spot him blind in the dark. He knows Regulus from the way Regulus carries himself. From the line of his shoulders, which are always so tense. From the scowl permanently written across Regulus’s face as though the mere existence of the world deeply offends him.

Barty takes a long draw from his cigarette and blows smoke into the air. Regulus always looks like the weight of his thoughts have grown heavier each time he leaves that church. Like someone has laid his all of his sins out before him. Regulus already has a complex relationship with religion (his family is already a fucking cult) and whatever bullshit they’re spewing behind those walls is only further complicating things.

Regulus glances across the road. He knows that Barty waits there each Sunday. Walburga knows too, Regulus says, and makes disparaging comments about “that boy” who sits on the fence and smokes. “A filthy, disgusting habit,” she will say. “Only sinners smoke.”

Regulus’s gaze lingers on Barty for just a moment, and in that moment Barty is sure Regulus can read his thoughts. Meet me, he thinks desperately, the fear and longing a mangled, dark monster within him. Meet me. Come to me. Fuck your church and fuck your God. Let me save you.

Come evening, the rain falls in sheets and the wind is unforgiving. Barty is chilled to the bone, to his very soul, and it isn’t just the wind and the rain that batters against him as he stands on the footpath outside the church. It’s the weight of everything bearing down on him: his fears that he isn’t enough to save Regulus, his fears that he will lose Regulus to his family, that the Blacks will devour Regulus whole and leave only the empty shell of Regulus behind.

When Barty was younger, during his ‘cusp of adolescence’ years, he would sometimes find himself oscillating between ‘it’s probably better not to tempt fate’ and ‘let’s fuck around and find out’. Like he would enjoy nothing more than to climb a ladder to the roof of their school’s building and flip the sky the bird so he could wait and see if Regulus’s God will smite him where he stands.

These days, Barty is just sure there’s no higher power involved in anyone’s lives. It simply would not make any sense. Because if there is, the higher power is a sick and twisted son of a bitch unworthy of anyone’s worship.

“I’d say at this stage that what you’re doing is almost considered harassment,” Barty says. “Give the woman a break, she’s heard it all. Multiple times.”

This is the way Barty sees it: the God that religion wants is a woman, the God that religion has is a man. No further explanations needed.

The church in Mayfair is dimly lit inside. Regulus sits in the pews, his forehead resting on the backs of his hands, which grip the pew in front of him. He’s praying, Barty knows. Or more like, he’s harassing his God with every thought and worry he has in his mind. And Regulus has an endless supply of thoughts and worries…so Barty supposes to some extent that having an invisible counsellor makes some sort of sense.

When Regulus doesn’t look up, Barty says, his voice husky and cracking, “Fuck your God. All the boring sons of bitches go to heaven, anyway. I reckon hell’s where the party’s at. We’ll fuck on our way down, enter hell with a bang.”

This gets Regulus’s attention, as Barty knew it would, because Barty is nothing if not an expert at poking Regulus’s buttons. Regulus has never quite understood how Barty can be so very blazé about things such as who loves whom, and who has sex with whom, and who has knowledge of who loves whom and who has sex with whom. Whereas Barty has never quite understood Regulus’s hang-ups. It’s not so much that love and loving others comes naturally to Barty; it’s just that he’s more of the ‘who gives a flying fuck what others think’ party.

And Regulus has never been able to separate himself from what others might potentially think.

Barty slides onto the bench next to Regulus. “You ran away the other day. Before I could say I—” Barty places his hand on top of Regulus’s, which is cold and gripping the back of the pew tightly, “Reg, I love you,” he says hurriedly.

There’s something missing in the air between them, the way that Regulus would have once said, “I love you, too,” so easily. Before Barty had refused to keep ignoring how things had changed between them and love no longer meant "I want you at my side", but instead, "I want to keep you inside me".

Barty surges forwards and kisses Regulus. It’s a closed-mouth kiss, taking Regulus off-guard so that he is for a moment paralysed with how to respond. They’ve done this before, back when they were fourteen and Barty had wanted to try out kissing and trying it out on Regulus, his forever best friend, had made so much sense to him.

That, back then, had been a chaste kiss. This kiss is anything but. It’s desperate and fierce, messy and intermingled with tears that Barty is sure are Regulus’s. And this kiss is very much one-sided as Regulus doesn’t respond immediately, though he also doesn’t push Barty away. He merely lets himself be kissed, lips parting ever-so-slightly, like he thinks that if he is not an active participant in the interaction that he cannot be faulted for it.

“I love you,” Barty breathes against Regulus’s lips, and Regulus makes a sound that is so broken it chips away at Barty’s heart. Because how can Barty make Regulus understand the enormity of his love for him? How can Barty make Regulus understand that he’s loved him for years in every way it’s possible to love someone?

“Barty,” Regulus breathes out, and in his name Barty hears, I love you, too. And, I need you, too.

Pressing back into the kiss, Barty pulls Regulus so close that Regulus all but crowds into his lap. Finally, Regulus responds and the kiss is no longer one-sided. Warmth pools low into Barty’s belly. He slips his hands under Regulus’s shirt to run over the smooth, warm skin of Regulus’s back. There is barely any space between them, and Barty can feel through Regulus’s movements in his lap that Regulus is quickly unravelling.

Barty slides his hand up Regulus’s neck to tip his head back and deepen the kiss, licking into his mouth. He wants more than he has wanted almost anything else. He wants to watch Regulus come apart. He wants to feel him, hear him, experience him.

He knows that it’s a bad idea to do this in a church, particularly one with a congregation so conservative, but Barty’s never met a bad idea he doesn’t like. And Regulus’s God can come for Barty if they have any qualms about this happening.

They can come for Barty. Or they can try. Because, Barty thinks, he is prepared and they won’t know what hit them.

[sorceresssundries]

The Death of Thom Rainier

Pairing: Blackwall/Lavellan (My quizzy, Sparrow)

Warnings: ANGST, talks of death, grief, heartbreak.

Word Count: 4670 words

Summary: The honour and integrity of the Inquisition is at risk of being brought down by the decision surrounding the fate of the Inquisitor's lover. Action must be taken, and quickly, to save the group from talk of corruption.

It was late, and the moonlight dappled through the crumbling cracks and forgotten fissures of Skyhold, spilling pale silver across the war table. Shadows danced over the once-pristine map, now scarred with countless daggers marking places where they had struck — and where they had yet to reach. The Inquisition had grown into a force of reckoning, but with that power came bonds of responsibility, heavier than crowns and chains. They had to be more than a scattered band of idealists. They had to be an order, a symbol, both a hammer of justice and a shield for the helpless. Their future was as fragile and perilous as a frost-kissed web clinging to the rafters above.

Three figures met in secret, while the rest of the fortress slept.

“The Inquisitor has ordered his release from Val Royeaux,” Cullen’s voice cut through the room. His hands gripped the pommel of his sword, his eyes unflinching, burning with the loyalty that had driven him through so many battles. “He is to be brought here for judgement.”

Leliana’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight, the flicker casting her in shifting shadow. “A reasonable request,” she replied, her voice soft but edged. “Blackwall is a part of her Inquisition. Should she not be the one to pass judgement on him?”

Josephine, seated at the far end of the table, sighed, her hand rising to rub at her temple. The stress etched itself deep into the lines around her eyes, tired from the endless machinations and political games. “Blackwall was a part of the Inquisition, yes,” she said, her voice quieter than the others, yet no less burdened. “But this isn’t about Blackwall. This is about Thom Rainier, and Orlais wants his head. They won’t settle for anything less.”

“His crimes are…” Cullen began, his brow furrowed as if the mere memory of Rainier’s past offences disgusted him. “Unforgivable. I’m inclined to agree with the Orlesians on this.”

The commander was all duty now, his judgement unyielding. His years as a Templar had hardened him to betrayal, especially from someone so close to the Inquisitor.

Josephine straightened, the flicker of the fire catching the lines of tension on her face. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t just about Rainier’s past. His relationship with the Inquisitor was no secret, even at the Winter Palace. Our Orlesian allies watched them, talked about them. Whispers travelled faster than arrows. What will it look like if she brings him back here? If she protects him?”

“It will look,” Cullen said, voice dark and firm, “like corruption. As if we value personal attachments over justice. An institution capable of one corruption is capable of many. It could undo everything we’ve built.”

“And if we let him die in Val Royeaux, she will never forgive us,” Leliana interjected quietly, her gaze flickering with a rare moment of sympathy. “We will lose her trust.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, a storm waiting to break. There was truth in every word, and each of them felt the rolling thunder of the dilemma closing in.

“She will not forget the betrayal. Not from us.” Josephine’s voice trembled ever so slightly as she spoke, as though already anticipating the bitterness that would follow.

Leliana’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something colder and more dangerous flashing in her eyes. “There is a path forward.” Her voice, once as soft as a lullaby, now carried the quiet menace of a hunter who had found her prey.

The spymaster stepped closer to the table, her fingers brushing lightly over the map, resting just above Val Royeaux. “We could arrange for his release — quietly. He would never make it here. A fatal accident on the road. An Orlesian ambush. It would solve the issue without leaving our hands stained. He dies, Orlais is happy, and the Inquisitor’s hands remain clean.”

Cullen stiffened. “You’re suggesting we…?”

“Kill him?” Leliana’s lips curled, just slightly. “I am suggesting we control the narrative. We let slip our route back here. We spare her the guilt, and we show Orlais that the Inquisition stands by its principles. We did as she asked us, Rainier is killed in an unpredicted attack, and the Inquisitor is spared the burden of deciding his fate.”

The room was cloaked in silence once more, heavy with the choice before them, a choice that would either save the Inquisition — or damn it.

Josephine’s fingers tightened around her quill, her gaze falling to the map. “If we choose this path,” she whispered, “We save our Inquisition. But we might lose her.”

 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ♜  ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Sparrow sat on the throne she never wanted, in a fortress that still felt too vast, too cold, too foreign to ever be hers. The high-backed seat loomed around her, it's cold stone carved for someone much larger, much grander. Her small, elven feet dangled just shy of the floor, and the throne's broad arms were too wide for her to rest against. She felt weightless, suspended in the centre of it, untethered.

She straightened her spine, drawing on the memory of her mother’s lessons, as if the  invisible cord pulling her back might make her taller, more imposing. Make yourself tall, Ma’da’ean, her mother used to say. And everything else will shrink.

But the world refused to shrink. The great hall remained cavernous, the whispers of the court still echoed off the walls like a rising storm, and the knot of dread within her only grew tighter.

Give her demons. Give her tyrants. Give her politics she knew nothing of and Gods she did not worship. She would take them all. 

This, she could not do.

The dread had sunk deep, threading through her chest, winding around her heart. The thought of seeing him again, of locking eyes with the man whose name she did not even know, made her stomach twist. 

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, clinging to the silence inside her mind. Please, she thought, though she had no idea who she was pleading to. She wasn’t one for prayer, nor for gods. But now, she found herself grasping for anything to shield her from the moment that was about to come.

Please, don’t make me do this.

But whoever might have been listening did not answer. A cold silence fell over the great hall as the heavy doors groaned open. The sound echoed, announcing the arrival of the man she could not face.

She couldn't look at him. Her entire body rebelled at the thought of raising her gaze, of seeing him as he was now—a stranger wearing a name she didn’t recognise. Her heart still clung to the memory of the man he had been only days ago. His eyes had been soft, honest. His words had promised her safety, his touch had offered comfort. Nothing matters but us, he had whispered. He had kissed her as if she were something precious, first with gentleness, then with a passion that had made her believe him.

Now, all of that felt like a cruel trick, a trap she had willingly fallen into.

Her eyes burned, but she would not let the tears fall. She couldn’t drag her gaze from the floor. She needed to breathe, to gather the last shreds of her strength before she dared look at him again.

The man I knew doesn’t exist, she reminded herself. He never did.

It was anger that lifted her eyes, as the heavy sound of boots came to a halt in front of her - She could not let herself be Sparrow, or Blackwall’s lover. She was the Inquisitor. The mark in her palm itched as she raised her gaze to finally meet the man standing before her. 

Cullen? And an Orlesian man in intricate armour and a matching brass mask. 

Her breath caught in relief, or was it just surprise? She felt too nauseous to be sure of her own feelings. She was calm until she noticed the blood. It was splattered across Cullen’s armour, streaked across his breastplate, flecked through his golden hair. There was a jagged cut to his high cheekbone, the skin raw, smeared with red. The sight of it sent her heart into a tailspin, her anger replaced by a cold, creeping fear.

Sparrow stood, unthinkingly. There was a river of murmurs, words tangling like hissing cicadas in the hot, oppressive air of a summer storm. Every gaze in the hall fixed on her, on them, but she could hardly hear them over the rushing in her own ears.

"What's happened?" she demanded, her voice hoarse as it cracked through the crowd, pulling the room’s attention fully toward them. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, though she willed herself to stay composed.

Cullen glanced briefly at the court before locking eyes with her again. “We were intercepted.”

Sparrow’s stomach dropped. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest as she searched his face for answers. “Where is Blackwall?” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but the name hit the air like a blow.

Cullen swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as though the words themselves were difficult to push out. “Thom Rainier is dead.”

The world tilted beneath her. The buzzing of the court, the murmured voices and watchful eyes, all faded into a distant hum. For a moment, Sparrow couldn't feel the stone beneath her feet, couldn’t even feel herself breathing.

The man beside Cullen was speaking - something about being an envoy, about it all happening so fast. She didn’t care. His words slipped past her, meaningless, drowned by the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears.

He can’t be dead.

Her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, the air too thin. Her fingers flexed at her sides, desperate to hold onto something, anything that wasn’t slipping away.

He can’t be dead.

She could still hear his low, rough laugh in her head, the way it rumbled through his chest when he let his guard down. She could still feel the calloused swirls of his fingertips against her skin.

She hadn’t even bathed properly since they’d been together. His scent still clung to her, faint but lingering—leather, sweat, and the earth. She closed her eyes as if she could summon him back with the memory of it, as if he could step out from some hidden corner and make this a cruel misunderstanding.

Her eyes flickered to the windows, to the light of an indifferent sun spilling through the stained glass. The world outside was bright, alive. Vibrant patterns of colour danced across the stone floor, reflections from the sunlight mingling with the songs of winter birds that chirped in pairs just beyond the glass. It was all so alive, so full of life and warmth.

How could he not be?

Sparrow blinked, struggling to focus, to anchor herself to the present. Her voice—when it finally came—was like shards of glass, shattered and too small to hold onto.

“He can’t be…” she breathed, her words trembling on the edge of disbelief. “There has been a mistake.”

The Orlesian stepped forward, his presence all formality and cold distance. “My lady,” he began, “we were ambushed on the road by bandits. They spread pitch across the stones, threw oil, and fired arrows lit with flame. The carriage he was locked in was alight within seconds. The guards tried—”

“That is enough.” Cullen’s voice cut through, sharp and final. His tone left no room for further details, no space for the grisly reality the man was about to spill. He stood tense, his eyes not meeting Sparrow’s. His harshness wasn’t just for the noble, it was for her—an attempt to shield her from the images that would follow if she heard any more.

But it was too late.

The words “the carriage he was locked in” echoed in her mind, painting a picture of the fire, of Blackwall—Thom—trapped and helpless, dying in agony. She could almost see the smoke rising, the flames licking at his skin, hear the crackle of burning wood and the screams no one would ever admit to. The images flooded her without mercy, despite Cullen’s effort to stop them.

Her legs wavered, and she reached out, her hand barely catching the edge of the throne for balance. The air was too thick now, the voices in the hall too loud, too suffocating. The world, once bright and filled with the laughter of birds, was silent and cold. 

She fell apart. All pretence of dignity slipped from her white-knuckled fists like sand. The invisible crown of the Inquisitor tumbled from her head, her practised posture buckled. She collapsed to the cold stone floor, not a leader, not a herald, but a woman with a heart shattered beyond repair.

“Get them out!” Her voice cracked as she cried out, barely able to force the words through the choking sobs that rose from her chest. “All of them. Now.”

Cullen’s stiff nod was the only reply she received. His voice cut through the hall, issuing orders with the force of a commander who would not be questioned. The nobles, the advisors, the residents - every prying eye - scattered as if swept away by the storm of her devastation. 

She was an exposed nerve, raw and bleeding, her tears an unending stream. Her cries, desperate and guttural, filled the empty hall, echoing louder with each person who left.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, her face buried in her arms, shaking uncontrollably. Time had lost all meaning. But then, without warning, a large, gentle hand unfurled her. It was Iron Bull - his presence massive and unyielding, but his touch impossibly gentle. She tried to fight, her body kicking and flailing as his arms lifted her from the floor, but it was futile. His strength was too steady, too absolute.

He carried her effortlessly up the winding stairs to her chamber, holding her as though she weighed nothing. His voice rumbled low, soothing but blunt. “Keep hitting, boss. It’ll help.”

So she did. She hit at his broad chest, her fists weak and trembling, but she struck anyway, again and again. She imagined it was Blackwall she was striking, the man who had torn her heart apart.

If he had been honest, if he had told her everything from the start, if he had trusted her the way she trusted him, he wouldn’t have died like this—engulfed in flames, alone, on his way to be judged by her.

Each hit carried the sting of her anger. Selfish fool. Treacherous. Manipulative. She pounded against Bull’s chest, though her strength was rapidly waning, her fury dissolving into fresh waves of grief. She hated Blackwall for the lies, for the betrayal, for leaving her with nothing but the memory of his touch. 

She hated that she was stripped of the chance to be angry with him, to tell him of her humiliation. She wanted him to know how he had hurt her. That she had fallen in love with him because he was steadfast and kind. How humiliated she was that she had called out the name of another man while they made love. 

But if she were honest, deep down, beneath all the fury and anguish, what she truly wanted was for him to fight for her. She wanted him to beg for her forgiveness, to tell her the truth in its entirety, to explain why he had kept so much from her. She wanted to be angry with him, to rage and cry and then, eventually, not be angry anymore. She wanted to forgive him, even if that made her weak.

Now that chance was gone and it felt as though she would be angry forever—trapped in this endless cycle of fury that had no outlet. The sharp, jagged words she wanted to hurl at him would never be spoken, would never cut him the way they cut her. Instead, they dug into her own skin, slicing deeper with nowhere to go, and she would bleed and bleed and bleed for the rest of her days.

And still, Bull carried her - bearing the weight of her anguish. He made no attempt to stop her, to console her. 

He just let her break, knowing it was the only thing left she could do.

She couldn't pinpoint the moment she slipped into sleep - whether it was exhaustion or the way Bull had laid her down so gently on the bed. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the weight of sleep pulled her under, heavy and irresistible.

In her dreams, everything felt warped, as if reality itself was bending around her grief. She wandered through the halls of Skyhold, her footsteps echoing unnaturally. The walls stretched impossibly high, and the colours of the tapestries bled into one another, too bright, too vivid. The faces of the people she passed blurred into nothingness, their voices a distant murmur of sound that she couldn’t quite make out.

Blackwall was laughing at her, that laugh she loved so much - the one that reminded her of the bending of the forest trees in Summer and the crackle of a fireplace in winter - sharpened itself against the stone walls of Skyhold and ricocheted around her. 

Shadows from barely-lit candles began to stretch and twist, forming grotesque shapes that danced in the periphery of her vision. She turned, only to find the spectres of dead men swinging at the hangman’s noose, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. The empty, hollow sound of coins jangling mingled with the cloying, hot smell of spilled blood. 

“My lady” His voice spat at her, deep and gruff, “My love”

She wanted it to end. Please... make it stop. No more. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palm, the sharp pain dragging her back to consciousness. She woke, sweat-slicked and trembling, tears streaming down her face.

She wasn’t alone.

A man stood on her balcony, leaning against the window frame, barely a silhouette in the dim light. When he noticed her stirring, he straightened sharply, stepping into a sliver of moonlight.

It was him.

Or rather, a ghostly, altered version of him. His hair, once long, was now cropped close, his face clean-shaven. The familiar features she had known were marred by dark bruising around one eye, his skin paler than she remembered. But it was still him.

It had to be another nightmare. Another cruel trick of the Fade. If she couldn't have him—if Blackwall had truly been taken from her—then all she wanted was peace. Blessed, quiet peace. She dug her nails into her palms, harder, until the skin broke and blood welled in her hands. She gasped at the sharp pain. Still, she did not wake.

“My lady,” he spoke softly, his gaze lingering on her bleeding hands as he took a step toward her.

“Don’t,” she spat, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her hand, the metallic scent of blood sharp in her nose. This place was more lucid than her other nightmares, more grounded in reality, but that only made the apparition in front of her more dangerous. He was too much like the man she had loved, too much like the man she’d lost.

“Sparrow,” he whispered, his voice filled with the old affection that once soothed her but now felt like a dagger twisted in her heart.

“Stop!” She inhaled sharply, her body trembling with the weight of her grief. “Leave. Now.”

This was no different from the other demons that had preyed on her in the Fade. Desire, most likely. Tempting her with the one thing she longed for most, only to use her weakness against her. They always found her here, in these fragile moments, vulnerable and desperate. She wouldn't fall for it. 

“Don’t you dare use his voice,” she hissed, her hands curling into fists at her sides, the fresh pain from her palms sizzling. “You think I’m that easy to break?”

The man flinched, brow furrowing in the way she had seen a hundred times before, a familiar wrinkle in his forehead that made her heart ache. The memory of it tore at her insides, a splinter burrowing deeper into a heart already shattered beyond repair. Could there really be any more room to break? She thought she'd felt every kind of pain there was.

“It’s me, my lady,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “No more.”

Her body betrayed her then, a heaving, hollow retch overtaking her as she leaned over the edge of her bed. Nothing came up. She hadn’t eaten in days. The only thing left in her stomach was grief, and it was impossible to expel. But the tears—they still flowed, unrelenting. She thought they would run dry by now, but if her tears were a measure of her love for Blackwall, then she supposed they would never stop.

He moved toward her in an instant and knelt beside her, his fingers brushing her back in the same gentle circles that had once been a balm for her. The same touch that had comforted her when she was Sparrow and he was Blackwall.

She let herself believe the lie. She leaned into the sensation of his touch, as if it would be the last time she could ever feel him again. His hands were warm, real, and they smelled of the same worn leather and pine as he always had.

“I’m here” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her ear. “I promise you.”

She whimpered, torn between wanting to shove him away and pulling him closer. If this was the demon’s game, so be it. She would risk everything for just one more moment with him. One more breath, one more touch. Let the Fade take her.

“There was a plan,” he continued, his voice laced with weariness. “To get me out of Orlais, just as you instructed. The Inquisition made a deal with the Val Royeaux nobles—those who had every right to want me dead. They agreed to formally release me to the Inquisition, on the understanding that Cullen ‘let slip’ the route we would take back to Skyhold, the number of soldiers escorting me, everything. An envoy was sent alongside him to ensure the plan proceeded smoothly, that I would not make it back here alive.”

Her breath caught, her eyes wide as she struggled to comprehend his words.

“But there was a second part,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Another prisoner, sentenced to die, took my place. Dressed in my clothes, a sack over his head. They promised him they would provide his family a bag of gold if he stayed silent and died in my name. They gave him poison—quick, painless. He was dead before the ambush started.” His voice was bitter, angry. “I was taken away in secret, through passageways I'm sure no-one knows exists. With Leliana. Blackwall is dead. Thom Rainier is dead. I’m all that’s left.”

She ripped herself from his touch, rising to her feet as fury welled up in her chest. “More lies!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t they tell me? Why did they let me believe—do they even understand how much—”

“They needed you to believe it,” he said quietly, his head still bowed. “They needed the Orlesians to believe it. To see the noble, bloodsoaked commander, the shaken envoy…” he finally looked to her “And the broken-hearted Inquisitor”

“Well, they got what they wanted,” she snarled, pressing her hand to her chest as if to hold herself together.

“I would never have agreed to it,” he whispered, “I was ready to die. I deserved to die.”

He began to move away from her, retreating toward the door. 

“There’s to be a private hearing tomorrow,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll still get to decide my fate.”

She stared at him, disbelief turning her blood cold.

“I’ll accept whatever you decide,” he said, his eyes burning for her. “I’ve been given more than I deserve. More than I could ever hope for. To have known you, to have been loved by you... that was more than I could ever have dreamed of, as Rainier or as Blackwall.”

Her certainty that she was talking with a demon wavered, and her heart fluttered. She had to know, she had to be sure. 

“Tell me something,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

“Anything,” he replied, without hesitation. His voice was resolute, as if whatever she asked, he was ready to face it. For her, he would.

Her gaze sharpened, seeking the truth she needed to hear. “When we were in the Fade... when we fought our nightmares—what did you see there?”

It was a question that had haunted her, one that she had never dared to ask until now. He had never spoken of it. She didn’t know his answer, and neither would a demon. 

Blackwall tensed, his face tightening with a pain he had long buried. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something too heavy to carry alone. Finally, he bowed his head, the unspoken torment that had lived inside him spilling out, his voice raw with sorrow.

“You fought against spiders,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, as if reliving the nightmare again. “Sera fought against nothing. And I...” His voice faltered, and she could see the anguish etching itself into his features. “I kept seeing them.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to shield himself from the images that had never truly left him. His hands clenched at his sides, but he did not stop.

“The Callier children. And the men, my men, who died for their murder,” he continued, his voice lower now, filled with the heaviness he had never allowed her to see until this moment. “Again and again, they came at me. And again and again, I cut them down.”

His words hung in the air like a bitter curse. He drew a ragged breath, his hands trembling, as if the ghosts still clung to him.

“That nightmare turned me into what I feared most,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It almost broke me.”

Her heart ached as she finally saw him - not a trick, not a demon - but the man she loved. The man who had lived with the weight of his sins, trying, despite everything, to atone. A man who, no matter how fiercely he loved her, still believed he was unworthy of any in return.

It shattered her.

The flood of emotion broke through her control, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him, sobs tearing from her throat as she buried her face against his chest. Her body trembled as grief, relief, and the overwhelming need to hold him crashed over her all at once.

He caught her, pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her as if he, too, was holding on for dear life. His hands shook as they gripped her, and she could feel the tremor in his chest as his breath hitched. Yet, still, he held her. Just as he always had. As if, in this one moment, all the guilt, all the nightmares, could fall away in the circle of her arms.

It was really him.

She stroked his cheek, her thumb brushing over the faint stubble growing back. Anger would come. Admonition, too. But what she felt now, swelling in her chest, was more important. Forgiveness. It was the first thread she would pull from the tangle of pain between them, the one that would begin to untie the knots. 

The weight of the past was still there, but now it felt lighter, shared between them. They had both suffered, both lost something, but here, in this moment, they found something else: a chance to rebuild. A chance to begin again.

And for that, for him, she was willing to fight.