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shomatoriashi · 4 months ago

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09/01/24; 04:40pm

{ 18+ headcanons / drabbles }

[ when they’re too busy with work, but you’re needy for them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

it was the middle of the night when you woke up with a start, eyes going blurry as you blindly reached out to the opposite side of the bed-

only to realize that the sheets were cold to touch.

your sleepiness dissolves in an instant, with a soft yawn coming from your parted lips as you carefully get out of bed. a shiver courses through you upon feeling the cold marble against your feet, but you ignore such icy sensations.

opening the door out of the master bedroom, you wrap your arms around your chest, trying to keep in as much warmth that you could manage while making your way towards sylus’s office. there was a bit of a drag in your steps, your slow movements serving as sole evidence of your exhaustion-

but you would not sleep without sylus by your side.

finally reaching his office, you give the rich, oak door a series of knock, alerting your lover of your presence before inviting yourself inside. yet the moment you saw sylus settled on the expensive leather couch, you could feel your mouth turn dry.

he was dressed in a suit colored in ebony and crimson, the colors matching his aesthetic as his rufescent eyes meet with your gaze. an achingly soft smile graces his features, and you felt a pang of heat running down your spine at the mere sight of him.

gripping at the sheer material of your nightgown, your breathing comes out in uneven breaths. your eyes darken, mirroring your desires for him before asking, “sylus, won’t you join me in bed? it’s getting late.”

sylus’s eyes flash, giving you a momentary glimpse of lust while letting out a string of curses. “sweetheart, as much as i’d like to join you and keep you warm while in bed, i can’t. i’ve got to get these orders ready for my client.”

you bite down on your bottom lip, already feeling the moisture collecting from between your legs. not daring to look away from him, you slowly lock the door to his office, earning a raised brow from the onychinus leader.

you remain silent, stepping out of your ruined panties as you allow the flimsy material to fall to the ground. hunger was seen in sylus’s gaze the moment you shed your body free of your nightgown, allowing it to flutter to the floor before sauntering towards your lover.

sylus wastes no time pulling you closer to him, allowing your soaked cunt to pulsate against his thighs as you gently rode him, allowing your sticky sweet arousal to coat his suit.

“thats it, babygirl. keep on riding me, just like that. let me work for a little while longer, then i’ll take care of you.”

your gasps end up filling at the room, with sylus steadily losing interest in cleaning the weapons the moment you began bouncing up and down his thigh. his eyes had long since lost its crimson shade, becoming so dilated and filled with desire for you that he could feel his sanity snap.

needless to say, when sylus tosses the gun back on the table before unbuckling his pants, freeing his erection as he harshly grips at your thighs before impaling your slick heat against his cock, you lost all of your senses. being so filled with him after riding his thighs created such a hedonistic friction that you quickly became addicted to, never once stopping as you rode him with a desperation.

meanwhile, as luke and kieran were ready to deliver the next round of weapons, they froze upon seeing the office door locked as sounds of your breathy moans and sylus’s grunts were heard coming from behind the door. both twins end up looking at each other, their flustered expression hidden beneath their masks as they slowly backed away from the door.

it was best not to disturb their boss and his queen while in the middle of their trysts, a lesson that they were all too familiar with.

it was early in the morning at akso hospital, and as the staff were prepared to switch out with their coworkers for the upcoming shift, they would remain blissfully unaware of how a certain cardiac surgeon was still tied up and locked in his office.

zayne tries to hide back his groans, having to force himself to bite down on his fist the moment you came into his office. he had simply been going over some patient profiles when you came into his office with an almost dazed expression on your face.

he was filled with concern for you, already taking off his glasses while shoving his patient files to the side. one moment, he was filled with guilt for neglecting you for a few days due to how he wasn’t coming home as much-

and the next, zayne found himself settling back against his chair, with you remaining hidden beneath his desk as his cock was in your mouth. he was already half-erect the moment you began kissing his inner thighs, so it came as no surprise when he became even harder when you unzipped his pants and freed his cock from the confines of his boxers.

“i’m not mad at you.” you continue speaking to him, already stroking his cock in a loving manner before licking away the beads of precum that leaked from his mushroom tip. “i know you’re working so hard to save so many lives, but i wish to spoil you, too.”

zayne’s eyes were screwed shut the moment you place your hot mouth against his cock, feeling your tongue tracing at his veins while letting out a gasp of your name. his large hands automatically go into your hair, gently moving your head back and forth over his cock.

you hummed in pleasure, feeling the familiar twitch within your mouth. you had every intention to take him in as far as you could, yet zayne doesn’t even give you a chance to taste his cum when he harshly pulls your mouth away from his cock.

with a strength you didn’t think zayne was even capable of, you feel your lover shove aside the items on his desk before placing you on it. not even looking down at you, he slides off your soaked panties before shoving it into the pockets of his pants. gripping at your thighs, he spreads your legs apart before sheathing himself inside of you in one swift thrust.

“i need to make up for lost time… for neglecting you…” with heavy pants of your name, zayne grips at your leg before tossing it over his shoulder, making your eyes roll to the back of your head the moment he reaches oh so deeper inside of you all while kissing at your ankles.

and when your moans were heard echoing across the department, no one dared to question it.

“you’re such a brat.”

xavier was heard hissing at you, trying to keep his voice even as he was on the phone with one of the higher ups at the hunters association. here he was, trying to gather information for his mission next week while you were trying to free his cock from the confines of his pants.

“i can’t help it. you’re telling me you’re going to be gone for two weeks, and you expect me to behave?” you scoff, finally shoving down his pants to reveal his half-hardened cock. a cheshire cat grin paints your pretty features as you made quick work of stroking him to full hardness.

xavier lets out a hiss of your name, but has to swallow his moans when a stern voice was heard coming from his phone. “xavier, are you ready to receive details for this mission?”

“yes sir…!” a low gasp escapes from xavier’s lips the moment you place your lips on his tip, giving it a light suck. it takes xavier a herculean effort not to moan into the phone, feeling your hands and hot mouth fully sending him into an almost painful erection.

he catches bits and pieces of information, but was solely focused on the way your mouth and tongue traces at every inch of his cock. his breathing becomes heavier, feeling his impending climax approaching when you suddenly removed your lips away from him. the young hunter was all too eager to shove your face back against his cock when you slowly began to undress in front of him-

and dammit to hell, you just had to wear that lacy set beneath your clothes!

your soft giggle echoes throughout the room, and as you straddle him, he saw the way you moved the material of your lace panties to the side, ready to mount yourself on his cock.

“you’ve got it sir, i’ll be there next week.” luckily, xavier had already ended the call the moment you sheath his cock inside of your wet pussy, the squelching sounds of you riding his cock echoing throughout the living room. with a growl of your name, xavier grabs a hold of your waist before proceeding to bounce you up and down his cock at an almost inhuman speed.

“is this what you want? for me to ruin you completely that you won’t be able to walk until i return?”

your mewls and eager nods were all that he needed to continue pounding mercilessly into you, eyes already going dilated as he had every intention of claiming you.

“i’m going to make sure that my cock is forever imprinted against your sweet little heat… so be prepared for it, little brat…” he finishes his statement with a particularly hard thrust, making you see stars as you had every intention to ride him for as long as you could manage.

rafayel had long forgotten about his commissioned painting the moment you began to eagerly bounce up and down his cock. the moment he felt your slickness wrapping so tightly around him was when he lost all train of thought.

you had come home from work late in the evening and wished to greet rafayel. however, when you saw the portrait he was working on, you began to feel envious of the gorgeous girl seen painted on the canvas. he tried to explain to you that a governor had commissioned him to paint a portrait of his daughter for her 23rd birthday, but you didn’t wish to hear it.

and now, he found that he could care less about finishing such a portrait with you bouncing up and down so eagerly against his cock. filled with his own desperation for you, rafayel tries to meet your downward thrusts with his own upward ones, panting as he begins to lose his breath.

being so captivated and drunk off of you, the young artist could feel a whimper being ripped from the confines of his throat when you began kissing him, swallowing his grunts and moans of your name. as you continued to bounce up and down his cock, he could feel the curve of your breasts and your hardened nipples against his own chest.

“am i prettier than her?” you ask in a breathless whisper, purposefully squeezing your cunt over his pulsating dick. it was no competition in rafayel’s eyes. “o-of course you are- fuck! you’re the prettiest girl in the entire universe. you’re my fucking princess.”

a pleased hum was heard coming from you when you lay back against his lap, moving your hips up and down his cock at this brand new angle that had the artist seeing stars. “f-fuck… princess… you’re squeezing me so tight! l-like you want to milk me dry.”

“hehe, that’s the plan…” feeling your legs and cunt tightening so sweetly around him makes rafayel gasp, stilling his hips before shooting ropes of his seed deep inside of you. with you remaining laid back, your back against his thighs, you allowed your release to wash over you, earning a grunt from rafayel.

as your honeyed arousal further wets his softening cock, your lover leans over to press a searing kiss against your lips all while returning your body closer to him. his tongue fights with yours for dominance, and he lets out a pleased hum the moment you yield for him.

when the need for air proved to be too much, rafayel was the first to pull away from you, giving you a gentle smile before asking, “did our copulation manage to ease you of your envy?”

you give him a thoughtful expression, placing your pointer finger against your lips before smirking at him. his eyes end up going wide when you began to bounce up and down his limp cock, stroking it back to full hardness with a determination seen deep within your eyes.

“not quite yet, rafe… i’m going to need this to go on the whole night to make me convinced that i am the only woman for you.”

and with one final groan of your name, rafayel knew better than to deny you of your needs.

end notes: i am still soooo thirsty for my lads men, so have this post 🫠

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

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lundenloves · 1 year ago

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“ 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 ” ¹

≔ in which simon’s son enlists behind his back. ceramics are smashed, threats are thrown and feelings are hurt behind nonchalant expressions.

⤷ *return of the mac in the background* i wasn’t really sure which route to go down with this so i just blind wrote it. if you don’t agree with any of the following actions or words, keep it to yourself because i really do not care. it’s been a long hibernation, troops.

∷ warnings of abusive dynamics if you squint but mainly just unnerving silence and abrupt shouting | 2.3k

masterlist | dad!simon masterlist | taglist | request info

Eight thirty.

Three hours into Simon’s habitually quiet morning routine with the rising sun pouring keenly through the kitchen window, and sparrows chirping a little too loud — the mail had slid through the door.

A modest fall of envelopes, taking each one with a crease between his brows after sifting through them, eyes glossing over each addressee while walking to the kitchen table with the stack. He liked it this way. He liked the known, finding a specific comfort in knowing that the mail would come on the same dot every, single, day.

Not that there was ever anything special. Only the usual, clubcard points, screwfix leaflets, disgusting bank statements and various military envelopes on his current pension plan. Christ.

He sat down, pulling a lip upward to disregard more than half of his own mail, tossing it to the counter behind him for the bin. “What a load of shit.” Came a grumble, kissing his teeth at the mere £3.40 discount he had received for spending over £300 in Tesco.

Though the pending sigh was lost for a singular stand out letter. One he seemed to still over, chest dipping in regret. Regret for nothing in particular, only a sinking feeling for the familiar Be The Best motto cast upon the right side of one envelope — different to his Who Dares Wins slogan. The envelope wasn’t for him.

The birds hadn’t paused their songs, an ambient morning now fuelling a slow anger. An inter boiling one, but for now simmering with long breaths. In and out. His shoulders broke inward with large palms leant on the counter, craning his neck side to side to release placebo tension.

The letter mocked him. A bit of paper that had permanently strained something, “Fucking hell, son.” He picked it up, flipping it backward to frontward as if the writing would change. As if his son's name would disappear from under the window of the envelope. Though it didn’t, and the paper was slid to the depth of the counter, prompting Simon to rub at his bottom lip.

It took three minutes of silence before he was being followed downstairs by his son. Few words exchanged, and surprisingly fewer questions. They both knew, and tension had already built, bringing Simon’s anger to a heavier simmer. The prior efforts of calmness were obliterated at the sight of the kitchen once more, the pad of his foot tapping against the vinyl flooring.

“What the fuck is this?” The letter was slid across the counter, branded and bred in the British military with the familiar crest proud in the top right. It looked sinful, like something exposing, illegal even. The boy's stare was one of tiredness, palms flat on the kitchen counter to stare down at the envelope on the oak.

Fatigue hadn’t quite left his eyes, squinted in the bright dawn. “What’s what?”

Though his words were met with silence and the birds chirping outside seemed wrong. The moment had forced a thicker, uglier tension into the room, and his son rounded the counter to pick up the letter. Brash and pasted, once again, in military branding.

His eyes fell to his father.

A picture of disappointment, veiled with frustration through a glare, one so strong it almost felt off-putting. Stress seemed evident via the way his hand had pushed toward the back of his neck, running upward and down the front of his face.

“What is it?” The same question, though this time quiet and sincere. His eyes had regrettably softened for all of two seconds before a leg had begun bouncing in compromise after taking a seat in pre-ceasefire.

“Nothing.” A teenage mumble.

Simon laughed dryly, shaking his head with a palm flat on the counter. “This.” He raised his hand, now only the tips of his fingers on the letter. “This isn’t nothing.” Eyes catching his mirror image, a lanky eighteen year old with next to no muscle. It was devastating, really.

“It’s just mail.”

“Open it.” A stern command, standing up and boring his eyes further into the boy before him. His height and build was much more significant, effectively towering over the six foot kid with all of his broadness.

“It’s none of your business, like.” The croaked words of a voice just woken were ones Simon raised brows at.

“Anything with that crest is my business.”

The similarities between his younger self and the boy before him was something Simon internally hated. He hated that his son had genetically taken not only his originally scrawny, defenceless build but also his raging attitude and temper issues. Dark eyes and accompanying circles, a rare smile and sigh of laughter.

Though not one bone had been broken in his body, his nose wasn’t squinted from various punches and his skin hadn’t been plagued by scars of battle. Something Simon could always draw a line between, though, he no longer held that power.

The kid begrudgingly opened the letter, hunching shoulders inward as if to shield it from his father. A congratulatory letter, one addressed to his name in bold letters with an offer to train at the military academy for a reserved cadetship upon completion.

The silence was loud.

Simon knew what it was before it had been opened. His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, and rubbed at his temples. “Fucking hell mate.” A deep breath was taken, chest puffing out with the inhale. “Fuck sake.”

His son felt like a child again, small and inwardly anxious for his fathers reaction. Not that Simon was ever violent, not ever, but he was a different kind of frightening. Silent. He gave you the option to take whatever you’d wanted from his step back, though fiery eyes only pushed you down one slope. Anxiety and paired overthinking, it came as part and parcel of the Riley name.

“I was goin’t tell you.”

Another laugh escaped Simon, “At what point?” The side of his lip curved upward, though there was no real amusement. “Look at me.”

There was a scoff from his son in response, shaking his head with eyes locking back to the letter. Ink printed in gratification. “Nothin’ to do with you though is it?” The second part came as a mumble for the internal struggle to hold back aggression. Though it slipped through, naturally.

“What did I say? Fuckin’ hell.” Simon growled, taking the envelope from the boy and skim-reading it. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “The fifth, next month, yeah?” Eyes flicking to his son who had shrugged, slinking off behind Simon to look through cupboards in evident dismissal.

“Dunno–”

“You’re out.”

They had spoken in unison, each person cancelling the other out to create a bout of eye contact. “What?” The quirk in his lip was a giveaway of building frustration, eyes cast directly across his father who stood just taller than him. “I’m out?”

“You’re out the house.” Simon slid the letter across the counter in finality, “As soon as you leave for that camp. You’re gone.”

“What the fuck.”

“Big enough to enlist?” His tone was venomous, something his son was unable to contest. “Big enough to fucking leave.” The letter had been picked up by the kid, eyes skimming it over, eyes darting across the page while familiar anger had slowly built.

“Fuck off.” He mumbled, brows pulled together in a foul mix of annoyance and evident upset over his fathers’ dismissal. “Any other dad would be proud of that.” The letter dropped to his abdomen, two shaky hands still clutching to the torn envelope. “Not you though, yeah, not fuckin’ you. ‘Course not.”

There was a pause before a crash.

A split decision of anger, one Simon mirrored at that age. A raging feeling of internal emotion that was only alleviated in bursts of aggression and breakage - punching holes in doors or smashing dishware. There was never a safe space to feel, therefore it came out unwillingly.

For his son, it was a failing on his behalf as a father. That space was never created for lack of recovery had never allowed real estate.

Multiple ceramics flown off the counter with one hand swoop, “Such a cunt.” His chest heaved and Simon’s eyes bore into his. Solemnity follows each and every moment with an unnerving silence, though it wasn’t continued when aggravated palms had landed on his chest, a teenage attempt to express.

“Don’t.” A bark, complete with snarling and a metaphorical showing of canines. A hand caught the boy's forearm, an admittedly tighter than required grip. “Don’t you fucking dare.” And for a moment, he feared he sounded like his father.

Though he did dare.

A rebellion as it was.

Again, a heavy palm had landed on his fathers’ chest - uncaught and if any stronger than the age of eighteen would’ve at least budged Simon. And, god, did he sound like his father with the promise of violence, a grip on his son’s shirt to hold him against the wall at the action alone.

A huff of air fell through his nose, head tilted, “If you enlist and you have this attitude,” The words were spoken through gritted teeth, eyes fixed to the wall he held the boy against to speak just above his ear. “They’ll send you right fucking back.” Though his son no longer recognised dad. This was someone else, someone he was never to meet. “Show some fucking respect.” A tone orchestrated of octaves reserved for Ghost.

You had come down with the crash of ceramics, fully aware that Simon was in knowing of your presence by the way his grip had rid, stepping back with hands to his head. “What the fuck is going on?” You scowled at your husband who was already lighting a cigarette.

After a short inhale, “He’s enlisting.” The smoke tumbled from his lip that turned upward to accommodate a low but amused chuckle. “He’s enlisting, lovie. Our boy.” The cigarette was then pointed to the teenager. “He’s enlisting so he can run around with a fucking rifle, kill one or two people because it's what? It’s a laugh is it? A fucking game?” Though the words were intensely directed to you, waving the smoke around before taking another inhale and shaking his head.

“It’s not that serious, fucking-”

The words were cut off by a harsh slap of the counter and a rumble of a scold. “Not that serious?” It could only have woken the whole house and Simon ditched the cigarette to lift his shirt up, various scars and burn marks stretched across his front and back. “What's this? Eh?”

“Calm down.” You warned, or at least attempted to.

“Calm down? He’s going to get himself fucking killed.” A bite, one without intention of ceasing.

“You’re not dead.” The kid provided.

“I died years ago, son.” His eyes were naturally narrowed in their frustration, slow on the look-up, and shoulders tense through chest heaving. Up and down, and up and down.

The kid mirrored his fathers’ lost expressions.

“Right.” You then interrupted, placing delicate hands on the shoulders of your boy to steer him out of the room, letter still in his hands.

“Coddle him. Tell him he’ll be fine,” The smoke from the cigarette danced around his hand, lifted back upward for a long, slow inhale, eyes burnt to your back. “That the world is a safe place and he won’t get hurt.” His voice had lowered.

But there was a mutual understanding of the lie, that nothing was fine and he wasn’t going to come out unscathed. Mentally, if not physically.

It had bled into an argument between the two of you after, pointed fingers of accusation and bursts of tears had split from your eyes. His frustration turned into ready anger, then dismissal, refusing to believe the reality.

“What’s your fucking issue?” Was the question you had barked once downstairs, four words that seemed obvious in their asking though Simon still quirked a brow. “There’s no need. No fucking need at all for that.”

He shook his head, looking down at you over his cigarette while you swept up smashed ceramics. “Don’t act like you don’t know.” His voice low, cigarette mumbling the words with an inhale.

You dropped arms to your sides, pointedly tapping the foot of the brush against the floor. “Like I don’t know what?” The accompanied scowl was one Simon’s eyes darted back and forth from, looking away out the window before tipping his cigarette. “It’s something he wants.”

“He’s going to get himself killed.”

“Ever the fucking pessimist.”

“Once he leaves,” The cigarette was acting as punctuation, pointed toward the door in far gesture. “He’s out.” Tone unnervingly quiet. One that warned any other argument off, though not yours.

“Do me a favour, yeah?” You continued to sweep the ceramics. “Realise this isn’t about you.” Looking up at the way he had shifted in his stance, arm now crossed over his chest to tuck under his opposing armpit.

“Fuck—“ He laughed. “It’s not about me.”

“You just kick off immediately.”

“Hardly.”

“The fucking state of the floor, Simon.” You scorned, raising your voice to take his attention from the mindless cigarette smoking. “He’s your son. Treat him like it.”

“When he learns respect-”

“He doesn’t respect you for that fucking attitude. It’s a battle, let it go.”

His eyes met yours to stand down, ditching the cigarette before nodding absently. His silence was telling of an awful mood, one he would carry for the next few days if uninterrupted.

Tension grew thicker than a rope knot dramatically fast in the Riley household, and whether granted or not, there was only the one man to blame. Walking on eggshells whenever he would come home from a bad deployment was only fit to last so long, and you couldn’t change him.

But he didn’t want to change himself either.

≔ unedited, and the tags probably won’t work. this is all i got and i’ll slam my fist on an ikea desk, this. is. all. i. got.

simon 'ghost' riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @iluvoaldmen @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @spencerreidisbae123 @paperbag-prncss @cookiecutta @sluttyforsimon @loveangelic @friendly-neighborhood-lich-queen @hayleybarnesx

@bunthebunny23

song of the day (time of writing)

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw fanfiction #ghost mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw3 #cod mwiii #call of duty #ghost call of duty #Spotify

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shalomniscient · 3 months ago

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“you’re home early.”

shalom’s soft voice carries across the living room from where she’s sat on the couch, a thick novel in her lap. the fading sunlight filters in through the open windows, painting her pretty face in shades of gold. the vase of lillies on the side table cast delicate shadows on the marbled oak. you barely mumble a reply, and by the slump of your shoulders and the sullen look on your face, shalom knows immediately that something’s wrong. she doesn’t get to say it in time, however, because you round the couch and immediately collapse into her lap, plucking the book out of her hands to place it on the side table and all her other finished books. shalom blinks, then chuckles, running her hands through your hair as you wrap your arms around her waist and press your face into the crook of her neck.

“bad day, i take it?” she asks, smoothing down your hair and toying with the downy strands near the nape of your neck. you groan in reply, squeezing her a little tighter.

“there was… someone. she kept…” you say, biting the words like it physically pained you to get them out. you shift a little restlessly, sighing again and breathing in deeply, nosing under her jaw. “she kept flirting with me.”

ah. shalom hums, not stopping her idle touches. “i see. and what did you do?”

“i told her i was married,” you say stubbornly, almost indignant. you draw back to give her a look halfway between incredulous and pleading—as if to say, did you think i’d say anything else? she almost chuckles again, but tamps it down for your sake, since you do seem genuinely unsettled by the whole thing. her hand cups your face, encouraging you to continue. you lean into her touch, and huff again. “and i was not interested.”

“and how did this person handle that?” she asks. her expression is perfectly impassive—though she can hear rebel screech and roar in the back of her mind, outraged at the idea someone else would dare approach what’s hers. and she’s inclined to agree with it, though for now she’ll settle for holding you close.

you deflate against her chest at the question, head flopping back down onto her shoulder. “it’s like she didn’t hear it at all. she kept going—nothing too serious—but i still had to help her, and i just…”

shalom presses a chaste kiss to your temple. “you just…?”

“i feel guilty,” you admit, and she has to resist the urge to coo at you. what a sweet thing you are, to be so distraught even if you were barely a willing participant in the whole mess. shalom lifts your face from her shoulder to look you in the eyes, her lips pulled into an amused yet fond smile. her thumbs brush along your cheekbones, and your lashes flutter as you react to the tender touch. shalom swears she sees your eyes dilate too. it makes something spark in her chest, seeing the way even your physiology responds so sweetly to her.

“is that so, sweetheart?” she muses, and you nod, an almost kicked puppy expression crossing your face. “well, i believe i know the perfect solution for you to make it up to me—the option with the lowest cost, and highest rewards.”

you lean forward almost imperceptibly, eagerness and anticipation overwriting any guilt you might have felt prior. shalom lets out a breezy laugh at that, and then draws close, close enough that her breath spills warm from her lips and mingles with yours.

“kiss me.”

ahalom’s smiling before you even kiss her—there is not a beat of hesitation from you.

#sev.scribbles #shalom #shalom x reader #glitchwave got me feeling some typa way #zero specifically 😭😭😭#i feel so horrendously uncomfortable when she comes onto me #like im trying to like her genuinely but ousgxjdhfh girl im a taken woman. im married

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risingoftime · 1 year ago

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AGAINST ALL ODDS | CORIOLANUS SNOW X PLINTH!READER | CHAPTER TWO

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The air in the vehicle was thick with tension, and Noll had yet to round the corner away from the industrial side of Panem, where the Academy resided. You knew it was coming before Coriolanus opened his mouth to speak.

“Do you have feelings for Romulus?” He asked.

His breath was steady as he waited for your response. Coriolanus was meticulous when displaying his emotions, and he wouldn't expose his hand if not necessary. You sighed exasperated, “I like him, as any friend would.” Choosing your words carefully, although there were no lingering ears, Coriolanus would hold onto any admission you gave him.

“Well then, I advise you to reconsider the company you keep.” Was that a threat? Coriolanus wouldn't bring him harm for being your friend, would he? Unsure if you should challenge his abilities to do so. Sejanus once told you of Coriolanus's proficiency in influence in a letter, and you were conscious of your lack thereof. He was not a person that you wished to have as a rival. Although Coriolanus and you were not yet enemies, you weren't friends either.

"He's my only friend, Coriolanus. Do you truly wish for me to be a recluse? I don't want to be seen as a lone wolf, too.” Your voice was docile enough, a silent plea for him to let this one go. And he did, for now, at least.

Of course, it would be great to have more friends, but as of late, it was hard to decipher who truly wanted to know you for you or as “Snow's fiancee and Sejanus’ sister.” The students of the Academy are captivated by secrets and use them as currency to push their agendas. Your association with Coriolanus Snow made yours even more expensive. Especially now that he had made quite the name for himself as the young apprentice learning underneath the infamous Dr. Volumnia Gaul. Coriolanus was one of the few mentors who survived the 10th Hunger Games, and District 12 as a Peacekeeper at eighteen was not an easy feat.

The vehicle halted to a stop in front of the building that you called home. Before Coriolanus exited, he turned to you and said, “If Romulus touches you, even once, he may as well be as good as dead.” You jumped at the impact of the door slamming as you watched Coriolanus retreat to the penthouse. He hadn't bothered to turn to see your reaction. When the day was all said and done, Coriolanus didn’t care to maintain the illusion of being in love if no one could witness it.

Coriolanus didn’t enjoy the thought of another having access to what he deemed rightfully his, and that is you. As a child, you thought Coriolanus to be self-indulgent. He’d never bothered to keep others close to him unless they proved themselves beneficial somehow. When you learned that the Snow family was practically penniless, you assumed that Coriolanus was being protective over Tigris and Grandma’am. But it was now revealed that he is egotistic and maybe jealous.

Noll offered you a half-smile while ushering you inside the penthouse. He had most likely heard what was said in the vehicle. Noll hadn’t been your assigned driver for long. Looking closer, you could see the signs of his aging. His curly ginger hair now had more gray hairs, and his brown eyes revealed crow's feet when he smiled. He’d come from District Four, leaving behind his wife and daughter, and that was all you knew about him, given his limited communication ability.

“Ma, I’m home!” you yelled out.

The luxurious condo smelled of baked goods. Ma came around the corner and walked to the grand mahogany oak and gold dining table with sugar cookies and pie in hand.

“I missed you! You’ve been gone for so long.”

She set the dishes down and wiped her hands on her apron before cradling your face. “No need to worry, Ma. I was just at the Academy.” She pulled you in closer for a hug and took a deep breath, grounding herself. “I know, it’s just– after… everything. I’m glad you’re home.” Ma choked on her words. Ma was one of the main reasons you went along with the marriage. She became like this often, holding on to a thread, hoping it won’t snap.

“Did you make these for me?” Desperate to lighten the mood and give a distraction to your mother.

“Yeah, thought you ought to have a snack while you do your homework. Don’t touch the pie, though!” Ma readjusted her apron, which she wore when you were a child in the Districts. The kitchen had always been her safe space, and Pa hadn’t bothered to argue when she packed her culinary decor from our childhood home.

“Why? Does it still need to settle?” you asked.

“The Snows are coming for dinner tonight. Didn’t your father tell you? I told him to.”

Ma was summoned by the chirp of her alarm in the kitchen, signalling her to base and tend to the turkey. Leaving you to begin your work in the dining room. Pondering on the essay assignment by Professor Satyria, “How is all of Panem complicit in the Games?” You began writing:

A sickening hierarchy is ingrained within Panem’s complicity—compliance, driven by a control system, infiltrating every corner of our nation. Dismally, as long as we remain compliant with the spectacle of the Games, we come to be complicit, in varying degrees, in the horrors that unfold. The Capitolites, the privileged few who reside in the opulent heart of Panem, are the profiteers of this labyrinthine system. They revel in the grotesque mockery made of the district Deaths, reaping the benefits of this cadaverous entertainment.

The pen moved swiftly across your notebook as your thoughts moved faster than you could write. The essay could’ve been completed in one night if given more time. The dinner with the Snow family would take up the rest of the evening, and with everyone in attendance, it must be due to something of importance.

𓇢𓆸

The dress that you chose was tighter than you had remembered. It’s been a while since you’ve had to get ready to socialize due to the Academy requiring their students to wear uniforms, and your father was invited to fewer gatherings than before. Knowing the Snow family, they would come wearing their Sunday best, especially with Tigris’ promotion as one of Fabricia‘s stylists at her storefront. She had access to a plethora of fabrics and textures.

Walking down the grand staircase in heels posed a threat to your safety, given the fact that the dress felt snug around the knees. You have been so focused on your feet that you hadn’t noticed Coriolanus lounging in the living room. He held your schoolbook in his hand, deep in thought as he read.

“Hasn’t your mother taught you that it’s impolite to search through other people's things?” you cleared your throat and raised your eyebrows as he continued to finish the last sentence.

“You left it open on the dining table. I would hardly call that searching,” Coriolanus scoffed. Turning around to look down the hall, you could see that your school supplies had been moved as the Avox housekeeper set the dining table for dinner.

“Where is Grandma’am and Tigris?” Ma remained upstairs, still composing herself for the evening, and Pa was surely in his study. Yet, Coriolanus had made himself at home on the couch.

“You don’t see yourself as a part of the Capitol? You confuse those from the Districts as Martyrs,” answering your question with his own.

“I’m not from the Capitol. Isn’t that the point of our matrimony? For the Plinths— my father, to successfully assimilate into your world. I’m not confused. The districts are martyrs, in my eyes; their only crime was rebelling against the Capitol during the dark days.” Your voice was slightly raised and laced with conviction. The anger you had swallowed earlier in the day had arisen again and was harder to conceal.

“Careful, you’re beginning to sound like Sejanus.” Confirming the mistake you had made to disclose that to Coriolanus.

“I am his sister after all.” Consequently, you should’ve known better, but it felt good. Your eyes challenged him to speak, to say anything indecent about Sejanus. Coriolanus did not grieve your brother in the way that you had, and maybe it’s juvenile, but you would’ve wished for your brother’s best friend to be more distraught.

Cogs turned Coriolanus’s mind to how to settle the dispute without escalating further. His gaze roamed over your stature, only now taking in the way the garment hugged your figure, not leaving much to the imagination, unlike the uniform he's used to seeing you in. Pfft, typical.

Strabo Plinth entered the living room from his study. “Ah, Coriolanus, you’ve found her.” He said this as if he had gone searching for you. Your father only sought you out if he needed something. The relationship was purely transactional.

“Yes, I was telling your daughter the good news.” The lie came easily to him.

“Marvellous! Let me fetch my wife, please, both of you make your way to the table. I’m sure Tigris will be here any minute with your grandmother.” Your father offered a tight-lip smile before retreating to the main bedroom.

“Good news?” You asked.

“Dr. Gaul would like me to be a game maker in the 11th Hunger Games, and she’s tasked me with the opportunity to implement new reforms.” Coriolanus smiled wide, flashing his white teeth. He was beaming with pride from the decision. He would be one of the youngest ever to do so. Your stomach turned at the vision of Coriolanus subjecting another generation of tributes to his advanced military strategies.

𓇢𓆸

The sound of scraping utensils and chewing was all that you could hear as you all silently ate the feast that Ma had prepared for supper. The table was filled with food; knowing Ma, she would have the Snow’s leave with plenty of leftovers. Ma and Pa sat at the head of the table while Coriolanus sat beside you, with Tigris and Grandma’am sitting across. Grandma’am had not said much throughout the evening. The woman was in her private world and often muttered incoherently under her breath. Tigris remained polite and entertained Ma’s attempts to make small talk.

“Oh, Tigris, I had forgotten to ask! Would you be willing to help me with some of the decor for the wedding shower?” Ma exclaimed. You stopped chewing your food and found it difficult to swallow. This dinner was about the wedding. You and Tigris met eyes briefly. The two of you hadn’t many conversations, but she was the closest you’ll ever have to a sister.

“Why is the maid talking?” Grandma’am said.

You looked at the older woman, unsure if you were to pity Grandma’am or set her straight once and for all. The sickness of old age overtook her mind, but she never forgot to turn up her nose at anyone she presumed to be beneath her.

Tigris cleared her throat and corrected her, “Grandma’am, that’s Mrs. Plinth, remember? Coriolanus is getting married to her daughter.”

“Coriolanus is getting married! It should happen on top of the penthouse that overlooks the city of Panem, with my rose garden surrounding it. Beautiful, isn’t it?” she exclaimed.

“I think that would be a lovely idea, Mrs. Snow.” Stabo’s facial expression was rigid, his voice void of emotion. He’d only talk like that when he was displeased. Sejanus was usually on the receiving end of this, and it was bittersweet that for once, he wasn’t.

Ma’s face was slightly tinged pink from embarrassment, but she hid it well, unlike Coriolanus, who looked agitated by Grandma’am’s condition. There was no trace of empathy on his face.

“When will the wedding shower be?” you asked.

“In two weeks, your eighteenth birthday will be a grand celebration.”

“My birthday! Out of all dates, Pa, please.”

“We’ve already sent out the invitations; don’t be crass. Three events within the next month are overkill, and your mother has already booked the venue.” Your father took another sip of his white liquor, dismissing you.

Tigris tried to lift your spirits, “I’ve been daydreaming of the most breathtaking dress that would be perfect. It’ll be the talk of Panem.” You offered her a small smile.

“If anyone could turn rags to riches, it’s Tigris,” Coriolanus added.

Tigris's eyes narrowed at the comment, but Coriolanus hadn’t noticed, taking more food on his plate. It didn’t matter how much he’d eaten. There was always an insatiable hunger for more. He ate as if any meal could be his last. And like that, the dinner commenced as it had before.

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corvidfeathers · 1 month ago

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Mordred’s monologue - Grail Knight

This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.

Image transcript:

MORDRED

I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.

Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.

Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.

On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.

Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.

My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.

It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.

Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.

I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.

His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.

#since it’s my birthday have a little grail knight #mordred #arthurian literature #sir mordred #grail quest #corvid rambles #my writing

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scarletwinterxx · 15 days ago

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thank my lucky stars for that night - hong joshua imagine

to start this special day, i'm just going to say a few things about my favorite person aka Jisoo Hong🥺 through the years i've known svt, whenever someone asks me who my bias was I'd always say Joshua (this was way back when I was just a casual fan) now we're here. I like to believe there's this invisible string that's tied between us, my heart knew i would love him before my mind ever did. happy happy birthday My Josh🤍 you brought so much happiness and light in my life.

ANYWAYS OKAY SO i was just thinking what if... i make more of the members x proposal scene😅 turns out i really like making these. this will also probably my last post for this year, thank you all so much for being part of my year. for those who has shown love to my blog, for loving my stories thank you all so much from all 13 parts of my heart��

see you all next year!!! here's to many more fluff moments💛 - A.N🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The soft hum of anticipation fills the air as you pace around the garden, making last-minute adjustments to the decorations. The fairy lights you meticulously strung through the branches of the oak trees twinkle like tiny stars, casting a warm glow over the carefully arranged tables.

You’ve been planning this evening for months, pouring over every detail to make it perfect for Joshua’s birthday and New Year’s Eve.

The garden is a symphony of colors and fragrances, with flowers blooming in soft pastels, their petals illuminated by the golden light of lanterns. This night isn’t just a celebration of his birthday but also of the love you’ve shared for the past four years.

Guests begin to arrive, their laughter and chatter adding life to the serene setting. Seungcheol, ever the charismatic presence, gives you a knowing grin as he takes in the ambiance. Jeonghan and Mingyu flank him, one carrying a bottle of wine and the other balancing a tray of appetizers. Seungkwan’s energetic voice cuts through the air as he jokes with Vernon, who’s capturing candid moments with his camera.

As the clock ticks closer to the moment Joshua is supposed to arrive, your nerves bubble to the surface.

You’ve gone to great lengths to keep this celebration a secret from him, and the thought of seeing his reaction fills you with both excitement and trepidation.

The garden fills with the hum of conversation, the sound of glasses clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter. Everything is ready.

When Joshua finally walks in, guided by Seungcheol, your heart skips a beat. Dressed in a sleek suit, he looks effortlessly handsome, his warm brown eyes scanning the scene before landing on you. His face lights up in surprise, his lips parting in a soft, astonished laugh.

“You did all this?” he asks, his voice tinged with awe as he takes in the decorations, the guests, and the love infused into every detail of the evening.

You nod, your cheeks flushing. “Happy birthday, Josh”

He pulls you into a hug, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that feels like home. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

You feel him kiss the top of head, hugging you tighter to his side as he takes in the scene in front of him. You really have outdone yourself.

Seungcheol, never one to miss a moment to tease, strolls over. “Alright, birthday boy, how does it feel to have someone who loves you enough to orchestrate this masterpiece?”

Joshua grins, holding you closer. “It feels pretty incredible. But I think I’ll reserve my final judgment until I see the dessert.”

“Oh, don’t worry, the dessert’s good. Mingyu didn’t touch it.” Jeonghan smirks, chiming in

“Hey!” Mingyu protests, looking genuinely offended. “I helped decorate the cake!”

“Sure you did,” Seungkwan quips, earning a round of laughter from everyone.

The evening unfolds like a dream. You watch as Joshua mingles with friends and family, his laughter blending seamlessly with theirs. The food, which you carefully curated to include his favorite dishes, is a hit. The cake—a decadent creation adorned with fresh flowers—is met with gasps of admiration. Every moment feels like a snapshot of joy, a testament to the life you’ve built together.

At one point, Joshua finds you by the dessert table, sneaking a second slice of cake. “Caught red-handed,” you tease, crossing your arms.

He shrugs, grinning mischievously. “What can I say? It’s my birthday. Besides, you can’t expect me to resist this. Did you try the frosting? It’s like happiness in edible form.”

“I did,” you reply, leaning closer. “And I’m starting to think I should’ve just given you a giant tub of it instead of planning all this.”

He laughs, pulling you into a quick kiss. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is perfect.”

But as the night progresses, you can’t shake the feeling that Joshua knows something you don’t. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, a secret he seems to be guarding with playful ease.

When the clock strikes ten, Joshua takes your hand. “Come with me,” he says, his voice soft but insistent.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning suspicion. “Should I be worried? You’re not going to prank me, are you?”

He chuckles. “Just trust me.”

He leads you to a secluded part of the garden, away from the laughter and clinking glasses. The path is lined with lanterns, their light casting dancing shadows on the cobblestone. When you reach the clearing, your breath catches in your throat.

Before you lies a scene straight out of a fairy tale. Hundreds of flowers blanket the ground, their vibrant colors glowing under the soft light of stringed bulbs overhead.

The air is thick with their sweet fragrance, mingling with the crispness of the night. The lights seem to stretch endlessly, creating a canopy of stars just for the two of you.

You turn to Joshua, your voice barely above a whisper.

“What is this?”

He smiles at you, guiding you right at the center of it all. You look around, it looked like he had this planned all along. But if he did, then that means he knew about your surprise.

All of this question swirling in your head, you look over at your boyfriend once again. His eyes watching you with adoration and love, a look you've seen through the years you've known him.

He takes both your hands in his, his gaze steady and full of affection. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment,” he begins, his voice tinged with emotion. “These past four years with you have been the happiest of my life. You’ve shown me what it means to love and be loved, and I can’t imagine spending my future without you in it”

Your heart races as he drops to one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. When he opens it, the ring inside catches the light, its brilliance rivaled only by the look in his eyes.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, his voice steady despite the emotion brimming in his eyes.

You blink back tears, a laugh bubbling out amidst your astonishment. “Are you serious? You’re proposing on your birthday?”

“Yes, so be nice to me and technically, it’s almost New Year’s Eve. I figured it’d make it impossible for you to ever forget the date.”

Tears blur your vision as you nod, your voice trembling with joy. “Yes, Joshua. A thousand times, yes.”

As he slips the ring onto your finger, a burst of color fills the sky. Fireworks explode overhead, painting the night with dazzling hues of red, blue, and gold.

The sound is thunderous, yet it only amplifies the heartbeat of the moment. Joshua’s arms wrap around you, his laughter mingling with yours as you both look up at the sky.

When the fireworks fade and the garden is bathed once more in the gentle glow of the lights, your friends rush in, their cheers filling the air. Seungcheol claps Joshua on the back, Jeonghan pulls you into a tight hug, and Seungkwan’s voice carries above the rest as he dramatically wipes away a nonexistent tear. Vernon captures every moment, his camera clicking away as Mingyu lifts you off the ground in celebration.

“You know,” Mingyu says, setting you down, “this means we get to plan a wedding now. I call dibs on being the taste tester for the cake.”

“In your dreams,” Seungkwan retorts. “I’m the best judge of flavors here.”

“Not if I get to the bakery first,” Vernon mutters, earning a round of laughter.

The night is a whirlwind of congratulations, laughter, and promises for the future. The new year have yet to begin but here you are celebrating a new beginning of your relationship, you find yourself in Joshua’s arms, surrounded by the people you love most. The garden, now quieter, feels like a sanctuary, a place where one chapter of your life ended and another began.

And as Joshua leans in to kiss you, the world fades away, leaving only the two of you and the love that brought you here.

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stusbunker · 1 month ago

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Spotless: Patetico

Chapter Thirty Eight

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader

Other characters:

Word Count: ~2700

Warnings, etc: Flashbacks are in italics. They've had a long road to get to this moment. Talk of shared grief, vomit, Lisa, Dean being a pushover as a landlord, the aftermath of breaking Cas' nose, and the end of the slowest of burns. xoxo Stu

Much love to @lastactiontricia for patting my head and lying enough to inflate my ego.

Series Masterlist

April 2005

Dean did not want to be walking through the Roadhouse doors, but the heavy oak swung wide all the same. It was his first time back since the funeral. Hell, it had been nearly a year since he had been home at all, and even longer since he had been to see Ellen.

But when she called and told him she needed him here this year, he cut a deal with his manager and got his ass back to Nebraska.

It was like walking into a time capsule. Everything was the same. It even smelled the same, wood polish met with beer stale cigar smoke. But there was no Jo there to greet him with her brusk appraisal and her hidden playfulness. She was gone and the pit inside his stomach reopened in the blink of an eye.

“You good?” Sam murmured, the sound making Dean realize he had stopped walking, eyes still scanning the bar for someone who wasn’t there.

“Yeah, gonna hit the head— find us a seat will ya?”

Sam’s face told him he didn’t buy it, but Dean didn’t wait around for pity. He disappeared into the dark hallway that led to the bathrooms, which was another mistake. Because even there he had memories of Jo.

It was like the guilt had finally caught up with him, making him rush into a stall and wretch into the toilet. Stomach acid and grief burned his insides, leaving him more hollowed out than relieved.

But this wasn’t about him. It was about being there for Ellen. And so he spit out what he could and got himself cleaned up at the sinks before Sam came looking for him. By the time Dean made it back to the front of house, Ellen had found Sam. All five and a half feet of her had latched onto the overgrown mop and was squeezing him for all he was worth.

“Hey, Ellen,” Dean said, voice still rough from throwing up. But he, at least, had the sense to shove a stick of gum into his mouth in the meantime.

“Come here, you too,” Ellen insisted, practically shoving Sam out of the way as she brought Dean down to her level. “It’s so good to have you home.”

“Yeah. Sorry—.” Dean swallowed, unable to find words big enough for what he was feeling.

Ellen held on tighter. “None of that. Today is for celebrating. Not feeling sorry for ourselves, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pulled back, but kept him in her grasp, her dark eyes searched his face for everything he couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t admit. She sighed, but let him go in the end.

“Okay, Garth will be here any minute to get things set up, but if you two want to make yourselves useful, start by hauling the long tables out of the storeroom after the bathrooms.”

“Sounds good.” Sam nodded.

“How many?” Dean asked.

Ellen smiled sadly, just one side of her face showing any emotion. “All of them.”

Dean didn’t even notice as the bar started to fill up, he was too busy with the manual labor to press the flesh. He was also hesitant to update anybody from his hometown on his music career which was hanging on by a thread at any given moment. He was in no mood for small talk, no matter how earnest the initiator.

“I’m gonna get something to drink, want anything?” Sam asked as they locked the legs of the last table into place.

“Just grab a pitcher of whatevers on tap.” Dean wiped his forehead off with the back of his forearm and looked around for a booth to hide in. But there were people everywhere now and he really didn’t know what to do with himself. It was the funeral all over again, people looking at him with worry or pity, even suspicion.

He needed out.

With no sense of direction or health code ordinances, Dean rounded the bar and headed into the kitchen. Ellen wasn’t at the grill, she had outsourced the meal preparations to a local caterer. The blur of their yellow polo uniforms was all Dean saw as he searched for an escape.

He stepped out the employee exit and almost ran right into you. Pacing and smoking up a storm in the damp spring air, Dean almost didn't recognize you. He had only really met you the one time. Besides that you had still been in the hospital for the funeral.

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine. Just getting some air.”

“Yeah, me too.” You held up your cigarette ruefully.

Dean surprised you both and laughed at your twisted joke.

“Can I bum one? It’ll give me an excuse to be out here.”

You handed over your pack with the lighter inside. He took one and lit it, then handed the bundle back. It was quiet and it took a couple minutes for either of you to disrupt it.

“She’d rip us both a new one if she knew what we were doing.” You didn’t have to specify who you meant, Dean knew.

He nodded, blowing smoke rings and watching them float up to the sky.

“She was always so easy to piss off.”

You sighed. “For real.”

“I miss that.”

“Yeah.”

Dean didn’t say another word, you finished your square and left him out there on his own. A long look and regretful nod was the only thing you shared for some time.

February 2010

“Look, I mean we definitely had some fun. But— there’s no way the kid is mine. I always wrap it up, okay?”

Dean felt like he was going insane. You had barely gotten into the swing of things as Phantom Traveler’s publicist and then Lisa came crawling out of the woodwork with a baby and an open palm.

“Condoms aren't 100 percent effective. But we will continue with a firm line of denial until you’re proven innocent.”

Dean felt your doubt loud and clear. “Wow, gee thanks.”

“Don’t be like that, it is my job to prepare for anything.”

Dean held your gaze. You were wearing your hair just above your shoulders now, a professional bob if he ever saw one. He thought you were overcompensating or at least trying too hard to be taken seriously. It was rock n roll, no one should take themselves that seriously.

“Okay, Trouble, we will just have to wait and see who's right in the end.”

“Please, don't call me that.”

“Nuh-uh, I think Ellen was right. You're trouble and people should be warned about you up front.”

You rolled your eyes. “Real mature.”

Dean smacked his lips and batted his eyelashes at you. “I think I’m adorable.”

“You’re a real beauty queen alright. Anything else you need from us? Or can I take this idjit back to rehearsal?” Bobby cut the banter off before Dean could really get under your skin.

“He’s all yours,” you said knowingly.

Dean wanted to have the last word, but sometimes the words wouldn’t come out when he needed them most. Instead he watched you gather your messenger bag and your phone before heading outside to find yourself a ride. He almost didn’t believe it when Sam told him you still wouldn’t drive. But after a few months, and probably a third of your income spent on transportation, Dean knew you’d made your peace with it.

Maybe he shouldn’t be such a dick so often.

September 2013

Dean handed you the keys.

“Rent’s due first of the month?” you asked.

“Whenever, honestly, I’m not that much of a stickler and what’s Sam’s is mine.”

You both didn’t mention that Dean and Charlie had been monitoring Sam’s spending closer than Ebenezer Scrooge since he got out of rehab.

“Anything else I should know?” you asked, clearly nervous to have the responsibility of a whole house on your own.

“Uh, Malcolm and Tamara next door are great, think they introduced themselves when we first backed the truck in.” Dean tried to think. “Garbage schedule is still on the fridge. And, yeah, don’t burn the place down.”

“I’ll do my best.” You held up your hand in the scout’s pledge.

“Is there anything else you need help setting up? I don’t have to meet up with Benny until like seven for the Dodgers game.”

“Nah, get out of here. I’m good.”

Just then Sam laid on the horn from the driveway.

“Guess that’s my cue.” You walked him to the backdoor and watched him go.

“Thanks again!”

Dean held his hand up over his head in a wave without looking back. He then flipped Sam off for sitting in the driver’s seat and being such an impatient infant. And then crawled into his baby.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah, just making sure she had everything.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “She can call if she has any questions, man.”

Dean shrugged and reached along the bench seat to watch as he backed up. He felt Sam’s eyes on him for another mile and a half. He ignored his brother and tried to downplay how he was nervous leaving you alone.

It was a safe neighborhood. You’d be fine.

Dean just needed to get over himself.

May 2017

Dean found his way back to his hotel room sometime after four in the morning. His knuckles were still raw from their run in with Cas’ face and all he wanted to do was pass out and forget any of it even happened. The alcohol and absinthe in his system had started to dwindle and he needed a soft landing before the hangover crept in.

Instead, he found you waiting for him on the couch of his suite. Shoes off and tucked under a blanket, you were half asleep watching some 80s B movie on cable.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Waiting for your sorry ass.”

“K. Well, I’m going to bed.”

The television turned off behind him, leaving the room in looming silence.

“The tour’s over, Dean.”

He turned to look at you like you were crazy. You kind of were. “It’s just one show! We can reschedule.”

You shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest. “No. Cas left. Everyone decided it’s for the best.”

Dean inhaled and rubbed his barely scabbed-over knuckles. “It’s my fucking band. They don’t get to make a decision like that.”

“Tough.”

Dean let that hit. It didn’t make sense, so he latched onto the next thing he could. Lashing out with his tongue instead of his fists, “why’d they send you to be the messenger?”

“They didn’t. They’re planning on bum rushing you in the morning. I thought you’d appreciate the head’s up.” You eyed him and dropped your arms. “I guess I was wrong. See you later, Dean.”

He chewed over a few choice words, but in the end he let you leave, too ashamed and disgusted with himself to even spread the misery.

Why’d you always know what was best for him when he didn’t even know himself?!

Now (March 2018):

Of all the cruel and condescending things Dean thought about himself over the years, he didn't actually believe he was an idiot. But that was the only explanation he had currently that made sense. There you stood curled in on yourself outside a no name truck stop on the way to Albuquerque, sniffling with your headphones hanging around your neck, asking him if ‘Pushing Through’ was your song.

“Whose else would it be?!” Dean said and instantly regretted it. That knee-jerk response just reiterated his idiocy. Because now you were full out crying.

“Shhhhh, okay? I’m sorry. I thought you knew----.” Dean crowded into your space, brushing the hair out of your face as he cupped your opposite elbow, trying to soothe you as best he could. “Don’t be mad. I don’t have to keep singing it. We can change the setlist if you want.”

You shook your head and inhaled wetly.

“Uhhh— shit, no, I’m not mad. I’m— I don’t even know.” Then you looked up at him and Dean felt his heart thundering in his ears. “Do you— do you know what it sounds like? Like it sounds like a love song. And I just have to know. Okay? Tell me.”

Dean licked his lips, breaking the line of questioning pouring out of your eyes. The tears were going to do him in. He wasn’t strong enough for that anymore.

“Yeah, uh–” He cleared his throat. “I figured that’s what it was when I was finishing the bridge.”

You sniffed, but seemed to be calming down now you had a clear objective. “Which was when?”

Dean scratched his jaw and dropped back on his heels, dipped his chin, and let his hands slip onto your waist. He went for it.

“You know when we recorded Trouble. Ask me the real question.”

You blinked up at him with that little furrow in your brow that told him you were annoyed more than confused. He had messed with your momentum, but he really hoped you’d hold on and you’d jump together.

You picked at something on his shirt, a button or a button hole, but you didn’t meet his eye.

Dean leaned forward and kissed the spot between your eyes that had him so distracted. “It’s okay.”

“Did ya mean it?” You looked up at him from under your lashes, with a glare like you were daring him to lie.

He ducked his head down lower, making you look. “Every line.”

You honest-to-god stomped your foot and Dean would have laughed if he wasn’t frozen by your sudden movement. “Are you kidding me?! You cannot like-like me. I am a me. You are you!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Hey, Trouble?”

“What?”

“It’s just you and me. No paps, no band, no Bela.”

“No Jo.”

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth, “yep.”

“Dean, you can’t be serious.”

Dean didn’t answer, he just looked at you, his right hand went up without his better judgement and cradled your jaw. “Is this alright?”

“What? Oh– yeah, it’s, uh, yeah.”

“Good. I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Dean.”

“Please?”

You rolled your eyes and huffed. “If you must.”

Dean smirked, but then his lips were too busy making yours move. You tasted like lip gloss and then something faintly sweet, maybe soda. It wasn’t until you opened up for him that he felt you really relax. Balancing with a warm hand against his chest you leaned into the kiss, testing his tongue with yours.

Dean hummed and eased out of the kiss, opening his eyes and slowly brushing your nose with his until you looked back at him.

“Was that so bad?”

“Hmmm, I think we could do better.”

Dean’s face almost split open with joy. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

Then you were kissing him, lips soft yet urgent, tongue seeking him out. Dean held you close and tried to keep up.

You pulled back and looked at him like you always did, both fond and annoyed. “I can’t believe you. What are we gonna do now?!”

“Anything you want.”

And he meant it. It didn’t matter that they had a show the next day or that the band was probably waiting for you. Whatever you wanted, it would be yours. You already had his heart and you finally knew it. All that was left was to make you happy and keep you that way.

“Sit with me on the bus? I have some questions.”

Dean knew it wasn’t going to be that easy, but at least you couldn’t get too angry with everybody else within earshot.

“‘Course.”

You grinned up at him and left a peck on his lips.

“Okay, let me finish my pitstop and clean some of the snot off my face.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re fine, but I’ll wait for you back at the bus.”

“Deal.” You nodded and bit your lips, like you were trying not to smile.

So, Dean winked at you as you walked away, which made you walk into the door a kind stranger was holding open for you. He couldn’t take you anywhere.

“Sorry. That’s on him.” He heard you mutter and then watched as you disappeared inside the convenience store.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

@beautiful-places-blog

@n-o-p-e-never

@spxideyver

@tldix

#spotless series #dean winchester x reader #dean/reader #dean x reader #spn fanfic #all slow burns must come to an end #rockstar au #dean angst #dean fluff #spn au

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the-fiction-witch · 1 year ago

Text

Bump

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Sweet AF

I continued on my rounds checking my paperwork, as and when required popping in to anyone who wasn't urgent enough to come into the hospital. I checked on my way to the last house for the day, so I put my paperwork away and carried my bag with me, to the familiar deep blue front door, I fixed my jacket a little and swung the silver knocker a few times. The door swung open revealing young Elis Mayflower in her usual dress, "Ohh 'ello Dr Dawkins, we were expectin' you" She nodded and opened the door to let me in "Thank you, Elis," I nodded and took off my hat and jacket which Elis happily took "Where is she?" "Upstairs Doctor" She nodded I nodded and made my way up the stairs bag in hand. I headed down the hall past the paintings and small mostly unused rooms, until I stopped just before the last door.

The door was open a crack, light cascading from within, the sweet gentle sounds barely audible. I pushed open the door enough my body could slip inside, the well-polished wooden floor covered in dancing shadows from the fire, the flames in the fireplace danced and flickered sending the smell of oak wood and tyme across the room, the sound of the wood cracking and popping, the dark purple walls littered with almost too many paintings to even see the walls any longer, the window to the side shuttered up and then a curtain over it letting not a single bit of the harsh light from outside find its way, The various furniture littered the room.

The Main feature of the room, of course, the large wooden bed. With four tall wooden posts and a railing that normally hung purple curtains but they were missing today, the bed sheets were tossed into one corner of the bed, and sitting in it was the most perfect of sights.

Y/n sat in the bed, her back sat up but she had so many pillows between her and the headboard she must have been six inches from it if not more, her legs our straight, her hair free from any braids, and twisted, plaits or anything else, allowed to hang completely free with a slight kink to the hair where it so often lived plaided up and hidden below her hat. Her hair slightly in her face hiding it from me, she wore only a cotton shirt with long billowing sleeves that stopped just below her thigh, I thought for a moment I recognised it, as well as a pair of purple woollen socks that reached her knees with one white stripe around the top, her toes wiggling as they where warmed by the fire, her hands stroking her stomach, as she looked as if she was hiding a small barrel under her dress.

The small wooden and silver box on her table, the small silver ballerina twirling slowly as it paid her the music box song, the slight clicking and tinniness to the song as the music was plaid. And she sang with it, her voice gliding along the notes not loud enough for anyone beyond the door could hear her, as her hands stroked her stomach, tenderly, carefully, almost like she was afraid but loved all the same, her eyes on her enlarged belly and nothing else as if it and she were all that existed.

I couldn't hold back a smile, I must have looked an absolute picture, smiling so widely my cheeks hurt, red with blush to see her this way. I softly closed the door and took soft steps to lean my shoulder on the bedpost not enough to draw her attention, so I stood and watched for what could have been a thousand years, until her music box stopped and thus her song ended. "You're glowing," I spoke up, She jumped a little at my sudden words but she looked up with a sweet innocent smile, "Ohh, Hello Doctor Dawkins," She smiled, "I didn't hear you come in," "I didn't want to disturb your sweet song," I cooed unable to drag my eyes away from her just wanting to look at her a little while longer. She smiled "Aren't you going to examine me, doctor?" "Alright," I smiled moving to sit on her bed, I set my bag on the bed and opened it up to search through for what I needed. "How are you feeling?" "Much the same," She nodded leaning on her arms so I could touch her stomach, I checked her over as we spoke making sure everything was as it should be asking her short questions about how things were going and much of it was the same as last I saw her "So, When will it be?" She asked excitedly,

"Well, that's the question isn't it," I chuckled "I wish I could tell you, but unfortunately children are sort of a law unto themselves, when baby decides its time, then baby will come." I explained "You, I or anyone else doesn't have much of a say in it. But baby will let you know when it's time" I told her stroking her sweet cheek "Alright?" "Alright," she nodded, "I admit I am half tempted to get you a room at the hospital, just so you're close by," I told her, "I want to be here, where I'm comfortable." She said stroking her bump "Are you sure you don't want to be at the hospital?" "I'm sure," She nodded "Alright, as soon as you feel a contraction I want to know" I warn her, "I'll run all the way here if I have to." I winked "Can I? Please?" She pleads I smiled and got my stethoscope from my bag I gave the end a little warm with my hand before I tugged up her shirt just far enough to see her bare stomach, I put the other end to my ear and listened as I rested it on her skin, I shifted it across her skin until I found the best place to hear the rhythmic beating, for a moment I was frozen as I heard the gentle beats, each caused my own heart to swell and I had to fight back the tears "Here," I smiled and handed her the listening end and she happily put it to her ear and listened with the most excited smile I had ever seen a girl have,

She sniffled, tears slowly falling staring at her stomach as she listened "Hi Darling," She cooed and you could see the movement as the baby kicked, "You think he can hear me?" "Of course, he can, He can hear you talk to him, hear you sing to him, You're his mother, he loves you more than anyone will ever understand," I told her kissing her forehead, "Can he hear his daddy?" She asked as she took my hand and settled it on her stomach so I could feel him kick, "Of course, He can." I smiled giving her bump a sweet kiss "Hi little guy," I smiled as I rubbed my nose on her stomach and I gave her bump and our baby kisses. "It won't be long now, I'm sure of it." "Good, I don't want to be pregnant anymore Jack" She laughs returning my stethoscope to my bag,

"No?" "No. My feet are so swollen I can't wear shoes, I don't fit in any of my dresses anymore, I leak everywhere, I'm throwing up all the time, He's kicking me like I'm a football," She explained "It's not fun being pregnant Jack." "You said you liked it?" "I did when I was a couple of months and I had a cute little bump I could stroke as we walked through town." "You were adorable." I smiled thinking back to when she was newly pregnant, wandering around town with her little bump in her dress, I admit it made me feel very proud of myself. "And still are." "I'm as big as a ship Jack." she pouted, "They'll try to hollow me out and sail me to Africa," "You're a ship?" I chuckled, "ummmm" She nodded, "Well then, Permission to come aboard?" I smirked climbing over her to start kissing all over her face and neck which caused her giggle "Ohh yes a very beautiful ship, the most beautiful ship in the world, I shall have to steal her and sail the world single-handedly with her!" "Jack!" she laughed as she pushed me off her, "What's this anyway?" I glared tugging on her shirt, "I borrowed it," She giggled, "Borrowed?" "Well you've been working so much," she innocently smiled "We missed you." "I've missed you both too." I smiled, "But I need to do all this extra work, so I have lots of time off for when baby comes. I don't wanna be stuck up the hospital and leave you here with our little one, I wanna be here to help, and cuddle, and watch him grow. I don't wanna miss anything."

"Good, You can stay up all night when he cries then." "Ohh I know I will, I know what a trial it is trying to get you out of bed when you don't want to." "I don't like to be awoken," She pouts, "I just want this to be over." "Over?" I asked a little worried, "You know what I mean, I'm just… It's been a long nine months Jack, I'm tired." "I know you are," I smiled and kissed her lips "It won't be too much longer sweetheart."

#tbs smut #tbs imagine #tbs imagines #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas sangster imagine #thomasbrodiesangster #thomas sangster #thomas brodie sangster #thomas brodie sangster smut #tbs #the artful dodger #thearttfuldodger #theartfuldogger #jackdawkins #jack dawkins #jack

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mintmatcha · 7 months ago

Text

a meet cute

cw: cisfem reader, reader is part gnome, dungeon meshi universe, it's about an insane side character, sorry

A gentle breeze cuts across the shop, just over the front counter. You have to lean into it to get any sort of relief from this summer's heat. Your shop door's bell chimes as a customer walks in. It's unusual that anyone is out this time of day in this type of heat, let someone fully robed, scarf and hat included. He's dressed in dark, rich colors, the types of dye that drip with indigo and money, a contrast to the reddish tuft of hair of his head.

He'd be cute, you think, if he wasn't a gnome.

It's not that you don't like gnomes-- you are one, mostly-- but gnomes around your age are boring. The men nod along to anything you say, try to impress you with pleasantries and tidbits, all with that glint in their eye, they've found their next wife. They are dictated by societal niceities and traditions, topped off with a strange sense of superiority, all while they still eye you like a piece of meat-

But this gnome isn't looking at you like that. No, he's marveling at your wears.

The stranger tilts the glass in the sunlight and rainbows refract across the floor, dancing in looping, wonderful patterns long after his movement has stopped. Figures of dancers twirling around each other, bowing and dipping with ease, disappate into the air. His hands are actually a bit small for a gnome, thin fingers, uncalloused and delicate with the way he inspects the magic.

"The runes on this are subtle," he notes, mostly to himself. "Gnome magic on elven crystal."

"You have good taste." You lean more forward on to the oak surface and he jumps a bit, as if he hadn't noticed you were even there. "And a keen eye."

The man melts into a polite smile. His eyes are downturned and his cheeks are round, tickled pink from the sun. He approaches you, a prickle of chill following suit. There must be some elemental magic sown into his clothing or something.

"Thank you."

"No, thank you," you say. "It's my work."

"You have a talented hand for magic, then."

"And you have a talented eye."

His nose wiggles in that delightfully gnomish way that only old men do. "No talent, all practice."

You give him your name, he gives you his. Holm. Classic. Boring. Standard.

"Is this a gift for your wife?"

"Oh, I'm not--" He waves that thought away with disinterest-- which happens to peak yours. "My party mate is getting married."

"An elf?"

"Dwarf, actually." He twirls to glass again and the waltz of light resumes. "To be honest, we aren't very close. I don't really know what she likes, I just think she deserves something nice."

"The effect won't be as brilliant for her, because dwarfs don't tend to have a very good mana flow, but it'll still be pretty. A couple glasses for her and her beau-" You wipe away a bead of sweat that's begun to roll down the side of your neck. "And maybe a bottle of chilled wine. I think that's a very good present for anyone."

He nods, button nose crinkled with delight as he places the glasswork on the table before you. "I'll get a sex then."

A beat passes. You can't help the wild smile that sneaks out. "What was that?"

"Hm?" He hasn't moved, frozen in place, still holding the glass. His expression doesn't change, but you swear there's a touch of pink creeping over his ears.

"You said a sex."

"No, I said a /set./"

"No, you didn't." You cock your head to the side in the way that makes your neck look long and your smile charming. "Are you thinking about sex, Mr Holm?"

He swallows and you think maybe you've gone too far. Your brand of needling is more of a half foot type of humor, which isn't universally appreciated, to say the least.

"I'm- I don't--" Holm surprises you by laughing at him self. "I don't do that."

Interesting. A gnome with a sense of humor. You didn't know those existed. You lean back, trying to bite back your smile as you speak. "What? Think about sex?"

"Or anything else to do with that word."

You inspect him a bit closer. The colors, the hat, the symbol burnt into his pouch-- they're religious symbols. He's a spirit worshipper, one of the religions in the south. You aren't sure of all of the intricacies, but you know the most devout are completely celibate.

Holm shrugs rather casually. "Close enough."

"Oh, you're one of those monk-things, aren't you?" For some reason, you're a bit disappointed. Of course the man you have a nice rapport with is one that won't fuck you.

Not that you want to fuck him.

"So, you must think about sex a lot." You call as you walk to your backroom. There's a couple of different versions of the glasses, so it takes you a moment to find another set of dancers. Really, this guy has nice taste; this is your favorite piece. "Since you can't have any."

"Probably less than you do-" he calls back. "Since you heard is when I clearly said set."

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's not particularly funny, but there's butterflies in your chest and a tremble in your hands. You wrap the glasses in pieces of cloth and ribbon-- purple, to match his scarf-- before bringing them back up. The stranger is still watching you with that look on his face, the crinkle in his eye-

"It's on the house," You slide the gift wrapped presents over to him.

"I couldn't possibly."

"Just come back again some time. Or buy me a beer if you see me at the bar."

You both know that isn't a fair trade. Crystal is expensive, magic work even more so; you could charge him a couple hundred gold if you wanted, but... conversation is sometimes more valuable than money.

"I don't drink." He rubs the back of his neck, almost sheepish. "I eat, though."

The flutter in your chest gets worse. "Food then."

He nods. Taking the gift, he picks it up and starts towards the door, a hum on his voice and a deeper smile creeping up on his face. When he gets to the door, he puts up an arm to open it, then pauses.

He turns back around.

"I want to pay." The strange says, firmly. "I'll still buy you food, but I want to pay for these."

He pulls a bag of coins from his belt and presses them into your hand. It's heavy with gold. He doesn't pull away until you meet his dark, stern eyes and close your hand around the bag.

"I don't want to lead you on," he says, softly. "I find you very..."

He says more with silence than his words.

"Don't worry," you say, even though a worry does creep up your spine. "I'm not so desperate that I'll fall in love with a priest."

"Not a priest, but thank you." His cheeks puff with smile and you immediately know that you may have lied.

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thetravelingtyper · 6 months ago

Text

One and the Same pt 1(Wolf!Simon X Gn! Sgt! Reader)

After a mission goes haywire and Simon is killed you and Riley escape into the woods...

Warnings! Angst, mentions of wounds, general violence, and hint of a character death...

AN! Just a little multi-part story to have some fun! Might be 2-3 parts!

Masterlist!

You had been running for hours, sweat and blood mingling sweetly down your face as you perked up at every sound in the forest—evergreens and oak, with warred and scared bark rough against you. To say you were in trouble was an understatement, but you made it out. Your tactical vest was long gone and the one weapon you had made you want to cry, the last of Simon's knives. Tears burn your eyes before a bark calls out like a signal of the end. Before you can climb a shape bursts through the darkening leaves and you are about to scream when the form barrels into you.

You thought it was the end as your eyes closed, but a warm lick to your face has you crying out in joy.

“Riley! Thank Christ!”

The German Shepard, having torn free of her restraints cries into your side in excitement.

“Good fucking girl.”

You huddle into the dog a moment more before there is a far-off shout.

Shit!

It was starting to get dark but you needed to move. You check your right leg, the cuts weren't deep as you had struggled out of the man's grasp but he had gotten you good with his knife. You suck in a strangled breath as you get up and wrap your overshirt tighter around the wound. Riley jumps to attention.

“You gotta lead me somewhere girl.’

She barks lowly, tips her head in the air, and looks back at you with sudden attentiveness. As she looks at you her ears perk up where there is a lone low howl somewhere behind you. You freeze as you suddenly hear the sound of yelling and gunfire.

“We need to move, now.”

Riley takes off in the brush and helpless to the sounds of terror coming from the compound you take off after her.

-----

The sounds of terror go silent after about 10 minutes. You gulp as Riley barks to alert you and you blink when see a growing light.

It was a cabin! You ready the knife and whistle lowly for Riley, she returns to your side as you circle to the back of the building. You see a water hose that cheers you up, a bath sounds fantastic. But as you edge to the only door you find the cabin just opened and in a state of rushed abandonment, there is still a meal on the table.

After a quick scan and round of the parameter, you usher Riley inside quietly before shutting and barring the door.

All you can help yourself to do is find a quick meal and pass out on the thick rug.

---

You are woken a few hours later by a low growl circling the cabin. Riley is awake and alert, a low rumble in her chest as you jump up, grasping for the knife before deciding you need to investigate.

You slowly make it out the front of the cabin at the edge of the light when you see it.

You yelp, It has found you. Before you was a beast of another age, a large timberwolf, drenched in shadows. It looks to you with burned ember eyes, face pulled into a snarl when Riley comes bounding from behind you. She makes no move other than to approach almost submissively, putting herself between you and the wolf. This flips a switch and a low growl reverberates from the beast, its enormous form ruffled and…slick? You gasp, you could see now there was blood soaking its course fur.

“It was you.”

The wolf goes silent when it hears your voice and you think you see something…change in the beast. Riley whimpers before barking at the wolf and its head tilts a fraction. There is a glint of steel and then you see the wire, through the light at the edge of the cabin, and the full moon, prickly wire has tangled itself in the wolf’s fun.

“Well fuck me buddy.”

You groan to yourself still tense, the wolf turning to you as you make up your mind.

“I better get some good karma for this shit 'cause God knows I need it. Alright, buddy-” you gesture the knife to the wolf and its eyes focus on the silver metal of the blade, glinting in the moonlight. A glint of recognition and the wolf does something that scares you shitless, it pounces.

One moment it's there then the next its lunging at you and you scream, dropping the knife in shock as a canine larger than an Irish hound comes at you. You scramble back as you hear Riley yelp, but? The next second you refocus you are on the ground with a heavy weight blanketing your form as a furry head burrows into your neck, a deep sniffing sound before there is a low whine.

You hear Riley scamper over in the dirt before you can turn your head to the side, she's fucking play-bowing! A puppylike enthusiasm that Simon always scoffed at,

“She spends too much bloody time with Johnny.”

But now you about cry in relieved laughter. You test your sanity a little more by reaching a searching hand and brushing the wolf, at your touch the beast only whines more, digging further into your prone form. The whines almost sound like cries and it's eerie hearing and seeing such a reaction from a wild animal. But you weren't one to look a gift wolf in the mouth.

“Hey, can I get up big guy?”

You turn your face up and are met with a scarred canine face with brightened umber eyes that dilate when they make contact with yours. You open your mouth again to speak but are met with a warm tongue dragging across your face frantically as the woll lifts itself off you and about licks you half to death.

You gasp out before wiggling under the beast.

“What is wrong with you mutt? Jesus stop!”

And it does with an alarmingly amused-sounding huff. The wolf steps backward, letting you up before it sits on his haunches. In the low light, you make note of something else, a strange white and grey tinted marking over the wolf's face, you pull yourself up and find that the wolf comes up to your stomach. Riley pads over to it and sits beside it as the wolf's head dips to hers and nudges it with a low growl. She just whines, pressing licks to the wolf's face as you finally approach.

A shaking hand reaches for the wolf's head and there is a tear of fabric as something comes loose in your hand, you gasp.

Simon’s faceplate!

You look down at it in shock, tears filling your eyes at the remembered sight of his lifeless body tossed into the cell next to you, whatever they injected him with taking him quickly. As you clench the faceplate tears run down your tipped-down face, gathering blood and dirt before hitting the ground. SImons knife glimmers at your feet kicked to the side during your confusion, and as you silently reach for it a large paw covers the handle. There is a low whine before a snout comes into your vision as the wolf dips its head in your way. You try to reach for the knife but your hand is bumped by its head. You reach again only for the same thing to happen and you can’t help the frustration welling up in you.

On the third attempt you snap,

“WHAT!?”

The wolf freezes and you hear Riley whine, leaving her place to nuzzle at your side as you drop the faceplate to ball up your fists as untethered grieving rage barrels through you. You give a clenched scream before kicking the face plate and swinging around as you give a pained wail, finally able to safely cry. You drop to just sit in the dirt, putting your head in your hands as you cry. There are a few minutes of you just sobbing, getting the trauma and pain out before a large form approaches and the face plate is dropped in your lap. You look up.

The wolf stands staring at you, umber eyes dark in the moonlight. It just stares at you and you gape at it.

“I never got to tell him I loved him.” You just mutter a blank stare past the wolf, through it more as you disassociate, hands grasping for the skull like a lifeline. The words are barely a whisper but the wolf’s eyes widen as there is another shock of recognition, the wolf stumbles backward and you look up as it just sits and stares at you, its eyes dilated and wide.

You just numbly acknowledge the sight as Riley pads over and nuzzles into you. You just clutch the mask tighter before spotting the knife. You had one thing you could do. You push the feelings down into the back of your mind before scooping up the knife and mask.

The wolf just watches you as you approach it and run a hand through its fur, not even flinching as you cut and untangle the wire. It is only when you move back, finished with the bloody task does it move. As you wrestle with the wire you curse when you cut your hand before tossing it at a bush, the branches effectively trapping the wire. You move to leave for the cabin when there is a gruff bark. You look to the wolf as it stands shaking itself off before looking into your eyes, some strange resolution set in its eyes.

“You can go free bud. Come on Riley.”

The shepherd hops up at your call and looks to the wolf before racing towards the cabin. You turn to follow but there is a padding of feet and the wolf comes to stand alongside you. You move forward into the light flittering through the trees, but the wolf only follows.

“Why are you following, you need to go you are free now.” You think of Simon and swallow down your tears, the emotion bleeding into your voice but the wolf only pads forward and knocks into your hand, the plate bumping up its snout so the mask rests over its eyes.

The eye holes are not wide enough but in the growing warm light, one umber eye of the wolf shines through the wide empty sockets and your heart freezes.

You know those eyes.

You drop the mask and it tumbles to the ground as your hands shake, knife clenched between tense fingers. The wolf looks back up at you before digging its head into your chest as your heart pounds and realization lights up like a starburst.

“No, I saw you die, they locked you up, then they-” There is a low growl, deep from the wolf's chest as it, no he curls around you, haunches raising.

Don't you dare say that.

You could hear the warning as clear as day in the growl, what they had done to you. Your cuts were clear through the shirt you wore and the drenched overshirt around your leg.

“Simon?” You breathe it out and the wolf rumbles, head turning into your chest as you drop the knife and latch onto him.

“What have they done to you? But you're alive!” You sob into the neck of the wolf as you feel him rumble. You think then, the strange realization before you freeze pulling back almost ashamedly, looking away from Simon, whose eyes focus on you.

“So about that confession, can we just for-”

Wolf Simon growls lowly and you feel a blush run up your face, he tucks his snout into your palm before butting both against your frantically beating heart. The action speaks wonders and steals your breath as you gape at him. Your head dips as fresh tears run, but there is a bark from the cabin and a sound of thunder above.

“We better get inside and clean up.”

Simon looks up to you before dipping his head in a nod and moving back, but he remains close enough to brush along your side as you both make it to the safety of the cabin before the storm unleashes a torrent below.

#cod mw2 2022 fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #fanfiction #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #Simon riley x you #Simon riley #cod mw2 2022 #werewolf!ghost

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frenchkisstheabyss · 2 years ago

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♡ 𝟙𝟠𝟙𝟚 𝕆𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖 ♡

♡ Mature Content. Minors DNI. Warnings below the break ♡

Pairing: boyfriend!seonghwa x chubby!fem!reader

Summary: You wake up to your loving boyfriend nervously making you breakfast, unaware that he plans to propose. That is, if he can work up the courage to.

Genre: slice of life/fluffy smut

Word Count: 1.4kish

Warnings: oral sex (f receiving), a delicious breakfast you never get to consume

A/N: This is my first fic after taking a break from writing for a while so my blog's a bit empty but I hope ya'll enjoy this. Any feedback is mucho appreciated. A special thanks to my bestie @anyamaris for giving me the courage to post again ♡

Rubbing your eyes you drag yourself into the kitchen with all the grace of a newborn dear. Soft classical music fills your cozy one-bedroom apartment, rising all at once only to come crashing back down. You’re greeted with the intoxicating smell of milk and honey, the source of which is only revealed to you when your vision clears up. “I made pain perdu!” Hwa smiles, maneuvering around you with the hot pan carrying a thick, golden brown slice of brioche bread. “So…French toast?” He rounds the kitchen table, scooping the piece of French toast onto a plate already home to three other perfectly cooked pieces. “It sounds fancier in French, my love” he says, darting past you again, only this time he stops to kiss you on the cheek. His soft, pink lips chase off the early morning cold.

It’s only now that you notice what he’s done to the kitchen table. Bowls of fruit as fresh as the day they were picked. Orchids and dahlias bloom in ornate vases. Every breakfast side your heart could desire. “Hwa, what is all of this?” you gasp, only having a second to take it all in before he’s guiding you by your wrists to the oak chair he’s pulled out for you. He stops dead in his tracks, it’s like someone hit the pause button. “I…uh…eat. You should eat.” Hwa sits you down, scrambling to hand you a knife and fork. He trembles so faintly that you might not even notice if you weren’t always so in tune with each other’s bodies.

“Seonghwa…” you say softly, your fork poking at the French toast but your gaze locked on your busy body of a boyfriend. Much too wrapped up in his own head, he goes on rummaging through the fridge for a bottle of wine. He swings open one of the cabinets, searching for the perfect glass. Nothing else will do. “Park Seonghwa!” you shout, careful not to sound angry. As sweet as his efforts are, you can tell that something’s bothering him. Hwa’s shoulders drop, his slick dark hair falling against his freshly shaved chin. You scurry up behind him. The feeling of your arms around his waist, your fluffy cheek pressed against his back, quiets his worries at once. He places a hand on top of yours, drawing in a deep breath.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me” you whisper, your voice saturated in worry. As he exhales he places the bottle of wine on the counter, turning around to catch the concern on your beautiful face. “I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done during this relationship…” he starts and your heart sinks to your stomach. That’s what this is all about. He’s breaking up with you. You knew it was too good to be true. Two years of some storybook romance shattered. He did this, all of this, to cushion the blow of… “And I never want to so… y/n will you marry me?” You snap out of your daze to find him down on one knee, holding up a black rose cut diamond ring. He forces a pained smile, bracing for the possibility that you may not feel the same way. An insane thought if there ever was one.

You clutch your hands to your chest, your heart returning to its home with the force of a rocket launching into space. “Yeeeee” you squeak, unable to make out much else. “Yeeee?” “Ssss…” “Yee…sss?” “Yes! Yes! 100% fucking yes!” Tears are streaming down your cheeks before you can stop them. You imagine what a wreck you must look to him, crying in the middle of your kitchen in an old t-shirt and some beat up sweatpants. But nothing could be further from the truth. Slipping the ring onto your finger, he takes you into his arms, nearly sweeping you off of the floor. He tilts his head back ever so slightly, doing his best not to shed some tears of his own. Hwa kisses you and it is, without question, unmatched by any kiss you’ve shared before this day. His scent is more fragrant than any flower on that table. His lips sweeter than the bottle of red wine sweating on the kitchen counter.

Your shirt lifts, granting him access to the softness of your love handles. The sensation of his hands outlining your body, the electrifying friction of skin against skin, awakens any fiber of your being that could’ve possibly remained drowsy all of this time. “I love you” he gasps against your mouth, lips skimming down your chin to press against your neck. Chills trickle down your spine as he nibbles at the sensitive spot he knows always gets to you. “I love you too” you manage before he lifts you onto the kitchen counter, his hands kneading the pillowy tissue of your breasts. “Hwa, wait. Wait. Hold on.”

“Hmm?” is all he says, brushing his thumb across your nipple as it perks up beneath his touch. You giggle at the spark it sends through your system, “Aren’t you gonna eat your pain perdu?” “It’s just French toast. Nothing special,” he shrugs, bringing a hand down to slip into your panties, the moisture of your warmth welcoming the intrusion, “But you on the other hand…” Hwa takes his time dipping his fingers into you one after the other, curling them each in their own unique way to coax every darling whimper you have to offer from your throat. It’s this unpredictability that has your body too overstimulated to do anything more than fall back and surrender.

His fingers abandon you momentarily, a tortuous betrayal forgivable only because of the speed in which he strips your bottom half bare. Your sweatpants and panties falling to the floor tangled within each other. In seconds his hands are behind your knees, firmly pressing them towards your chest. Hwa can’t resist taking mental pictures of you spread out like this, wet and aching. Begging him to taste you for the first time as his on a level he’d spent countless nights praying you’d let him reach. He buries his face between your legs, his long, curved tongue lapping at your clit. You twist in his grip, hips raising purely out of greed. Instead of pushing you back down, he pulls you closer, locking your legs around his neck and plunging his tongue into the very depths of your center.

“Seonghwa…” you whine, the bottom of your shirt twisted in your fist while your other hand grips the edge of the marble countertop. Hwa’s tongue plays you like one of the exquisite instruments of the orchestra concealing your moans from the neighbors on either side of your apartment. It teases the sweet spot deep within you, flexing along your walls when they clench around him. He slips it between the slickness of your folds, slurping down every bit of you he can catch. What he can’t coats his chin, drops splashing along your inner thigh. Your muscles start to spasm. First, it’s only the ones in your stomach but, as the pleasure deepens, you can feel every singular muscle in your body tighten like the rope of a spinning wheel. It’s so much, too much, and you can’t imagine ever asking him to stop.

You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth, the lingering scent of milk and honey flooding your lungs once more before the universe itself unravels around you. The orgasm pulses through your veins, dulling all other senses not stemming from Hwa devouring you. You come to be far louder than the music, only driving him to go faster…deeper. “Scream for me. Cry for me” his body language whispers and, oh, how you scream. The very decadence of the sound is enough to arouse him to the point of utter madness. “You…you have to stop...I can’t” you stutter, dangling at the apex of euphoria with no end in sight. If you’re spun any tighter you’re positive you’ll break. He goes completely deaf to you again, this time because he’s much too consumed by you.

Using what minimal strength you have you slide yourself back on the counter, separating the two of you and leaving your walls contracting as if he never stopped. Hwa straightens out, licking you from his lips, “I’m sorry. You’re just…” “Bedroom” you say, planting your feet on the chilled kitchen floor and wobbling back towards the bedroom. “And bring the syrup!” Hwa crooks his neck, unsure of what to make of the odd request. “For what, exactly?” “You gotta come find out!” That’s all that needs saying for him to grab the bottle of syrup from the table and rush to catch up to you, his stunning, slightly uncoordinated, incredibly tasty girlfri...fiance.

#ateez x reader #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x y/n #ateez smut #chubby reader #plus size reader #ateez x chubby reader #ateez x y/n #chubby smut #plus size smut

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alltheworldsinmyhead · 5 months ago

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Summary:

Inej decides to teach Kaz a thing or two about work ethic

Or: Kaz is abhorrently Kerch and Inej won't have it

read on ao3

To her great displeasure but no surprise whatsoever, Inej wakes up alone.

In a vast expanse of the bed, she sleepily pries her eyes open, squinting at the harsh sunlight, only to find no trace of her husband. The other side of the mattress is cold to the touch, the pillow nice and fluffed, the edges of the comforter tucked underneath the bed frame to keep it flat. While she is tangled in messed-up sheets, cotton smooth and warm against her bare legs and stray hairs clinging to her cheeks.

She would very much like to linger some more. Maybe do more than just linger - the bed is very nice and she is feeling very indulgent and lazy. But apparently, Kaz decided to be annoyingly Kerch this morning.

With a grumble, she slips from underneath the covers, sliding onto the floor and reaching for her dressing robe. In the mirror, her reflection blinks at her; she spares it just a glance, busy with undoing her braid but then her eyes come back for a double take. There is a dark bruise of a love bite blooming on her neck, right underneath her ear. It makes her feel hot and clammy in her own skin, to look at it.

She traces it lightly, with her very fingertips, and the smallest of shivers runs down her spine.

Some sounds are coming from the parlor adjacent to the bedroom and she pays a bit more attention to them now, cataloging them one by one. A faint scratch of a pen nib against the paper. A slight clatter of porcelain. A muffled cough. She thought Kaz went out on business, or to his office possibly - but, evidently, he's still right here, behind the door. Left her to have a lie-in while he's doing his work, because duty before pleasure, always.

She smiles at the thought. But aren't marital duties the most important ones of all?

She decides to stay in her nightgown. Decides not to tie her robe at the waist either; it is pretty blue, like the sky in the countryside, like little meadow flowers that Kaz, in an uncharacteristic bout of sentimentalism, once sent her pressed between the pages of his letter. She tilts her head just slightly and the garment slips, silk sliding down her skin like water and exposing the curve of her shoulder.

She lets it be as well.

The carpet is rich, thick underneath her bare feet; the air smells of flowers and wood polish. Not home, but nice. Very nice. She dares even say fancy. A fancy, upscale hotel room in a fancy part of Ketterdam where they had dinner the night before and then decided to book a room.

Just another of these little luxuries Kaz showers her with when she's back from the sea, hoping, possibly, to entice her to stay longer and longer. He thinks he's being sneaky when he's transparent like glass and she indulges him in his efforts. But it's all so silly, really. There is only one luxury that can manage to keep Inej ashore and it is right behind the door - the door that she opens soundlessly into another sunny room wallpapered in cream and filled with elegant furniture of cherry oak. There is a chaise lounge, a small table with a vase of red tulips on it. An armchair with some strategically placed fluffy pillows.

And, of course, a round breakfast table, set with two plates, two porcelain cups. Two platters of food, one empty save for some crumbs and one hidden underneath a metal cover, to keep it warm. And there’s her husband, already dressed sharp in his suit and tie and with his hair neatly slicked back at eight in the morning, writing something on pages neatly laid out in front of him, a cup of steaming coffee in his free hand.

His eyes find her seconds after she steps into the room, sliding over her body absent-mindedly before they lock with hers.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, one corner of his mouth rising just slightly when she crosses the floor towards him.

He's already clean shaved and she tries not to make a face at that. She decides to make her displeasure known through not leaning down to kiss him. Instead, she drops on her chair and reaches for the teapot.

“Yes,” she pours in the tea, then adds some milk from a charming porcelain creamer. Swirls the spoon inside the cup and then licks it clean. “Did you?”

Kaz taps his pen against the wood. “Yes.”

“Good,” she smiles. Stretches her legs out underneath the table, feeling how her nightgown slips up. The table is small: he must feel the warmth of her, the proximity of her, like a phantom touch. “What are you writing?”

***read more on ao3***

#kanej #kanej fic #kanej fanfiction #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #six of crows #soc #soc fic #soc fanfiction

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druidwolf21 · 2 months ago

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Can't beat em? Join em!

Leman finds himself completely out of his depth when babysitting

Featuring @jaghatai-khock adorable OC!!!

"Skíthof"

Leman cursed to himself as he prowled through the great hall, cold blue eyes surveying the room as he searched. He trailed his gaze over the mass of baselines before him, scowling at anyone attempting to catch his eye. He inhaled deeply, sniffing at the air and snorting as all he received was the acidic tang of wine and the spices of hot meals.

He continued muttering to himself and he stalked through the crowd, keeping his head low. A beast on the hunt.

"you can't hide forever little Jova" he growled, dropping his voice to reverberate through the gathering, low enough that human ears lost it in the laughter and chat of the party. He scented the air again, eyes narrowing as he finally picked up a scent. He ran the scent through his olfactory gland, teasing out all the information he could manage.

Warm keratin

Saliva

Sugar

He grinned, fangs beared. Oh yes, that was definitely him.

Baselines scurried away from his hulking mass as he patrolled, finally coming to a stop at a small rounded table in a corner. Gingerly lifting the cloth, he found the source of the scent. A crushed pile of icing and syrup spread across the crushed velvet rug and a single white feather dancing along the floor. Russ picked it up between calloused fingers and brought it to his nose, inhaling as he peered around. His eyes landed on a small smeared trail of white frosting and jam.

"gotcha"

He rose to his feet and followed the trail, each massive step leading him towards a small side door. Serfs hurried in and out, arms laden with steaming dishes and crystalline pitchers of swirling wine.

"move thrall" he sniped, shouldering through the wooden door, sending servants scattering around him. He grabbed a passing girl by her and pulled her to him, lifting her off her feet.

"you, listen, I want this door kept closed, understand?"

The girl stared up at him, eyes wide and moist as she faced the titan before her.

Leman rolled his eyes and snarled " Hálfvit answer, do you understand" shaking her slightly. She squeaked and nodded, sniffling as the hand that gripped her collar finally dropped her. Satisfied, the wild skulked through the door clicked it shut.

Finding himself in the serf kitchen, he quickly set about throwing servants and maids out, sealing each entrance shut behind them. The scent was stronger in here, his prize was finally in sight. He dropped to his haunches, scouring the room with predatory eyes, flicking back and forth into each dark corner. The room was dimly lit by the dying embers of the large cooking fire in the hearth, a large oak counter filled the center of the room and various cupboards and shelves lined the walls.

Finally he heard a gentle clang and zeroed in a small cupboard set back from the fireplace. Smirking, he rose back into the balls of his thick booted feet and stepped over, reaching through the open hatch, he fumbled around before clutching his prize and pulling it out into the flickering light.

"Hjolda, little lordling" he laughed, bringing his catch up to his face.

The toddler giggled and squirmed in his grasp, fat hands coated in mess reaching for his uncle's face as he laughed. His wine red eyes scrunched in joy as he hung from the wolf's might grip, spinning slightly.

"I took my eye off you for 5 minutes, how are you this filthy child?"

He spun the child, getting a good look at the mess he had somehow managed to engulf himself in. Cake and pastry matted into his silky gold curls and icing or rainbow colours was encrusted in the down of his small cherub wings. His mouth and rosey cheeks were buried under lumps of chocolate and fruit peelings.

"your father's going to kill me" leman thought, remember the lecture sanguinius had given him not an hour before about keeping an eye on him. Running a free hand through his burnished hair, he considered his options.

He set the babe in the tabletop and sucked at his fangs as he thought. "I suppose I could dunk you in a mop bucket" he mused out loud, turning on the spot as he searched the room. "But I don't think the angel will be keen on that either" he turned back and shrugged. "So Zadkiel, what do you think?"

"CAKE"

"I am absolutely not giving you more"

"CAKE"

"no"

"CAKECAKECAKECAKECAKE"

the boy continued to babble, clapping happily as he changed, swaying and flaring his feathery nubs as he did so.

Leam gripped the edge of the counter and lent down, eye level with his nephew. "No, nothing else until we've scrubbed this mulch from you."

"unkl ruff"

Lemans eyebrows shot up in surprise as small fingers gripped his face. "What?"

Vermillion eyes stared back from under long blonde lashes as Zadkiel squeezed Leman's face. Frowning in concentration before a wide dirty grin dimpled his round face.

"ruff ruff ruff cakecakecakecakecake"

The primark stared back for a moment before a toothy smile of his own cracked his visage.

"very well, little lord, who am I to argue when you speak so eloquently"

The primark of the space wolves, lord of fenris, the emperors execution.

Brought to heel by a small boy saying his name for the first time.

#warhammer #leman russ #Zad #oc #warhammer 40k

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adore-laur · 1 year ago

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DAD HARRY: PART THREE

— part one | part two

October—Flashback

The leaves on southern California’s oak and cottonwood trees are changing colors at last. Various shades of green bleed into marigold and maroon to commence the beginning of autumn. The weather is pleasant when it nears the end of the year, with temperatures never dipping below seventy degrees. Brisk winds blow by the Pacific Ocean, and migrating clusters of monarch butterflies flutter around orange milkweed with their stained-glass wings, looking similar to the plants they feed from.

Driving alongside the premature sunset, you press your foot on the brake pad and pull into the crowded restaurant parking lot. Harry has been bartending for a wedding's cocktail hour, which he seldom does under his title of head chef. Before he left, he mentioned that he wanted to talk to you about something important after his shift, so he reserved a table in the dining area where both of you could discuss it over dinner. Luckily, he doesn't have to work his way into the early morning since someone will replace him once the reception officially starts.

Today is Harry's last shift before he'll be home for an extended period of time. He managed to save all of his annual vacation days and is free from work for the last month of your pregnancy, as well as being allowed twelve weeks of paternity leave once the baby is born.

It's difficult to imagine how much convincing it took and the scheduling difficulties Harry had to face to get everything sorted. You're worried that the restaurant will crumble without his supervision, but you shouldn't judge his expertise on the matter. He knows what he's doing.

You stroll through the front doors while smoothing the chiffon fabric of your dress over your baby bump. Frequently, you’ve been wearing Harry's shirts ever since your bump has gotten too large to wear your own, but you wanted to look nice tonight. It’s been grueling trying to accept your changing body, which is why you strive to do little things to take care of your mental health. Even though you've been more concerned about your physical health as of lately, if something as simple as putting on a pretty dress can boost your confidence, you'll take advantage of the opportunity.

Carefully weaving through round, decorated tables, you peer at the bar area operating against the farthest wall. Harry's back is turned to you, broad and familiar, as he washes cocktail glasses. His defined muscles shift under the tight, black button-up he wears, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the array of tattoos on his forearms. He's also sporting fitted slacks with matching suspenders attached to them. He's been growing out his hair during the last couple of months, with curls now flourishing past his ears. He always keeps them pushed back with a bandana or headband so that they don't fall in his eyes while he works.

You don't want to be a nuisance and steal a seat from any guests, so you stand off to the side and wait for Harry to finish his cleaning duties. His bulky rings clink against champagne and wine glasses as he dries them with a rag and sets them under the counter. You can hear him faintly whistling along to the jazz music coming from the connected banquet hall.

Once Harry finishes wiping his station clean, he sneakily takes out his phone and starts typing—you assume he's texting you to let you know he's done. He then washes his hands as another bartender walks behind the counter to clock in. They must be the one replacing him. You're not too knowledgeable about the rotation of bartenders since Harry is almost always in the back running the kitchen. It’s intriguing to see him adjust his skill set in a different environment.

He gives the employee a friendly squeeze on their shoulder before clocking out and heading in your direction. He nearly brushes past you while taking his phone out again, completely oblivious to your presence, and you laugh before stopping him with a hand on his chest. It makes him stumble back with a confused frown, but he quickly smiles in surprise when he recognizes you.

"How'd you get in?" he asks breathlessly, kissing your cheek.

"I told the security guards at the gate that I’m picking up my husband. If they said no, I was going to tell them my water broke."

He smirks proudly. "Clever. How are you feeling? Baby's good?" He holds your upper arms, and his eyes scan your body as if you've changed drastically since you saw him only four hours ago.

"All good. Just a sore back like usual." You toy with one of his suspender straps. "What about you? It's your last shift for a while."

Exhaling happily, Harry clasps your hand in his and says, "I feel fantastic. Let's go eat, yeah? I'm starving."

He guides you through an open doorway leading to the restaurant's dining area, where your reserved table is. In the back of the room, you spot a candlelit booth with plates, silverware, and two glasses filled with ice water. The water doesn't go unnoticed, considering Harry set a goal for himself to stop drinking alcohol along with you.

On the windowsill, a stout vase with beautiful red roses catches your eye as you sit down. Harry slides into the seat across from you. Only a few other booths are occupied—otherwise, the room is serenely quiet, with the occasional clink of metal and a sprinkle of chatter.

"You look angelic, by the way," Harry says before taking a sip of his water.

"Thank you," you whisper, nudging his foot with yours under the table. "I like your suspenders. They remind me of when you used to be a rookie assistant chef that I'd visit. You wore them under your chef coat with a fancy little neckerchief. I thought you looked so adorable."

"Now I'm old and weathered," he replies wryly.

"Well, you're turning thirty soon. And you'll be a dad in a month. Isn't that when someone officially becomes a DILF?" You're not sure why you casually mentioned the racy acronym over a romantic dinner, but it's too late to retreat now.

Harry's eyes gleam, and he fails miserably at hiding a smile under his scrunched nose. "Pardon? What are you trying to insinuate, darling?"

"Nothing! Never mind,” you say, embarrassed that you ever spoke. "I was only trying to bring up a nice memory. Reminiscing, if you will. Forget I said anything."

"I'm definitely not forgetting that. That ugly neckerchief, however..." He laughs at himself. "God, it feels like forever ago. Time flies."

"I thought it was kind of attractive," you mumble around the rim of your glass.

He raises his eyebrows as a warning to not start something you don't want to finish, then clears his throat and rests his forearms on the table. "Speaking of work, that's what I wanted to talk to you about tonight. I want you to keep an open mind, okay?"

Your lips downturn in curiosity. Just as you're about to reply, a waiter arrives at the table with a tray of steaming dishes and places them in the center. You texted Harry what you wanted from the menu after he left this morning, and since he's the boss, everything is free, cooked to perfection, and served promptly.

"Thank you," Harry says before focusing on you again. The waiter leaves, and you begin picking at your food to distract yourself from your increasing heart rate.

"Um, did you say work? Did you get a promotion? Is that even a possibility for a head chef?"

You can physically see the color drain from his face. "So," he says nervously, ignoring your questions, "the baby's coming soon, yes? Obviously."

"Right," you reply with suspicion.

Shifting in his seat, he sets his fork down and runs a hand through his tousled hair. "Listen, the restaurant during autumn and winter isn't as busy as the summertime. You know that. And because of that, I want to be home with you and the baby as much as possible. And I will with paternity leave, but once I go back to work, my hours will pick up again, and it'll be—"

"Harry, just tell me," you interrupt gently. He has a bad habit of running circles around topics.

He blows out a long breath. "I'm demoting myself. It's in the works that I'll be the sous chef when I return, so that means fewer hours and more time at home."

You're glad you don't take a sip of water yet because you nearly choke. Demotion? He’s never mentioned that before.

"Can I ask why in the world you would do that?" you ask. You don't mean to sound snippy, but pregnancy hormones, mixed with Harry's revelation, cause a pit of unwarranted annoyance to simmer in your gut.

"Love, let me explain." He reaches his hand across the table and squeezes yours. "This is my choice. It's final, all right? I'm not going to work ten hours a day, six days a week, while you're at home with our baby. That's ridiculous."

"But what about—"

"Stop while you're ahead, because you're going to overthink it," he says calmly. "If you're worried about money, don't be. It's only a slight decrease in my wage. Everything will be fine."

Your annoyance wins as you slide your free hand down your face. "You realize that we'll need more money when the baby comes. It's common sense. Why would you think cutting your hours is a smart idea?"

Harry scoffs like what you're saying is illogical. He leans in closer so that the impending argument doesn't disrupt anyone's dinner, his voice hushed yet stern when he replies, "Would you rather have me come home every day absolutely knackered and then spend a maximum of four hours with our child before I have to get up to do it all over again? Hmm?"

You shake your head in irritation and remove your hand from his. "It's called adapting. It may be tough at first, but it becomes second nature. We just have to wait until the baby gets here to figure out a schedule that works."

Harry falls back against the booth. He throws his hands up in frustration, and they slap against his thighs before he says, "Do you realize how stupid you sound right now? You're talking about money and scheduling like we're—"

"I'm leaving." When you stand, Harry's mouth instantly clamps shut. You don't care that you barely ate your food—you can't listen to him anymore. You're awfully close to lashing out.

Heading the way you came from, you hear Harry's footsteps scuffing the floor behind you. Once you're in the parking lot, you groan when you remember that he has to ride home with you since you dropped him off earlier. While you struggle to unlock the car, you see Harry in your peripheral, striding to stop you from going any further.

"I didn't mean it. I'm sorry." His shoulders sulk, and he looks genuinely distraught. "Can we please talk this through when we get home?"

Your eyes dance over his defeated expression. You can’t say no since you live together, plus you promised years ago never to go to bed angry at each other. So, you nod your head, and he shoots you a timorous smile before withdrawing to the passenger side.

As you drive, you give Harry the harrowing silent treatment. He deserves it, considering he's looking out the window with his arms crossed and pouting like a child. The only sound in the confined space is the air conditioner running and cars whooshing past on the freeway. Your stomach grumbles, and you feel terrible about leaving two five-star plates of food untouched at the restaurant.

After several minutes of dreadful silence, Harry finally breaks the tension when you park in the garage. He grabs a white envelope tucked in the center console and asks, "What's this?"

Oh. You forgot about that.

"Nothing," you mutter, unbuckling your seatbelt.

Harry rolls his eyes and flings the envelope onto the dashboard, then reaches over to take the key out of the ignition. Seconds pass before you hear him open the front door and then shut it harder than necessary.

You swallow down vexation. There have been tiny arguments more often since you got pregnant, and you blame your hormones every time for getting irritated so easily. Usually, Harry isn't the sole reason for those heightened emotions, but there are situations when he can be so stubborn that you just want to shake him out of it.

Eventually, you get out of the car with the envelope in hand and head down to the beach for some time alone. It'll be nice to sit by the water and cool down, figuratively and literally. You have an inclination that if you try to hash it out with Harry right now, it will only result in more regretful words said.

You reach the private stretch of sand that’s part of your beachfront property, holding your bump protectively as you descend the wooden steps. It's chilly by the oceanside this time of year, so you grab a towel that was left on the railing from previous evenings and drape it over your shoulders.

As the October sunset tinges the sky with orange and pink streaks, you sit down and reflect on the unfortunate escalation of your conversation with Harry. You love him dearly and could never feel an ounce of hatred toward him. He has never given you a reason to doubt anything, but to put his career on the back burner without mentioning it to you is hurtful. You almost feel guilty knowing he made the choice because of you and the baby. Sometimes, you shy away from being the main priority because you don't want to feel like a burden. In retrospect, it's incredibly thoughtful that he wants to work less to spend quality time with the baby when they arrive. On the other hand, you can't help but worry that you won't be financially secure because of it.

"Hungry?"

Your head shifts to find Harry walking toward you with a spoon and a strange-looking vegetable in his hand. It's impossible not to smile when you note the outfit he changed into—pale yellow trousers and an argyle knit sweater. All of his rings are off except for his gold wedding band. His feet are bare.

He's the love of your life and has nothing but pure intentions, so how could you not trust his decision?

"What is that?" you ask, pointing to the vegetable as Harry gets comfortable beside you.

"Jicama," he replies with a shrug. "A pregnancy blog said that at thirty-two weeks, a baby is as big as one of these bad boys. So, naturally, I bought one."

You have to turn your face so he doesn't see your irrepressible smile. You're not giving him the benefit of seeing you crack from his endearing ways just yet. "You're an unusual man, Harry Styles. Do you plan on buying more fruit for the last four weeks?"

"I already put pineapple on the grocery list," he says unconcernedly as he scoops out a chunk of the jicama. "Anyway, I didn't come out here to discuss fruit." His tongue sticks out when he takes a bite, the spoon leaving his mouth with a pop before he points it at you. "Still mad at me?"

You sigh, knowing it's useless to continue acting like he's in the wrong. "I can't stay mad at you. And I don't know why I got so worked up. I was just being overdramatic."

Harry hums thoughtfully as he swallows another bite. "Expressing how you feel isn't overdramatic. Don't apologize for having those feelings, especially toward me. Yell at me if I'm being a dick; kiss me if I'm being a dreamboat. It’s simple, baby." He finishes his little speech by shoving another spoonful of jicama into his mouth, chewing introspectively while staring at the waves.

"Was it Socrates who said that?"

He plucks your bottom lip with the spoon and murmurs, "You're feisty today."

"Back to the topic," you say before he can rile you up. "Money shouldn't have been what my mind first went to. It's still a concern, but ultimately, making time for our family is the most important thing. I apologize for freaking out."

"You're forgiven." Harry scoots closer and holds a spoonful to your mouth. You accept the nutty flavor as he continues, "And I'm so sorry for saying you sounded stupid. Please know that that’s the furthest thing from the truth."

"We all say things we don't mean sometimes," you reply. “There's no use in acting like I haven't done the same thing in the past.”

Harry slings his arm around your shoulders, bringing you in for a warm side hug. "What you said is true, by the way. We have time to figure things out and adapt. Let's enjoy this last month we have to ourselves.”

You nod in agreement. "I also want to thank you for being so thoughtful and putting our family first. I trust you with this new life chapter. I don't doubt you at all."

"Don't worry about it," he says, kissing your temple. "I'm proud of you for dealing with every mental and physical change these past eight months. And I will always be here for you through the good and bad moments, all right? In sickness, in health, and everything in between.”

You smile fondly and take out the white envelope that’s been hiding under your leg. "Are you in the mood for a good moment with me?" Harry looks confused but nods anyway. "When you saw this in the car, it's not nothing like I said it was. It's from my prenatal appointment I went to a few days ago. I know we decided to find out the gender a month before my due date, so I had the doctor write the answer down.” You inhale an anxious breath. “I haven't looked at it yet."

Harry's eyes widen, and his mouth parts as he sets the jicama down. "I am not prepared for this. Wait, hold on. Let me breathe for a second." His head tilts up toward the sky as he takes dramatic, calming breaths.

You laugh and place the envelope on his thigh. "Do the honors, Styles. Let's see if your prediction is right."

He picks it up and carefully opens the seal. Unfolding the paper filled with your clinical notes, he quickly skims the tiny lettering to look for the answer he's been desperately waiting for.

"Holy shit," he says, his voice cracking as his hand covers his mouth.

"I'm guessing you're right," you say shakily, your eyes watering.

"Girl… we’re having a girl.”He wipes away his tears, smiling widely. "Why am I crying? I was confident it was a girl."

"Because it makes things more real," you say, leaning over to kiss his damp, rosy cheeks. "Now we know for sure."

"Come here, honey. Let me take a look at her."

You sit on your knees between Harry’s spread legs. He sets the envelope down and lifts your dress, revealing your bump that puts quite some distance between you and him. His hands splay across the taut skin as he leans down to kiss right above your belly button. He gazes up at you under his wet lashes and smiles against your stomach, his dimples carving pure happiness into his cheeks.

"I love you," he whispers with a sniffle. "I love both of you so much. With my entire soul."

In that moment, everything falls into place.

——

July—Present Day

Everything is falling apart.

Well, not really, but it sure feels that way when you bend over the toilet at seven in the morning and empty your queasy stomach once again.

It's the first Sunday in July, marking the tenth week of your second pregnancy. When you woke up with a wave of morning sickness a couple of hours ago, you noticed something peculiar. As you were rubbing circles on your abdomen to ease the nausea, it appeared that your stomach had seemingly popped overnight. The curve was more prominent and firm—a small bump you must have mistaken for bloating. It’s pretty much nonexistent in any loose garment, but anything tight will hug it nicely and be a constant reminder of baby number two growing in there.

Dizzily standing, you move toward the sink to brush your teeth for the umpteenth time, then gurgle some spearmint mouthwash to diminish the rancid taste in your mouth. Pots and pans clang downstairs as you wipe your lips, and the occasional giggle from your daughter mixes with Harry's theatrical voice, which he puts on whenever she watches him cook.

The smell of sizzling bacon doesn't help the swirling feeling in your stomach as you head downstairs to the kitchen. Their lighthearted commotion grows louder, and you stop in the doorway to soak in your favorite part of Sunday mornings. Harry is in front of the island, and your daughter stands on her tiptoes on a step stool next to him, the two of them watching pancakes turn golden brown on the griddle. He's in full Dad Mode with tired eyes and an outfit that screams: I have a toddler and pregnant wife at home. In other words, a black button-up with pink flamingos on it and grey pleated trousers. They don't match whatsoever, but you know he doesn't care. Clothing isn’t his prime concern—family is.

He voyages around the kitchen, pouring orange juice, dropping chocolate chips into the batter, and ensuring your daughter's little hands don't touch anything hazardous. Your hand subconsciously drifts to your bump as you think about how you'll get to see him interact with a newborn again—cuddling them, rocking them to sleep, and pretending to eat their chubby hands and feet. He still does all those things with your daughter, and it breaks your heart knowing she'll grow out of it one day.

"Good morning," Harry says with his back turned, halting your daydreaming. How does he always sense your presence?

When you don't say anything, he turns to glance at you while sliding a heart-shaped pancake onto a plate. Your smile stretches wider as you curl your pointer finger to beckon him closer. He gives you a confused look before unplugging the griddle and instructing your daughter not to touch anything on the counter. She'll be too distracted by the cartoon playing on the television to even notice that the both of you will be gone for a moment.

"What's up, baby?" Sauntering toward you, Harry sticks his thumb in his mouth to lick some excess pancake batter off.

"I have a surprise for you," you whisper, accepting his slow, relaxed kiss.

"Yeah? S'it my half-birthday or something?" he asks, his voice still gravelly and slurred from sleep.

"No, this isn't about you," you tease with a pinch to his hip. "Come with me."

You grab his hand and lead him to the bathroom just down the hall. Flicking the light switch on, you stand in front of the mirror and say, "I'm ten weeks along. I woke up with a little morning sickness, and look!" You lift your shirt and turn to the side to show him a better angle of your stomach. "It was just pudge before, but it's an actual bump now."

Behind you, Harry rubs his warm hands over the swell and marvels at it. "Well, I’ll be damned. You... fuck, this happened overnight. I was spooning you this morning! How did I not notice?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice either, and it's my own body." You shake your head disbelievingly and place your hands over his. "I read that a woman's second pregnancy will have them showing earlier. I guess that's why I popped so soon. Last time, I didn't show until fourteen weeks or something like that."

He hums lowly, pulling you further back against his chest. "I've missed seeing you like this. It makes you glow more than usual." His mouth is by your ear when he murmurs, "Makes me hard."

"You're so naughty in the mornings," you say, removing yourself from his grasp and pulling down your shirt. "C'mon, let's eat breakfast."

Harry whines in protest, gently grabbing your face and turning it toward him so he can nip your nose and then lock your lips together. After your stolen moment alone, the both of you head back to the kitchen to enjoy another blissful Sunday morning.

——

Takeout pizza is on the menu tonight. The Volvo’s trunk is open, with blankets and pillows strewn about to create a fort-like space for the three of you to sit in. Harry drove the vehicle down to the beach so you all could watch the sunset and feel the ocean breeze.

You get comfortable in the trunk and set paper plates and napkins down. Harry and your daughter are in the nearby beach grass, picking wildflowers that blossom there. They wander, her tiny hand gripping stems while her other holds Harry’s. Her precious strawberry-patterned dress flows in the wind.

Moments later, they come strolling toward the car with content smiles. Your daughter crawls into the trunk with your help and hands you a makeshift bouquet of yellow and purple wildflowers.

"Thank you, sweetheart," you say, kissing her windswept hair.

Harry places his hands on either side of your thighs and leans in for some of your affection. You peck his lips—they're pink from the fruit punch he made earlier. Before he retreats, he glances at your baby bump and then looks at you with a crooked smile, his thumb delicately stroking the curve.

"Kumquat," he says, clicking his tongue.

You laugh, albeit not understanding. "Come again?"

"A baby at ten weeks is the size of a kumquat," he explains, like it's a well-known fact.

"Interesting," you say. "Well, the kumquat is hungry, so get up here and cut the pizza."

Your daughter is oblivious to the conversation as Harry scoots next to you and begins rolling the pizza cutter. His forearm muscles flex, the veins popping out. "Small bites, little lady," he tells her as he puts a slice on her plate.

Reaching behind you, you grab the bottle of sparkly pink nail polish you brought out. "She wants you to paint her nails."

Harry nods and pats his lap. She sits between his legs and waits patiently. While taking the bottle of polish from you and shaking it, his phone’s ringtone suddenly goes off. He juts his lips out as he reaches into his pocket to check the number.

"Hello?" he answers, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder. He opens the polish’s cap and begins painting her nails.

You observe his facial expressions. He has a serious look and frequently nods as he listens to whoever's on the other end of the line. You pluck a green pepper off the pizza and eat it, feeling a swirl of anticipation in your gut.

"Tomorrow? Are you sure?" he asks. You hear an unfamiliar muffled voice before he says, "Awesome, thank you. Call me if anything changes. Okay, bye." He sets down the nail polish and hangs up before resuming painting her pointer finger.

"Who was that?" you ask while tucking a wildflower stem behind his ear. He looks handsome in the evening light.

"My boss," he says, licking his thumb and wiping a smudge he made. “I don't have to go in tomorrow since there are barely any reservations."

"No sparkles," your daughter blurts before you can reply. Harry freezes and eyes you perplexedly.

"What?" you ask. She points to one of her painted nails and frowns. You gently take her hand and observe it closely—no sparkles are showing up. "I'm sorry, sweetie. It must be icky polish. We can take it off and get another one."

It's almost scary how quickly the waterworks start. You exhale as you take the plate from her so she doesn't throw a fit and make a mess. She's crying and staring at Harry like he's the cause of no sparkles. Well, maybe he didn't shake the bottle enough, but you keep your mouth shut so you don't make matters worse.

Harry grabs her waist and props her in front of him. "Mommy said we can get some more, all right? We’re not throwing a tantrum right now. Behave, or I'm not painting your nails."

You could have predicted what happens next from experience. Her harmless fists hit his chest in frustration, and undried polish smears all over his shirt. Harry has always been good at controlling these minor mishaps, so he inhales deeply before lifting her writhing body.

"Early bedtime it is, then," he mutters while walking toward the house.

You begin cleaning up the short-lived dinner. It isn't anything new you've had to deal with, but it exhausts you, especially when she has a tantrum during family time. You take the pizza box out of the trunk, then close it and decide to clean everything else tomorrow. You drive the car up to the garage and lock the doors before stepping inside.

After putting the pizza in the fridge, you stand outside your daughter's bedroom door and listen for any crying or screaming. A sigh of relief leaves you when only subsiding whimpers indicate her tantrum has deescalated for the night.

Opening the door, your heart softens at the sight you walk in on. Harry sits against her headboard, his feet hanging past the edge of her bed, as he cradles his baby girl. He soothingly rocks her side to side with his eyes closed as he rubs circles on her back. Her heavy eyes are barely open, and her tear-stained cheeks are smushed against Harry's chest. She's in her pajamas now.

You kneel next to her bed, and she extends her arm, reaching for you. Harry jolts awake and opens his eyes. His grip loosens when he notices that she wants you. You stand and take her in your arms, her legs hugging your waist. You then sit by Harry's thighs and quietly laugh when you see the residue of pink nail polish staining his shirt.

Harry grins and clasps his hands behind his head, stretching his limbs. "It's not funny. I bought this shirt because of her, and this is what I got in return. She's a menace."

You squeeze his ankle in good nature and say, "I wonder where she gets it from."

He gasps in faux offense and grabs your daughter's hand, shaking it playfully. "Mommy’s being mean, don't you think?"

She sleepily shakes her head. You raise your eyebrows smugly before smattering her cheeks with kisses until she smiles and tiredly whines into your neck.

Harry yawns before catching your gaze and jerking his head toward your stomach. "Should we tell her?" he mouths.

Your heart rate quickens. You're not worried that she'll be upset, considering she’s asked—as best she could with her limited vocabulary—if she could have a sibling on a few occasions. You think it's time to tell her the news now that you're showing.

When you nod, Harry swings his legs over the mattress and crouches between your knees. You shift your daughter so she's settled sideways on your lap, then nod again to let him initiate the conversation.

"We have something to tell you, sweetheart," he says with a fond gentleness reserved only for her. Her head turns away from the safety of your neck. "You know how you've been asking about a baby brother or sister?" She nods languidly, prompting him to ask, "Can you look at Mommy’s belly?"

You situate her beside you and lift the stretchy material of your tank top. Harry says, "There's a baby in her belly." He guides her hand to your bump. "Your brother or sister is growing in there."

Her expression is unreadable at first, but then she gazes at you with curious eyes. "Baby," she utters drowsily. She's about one second away from slipping into a deep sleep.

"I don't think she'll remember in the morning," Harry says with a laugh.

You smile dotingly and stand before tucking her into bed. You kiss her forehead and watch her doze off as Harry tells her goodnight, whispering his boundless love for her and sealing his truthful words with a feather-light kiss to both of her cheeks.

Shutting off her bedside lamp, you leave the room with Harry hot on your heels. You're in the process of pulling your tank top down on the way to your bedroom, but before you can reach the door, Harry grabs your hips, stopping you in the dim hallway.

"You can't look this good and go straight to bed," he says, his breath warm and intimate.

"Mom needs her sleep before work tomorrow," you reply with a smirk. Although you wouldn't mind staying up a bit longer if he continues complimenting you.

"Please, baby," he murmurs, his hands drifting dangerously lower. "Just a quick one, yeah? I'll let you do whatever you want to me."

Don't give in, you tell yourself. Make him work for it.

"Anything?" you ask sensually as his fingers begin to brush along your inner thighs, causing your knees to weaken temporarily.

Harry licks his lips, his tongue poking your neck with the faintest touch. "Don't act like I wouldn't let you ruin me, darling."

You clench your thighs around his hand, and he groans against your neck. "But I'm so tired, Harry. It won't last very long if I do what I want with you."

"Like I give a shit." He cups your core with his palm, his impatient fingers stroking over the fabric of your silk pajama shorts. "You could give me the sloppiest blowjob ever, and I'd still worship the ground you walk on."

You bite your bottom lip, suppressing the urge to moan. "Will you run me a bath afterward?"

"We can fuck in the bath instead."

You ponder for a second. "It would be an easy cleanup. We'd have to do it in the downstairs bathroom, though, and you'd have to be quiet. Think you can handle that?"

"I don’t know. Do you plan on making me scream?"

"I could always put those suspenders you wore today in your mouth to shut you up."

He exhales a sexy breath, one that reveals you caught him off guard. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

You hum and grab his hand, raising it to your mouth to nip at the calloused pad of his thumb before walking down the stairs to the bathroom just around the corner. The porcelain tub awaits, and you turn the knob and plug the drain. The bay window it sits in front of exhibits an endless ocean and a sky that’s fading into starlit shades of dark blue.

Once the water is high enough and sufficiently warm, you shut the faucet off and begin removing your clothes. Harry enters the bathroom a few moments later and locks the door behind him. He unbuttons his shirt slowly while facing the mirror, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

You step into the tub and watch him. He's taking his trousers off now, his exposed back muscles flexing along with his biceps as he shimmies the garment down his legs. His body is truly something from a beautiful dream. Every inch blesses your eyes.

He's entirely naked when you break away from your reverie. His long legs gracefully step over the tub's ledge to settle behind you. A muted moan escapes him when his cock rubs against your lower back.

"Already making noise, and I haven't even started yet," you tease, leaning into his touch.

"Can you blame me? I have my wife"—his fingers glide against your pulsing entrance—"dripping for me. Absolutely soaked."

"Then do something about it."

Harry palms your clit, and you instinctively bend your knees. "I thought you wanted to be in control tonight."

"Will you be good? You have a reputation for getting antsy and taking over."

His hands travel to your sensitive breasts, squeezing them. "Yeah? Does that bother you?"

"You know I like it when you're submissive. Especially when you whine for me and try to touch me when you know you can't."

"Go on, then. Take care of your husband."

"I'm going to take care of myself first." You turn around and straddle his thighs—above his kneecap, your name is inked permanently.

"Ride it. You're the only one who's allowed to." His hands try to latch onto your waist, but you slap them away.

"Touch yourself while I ride you."

Harry's tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he grips his cock, squeezing and twisting to satiate himself. You grind on his thigh to relieve the building pressure and stifle your moans into his neck. You’re slick with arousal as his thigh muscle flexes with each motion. He starts pumping, his arm resting on the edge of the tub. Your palm presses against his abdomen, causing him to release a choked moan.

You shush him. "You have to be quiet. What do you need? Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you since you're being so good."

"You," he whispers with a pained look etched on his face. "I need you around my cock. Please, please, please."

His voice dies with each plea, and you cradle his limp head as he fully submits to you. Whenever he begs, you unravel too. Your dominant wall crumbles with his whines, and his deep voice always goes a pitch higher to show his desperation for you. His pink lips form solicitous praises and carnal noises of desire. You want to kiss them until they’re swollen and numb.

"I know," you say, kissing the indent between his eyebrows. "I'm ready."

Shakily lifting yourself off his thigh, you get Harry to sit up more in the tub so he can line his cock up with your entrance. When you slowly lower into him, he stretches your walls and sinks deep. Your fingers scratch his chest, your body leaning into him as you ride him. He moans, and you cover his mouth. His muffled whimpers encourage you to go faster.

Through ragged breaths, Harry says, "Let me come on your stomach. You're so beautiful like this."

Who are you to say no to such a filthy request?

"Are you close?" Your question lingers in the air, and Harry seems to be spaced out from pleasure because he doesn't answer. You feel him throb inside you as he jerks his hips up at a different angle. His glistening chest is heaving, and his eyes are pinched shut.

"Harry." You cradle his cheeks to bring him back to earth. "Are you close?"

He hears you this time, nodding fervently until, little by little, he slips himself out of you and stands up in the tub. You follow his lead and sit on the edge so that he towers over you. He holds his cock and looks up at the ceiling as he comes. You hold his free hand to balance him, his legs trembling and his lips pulled inward to stop any moans from escaping.

Harry’s warm release drips down on you, and once he finishes, he falls to his knees in the water, some of it splashing over the tub and onto the floor. His hands grip your ankles to put them over his shoulders, leaving sloppy kisses on your legs. You spread them more so he can finish you off. You could orgasm in two seconds flat if he puts his mouth on you.

"Fingers or mouth?" he asks.

"Mouth. Can I come on you too?"

He whines against your inner thigh. "Yeah?"

You nod, and Harry immediately latches his mouth on your clit. There's already pressure building in your lower stomach. He moves down to lick inside of you, his nose nudging your clit as his hands splay on your bump. It’s a protective move on his part.

"Feels so good," you say, placing your hands on the tub's edge to steady yourself. "I feel it. Please don't stop."

He licks a long stripe upward, not holding back by going inside so deep that it makes you ache. Your legs tighten around him until you sense your burning climax approaching.

"Harry. Please, I need—" You can't finish your sentence because Harry stands up abruptly and hooks his hand under your knees to lift you, carefully stepping out of the tub and setting you on the rug. It's messy and uncoordinated—however, he's never the one to give you a stagnant sex life.

He cradles you as your body quivers, then lays down on his back so you can fulfill your request. You straddle his torso, your slickness settling on his abdomen in the dim lighting of the bathroom. His thumb presses onto your clit, a move that always makes your orgasm boil over. Your neck tilts back, and you come. Harry's hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, rubbing up and down your thighs, and groping your breasts. You ride out the last of your release. His skin is sticky with your arousal, and you eventually collapse on your back next to him in exhaustion.

"C'mere, love," Harry says, his arm extended. “You're too far away."

You exhale, your hands resting on your bump. "I can't. My legs feel like jelly."

Harry snorts a laugh and sits up. He quickly unplugs the drain and crawls over to hover above you, placing a kiss on your stomach. He blindly finds a towel nearby and begins wiping you clean.

"This is the lamest aftercare ever," you say, laughing tiredly. The dry towel doesn't feel nice on your sweaty skin, and Harry's movements are lazy.

"That's enough out of you," he replies through his exhaustion, gently cleaning your stomach.

"Should I take off work tomorrow?" you wonder aloud. "I want to sleep in."

"Yes," he whispers, grabbing your hands to position you upright. His eyes take in every bit of you. "Look at you. You're going to be the death of me."

Every nerve of yours seems to tingle at his words. "Remember when I was pregnant last time, and you nearly broke my back during sex?"

Harry cackles way too loud, and you hush him as his hands slap over his mouth. "I was so scared when that happened. But I could only take you from behind because you were ready to pop, so it's not entirely my fault."

"Excuse me? How is that not your fault?" You yank the towel from his loose grasp and begin cleaning him. "I'm surprised my water didn’t break with how hard you were going."

"Jesus, you've got a dirty mind. Save it for later, would you?"

A comfortable silence ensues while you both wrap towels around your bodies and then head to the bedroom. You pick out one of Harry's shirts and a pair of underwear. He slides into some black boxers. While you ruffle your slightly damp hair, he sneakily picks you up and lightly tosses you on the bed, making you squeal in surprise.

"Are you really going to take off work tomorrow?" he asks, kissing along the column of your throat.

"Yeah. I'll lie and say my morning sickness is bad."

His kisses move to your cheeks. "And what if it actually is?"

"Then my husband will wait on me hand and foot," you say with a grin. "He’ll feed me soup in bed. Massage me. Kiss me better."

Harry tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. "You know I'd do that anyway, right? Just say the word, and I'll do anything."

You stare at his kind eyes and inviting lips. The shadow of his dimple even when he's not smiling. His perfect nose that resembles your daughter's. His cheeks that were meant to be pinched fondly. His simple smile that made you fall in love from day one. The love of your lifetime, with a soul that shelters his heart that overflows with love.

"I love you,” you say.

A whispered reciprocation is spoken, and it's all you need in the world.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #dad!harry #dadrry #harry styles au #dilfrry #harry styles #adore-laur

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