#stony if you squint

[imavikingo]

I have this silly idea… lets imagine Loki (Gamora and Nebula too) can be free from Thanos and infinity war doesn’t happen at all.

Thanos influence wilted and died at some point and the universe is free of that ugly wrinkled wet paper tissue of a titan.

Loki’s punishment after the avengers wasn’t staying in a cell at Asgard, instead he was forced to do a sort of “community service” in Midgard.

Meaning: helping the Avengers and however of the team needed his assistance on missions.

He could do magic but restricted, of course. He couldn’t do malicious or destructive magic (nor illusions) at all.

Except at enemies and in that context it was also more controlled.

That didn’t stop him from annoying the team sometimes.

Doing mischief is in his name, a little bit of jokes and games is expected, right? On his own words he does it to “spice things up”

One of those things was making Steve stop talking for a while. Making him partially mute. In a harmless way of course.

(It sounds worse than it actually is)

Loki’s reasoning is that Steve talks and expresses more of what others expect of him than talking his mind. He got used to going through the motions, and being by himself, only caring when other people are in danger/at risk. Once they got to Bucky it was making sure Bucky was okay and comfortable.

He wants Steve to unwind for once in his life. And of course making him a little bit embarrassed. Its fun watching him blush and splutter after all.

For missions and work he can talk perfectly fine. In dire circumstances too. But on a normal Thursday?

Without the weight of the world on their shoulders? That’s fair game to him.

This little trick works this way:

Only some of Steve’s thoughts can be voiced out loud, but they’re completely out of context (of his train of thought) or uttered in the most inconvenient of times as they come (if Steve is screaming inside it will be voiced that way out loud).

Only him (Loki) and Steve can hear all of what the captain is trying to say and communicate that way if Loki is feeling like it. (Loki is not going to invade Steve’s mind more than that, even if its really tempting)

And Loki is so entertained by all of it (the mind of the captain, the endless confusion of the team, the jealousy that some of them feel, the discussions that seem unilateral but are really funny to him and make him laugh out loud) that he started to bring a bag of popcorn and soda everywhere.

Tony: Ok, So… how are you doing cap? Still can’t get a complete sentence yet?

Steve: Im so tired of this, and yes Tony I still can’t talk normally.

Loki: ohhh? My my Captain… Are you still trying to find a way out of it? You can’t. You’ll need to get used to it.

Steve: Fuck you Loki

Tony: LANGUAGE!

Steve: not you Tony. Loki!

Bucky: shut up Tony!!

Steve: i want to talk Loki! Let me talk, this is ridiculous.

Tony: no robocop, YOU shut up!

Loki: No. this is too entertaining, you think i want to end one of the only things that gives me joy? You’re out of luck Steven.

Steve: ughhh, fuck me… I hate you so much sometimes Loki

Bucky and Tony: WHAT?!

[n3felibata]

Crying because in Civil War, when Tony tells Steve about the break up with Pepper, he says "I'm so sorry, Tony, I didn't know."

Despite everything going on, he still feels empathy for Tony. I don't think he hates him. There were definitely times where he was mad at him, but I don't think they were really full blown enemies

[aurumacadicus]

Oh no just had a really mean thought.

The team thinks that Tony's a guy who would love rollercoasters. He's a thrill seeker to his core. He drives fast cars and does barrel rolls in the suit that make even Rhodey turn a little green at the thought. The only one who can really keep up with him is Carol, and she goes ashen when she hears Tony blithely explain how he learned (and subsequently fixed) his icing problem when he first went into the upper atmosphere.

So they are stunned when Tony starts gathering hats and cellphones and purses and goes to sit down in the shade until everyone has ridden their fill at the theme park.

"We can take turns holding stuff," Bruce offers, because he's not going to ride all of the rides. Just a few. More would be a strain. "You can ride the next one."

"I'm not getting on a rollercoaster," Tony says, voice clipped, in such a way that even Clint doesn't want to wheedle him.

Everyone keeps asking throughout the day, though. They don't want him to feel left out or neglected. This is a team bonding experience! It doesn't seem fair that they're all having fun while Tony is sitting out. (Tony procures a fruity cocktail from somewhere, mostly to wave it at them aggressively every time they ask.)

Steve goes to grab his satchel to sit with Tony and maybe do some practice sketches when he notices Tony's grip on it very deliberately change from white-knuckled to casually loose. It doesn't make sense. Tony's not even on the rides, and he's mentioned how safe they are these days. "...Do you," he begins, then stops, unsure how to proceed.

"No I don't," Tony cuts in sharply, apparently assuming Steve was going to ask if he wanted to ride again. "Just because you told me your friend murdered my parents does not erase the fact that for forty years I thought they'd died in a reckless driving accident."

And it occurs to Steve suddenly, fast and hard enough he feels physically ill: Tony has only ever sought thrills when he was in control of them, piloting the suit or sitting in the driver's seat of his cars. Happy had mentioned only recently being able to drive Tony more than once in a blue moon. He's a very cautious driver, but even then, once when the car lurched after being rear-ended, Tony had thrown out his arms in an effort to protect Peter and Natasha sitting on either side of him.

He can't control the rollercoasters. And he's terrified for everyone else on them, even if he knows it's irrational.

"Is there anything I can do?" Steve asks.

Tony pauses, apparently not having expected that. Finally, he says, "Don't tell the others."

It doesn't really make him feel like he's helping, but Steve nods in agreement anyway. "Let's go get food for the team when Bruce taps out so we don't lose your table," he offers instead, and isn't offended when Tony shrugs halfheartedly in response.

[soliloquent-stark]

forever upset we never had this trio in the mcu (you know, besides trying to kill each other)

AHAHAH, I’m a trashcan for these three

Shellhead, Winghead and Shithead.

[dhampling]

warming 18+ fem!reader, 1.2k

Some half-lidded doze before dawn breaks and you must only be sentient because you await him subconsciously, as prey awaits a looming predator on the hill. - early morning feeding and cockwarming because i said so. inspired by this anon!!! wc: 1.2k cw: 18+, cockwarming, fondling, breeding if you squint so hard, fingering, afab reader, if there are errors no there aren't

You sincerely know you don’t hear him before he approaches, and yet the dip in the bed doesn’t startle you. Some half-lidded doze before dawn breaks and you must only be sentient because you await him subconsciously, as prey awaits a looming predator on the hill.

He has to know. 

Your heart has to have given you away, no matter how unaware you are of the thrum nor how you try to temper it. It’s a gentle awakening as the birds begin their early song from rag-woven nests on their roofs outside the window, despite the world still being a few dark hours away from the burgeoning break of a new sun. 

You quietly wriggle back, closer to the backboard of your tavern bed; and lift the covers by the far corner for your cool-chested lover to slide in under at your side with his usual thieves’ ease. 

Astarion settles swiftly. Captures you in a few silent smiley.

A few moments of a still embrace before he takes the quilt and lifts it over the both of your heads, only to hold your face in one deep sleepy kiss whilst he melds himself to your sleep-warmed figure. His head rests on your inner arm, your other wrapped around his ribcage, while his own both capture your torso in a reverent grasp.

He’s tried to warm himself, you can tell. 

He’s been under his own quilt. Your heart warms at it, so he can try and ensure his stony embrace isn’t quite so shocking to your system - but there’s little he can do to give himself heat that doesn’t involve you, and it’s something he knows as well as you.

You bow to kiss his curls and he shuffles in closer with a yawning sigh.

“Hungry?” 

“Famished, my love.”

Rumble tones. You offer your inner arm from under his head and he smiles dopily against the soft skin, planting languid kisses along the flesh as he sounds out the basilic vein and rouses it to stirring.

You wish you could see him in the early din. Watch as he worships your simple flesh. He’s divine, face of the gods; beautiful and sincere at your heel. 

When he has a secure lock on the vein and dips with little warning into a razor bite, it’s not as jarring as it otherwise can be. As when you offer him your neck after a long day of adventuring. It’s almost balmy to succumb to him like this, to know you have a few hours to rest after providing for him to feed with your beloved newly-warmed like a lamb in your arms.

The pain is still searing, of course; a wincing burn enough to cause strong discomfort. He reaches up under your half-gone sleepshirt and palms gently at your breast whilst he feeds in a familiar calming motion. The skin there is soft and heavy, pleasurable to the both of you when he grabs gently and holds you; thumb seeking a nipple to rub at, to pebble at his touch. 

You can hear his suckling above anything the world has to offer, the deep numb in the blood rushing to your head. The precision of his latch. The slightest wiggle of incisors in your butter-soft flesh; the swallowing of spit and the thick metal of your blood, the quiet whimper growling of his groans against skin. 

There are a few pained moments offset by his touches to your breast, where the intensity of his bite gives way to the delirious haze of bloodloss and you’re ecstatic in the hot thrum of your heartbeat. 

To give him his morning blessing. To allow his stomach the freedom of hunger for few precious hours. 

When he mounts your thigh you know he’s nearing the end of his feed, cock hard under his sleeping linens which loosen with each sleepy rut of his hips on you. By the time he’s finished his length is wholly worked free and beginning to leak his own nectar against your own sleepclothes. 

His arousal instinctively gives way to your own. You feel yourself growing pliable under his kisses whilst his fangs leave your flesh.

“You feel good, sweet one?” You murmur into his hair, and he nods slowly in response whilst slowly humping your thigh; erratic movements as he instinctively searches for the warmth of your cunt. 

“Thank you, perfect thing. Turn for me?”

He palms at the soft flesh of your ass under your sleepclothes as you give way to him. 

The moment you turn to face the wall he has you locked in his arms, one hand groping still at your breasts whilst the other works its way to your trousers and aids you in wriggling free of them by holding them open.

When his now-warm hand reaches round your front to finger lazily at the apex of your slit, the low groan of laughter in him gives way to small trembles. You can feel the nectar he coaxes free with ease, wet in wait of him.

“Warm me while we rest?” 

His voice is little more than a lusty whisper in your ear as he fiddles with the pebbling bud at your breast, hand at your honeyed cunt held still as you gently hump it in search of friction.

“Gods yes. Please.”

Your left leg gives way to him easily as he takes his newly-wet hand and lifts your inner thigh, lifting his burning cock from where it drips down onto the bedlinens and nestling it in the gap just where your sex ends.

He humps at your slit for a few moments in a fevered search of relief, the bulbous head of his cock delicious in the slick friction it offers. You want nothing more than for him to sink deep inside you and to keep him there forever with your violent spasms. 

When he does give you your deepest desire, you feel yourself melting. Fingers losing their tension as you curl into yourself, his tip breaching your hole in the most sinful of delights; dipping in a few shallow thrusts as he hitches your leg at his hip before sinking in one deep push to the hilt.

He’s big. Angry in sheer lust. His cock settles deep and he lets a delirious groan before you tap his arm in silent laughter. A room full of sleeping bodies and you’re indulging like this, as you have been for the past tenday. It feels beyond sinful. He bites at your shoulder with a huge smile and a deep breath.

You could die happy, you reckon. Him inside you, shuffling to ensure the comfort of your limbs without being held by him. He’ll remain hard for a good while yet with no friction and the reassuring weight of him inside you is fast becoming your favourite feeling in the realms. 

“I love you.”

It’s a quiet announcement to your shoulder, and the satisfied groan that follows is anything but. 

“I love you, too. More than you know.”

His lips leave your neck as you angle your head in search of a kiss, and he’ll be damned if he leaves you hanging. 

When he pulses inside you as your lips meet, tip filling your womb with prespill at the deepest part of your core; you can’t recall ever being happier.

“Sleep now, sweet thing. I’ve got you.”

And wrapped in his arms, buried inside you; you believe him.

Gods, you believe him.

[lovebugism]

“we don’t like each other, but we’re at a mutual friend’s Christmas party and we keep getting caught under the mistletoe together”

eddie and r at steve’s christmas party!

ty for requestling lovie! pls enjoy xoxo — you and eddie, arch enemies since you met, share a kiss under the mistletoe thanks to your meddling friends (enemies to lovers, fluff, 2.2k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Steve’s hand is warm on the small of your back as he leads you the long way to the kitchen. His too big house is glowing with life — with warm-colored Christmas lights and the laughter of your closest friends. It all makes your skin sparkle. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

You’re draining your cup of its contents, head tipped back to catch every drop of Steve’s dad’s expensive liquor. You let the boy lead you blindly for a refill until you notice that you’re further from the kitchen now than you were sitting with him on the couch.

“Where are we going?” you wonder with a hearty chuckle.

“To get you another drink!” he insists, playing innocent.

“Then why are we circling your living room?” 

He guides you around the French doors of the entrance and past the wooden staircase — where Max and Lucas dangle mistletoe from a string on the upper story. They bicker back and forth about exactly where to place it and forget to be discreet about any of it.

You’re about to walk past it and towards the kitchen, but Steve stops short before you can. Eddie exits the hallway just in front of you, seemingly led by none other than Dustin Henderson in an obviously concocted plan. 

This marks the second Christmas of your friends trying to get you and the freak to kiss.

It’ll also be the second Christmas that they fail.

“I can see you, you know?” you shout to the arguing teenagers.

The banter quietens all at once. 

Lucas shoots an awkward smile down at you, dressed in an itchy sweater and collared shirt that his mom obviously dressed him in. Max is much less apologetic. Her auburn braids sway on either side of her face as she leans over the railing, clutching at the lit-up garland with a bandaged hand.

“Can you just kiss and get it over with?” she pleads with all her practiced teenage desperation. “Lucas almost chopped my hand off cutting the fishing wire, and I need to know it was worth something.”

“Yeah, in your dreams, Mayfield,” Eddie scoffs, walking past you without a single glance your way. You wouldn’t know, though, because you weren’t looking at him either. You bypass the mistletoe and head the opposite way toward the kitchen. “Not a chance,” you murmur under your breath.

“I said I was sorry!” you hear Lucas exclaim as you go.

Max squints her stony blue eyes at him. “Yeah, ‘cause sorry’s gonna fix my hand, right?”

You pour your own drink while Steve lectures the kids about being distracted. He’s back a couple minutes later, wearing a dumb Christmas sweater and an even dumber grin. “Watcha doing?” he lilts slowly as he walks to stand at your side.

You lick beer from the side of your thumb after spilling a drop or more. “Separating myself from the plotting,” you answer, vague and somewhat ominous.

He furrows his brows and scoffs out a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“Everyone’s trying to get me and Munson to kiss. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s just a joke,” he assures with a shrug, even though you both know it’s more than that. 

He could’ve used that excuse the year before — when he and Dustin were practically tripping over themselves to get you and Eddie in the same room and under the same mistletoe. Now it’s a competition. Now it’s real. 

They’re trying to prove to themselves that they can get you and Eddie to kiss more than they’re trying to prove that they’d been right about the two of you all along.

“Is that why you hid a mistletoe by the records?” you squint and raise your cup for another sip. 

You and Eddie have a history of fighting over what music gets played at parties. You’re notorious for it, actually. Even tonight, you argued about whether to play Christmas music or the regular stuff. That was before you noticed the ribboned plant hiding in the cabinet of records, of course. Then you walked away entirely.

That’s why you’re listening to Dio now instead of Nat King Cole.

“Robin did that, actually,” Steve tells you as he crosses his arms over his chest. “And it would’ve been genius if she actually hid the damn thing. It’s like I’m the only one taking this seriously!”

“Both of you are idiots. And creeps.”

“Do you wanna go smoke, or do you wanna keep calling me names?”

“Hm…” you hum and pretend to ponder his question. You purse your lips to the side and flit your eyes to the ceiling. “How about we go smoke and I keep calling you names.

He thinks for a second. Then nods. “Deal.”

Steve’s deck is as ornately decorated as the rest of his house. It glows yellow from the wreaths on the windows and the garland on the railing. The golden color is the only warm thing about being outside. The bitter breeze bites through the material of your sweater, pricking at your skin no matter how tightly you fold your arms around yourself.

You and Steve huddle together like penguins for warmth. He pulls out a little tin box from the back pocket of his jeans — there’s one joint left inside it. He passes it off to you, then pats at his sides with a frown between his brows. 

“Shit…” he huffs.

“What?” you ask, teeth chattering.

“I forget the damn lighter.”

You scoff. “Genius.”

He rushes back inside. The glass door slides open, basking you in a momentary warmth, before sliding shut again. 

You’re not alone for very long, though. He’s back far quicker than you expect. You hear the schlick of the opened door and feel the woosh of golden heat. When you look over your shoulder with a half-hearted complaint on the tip of your tongue, you realize that Steve isn’t back.

It’s Eddie fucking Munson.

“Oh, you gotta be shitting me,” you mumble under your breath.

His brows pinch together, dark eyes twinkling with confusion when he looks at you. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Wait— Don’t shut the door!”

“What are you talking about?” he laughs and shuts it anyway.

“No, don’t—” 

It’s too late. You rush to the glass and hear a faint click on the other side. You wrap your fingers around the cool handle and pull. It doesn’t budge. 

“Those assholes locked us out here,” you grouse — partly for Eddie, but mostly for the assholes in question locked inside.

Steve peeks through the blinds. You can only see his eyes, honeyed and sparkling with mischief. “Who’s the idiot now?” he teases. The big dumb grin is audible in his voice. You blink, and he’s gone again.

“He lured us… With weed…” Eddie murmurs. You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. He nods with a small shrug. “That’s kinda genius, actually.”

“Except we can’t smoke it. ‘Cause we don’t have a lighter.”

Eddie’s face screws up in offense, chin jerking back like he’s flinching. He pulls a pale hand from the pocket of his leather jacket. The metal Zippo glimmers beneath the Christmas lights. “It’s like you don’t know me at all, sweetheart,” the wild-haired boy teases.

“I don’t,” you concur and snatch the lighter from his ringed fingers. “And I’d love to keep it that way.”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?” he jokes, squinting at you with eyes made of chocolate and smiling with lips rosier than flower petals.

“Thanks for noticing,” you mumble through the joint. You hold your hand over the flame while you light it, taking a deep puff before passing it off to the boy beside you.

“At least we have a break from those psychos, right?” he jokes as he takes it from you.

Your laugh comes out in a white cloud. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure we’re, like, the only normal people here.”

“Yeah…”

“Don’t let that go to your head, though. You’re still a freak.”

“And you’re still a bitch,” he lilts with a grin, then passes the joint back to you — a makeshift peace offering.

“Don’t be mean to me—” you squint and snatch the blunt from his hand. The tone you use is a foreign one, coated with a hurt he can’t tell is real or in his head. His eyes go wide, anyway. An apology bubbles in his throat, but you beat him to the punch. “—It turns me on.”

“Oh,” he murmurs under his breath, heart thudding hard against his ribcage. “…Oh.”

Your lips curl into a smirk around the edge of the joint. The ash burns orange when you take a deep inhale and turns dark again when you pass it back.

His ringed fingers brush yours, and Eddie gets shy in a way he never really has before. Not with you, anyway. Your touch has him buzzing, gets him all awkward like a giddy teenage boy who’s never been around a girl before. 

He forces a laugh through a sparkling chest. “Now I don’t know if I should stop or keep going.”

A giggle sputters from your lips before you can stop it. You hadn’t meant for it to come out, of course — you were actually trying really hard to swallow it down. But it’s spilling from your smiling mouth like rays of golden sunshine in a navy blue winter, anyway.

Eddie couldn’t hide his amusement if he tried. The blunt burns, unhit, between his fingers, because he’s too busy looking at you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever made you laugh before,” he says, chuckling to himself while pride swells behind his ribcage. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve even made you smile before.”

“Don’t get used to it— I’m just tipsy.”

You reach over to snatch the burning stick from his hand, and he suddenly understands what you meant before — the whole don’t be mean to be, it turns me on thing that he’ll probably be thinking about for the next week or so. 

‘Cause you’re always rough with him. Rough and a little bit bitter. It bordered on hate, unrooted and visceral. Erotic. Maybe he liked teasing you so much because he liked it when you told him off. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to leave you alone even now.

“I like you like this, though,” Eddie confesses, voice as soft as his melted-chocolate gaze. His eyes get all squishy around the edges when he looks at you now. It makes you cower because you’re not used to that — to liking it. 

He shrugs and sticks his fidgeting hands into his jacket pockets, trying hopelessly to play it cool. “Maybe we should, like, go get drinks together or something? So, you know, you can be nice to me and— halfway tolerate me or whatever.”

You get quiet, and he isn’t totally sure what to make of it. 

His flitting eyes (going halfway blind from staring at Steve’s Christmas lights instead of you) find your gaze again. You’re wearing a smirk he’s never seen on you before, barely there but still obvious. No one’s ever looked at him the way you are now — like the world could fall apart, but you’d never know it because he’s somehow more distracting.

You catch his button-eyed gaze and hold it until it hurts.

“In your dreams, Munson,” you singsong sweetly to him, lips like wine. It’s his words from earlier (ones he’s starting to regret right about now), but you say them with a wider and more sincere smile.

It feels almost like a promise.

A whistle sounds in the distance, coming from above you.

You and Eddie share confused glances before taking a single step forward. Max and Lucas are leaning over the balcony a story above you — with that damn mistletoe hanging from fishing wire. That means Dustin and Steve aren’t too far, either. Which means Robin’s probably up there, too. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Eddie squints up at them, chin tilted to reveal the pale expanse of his neck. You don’t know why you can’t stop looking at him. Maybe it’s the weed and the one beer you had, but you never thought a neck could be pretty until now.

“We’ve been here for a while, actually,” Max sasses in return.

Lucas concurs with a shoulder pressed intently against hers. “Yeah. My arm’s starting to get a little tired over here.”

You and Eddie huff and roll your eyes at the same time, so strangely synchronized. You’d both be similarly annoyed if your minds weren’t racing. ‘Cause it’s a tradition now — for all your friends to get you to kiss with storebought mistletoe — and it’s always tradition for them to fail.

It’s a record you and Eddie would like to break now, almost painfully so, but neither of you will humor the other by saying that out loud.

The boy beside you merely shrugs. His cheeks flush pink with an embarrassment he’d sooner blame on the cold. You can see it in his eyes, though — in the twinkle in the deep chocolate of them. His gaze is weirdly expressive in that way. He couldn’t hide anything from you if he tried.

“Should we…?” he trails off. 

He won’t let you know that he wants to — kiss you, that is — but he’s not gonna do anything you don’t want to do, either. He’s not a total asshole, just a stupid boy falling head over heels for a girl he thought he hated five minutes ago.

“Let’s just get it over with,” you huff in annoyance.

You say it begrudgingly — like tasting him with your suddenly longing lips is some kinda chore.

You kiss the breath from his lungs a second later.

[dariaslookalike]

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 11

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

You jolt awake in the night; a chilly breeze through the window or an odd nightmare that was already fading from your memory. Whatever it was, you thrash against the blanket and suck in sharp breaths of air. You blearily gaze around the room when a shiver creeps up your spine and you find him sitting in the corner armchair.

“You’re a creep.” You croak out.

House raises his glass of bourbon in admission. You can only see the vague silhouette of him lit up by the light drifting in from the street; the glint of his glass, the dark shadows of his brow and cheekbones. You stay like that for a few minutes, gazing at each other. Your eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, and while he sips, you drink in the sight of him. The new stubble lining his face, the whites of his eyes, the curl of his lip. 

You break the silence with a quiet question. “How was work?”

You realise it’s dumb as soon as you say it. So much had happened from work to here, where you lay, naked in his bed. You roll yourself over to your side, fully facing him.

House stares at you, and nothing is revealed on the stony plane of his face. “Cameron asked about you.”

You blink. Not like House to avoid the question, but you play into him. “What’d you say?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You hear his glass clink against the bedside table, and he groans. He shifts in his chair, and you can make out his hands being dragged down his face. His voice is muffled behind his palms, and you squint. “Huh?”

House just groans again, and you’re blinded when he reaches over swiftly and flicks on the lamp. You stop yourself from hissing, and just fling the blankets over your head. Only when you stop seeing white on the dark of your eyelids do you gradually lower it again. 

House is staring at you, and while your eyes still sting from the brightness, you appreciate being able to see him. He grinds his teeth. “I said, do you know how annoying that is?”

You blink, stopping yourself from trying to memorise the detail of his neck, and draw your eyes back to his. “What, Cameron asking you a question? Scandalous, I know.”

House scoffs in disbelief, but it doesn’t hold the same bite it used to. It’s softer somehow, here in the pillowy, blanketed expanse of his bedroom. “Even now- Even now, when you’re running on a few hours of sleep and you’re not even fully awake yet, you’re a smart arse.” You clench your jaw as he throws his hands up softly, defeated. “No, no, not Cameron asking. It was not knowing what to say.”

You don’t say anything, and his eyes flick to yours.  “I know a lot of things; more than every patient in the clinic combined, more than the snot nosed kids and helicopter parents. But I didn’t know what to say to Cameron.” He leans back in the chair, and scoffs at the ceiling. “I could’ve said your pimp raised your hours or that you were being treated next door by Wilson, and she could go shave her head with you, if she likes. And instead I stood there, and couldn’t think of anything.”

You don’t know how to reply, and he clenches his jaw, blinking away something in his eye, before he takes another sip of his drink. 

“House.” Your voice is soft but it still sounds too loud in the sudden silence that envelops you both. 

You don’t know how to say it, how to ask. You can feel the words lodging in your throat, trying to bubble out and instead being barricaded inside. So, you shift yourself back towards the edge of the mattress, and raise the blanket up with one arm as an invitation. You see his adam's apple bob and his eyes flick to yours. It’s one thing to fall asleep in the same bed after exhausting sex. It’s another to consciously make the decision to lay with each other- somehow, it felt more vulnerable, more raw, more intimate than what you two had done earlier.

It’s just sex. House’s words from earlier ring out and you can almost see them fluttering through his head right now. 

Fine. It’s just sex. You start to lower your arm, rescinding your invitation. But House moves, staring into your eyes all the while, raising himself to his feet and you smile at him. Not a toothy, cocky smile, but a soft one that has your dimple showing.

House groans, his hand whipping to his leg. “Argh!” He’s unsteady on his feet and falls back with a ‘hrumph’ into his chair. 

You don’t realise how hard you’re gripping the sheet until you sit yourself up and drag half the bedding with you. “Are you okay?”

House scoffs. “If you call missing muscle and cripple inducing pain okay, then yes, I’m okay.”

You roll your eyes, relaxing slightly. House sees your reaction, and sighs. “It’s just- it’s just a bad pain day. Trying to fuck the shit out of gorgeous women puts a bit of a strain on me.”

You gulp, slightly. “I’ll have to tell that woman off when I meet her.”

House’s breath is sharp and hissing through his nose, but he still manages to scoff. “Don’t do that.”

You can feel your pulse jumping in your neck. “Do what?”

“Don’t sit there and act like some insecure teenage girl who didn’t get asked to prom- you’re gorgeous, and if you pretend you’re not, it makes you look like a gorgeous idiot.”

You laugh, but still feel your cheeks flushing. “House, one time I walked into work, you asked me if a dog chewed me up and spit me back out.” You raise your hands in defence. “I’m not trying to fish for your compliments- I know I’m not the girl in magazines and I’m not like Cameron or Cuddy. I learnt that a long time ago and I’ve learnt to live with it.”

House looks repulsed. “You actually are an idiot then.” You roll your eyes, and he shakes his head in disbelief, still hissing in pain. “Yes, you’re not anorexic or bulimic or some giraffe looking model. And I can’t get enough of you. If you think that I’m not going to compliment you, and tell you truthfully that you’re beautiful, because you weigh more than some pubescent teenage girl beauty standard bullshit, you’re an idiot.” 

He’s staring at you from beneath his brow, “Get me a bottle of vicodin from the cupboard, and I’ll show you what I really think about you.” You can practically see the dirty images across his mind. You, pinned beneath him, getting praised and worshipped and adored by House’s depraved self. 

Your cheeks are definitely aflame now but you manage to force out a soft laugh. “I don’t know how you managed to say all that when you’re in that much pain.”

As if remembering his pain, House groans loudly, deep from the back of his throat, as his hand rubs over his leg. You try not to focus on the way that sounds make you throb, and you swing your feet over the side of the bed. You see House’s eyes cling to you, to the skin hidden by the bed sheets covering you. You smirk, and simply grab a discarded shirt from the floor, slipping your arms into it. The bedsheets drop, and you hear House inhale sharply at the sight of your bare chest, but then you poke your head through successfully and cover yourself again with the t-shirt.

House’s t-shirt. It’s got some sort of graphic across the front and you vaguely recall it from House’s so called ‘fashion week’ that occurred after Cuddy demanded he wear a doctor’s coat. You slide to your knees in the space between House and the bed, and he shifts his hips slightly towards you. 

“Round two?” He asks, smirking down at you.

You laugh, and reach towards the bedside table. “How can you be that horny in that much pain?”

House’s blue eyes track your movements. “It’s one of my many talents.”

You grab the small tube and close the drawer, turning back to House. His eyes flick down to the Deep Heat tube, and trail down you, snagging on your bare thighs. His breath is uneven as he speaks. “How’d you know that I kept that there?”

You look up to him from beneath your lashes. “I’ll be honest- I’ve gone through your entire apartment by this point. I know where you keep your birth certificate, let alone some cream.”

He huffs. “‘Should have expected you to be a detective too.”

“As if you didn’t do the same thing at my place.”

House stares down at you for a moment before he speaks. “You’ve got me there. You found my birth certificate and I found your collection of raunchy pornography, so I guess we’re even.”

You unscrew the lid and squeeze some cream onto your hands. It warms near instantly. “Ha ha. I don’t keep porn, only a box of sex toys.”

Your eyes flick back up at his silence to see House’s hooded gaze as he stares at the apex of your thighs, seemingly entranced, and you shake your head. “Take your pants off, House.”

He blinks, shuddering in a breath. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

He shimmies himself out of his pyjamas- some flannel pants that you might have called him an old man for another night. But tonight, when he shakes and his leg spasms as he finally strips his pants, you resist. 

You don’t comment on his laboured breathing when he leans back against the chair, and you simply scooch closer until you’re enclosed by his knees. His hand reaches forward, threading into your tousled hair and pulling it, gently enough to drag your eyes up to his.

House stares down his nose at you, and you remain like that for a moment, staring at each other. You could stare at him forever, you think. Study the lines of his face and the blues of his eyes for your whole life, the same way a cartographer memorises the planes and the dips of a landscape or a crazed artist obsesses over the cool blue of the ocean. Memorise the notch in his brow or the lines under his eyes or the sharp slope of his cheekbone.

A smile tugs at his lips. “You are gorgeous.”

Your brow crinkles. “Now you’re only saying that because I’m on my knees.”

His hand tightens at the roots of your hair, and his grip is more sharp. “You’ll believe me. Eventually. It’ll take me fucking that insecurity out of you and maybe getting Wilson to join, but it’ll work.”

You laugh, cheeks aflame. “‘You sure you could handle that? Last I checked you hated the idea of me taking on Chase by myself, let alone your buddy.”

His jaw ticks, and you can’t tell if his sharp inhale is his pain or the mention of Chase. “That’s because Chase is a snot-nosed ‘yes-man’.”

You roll your eyes half-heartedly. “Stop with the squabbling and let me work.”

His hand loosens at your head, and you lean forward, gingerly smoothing the cream down his bare leg. House flinches at the touch, and you hear him grunt when your fingers trail over the silvery mass gouged out of his thigh. You work gently, and even softer when the grip on your hair tightens, stinging your scalp, and his breath racks through his chest, leaving him heaving. You massage the heated cream into his skin, working in circles and with both hands, pushing into the surrounding muscle and working it into the silvery scar. When it’s absorbed, and his thigh is warm to the touch, you continue working him with your hands, pushing down on the muscle and easing back in a soft massage. 

House swallows above you. “I think this is better than the blowjob.”

You smile up at him, mockingly. “Really?”

His head falls back against the chair, and he groans. You clench your legs at the way the sound makes your core tighten, and focus on ensuring your hands continue to work. “Actually, we should do both to test it.”

You laugh at his hopeless attempt, and his head tilts back down as he looks at you. “How’d you learn this? I’ve had masseuses do much worse.”

You narrow your eyes in a faux-glare, applying more pressure to his thigh. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

His hands abandon your hair, and he runs them through his own hair, his adams apple bobbing as he does so. “There’s always things to learn. I didn’t know what you were like in bed, and now I know you’re a slutty little thing that loves to-”

“I got a certificate in massage therapy,” You cut him off. “While I was studying. It was easy enough and I thought it would come in useful if I ended up flunking out of being a doctor.”

“You? Flunking out? In your dreams- or nightmares, I suppose.”

You shrug softly. “It’s always good to have a back-up plan.”

He chuckles. “By that logic, what was your backup plan for your backup plan?”

“Get a sugar daddy.”

House’s eyes drop to yours immediately, searching for facetiousness. You simply smirk up towards him and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his thigh. Your staple, you suppose. You couldn’t argue against it. Kissing House’s thigh and getting that pupil-blown reaction was worth it. “Did that help at all?”

He blinks. “You can kiss it again and I’ll tell you. Or I have something else you can kiss.”

You ease your massage, now only working softly and lightly. “I meant the massage.”

His blue eyes are soft when he gazes down at you, staring at you appreciatively.. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you want me to get you some vicodin too?”

He sighs fully. “I could kiss you, you addict-enabling goddess.”

You roll your eyes, easing yourself to your feet. House leans forward as if shocked by the separation of your hands from his thigh, and you stand between his legs, letting your hands rest on his cheeks. They must reek of the cream, but he makes no move to resist you as you rub your thumbs against his stubble and trace the edges of his face. His shirt falls past the apex of your thighs, but his hands reach forward, slinking under the material and grasping your arse. You gasp, and move closer to him, his face coming closer to your breasts.

He squeezes your cheeks, fingers digging into the supple flesh. He gazes up at you, drinking in your reaction and hiss when his hand slaps against your arse, leaving a stinging sensation and a light, blotchy mark. He does it again, and you nudge into him, gasping lightly. You squeeze your legs together. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

He smirks. “My mistake. I’ll remedy it.”

His hands shift to your hips, gripping them and tugging you down slightly. When you’re lower, one hand reaches up, wrapping around your neck and pulling you towards him. It’s a bit awkward at that angle, but you bring yourself closer, lower, until you’re level with him. He leans forward, placing his lips against yours, and your hands move from his face to run through his hair as he deepens the kiss. He licks against your teeth and you give into him, letting him explore your mouth as his hand threads into your hair, pinning you in place. He’s warm and he’s demanding and he’s House, and you feel your core tighten.

When you pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, sucking in air. “I’ll go get your pills.”

“Forget about ‘em.” He says, trying to drag you back to his lips. You laugh, and pull back, and he lets you step back, away from him.

When you return, and pass him two pills, to which he glares at you mockingly for not bringing him the whole container, you retreat back to bed. You feel his eyes on your bare legs, and especially on the rosy print on your arse. You tug the blankets up and gaze at House as he throws back the pills and groans. He thumbs his glass, finishing the dregs of his drink, and then he lifts his head and stares at you with his cool eyes. 

You’re back to where you started. This time, you find the words.

“Come here, House.”

He furrows his brow. “And if I don’t? You’ll… what? Tie me up and make me?”

You roll your eyes in mirth. “Turn the lamp off and come to bed. Please.”

His cool gaze remains on you, and it’s almost calculating- weighing the pros and cons, the possibilities and the certainties of what your request entails. But maybe it’s the light yawn you let out, or the bleary blink of your eyes, or the not so subtle inhale of his shirt. Whatever it is, House’s gaze softens, and he reaches over, flicking off the lamp.

You can’t see anything as your eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, but you can hear him. He still winces when he raises himself to his feet, but the sound is soft and nowhere near his prior pained yelp. He hobbles the slight distance to the bed and there’s the sound of shuffling and twisting sheets and blankets as he gets into the bed.

And then he’s beside you. Here. 

You listen to each others breathing, neither one of you saying a word. Your eyes adjust, and you see the shape of him, darkened and identified by the sharp cut of his cheeks and the whites of his eyes. He’s staring at you too, and you wonder how much he can make out in the dark. Does he see the faded scars on your face or the tilt of your lips? Or does he see further, into you, and see all the thoughts and desires and twisted wants filling your head as you stare at him?

House is the first to break the silence, and does so by scooching closer. “Get over here.”

You chuckle quietly at his demand, but obey, shuffling closer until your arm brushes his. “I never took you as a cuddler.”

Somehow, even in the dark you can tell he’s rolling his eyes. But he doesn’t resist your observation, and rather he slips his hand under you, clinging to your back and drawing you even closer. You swing your arm out, to make sure you don’t suffocate in his shoulder, but more importantly to wrap around him too. There’s more shuffling and twisting from the both of you, but eventually, you find a comfortable position. You’re tucked into his side and his other hand rests on your thigh, drawing you leg across his hip. You ask him if that’s alright, if it hurts his leg, if he’s fine, and he scoffs lightly. “My leg won’t ever stop me from having you this close.” As if to emphasise your position, he rolls his hips forward, dragging himself against your bare core. But even House, it seems, is tired, because he relaxes and takes it no further.

 Both of your hands are wrapped around his waist, and you nuzzle your face into him, inhaling him and the smell of whiskey, detergent, and House. He laughs down at you, softly. “And you said I was the cuddler.”

“‘Shuddup.” You say, but the word is muffled in the fabric of his shirt. You twist your head, and kiss his bicep where his sleeve has risen up. He swallows, and you get the sense the rise and fall of his rib cage stutters.

You drift off like that, clinging to House. His breathing deepens, and as you fall asleep, you feel him shift slightly, before he kisses your head.

[sunlightmurdock]

Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

masterlist | next chapter

You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

@fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot

[sombrashe]

hii!

can you pretty please write something for Norm MacLean x reader?

ty, and i love your blog!

content fluff, just so much fluff and a little angst if you squint, childhood friends to lovers, reader is a breeder and its their wedding day, gn!reader, chubby!reader

note(s) hiiiiii :3 im so happy you like my blog!! i hope you enjoy this little but of fluff | i didnt know how to end it so it might seem a little abrupt

"Norm?"

Your voice bounces off the concrete walls and back into your ears. Your heels click with every step, your shoes are nice and shiny for the occasion. He wasn't home, at Chet's, or in the fusion room. A long shared hiding spot. You frown as you turn down yet another hallway. A sea of copy-pasted doors muddle together in your eyes as you huff. Maintaining your peppy smile you grip the bouquet tighter. When you noticed Lucy, but no Norm to accompany her you had to pause everything. A much disagreed decision which led to Overseer MacLain chastising you for your decision. It wasn't a good idea to make Vault 31 wait but you couldn't care less.

"Norman."

Your voice grows in pitch as you backtrack out of the hallway and into an identical one. One furthest from your wedding and who do you find sitting with his back to you? Cleaning the connection line of the vault floor.

"Oh! Norm, there you are."

He doesn't turn back and simply gives you a quick hand raise and a simple, "Busy. Be done soon."

You give a soft giggle and crouch down behind him.

"Norman MacLean. It's rude to ignore the person being married. Especially on their wedding day."

He finally turns at that. Almost as if he just realized who was talking to him. Your smile is unrelenting a stark contrast to the stony expression he gives you in return.

"Well, are you coming?"

You stand and extend your hand only to frown when he simply glances at your palm.

"What's wrong?"

You start to worry as he takes his time replying. You never felt this before, the feeling of your stomach becoming a giant knot. Like all your intestines became worms and got themselves tangled in each other. You did not like this feeling.

"You're making my stomach hurt, Norm. What's going on? You said you would be there when I met my partner."

"I got assigned cleaning duty."

You scoff and roll your eyes, a smile gracing your lips again as if you solved one of the riddles in the vault newspaper.

"It's my wedding day. I'm sure Hank would understand. You're my best friend after all, he would want you to be there with me."

Hands on your hips you can't help but notice as your cheeks start to sting with all this frowning and smiling.

"Best friend. Yeah, okay."

He repeated you again.

"Norman, what's going on? Are you sick?"

Bending over at the waist you place the cool back of your hand to his warm forehead and chew on your bottom lip. He feels fine. So why is he acting like this?

"I'm fine. It's nothing."

He swats your hand away. Using his hands he pushes himself to stand.

"Let's just go."

"No. Not until you tell me what's going on. Why you're acting like this. You've never repeated me twice. You only do that when you're upset. Three times and I would have to call security."

You try to give him a smile and laugh, but he just pushes past you. Hurrying you catch up to him as he goes to turn the corner out of the hallway. Reaching out you're able to grab ahold of his suit before he makes it.

"I don't want you to get married."

His words are rushed and he refuses to look at you. You give a small laugh hoping he was joking. You didn't go through all this... all this moving on just for him to confuse you.

"Norm, you said you were excited when I told you I was chosen."

"I lied."

I lied echoes throughout the corridor. Your grip tightens on his suit as you soak in his words.

"You told me-."

"I lied. About everything. It wasn't just practicing for me. None of it was practice. You need this, I know. Now you know so you can move on. What are you hoping they look like?"

He gives you a false smile and it looks out of place especially with you mimicking his stony expression from before. Dropping your hand you furrow your eyebrows and slam the palm of your hand into his chest.

"You... jerk! All this time I thought you wanted to be just friends. Thought you regretted everything. Fudge, Norm. Why didn't you tell me? I would have never gone to the council and convinced them to let me get married."

He gives you a genuine smile and you want to hit him again. Maybe yell at him some more until he's cupping your cheeks. His eyes are intense as they stare into yours.

"I know how important fulfilling your job is, I would never ruin that for you. I thought it would be easier if I didn't show up."

"That's stupid. You're more important to me than any job. I would be just as fulfilled and happy scrubbing floors."

His eyes search yours. His fingertips press into the soft flesh of your cheeks. You can tell he wants to lean in closer. Do as you always did ever since you were children. You don't give him the chance to back away. Not again. Leaning forward you rest your forehead against his, nose smushes against each other making it difficult to breathe. As if you could breathe clearly given the circumstances.

He takes the initiative this time and closes the minuscule gap between your lips. Years as the Overseers son gave him access to anything he ever wanted and you can tell he uses it to take care of himself.

"Strawberry?"

"They figured out how to make this stick that makes your lips soft and they gave me one to try."

You giggle and kiss his soft sweet lips again and again. Breaking away to smack your lips covered in the foreign flavor. After a good thirty minutes, you hear your name being called from a dot down the hallway.

"Lucy." You whisper as your heart starts to rise and you fear you might throw it up.

Taking your hand he squeezes it tightly before letting it fall beside the fabric of your wedding gear.

"I don't want to get married anymore, Norm. What do I do?"

"We explain to Lucy and see what she has to say. She's the older sister for a reason."

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

read on ao3 here | masterlist

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed. 

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns. 

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk. 

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum. 

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet. 

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after. 

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes. 

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you. 

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come. 

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin. 

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his. 

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl. 

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal. 

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards. 

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek. 

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire. 

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously. 

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?” 

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes. 

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows. 

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt. 

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.” 

The wind slams the front door shut. 

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before. 

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge. 

And yet.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “‘Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now. 

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm. 

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck. 

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns. 

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead. 

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

__

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately. 

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens. 

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.  

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot. 

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned. 

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.” 

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest. 

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.” 

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes. 

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled. 

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs. 

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company. 

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten. 

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him. 

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her. 

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her. 

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried. 

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be. 

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed. 

Peaceful. 

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo. 

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up. 

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness. 

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much. 

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.” 

“Ma’am,” you correct. 

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence. 

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.  

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!” 

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently. 

“Oh.”

—

next chapter >>

[leonw4nter]

hello ! i REALLY love your writing style !! 💘 i was wondering if i could request a leon fic where it is set in medieval times. i was thinking about where the reader and leon was on a romantic boat ride? the one just like from the movie tangled where flynn and rapunzel decided to take a boat ride under the flying lanterns? i think it would be too cute for that kind of scenario ❤️ ty!!

I See The Light

Knight!RE4R!Leon x GN!Reader AU

Leon trades his usual day of training and standing on his guard’s post for a scene of music and flowers alongside you, strolling along tree-lined streets as he holds your hand; the gentle pressure of his calloused fingers against your knuckles is a grounding sensation, keeping you anchored to this shared moment of peace with your lover. The subtle squeeze of his palms encasing your hand sent waves of reassurance that he will be here to stay for the years to come, to endure the passing of time alongside you. He hears your twinkling voice, practically seeing a small smile in your lips as you discuss what it could possibly feel like if one could float; your eyes were squinted and sparkly, like sun-lit waters of a relatively calm ocean; each gust of a breath expelled with every laugh of yours causes his heart to feel as if the wind lifts it closer to heaven. He nods to your words, the rest of the world fading away the more he listens to you. How funny that you rambled on and on about wanting to float, to feel the wind push your hair back for you as you felt the sky on the tips of your fingers, and Leon could describe the overwhelming sensation you trigger from him as floating; floating, but not drifting away from you. Your presence wields an imperceivable, powerful force that links him to you as the world around him swirls in a blur of greens, blues, pinks, and browns yet he is fixated on you and you alone. He cannot deny the force of his physical attraction towards you but you have given him a chance to peer beyond every smile and frown, to swim in the vast ocean of your dreams and fears; that is more than enough to captivate him fully, more than any external charm.

Your rambling had halted, much to Leon’s slight disappointment, when the purple and yellow banners overhead came into view. Just like the banners, everything else was in purple and yellow, adorned with an intricate illustration of the kingdom’s sun emblem. The children’s laughter and songs breathed life into the air of the festivity, hands dirtied with colorful chalks as they doodled on the stony ground while some played or braided hair. The center of the village is a marvel of pansies and zinnias as butterflies flit from one blossom to another, wings shimmering as iridescent film catches the sun’s golden ray. Stalls were overflowing with daffodils, daisies, and sunflowers; archways and trellis were hung with garlands of wisteria; flower crowns of various flora adorned the heads of villagers. The perfume-like fragrances of the flowers mingled with the cool air to a degree that did not overwhelm one’s sense of smell. Decorated carts peddled sweet and savory treats for cheap, some of them followed by long lines of patrons eager to have a bite. Leon sniffed a whiff of cinnamon and apples in the air, eyes immediately scanning the crowd for the source of the delightful aroma; he knew you liked apple pastries or any treat with apples and he intended on giving you just that. Spotting a small cart run by some children, he squeezed your hand to get your attention.

“My dove, how does an apple and cinnamon fritter sound?” He softly asks with an eager smile.

You light up at the proposition of a snack, forgetting the call of your empty stomach pleading for a meal; you were far too busy admiring the sights around you… maybe also distracted by the work of art whose hand is entwined with yours, stealing momentary glances when his eyes were not fixated on you.

“It sounds perfect,” you breathed. “Where are you going to get it?”

He gestures to the small stall up ahead; a wooden cart with large red wheels, the faded red paint chipping away to reveal the wood it concealed. Child-like doodles of apples and small brown lumps adorn the body of the cart.

“There,” he says. You nod and he leads the way, occasionally looking back at you to check if you’re still trailing behind him.

While his gaze is trained elsewhere aside from you (a rare instance for this day), you take the time to admire the back of your mon nounours. He stood tall and imposing, exuding an aura of strength and resiliency despite having shed the silver plate of armor he is usually spotted donning; his blond hair reflected the almost-setting sun, casting a sheen that can be likened to a halo. The fit of his black tunic accentuated the ripples and lines of his back, muscles earned through several years of rigorous training and exercise. His vest accentuated the tapering of his waist, a perfect curve meant for your hands to perch upon. The fabric of his garments moved with him in each step, revealing the confidence and fluidity of a skilled knight even without protective metal plates. Soon, you two stand in front of the humble stall. You admire the array of different apple snacks besides the fritters you set your sights on– apple tarts, small apple cakes, apple pies, and apple bread.

“How much will 6 of the apple fritters cost?” He asks, a hand reaching for a pouch he kept on the inside of his vest.

A little girl hops off of the small stool she sat on, attending to Leon’s query. “It’ll be 6 silver pennies.”

“I’ll have 6 of those then,” he decides. You’ve shifted your hold on him, a hand now linked near the crook of his arm.

The slightly stronger cooling wind swept Leon’s dirty blond fringe, tresses slowly resembling a bird’s nest atop his head. Flowers swayed delicately like dances in colorful skirts and eccentric hats; trees and grass rustle softly, a soothing symphony harmonizing with the whispers of the wind. The blond knight beside you kept a hand over his hair, strands now tousled into a disarray.

The child takes the steamier fritters and places them inside a small pouch, counting and making sure to choose the best and tastiest-looking ones. She finishes up, standing on her tiptoes to hand your lover the treat, while Leon places his fees on her tiny palm. She giggles, gaze occasionally glancing at his hair. You pick up on this, bending down to the kid’s level with a wicked grin.

“There is a wildness to his hair, right?” you quietly ask before she nods in agreement.

“It resembles a lion’s windswept mane,” she added with a grin. Leon huffed, trying to flatten the disarrayed tangle.

“I think it’s alright, my love. Do you not like it when my hair is this way?” Leon asked, a little self-conscious now.

“Yes, I do love it mon nounours. You look less… standoffish. Less unapproachable. But I take it that it bothers you slightly.”

He nods, a silent affirmation to your statement of his hair slightly bothering him. Thinner strands have already poked his eye, causing them to slightly water.

“My sisters and I know how to weave crowns like those,” the little shop girl gestures to the passersby with crowns of flora. “We can weave you one quickly to keep your hair away from your face. We will not charge.”

Your face lights up at the proposition, tugging on Leon’s arm a little tighter now. He looks a little embarrassed, looking elsewhere as a burst of pink manifests itself on the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. You give him a pleading look, pushing your bottom lip into an exaggerated pout.

“Love, please? It sounds lovely, we can properly blend in with the rest of the kingdom! You will look lovely, I assure you. And besides, don’t the little girls sound adorable?”

Leon sighs, looking down at the small bag of pastry in his other hand. He worries about being spotted in town by a fellow knight, expecting a tirade of teasing to be flung his way when he gets back to the barracks but he knows that he is the least of his concerns, your happiness and well-being going first and foremost before his own. His stoic demeanor betrayed his inner turmoil, an icky guilt seeping into his heart at the mere thought of turning down this opportunity. Why he spared a thought or spent a moment to ponder over something silly, he’s not so sure when ever since, your heart and prosperity the only priority to the knight. With a faint sigh, he agrees.

“All right,” he says in a voice you can pick up. “The girls can weave a flower crown for me.” He sits on a slightly elevated surface right by the stall.

The little girl squeals, clasping her hands before she opens  a small satchel full of vibrant flowers. “Let me find my sisters, my lord and lady. I will be back!”

You nod, watching her run with a pep to her step as she called for her siblings. A chuckle makes its way out of his lips, running his fingers through white gold locks. You stand beside him, reaching for the pouch of snacks in his free hand.

“I’ll hold this one while they work their magic on you, my lord.”

He mumbles a quiet thank you, pulling you in closer by your waist. You remain standing beside him while he sits, an arm snaked around your waist as he rests his head on your hip.

“You’d better eat your snack now, my dove. They’re best warm,” he reminds you as he motions to the pouch in your hand.

“I can wait for a little longer,” you respond as you rest a hand on the base of his head and gently scratch his scalp. If he could purr, he would’ve done so by now. “And I must correct you: these are not just best consumed warm.”

He looks up for a moment, a light confusion on his features before he rests his head against your hip again. “Why do you say so?”

“Because meals like these, comforting and delicious meals, are also best enjoyed with someone dear.”

You can’t see it but you know the ghost of a smile lingers on Leon’s lips, threatening to tug on the corner of his lips a little higher. He makes a mental note to pencil down your words on his pocket notebook, like he always did whenever you said something that deeply resonated with him. The approaching laughter of little children drew nearer, three little girls carrying either satchels or a small bucket of flowers. Leon sits back up, clearing his throat.

“My lord, feel free to select which flowers you’d like on your head. Your fair lady may assist you if you are in need of it,” the eldest tells him.

Rice flower, jasmine, wax flower, amaranthus; what will he select?

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The minutes flew by fast as if they were mere seconds, a securely woven crown of pink, purple, and white flowers now laying atop of his golden tresses; the children had pushed longer strands of his hair back, securing them in place with the flower accessory so that Leon wouldn’t have to constantly flatten the puff atop his head. The eldest sister of the adorable trio takes out a mirror from her satchel and gives it to the blond so he can see the work they’ve done on his hair.

“It looks… magnificent,” he breathes. “Magical, even. Thank you very much, girls. This gesture is very much appreciated.”

You feel warmth creep in from the base of your neck and crawling to your cheeks, tingling from the grin you currently sport. The crown of various flora add a tenderness to his otherwise rugged appearance, adding an element reminiscent of cherubs depicted on oil paintings.

“You’re welcome, kind sir. We hope you enjoy our treat and the festival,” the middle child speaks up as she clears up the excess trimmings and leaves. “Feel free to come back to us if need be!”

“We will,” you promise as you relink arms with your lover again before turning your backs to walk on with the rest of the crowd. The sun is sinking beneath the great blue vastness as a rosy and orange hue stretched on the sky, it’s only a matter of minutes until total darkness befalls the kingdom and the time to set the lanterns free comes around.

You were enchanted with the comforting glow of candles begin to light the streets up, delicate flickers of golden dancing on tall sticks of wax so Leon’s tug through the bustling crowd shocked you a little bit. You squeezed his hand in response to the suddenness of his actions, wanting to tell him that you found his movements abrupt.

“I apologize, my dove.” He says as he momentarily turns around to face you. “It is almost time to wish on lanterns and let them float to the sky. I wish to get our lanterns a little earlier because there is something I need to do.”

Not “want” to do but need to do. His choice of words intrigues you.

After mumbling a few apologies and excuses to the crowd slowly growing more dense in festival goers, you two finally get to one of the stalls selling their lanterns. There were all sorts of lanterns and the kinds of candles they had– some were shaped like circles, some like cylinders; some of the paper used was plain and simple while others had doodles of various things like animals or simply little scribbles of circles. There were candles that had thicker wax and longer wicks, candles with scented wax, and candles with wicks infused with a substance to cause the fire to burn warmer and brighter. After selecting the lantern you both desired, you two paid with a hefty sum of copper coins.

“Leon, that’s not the path to the sea wall,” you point out as you realize that he’s no longer right behind you. “We’re supposed to walk past the stall we purchased from.”

“Yes, I know. I will take you elsewhere,” he explains. He looks a little nervous now, a finger fidgeting with the edge of the lantern paper as he shifts from one foot to the other. “I know a better place if- if that’s alright with you, love.”

You nod, following him. “It’s more than fine with me. Take me to where we need to be, mon nounours.”

Kindly taking your hand, you two begin to walk away from the growing number of people heading to the seawall. You’re not very familiar with where he’s taking you but you trust him enough to know what he’s doing, happily trailing behind him as he lights the path with the glow of your lanterns.

“Don’t let go of these, alright? It would take quite some time until we get another lantern back at the square.”

It takes less than 10 minutes until you two reach the edge of the river, right at the shore. By now, the sun had completely descended beneath the waves and let the stars take the great wide stage in the heavens above.

“Kindly hold this for me,” he instructs you as he hands you his lantern. You hold both of your lanterns, watching Leon as he bends over to the protrusion hidden in a tree near the waterside. Fingers curl around a dusty fabric and lift it off, setting it down beside a small brown boat complete with a rope, small anchor, and oars. It dawns on you what this is all about; he will take you on a boat ride and celebrate the festival down the river with him. Your heart leaps and drums against your ribs, pulse pounding against your neck.

“You may get inside now..”

You raise your garments above your ankles with one hand as the other holds lanterns, stepping inside the boat. Leon pushes the boat, undocking it from the shoreline and before the boat drifts out too far into the water, he joins you.

“Look up at the sky, love.” He instructs you with a glimmer in his eyes, the silver circle of the moon reflected in arctic cerulean irises.

You do so and you are greeted by a wondrous sight, the kind of view that you were certain could only be depicted in intricate oil paintings that hung in long winding halls of the palace you called your home. Drifting along the tranquil river, the lanterns begin to rise and light up the void sky. They gradually begin to drift further away from the ground, becoming stars in the sky now painted with the hopes and wishes of the people. Each golden orb flickering reflected on the gentle ripples of water, creating a mesmerizing waltz of shadows and illumination. The hushed splish splash of water harmonized with the wind blowing against your ears and the rustling of foliage, setting the perfect musical score in this dream-like moment. More lanterns continued to join the others in the sky, the wind directing them to another point in the sky like a captain to his ship; the peace that came with the festival bathed over the kingdom in a dream-like ambience.

“They’re all so beautiful,” you whisper. “I feel… light, at peace. Calm.”

What you did to his heart is sheer, inexplicable magic.

“Yes,” he agreed softly. “They really are beautiful.” His head was not even craned upwards when he uttered those words, his gaze locked on you.

After a few moments of silent observation, you poke him on his arm as you gesture to the lanterns still with you.

“Of course,” he says with a sheepish smile as he takes his.

“Don’t forget to make a wish,” you remind him before you close your eyes and silently thank the universe for everything good– prosperity in your kingdom, good health, and Leon.

He closes his eyes too and wishes upon every single lantern and star in the sky that the universe would lead you to where you will be happiest in, even if it’s not with him. With a breath of anticipation, both of your hands release the glowing lanterns and watch it gracefully ascend as it carries shared dreams into the expanse of darkness. The world seems to have paused as Leon locked eyes with you, all his wishes and greatest dreams reflected in the twinkle of your gaze.

“I love you, my greatest dream.” The blond says as he takes your hand and envelopes them with his own. “I confess once again, with all the fervor in my lowly heart, that I am and will always be yours to keep. I am yours, now and forever, but only if you will choose to have me.”

You smile and lift your conjoined hands, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of his knuckles. Training must have been harsh the other day, a flushed soreness on the peaks of his knuckle bones could be seen when his fingers are curled.

“My most cherished knight and precious lover, I yearn to spend every moment in your presence and adore you as you so richly deserve. My grief will truly be beyond measure if I cannot have you in my life; the tides are nothing without the moon to beckon them.”

His normally composed demeanor softens, revealing a vulnerable and sensitive man that you are lucky to see. The angular lines of his face gave way to a loopy smile as his cheeks were tinted faint pink, a manifestation of his shy affection.

“I am but a humble palace guard, my thane. You speak of high praises that I believe I am not yet worthy of.”

You withdraw one hand from his to cup his cheek, thumb skimming over his cheekbone. He nuzzles into your touch, craving for more of your pillowy touch.

“No need to be shy when you’re with me, Leon.”

“Ah– yes, of course. I just… to me, to be in your company is to feel a profound contentment. Nothing else matters except for you.”

You chuckle, glowing with the sincerity of his words. Who knew that a scary, stoic man like him could be capable of such poetic compositions.

The itch to feel his lips against yours is an itch you can scarcely endure so your hand leaves Leon’s cheek to bunch the fabric on his vest, tugging him closer to yourself. His breath catches on his throat, inky pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes like a void.

“Stop me if I am pushing things.”

You begin with a kiss to both his cheeks, then the tip of his nose then the corners of his lips. You look into his eyes to spot any hesitation or discomfort, not wanting to make him feel dirty.

“Do you want this the same way I do?” you ask with lidded yet cautious eyes.

“I want this unfathomably more than you do.”

His left hand settles on the base of your head, fingers combed through your hair as his right hand settles on your hip, not resting the entirety of its weight even though you won’t scold him if he did; he just wants to be careful. The final tug propels him forward to you, his lips landing on yours.

Just with your lips you could feel Leon tense up and freeze before relaxing into the gesture, tilting his head at a slight angle so his nose wouldn’t obstruct your way. His eyebrows scrunch in focus, feeling you and only you and the comforting embrace of your warm lips against him. If there could be a moment that he can revisit and experience for the first time, it would be the first kiss he shared with you by the garden wall as he stood on a wobbling wooden ladder. Every nerve was lit with an electric thrill that gave you courage to deepen the kiss, fueled by the need to worship this part of your lover. His hands traveled from your hip to the small of your back, wanting to usher your closer to him without parting lips for even a second. Air was overrated in that moment, breathing expertly cycled to prolong this magical moment. It grew more fervent, crazed and drunk on devotion; you gave him a light nip on his puffy bottom lip, eliciting a soft sigh that fanned warm breath on your parted lips. Finally you pull away, breathing heavily and catching your breath as you rest your warm forehead against his, post-kiss. You hear Leon chuckling as he cupped your face and you find yourself following suit.

“That was,” he breathily whispers. “Spellbinding.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Leon pulls back, readjusting his clothes and trying to smooth the hair on the back of his head that your grip might’ve ruffled. You fix yourself too, feeling the puffiness of your lips by the tips of your fingers. You look relatively well-kept together so you help Leon in trying to look less frazzled and flustered, readjusting the flower crown that had become tilted.

“We should probably head back,” your lover says, sounding almost disappointed.

“You are not even trying to hide your discontent, mon nounours. It’s charming.” You smirk.

“I think that it is a shame that this evening feels too hasty for such an enthralling event,” he mumbles. “The King and Queen Mother will worry for you and it is for the best that we make our way back to avoid a talking-to.”

His hands find the oars, steering the boat back to the direction of the shore. You can see the disappointment on his face but he does his best to veil it, to avoid dampening your feelings. You place a hand on one of the oars, interrupting his movements.

“I have informed my mother and father that they shall expect me to return late,” you tell him and he almost can’t believe it. “Earlier this afternoon, before you came to pick me up for our afternoon escapade, I advised my parents to expect my delayed arrival at around the wee hours of the morning. They protested but I responded that I am capable of making my own decisions and defending myself, as well as that I will be in the company of a trusted official in the royal court. You have proven yourself worthy of spending time around me countless times and I do not hesitate to extend my hours of–”

Leon hastily envelopes you with a tight embrace, rocking the boat and rippling the surface of the velvet surface of the river. He sways your bodies side to side and you can feel a wide beam right by your cheek, pleased that Leon doesn’t have to mope about wishing to spend the night with you.

NOTE - 3 nights of sobbing over a book and sleeping at 3-4 AM resulted to a cold, which pushed back my original posting schedule <3 I'm okay now, still got a cold, but less tired and crusty-feeling compared to a day ago. Thank you to the lovelies who filled my inbox with requests and don't worry, I'll get around to writing them soon before school starts again. I hope the anon who requested this loves it, I'm so sorry for the delay but I hope this fic managed to live up to your expectations 🌷🌷 I'm craving a matcha roll and some sushi rn but I'm unfortunately broke so watching mukbangs and sobbing will have to do for now. Thanks to everyone who waited for me to come back from the break, I appreciate it tons!!!!!!!! I've got more fic ideas in store so I'll get to those too after finishing up requests (and they're also prolly angsty, I miss writing angst). ALSO DAWG TRUMP GOT SHOT??? LIKE IM NOT AMERICAN AND NOT FROM THAT COUNTRY BUT HELLO??? ASSASSINATIONS R SO IN AGAIN???? And I saw Leon edits to Trump getting shot too like 😭😭 It's funny ngl... like ik my goat wouldn't miss (JKJK DONT GO AFTER ME PLS THIS IS A JOKE!!!). Anyways, that's it and thank you for reading my fics!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I <333333333 UUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!

The space dividers are from @saradika , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[aurumacadicus]

Really dropped the ball on all the opportunities this makes:

Tony wasn’t one of those vampires that made your hair stand on end when you entered a room. He didn’t put you ill at ease or make you shiver with anxiety. He didn’t take long glances at throats and wrists and thighs and lick his lips in a way that made blood thrum louder in your veins. Fruit bats, after all, were seen as the tamer, calmer cousins of their blood-sucking, carnivorous family.

So it came as a shock when, one morning at team breakfast, Tony opened the fridge, paused, and then it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. “Where’s my fucking juice,” he asked, voice void of emotion.

No one said anything for a moment, too stunned to speak. Finally, though, it was Natasha who said, “Ah, the apricot? I used the last of it over some ice cream. I thought there was plenty of mango left.”

“I used the mango for a smoothie,” Bruce admitted, voice small. “But there was orange juice in the back?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Steve sighed, putting his head in his hands, because he always drank a big glass of orange juice with breakfast, and he’d carelessly thought ‘Tony still has mango and apricot’ as he emptied the last of the orange juice into his cup.

Tony turned, eyes glowing red, muscle in his jaw ticking as he obviously swallowed back his anger. He was good at cataloging insecurities to throw them back in people’s faces, after all, and this was the first time all of his food was gone, so it really didn’t warrant a huge blowup. But he’d been looking forward to breakfast after a full night in the lab and not one, not two, but all three of his choices were gone.

“Tony,” Thor offered solemnly, pushing the fruit bowl toward him. “Would whole fruit be okay until we can buy you more juice today?”

“It’ll do,” Tony allowed, figuring they were too afraid to tease him for his smaller fangs and his apathy for juice dripping down his face and into his clothes.

Clint came in before he could reach for anything, squinting at the back of a bottle. “Hey, I noticed all of Tony’s juice was gone and I added it to the list for when Steve goes shopping today, anyway I remembered I had a Naked in the freezer I was saving, but it’s got carrot in it and I don’t know if he’s okay with vegetables??”

Tony grabbed Clint by the shoulders, swung him around into a dip, and kissed him directly on the mouth. Then he plucked the juice from his lax fingers, dropped him, and skulked out of the room, muttering under his breath about the health benefits of carrots to vampires.

Clint laid where he’d been dropped for several minutes before he sat up, smacking his lips. “You know it never occurred to me that he might taste good to kiss and yet somehow I’m shocked he tastes like fruit.”

“Why don’t you explain it to Steve in very small words,” Natasha replied, and then ducked when Steve lunged at her, shouting for her to leave him alone about his crush on Tony when he’d literally just been fearing for his life over some fucking orange juice.

[thedarlingdearestdead]

Anakin the Mechanic:

Summary: Your ship had been badly damaged on your last mission and you were the one stuck fixing it. Anakin finds you looking lost and wants to help you... in more ways than one.

Warnings: Kissing, fluff, banter, pretty safe.

Word count: 1,630

It was a rare day off for you, a single moment in between the chaos as the Jedi council discussed you and your master’s next assignment. You were grateful for it. Though it was not exactly an opportunity for respite. 

Your ship had been badly damaged in your last fire fight, you’d come back with a rocky descent filled with horrible noises and smoke, not a happy landing. Some of the big stuff you could understand, you got it patched up fairly easily, working all evening yesterday with a team of mechanics on the main hull. But this morning, upon trying to start it up, you found it was still having some sort of issue. 

It was frustrating as you would much rather be training, or doing your research. Or pretty much be anywhere else doing anything else. The grease from the engine was gathered underneath your nails in a most unpleasant way, your hair gone frizzy from the smoke and heat, your head aching from the fumes.

You had been staring into one of the side panels for about 10 minutes now. Determined that it was these circuits that had been causing such trouble, part of you wanted to give up and just hit it with the screwdriver that you held in your hand, just so you’d know what, and where, the damage was. 

You must have been glaring, face stony as you zoned out, very close to a small melt-down. You were very tired and this had to get done. That’s probably why when Anakin Skywalker came up behind you, you jumped, dropping your tool as he starts to laugh at you.

“That’s not funny, Anakin! I could have hurt myself!” You say as a response to his mirth.

“I’m sorry, you just looked so focused, I couldn’t help myself!” He settles down slightly, leaning casually against the ship. The ship groaned and something sparked up by his sleeve comically causing his to jump back in fright himself. “Force, what have you done to this?”

You shrug, “We got hit a few times trying to go into hyperspace.”

He steps back and surveys the fresh patch jobs, still not painted over, and he rubs his arm near where the spark had almost got him almost unconsciously, thinking. Then he takes in the piles scattering of tools, rags, and equipment, as well as your, probably very, bedraggled state.

You could feel his eyes on you, and you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Anakin had always been a bit of a wild card, unpredictable and impulsive. You had been assigned to work with him before, and four him to be such an overwhelming, distracting presence. There was always an energy around him, a sense of barely-contained chaos that made you nervous.

"So, what's the plan?" Anakin finally asked, squinting and trying to stay nice and diplomatic. Though you could tell by his fidgeting that he desperately wanted to start fixing your ship for you.

You sighed, wiping your hands on your already spoiled robes, trying to decide whether your pride and patience could accept. "I'm still trying to figure out what's wrong with the circuits. I think it's a power issue, but I can't seem to pinpoint the source."

Anakin nodded, his eyes scanning the ship once again, eyes moving straight towards the other end of it, and fixing on the anterior electric panel. “Well, do you want some help?” He was edging away from you, an eagerness growing in his eyes, “I can pop her open, take a look?” He had already reached his target and took your non-resistance as a yes. 

You were annoyed that he headed towards the opposite side of the ship to where you had been working. It was a subtle way of telling you ‘you’re doing it completely wrong.’ Judging by your success throughout the day he was probably right and you could probably use the help. It was still irritating though.

You watched as Anakin expertly open the panel and began to examine the circuits. His fingers moved deftly over the wires and switches, awfully confident and easy. You couldn't help but appreciate the intense concentration on his face.

You leaned against the ship and watched him, grateful for his help, feeling a pang of affection for how content he looked. "How did you get so good at this?" you asked, genuinely curious.

Anakin shrugged, not looking up from his work. "I've had a lot of practice. My mom used to scavenge parts and I would help her fix things up. It was a good way to learn."

You nodded, impressed and slightly sad at the mention of his mother, you never knew yours. "You know, I never imagined I would have to fix my own ship when I became a Jedi," you commented, smiling wryly.

Anakin chuckled, finally looking up at you. "Technically you're not fixing your own ship." He closed the small door and stepped back. Ushering you backwards as he walks around the ship, entering it and leading you to the cockpit. 

Anakin sits down in the pilot's seat and begins typing away at the control panel. "I can reroute power from the engines to the circuits, that should give us the boost we need to get this baby off the ground," he explains, his fingers moving over the controls with lightning speed.

Watching him was incredible. Anakin was so talented, so skilled at everything he did. You had seen him in combat, seen him take down entire armies with his lightsaber. And yet here he was, fixing a broken ship with the same level of intensity and focus.

He must have noticed your eyes. "What?" Anakin asked, glancing up at you from where he was working.

"I'm just impressed," you admitted. "You're so good at everything you do."

Anakin grinned at you, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "You're not wrong." And with that he pressed a final button and the engine came to life. Not spluttering or sparking, not roaring or shaking as it had been when you tried. 

You tried to ignore the cocky smile on his face, his obvious pleasure at your surprise and joy which came out of you in a small 'whoop!'. But it was difficult. It was easy to ignore Anakins shine when in battle, in meetings, or in a large vehicle hangar. But in this small space you felt blinded. 

"Thank you, Anakin- really you saved the day, my day... I would have been here for hours staring at the wrong place and making an even bigger mess. 

"Well, I couldn't stand to watch you destroy this ship. I had to come in and save her..." He stroked the control unit lovingly, mocking your attempts at mechanics. 

"Hey I would have gotten it eventually!" You say indignantly.

"Yeah, you would've." He concedes. "But sometimes it's good to take a break from all the fighting, all the politics. Just work with your hands, fix something. It's therapeutic. I don't mind helping you, you just need to ask."

He was standing now, the two of you cramped behind the pilots seats, in the small dark alcove between them, and the cabin. 

Anakin's words echoed in your mind, and you realised that he was right. Sometimes, it was good to take a break from the chaos of being a Jedi and just focus on something simple and tangible.

Anakin had a kind heart and a willingness to help others, even if it meant getting his hands dirty.

"I'll keep that in mind," you said.

You both leaned in at the same time, meeting in the middle for a gloriously light and gentle kiss. 

As your lips met, you felt a spark ignite between you, a spark that had been building for a long time. And now, as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, you felt a sense of rightness, a sense that this was where you were meant to be.

For a long moment, you lost yourself in the kiss, forgetting everything else except the feel of Anakin's lips against yours, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. It was like nothing else mattered except this moment, this connection between the two of you.

But as the kiss deepened, you felt a sense of urgency creeping in, unlike anything you'd felt before. A sense that this moment was fleeting and you needed to make the most of it. As Anakin's hands roamed over your body, tracing the curves of your hips and the small of your back, you felt a shiver, curving into him, pushing him up against the doorway. 

He smirked into your mouth. He cupped your face in his hands, running his fingers down your cheeks, tilting your face up into the kiss.

Before he pushed you backwards, not violent but rough, you hit the opposite wall and now he was the one to press you against the frame, his body pressed full against yours, as the kiss intensified. You felt a breath catch in your throat, as you pulled away briefly to take a moment, to look at him. Both of you panting for air, Anakin staring at you with those intense dark eyes. 

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time," he confesses. "I know we can't, not now, not with everything going on, the war, the constant missions, but I just wanted you to know... how I feel," he explained, his voice breathy. 

There was no hesitation, no stopping to think about it. You just knew. You knew he was right, no matter what tomorrow or the next day might bring, you knew you couldn't ignore your feelings. And you couldn't ignore the way you felt right now.

"Just kiss me Anakin." You say, and he does.

[lovebotmo]

like the movies

chapter two - moly blossoms

series masterlist

pairing: theodore nott x reader

wc: 2589

author's note: i want to thank each and every one of your for the likes and reblogs on my first chapter!!! big smooches to you lil cuties.

song inspiration: japanese denim by daniel caesar

Trailing behind Hermione, you eventually made it to the dungeons where your first Potions lesson of the year awaited. Walking across the threshold of the entrance, you made sure to keep the door open for two of your classmates walking a little ways behind you. The first of the two, Lorenzo Berkshire, flashed a bright smile at you in thanks. The two of you had been friendly over the years at Hogwarts, sharing a number of advanced classes. You had spent a few late nights at the library together cramming for finals, only to celebrate at The Three Broomsticks with a congratulatory butterbeer when you both received prefect scores. Enzo, the nickname he preferred to go by, was an absolute sweetheart and kind friend.  

The second of the pair walked behind his more cheerful friend in stony silence. He muttered a barely discernible, “Grazie,” to you as he passed into the Potions classroom. You caught a whiff of his cologne, something that reminded you of crackling fires, balsam firs, and fresh snow.

His name was Theodore Nott.

In comparison to his friend, you didn’t have much to say to or about him. In fact, Nott didn’t have much to say, well, ever. Among the gaggle of Slytherins he and Enzo hung around, he was the quietest and the most brilliant—often giving Hermione a run for her money for the top spot, especially when it came to Potions. You knew he played on the Slytherin quidditch team, but you hadn’t the foggiest as to which position he occupied. But that was it. You didn’t really know him, only of him.

Realizing you had been standing and propping the door open long after the two boys had walked through, you moved to shut the hefty door. You turned only to see the small number of your classmates huddling around a piece of paper, a list of some kind. As you entered your seventh year, your Potions classes had steadily thinned out as the requirements became increasingly more stringent. Even through Professor Slughorn was more than happy to accept students who received Es on their N.E.W.T.s, Snape’s years of teaching had put many students off the subject. Frankly, you couldn’t blame them.

In your third year, while brewing doxycide, you had made an error in adding wolfsbane essence instead of the required cowbane essence. The contents of your cauldron proceeded to explode on you. The potion was particularly foul-smelling and disturbingly thick; it had also ended up in your eyes. Rather than sending you immediately to the infirmary, Snape had made you clean it up—bloody blind, you might add—before you were on your way to Madam Pomfrey. You had lost ten house points. Safe to say, you loathed the man. You had only agreed to Hermione’s pestering to join her in the advanced courses of Potions because Slughorn had taken the post…and the promise that she would help you should you need it.

Shirking the memory, you moved to Hermione’s side in hopes of seeing what she and the rest of the class were peering at. The parchment in front of you listed out eight pairs of two students—assigned Potions partners for the year.

You quickly pulled Hermione back from the fray by her arm. “You promised you would help me if I took this class with you! Now you can’t even be my Potions partner!”

Hermione batted your arm away. “Oh, please Y/n! No need to be so dramatic all the time. I can still help even if I’m not your partner. Besides you won’t even need it.”

You squinted your eyes at her, “And why is that? Because I’m so bloody brilliant? I’m out of practice and you know that!”

Your reply was met with rolling eyes. “For the love of Godric, Y/n, you’ll be fine. You and I both know you can handle this class.” She paused. “But that’s not what I meant. Didn’t you see who your partner is?”

“Um…no.” In the fuss of realizing you wouldn’t be with Hermione you had failed to check just who your partner would be. “I was a little distracted by the fact that I’ve practically been abandoned—betrayed even—”

Hermione flicked you on the forehead. “Enough with the melodrama. Nott’s your partner. It’ll be grand. He’s… brilliant in Potions.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at her hesitation. If there was one thing Hermione Granger did not enjoy, it was academic competition, something that Nott’s proficiency in Potions promised. “Killed you to say that didn’t it? How does it feel to be one of us mere mortals of average intelligence, ‘Mione—"

Hermione let out a huff before pinching you lightly on the arm. “Oh, shove off. Go to your station, your partner is impatiently waiting. He’s been staring at you for the past two minutes.”

That got you to quickly spin around to meet Nott’s blue-green eyes looking fixedly into your own.

Oops.

You quickly moved away from Hermione and shuffled over to where Theodore stood. Turning to your partner, you tried to make some small talk while waiting for Slughorn to begin class, “I’m guessing you wish you had been paired with Enzo, right?”

Theodore stared at you. He blinked once. Then again. Before replying, “…Right.”

Well, he certainly isn’t one for pleasant conversation. Godric bless the soul that gets stuck talking to him at a cocktail party, you thought to yourself.

“’Spose it won’t be too bad though, yeah? Everyone knows you’ve gotten the best scores in Potions each year—we’ll be alright.” Your attempt at conversation was once more met Theodore’s stoic façade, your efforts to converse metaphorically falling into the awkward silence between you.

Theodore just repeated his monosyllabic reply. “Right.”

Smiling self-consciously, you placed your books on top of your station as you sat down, just as Slughorn finally made an appearance.

Thank Godric for the silly old man.

“Welcome to the second sequence of Advanced Potions! In order to determine if you’ve all properly reviewed your Advanced Potion Making texts over your summer holidays, I’ve crafted a little exercise with the help of Professor Sprout.” Pausing his speech, Slughorn waved his wand, drifting eight blooms of moly flowers to each station. You let out a quiet gasp.

Ever since your third year, moly flowers had been your favorite. First encountering them in Potions while brewing wiggenweld potion, you had become enamored with the gentle and elegant white blooms and its distinctive black stems and leaves that denoted moly flowers. It didn’t escape your notice either that they were able to counteract a number of enchantments, but that fact didn’t measure up to the quiet beauty of the blossoms you had grown to admire. When you wound up in the infirmary after your adolescent explosion of doxycide, Hermione had brought a single stem of a moly flower to your bedside—a feat not easily done. It had involved begging Professor Sprout for some of the moly she grew in the greenhouse.  Despite Professor Spout’s reluctance to part with the blooms, due to the flower’s value, both monetarily and magically, Hermione had successfully commandeered one. Hermione was, for a lack of a better term, ‘that witch.’ And you loved her for it. Hermione’s efforts and that sweet memory had solidified the ardent admiration you had for molies from that moment onward.

One of the blooms floated towards you and gently, you grasped the onyx stem. Lightly touching one of the four pearlescent petals, you smiled at the memory you forever associated them with before someone brought you out of your haze.

“Y/n.” You turned your gaze to your left where Theodore was watching you expectantly.

Shaking your head, you brought yourself back to the present. “Sorry, what was that?”

Your obvious confusion at what was going on seemed to bring the smallest of smirks to Theodore’s lips.

So, he can smile…Interesting.

“We’re meant to identify the thirteen potions moly blooms are used in along with its medicinal capabilities. Think you can handle the task, L/n?” Besides the fact that you were in awe that Theodore could string that many words together all at once, you were stunned at the challenge he seemed to set forth. His tone seemed to question whether you could do anything besides dumbly stare at a flower bloom, completely unaware as to what Slughorn tasked you to do.

The man probably thinks I’m going to slack off since he’s so proficient in Potions. Even if I am not as naturally talented as him at the subject, I am still a good student—with principles, nonetheless! The gall of the man!

You scoffed, placing the flower on the table before turning fully towards the Slytherin. “Please, Nott. Have a little faith. Contrary to your belief, I do know what I’m doing…at least most of the time.”

Theodore picked up the moly bloom from where you had placed down on the table. He gently twirled it in his large hands, which easily dwarfed the small blossom. “Guess we’ll just have to see then, won’t we?” Those stormy eyes returned to your own. It was the first time you had seen them without a veil of indifference.

“Just you wait, Nott. I’m going to be the best Potions partner you’ve ever had.” Theodore raised his eyebrows at your bold conjecture. “Now, hand me a quill and a piece of parchment.”

Later that day, you trudged up to your room with Hermione following behind you. As you were both Muggleborns, you and Hermione had bonded over Muggle fiction over the years; it had brought you closer among the sea of Purebloods and Halfbloods who were more than content to disdain at your blood staus. Over the last summer, you had both agreed to select a book for the other to read. Hermione had already given you her copy of Little Women, so you were eager to give her your battered edition of Wuthering Heights. Chatting about your respective choices of literature, you unlocked the door, eager to flop onto your bed. However, as you neared your bedframe, rest seemed to be the last thing on your mind.

Hermione’s nose was still buried in her gifted copy of Little Women. “I’ve put a couple markers in places I want you to pay attention to. There’s this once instance with Amy, where Laurie just—oof!” Having not noticed your silence and lack of movement, Hermione bumped right into your back. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—wait…what’s that there?”

Hermione’s attention now turned towards the thing resting upon one of your pillows. Her thick brows furrowed as you cocked your head in confusion. The thing was a small bouquet of moly flowers in full bloom. They were carefully bound together by a thin white silk ribbon, perfectly matching the delicate petals. In the afternoon light coming through the windows, the flowers seemed to glisten. The flowers were gorgeous…but why were they here?

You turned to Hermione. “You mean, you didn’t put them there?”

Your friend quickly shook her head ‘no.’ “How could I? I’ve been with you all day, remember?”

You nodded mutely. Hermione was right, there would have been no opportunity for her to put them on your bed, let alone procure them from Professor Sprout. Considering her account of trying to obtain the precious blossoms in your third year, you doubted Hermione would have gone through the trouble without good reason.

You mentally scratched your head. “I suppose you didn’t do it, ‘Mione, but who else?” You gingerly picked up the bouquet, thoughtfully considering the angelic blooms. You gently rubbed the silk ribbon between your forefinger and thumb. “I reckon you’re the only one who knows how much I like them. Did anyone ask you about what flowers I like recently?”

Hermione shook her head. You trusted that Hermione wouldn’t lie, not about something like this. For two of the brightest students at Hogwarts, the pair of you were stumped.  

“Maybe it’s someone from our Potions class—did you mention that you liked them to anyone? To Nott maybe?” At her last question, you couldn’t help the chuckle that left your lips. You shook your head.

“Please, Nott spoke all of three sentences to me today and it was the longest conversation I’ve ever had with the guy. Besides, I didn’t mention anything to him.” You handed the flowers to Hermione as you sat down on your bed, hands behind you as you leaned back. Just as you were about to shut your eyes, trying to wrack your mind for who could have possibly sent it, you felt something just under your fingertips. Grasping it and bringing it forward, you found that it was a folded piece of parchment, which you opened slowly, half expecting something odd to pop out given the strangeness of the bouquet’s appearance. Instead, all you found was a note written in handwriting that could only be described as a boyish scrawl. It read:

Y/n,

Moly flowers, for you. Beautiful, for a beauty.

Yours,

Teddy

You reread the note, perhaps ten times, before asking the question on both of your minds, “Who the fuck is Teddy?”

Thirty minutes passed. By now, you had scrounged up a vase to place the flowers in by your bedside. You and Hermione lay sprawled across your bed, trying to solve the mystery of who this elusive ‘Teddy’ was.

“I don’t get it,” Hermione said, “There’s no one at Hogwarts named ‘Teddy.’ It must stand for something. Maybe an acronym. Oh! Maybe a pseudonym or a pen name.” Hermione continued to prattle off possibilities as you stared blankly at the fabric hanging off your bedframe.

Breaking your reverie you conjectured, “Maybe it wasn’t meant for me?” At that, Hermione flicked your forehead for the second time that day. “Ow! Stop that! I think you enjoy doing that a bit too much for my liking. I’m going to bruise.” She gave you a blank look.

“Y/n.”

“…Hermione.”

“Your name is in the bloody note. It’s most definitely intended for you.”

Solid logic, ‘Mione.

“Well, regardless, I haven’t the faintest idea who fancies me, who this Teddy is, or how he got his hands on an entire bouquet of molies,” you said. “Godric knows you had a difficult enough time getting Professor Sprout to part with one blossom, let alone a whole bunch.”

Hermione hummed at that and replied, “He either stole the blossoms from Sprout’s greenhouse, somehow managed to ger her to depart with twelve blooms willingly, or he’s wealthy enough to have purchased them. Either way, he’s gone through a good deal of trouble—possibly literal criminal trouble—to do something sweet for you. Whoever he is, he clearly cares about you.”

Turning to face her, you cheekily replied, “Are you sure this isn’t some grand plot to express your sweet, passionate love for me?” You batted your eyelashes at her, causing her to laugh and hit you with one of the nearby pillows. “Hey! Not near my molies!” You pleaded.

With a mirthful smile, Hermione said, “As much as I love you, I don’t like you enough to go through all that trouble. Sorry!” This time, your hit her with the pillow. The two of you roared with laughter as you swatted and swung at the other with the various pillows on your bed. Eventually the both of you settled down, resting on your bed once more. In the silence, your mind turned once more to the puzzling question at hand.

Who was this ‘Teddy’?

[hanilessa]

» :、♡  WHEN THEY REALIZE THEY LOVE YOU

` Includes: Childe, Zhongli, Aether, Gorou, Albedo x fem!reader (separate)

` Genre: fluff, romance

` Author’s notes: i just added here all my favorite genshin men lmao. i love them very much <3 i hope you like it, cuties!!! ♡

part two! also my inbox is open for your requests! feel free to text me if you want to request headcanons or drabble. :3

The moment Childe walked into your kitchen and saw you cooking dinner, standing by the stove in your kitchen apron and humming a funny soothing tune, he knew you were the only person he ever saw his future with. His most cherished desire was to see you surrounded by your little children who would have the same beautiful eye color that you had. You're his reason for life. And if you agreed to spend your whole life with him, he would make you the happiest woman in the world, because nothing was more important than family for him and never will be.

Zhongli realized that his stony heart trembled because of you as you listened with undisguised curiosity to the stories of the old narrator. Both of you were sitting at the small table where you and Morax used to meet for dinner. The way you enthusiastically asked the narrator questions and with what interest you built your conjectures and theories about old narrator's stories, made Zhongli's soul, wounded by centuries, tremble like beautiful flowers in the wind. He can give you everything. And if you let him tell you how this world was created, he would become your personal narrator.

There are an infinite quantity of stars in the sky, but they will never be equal to you. What a beautiful light his golden eyes gleamed when Aether looked at you, as you both raced through countless galaxies, running around many worlds in search of his sister. You, so beautiful in the glow of stars and exploding comets, smiled at him, promising that you would always be by his side, preventing him from falling into the abyss of bottomless despair. In the light of the birth of new universes and worlds, he realized that you will always be his favorite star.

Your gentle hands go over Gorou's soft ears as he enjoys your touch and realizes that he would like time to stop forever in this beautiful moment. When you so tenderly whisper words of love to him, stroking his ears and tail, and with sincere happiness you watch how he enjoys your gentle touches. He squints with delight when you scratch his ear and giggle at his cute reaction. He would be happy if your children would have the same ears as his.

Albedo realizes his boundless love for you when he sees your eyes shining in the light of the morning sun on Dragonspine. Your cheeks are red, you're wrapped in a warm jacket, but, nevertheless, you're here now. Just for him. You came to bring him some food. And even though he didn't need it, his fake heart was beating excitedly from the realization of the fact that this was the most important thing for you. It was important to you that he was healthy. And, at that moment, when the sun illuminated your figure with its rays, you smiled at him, and he realized that his heart forever belongs only to you alone.

[nebulousbrainsoup]

Insurrection

Chapter 1: Catalyst

⛧ SUMMARY: One choice, made to fan the flames of love, may be the spark to start a war. ⛧PAIRING: vampire!kang yeosang x hunter!reader ⛧GENRE: fantasy, angst (so much angst), smut ⛧AU/TROPE INFO: fantasy au, vampire au, forbidden lovers, hurt no comfort ⛧WORD COUNT: 4.8k ⛧TAGS/WARNINGS: major character death (i'm so sorry), blood, violence, lots of emotion, mental breakdowns, pet names ([my] love, darling, love, Sangie), protective!yunho and protective!yeosang, treating vampires as unseelie fae, not beta'd ⛧RATING: mature ⛧A/N: for @a1sh1teruu; happy christmas from your secret santa! very sorry i'm a few days late; life has been interesting lately and this baby got away from me! i hope i didn't go too hard on the angst you asked for, but i did ask for your hard limits and, uh... i'm an angst writer first and foremost. (if i did go overboard, please please let me know, and i will whip you up something warmer and fluffier.) this did begin as a standalone, but the lovely @kwanisms convinced me to make it a series, so here we are! there will be a few more installments; a prologue and at least one sequel. even if no one else does, zerda, i hope you enjoy this. much love, orion <3 ⛧ smut tags under the cut ; banner by momther ki (kwanisms) ⛧masterlist | join my taglist | buy me a coffee?

⛧ SMUT TAGS/WARNINGS: sex as a distraction/coping mechanism, yeo has vampire speed and strength (don't look too close i didn't logic), sensitive pointy ears, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (boo), multiple orgasms (fem), pet names (Yeosangie, Sangie, baby, darling, love, my pretty girl ), mentions of exhibitionism & sharing if you squint, lack of aftercare bc they're both exhausted

In hindsight, perhaps you should have seen the signs. You had never seen Yeosang eat, no matter how many cafés you frequented together. He had been known throughout the village for his strange attire, the reverse of the seasons; he was covered from chin to fingertip to toe in the summers, while the dark winters found him showing a bit more skin. His pale complexion or the way he could throw you around in the bedroom without breaking a sweat may have given him away to you if you had paid closer attention. You hadn’t, though, and now you paid the price.

Your elders stood in a semicircle in front of you, stony faced, and your blood ran cold. Gideon glowered at you over the top of his steepled fingers, jaw tight.

“Kill or be killed, Y/N,” he spat, “the decision is yours. Kang Yeosang will not be able to protect you from us.”

It took every fiber of your being to hold back the shiver that threatened to tear down your spine. Your mind swirled as you bowed your head respectfully, hands clasped tightly in front of you. Something churned in your gut as you met his eye; whether or not his words would ring true was still to be determined, but you knew he and the rest of the council would try their absolute hardest.

“I understand, Elder Lewis. I will begin my preparations immediately,” you agreed, turning on your heel to see yourself out of the room. Three of the five sat straighter at your promise, one smiling proudly. You sighed in relief; so long as most of them believed you, you would survive the night. You could warn him and, if you were lucky, run.

For most, Yeosang and the rest of his coven were nearly impossible to find; he had told you some story ages ago, but now the secrecy made sense. Few were trusted with a map to their home, and you were thankful tonight to be one of those elites. Strategically placed vines guided you through the trees like flags, their leaves blending into the color of the evergreens’ needles to the untrained eye. Tears brimmed in your eyes as you hurried through the snow, fists clenched at your sides. The path was familiar and though time seemed to drag on in a blur, it felt like you arrived in seconds. The trees parted to a familiar, comforting sight; three cabins and a grand hall circled around a small clearing, and you beelined for Yeosang’s front door. 

It was his roommate, Yunho, who opened the door and tried to greet you but you pushed past him, body and mind set on your comfort. You practically collapsed into Yeosang’s arms, a small, pained sound leaving you as he bundled you into his embrace. His quiet questions and murmured comforts were lost on you. Your mind was running at a thousand miles a minute, a million questions running through your mind.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were vampires?” The first inquiry fell from your lips thoughtlessly, and you felt the air disappear from the room. Yunho’s footsteps halted where they were parting to allow you privacy, and you could feel the tension spike. The silence rang louder than any scream. “And don’t try to deny it; I’ve seen the evidence.”

“Who… how did you find this out, sweetheart?” 

You scoffed, shoving him away from you and taking a step back. Behind you, you heard Yunho shift to his friend’s defense, but a sharp glare from Yeosang seemed to halt him. “I’m a hunter, Yeosang. You’ve known this; don’t play dumb. My elders showed me your files today,” you paused, turning over your shoulder to glance at Yunho. “All of ATEEZ’s files.”

You watched as the elder coiled like a spring, ready to strike, still pinned in place only by your boyfriend’s scathing stare. Silence once again stretched for what seemed like an eternity, heavy across your shoulders. Finally, Yeosang broke it.

“Leave us, Yunho.”

“Absolutely not.” The reply was immediate, the taller boy standing straighter, his chin high. “I’m not leaving you alone with a hunter.”

You scowled, hearing your boyfriend growl a warning. You knew his expression must match your own. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with my girlfriend alone.”

Yunho opened his mouth to speak again but this time, you were the one to silence him. “I understand your worry and I appreciate your drive to protect your coven. I am not here to hurt Yeosang; I am here to… to ask for help,” you admitted, turning back to glance at your lover. “I forgot to even grab my knife before I left, if I’m being honest.” Yeosang let out a strangled noise of protest, worry painting his face, and you held up a hand to keep him quiet. “The elders… Gideon gave me a choice today. Kill or be killed. And I… I don’t want to do either.”

You could see Yeosang’s heart breaking, the corner of his lips curling down and his brow furrowing. “Yunho, please,” he murmured, “let us figure this out.” He gave no response, but a moment later, you heard the front door click shut, and Yeosang was bundling you back up into his arms. 

The moment you were alone, you shattered into pieces. You grasped his shirt in fists as tears flowed like waterfalls down your cheeks, his grip around you tightening like a vice. Sobs wracked your body violently, and you thanked the gods for Yeosang’s strength as, despite your knees buckling under you, you remained upright. He muttered quiet reassurances into your hair, hands running soothingly up and down your back. 

When you calmed, he gently guided you back, eyes soft and open as he cupped your cheeks and wiped the tears from them. You screwed your eyes shut and gripped onto his wrists like a lifeline, willing a fresh wave of emotion back. 

“It will be alright, my love,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “We’ll figure it out together. You can stay here for as long as you like, and we’ll protect you like our own.”

You whined in protest, eyes blinking open slowly. Sniffling, you shook your head. “I can’t ask that of you. If I’m tracked down, they’ll kill you all too. Hongjoong wouldn’t be willing to take that risk for a simple little mortal, much less one who has trained her entire life to hunt and kill him. He would be crazy.”

Yeosang giggled quietly, smiling gently. “I think you’ll find he is a little crazy when the situation calls for it. He trusts you like one of us already; he allowed me to show you the path here. You will be welcome.”

Hesitantly, you nodded, resigned to accepting your lover’s offer. There was little else you could do. “I will need a few things from the stronghold. I can go back to gather them tonight, and return tomorrow.” 

Peeking over your head and out the window, Yeosang frowned. It had been nearing nightfall when you had arrived, and the thought of you unarmed and stumbling through the dark forest unnerved him. He pulled you against his chest, carding a hand into your hair to scratch at your scalp. 

“Stay with me tonight, love. Let this be the first night of our new lives together. Let me protect you.” You felt your shoulders relax with every word he spoke, a soft smile playing at your lips. He had already convinced you but he continued, eyes flickering down to your lips. “Let me distract you.” 

You let your tongue flick out over your lips, drawing his attention back to them as you grinned. Hands slipping up his chest, you pressed closer to him. “What better way to spend our first night together?”

Yeosang grinned, tugging you in to crash your lips together. You hummed happily as you melted against him, one arm draping over his shoulder while the other carded into the hair at his nape. He held you to him tightly still, sighing against your mouth as you melted against him. 

“Take me to bed, Yeosangie,” you muttered when you parted for breath, and he was more than happy to oblige. Strong arms braced under your thighs and lifted you in one fluid motion. Before you had time to think, you were in his room with your back pressed to the mattress, and you let out a squeak of surprise. Your lover was grinning at you when you pulled away. “Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I assume you’ll be using all of your fancy vampire powers at every turn, hm?” 

“Maybe not all of them,” he teased, pressing kisses up your jaw. “I’ll only bite if you ask nicely,” he purred into your ear, his silky baritone sending a shudder down your spine.

You whined, tugging him back up by his hair to lock your lips, legs wrapping around his middle to pull him impossibly closer. He groaned, low and broken, as you ground against him, losing himself for a moment before he pinned your hips down to the bed. 

“Tonight is all about you, my love,” he hummed, hands running down your thighs as he sat back on his knees. You pouted up at him and he couldn’t help but grin, kneading at the soft flesh under his fingers. “I’m going to take my time with you and savor this. No more quick nights at the tavern, hm?” 

You shuddered under his touch, eyes flickering to the door. “What about Yunho?”

The grin on Yeosang’s face was purely wicked and heat ran through your body. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll make sure the whole coven can hear you.” 

Despite his promise to take his time, Yeosang stripped you down quickly, tugging your shirt off and trousers down to leave you in only your undergarments. The moment he could, he leaned down, nipping at your inner thigh and grinning triumphantly at the sound it pulled from you. His lips quickly found their way to your throat as he let your legs fall in favor of slotting himself between them, lips attaching themselves to your throat. The drag of his teeth over your pulse had you whining into his ear, breath ghosting over the subtly pointed tip. It was Yeosang’s turn to shudder, all of his blood rushing south at the feeling. He sighed, burying his head against your shoulder as he gathered himself.

Or tried to, because a moment later, you were tucking his hair behind his ear, fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin, and he was choking back a moan. “C-Careful,” he muttered, reaching up to grab your wrist and halt you. “They’re sensitive.” 

“I don’t see the issue,” you hummed, drawing his gaze back up. You were grinning down at him and it was a pretty sight, but the mischief twinkling in your eyes had Yeosang wanting to wipe it from your face. 

Pinning your wrist to the bed, he slipped down your body at lightning speed, face level with your clothed core. In an instant, his tongue was pressed against you, and you let out a choked shout at the wet warmth that joined your own arousal. Yeosang grinned proudly once more, letting his teeth graze lightly over your heat as he sat back. That particular friction was foreign but pleasant, pulling a pretty little whimper from you.

“Do you still not see the issue with playing with sensitive areas, love, or shall I continue?”

Not one to be upstaged, you huffed a sigh, the corner of your mouth ticking up in a grin. “I don’t think I quite get it.” 

Yeosang chuckled, leaning back to lap a stripe up your thigh. Nipping at your hip, he slowly began a path up your body, leaving wet kisses in his wake. You sighed, the sound like music to his ears as you turned to putty beneath his hands. 

Your bra was the next garment to leave your body, tossed carelessly to the side as his mouth descended on your chest, lips quickly closing around your peaked nipple. One hand bracing himself, the other lit a contrastingly cool trail down your torso, coming to rest over your underwear. A quiet squeak left you and you squirmed under him, his icy fingers bringing a delicious new sensation to your warm arousal while his lips worked over your other breast. 

“Sangie,” you gasped out, one hand tangling into his hair and tugging encouragingly. “More, please.”

Chuckling lowly against your skin, he obliged, pushing the fabric of your panties to the side to slide his fingers through your wetness. You whined and writhed under him, hips seeking further stimulation—this wasn’t enough. The pad of his finger circled your clit and you jolted, a pitched whine leaving you that had Yeosang’s control snapping in an instant.

He needed more, and he needed it now. More of you, more of your lovely little sounds, more of your warm body pressed against his cold one. 

Pulling back from your chest with a wet noise, he sat back on his heels, tugging his shirt off and tossing it away from him. Your remaining undergarment was pulled off and discarded as he stood, quickly ridding himself of his final layers, too. He drank you in with a gaze that made you feel like prey, delicate and helpless underneath the ancient power that coursed through his veins. Pride swelled in his chest as he took in your open-mouthed, hungry stare. He chuckled to himself and ran a hand across his broad chest, letting you drink in the sight of him. His grin only spread as he watched you turn away from him, shy. 

“My pretty girl,” he hummed, running his fingers up the insides of your thighs as he settled between them again. 

Your pretty little whine had him preening as he lowered himself to your core, grinning up at you. Tossing your legs over his shoulders, he held eye contact and sighed against you as you shuddered, before his tongue flicked out to tease at your slit. He delighted in the way your hands flew to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you urged him closer. His sharp, calculated gaze remained on you as he flattened his tongue against you, humming happily at the taste of you. His eyes rolled back in his head, finally slipping shut as he began to lose himself in the ecstasy that was your essence. 

Your sounds only grew as he began to eat you out in earnest and they went straight to his cock; Yeosang found himself rutting into the mattress within minutes, desperate to find any amount of friction. His pride fell to the wayside as he gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, fucking his tongue into you with fervor. He barely came up for air as he buried his face in your pussy, pleasured moans leaving him as he chased both of your peaks. Your tugging on his hair was what brought him back into his mind and, though he shot you a glare, his fingers quickly replaced his mouth. 

You were gasping for breath as he sat upright, grinning proudly while your legs dropped to rest over his elbows. “What’s the matter, love?”

“C-Can’t, g’nna cum,” you gasped, hands coming to rest over his biceps as you melted back into the mattress.

“Oh, well if that’s all,” he hummed, slowly lowering himself back down. You whimpered, hands tangling back into his hair at the warmth of his tongue and the chill of his fingers, but gave no further sounds of protest as he dove back into you. Within seconds, your legs were clamping down around his ears and he was opening his eyes, drinking in the sight of your ecstasy as he worked you over the edge. With one final suck to your clit, he sat back on his heels and drank in the whine that left you, sighing happily.

“Gods above, you taste good,” he murmured, licking his lips hungrily.

“Yeosang,” you whined, hands clawing up his arms to pull him close, “need you baby, please.”

“Need what?” He grinned, shifting up to cage you in completely, his cockhead teasing at your folds. You whine, shifting lower, and he clicked his tongue as one hand came to rest over your throat, stilling your movements.

You whined, blinking up at him with wide, doe eyes, and he had to bite back a growl. “Your cock, Sangie, please.”

He grinned down at you devilishly as he pressed into you, drinking down every whine and moan that spilled from your mouth as he sealed his lips with your own. When he was finally sheathed within your warmth, he sighed happily and buried his face into the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around his and he felt secure, safe, as he began a slow and deliberate pace.

“So long as you’re mine,” he whispered against your skin, his speed building. “I will protect you. What is mine is the coven’s and what is the coven’s is mine.” You clenched around him, and he groaned lowly, his eyes squeezing shut. “We keep our own safe.”

You clung to him like a lifeline, the air crackling electric between you as you climbed to your second peak at record speed. The way his speed built in tandem with the passion of his words had you squirming, clawing for him. He shuddered, too, as your walls spasmed around him, his own orgasm catching him by surprise. He sat up straight and sheathed himself in you fully as you both rode out the waves of pleasure, his hips rolling in tiny circles to prolong it. 

With one last kiss to  your forehead, he pulled himself from you and collapsed to your side. He gave himself to the count of ten to bask in the warmth as he felt himself quickly falling into the meditative state he considered “sleep,” emerging from the brink of it to clean you. You sighed, basking in the attention, and Yeosang’s heart skipped a beat as he crawled back into bed with you—tired, cuddly, smiling, perfect you. He prayed you were asleep as he whispered into your hair.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You hid your grin in his chest and fell asleep in his arms.

When you awoke in a bed that was not your own, the curtains around you pulled shut, you startled. Yeosang was laid next to you reading, and as you stirred, he glanced up from his page. “Good morning, darling.” 

You smiled, turning over to press a kiss to his cheek, grinning when he flushed and turned back to his book. “Good morning, Sangie. What time is it?”

“Just after sunrise.” 

Huffing, you pushed yourself up from the bed. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so late. I’ll have to hope no one has a route in this direction today,” you muttered as you went about gathering your clothes, strewn about the room. “And that no one decided to hang around near my room.”

Yeosang set his book aside, frowning. “I’ll come with you.” 

“You will do no such thing, Kang Yeosang,” you protested, continuing on before he could speak. “The moment you are within firing distance of the castle, the elders will see you taken out. Stay here and speak to Hongjoong; I’ll only be gone a few hours.” He frowned deeply, eyes tracking your movements carefully as you tugged back the curtains an inch. “It’s bright out today, anyway. You wouldn’t be very comfortable past the treeline.”

The fight was over before it had really started, logic winning out over Yeosang’s protective nature. You were right; in the full sun of the day, with the snow reflecting it back up at him, he would be weak. Not only would protecting you be a challenge, his presence might hinder the speed of your mission.

“Alright. I’ll speak with Hongjoong. I’ll give you until noon to be back before I start looking for you.” Grinning, you bounced back across the room, leaning down to press a kiss to Yeosang’s lips. He hummed happily as he carded a hand into your hair, gently tugging you back for more. 

With a hand on his shoulder, you kept him at bay, chuckling quietly to yourself. “You had enough of me last night, love. You can have more tonight, but you have to let me go get my belongings.”

The sigh that left him was half-hearted at best, and you huffed another breath of laughter. “Fine. Be safe and hurry back.” 

“I will.”

As the door shut behind you, something unsettling stirred in his gut. For inexplicable reasons, he felt as though you were lying.

“Yunho, you met this girl. Can we trust her?” Hongjoong questioned, folding his hands neatly in his lap as he leaned back in his chair. He looked relaxed, at ease in the safety of his own chambers, only the twitching of his jaw giving away his current inner turmoil. 

The man in question thought for a moment, shrugging and giving a small nod. “I think Yeosang coming back in one piece today is a pretty good sign.”

He nodded slowly, mulling the request over. It was a great risk for the coven to take in a mortal, both to the mortal and the coven. Word had spread on one occasion they did such a thing, and they had been forced to move rather abruptly. Y/N’s upbringing as a monster hunter added another convoluted layer to the whole ordeal; she could be playing them to spy for her order or, if they truly were on the hunt for her, she could end up getting them all killed. But no matter how stoic and strict he may look to outsiders, Hongjoong had an undeniable soft spot for his coven. So, as Yeosang stood there, a determined and pleading look on his face, the elder vampire caved. 

“Fine. But let her know that she will be expected to pull her weight. She can stay with you and Yunho until we figure out other living arrangements,” he conceded, huffing an annoyed sigh that held little weight. “Now go tell the others.” 

Yeosang beamed, practically bouncing toward the door and flinging it open. Wooyoung, who had just started up the front porch steps, startled and fell back against San.

“Y/N is coming to live with us!” He blurted out, and the pair shared a confused look. “It’s a whole long story. Speaking of, have either of you seen her? I can’t wait to tell her.”

Wooyoung recovered before San did, blinking back into himself and sharing a bright smile with his friend. “That’s great! I can’t wait for her to meet everyone else. Sannie, I think you’ll  really like her. I haven’t seen her around today; is she here?”

“She went to gather her things from the hunters’ stronghold. She should be back any minute.” Something unpleasant coiled in Yeosang’s gut, and he frowned. “You didn’t happen to see any hunters on your way back in, did you?”

San and Wooyoung shared a look that had Yeosang’s blood running cold. “We did,” San confirmed. “They were headed away from here, though. We didn’t bother with them.” 

Behind him, someone stirred, and Yeosang spun on his heel, eyes pleading with Hongjoong as he approached. “She said she’d be in danger if she ran into other hunters. We have to look for her.”

Resolutely, Hongjoong nodded, turning back over his shoulder. “Yunho, get Jongho. San, Wooyoung, go get Seonghwa and Mingi. We’ll head toward their stronghold and work outward—stay in pairs, stay out of sight, and do not eng—”

Before the leader could finish his sentence, a sharp scream echoed through the forest, and Yeosang’s eyes widened. He went rigid for a moment, keen ears twitching as they scanned the forest, tracking the echoes until he could pinpoint a near exact location of origin. He was moving before he could think, dashing down the path and into the treeline. Dodging trees and leaping over fallen branches as he tore through the brush, the warning shouts of his coven fell on deaf ears. They would follow, he knew. He only slowed for a moment when he caught the scent of your blood in the air, tripping over his own feet before pushing forward with even more purpose. 

In hindsight, he should have realized that your familiar yell was not one of fear, as he had been so worried about. He should have taken even a moment to breathe. 

You were still upright when he barreled into the clearing, wrestling with another hunter for what looked to be a blade. Your face was twisted in a grimace, desperation and anger marring the features he was so used to seeing alight with joy. He called your name and you turned, the panic-stricken look you sent him sending confusion and hurt lancing through him. He was here to help; shouldn’t you be happy to see him?

In hindsight, he should have realized why your cry was so familiar to his ears. Maybe he would have registered that it had been full of pure, white-hot rage; the same rage you directed at him during your first meeting.

Time slowed, and with the snap of a wire, Yeosang understood. 

The bolt burned as it pierced through his ribs, and his vision went white with the pain as he toppled forward, falling to his hands and knees with a shout of his own. This time, there was pain in your exclamation; he couldn’t quite make out the words, but he heard the break in your voice that he knew, all too well, meant tears were brimming. He tasted iron as he coughed, distantly registering the shadow of black that splattered the snow in front of him. 

It had been a while since he’d seen his own blood.

More shouts echoed as he fell to his knees, vision going black for a moment. When his sight returned, you were in front of him, and Yeosang’s brow furrowed. Humans like you, as far as he knew, couldn’t move that fast. He glanced over your shoulder, gasping—when had the coven gotten here?

Another blink, and he was on his back, staring up at your distressingly heartbroken expression. Your hands cupped his cheeks for a beat, and he melted into the fleeting feeling, grumbling in disapproval as they streaked down his neck to his sides. About halfway to his hips, they stopped, and the pain that sparked through him had him coming back to his senses, a shout choked behind his teeth.

“Leave it,” he hissed, and you made a pained noise. The iron crossbow bolt had embedded itself firmly and, despite his protests, you gave it another tug. This time, Yeosang shouted, bolting upright and batting your hand away from him. “Barbed,” he croaked, falling back to his hands and knees. “You’ll rip me up if you take it out.” 

“And it’ll poison you slowly if I don’t,” you urged, reaching for him. “You can heal the injuries, please.”

Yeosang frowned deeply, eyes squeezing shut as he took stock of his body. “Not… quickly enough.” 

“Please let me try,” you begged, hand settling below his wound. “Please give yourself a chance. Let me give you a chance, Yeosang, please.”

Oh, how weak he was for you. 

Swallowing thickly, he screwed his eyes shut and nodded, rolling once more onto his back with a wince. “If it pleases you.” 

“None of this pleases me,” you shot back, choking on a sob around your words. Your grip solid around the arrow’s shaft, you gave a strong tug, and Yeosang shouted through gritted teeth as it came free. “I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry,” you breathed, cupping his face.

“No more… apologies. This is not your fault,” he muttered between coughs. His mouth felt wetter than usual and he turned, dizzy as he watched more black mar the white ground. “Oh.” 

“Stay still, Sangie, please, let your magic work. Don’t make things worse. Just… stay here. It’ll be okay.” 

You didn’t sound sure. Yeosang huffed a laugh, coughed. “I won’t heal… fast enough,” he muttered, rolling once more onto his back. “H’ngjoong s-said… You can stay with us. Make sure he keeps… ‘s word.” 

His eyes fluttered shut. He was so tired all of a sudden. Distantly, he could hear you calling to him, could feel your hands on his cheeks. He smiled, leaning into the warmth of your palms, a stark contrast to the chill surrounding him. The world was turning to white noise; Yeosang sighed. 

One voice, familiar and filled with venom, cut through the roar. He was just used to listening for his Captain, after all, and he heard him clear as day now.

“You have just declared a war.”

Everything went quiet.

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