#thank you for the stalwart readers!

[traditional-with-a-twist]

Beauty and Her Beast: third arc

anime-verse, canon divergent: Instead of sending Shirayuki to Lyrias, Clarines goes to war. The main arc begins after Izana’s forces triumph at a terrible cost.

What it would take for Shirayuki to marry Obi?

Read it on AO3.

See also an alternate version of the wedding arc (including early drafts of Something New and Something Borrowed).

Chapters

1-15. (first arc) 16-30. (second arc) 31. Something Old 32. Something New 33. Something Borrowed 34. Something Blue 35. Silver Sixpence 36. In Her Shoe 37. For Richer 38. For Poorer 39. In Sickness 40. In Health 41. For Better (part 1, part 2) 42. For Worse 43. To Have 44. To Hold 45. As Long As We Both Shall Live

Bonus

a recap of our story thus far:

(born of research for this)

[swordgrace]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!healer!reader.

SYNOPSIS: serving as a healer on the frontlines of a war that is tearing the realm apart, you come to tend the wounds of the warden of the north. inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 8.2K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), fic is inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship, description of wounds/injuries, mentions of violence & war, canon-typical misogyny (cregan goes to the northern school of feminism), heavy mutual pining, both cregan and reader have experience, p in v sex, unprotected sex, all stark men have a breeding kink, size kink (cregan is much taller/bigger than reader), fingering (fem!rec), biting, breast play, hair-pulling, rain-soaked cregan, bed/cot breaking, lotus position, riding/cowgirl, gentle-ish sex, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Back with another Cregan fic! I absolutely love writing for him & this request was so perfect. This is taking place during the wars (HOTD S3). Thank you guys so much for your continued support and kindness, it means a ton to me! I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 — 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Yet, as he lay in his tent, feeling the bitter sting of what pain could bring, face-to-face with carnage, he felt some semblance of fear. It was the only time that a man could ever be brave, in the face of such strife. The Riverlands were occupied by Ser Criston Cole for some time, and in the name of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Cregan Stark aimed to reclaim it.

The road to the Riverlands had been a lengthy one, hard on his force of Winter Wolves, greybeards that itched for combat. They were met with resistance at every turn after crossing the Twins, yet they endured, still a force of nearly two-thousand men.

More were on their way from the North, bannermen of all ilk and family called to-arms at Winterfell, to ride North and join his forces in the Riverlands. Despite his youthful age of one-and-twenty, Cregan was a fierce and proficient fighter, better than a great deal of the men under his command.

Struck by a stray arrow and slashed with a blade, he bared his injuries incredibly well — better than most. Cregan’s stalwart, hardened exterior served him well, never giving way to the pain he felt beneath. The arrow had gone clean through, thankfully. Much of his recovery was simply bandages and time.

He chafed at the notion of being bound to his tent for days on-end — he wanted to be with his men, helming any attacks, leading them to victory. He was useless here, abdomen wrapped in soiled bandages, laid-up and no good to anyone.

The healers who passed through all possessed older, wrinkled faces — men who had seen countless wars, perhaps thrice his age, acclaimed in talent and skill with the art of mending wounds and sewing bone together.

Imagine Cregan’s bewilderment when a young woman entered his tent one dismal morning.

You couldn’t have been much younger than him, clad in a tattered, coarse dress with a hem steeped in mud, white apron sullied with countless stains. Much of the cruor on your garments wasn’t your own, the blood of Stark men, men from White Harbor.

“Good morrow, Lord Stark.” The songbird’s lull of your voice had made him unusually calm, as if able to quell the growing tide of irritation he’d felt with his inaction. You brought with you a basket of supplies, tools of the trade that you had to scrounge around to get.

Men never looked upon a woman-healer with interest or a desire to teach — much of what you knew was from your own mother, or things you’d observed and taught yourself from piles of books at your disposal. Though, you found yourself excelling within your area of expertise.

Perplexed, Cregan watched you hawkishly, sluggishly sitting up from his bed of furs, a low grunt escaping him in the process. “My Lady,” He greeted with a nod of his head, muscles aching and sore from the clashes and skirmishes, coupled with time spent on the road. “You are a new face.”

Part of you wondered if he would take offense, given that you were a lady, but you decided not to address it. “I certainly hope that it isn’t a disappointment,” You mused, placing your supplies down at his bedside. “Other hands were needed elsewhere.”

He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.

Cregan found you to be breathtakingly beautiful — it took one stolen glance for him to discern that. Your very presence seemed to flourish with warmth and amiability. It was a welcome change from the old men who poked and prodded at him, and he wouldn’t complain about being in the presence of someone his own age.

With a huff, he shook his head, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his visage. “Not at all,” He murmured, studying you with a thinly-veiled intrigue. “A welcome change.” Cregan replied, catching your amiable smile, as warm and as bright as the first inkling of springtime.

You had seen Cregan only in-passing, brief moments where you spotted the young Lord atop his dark steed, or stomping through muddied encampments alongside his soldiers. Now, up-close, you realized how young he really looked, with a youthful, babyish visage that did not match his stony expression or wisened, gray eyes.

“You say that now, but you’ll have to get used to me first, my Lord.” You mused, reaching for the first wrap of his soiled bandages. It was easier to make small-talk in the midst of situations like these — it often eased your nerves, gave you something else to think about.

Cregan moved his arms just enough, allowing you to unravel the crimson-crusted bandages. There was some momentary relief, without the scratching and irritation of coarse linen, wounds exposed to the lick of fresh air.

A steady exhale escaped him, and he watched as you discarded the bandages, fetching more from your basket, coupled with some strange poultice in a jar. He did not recall his former caretakers ever giving him something like that, and he refused Milk of the Poppy.

“How long have you had an interest in this?” Cregan inquired, genuinely interested in what led you down such a path. It wasn’t commonplace for a woman of your station, not in the slightest. He would never discourage it, but he was itching to know.

As you wrung out a cloth of hot water, you brought it to his left shoulder, thick and burly with muscle, gingerly swiping over the wound to clean it. “Many years,” You hummed, brows furrowing together in concentration. “My father didn’t like it, but I learned what I could from others.”

Cregan was the stoic sort, an indomitable mountain of a man who appeared so rugged and indifferent, yet he possessed a gentle hand and heart when away from wandering eyes. He listened attentively, soothed by the tenderness in your touch.

Becoming a Maester was something you’d desired in your youth, yet the Citadel never allowed for women to study and attain the position. You were left to your own devices, a life of healing and service to those who needed it most, and you were content with that. You would forge your own Maester’s Chain.

You then pressed the cloth against the still-swollen gash from the sword across his abdomen, the flesh around it somewhat angry and reddened. “You took quite a beating. I have no desire to see who was on the other end of your blade.”

A soft huff escaped him as he rolled his shoulders, dwarfing you completely in size and stature. Even for a man of his youth, he seemed imposing, larger than plenty of young men his age. “Best not to dwell on it,” He grunted, stormy hues following you wherever you went. “You are not a Northerner.”

The lack of a Northern accent gave it away, but you also spoke properly and eloquently, as if you had been raised somewhere with plenty of civility. “The Stormlands — I am from Bronzegate.” You replied, which happened to earn you a very threadbare smile from Lord Stark.

“A Southerner, then,” A twinge of amusement seemed interwoven with his gruff, husky timbre, a voice that you were rather charmed by. He was mesmerizing to listen to, Northern dialect and deeper voice marked by a stalwart calm. “What are you doing here?”

As you cleaned away the sluggish ooze of cruor, you ensured that his wounds were free of dirt or dried blood, inspecting them for infection. “Finding my way in the world,” You confessed, reaching for the jar of herbal poultice, a salve that you had made yourself. “As we all are.”

Cregan could respect your honesty and earnestness in knowing that you didn’t know what you were doing with your life — sometimes, he didn’t know, either. It was easy to forget oneself when tasked with the charge of leadership, easy to allow it to become a burden instead of a challenge.

Dipping your fingertips into the salve, you gently spread it across the wound on his shoulder, the strange concoction icy against his hot flesh. “What is that?” He questioned, the unusual smell of it stinging his nostrils. Whatever it was, it felt incredible.

“A salve that I made,” You chimed, clicking your tongue as you concentrated on spreading it thin, layering it across his skin. “It’s not something conventional. I exchanged certain herbs for others, and added something of my own. It takes the sting away, numbs the flesh around the wound.”

It did take the sting away, as you said, and soothed his wound at the same time. Cregan admired your ingenuity, charmed and ensnared by you. He hadn’t expected to enjoy your company as much as he was, which was always enough to draw some concern.

A union formed out of wedlock was a dangerous one, but these were perilous times, in the midst of war. He was bound to no one — he had no one. Gray hues silently appraised you, and whenever you got close enough, he could feel your sweet breath upon his flesh, smell the faint aroma of wildflowers and a dab of honey.

“If you are willing, I’d like to have your ingredients. It would be worthwhile for the rest of the healers to craft it, too. Do not waste it all on me.” Cregan rumbled, a soft sigh of relief escaping him as you spread the poultice all along the gash across his abdomen.

The instantaneous relief he felt made him relax, the tension unfurling within his shoulders. Once the salve began to dry just slightly, you took to bandaging him again, nearly chest-to-chest with him when you wrapped the linen around his torso.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, muscles tightening whenever you pressed closer, even if the action was a necessity. You felt the onslaught of warmth creep into your features, goosebumps cascading down your spine with the intensity of his gaze.

You happened to meet his smoldering stare for just a moment, butterflies swelling within the pit of your stomach, followed by a rush of heat that seeped into your very bones. “I will provide you with the list tomorrow.” You murmured, finishing wrapping up his wound.

The arrow puncture on his shoulder was something that you covered in a few layers of sturdier medicinal cloth, before wrapping it once to keep it stable. You had backed away slightly, the close proximity having made your nerves spark to life.

It was a warmth and intimacy that you hadn’t touched before, unfamiliar yet wild with curiosity. Perhaps you had a tryst with a young man back in Bronzegate, but never to this degree of intensity. Cregan gazed at you as if you were the only one to exist.

“I am finished here,” That was enough to shatter Cregan’s incendiary look, the heat dissipating from his gray hues. His visage resumed that stone-faced look, and he suddenly remembered himself and the bonds of propriety. “I will visit tomorrow with your list, if that’s all you need from me.”

He noticed how you straightened, posture somewhat rigid, fingertips stained in dried blood and cruor. You retrieved what supplies you had, placing them all back into your basket before you curtsied, as a Lady would before a Lord.

“You do not have to bow, my Lady,” Cregan assured, standing to his feet with a strenuous grunt. He was massive even when sitting before you, but seeing him upright and so close — Gods take you for the things you began to ponder and imagine. “I am grateful for your aid in these dour times.”

Cregan was as stubborn as an old mule, despite being so young. Rarely did he accept help from other people, preferring to do it all himself and be the guiding example, but this was something he was not practiced at.

“It is my duty, my Lord. It is a responsibility that I share for yourself, and for your soldiers. I pray that the Gods will usher you into a swift recovery, and victory.” That smile — Gods, you had a beautiful smile. It could melt even the hardiest of ice, bring exuberance and joy to those who had none. “I should take my leave.”

“Of course,” Cregan bowed his head, timbre gentle and akin to the roll of thunder before an encroaching thunderstorm. He retrieved his tunic from the foot of his bed, and before you could disappear from the tent, he cleared his throat. “What is your name, my Lady?”

You smiled, gaze dancing with a twinge of mischief and amusement as you chewed at the inside of your cheek. Lingering within the entryway of his tent, you took one, deliberate step backwards.

“I suppose you’ll have to learn that tomorrow.”

Sitting idly by while a war raged nearby had soured Cregan’s mood exponentially.

He had stared at the canvas canopy of his tent for so long that he began to lose count of the hours. It was only when his second-in-command harkened him to the war table, that he obeyed.

Green forces had stationed a battalion at The Trident, and the rest were attempting to seize Harrenhal from Daemon Targaryen and his Rivermen. Cregan intended on cutting off the battalion, ripping them out root and stem, effectively carving away a portion of Cole’s forces.

War was an ugly thing — killing a man never pleased him as it did some, but it was an unfortunate necessity. Ensuring that Rhaenyra Targaryen took her place upon the Iron Throne was paramount, an oath he forged with her son, Jacaerys Velaryon.

Cregan covered his wounds with his tunic and a fur cloak, knowing that the weight of armor would only hinder his recovery, and he needed to be prepared for what was to come. He spoke strategy with Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, before taking his leave.

You happened to occupy his thoughts — a girl from Bronzegate, with a rosy, heartening smile and a demure nature, tending to his wounded men. Not a moment passed from last eve to now, an afternoon marked by grim, gray storm clouds, that he hadn’t thought of you.

It was improper, perhaps, to think so fondly of a young maiden out of wedlock, one he barely knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to you — and he had a feeling that you felt the same, a mutual sentiment.

The massive tent erected for those wounded in battle was marked by an ivory canvas and the hurried pace of healers floating in and out. Cregan knew where to find you, and he had learned of your name from several of his bannermen.

He spotted you outside, washing your hands free of crimson, the ends of your sleeves just as tattered and wrought with blood that didn’t belong to you. Your tresses were pulled into a braid to avoid interference with your work, brow creased in concentration.

“My Lady.” He greeted you with that familiar timbre, husky and gallant. There was a warmth that radiated from him, both in his tone and physically, that enveloped you whenever you were in his presence. He was a man of few words, but you made up for it.

Surprise settled into your features as you regarded him with mild bewilderment. You weren’t expecting him to seek you out. “My Lord,” You exhaled, bowing your head in reverence as you wiped the blood from your hands with a rag. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Cregan enjoyed your concern, staving off a threadbare smile before he shrugged, wisps of chestnut tresses fluttering with the breeze. The air smelled of rain, an approaching deluge. “You never said that I had to stay.” He stated, looking towards your hands.

A huff of laughter escaped you, hands mostly free of any blood, your knuckles bruised and bearing some scrapes. “Are you feeling well enough?” You asked, head canting to one side. There was a quell in the battle for now, allowing you time to recuperate.

“I have been for some time,” Cregan sighed, brows furrowing together. “Old men wished for me to stay abed, and I heeded them, until now.” Two wounds wouldn’t stop him — there was something powerful about him, a determination to continue even in the face of agony or strife.

You couldn’t help but smile in spite of his stubbornness — you wondered how his men dealt with him. Many soldiers and bannermen that you had conversed with praised Cregan, with nothing but honorable things to say about him. He was regarded as stoical and resigned, patient and pragmatic.

“Let me have a look. It’s the least that I can do, considering you made the trek here.” You motioned for him to follow you, sweeping the canvas aside as you beckoned him into the wounded tent. There were scores of men in worse states than he — some of them brushing close to death.

Cregan stepped behind you like a massive wall of stone, a mountain of a man, his shadow casting itself over you. Some of the healers seemed surprised with his coming here, a handful being familiar faces that had tended to him when he was first wounded.

The space in which you operated was a great deal smaller, yet tidy and orderly. He sat down with a grunt atop the cot you gestured to, shrugging off his fur cloak. Part of him felt strange for being here, considering the grievous state of some of the men.

A roll of parchment lay atop your footlocker, a lengthy list of ingredients used in your medicinal salve, the one that Cregan had requested yesterday. He watched you scurry about, fetching fresh bandages and your mysterious poultice that seemed to do him a world of good.

Some of the healers looked upon you with thinly-veiled disdain and scrutiny, eyes of wizened men who believed themselves to be better than you. A woman doing such gruesome work wasn’t exactly proper.

“Your tunic,” You murmured, averting your gaze away from Cregan’s body as he removed the smoky-blue garment, revealing his herculean musculature. The more you studied Lord Stark, the more enamored you became — he was handsome and well-spoken. Stubborn, perhaps, but most Northerners were. “Thank you.”

Cregan thoroughly enjoyed watching you work — it was a captivating thing to behold, the way you navigated a wound with such care and precision. Your hands were disarmingly gentle as you shifted the linen wrappings away, exposing his shoulder to the brisk afternoon air.

The pain had certainly diminished, moreso in his shoulder than his abdomen. In usual silence, Cregan studied you closely, storm-colored hues appraising you, committing every detail to memory. There was something breathtaking about you, a magnetizing pull that drew him in, kept him enthralled.

He reveled in the sensation of your fingertips tracing around his wound, feather-light and delicate, leaving behind a trail of fire in your wake. “It’s healed wonderfully,” You murmured, brows furrowing together as you applied a dab of honey, a natural antiseptic. You placed the bandage back over it. “How does it feel?”

“Acceptable.” He grunted, though his tone seemed somewhat warped with amusement. Your lips twitched into a brief frown, as if he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I am well enough. You needn’t worry, my Lady.” Cregan assured, resting his thick forearms atop his thighs.

A soft sigh left you as you circled around him, coming to stand before him with a tender expression. Your countenance still seemed furrowed with concern, but he neglected to comment on it.

Peeling away the linen bandages that clung to his abdomen, the angry-red swelling had nearly dissipated, and the gash remained, still healing. “The salve seems to have helped,” You fought hard to ignore the closeness between yourself and Cregan, mere breaths apart. “The swelling has gone down.”

The scent of your warm breath fanned across his visage, basking him in your saccharine smell. Even if your garments were well-worn and speckled in gore, he could still detect the aroma of wildflowers on you.

“You have my gratitude, my Lady.” Cregan uttered, a valiant attempt to relieve some of the lingering tension. It was something he rarely, if ever, experienced with a woman — especially one such as yourself.

“You know my name already, Lord Stark. You do not have to continue to refer to me as a Lady,” A twinkle of amusement lingered within your eyes, knowing that his bannermen had shared your name with him. “I am not of noble birth, I’m afraid.”

Cregan huffed, and he realized that you were clever. The wit and fiery spirit leapt out from you on occasion, and this happened to be one of them. “Honor and good pleasantries demand that I continue to refer to you as a Lady.” He replied, tender and deep, like the shaking of a mountain.

With an amiable smile, you changed the bandages around Cregan’s torso, applying your salve before discarding the old ones. “Don’t,” You chimed, tone softening to the lull of a songbird. “Call me by my name.” You stood, wiping your hands against a swath of clean cloth.

A low, rumbling ‘hm’ escaped the man, whose chestnut brows furrowed together as he ogled you — shamelessly, this time. There was a fond playfulness laced within your banter, something that Cregan wasn’t entirely accustomed to. “Cregan.” He insisted, establishing a firm foundation for your blossoming relationship.

“Cregan.” You repeated, his name sounding sickeningly sweet from your Southern tongue. The young Lord moved to tug his tunic back on over his hulking frame, musculature working in such wondrous ways. It was difficult to tame your wandering eye, heat crawling along your spine.

Ripping yourself from your trance, you busied yourself with something else. “The salve ingredients that you requested, I made a list.” You stepped towards the footlocker, retrieving the scroll of parchment as you offered it to him. “I hope that it will do some good.”

After having placed his thick cloak over his shoulders, Cregan grunted, the vibration spreading throughout his chest as he accepted the list. “This is noble of you,” He murmured, turning it over within his roughened hand. “The men here owe you their gratitude — as do I.”

Dismissive of his praise, you remained humble, politely curtsying before Lord Stark. “It is my duty, that is all. I will continue on for as long as I am able.” You didn’t like being thanked for healing — it was a passion that you chased after, a job that brought you joy.

“If there is anything that I can do for you as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, name it — it will be done.” Cregan nodded, countenance bristling with a burning affection, one that wasn’t concealed in the slightest. Despite his stalwart demeanor, he made his fondness of you known.

A delicate hum escaped you, but nothing of importance came to mind. You didn’t want to make any demands of him, especially given the circumstances — he had little time to cater to a healer when war loomed overhead.

“If you insist, I would ask for a suitable stationary set,” Simplistic and curious, something uncommonly asked for. Writing was something you had no part in, but illustrations — that was a different story. “Do not toil over it, my Lo — Cregan. Your generosity is kind enough.”

Cregan nodded, taking it into consideration. “I will not toil over it,” He replied, peering over his shoulder toward a pack of healers. There were plenty of wounded men that required your attention more than he. “Consider it done. I will leave you to your work.”

You bowed again out of common courtesy, hands folded together as you offered Cregan another warm smile. “Of course. Should your recovery change course, please do not hesitate to return. I wish you good fortune in the battles to come.”

“Until next we meet.”

Bellflower flourished in moss-laden groves around the forks of the Trident, petals ranging from ivory to shades of cerulean and a light lilac. It grew in clutches, its blooms spherical and pleasing to the eye. Despite the deluge plaguing the Winter Wolves at every step, it seemed to slow Cole’s army down exponentially, too.

As dusk fell in a dark, cloudy gloom across the encampment, Cregan carried a bound bundle of bellflower in his hands, to be given to one person in particular.

It had only been two days since your last meeting in the healer’s tent, his wounds on the mend, no longer weighed down with bandages. The stationary you requested had been brought to your tent sometime the next day, after you had addressed it with Cregan.

It was intended to be a gesture of gratitude, something that he knew you would find favor in, but it was easily passable as a rite of courtship. The constant prodding of a marriage proposal was always at the fringes of Cregan’s mind — it was his duty to marry, and he had prolonged the process as much as he could.

With war tearing the realm apart, there was little time to consider a marriage — but a relationship, perhaps a budding bond, that was something he could make time for. Even in his duties as the Warden of the North, a champion for Queen Rhaenyra, there would be a lull, a calm in the storm.

Your tent wasn’t a far trek from the healer’s tent, smaller and humble compared to his own. It didn’t seem fair, given your importance and what you had contributed to their cause, but he didn’t dwell on it — not now, anyway.

To see the ferocious, stoic Cregan Stark carrying a bundle of flowers that seemed minuscule within his grasp was a most peculiar sight. His fur trappings and leather-and-chainmail bore the motif of the Direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, making him seem larger than he already was. His ancestral longsword, Ice, remained slung across his broad shoulders.

The glitter of candlelight cut through the dismal haze of rainfall around him, its orange glow pooling from your tent, closed-off for privacy. Through the sliver of canvas, Cregan could see you, hunched over your chair, moving a quill across parchment. You wore your hair down this time, visage framed by wisps of your tresses, brow creased in concentration.

Cregan stepped forward, announcing his presence with a noisy clearing of his throat. “My Lady,” He rumbled, standing just outside of your tent, chestnut tresses sticking to his skull from the deluge. “If I might have a moment of your time.”

Your surprise was palpable as you flung open your tent, with Cregan Stark standing before you, soaked to the bone and entirely unphased. Your gaze fell to the bouquet of bellflowers in his hand, features becoming hot almost immediately.

“Cregan,” You stepped aside to usher him in, getting him out of the storm. “I apologize if you attempted to summon me, I’ve been preoccupied.” Preoccupied with the wrong things, perhaps, but you felt horrible that he had walked all this way in a torrential downpour.

“An apology isn’t necessary,” Cregan assured, so tall and mountainous that he seemed to consume much of the space in your tent, scalp scraping the canvas above. “I merely wanted to extend my gratitude, for your diligence and steadfastness in my recovery.” He murmured.

Your lodgings were quite humble, your bed nothing more than a cot lined in fur blankets, pillows stuffed with linens to make it bearable. The rickety wooden chairs were ones you’d borrowed — it served as a place to draw, a series of candles sitting along your footlocker. The ground below was covered in layers of canvas and fur — perhaps more comfortable than the cot itself.

You offered him a polite smile, though the air seemed charged with more than just friendliness. “You’ve already extended your gratitude, my Lord. You needn’t do it again,” You replied, heart thrumming within your chest. “You are soaked to the bone. Why don’t you warm yourself?”

Cregan was plenty warm, his own metaphorical sun, blood running exceptionally hot — especially this evening. “There is no need,” He rumbled, jaw somewhat tense as he extended the bouquet of bellflowers to you, bound together with a thick cord. “Blooming along the Trident. I thought of you.”

Thought of you — did he do that often?

Gods, did you think of him — you thought of him at each waking moment, torturing yourself over him, the Lord of Winterfell. There were nights where you fantasized about him in such sinful ways that it left you gasping for air. It made your belly stir with butterflies, heat simmering across your flesh.

“These are beautiful,” Touched by such a simple gesture, you accepted the bouquet from him, moving to place it inside of a tall flask that once held one of your salves. Its mauve petals added a flair of color. “Thank you, Cregan.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Every man in this dreadful encampment paled in comparison to Cregan Stark, who gazed down at you with such intensity that you feared you would melt away. Your breath hitched within your throat when he stepped closer — involuntary or not, you sorely yearned for the closeness.

Droplets of water rolled from his temples, chestnut tresses sticking to his forehead, garb damp from the rain. He smelled of the woodlands — pine and petrichor, intermingled with that of a natural musk. Those gray hues of his raked over you, drinking you in with a thinly-veiled rapture.

“There are other ways to express your gratitude.”

Your mouth moved before your mind could tell you to cease — speaking to your Lord in such an uncouth manner was grounds for trouble. You hadn’t fully realized the salacious implications of your statement until it sank in, and you became nervous. Before you could apologize, Cregan stopped you.

“Why do you think I came all this way, my Lady?” He rumbled, lifting his hand to cup your face, palm nearly engulfing half of your visage. Gods, you were beautiful — nothing short of perfection in his eyes. The bulk of his arm hesitantly reached out to circle around you, drawing you closer into his embrace.

That wasn’t the only reason — Cregan’s fondness of you had manifested into something uncontrollable, and you shared the same sentiment. Your feelings were now just as raging as his own, like a wildfire spreading across a forest, unchecked and unchallenged.

“Aren’t you cold?” You whispered, brought into the warm expanse of his chest, broad and taut with muscle. Even through his armor, you knew that he was indomitable. Though, for all of his physical intimidation and mesomorphic might, he was disarmingly gentle, this mountain of a man.

“No,” The husky timbre of his voice made goosebumps dance along your spine, causing you to shiver. “Not anymore.” He murmured, gaze silently asking to kiss you. He did not move, didn’t intend on acting until you decided to let sentiments flow freely.

It was you that kissed him first, seeking his lips with a desperation that rattled even you. Cregan didn’t hide his mutual desire, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated your kiss, using the leverage of his arm to lift you closer.

His lips were rough, icy from being in the damp outdoors, visage slick from the rainfall. It was a stark contrast to the softness of your mouth, pliant and plush against him, your body curvaceous and perfect within his grasp. He felt your palms press against his chest, drifting towards the nape of his neck.

Rain-soaked tresses glided through your fingers, curling inward to grip and pull, kissing him with such dizzying passion. In the slim space of your lodgings, with rain pounding above, it provided a gentle ambiance that only provided to the charged atmosphere.

Your hands shifted toward the clasps of his thick cloak, hesitating as you pulled away, looking to him for approval. If it weren’t for the many layers he needed to remove, you would’ve shed your dress already.

“Is this what you want?” Cregan needed your consent and assurance before continuing on, thumb drawing circles into your hip as he held you close. His voice had dropped to a near-growl, husky and thick with desire. It only served to stoke the growing fire between the both of you, cracking with a mutual need.

You nodded, nearly rendered breathless. “Yes,” Barely above a whisper, you felt his hands settle over yours, unclasping the metallic direwolves that loosened his cloak. It was all damp and soggy from the rain, and it felt good to be rid of it. “I need you.” You murmured, voice pitched with lust.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, hands unfastening his armor, buckle by buckle, piece by piece. Your hands sometimes joined in on occasion, loosening a strap or helping to take it off altogether. You didn’t move away, allowing each item to join the growing pile until he was left in his smallclothes.

He gently reached for the nape of your neck, massive palm caressing into the base of your skull, tracing along your silky flesh as he brought you in for a kiss. Even without his armor, Cregan was impossibly large, with a bulk and stature that dwarfed your own.

His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, each kiss blistering with passion, an eagerness that never exceeded into something rough. There was a domineering undertone to his actions, but never anything that would hurt you or scare you off.

Northern perfection, an immaculate wall of strength and muscle, yet so gentle — it rattled you to your core in the best possible way, filling your belly with molten heat. You kissed him fervently, until he stopped to kiss along your jaw, roughened lips finding the silky column of your neck.

The coarse, cloth ties that gathered at the small of your back became unraveled by you, loosening the periwinkle-colored garment until it sagged upon your body. You let it drop, your plain dress pooling to the ground in a heap of wrinkled fabric. You nudged it aside, letting it join Cregan’s armor.

Gray hues flickered across your naked flesh, beautiful beyond compare, a woman’s body that possessed the loveliest of curves. Cregan was swift to lower his hands, smoothing them across your sides, and then to your hips, shamelessly grabbing greedy handfuls of your derrière.

“I’ve never seen a beauty like yours before.” Cregan rumbled, mouth pressing soft kisses all along your neck, and then to the hollow of your throat. His calloused palms caressed everywhere they could, savoring the sensation of your velveteen skin.

You shivered at his reverent touch, lips parting as a soft gasp escaped you. Your hands held his biceps, thick and taut beneath your fingertips as a warm slick continued to mount between your legs. He hitched one of your legs around him, keeping you steady.

As he continued to savor your throat, mouth dragging from your neck to collarbone, his available hand stroked along your belly, tracing a path toward the heat between your thighs. Cregan searched for signs of hesitation or protest, but found none, thick fingers sluggishly slipping against your core.

“Cregan,” You gasped, a sharp inhale escaping you as you desperately held onto him, clinging on like a drowning woman as he toyed with your cunt. He deftly pushed past your folds, digits tracing along your slit in rhythmic motions, exploring your body. “Gods, don’t stop.” You pleaded, face pressing near his shoulder.

Teeth scraped along your throat, gently biting at your sensitive flesh as his digits found a steady rhythm. With two fingers stroking along your cunt, his thumb moved to nudge against your clit, circling around the sensitive clutch of nerves. He was silent, save for the rumbling sounds of his grunts.

Gently coaxing you towards your cot, Cregan didn’t stop to think about how feeble it was for two people. Nevertheless, he sat beside you, wood groaning and splintering in protest to the sudden amount of weight it bore. Sitting atop the furs, he collected you into his lap, slotting you against his thigh.

Tangling your hands into the hem of his tunic, you managed to maneuver it off with his assistance, all wisps of air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him. Seeing him in this light, full of desire with candlelight dancing across his skin, he was wonderfully handsome.

One palm cupped your hips, holding you close as his fingers resumed their previous ministrations, thumb seeking your clit. He touched you with such fervent passion, mouth clamoring for yours, lips unable to tear themselves away.

Each kiss left you gasping and heaving, wanting more of him, all that he could give. Your hands sought to drape themselves over his broad shoulders, threading into his damp tresses as you rocked yourself into his hand. The friction it created was delicious, a raging heat that crawled all over your body.

Thunder split the skies outside, rain coming down in a noisy deluge that pounded against the durable canvas of your tent. Cregan shifted backwards, the cot continuing to groan and creak beneath his bulk, threatening to snap into two if your ministrations continued.

You felt along the corded muscle of his shoulders, his skin unusually soft beneath your palms. With the relentless appetite of a wolf, Cregan kissed you again, pulling away just enough to kiss your collarbone instead. Thick digits continued to nudge against your cunt, threatening to push their way inside of you.

At a slow pace, he eased two fingers inside of you, stretching you just enough for it to be quite pleasurable. A whine of delight tore from your mouth, head rolling back enough for him to have unobstructed access. Teeth nipped at your collarbone, providing a sharp sting that flourished across your body.

He was gentle yet vigorous, digits sluggishly pumping themselves in and out of your tight cunt, thumb providing a burst of stimulation against your clit. Your warm, sweet breath fanned over him, mouth agape as a series of excitable pants escaped you.

Planting hot kisses just above your breasts, Cregan’s rough palm caressed from the swell of your hip to your chest, full and perfect, kneading into your breast. The entirety of your body felt so soft — like a plane of velvet, unblemished and left in some state of perfection.

Rocking yourself into his hand, a myriad of needy whimpers left you in droves, ones that occasionally tapered off into wanton moans, others left hushed. Cregan’s chest blossomed with a stoic grunt, the vibrations of it rattling you to your core.

“Cregan,” A fleeting sigh of passion escaped you, breathless and wanting, caught within a tempest of desire and carnality. Your digits touched him wherever you could, from the bulk of his shoulders to his biceps, thick and taut, and his face. “Gods, I need you.” You moaned, coaxing him in for a kiss.

Such a sentiment was mutual — Cregan did not know what depths of want he was capable of, and the carnal need he developed for you was intense. Though, it had also manifested into something else, transcending into affection and ardor.

He did not want to be parted from you after this.

His rough lips molded themselves to yours, kissing you desperately, until he stole every wisp of air from your lungs. He occasionally scraped his teeth across your lower lip, digits still working their way in and out of you, continuing to palm at your breasts.

Between the stimulation of his mouth and digits, you were already worked up, tangled within a web of desire as the cot groaned in protest again — and then snapped.

Only one of the wooden frames suffered damage, and Cregan was quick to shield you from harm, if there was any harm to begin with. He simply sagged further into the canvas, a look of mild amusement rising to his features. “The ground, then.” He rumbled, and you began to giggle, nose crinkling from the awkwardness of it all.

“I could’ve warned you,” You mused, affection dancing within your fond gaze as you kissed his jaw. “It would not survive with your muscles sitting atop it.” Cregan found it difficult not to smile, the gesture faint yet prevalent as he stroked along your spine.

“I will have it replaced.” Cregan grumbled, but you didn’t care in the slightest, the both of you relocating to the sprawling floor of thick, layered furs. It was arguably more comfortable than your cot would’ve been anyway. Drawing you back into his lap, he touched you everywhere he could.

The glow of orange illumination covered the both of you, however faint, aided by slits of clouded moonlight that poured in from the gap in canvas. You were beautiful — everything that he had ever wanted, caged within his arms, staring at him with a heated intensity.

He was mountainous, even when sitting, large and powerful enough to move you wherever he pleased. Your kisses became feverish, as if each entanglement would be your last, heart hammering within your chest with a flurry of excitement.

For a moment, Cregan withdrew, content to gaze upon your smiling visage, gaze sparkling with affection. He lifted his hand, cupping your cheek and jaw, allowing himself a moment to commit every feature of yours to memory. His next kiss was agonizingly slow in the best way possible, causing you to sigh with passion.

He needed to be close to you, chest to chest, savoring every inch of your silken flesh. Cregan had never touched something so soft before, drinking you in again with those tempestuous hues, as alluring as gray clouds before a thunderstorm.

“I want you inside of me,” You pleaded, lips parting slightly as Cregan’s jaw tensed, lust festering within him. Gods, what a wonderful mother you would make — the thought was fleeting, but it lingered like a thick fog, taking up residence within his mind. “Please.”

Cregan did not hesitate, hands joining yours as you hastily unraveled the leather ties of his trousers. He wanted to stay this way, sitting up with you in his lap, allowing him to look upon your face, ravage your skin as he guided you atop his length.

To match his imposing stature and wall of muscle, his cock was just as intimidating, causing your stomach to turn with a twinge of worry. Then again, you had become so worked up that pain seemed impossible. Cregan’s hands steadied themselves atop the swell of your hips, bringing you up enough to let his cock glide against your slick folds.

“As you wish.” He huffed, letting you find your way, the flushed tip of his length beginning to penetrate you. You moaned at the intrusion, able to feel the girth of it stretch you perfectly, just as his fingers had. Cregan grunted, guiding you down until you could go no further.

Strong enough to ease you along his length with his hands alone, Cregan seized the opportunity to kiss you. You were only a few breaths taller like this, slotted within his lap, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders as you began to ride him.

Gods, he was big — enough for you to realize that soreness was an inevitability. Being flush against him, nearly chest-to-chest, was perfect, something so intimate and sensual that hot shivers rolled down your spine. Cregan guided you up and down upon his cock, ensuring that he went at a sluggish pace, more for your sake than his own.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the tent with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. Your nails sank into the muscle there, countenance one of complete and utter pleasure.

Cregan untangled his lips from yours, finding the column of your throat, greedily kissing and nipping wherever he could. Your taste was ambrosial, skin delicate and saccharine beneath his mouth. You moaned, one hand moving to tug at his chestnut tresses, bringing your hips down upon his cock again and again.

The sluggishness of the repetitive motion was agonizingly wonderful — the pace was perfect, not rough enough in the slightest, but passionate, instead. You much preferred this, the intimacy and closeness of it all, the way in which heat radiated between the both of you.

You felt incredible, every fiber of your body burning for him, arousal thick and heavy between your thighs. “Cregan,” A noisy moan escaped you, grinding yourself against him, hips flush together. It was as if you were touched by hot embers, the heat raking across your body time and time again. “Cregan!”

A deep, trembling groan tore past his mouth, one that made your belly fill with liquid fire. You shivered within his grasp, feeling his lips clamor to the underside of your jaw, nose brushing against your chin. His cock throbbed with a sense of urgency, slick with precum.

He continued to guide you, hands descending from your hips to the pliant flesh of your haunches, digits sinking into your derrière. Despite the chill of the rain and song of the storm raging around you, Cregan kept you anchored, warmth radiating from him.

Your hands deftly roamed across his musculature, coming to plant themselves against the expanse of his chest, his heart thudding beneath your palm. “That’s it.” Cregan rumbled, kissing at your jaw before he finally coaxed you in for a passionate kiss. He wanted you to come undone for him.

The intensity of your release blindsided you, crashing into you like a wave breaking upon the rock. Your nails desperately scratched at Cregan’s chest, sinking into his collarbone as you bucked forward. He continued to guide you up and down along his cock until your legs rattled like leaves in the wind.

Cregan joined you, following suit as he reached his peak, forehead bumping into yours as he sought your mouth for a tender kiss. He swallowed your sweet moans, spilling his seed into your cunt. Hot ropes of his spend filled you completely, causing the both of you to sigh, a low rumble reverberating from his throat.

You very nearly collapsed within his lap, heaving with excitable pants, basking in the aftermath of your release. In an intimate gesture, you kissed his jaw, peppering his visage in soft kisses that only made Cregan pull you closer. “Are you alright?” He murmured, running a hand along your side.

“I am,” You smiled, palm reaching to cup his cheek. Cregan’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing a kiss to the silky skin there. Thunder crackled overhead, followed by a flash of lightning, the onslaught of rain pounding overhead. “It seems you’ve no choice but to stay.”

A bemused huff left Cregan, who seemed more than content to share your tent. “Thank the Gods for the deluge, then.” He rumbled, continuing to kiss from your wrist to your hand. A shiver rolled down the length of your spine, aided by his affectionate gestures.

Removing yourself from his lap, you settled down to lay beside him on the floor of your tent, gazing up at the damp canvas. The Warden of the North descended to you, offering you a muscular arm to rest against, moving the furs around the both of you.

It was a comfortable silence, born in the aftermath of your lovemaking as you curled against Cregan, palm settling above his abdomen. “When do you ride next?” You uttered, referring to the raging war that you were both caught within. It was easy to not think much of it when you were with him.

“On the morrow,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together. He loathed the thought of leaving again, now that he had so much more to lose. His calloused digits idly traced around your shoulder, his other arm propped beneath his head. “We will fight hard, like Northerners.”

A subtle terror gripped your heart, foul tendrils sinking into every fiber of your being. You sat up just enough to gaze upon him, fingers drifting toward the slope of his jaw. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.” You uttered, stern as could be.

Cregan could not make such a promise — war was harrowing, and it was unpredictable. Instead, he reached for your face, holding you there as he met your gaze. “I will try,” A low rumble left him, gray eyes boring into you with devotion. “Should I fall prey to another arrow or sword, I will know who to seek.”

It was difficult not to smile, in spite of everything. You sighed, leaning in to kiss him, allowing gentleness and ardor to prevail. A low grunt escaped Cregan, gray hues fluttering shut as he drew you closer into the warmth of his musculature.

“I would certainly hope so.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my works onto other platforms.

[sordidmusings]

Thirsty Thursday with Mihawk - The Hat Stays ON

Art by koitosoup

A/N: This is very indulgent because I needed desperate and needy Mihawk to exist and this prompt tumbled right on into that to sate me 🤡 (at the airport hoping no one is looking over my shoulder rn too LOL)

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: afab!reader, NSFW, p in v, forceful undertones towards beginning, desk sex, creampie, begging, praise, lots of the pet name "love", Mihawk is like super needy he moans "please" dude, he's also very in love, and trying sUPER hard not to finish first by the end 💀, stress relief before Cross Guild meeting, brief moment shit-talking the other two lol turns real sweet at the end cuz I couldn’t help myself

Please enjoy this man being as close to a mess as I think I can convincingly get him ╰(▔∀▔)╯

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Mihawk is usually the type of man to fully take his time enjoying every inch of you.

Usually.

“I know, love, I know,” his voice is full of panting desperation, worn to a fluster by his pressing need and his frantic firm thrusts into you. “I’ll make it up to you later, I just -nnhah- just gotta fuck you now -nnnhg fuck- don’t wanna think about anything but how fucking good it feels inside you.”

When Mihawk came to your study not thirty minutes before the next Cross Guild meeting, this was the last thing you were expecting. Though, it did fly right to the top of the list when you saw the intensity of his shining gold eyes on you and the rigidness of his figure, all coiled muscle waiting to pounce and gritted teeth waiting to tear. You’d barely been able to get just his jacket over his shoulders before he was on you, speaking his need and hunger with persistent lips and hands. He was so set on getting his fill that he simply let his prized coat be dragged down his arms and thrown to the floor. Somehow, his hat survived the rush of his motions and the beloved closeness necessary for his demanding kisses.

Though they were rare, you loved the times he was like this, using you for his pleasure, clinging to you and taking you like nothing else in the world would ever suffice in sating him. You got just as much out of these times as he did, but you played it as a favor, partly for the delicious flavor it added to the dynamic to hear him apologize, beg, and thank as much as the stalwart Dracule Mihawk can and partly to earn the long and worshipful treatment he’d reward you with later. You’re not sure how he hasn’t caught onto you yet. Seeing the meticulously controlled man lose himself in his desire for you has you dripping, shown in the wet slap on each strong thrust. It was surely enough to give your abundant eagerness away.

Beyond that, you are just as ravenous for him, thighs clamped around his sides, hands gripping tightly to his tense forearms as he fucks you on your desk. You feel the jump of each muscle from their work sinking a bruising grip into your hips, manhandling them forward and back opposite the motion of his hips to fuck you just like he wants - like you’re a lifeline and if he just digs as deeply as he can into your sweet cunt as quickly as he can then he can finally breathe again.

Your heels pull him in on each quick thrust, the clench of your legs and abs for the motion helping a rhythmic pulse stroke at every inch of your walls and further firm your swollen lips and clit to absorb each delicious impact of Mihawk’s hips. The soft, sweat-damp skin of his back and sides teases your sensitive inner thighs and calves as he fucks you, his obliques dancing especially sinfully against your flesh. You loved admiring the look of his chiseled figure but absolutely nothing compared to the bliss of him using it against you.

The urge Mihawk has to collapse down over you and continuously drag you as close as possible is strong, but it is beat out by the erotic sight of watching the slap of his hips bounce your body. It lets you have a beautiful sight too; Mihawk backlit and looming over you, muscles fully displaying their strength and tone with the lack of his jacket, his curled hair and the feather on his cap swaying in time with him fucking into you. The hat still resting on his head only makes you feel smaller captured under him; he always looks impressive with it on and it makes the shadow he casts over you that much larger.

Mihawk uses an iron grip to throw one of your bare legs to hook over his shoulder. He uses his other hand to grip the inside of the other and shove it to the side, flat on your desk, trapping it down by putting his weight into his hold on your thigh. It forces your hips to turn on their side, giving him a new angle to work you open on his thick cock. The change has each forceful drag of his cock in you feel new again, recharging your nerves in their pleasant screaming. You tell him their call through whiny panting, chants of his name, and streams of “yes! like that, so good, fuck me harder, need it, need you so bad-”

There’s a firm thump and rattle of your desk as his hand plants next to your head to keep from collapsing over you. It leaves him crouching over you like a predator, but the hazy need in his eyes begging you to let him keep feeling this forever betrays the fact that he’s as deeply in your clutches as he tries to snatch you into his. The thickness of your thigh trapped between you helps keep him up as well as his other hand still pressing your leg down. His fingers that are sunk into your thigh dig deeper and tremble with his pleasure and overwhelm.

“Gods, love, you’re perfect, want to live between your thighs,” Mihawk groans, so close you can feel his panting breath cool the sweat on your face. He’s fighting his eyes to stay open, needing to see the pleasure scrunching your brow, loosening your jaw, fogging your eyes. The fluttering of his lids catches your eyes and swells your heart, shooting arousal through you from knowing he’s feeling so desperately good from fucking you. The amber of his eyes is so bright trained on you that it seems to glow through the shadows haunting his face. It makes him look all the more feral as he grips, spreads, bends, and fucks you like he wants to eat you whole. “Just -hahn- need some more from you, can you -nngaaah- do that for me, little love?”

You sob out a moan as you snap your eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation. The soreness his weight is pressing through your thigh and the tender stretch from your other leg being folded to your shoulder add more buzzing chaos to the sensations swirling their way through your body to flood your brain. The way he holds you open lets your clit take a soft impact every time he shoves his whole length into your plush pussy, giving the bud more little teases with how your body reverberates from the impact. 

“Look at me while I fuck you,” Mihawk snarls, but there’s desperation bleeding through the growl in his voice. You want to whine back at his request but you want to please him even more. You blink your eyes open and the raw need in them has Mihawk collapse just a bit more over you, feeling the want you and your pleasures ravage through his body begin to burn him alive. The brim of his hat taps lightly on your forehead from his closeness while he pants and moans to you, “Like that, love, fuck you’re so good for me.”

Meeting your gaze is a double edged sword; his arousal magnifies, his soul lights up, and his cock twitches hard but it also throws him to feeling right on the precipice of cumming and he’s not ready to stop feeling you. The siren song of the wet slapping of your hips, the slick sound of your pussy gushing around him and trying to keep him sucked as deep as he can reach, and your panting breaths carrying high moans and pleads and praises all tempt him to let the torrent of pleasure rush over him, promise him it would feel like endless blissful sin. It is all the harder to resist because he knows exactly how delicious it feels to sheathe himself from root to tip in you and pump stream after stream of hot cum into your welcoming walls while your cunt clings to him almost as tightly and desperately as his hands cling to you.

“Love, need you to cum,” Mihawk rushes out. He palms the hand on your thigh up so he can rub circles over your swollen clit. Your moans gain even more volume, filling the air in your office almost as thickly as the sweet, musky scent of sex.

“Need it, please,” he whispers breathlessly, “Need to feel you -nnnnhhah- love, love, need to feel your cunt sque-heeze me.” 

His vision begins blurring from the strain of staying right on the edge of cumming, barely holding back the powerful orgasm built from the burning in his muscles, the tingling in his fingers, the swirling in his head, and the throbbing of his cock. Giving up on trying to refocus them, he scrunches his eyes shut and lets his forehead fall down to rest on your temple, finally bumping his hat to fall onto the desk next to you. His closed eyes allow him to focus in better on all the other ways you are filling his senses, latching especially to your open mouth serenading him with needy babbling and fucked out moans.

“Can you be -ghahh- good and do that for me?” Mihawk pleads against your cheek. “Can you cum for me?”

“Y-yes, please, wanna be -mmmngh- good for you,” you whine back to him. His hips stutter at the tone and you feel his lips pull up around gritting teeth, an airy “fuck” sneaking past them.

“You are, sweetness, you are sooooo good for me,” Mihawk praises, swirling his thumb more insistently across your slick clit. The increase and pressure and perfect timing with his firm thrusts has your core tightening in threat of bursting. Your thighs had already been shaking in warning of your coming orgasm, but now the trembling is seating itself in every clench of your walls around Mihawk’s thick cock, wringing tighter and longer on each pulse. Your nerves sparkle and buzz more with each clamp down, the blazing rub of his throbbing dick and its bulging veins whiting out your mind. “Now come on, love -nngh- cum on my cock -fuuck please- let me feel you, make me cum -nnnghah- need to fuck you full.”

With a sob of his name, you finally fall over the edge. It feels as overwhelming as you had been expecting since he first stormed in and threw you over the desk. Your hands and cunt cling to him in need of a tether and in need of more; while your body is trembling with the bliss of your orgasm a tiny piece in the back of your mind is waiting for the final thing that will melt your whole body into a honey drip of heaven.

Mihawk doesn’t leave you waiting long; he is only able to feel your pussy milk him a handful of times before he can hold his end off no longer. With slurring groans of endearments and praises, he is overtaken by pleasure and can think of nothing beyond the relief of pumping you full of his cum with his twitching cock and grinding hips. The force of it has his thighs quake and numb out, making his weight crumble over you as he can no longer hold himself up. He nuzzles his face down the side of yours until he’s tucked panting against your neck, forehead pressed snuggly against your racing pulse.

You welcome his weight with open arms, one dragging him ever tighter to your heaving chest and the other winding its hand into his thick dark hair to ensure he never leaves. Both of you are still gasping for breath, your pressed chests rubbing and shaking against each other much like your greedy hips do as they ring out the endless pulsing beats of your orgasms. Your cunt and core continue to massage down on him and wring every bit of tight and bubbling bliss from his still hard and pumping cock that they can get. 

The feeling of being not only filled with his large and achingly hard cock but also the swelling heat of his cum makes your eyes roll back. He’s filled you full to bursting, now leaking out of you on every grind and the warm sticky sensation and sound matched with his pelvis massaging small sweeps across your clit prolongs your peak. You get to spend a long time suspended in the feeling of your body bursting with heat and joy and relief and electricity, all shoving your soul right out of your skin only for Mihawk’s presence to trap you right back into the storm raging in your nerves.

Mihawk begins to feel foggy and a bit delirious as he finally releases his pent up need in you, finally sates his ferocious hunger for your delicious touch, finally finds his comfort and peace stuck as close to you as he can possibly get. He makes a halfhearted attempt to bring his mind back to his body but is happily distracted by the aftershocks that jolt your body and flutter your cunt. They pull extra little spurts and groans from him each time and he’s defenseless to the contentment he feels following their slowing pace into the warm hover of affection that always envelops him after sharing bodies with you.

It takes a long time for either of you to actually come back to yourselves. The whole time you are afloat, you guide each other with trailing touches from limp but loving hands, quick kisses stolen between smoothing out your breath, and gentle squeezes in the embrace you keep on each other, needing those little moments where it's even more of a hug than a hold. Mihawk chases the touches that tease across the dips of his lower back or scratch up the back of his neck and across his scalp just a little bit more than the others. You feel too boneless to lean into almost any touch at the moment, but you do manage to roll your head to the side so you can gaze at your grandfather clock in the corner.

“I don’t think there’s time to make you presentable for them,” you sigh out with no real remorse. Mihawk is of a similar mind.

“Not my fault if those two don’t have anyone to take care of their needs,” Mihawk mumbles dryly. “Also not my problem if they’re mad I’ve had mine met.”

The laugh you give at his attitude earns you one of your favorite prizes: Mihawk’s lips making the slow curl then spread into a real smile. It is only topped when they close again to press a kiss in the shape of that smile on their resting place against your skin with enough love to reach straight through that skin and nurture every beat of your heart.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Depths 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: fisherman!Geralt of Rivia x artist!reader

Summary: your sleepy existence is thrown into chaos by a mysterious man.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The water crashes onto the coast. The sound is dulled by the distance of your perch. The sky melds into the lake's surface as the sun hides behind a swathe of clouds.

You lean in to squint at the strokes on the canvas, sweeping your brush in repetition of the rippled horizon. You use the wnd of the brush to scratch your cheek.

Almost...

You peek above the easel and watch the small speck growing larger as it moves across the water. The fishing boat is there so often that you've added its silhouette to the acrylic tides. A stalwart to your early mornings and listless afternoons.

Day after day is layered before you in shades of cerulean, slate, and lavender. The grey sky with a tinge of golden sunlight, the waters stirring in sparkling shades of aquamarine and pearl, the coast rippled in fawn and umber. Another eye might see it and deem it finished but not you.

You step back to let the paint dry and rinse your brushes in the jar. Hmm. You're out of clean water.

You close up the easel and hook the canvas on the backside, carrying it like a briefcase as you pick up your canvas bag with your roll of brushes and pots of paint, your palette around your index finger.

You make a slow descent down the cliffside and curl around towards the shore. You veer away from the dock and head down into the silt. You put your stuff on a flat rock. You take the used brushes and palette to rinse in the shallows.

The water laps over your sandals as you linger in the soothing cool foam. The approach of evening skews the water with emerald and jade. You shake it all off and step back to dry it with a paint-blotted cloth.

You rearrange the bag so it all fits and hook it over your shoulder. You look down at the your linen apron. You can recall where every splotch and streak came from.

You take your easel and canvas and head back up along the dock. As you reach the post, the fishing boat knocks against the other end. You peer over at the man that lays a board across the spanse between.

You see him every night. You couldn't forget a man with snow white hair and golden eyes. His age is less than his locks might suggest and his eyes seem to look through you, not at you.

You smile, like you do every night. He doesn't react. Just like every other time.

The smell of fish wafts in the boat as he drags his net across the wooden ramp. You turn and press on. He's much to busy for you. It doesn't bother you. You came out here to get away from people.

Your feet leave divets in the dirt as the rock of the boat knocks in a rhythm against the dock. The man's toil adds to thunks and thuds and they fade behind you. The peace here is immaculate, you wouldn't want to ruin it for anyone else.

Past the seaside houses left vacant in the colder seasons and the smaller basins of the lake, between the rocky ridges and grassy knolls, you return to your little house.The cornflower paint chips from the wooden siding and the stairs are worn in the middle from the tramp of feet. A bench stands on the other side of the white railing between a plinthed flowerpot and folding table with a book forgotten on its slats. Home.

The spindly wreath on the front door rattles as you push through and the screen door snaps behind you. The evening breezs drifts in through the mesh as you set your easel down and rest the canvas on crate just beside the mat. You put your bag in front of the wooden stand and bask in the calm.

You hang your wicker hat and untie your apron. Your hands are covered in paint. You'll wash them before you eat. You leave your wet sandals at the door.

You pull out the pot of chowder you made two nights past from the fridge. You put it over a burner and wait for it to warm. The fare lasts you near a week when you take the time to put it together. Every ingredient must be used to its last, especially when it is so far to market. And expensive.

You scoop out a bowl and eat it on the front porch. Your eyes are too tired to read. When you finish, you recline on the bench and yawn. You lay in the dimming hue of the evening as the stars wink down at you.

A whistle carries on the wind. You sit up and look for the culprit. They are close enough to hear but that could still be far. It could even be a bird.

You take the empty bowl inside and rinse it. You retreat to the bedroom and change

You open the window to let the night in. Around here, you can do that. Not like the city and its grated windows.

You laze in the dusk shade and drift slowly into yourself. Sleep enshrines you atop the cushy bed, the water stirring from afar, the loons calling into the dark. Tomorrow you'll figure out the exact right colour for the undertow.

You're more than due to sell a new piece. You need to if you want to stay in paradise.

[saintsenara]

Thoughts on Ron and Hermione as a ship?

thank you very much for the ask, @thesilverstarling!

i’ll state my position straight away: book ron and hermione are the best of the canon couples.

they will have a long and extremely happy marriage made rich by great and stalwart love, lust, fun, and faithfulness, rather than held together by duty and couples’ therapy like so many readers and authors (including jkr, who seems to have decided to spend the years since the conclusion of the series failing to understand anything about her own characters) tend to think.

i will state another position straight away: lest i seem like i’m just a fan with blinkers on, i think this even though hermione is, by far, my least favourite member of the trio. if she were real i would detest her, and i dislike how she is treated by the narrative as always justified in her negative characteristics. i like fanon hermione - perfect and preternaturally good - even less.

as a result, i think that it’s ridiculous that jkr has said that she thought ron needed to ‘become worthy’ of hermione. they belong together as equals - which is what they’re set up in the narrative as being from the off - and i hate seeing that undermined.

because ronald weasley? he’s an icon. and he doesn’t get anywhere near the respect he deserves in fandom.

there are multiple reasons for this - ron’s narrative purpose is to be the everyman sidekick, and so he is able to be less special than harry or hermione (the helper-figure); the amount of aristocracy wank in this fandom means that the weasleys’ ordinariness is less appealing to writers than making harry have twenty different lordships and call himself hadrian; the narrative interrogates ron’s flaws - especially his capacity for jealousy - much more intensively than it interrogates either hermione’s (cruel, inflexible, meddling) or harry’s (reckless, self-absorbed, judgemental) - but one i feel is particularly significant is that ron is such a british character that many of his traits are not understood as intended by non-british readers.

in particular - as is outlined in this excellent meta by @whinlatter - ron’s sense of humour isn’t indicative of immaturity or a lack of seriousness, but is, in fact, evidence that he’s the most emotionally aware of the trio.

ron is shown throughout the series to understand how both harry and hermione need to have their emotions approached - and i think there is no piece of writing which says this better than crocodile heart by @floreatcastellumposts:

That was what she liked most about Ron, she thought vaguely. He was very good at being suitably outraged on your behalf. For Harry, for her, for Neville. That sort of thing mattered, when you were hurt or embarrassed or wronged in some way. You needed to have someone else on your side, to be as emotional as you felt, maybe even more so, so that you might feel a bit more normal. It was very decent of him, and she was not sure he realised he did it.

ron’s inherent emotional awareness is an enormous source of comfort to other people. he does the work which isn’t flashy or special - he makes tea and tells jokes and is just there - but which is needed in healthy human relationships far more frequently than a willingness to fight to the death for the other person.

[as an aside, this normality - even though i think it is assumed rather than justified by the text - is also what ginny provides for harry. if you believe that hinny are a good couple but romione aren’t… i can’t help you.]

but let’s look at some specific reasons why ron and hermione belong together:

their communication styles mesh perfectly. ron is the only person hermione knows who feeds her love of being challenged and debated, and who is able to engage in this way of communicating without becoming irate when she refuses to back down. ron is good at picking his battles, but he’s also good at recognising that hermione’s tendency to argue isn’t intended to be confrontational a lot of the time - it’s just the way she works through feelings and problems. he’s far more easy-going about her tendency to nag, interrupt, try to provoke arguments, or speak condescendingly than he’s given credit for - and hermione evidently respects this, since when he does tell her not to push a situation (above all, when she’s trying to needle harry into talking about sirius), she listens to him.

that ron and hermione’s tendency to bicker is taken by fans to be a bad thing is because it’s something harry - from whose perspective the narrative is written - doesn’t understand. harry is extremely conflict-avoidant - he tends to take being pushed on views and opinions he has to be insulting; and he has a tendency to assume that he is right which is just as profound as hermione’s. he and ginny communicate not by debating, but by ginny having no time for his rigidity and refusing to indulge it - but ron and hermione bickering about everything is not a negative thing within their specific emotional dynamic.

[as another aside, this glaring chasm in communication styles is why harry and hermione would be a disaster as a couple.]

they each provide validation the other needs. it’s clear - reading between the lines - that hermione is a tremendously lonely person. the friendlessness of her initial few weeks at hogwarts seems to be a continuation of her experience as a child, and - outside of ron and harry - that friendlessness endures through her schooldays. i’m always struck, for example, by the fact that, when she falls out with ron in prisoner of azkaban, she has no-one else to spend time with, and that this is only avoided in half-blood prince because harry decides not to freeze her out. i don’t think her friendship with ginny is anywhere near as close as fanon seems to imply (ginny has no interest in being nagged either), nor do i think that she’s anywhere near as close to neville (not least because she is so condescending to him) as she’s often written to be.

and this loneliness seems to stretch beyond hogwarts. the absence of hermione’s parents’ from the narrative is - in a doylist sense - clearly just a device to maximise time with the trio all together, but the watsonian reading is that she doesn’t have a particularly good relationship with them. hermione’s obviously upper-middle-class background - the name! the skiing! the holidays in the south of france! - can be presumed, i think, to come with a series of expectations from her parents which she feels constantly that she’s not entirely meeting, particularly expectations attached to academic success.

[for example, the grangers - were she a muggle child - would undoubtedly have ambitions for her to attend an elite university and then go into a prestigious career. tertiary education of the type that they’re familiar with doesn’t seem to exist in the wizarding world - most careers seem to be taught by apprenticeship - and this, alongside all the other divides between the magical and muggle worlds which contribute to the distance between them, would be one very obvious area in which she felt the need to prove herself to them.]

ron, too, has quite a difficult relationship with his position in the family - voldemort’s locket is not wrong to point out that he seems to receive considerably less of his mother’s emotional attention than ginny or the rest of his brothers - and he too is constrained by expectations which he doesn’t know how to explain he has no interest in - above all, molly’s desire for her sons to achieve top grades and go into the ministry.

he also suffers while at hogwarts from being ‘harry potter’s best friend’, something which harry never appreciates. but hermione does. she recognises ron’s jealousy and never allows harry to minimise it (and she and ron are very much aligned on having no respect for harry’s saviour and martyr complexes). she appreciates ron’s strengths - above all his kindness and his sense of humour - and makes him feel as though he’s achieved things with them. and ron does the same for her; he is hugely observant when it comes to her, and he challenges and defends her.

the two of them clearly spend a lot of time together one-on-one while harry’s involved in his various shenanigans (including outside of school - hermione has often arrived at the burrow days or even weeks before harry, and they seem to write to each other frequently when apart). they do this within a relationship which is fundamentally equal. one issue with hinny is that, post-war, harry is going to have to get used to seeing ginny as a peer, rather than as someone he has to protect. but ron and hermione never have that issue - equality is baked into their relationship from the off.

because, to be quite frank, fandom overstates the role that jealousy plays in their relationship. it’s true that ron certainly doesn’t acquit himself brilliantly when it comes to hermione’s relationship with viktor krum (it’s because he’s bi and doesn’t know it yet), and a tendency to externalise his insecurity into trying to make others also feel insecure is one of his primary negative traits (hermione does this too, via her patented lofty voice when she’s trying to condescend to people). but this is often taken as the initial red flag for how the relationship would crash and burn, and ron’s toxic jealousy is often used in fan-fiction as the trigger for emotional and physical violence towards hermione which, frequently, seems to drive her into the arms of either draco malfoy or severus snape… who are, of course, the first people we think of when we hear the words ‘not prone to jealousy’...

but i think it’s important to point out several things in defence of ron’s jealousy over krum. firstly, hermione evidently regards his jealousy as ridiculous - she’s upset by it, yes, but her upset must be understood as being caused by the fact that she wanted him to ask her out. she doesn’t think he’s being possessive, she thinks he’s being stupid. secondly, hermione is equally as jealous over ron’s crush on fleur delacour and relationship with lavender brown. she behaves just as cruelly when it comes to lavender as ron does when it comes to krum - and the narrative only treats her actions as more sympathetic or justified both because harry dislikes lavender too, and because, by that point in the series, jkr has dispensed with any inclination to ever criticise her.

but, outside of this teenage pettiness, ron is never jealous of hermione over things which matter. he is never jealous of her intelligence or competence or ambition or success (indeed, he defends her constantly from attacks designed to undermine her in these areas). for someone who struggles with being overshadowed by harry, he is never upset at being overshadowed by her. he is clearly going to be happy to support her in any of the career ambitions she can be written as having post-war.

and, on this point, i think it’s worth interrogating why so many readers still seem to feel uncomfortable with the idea of ron and hermione having a dynamic where she is the more ‘powerful’ one. [it’s always a bit trite to say ‘but what if the genders were reversed?’, but actually that’s not irrelevant here]. if hermione ends up taking the ministry by storm and ron becomes a stay-at-home father or has a job which is just to pay the bills, what, precisely, is wrong with that? why, precisely, should hermione regard ron making that choice for himself as a negative thing? hermione so often seems to leave ron in fan-fiction because of a lack of ambition - something which seems to be particularly common in dramione - but, in canon, she is shown to not particularly care if ron and harry do the bare minimum when it comes to studying etc. she nags them to do their work so they don’t get in trouble. she doesn’t nag them to do it to the same standard that she would.

and, actually, i think that ron being less ambitious than hermione is something which is key to how well they work. because ron provides not only emotional support, but emotional clarity.

hermione is shown throughout canon to - just as harry does - have a tendency to become obsessive to the detriment of her own health. she is also often - as harry is - emotionally or intellectually inflexible, and finds it hard to move on when what she feels or believes is proven to be wrong. both she and harry are micro-thinkers, who lean towards knee-jerk assumptions and stubborn convictions (and, indeed, hermione has a remarkably hagrid-ish tendency towards blind loyalty).

ron is none of these things. ron is a big-picture thinker (it’s why he’s so good at chess). he’s a pragmatist. he’s the least righteous of the three. he understands that faith and loyalty are choices, and that sometimes these choices will lead to outcomes which are bad or hard. he is the one of the three most willing to own up to having made mistakes. he is the one least likely to act on gut instinct (and, therefore, the hardest to fool - i think it’s worth emphasising that he clocks that tom riddle is tricking harry immediately, the only one of the trio to do so). he understands that things are a marathon, not a sprint. he is the least obsessive.

and these traits contribute to aspects of his character which are underappreciated. ron worries about hermione making herself ill during exams, or when she is using the time-turner, and makes an effort to get her to set healthy boundaries and redirect her anxiety. ron stands on a broken leg in front of sirius or goes into the forest to fight aragog not out of righteousness, but out of choice. ron takes over the burden of preparing buckbeak’s defence when it is clear that hermione is approaching burnout. ron is completely right that harry hasn’t done any long-term planning for the horcrux hunt, and his anger does force harry to tighten up after he leaves the trio. ron has a clear head in the middle of battle. ron makes harry and hermione laugh. ron is unafraid of human emotion. ron arrests harry’s tendency to brood over the little things by looking at the bigger picture. ron will always come back.

ron is bringing his politician wife regular cups of tea and making sure she doesn’t work all night. he is helping his lawyer wife to feel less upset over losing one case by reminding her that she’s won ten others. he is noticing stress creeping in and whirling her off for a dirty weekend, or even just a takeaway on the sofa. he is teaching his daughter to be proud of her ambition and his son to treat women as equals and both of his children that all you can do when you fuck up is apologise and try to do better. he is making hermione smile on the worst days of her life. he is helping her strategise her long-term goals when she gets stuck on the short-term ones. he is telling her straight when she needs to get it together. he is seeing a misogynistic head of department call hermione a ‘silly little girl’ and choosing to tell him exactly what he thinks of that.

ron is the ultimate wife guy. hermione is a very, very lucky lady.

[moodymisty]

Hiii!!! I LOVE everything you write since I followed you a long time ago. I would like to read something about Rogal Dorn. I can't find ANYTHING about him and i just can't stop thinking about him.

I don't mind if it's smut, whatever you feel confortable with, but if it can have a little bit of fluff i would LOVE It.

Thank you for everything.💞

Author's note: Ok so I am deciding to do an idea i have for awhile, that I believe someone else posted but I cannot remember who. anyhoo, enjoy. Perhaps it's not as fluffy as you might have wanted, but fluffy Dorn is sort of awkward, nice Dorn so I hope you still like it;;

Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader (reader is a remembrancer)

Warnings: Perturabo calls you a whore but other than that nothing really of note

"I never did thank you properly for all of the clothes, Lord Dorn."

You look up at him, golden armor still shining in the relative dimness of the bridge- to only get a light nod of his head in response.

Inwit is freezing, unfathomably cold, and the clothes you had worn previously on Olympia failed to cut it. That had been a very quick, and very upsetting realization. Dorn had- in his stalwart silence - requisitioned you more only a few days later. Many more, custom-made. They were lined with warm furs and comfortable, built for hard winds and ice, trapping your body heat close to you. You had taken some of the layers off since you were arriving to Terra, a planet with a much more tempered climate. You don't miss the burning of your cheeks and frozen snot, but you do miss the planet overall.

Terra... Coming here makes you nervous. You know who is going to be here. Take a few deep, self-assuring breaths before looking in Dorn's general direction. The large glass viewport at the front of the bridge illuminates most of the floor, casting you all in a variety of colors.

"Lord Dorn, may I ask you a question about something?"

He turns to you, looking down at your hesitant expression.

"Did Perturabo make you beg permission to speak to him? Just ask it."

He did, more often than not. You remember more than a few instances.

"Well, he was actually going to be what I wanted to ask about."

You twisted your wrists in your hands, trying to do some sort of fidget to focus on while Dorn had his full attention on you.

"Has he always hated you? The entire time I was in his company, there was always just undertone of pure, seething hatred for you, but whenever I saw you, you didn't seem to even care."

There are a few other Imperial Fists on the bridge, watching as Terra comes into view. You're in the process of getting caught by the planet's orbit and mooring close enough to come down to the surface. You can see the palace already, even from this far, a golden target that is still growing larger with each day.

"Perturabo has always been that way, yes."

Dorn turns to briefly give an order to a questioning Imperial Fist, before returning to you and his explanation.

"He sees competition in my existence. I don't care."

Polux approaches, choosing to stand on your opposing side and wait patiently for his moment to speak. You give him a brief smile as greeting before returning your eyes to his primarch. Dorn looks forward and out the viewport, watching the palace of his design inch closer and closer.

"Sanguinius and Horus' rivalry is even matched. They both find growth from it. Perturabo's rivalry with me is a childish urge to beat me into the ground and prove to everyone that he is better."

You don't disagree with him in even the slightest. Perturabo was always so desperate to beat Dorn above all else, even to the detriment of other facets of his life.

"Despite the fact that he isn't?"

Dorn looks at you fully again, eyebrows raised and you swear, you swear, the inkling of a smile on his face.

"You have spent more time with him than I. Do you think that?" He turns on his heel slightly, armor shifting and clanking against eachother to face you more.

"Do you think The Emperor was right in claiming me Praetorian over him?"

You've been with the Imperial fists for a few months now, and this is far from the first time you've spoken to Dorn. Far more than you ever interacted with Perturabo, despite the fact that Dorn is known for being tight lipped and humorless.

You nod.

"Yes, I do. Perturabo's plans are always so complex, and he hinges them and his entire self worth on being better than you. And when he fails, he sulks." You smile. "I don't imagine you or your sons to be the type to sit and pout if something went wrong. You would all be too busy trying to correct it."

Dorn looks down at you, face as stoic and frozen as you've become quite used to. You don't know entirely what he's thinking, but you don't get a chance to ask before someone else's voice interrupts you.

Polux has a younger astartes walk up to him, stating some information that flows in one ear and out the other for you before walking away. He turns to the both of you, looking two his primarch but referring to the both of you.

"My lord, we are ready to depart for the palace. Is she accompanying us?"

You've never stepped foot on Terra before, to even come into it's orbit is an idea that you could barely handle; Alongside the fact that the primarch and his captains have little need for you there. You gather yourself, preparing to return to the Librarium aboard the ship to continue your work before Dorn's voice stops you in your tracks and sends almost every emotion through you at once.

"She is. Let us go."

Your first time on Terra was going well, in the first hour or so.

Dorn isn't much of a communicator, so he has spent the long of it conversing with his men, giving orders even while not aboard his ship. Either orders given to send back to the Phalanx, or to the Imperial Fists on Terra assisting with the Palace construction. You stand idly by and occasionally draw, or write something down that interests you.

The smoothness stops however, when Dorn looks away abruptly. His sons are confused, before they also perk up not a moment later. You look to Polux, as you know he's the one who will most likely acquiesce to your questions.

"What is it?" You say. He tilts his head vaguely in your direction, but doesn't actually look at you.

"Primarch Perturabo is on his way. He must've heard we had arrived," Polux takes a breath, presumably steeling himself for whatever is to come.

"His... footsteps are quite loud." Not a few more moments later now even you can hear them, and then see him shortly thereafter.

Perturabo storms closer; You can tell by the red flush over his tanned skin, that he is beyond furious.

Dorn looks down at you, and points behind him. His voice leaves no room for question, not as if you would even considering doing so in the first place.

"Go to Vulkan."

The Salamander's primarch had finished speaking to Dorn not long ago, now standing across the massive open area that you presumed served as a training ground for the astartes. You do as your now primarch commands and rush towards him, feeling his eyes on him as you approach.

"I am terribly sorry to bother you Lord Vulkan, but My lord Dorn told me to-" He ushers you closer with a hand, his voice gentle despite his overwhelming size.

"I am well aware of your circumstances, and what is more than likely about to play out. You can stay here with me."

You take refuge close to the Salamander's primarch, both standing and watching as Perturabo confronts Dorn. Multiple of his Imperial Fists straighten up and hold themselves at the ready, prepared to fight for their primarch if it ever be needed.

"Dorn!"

A disrespectful finger points his way, but Dorn pays it no mind. The white fabric of Perturabo's Olympian clothes flow softly and comfortably in the gentle wing, in contrast to the sharp, unforgiving features of his face.

"You think you can just steal from me now? Are you truly so bold now that you're praetorian?"

Dorn only speaks up when Perturabo is close enough that he doesn't have to yell.

"She wanted to leave."

Dorn speaks plainly, bluntly, as if he's just totally uncaring of the conversation.

You've learned over time that Dorn is far from emotionless; He merely doesn't waste it on things he deems pointless. This is pointless, and so he only speaks with the most blunt, monotone voice. It pisses Perturabo off to an unfathomable degree.

To think he was so upset about your departure without his dismissal. He had been nothing but cold and cruel to you, despite the fact that you were merely there to document his legion's progresses.

"I don't care what she wanted. She was indebted to my legion, and I will not tolerate deserters no matter how useless I think they are,"

Perturabo yells. Once his frustration at Dorn is exhausted enough that his attention can be deviated, he turns his gaze to you.

It feels like the gravity of a planet is pushing down onto you, the sheer weight of his anger. Even from so far away. Even the weight of Primarch Vulkan's hand on your shoulder does nothing to shield you from it.

"I hope you heard me, you lying, traitorous little whore. I hope you know I'll wring your neck myself when I catch you."

It takes every bit of energy to avoid crumbling instantly, at the threat of a primarch. Thankfully he leaves shortly after, storming off with the flowing white fabric of his clothes flowing behind him.

Vulkan sighs. You think he said something to reassure you, but you can't hear it over the thumping of your heart in your ears.

"I truly don't think there is much we can do to change him." Corvus- whom you've only just realized was here the entire time with a startle upon hearing his voice - shakes his head.

"His desire to be superior is tripped up at every point by his insufferable personality."

Vulkan looks down at you as an Imperial Fist approaches.

"Are you alright?" He says, and the caring nature of it is a bit overwhelming.

"I, I hope so." Vulkan doesn't laugh, but there is a softness on his face as he smiles at you. Corvus simply watches, and you once again realized that he was there.

"We all know Dorn. He has mentioned you quite a bit,"

"For him," Corvus adds. Vulkan gives him a quick look before turning back to you.

"I do not think he would ever allow anything to happen to you."

The reassurance of a primarch is a feeling next to none; But so it's the threat of one. They both battle in your heart and soul as the Imperial Fist reaches you.

"Lord Dorn is going to have one of us escort you back to the ship."

You nod, looking up to Vulkan to thank him. He simply smiles and speaks before you have a chance to give any gratitude.

"Stay safe, little one."

You follow that Imperial Fist back, before he leaves you on your own close to your quarters. Once you get into them, the door shutting behind you with a hiss, your chest starts to tighten like something has a hold on it.

Every Iron Warrior now likely knows that Perturabo wants your head on a pike. You try to steady your breathing, dumping your papers onto your small desk and sitting on the edge of your bed with a soft thud.

It's getting harder to breath, you swallow a massive knot in your throat. You try to shake your leg, dig your fingers into your palms to stop the feeling, like your heart is going to explode, the thumping of blood in your ears-

It starts to level down after awhile, the room steadies and no longer is spinning. Once that happens, the tears actually start to come, and you keep trying to wipe them away each time a few fall.

You don't regret leaving the Iron Warriors; Olympia. You don't know what Dorn saw in you that was enough for him to offer you a place but you don't regret taking it. His legion's treatment of you compared to your time on Olympia was incomparable, but the petty nature you had witnessed from the primarch was now focused on you; Your betrayal of fleeing to Dorn.

You have your arms wrapped around yourself, tightening them as someone opens your door. Your momentary startle fades when you realize who it is.

It's Dorn. You don't know when his presence stopped being so intimidating, even as a primarch; Perhaps it's the time you've spent with him recently that has gotten you used to him.

"You have been crying."

It would surely be easy to tell- you can still fear the wetness of tears on your face. You take a deep breath and clear your throat to try and speak normally.

"Primarch Perturabo wants my beaten corpse at his feet, and I don't, I don't know what to do-"

He comes closer, face neutral and stoic. You try and contain the emotion on your face.

Stupid, all of it, is what Perturabo would've said to you. You were always a stupid, pointless inconvenience forced upon him. But yet one he was still so upset to see leave.

"I knew very well how he would behave when I offered you a place here. I will not allow him to harm you."

In his own, odd way, the sentence calms you. It's not a lie, it is the utmost truth put into blunt, simple words. You sniffle and unwrap your arms from around yourself, returning to some level of normalcy.

"Thank you..." You say, and Dorn- to your surprise - kneels.

"Do not thank me for something I should do. I put you in this predicament and made you an enemy of him."

Dorn is quiet for a moment. You look at him questioningly, but he doesn't seem to notice. Then suddenly a hand rests heavy on your shoulder, and he leans in to press his lips to yours.

It's only a split second, it's chaste and quick, and he pulls away as a string of spit snaps between you both. You barely even have a chance to process it all; A primarch just kissed you. You had liked him, but you firmly pushed those thoughts from your mind for the sheer absurdity of them.

“You shouldn’t cry.” At first you think he’s telling you not to be weak- To suck it up.

“I, should not have allowed him to speak to you that way. I allowed him to make you cry.”

Crying is nothing; the fact that he has said he would protect you from an enraged primarch that by all intents and purposes you betrayed, is more than worth its weight. You don’t care about the crying.

"I'll be fine. I just needed a minute, and," You laugh. "Hopefully that's the last time I ever see his face." Dorn doesn't smile, but his voice has a gentle tilt of amusement that makes you smile a bit wider.

"I admit I would be jealous of you if that were to be the case."

You don't envy that he will have to continue to deal with Perturabo, especially now that your presence has created a deeper rift. Alongside his duties as Praetorian.

Dorn rises up from his knee and reaches out a hand.

"I am going to speak to my men about progress of the Palace walls. Come with me."

You take his hand, and you expect him to just allow you to pull yourself up, but instead he wraps his fingers around it and holds your hand, guiding you out of your room. He lets go moments after, but the gesture was there none the less.

[biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer]

what about all of the tkatb characters reacting to reader having a kid or smt like maybe reader adopted a kid from someone they knew or smt "bad" happened to reader and reader had said kid, how would they react? Srry if your not taking reqs rn or smt like that, but I luv your blog!

Stalwart (All x MC/Reader - Having a Kid HCs)

So...it has been a long fucking time since you've requested this Anon, and oh-my-God am I sorry it took this long. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it, but @deathcvltcivilofficial? Thank you for entrusting me with this.

Also, if anyone who reads this has been abused or assaulted, you've still got worth. You still matter, even if your culture or religion dictates otherwise. <3

TW: A lot of mentions of RAPE and SEXUAL ASSAULT!

- Signed by biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer

Stalwart: loyal, reliable, and hard-working.

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

When Sol came to your home (because of the art project), you had warned him a child would be present, but he assumed you were babysitting.

Until you dropped the bombshell on him; that the adorable midget copy of you happens to be your child.

He would be livid deep inside. You have a child, a biological child?

He’ll immediately want to know who the mother/father of it is; and you bet he’s gonna find out.

If you have a child, it means someone got their disgusting hands on you, used you and was trying to trap you! He can’t have that, no no no.

Will be doing a lot more stalk- I mean *coughs* reconnaissance, y’know, to find out who this filthy pestilence was.

Emphasis on ‘was’. That person is going to poof from existence before the next morn.

Will be incredibly enthusiastic if you offer to have him meet your spawnling. He’d treat them like they’re a glass vase, he literally loves that child.

Would be intrigued as to how it was conceived, and, well, depending on your response, will make the murder way more deranged.

If you’re both dating (you will be), he will be incredibly cautious on how to push the subject forth, because he has all intent on marrying you (and painting your holes with his seed).

If said conceiving occurred on accident, say you both were drunk, he’d be annoyed. Less info on this other person, the worse.

If the sex was entirely consensual, he would be silently fuming. You had been with another. Someone who wasn’t him. And they dared to have sex with someone as hallowed as you? My guy will be itching to punch something.

If you end up having a more angry or avoidant response, or snapping at him about it; he’ll suspect something is wrong, probably won’t pry much further for now, he believes through time and trusts you’ll tell him…he hopes.

He’ll do digging afterwards, maybe even get closer to your child, and if your child spills the beans on how you never talk about their mother/father, and even get furious or upset for asking, he’ll become a lot more concerned. His mind will be thoroughly searching for a reason.

Until the day you start to crack…when you start to hint more and more towards the most horrific thing Sol could’ve ever thought of, something he would rather kill himself than even dare to think of.

If your child had been conceived under…well, if you’d been abused. Assaulted. Raped.

Sol didn’t want to believe it. Some sick, disgusting worm had…no. He knows if he thinks about it he’ll descend into a wrath-filled hysteria., and he can’t have that around you, or God forbid, the child.

All he can think of is how desperately he wants to find the (wo)man who did this and torture them in the most despicable, horrific ways imaginable.

If anything, his respect for you, for being able to cope with university and a child would be a massive toll mentally.

He doesn’t view you in a different light, or your child for that matter. It only means he’ll do the absolute best to aid you in any way possible.

Is willing to overcome his distaste of kids for your child (everything has exceptions). Would be trying to be seen as a father figure to it (although he’d much prefer if you called him daddy-).

Won’t push you into anything sexual, or anything extremely physical unless he’s:

A got explicit consent, and 

B. the knowledge that you’re not opposed to it in the first place.

He’s 110% gonna try to have a good relationship with your child, partially for…familial reasons (especially if he's gonna be their step-father and your step-ladder) and also so that your child will be okay with his existence, after all, him being with you also depends on whether your child actually likes him or not.

Man is trying his absolute best for you, no matter what occurred with you and your miniature clone. <33       

Hyugo would’ve probably heard from the Student Council that a couple students had children, so of course one day he’d find himself getting curious.

Will be pretty shocked when he sees you’re one of them, especially if he already knew you for a while.

Won’t really be opposed to it, he only detests extremely loud, spoiled kids. (You raise your kids well guys good job *insert vigorous HAND clapping*).

Will be curious when he realises you’re a single parent, won’t pry though, it’s not his business. Maybe you simply fucked around and found out. *shrug*

Depending on how closed off you are about the topic of your child, he will eventually start finding out details, either from you or just piecing information together from off hand comments.

Either way, somehow he gets into your home and there, in the corner of the living room, is a spitting image of you. Just…smaller. 

Said child side-eyes him harder than Geo could dream of. To be fair, this child does kinda remind him of a young Geo, especially in personality.

After being acquainted with you both for a while, will offer the Small One candy (with permission from you obviously and no, not in a white van).

Small One is very on the fence about him, is judging his fashion sense very harshly the whole time.

The child called him a walking aquarium when he first showed up btw.

If he finds out (either from you or said child) that you were sexually assaulted or raped? He’ll be angry, but also proud that you were able to:

A. Keep the child and raise it.

B. Actually somewhat live your life.

Doesn’t lose respect for you at all, just tries to make it clear that he’ll support you in any way possible. 

If you know the person who assaulted you, they’ll be subjected to Hyugo Sugimoto’s vigilantism. You, on the other hand, will be subject to Hyugo committing crime to try and aid you and the child in any way possible. 

Geo resents children with a vehemence, he sees them as stupid and overly sensitive; mans just avoids them like the plague.

He’s known you well enough to establish that you’re not an annoying dumpster fire, and has come to the conclusion that you’re a somewhat tolerable person to be around.

Will hear (either from Brittney or Hyugo) that there are rumours about how you have a child, and he won’t believe them at all.

Until you confirm them, that is. Then he will simply be discombobulated.

Will feel a weird sense of disgust around you. (probably from his own daddy issues lmfao, my guy will think you’re like his parents subconsciously).

Anyway, after he ‘happens’ upon you and your kid one day, and sees how oddly kind you are as a parent; he’ll start to see you in a different light.

It might be a long while (it takes about 32 decades), but eventually he’ll become more curious about your descendant.

If you’re comfortable enough with telling him, you just state how you either had a fling or just broke up with a previous partner; he will be unsurprised, but a tad irked. (he thinks he’s way better smh how dare you MC)

If your child was conceived via…unpleasant means, he will be apathetic for a few mins, until it hits him one day that some sick person willingly, consciously violated you. It ends up making his blood fucking boil.

He will be the type to drop random spouts of blunt affirmations like; “You are competent, good job.”

Will end up being very awkward with the child, has no clue how to interact with one so he just offers them money and tells them to go play in an arcade or some shit while he watches and deathstares random people.

Will teach said child Japanese insults, if your child gets bullied for being a product of nonconsensual sex, he will teach the child how to punch people.

He tries his best, because your child is the only one he will tolerate; and also he needs them to like him so he can rizz you up by forgetting you exist lmfao.

Deryl is often seen as an uncle or big brother by a lot of kids, his warm exterior tends to make a lot of them really like him, and to be fair, he doesn’t mind kids that much either.

He’s known you for a while, and in all the time he’s known you, he’d have *never* guessed that you were a parent.

Let alone a single parent. Your grades are so high, you work your ass off and you’re a parent? Simultaneously?!

He’ll be genuinely awed, impressed as well.

Will definitely be curious about this child of yours, but won’t pry except its something you initiate.

If he ever meets this child of yours, he will end up  being adored by them. This guy is actually extremely good with kids.

Will end up becoming closer with you as well due to this, and if he finds out this child of yours was a product of abuse or assault, he’ll just be…solemn.

And seeing Deryl solemn is like seeing a cat bark, shit’s fucking weird.

He will be angry that someone did such a vile thing to you, but if you’ve moved on, he’ll try to as well. Although, if you know who it was that did this…expect them to end up hospitalised.

Him and the child will bond over candy. You and him bond over knowing one another. 

Also teaches the child how to play sports. Yippee. Also gives life advice and counselling. <3

And you eventually trust him enough to accept him fully into your life (and maybe heart who knows).

Crowe is quite fond of kids, he’s not someone who avoids them.

He’s also quite fond of you, although his interest in you is more…well, romantic. 

He’s genuinely interested in you, so he wants to know more about you; and fortunately for him, he's known you for a while. You opening up to him (and vice versa) isn’t that new, although when it happens he embraces it wholeheartedly.

When you tell him you have a kid, he’s shooketh, but not upset in any way.

Would be a smidge jealous that someone had you before him, but oh well.

Would be very intrigued by this enigma that is the child, and when he eventually meets them, he tries to be nice (not over the top, just polite).

If he wants to be with you he has to get the child to like him, so he just acts naturally, which is him being a saint, and just overall serving as a source of aid for both of you, whether it be financial, educational or general. He’ll try his best.

He’s willing to help you in any way humanly possible, and I mean it. He goes all out. He also tutors the child if they need help with exams or homework.

If your child was conceived under force or against your will, he’d simply make himself an emotional backbone for you. He doesn’t pity you, but he does try to treat you a bit softer, for the sake of trying to make you feel more comfortable around him; he understands such an event is traumatic and quite detrimental psychologically.

If you’ve moved on and gotten therapy or aid, he will remain a source of support, my guy will just ensure to avoid sexual things around you, he doesn’t want to push any of your boundaries or upset you in any way, shape, or form.

He’s trying guys. <3

Brittney is actually really good with kids, which shocks a few people.

Not as shocked as when she hears you of all people are a parent, although, now that she knows, she can kinda see it.

Won’t really think much differently of you, although if she meets this kid she does become their rich single aunt eventually.

My girl will teach our spawnling about:

- Fashion, along with judging other people’s clothing styles;

- Skincare routines, depending on the age she’ll either recommend the bare minimum or just give a couple of things she uses;

- Makeup, won’t care whether it's a son or daughter, they’ll learn cosmetics;

- Boxing, girlypop can definitely fight, so she’ll teach your kid self defense and emotionally damaging insults to scare off bullies.

Will be willing to babysit for you, your child ends up becoming very fond of her and the two just tend to go to Zara or Myer and discuss what clothes are good (more based on fashion the older your kid is).

She’ll do your child’s hair (and yours as well dwdw you both have your own beauty sessions).

Also serves as a gossip generator, along with a pretty strongly morally-coded source of comfort for both of you. Tries her best when possible to be there.

If she finds out the child is a product of rape, she’ll only look at you as someone much stronger and resilient than she could’ve guessed. You stuck through something like that, and she can’t say much other than: “You’re safe now, you’re among friends.”

Will often use distractions as a way to try and ease your mind.

Is genuinely a great person to be around, and when she has the time and energy, she’s lovely to both you and the child (it’ll be her stepchild soon muahahhahahaah).

Jess honestly would gawk at the thought of anyone in her friend group being a parent. You’re all so young and just experiencing life for yourselves!

When she finds out you have a kid, she’ill be astonished, will blink a couple of times and then repeatedly confirm that you’re actually a parent and not kidding.

You looked too fresh and epic, especially for a single parent. Her ones always looked drained and half-dead, yet you were hopeful, lively, regal.

May or may not be terrified that your kid is a menace and will stab her-.

It’s okay she gets over it, she believes that if you’re as excellent as you are, your kid will be similar.

And she’s partially right, your kid is based af; although, like most kids, they are a menace.

They don’t trust her much at first, but overtime they both form a genuine camaraderie.

And it’s wonderful. They both recommend each other fanfiction (this is if your kid is a teen dwdw).

Otherwise they just watch anime and listen to K-pop.

If your kid was a product of…well, rape, Jess’d just be mortified.

Horrified, even. The fact you went through that, had your child, still chose to study and work…she’s a bit astounded that you were able to take on so much.

Would try her best to use her money to help, whether that be groceries or buying things for your kid. She’d try her very best to formulate a bond between them and you. <3

[thememestrider]

Inspired by @solspina and their wonderful Dante fics- sis thank you for giving our beautiful depressed angel man the love he deserves, and I hope my fic will be worthy of adding to the library.

"Let Me Take Care of You" - Dante x Reader

Sypnosis: Dante is reeling from wounds he sustained during the Devastation of Baal, both physical and psychological. Thankfully, though, you are there to help pick up the pieces.

Author's Note: I've decided to make the reader a perpetual because I hc that Dante would struggle to fall in love with someone he knew he would outlive (poor man has been thru so much) has no real bearing over the plot of the fic, but thought it was worth noting.

Content Warnings: Angst, reverse hurt/comfort, pre-established relationship, general 40k-ness, descriptions of blood and wounds, lore inaccuracies, Dante is a very tired and traumatised boi, reader is G/N but I wrote them as a female in my mind, I wrote this at midnight while on a plane, so this isn't edited or proofread XD

Across his hundreds of centuries of service, Dante has become many things. To his brothers, he is their stalwart leader; to the people of the Imperium, he is a legend; to the enemies of humanity, he is an angel of death. But to you, he is none of these things. To you, he is your husband. Your beloved. The man you hold most close to your heart. That means that, when he leaves for a mission, where others anticipate victory, you worry for his safety. And, when he finally returns home, you rush to him, not to congratulate him on his victory, but to study him for injury or distress. More often than not, you will find nothing.

Tonight is different.

You're in bed when he arrives, quietly reading a book borrowed from his library. The door slides open with a hiss, and you look up to see your husband standing in the doorway of your shared quarters. His hair falls over his shoulders in thick curtains of black and silver and he's dressed in a red robe that's sinched at his waist. It accentuates the sculpt of his chest and shoulders beautifully, but that is not what draws your eye. Rather, it is the darkness under his soft, hazel eyes, and the way he is hunched slightly over his left side. Without looking away, you shut your book with a snap.

"You're hurt," you say.

Dante smiles tiredly. "It's nothing, my love," he says. Closing the door behind him, he starts towards the bed. Before he reaches it, though, you throw of the covers, climb out of bed, and meet him half way. You kiss him lightly on the lips in greeting, snaking your arms around his waist as you do. "It doesn't look like nothing," you say into his shoulder. "You going to tell me what happened?" As you embrace him, an involuntary sigh escapes Dante's lips. You feel him lean into you, as if all of a sudden, he could not stand without you holding him up. Despite your lingering concern, it makes you smile. You squeeze him a little tighter.

Suddenly Dante's sigh becomes a grimace.

You pull away, throat tightening as your worry returns with a vengeance. "I knew it," you whisper.

"Sweetheart, it's nothing" Dante says again. "I promise, I-"

He winces again, face turning pale. Suddenly he's unsteady on his feet and staggers forwards. You manage to catch him just in time. "Easy, easy. I've got you." A white lie; all that muscle and cybernetic enhancement of his makes Dante unbearably heavy. Already, your entire upper body is shaking trying to keep him upright. Of course, you don't tell him that. Nor to you allow him to see it.

"I'm sorry," Dante says. He sounds breathless. "I... I'm just fatigued, is all."

"No point lying to me now," you murmur. "Come on. Bed. Now."

Dante makes a sound of exasperation, but he doesn't resist. Carefully, you guide him towards your bed, easing him down to sit on its edge. The frame creaks under his weight. Dante winces again as he sits down. One of his hands shoots up to clutch the left side of his chest.

Crouching before him, you touch his cheek with your palm. "Will you let me see?"

Dante doesn't answer right away. For a moment, you're afraid he's about to argue with you. But either he's in too much pain to bother, or he sees the defiance in your eyes and realises it would be futile.

"Left pectoral," he croaks. "Just below my primary heart."

Your own heart falters. That's the same place he had been wounded during the Devastation of Baal- where a tyranid Swarm Lord had sliced him open and left him for dead. With a feather-light touch, you peel open Dante's robe. Slipping it off his shoulders to expose his bare chest.

His muscles are tense, the hollows of his collar bones deepening as he clenches his jaw. It's as you suspected- the gash carved into him by the Swarm Lord has ruptured. The skin around the wound is angry and inflamed. Blood trickles over his chest and down his stomach in thin streams.

Dante sees the look on your face and attempts a smile. "I must've reopened it while in combat," he says. "But I swear, it isn't as bad as it looks."

You give him an unamused look. "No," you answer. "No, I think it's worse."

Dante opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off. "Don't move. I'll be back in a second." You get to your feet and hurry to the ensuite, gathering up the first aid kit you have reserved for situations such as this. When you return, your husband is leaned forwards and breathing hard. His skin is now the colour of a corpse.

Anxiety climbs up your throat at the sight of him like this, but you swallow it with a gulp. Now is not the time for worry anymore; you have a job to do.

You crouch in front of Dante again and set the first aid kit down beside you. Gently, you bring your hands to his face. "Luis," you whisper. "Luis, look at me."

He lifts his head. His expression is a mix of pain and shame. "I'm alright," he says softly. "Really. I just-" he grimaces. "-I just need a moment."

You struggle to keep your eyes from watering. It breaks your heart to see him like this. You know Dante struggles with the weight of responsibility: as a chapter master, as a lord regent, as a living legend of the Imperium. All these duties- all of which enough to break most men on their own- have no room for weakness or weariness. And the fact that Dante holds himself to a standard nigh impossible to achieve, even for him, only adds to the already crushing weight he has carried for over one thousand years. Carried for so long, he sometimes forgets that when he's with you, he can shed that weight for a time.

Stroking his cheeks with your thumbs, you lean in close until your foreheads kiss. Despite his earlier insistances, Dante melts at the touch. His shoulders sag. The muscles of his chest release. After a moment, he even closes his eyes.

"This wound is old," he suddenly says. "It should have healed weeks ago."

You raise you head so you can meet his gaze. "You haven't given it the chance to; the second you were awake, you were back in the field. You should've been bed ridden for weeks. Throne, you should be bed ridden now."

Dante averts his eyes. "I couldn't." His voice is little more than a murmur. "I can't."

Still cupping his cheeks in both hands, you plant a long, loving kiss on his lips. When you pull away, you say, "You're tired, Luis. You're hurt. And you can't do your job when you're either, let alone both. I know you hate to admit it, but it's the truth."

Dante doesn't reply. His eyes remain firmly on the floor.

"Luis, please look at me." You use his given name rather than that favoured by everyone else. To remind him that you aren't everyone else. That the mask of strength and infallibility he puts on for the rest of the galaxy can come off when he's with you.

Eventually, your husband lifts his gaze. The expression you find there makes you want to drag him into your arms and hold him there forever. It also makes you resent the Imperium and the galaxy as a whole for causing him this much hurt. Fearing you might cry if you didn't, you kiss him again. Longer and more deeply than any time before. Dante returns the kiss in kind, using his free hand to gently grasp your chin and keep you close. You breathe in his scent, feel him do the same. He's the first to pull away, but it's only because another, involuntary grimace suddenly grips him.

"You need to rest now, Luis," you say once he recovers. "You need to rest and you need to heal. Let me take care of you. You deserve it. By the Emperor, if anyone in the world deserves it, it's you."

Dante looks at you with so much affection and gratitude, it makes your heart stammer. Tilting his head, he leans into your palms and closes his eyes again. "I don't know how I managed for so long without you," he whispers.

You plant a kiss on his forehead. "You'll never have to again," you promise.

Eyes still closed, he only nods.

Slowly, as if afraid you might wake him, you reach for the first aid kit and extract a needle, sutures and anti-septic spray. "Right, let's get you stitched up, then. You've bled all over our bed enough already, I think."

Dante huffs out a single, smirking laugh. "Please, my love. Don't kick me while I'm down."

You smile. It falters slightly as you raise your impliments. "Okay, my love. Brace yourself; this might sting a little."

Dante opens one eye. "Trust me," he says ruefully. "It can't hurt anymore than it already does."

A/N: I didn't really know how to end it properly, so sorry if it feels a bit abrupt.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

ok i dont know if you do requests or not but this is just something thats been ricocheting around in my head for days and i need to get it out before my brain completely rots. whether or not you want to write it is up to you i just really needed to share this with a hotch lover.

nonbau!reader knowing that the team have a really tough local case their all working overtime on and deciding to try to cheer them up and destress them a bit so she spend a few hours cooking this amazing delicious meal because she knows they'll probably just get takeout. so she swings by the bau around 6ish with the food and the whole team flock around her and around hugging her and thanking her and immediately digging in.

hotch notices from his office and comes down looking way grouchier than normal and hes like "excuse me we have a case to work on im not sure why youre all standing around when theres work to be done. and r why are you here distracting my team they need to focus" before going back into his office and the team is shook bc aaron has NEVER spoken to you like that before. and youre highkey offended like ?? i spent hours of my time doing a nice thing and im getting bitched at like im his subordinate??

but then you slam your purse down on jjs desk, take your earrings out and put your hair up in a ponytail and youre like "give me 15 minutes and ill have that attitude sorted put no problem." before marching away into hotchs office locking the door and drawing the shades and derek and emily are crying laughing cause they know exactly whats about to happen but reid is confused like ??? is she gonna fight with him? why did she put her hair up? whats so funny? and pen and jj have to explain that you went up there to give him a bj and hes just like?!?! AT WORK?!?? and rossi is just watching the shenanigans unfold like 🤭🤭

and you do eventually come back down from his office wiping your mouth on the back of your hand and your hair is significantly more ruffled than before and hotch looks subdued and even a little embarrassed and he just mutters a quiet apology to the team before grabbing a plate of the food you brought (which is actually his favorite meal of yours) before kissing you and thanking you for coming to see him.

My oh my, do I love the way your mind works 😈 Thank you for this request (& for your patience as I took 84 years to write it)! I hope you enjoy 🖤

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x wife!reader

(-indicates reader's texts)

__________

A rapid series of buzzes on the table beside you has you pulling your attention away from the sizable dent you’ve made in the stack of thesis papers to be graded for your class. You exchange your favorite pen for your phone, unlocking the screen to find several texts from your closest friend sent in quick succession:

5:49pm SOS

5:49pm (Save Our Stomachs)

5:50pm Pls we’ve been going in circles on this case and he’s in a Mood

You can’t help but smile at the he in question, your stoic, stalwart husband- and your friend’s unit chief. You fire back a response:

-5:50pm Em :( Is he holed up in his office?

5:50pm You know it

-5:51pm Classic 🙄 Lucky for youuuu I’m already making dinner for my favorite people!

The oven timer beeps as if to punctuate your statement, and you rise from your spot at the kitchen table while typing out another message.

-5:51pm Scratch that- it’s ready. Be there asap rocky

-5:51pm Be brave little soldier 🫡

5:53pm You’re my fucking hero

You gather enough plates and cutlery to dish up dinner to the team of agents, then pack them up alongside the foil-covered Pyrex container fresh out of the oven. Deciding against changing out of your yoga pants and your boyfriend’s old law school t-shirt, you pluck the pencil out of your bun that was holding your hair up and toss it onto the table, snag your keys, and make your way out to the car.

The drive into the city is a relatively short one, given that most of the traffic is heading in the opposite direction at this time on a Friday evening. You navigate your way into the parking garage, then head upstairs with your precious cargo.

“Evening, Mrs. Hotchner,” your favorite security guard greets you as you step out of the elevator, and you flash him a smile with a greeting in return. “Come grab a plate when you’re done your rounds,” you call over your shoulder, and his answering grin tells you he’ll be patrolling the floor a little faster than usual tonight.

Four heads pop up from their desks at the sound of the glass double doors opening, shoulders sagging with relief when they spot your bright smile and the telltale bag in your hand that means dinner is served. Derek’s quick to jump up and help you with the heavy container as Emily, Spencer, and JJ follow the two of you into the round table room, animatedly filling you in on their day. JJ’s fingers fly across her screen, and Penelope is rounding the doorway from the back hallway by the time you make it upstairs and start setting up, arms outstretched to pull you into a hug while declaring, “You’re my favorite Hotchner, did you know that?”

“We both know I come second to Jack,” you joke, and Emily lets out a happy groan as she digs into her meal, professing, “You’re at least tied now.”

A pair of solid hands lands on your shoulders from behind, and you feel the familiar scratchiness of Dave’s beard pressing kisses to your cheeks in greeting. “What would we do without you?”

With a laugh, you turn to offer him a helping and answer, “Simply perish.”

Your heart swells as the team settles down around the table enjoying the home cooked meal, but there’s one very obvious absence. A glance at your husband’s office reveals the door is still closed, the room dark save for a glow through the open blinds that you know is from his little desk lamp. Deciding to give him a few more minutes of solitude before barging in and demanding that he take a break to eat, you join your friends at the table to tell them about the senior prank your students recently pulled in an attempt to give their minds a reprieve from their current case.

“I bet you Morgan did stuff like that all the time,” JJ accuses amid catching her breath from laughing at the story about the two chickens released on the top floor, cleverly labeled one and three.

Derek smiles back, ready to take credit, but Emily cuts in with, “A psychological prank like that sounds more like something Spence would do.”

“C’mon now, pretty boy wouldn’t want to inconvenience his teacher,” Derek teases, eliciting a pout from the youngest of the team who counters with, “Hey, I won that prank war against-”

“What’s going on here?”

A hush falls over the room at the sound of Aaron’s voice, the question itself seemingly innocent but its intention clearly to reprimand. Five pairs of eyes drop downward, leaving only you and Dave making eye contact, the older man mouthing an empathetic, Busted, in your direction.

Unbothered, you swivel in your chair to meet your husband’s gaze with a cherubic smile, your voice positively dripping in honey. “Mom’s feeding the kids because Dad forgot that sustenance is important for your brain and body. Now c’mon, take a break and-”

“Does it seem like I have time for that right now?”

Your eyebrows shoot up at his tone, and you drop the teasing lilt to your voice. “Aar, I just wanted you guys to-”

“Go home, Y/N, please,” he requests quietly, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose with a soft exhale. “We can’t afford to be distracted right now. Everybody finish up and get back to work.” He turns on his heel and returns to his office without so much as a hello or goodbye or thank you, my love, for being so thoughtful and taking care of us directed your way.

Once his footfalls have receded, the entire group releases a collective breath as if they’ve just escaped being chewed out by the principal- at your expense. When you turn back around, you’re met with expressions of shock that reflect your own, like the kids literally just witnessed their dad being mean to their mom for the first time.

“You know how Aaron gets with a case,” Dave tries to soothe your ruffled feathers, and JJ jumps in with, “I’m sure he didn’t mean to come off like that, Y/N, he’s just-”

“Stressed?” you finish her thought for her. You rise abruptly from your chair, dropping your purse on the table with a resounding thud before digging through it to find a spare hair tie. “I know he is. And I also know my husband did not just say that to my face,” you grumble under your breath, combing your fingers through your hair to pull it into a quick ponytail while continuing your tirade. “After I spent hours making a meal between doing my own work? No sir, uh uh, SSA Hotchner. That man needs to relax.”

Spencer leans over to Derek while you carry on quietly cursing their boss for his attitude and asks, “Should we be concerned?”

Derek lets out a snicker before answering, “Maybe for Hotch’s di-”

“Dignity!” JJ cuts in with a sharp look at her colleague, trying and failing to suppress her own smile.

You pause in the doorway, squaring your shoulders before turning back to the team to say, “You guys eat. Enjoy. I’ll take care of your boss.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Emily snorts out, clearly amused. Laughter, applause, and a distinct wolf whistle courtesy of Derek follow you down the carpeted walkway to your husband’s office.

-----(Read Behind Closed Doors here!)-----

When you return to the round table room several not-so-subtle minutes later, you’re greeted by a bunch of giddy smiles, a knowing look from Rossi, and Spencer’s pink-tinged cheek since he’s refusing to make eye contact with you. “All better,” you announce proudly, dropping into a chair before tugging the hair tie from your now slightly tangled locks and combing your fingers through a few persistent knots. “Everybody good and full?”

“Some more than oth-”

You cut your sharp gaze over to Derek and he mimes zipping his mouth shut, a smirk still playing at his lips.

“What he means to say,” Pen huffs, slapping his shoulder, “is thank you so much for dinner, sweetie.”

“It was my pleasure,” you answer genuinely. “You know I love taking care of you guys.”

“And we’re very lucky you do,” your husband’s baritone voice rumbles from the doorway behind you. You turn to find a sufficiently chastened Aaron entering the room, and you offer him your cheek when he places his hands on your shoulders and bends to press a kiss to your smiling face. “I, uh, just wanted to apologize for my earlier-”

“Temper tantrum?” you offer, and Aaron squeezes your shoulders in warning before continuing, “Outburst. I let the stress of the case get the best of me and neglected my duties to prioritize the health of this team. Luckily, my darling wife is always there to make up for my shortcomings.”

You catch your best friend’s eye and shoot her an exaggerated wink at your husband’s word choice, forcing Emily to cover up a laugh with a cough. Aaron’s hand slides over to the nape of your neck, and you know you’re in for it once this case is over.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

__________

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner @iyv-ray24 @mrs-ssa-hotch @criminalskies @callm3c0nfus3d

[oceaneyesinla]

Hiiii! Congrats on your milestone! I hope you have many more followers! :)

Id love prompt #6 (giving them a head massage) with Umemiya from Wind Breaker. I’d love to run my fingers through his hair and just listen to him. 🥰

Steph!!!! thank you so much 😊🤍 i love Ume so much and i fear it shows - this is disgustingly soft even for me, and we all know how soft and squishy my fluff gets!

Part of my Fluff, Fluff and More Fluff Event - submissions still open!

Prompt 6: giving them a head massage while they listen to the other one talk about their day

Umemiya Hajime x gn!Reader

Divider by @/adornedwithlight

Umemiya Hajime is many things to many people. To the boys of Bofurin, he's a stalwart leader, a pillar of strength they can rely on through fair weather and harsh storms. To his inner circle, his Four Kings, he's a trusted friend, one they confide in and one they stand alongside with pride. To Kotoha, he's the older brother she will never admit she loves to have. She rolls her eyes and shrugs off his open, enthusiastic affection, but you know she appreciates the unconditional love he shows her. To the people of Makochi, he's a jack of all trades - the shop owners shower him in discounted goods and the elderly pinch his cheeks and remark on how he's a 'nice young man’ and the children idolise him, staring up at him with stars in their eyes as he tells them stories and lets them ride on his shoulders.

Umemiya Hajime is everything to everyone, But to you? He's your Hajime. Nothing more, nothing less. You love the man he is outside the walls of your home - strong, passionate and infinitely kind. He fights with his heart and loves with every fibre of his being and sometimes, when you watch him sing to his plants or mentor his kouhai, you feel like your heart will burst with all the affection you feel for him.

You know the responsibility he carries is a heavy load, and you feel honoured that he leaves that load at the door - shrugging off the weight along with his Bofurin jacket, hanging it up on the hook in the hallway and allowing you into the portion of his heart reserved just for you. Instead of being the caretaker, he allows himself to be taken care of. He puts the same trust in you as the members of Bofurin put into him, and you cradle his heart like the most precious treasure of all.

He lets himself soften when it's just the two of you, and there's a part of you that enjoys that fact. The great Umemiya Hajime placed his heart in your hands, and no-one else will ever see him quite the way you do.

Right now, if someone saw him, they would never believe his fearsome reputation. He's stretched out on the couch, silky hair free of product and falling into his eyes. His reading glasses are perched on his nose, though the book he was reading has been abandoned, now resting on his chest. His attention is occupied by the way your hand is gently carding through soft strands, nails lightly scratching over his scalp with each pass. A dopey, affectionate grin is stretching across his face, like he's some kind of Samoyed, and you're sure that if he was, his tail would be wagging,

He loves to be the centre of your attention, and lucky for him, you love to give it to him. It's as relaxing for you as it is for him - he's freshly showered, smelling of his favourite body wash and flowery shampoo, and the weight of his head in your lap is grounding.

"Do you feel better now, Haji? Do your knuckles hurt?” He came home roughed up, knuckles bruised and pretty face bloody. He looked far too content while you were patching him up, and you suspect he was just happy to have your hands on him, wiping the blood away with a gentle touch.

He slides his glasses off, mischief shining in his eyes, "If I say yes, will you kiss them better?”

You know the smile tugging at your lips is nothing short of adoring, and you reach for one hand, lifting it up and pressing a featherlight kiss to the damaged skin of his knuckles, "I'd do it even if you said no, baby.” You place his hand back on his chest, repeating your actions on his other hand. When both hands have been given your magical healing kisses, you lean down to press one to his forehead too, just for good measure.

He's beaming up at you, and your heart swells with love once again. Your hand slides back into his hair, and you resume your soothing rhythm, "Now, for the kisses to work, you've got to tell me about the seedlings we planted last month. Are they growing well?”

It's just an excuse to listen to his voice, and the little laugh that escapes Ume tells you that he's well aware. He indulges you all the same, just as you indulge him, and that's how you spend the rest of your night; Hajime gesticulating excitedly while he told you all about your seedlings, and his tomatoes, and the radishes a reluctant Sakura helped him plant - and you hanging onto his every word like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky, one hand still playing with his hair and the other resting over his heart. It's comfortable, it's familiar, and you're exactly where you always want to be - wrapped up in the love you share.

[cnnmairoll]

Hello again.

I hope you don't mind me asking this or requesting again. I don't want to have you overwhelmed with my requests at all! But if possible, do you think you can write something for Welt, Gepard, and Luka about what things make them flustered? Like what does the reader do that might make them flustered/how easily does it happen?

Thank you once again! I look forward to all of your writings!

-🌸

Fumbling Hearts

Character(s) : Dan Heng, Gepard, Luka Genre : Fluff a/n : Sure thing 🌸 anon! I love your ideas, they're always so cute ^_^ Hope you don't mind me replacing welt with Dan Heng! I'm struggling with writing welt ><

Dan Heng : Kissing his fingers as you hold hands.

One evening, as the two of you sat side by side in your private cabin, fingers intertwined, you decided it was time to employ your favorite tactic. With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you brought your lips to the back of his hand and pressed a delicate kiss to each finger, starting with his thumb and working your way to his pinky.

Dan Heng's initial reaction was predictable - a slight twitch of his lips, a subtle narrowing of his piercing blue eyes, and the faintest hint of a blush that only you could detect. But he didn't pull his hand away; instead, he allowed a soft sigh to escape his lips.

"You know that tickles," he murmured, his voice as velvety as ever.

"That's the point," you replied with a playful smile, moving to kiss each fingertip again. "I like seeing that little flustered look on your face, even if it's just for a moment."

Dan Heng sighed again, this time in mock exasperation, but his hand remained securely entwined with yours. "You're incorrigible," he said, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "But you love it."

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Yes, I suppose I do," he admitted, finally allowing himself to relax into the tender moment you'd created.

Gepard : Just looking at him

Gepard was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over some reports from the previous night's patrol. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his piercing blue eyes were scanning the pages with the utmost seriousness. He looked every bit the noble and stalwart warrior that he was known to be.

You couldn't help but smile as you approached him, your heart swelling with love and adoration. Gently, you rested your chin on your hand and just stared at him. Not with a teasing glint in your eye, but with genuine, unfiltered affection. It was as if he were the most amazing thing in the world, and you couldn't take your eyes off him.

"Uh, what's the matter?" Gepard mumbled, his voice slightly shaky as he felt your gaze on him. He didn't look up from his paperwork, but there was a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

You leaned in closer, your gaze unwavering. "Nothing at all, my dear captain," you replied, your voice soft and filled with affection. "I just can't help but admire how handsome and amazing you are."

Gepard's ears turned a shade of red that would put a ripe tomato to shame. He finally glanced up from his work, his eyes meeting yours. "I-I… well, you see…" he stammered, completely flustered. "I don't know what to say."

You couldn't help but giggle at his adorable response. "You don't have to say anything, Gepard. Just know that I love you, and I think you're incredible."

His blush deepened, and he cleared his throat, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. "Well, I… um, I love you too," he managed to say, his voice still tinged with embarrassment.

You leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, causing him to turn an even brighter shade of red. "You're just too cute when you're flustered, Gepard," you teased, a mischievous twinkle in your eye.

Gepard let out a soft chuckle, finally relaxing a bit. "I suppose I can't help it when you look at me like that," he admitted, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips.

Luka : Playing with his hair

As you both settle on the couch after a long day, Luka begins to recount the hectic events of his day. His enthusiasm shines through as he gestures animatedly, using his good hand to emphasize his points. You, on the other hand, find your attention wandering, not to his words, but to that vibrant mane of red hair.

Unable to resist, you reach over and start playing with his hair, your fingers gently combing through the silky strands. Luka's blue eyes widen, and his words trail off, replaced by a soft gasp.

"Hey, babe, you wouldn't believe the chaos at the underground arena today," he starts, but his voice quivers slightly as your fingers trace delicate patterns in his hair.

You offer a warm smile, continuing your ministrations. "I'm all ears, Luka. Tell me everything."

Luka's eyes remain closed as your fingers work their magic through his hair, and he can't help but relive the adrenaline-fueled moments of the underground boxing match he's just described.

"So there I was," he begins again, his voice a soft, nostalgic tone, "in the center of the ring. My opponent, this hulking behemoth with biceps like tree trunks, was giving it his all. We traded blows like there was no tomorrow, and the crowd was roaring with every punch."

As he speaks, his memories come alive, and his words flow more freely, though his voice retains that endearing hint of bashfulness.

"I could feel the sweat trickling down my brow, but I couldn't let up. I dodged to the left, narrowly avoiding a haymaker, and then—"

Your fingers pause briefly, and Luka opens his eyes to glance at you, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You know, you're making it really hard to concentrate, darling."

You chuckle softly, offering a quick peck on his cheek as encouragement to continue. Luka clears his throat, his enthusiasm undiminished.

"Right, so, where was I? Ah, yes. I managed to land a solid hook to his ribs, and you should have seen the look on his face. Pure shock. But he didn't back down. He came at me even harder."

Your fingers resume their soothing caress, and Luka's words come out in a mixture of exhilaration and amusement.

"I swear, it felt like a dance, dodging and weaving, trying to predict his moves. The whole arena was a whirlwind of cheers and shouts. And then… well, the moment I'll never forget was when I saw my opening."

Luka's voice takes on a note of triumph as he recalls that decisive moment in the fight.

"I launched a fierce uppercut, and it connected square on his chin. The crowd went wild. He stumbled back, dazed, and then the ref counted him out. Victory was mine!"

Luka's eyes light up with pride as he finishes his tale, the memory of the fight vivid in his mind. Yet, despite the thrilling story he's just recounted, he remains captivated by the tender touch of your hands in his hair.

"I swear, it was like a madhouse in there," he stammers, his words growing softer as he loses himself in the sensation of your touch. "But with you here, it's all worth it."

Your fingers trail down, gently scratching his scalp, and Luka lets out a contented sigh. His eyes flutter closed, and his words become a mere whisper.

"It's moments like this, with you," he murmurs, "that make me forget the world. Just keep doing what you're doing, and I'll never stop talking… or blushing."

You share a knowing smile, continuing to weave your fingers through his vibrant hair. In that intimate moment, words fade into the background, and the two of you revel in the simple pleasure of being close, connected by a touch that speaks volumes of love and affection.

[seafoamreadings]

week of august 25th, 2024

these are written predominantly for the *rising* signs but they are also intuitively "channeled" enough that they should work for any dominant energy you have! (try your sun if you don't know rising, or more advanced readers can try moon, anywhere you have a stellium, etc and see what works best for you!)

aries: mercury going direct at last in leo in just a few days here will likely be fun for you and i don't even mean that sarcastically. something that got put on hold in the last few weeks gets new traction. by the end of the week uranus stations retrograde, though, so with that most likely in your second house, avoid excessive spending or burning through resources you aren't totally sure about.

taurus: while you can expect some (likely not unpleasant) surprises this week you can also expect them to be fickle or to have unseen strings attached. it's not a bad idea to accept or pursue them if you like them, but don't get too wrapped up in it all. things are fleeting. it's not an easy energy for a steady and stalwart taurean to grasp but, frankly, you're not supposed to grasp it.

gemini: the big news of the week for you is the end of your ruling planet's retrograde. things do not return to normal or comfortable just yet, due to the shadow period that follows, but this is the end of the actual retrograde phase and especially from the end of the week, things should start to get easier and less snafus ensue.

cancerians: this week may well bring new life into any stale or stagnant relationships or friendship situations. mercury stations direct in your second house also. take stock of what resources you have and what is lacking, and use what you have (or don't use what you don't have!) accordingly.

leo: unexpected opportunities arise this week. they may be quite startling and weird but if you feel drawn to them and it's within your means at all, you should take them, especially towards the beginning of this week. by the end of the week, uranus retrograde may have them a little bit less fruitful, or perhaps simply more difficult, but you can trust your best judgment even then. too much input from others is not advised.

virgo: the importance of ceres to your sign should not be understated. this week she goes direct in capricorn just as uranus goes retrograde in taurus. while they don't perfect the grand trine it's truly well-connected earth vibes for you. even inconveniences turn out to work in your favor. nourish yourself carefully and lovingly.

libra: venus coming home to your sign should help provide some comfort if times have been trying and even if they haven't, it's auspicious for you. meanwhile, uranian activity continues so be very careful who you share your resources (money, time, energy?) with.

scorpio: take care of your personal needs first of course, but then as much as you are able to, be in your local community and neighborhood. clean up a little trash, do a little volunteer work, help a neighbor out, etc. with the current activity this is the auspicious way to keep things going as smooth as possible. at minimum, it makes you look good, but best if you do it from the heart and not for status alone. this can help you cope with any relationship drama, btw.

sagittarius: venus into libra can have you in soap opera mode, turning friends into lovers and vice versa left and right. meanwhile mercury direct again in leo fires up your thirst for the truth, philosophically and spiritually. there's no reason you can't lean into both vibes.

capricorn: ceres goes direct in your sign this week and, believe it or not, one of the first events of *next* week is the retrograding ingress of pluto back into the extremes of your sign for the last time in any of our lifetimes. let ceres vibes help you nurture yourself as you prefer for any final demolitions caused by the king of the underworld.

aquarius: the air of churning and muckraking is still afoot. but at least some of it is in a pleasant manner thanks to venus. generally the muddiness of such upheaval is not so pleasant, but sometimes it does turn up trinkets from the bottom of the sea.

pisces: friends may come and go but your inner world is forever. without getting lost in the dream state, pay attention to it and respect and honor it. your dream life is just as real as your waking life. of course, you don't need to hear it from me, you're the expert. but in a time in a world where people are inclined to be blind to the magic around them, don't lose your contact with it too and don't let them convince you it's frivolous.

[1donoow]

MIX FANDOM FANFIC REC PT.2

[Fanfics i've read]

Edited

......

♡ - smut

Mostly fluff

......

Fantastic beast [newt scamander]

harry potter [wolfstar][remus lupin][regulus black][james potter]

the black phone [vance hooper]

enola holmes [sherlock holmes]

the walking dead [glenn rhee]

outa [peter pan][felix]

maze runnner [newt][gally]

dune [duke leto atreides]

rise of the guardians [jack frost][bunnymund]

big hero 6 [tadashi hamada][hiro hamada]

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

———FANTASTIC BEAST————

newt scamander

@moonlit-imagines - your husband coming home to find a baby niffler hanging from your neck

@spideyharrington - one and the same

————HARRY POTTER————

wolfstar

@wolfstardaughter-jj - like fathers,like daughter

@masivechaos - you remind me of him

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

remus lupin

@ddejavvu - grumpy remus x sunshine reader

- ___

- y/n loving when remus ramble

- sleepy cuddles with remus

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

regulus black

@ddejavvu - the reader intentionally mistook sirius as snape

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

james potter

@reysdriver - lucky charm

———THE BLACK PHONE———

vance hopper

@angelofthenight - are we about to kiss?

@mirrorballshiningjustforyou - vance with a opposite reader

- vance x cheerleader reader

————ENOLA HOLMES————

sherlock holmes

@marvelousmando - the game is afoot indeed

@love-strawberry - we'll be alright

@st-juliet - pulse point ♡

———THE WALKING DEAD———

glenn rhee

@the-daily-multi-fandom-post - gleens lover girl

@refiwrites - tepidity

@captain-tch - trinkets

——————OUAT————————

@thepiratequeenofneverland - A Poly introduction

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

peter pan

@heliads - dating peter pan would include

@evangeline-perry - peter pan relationship

@bad268 - peter pan fluff alphabet

@justpan - Kindness and Cruelty 

@mysadcorner - peter with a quiet!reader

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

felix

@goldenxshine - dating felix and wearing glasses would include

————MAZE RUNNER—————

@toxicbubblegum212 - snow in the glade

@virginia-peters - ___

@givemearock - tmr boys if you gave them a rock

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

newt

@heliads - men and tea

@witchthewriter - jealous newt with a medjack girlfriend would include

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

gally

@cantstoptheimagines - rbf

@writingandimagines - gally teaching you how to defend yourself

@5sospenguinqueen - dating gally would include

@gladerscake - territorial

@witchthewriter - being gally's s/o would include

——————DUNE————————

duke leto atreides

@nonpoppin - beard

@dailyreverie - you are what’s important right now

- your touch

- hugging them from behind, laying their head on the other’s shoulder

@starryeyedstories - like real people do

@catlordewrites - in the water

- a little less lonely

@lightsinthedistancee - how it feel to be free

@geo-winchester - like we used to be

@supernovafeather - new home ♡

@letstalkaboutshtufff - opposites attract

@pumpkin-stars - stalwart

@ophelialoveshandsomemen - you're handsome with snowflakes in your beard

——RISE OF THE GUARDIAN——

jack frost

@imagines-dreams - ___ (cupid!reader)

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

bunnymund

@razzlerdazzler - bunnymund with a halloween spirit s/o who likes spring and easter

@daydreaming-away-reality - the sweetest thank you (mother nature!reader)

—————BIG HERO 6—————

tadashi hamada

@multi-fandom-imagine - pop rock kiss

- ___

@subtly-a-selkie - tadashi is here pt1

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

hiro hamada

@thequeenrains - a night to a decade

@bigherosix2 - quarantining with hiro

@maycat-19-142 - ___ (poison!reader)

[nockfellblues]

For the second ask- can I have a story of Junpei Yoshino being saved by the reader? Context: Reader is also a sorcerer and was with Itadori at the time of the encounter with Mahito.

Ngl it took me a bit to work out a good concept for this one- idk if its just cuz i never really toyed with making a jjk oc or if i was just having a brain fart lmao and then I started writing and it just kept going??? Either way, here it is! GN reader and can be read as platonic or as a crush if you squint. Again, thanks so much for requesting! I hope you like it! 💕

Warnings: Usual canon compliant violence, mentions of blood.

“Should we really be doing this?”

Yuji just shrugged with a smile, looking blissfully unaware as you both lounged about in none other than Junpei Yoshino’s house, waiting to start a film while the aforementioned boy grabbed some snacks from his kitchen. Behind you both his mother was blissfully unawares as she slept soundly at the kitchen table with a smile on her face. This was supposed to be an investigation into the troubled boy and the strange circumstances he’d found himself in the middle of, but had quickly turned into the three of you becoming fast friends. Before either you or Yuji knew it, you were sat at the dinner table in the Yoshino residence like you always belonged there.

You couldn’t deny how much you genuinely liked Junpei- he was quiet and reserved with a stalwart sense of justice, but listening to him talk about his favorite films seemed to bring out the absolute best in him and make his smile look so much more alive. It was like a little part of his soul bloomed into a bright glow of happiness and contentment. Something about someone talking about their passions always made them shine in a way that was so beautiful, and you couldn’t deny that his bloom was so very enticing. Of course it helped that you shared taste in movies and in music and that he was seemingly such a sweet boy…

Truly, becoming friends with him like this had been such a breath of fresh air in all of the insanity lately. You were so thankful to have met him, even if the circumstances were.. crazy.

When Nanami had brought you onto this particular investigation you were terrified. Being just a student, and just a first-year at that, you had zero concept of how your curse techniques would be even remotely useful. Especially when Nanami and Shoko showed you the horrific amalgamates this new curse was able to produce. After all, all you could do was alter the physical form of objects, not people; Changing a rock into a knife and imbuing it with cursed energy was a vast difference to changing the shape of a body part, or a whole person, much less their soul. But Gojo had put the idea into Shoko’s head that it was worth a shot to see if you could reach something tangible in the form of a human soul, and so you tried.

Touching the soul was… exhilarating. Being able to see the physical manifestation of a soul was so, so beautiful. But it was also terrifying- being the only hope for these.. people that the patchwork curse left behind. It was like falling into a litany of swirling emotions, memories, passions, and colours, everything that made a person who they are, and trying desperately to wrangle them into a shape that they remembered and holding them there until they understood that this was their true shape and began to.. ‘heal.’ So far the best result was separating their physical forms and returning them to ‘normal’- but, so far, not a single person had survived. They returned to ‘normal’ only to be completely comatose for varying periods of time before slowly fading and, eventually, passing.

“Think any harder and your brain will melt,” Yuji laughed, nudging you with an elbow. You returned his easy smile as Junpei came back with an overflowing bowl of popcorn and some drinks.

“Yum! Alright, let’s get this movie party started!”

—————

You could barely breathe, running as fast as your legs could take you towards the ominous shadowed dome of the veil that had opened over Satozakura High School- Junpei’s school. You had happened to be in the area doing some light shopping when it started- the wrong place at the right time, you supposed. Reaching your senses out you desperately searched for any anomalous energies, until Yuji’s burst of cursed energy lit up like a homing beacon.

“Please don’t let Junpei be here- Please.”

—————

“People don’t have hearts.” You could hear the tears in Junpei’s voice and you raced around the corner of the corridor. You found him kneeling amongst broken glass in the darkened hallway, Yuji standing before him looking angry and distraught.

“You’re still just trying-“

“Junpei, please-“

“They don’t!” Junpei’s voice was absolutely wrecked with what could only be grief as he cut you both off.

“Other wise…” Tears streamed down his face, his entire body shaking as you reached to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Otherwise- Then that could only mean that people cursed me and my mom with those hearts! That would just be.. Too much,” he sobbed and shook you hand off to stand.

You backed away as cursed energy gathered within him and made the outline of his soul shimmer a brilliant melancholy blue- when in the world had he come into being able to produce cursed energy?

“I wouldn’t even know what is right and what’s wrong any more!” In a flurry of iridescent blue, a billowing jellyfish shikigami appeared behind him, quickly taking aim and stabbing Yuji with its sharpened tentacles.

“Y-Yuji!” You covered your mouth in shock as he took slow steps towards Junpei leaving a dripping trail of blood behind.

“Why-why didn’t you dodge it?”

“I’m sorry. I said a lot of arrogant stuff without really understanding anything. So, tell me what happened to you.. and I swear to you, if you do, then I wont curse you anymore. Please.” Yuji kneeled before Junpei, his voice soft, and you approached again to return a hand to Junpei’s shoulder.

“We’re your friends, Junpei. So, please, let us help?” You gave his houlder a gentle squeeze as he met your gaze with wide tearful eyes- and the dam broke.

Junpei crumbled before you both, body wracked with heaving sobs as he told you about his mother- the horrifying discovery of her mutilated body and another of those damn fingers of Sukuna’s just left there out in the open. Yuji took his hands in his own and you wrapped your arms over Junpei’s shoulders, letting him cry as you both fought back our own emotions at the news.

“I’m so sorry Junpei..” You gently rubbed his back as Yuji took a moment to process what you’d learned.

“Junpei… join Jujutsu high- You’d like it! There are lots of crazy strong teachers and good, reliable friends there. If we all work together, I guarantee you, we can find whoever it was that cursed your mom… then you can make them pay for what they did!” Yuji’s determination had Junpei’s tears start anew, and you nodded along with him.

“It’s true, Junpei. You’d never be alone, and we’d all do our very best to help you!” Yuji nodded in turn and you moved to hold his shoulders to properly look into his eyes. “Trust us again, Junpei. I swear, we’ll do whatever we can to make this right.”

“That’s a big promise coming from such a weak sorcerer.” At the top of the stair stood a man with silver hair and…a patchwork face. His body seemed to radiate the same shimmer you now equated with the visual manifestation of a soul, but so, so much brighter than you’d ever seen one. It seemed to ripple and move, like it was made of water, as though it didnt know enough to stay in one shape. What is he?

“Who are you?”

“It’s nice to meet you, vessel of Sukuna.”

The three of you stood and you deepened your stance to something more solid and defensive as it all clicked, “Yuji that’s him-!”

“Mahito, don’t do it!”

The Patchwork curse’s arm and shoulder alike began to curn like bubbling water, rapidly morphing as it shot out to slam Yuji into the adjacent wall- a second appendage morphed out of the side and swing too fast, swiping you away and tossing you down the hall like you weighed nothing. You flew until you hit the wall at the the end with a sickening crack. Groaning as you slid to the floor you were distantly aware of Yuji yelling, or saying something, but everything was violently tilting and fading into grey, your ears ringing like crazy and you could feel warm blood drip down your forehead and over your brow. Get up, they need you now!

There was a pulse of that same too-bright glimmer as the patchwork curse did something you couldn’t see and Yuji was yelling again, the tone now distinctly distraught as he yelled for you, then for Junpei. Blinking slowly, you’re positive you blacked out for a moment. You woke again to Yuji begging Sukuna for help while that awful patchwork curse giggled like a child. Dammit, get up! Get up!

Struggling to your feet the world swayed dangerously for a moment before snapping into focus on distinct blue shimmer of Junpei’s soul- now distorted and morphed into.. some.. thing that was collapsed at Yuji’s feet. The curse continued to laugh wildly and Yuji’s soul bloomed into a wild cacophony of bright white noise that was nearly blinding- and then he swung.

Fist meeting the patchwork thing’s face, you could see their souls touch in a way you’d never seen before- and the patchwork curse’s soul seemed to… crack? It was so small and barely there, but it had cracked! Had Yuji really hurt it?

You stumbled towards the thing that was somehow still Junpei, his soul twisted and tangled into some little blue monster that was nearly unrecognizable. The curse was goading Yuji into more of a fight and you could feel their souls and cursed energy bloom yet again as they moved their fight up the flight of stair behind them. Good, that gave you time.

“J-Junpei!” You dropped to his side, the wavering glimmer of his soul now so dim it was almost faded to grey in places. If you were going to help him, it needed to be now. But… You’d never touched a soul so newly wrecked- would it make a difference? Would it hurt him to try when he was so weak? There was no do-over with this, and if you fucked up he would die.

“I… I can do this. Please Junpei, please don’t die on me!” Placing your hands over the center of his mass, where is soul seemed strongest, you pulled at your own cursed energy. Reaching into him you were submerged in a vast, cold ocean of darkness. All you could feel was desolation- the frigid grasp of grief and sorrow as you tried to pull as much of his soul together that you could reach. It was like trying to grab bubbles of shimmering water, Junpei’s soul trying its best to separate and float away.

“Not today- You’re coming back with me, dammit! I’m not giving up on you, so don’t you give up on me, Junpei!”

Pushing the last drifting bubble of his soul in with the rest you could feel your own soul stretch thin trying to compress the pieces into the familiar form of your friend and holding it there-

This has to work. Please! The dark around you seemed to grow brighter and brighter until it was a blindingly bright sky blue as the pressure on your soul seemed to pulse- then something within your souls seemed to snap and everything went black.

—————

“Stop fidgeting, you look great!”

“S-sorry!” Junpei’s face was flushed in embarrassment at your praise as he tugged at the collar to his freshly finished Jujutsu High uniform.

Today was the day you finally got to introduce him to the other first year students and he was a bit of a nervous wreck. You gently swatted his hands away and adjusted the buttons on his collar one final time, returning his nervous look with a reassuring smile.

“You’re sure everyone will be.. cool with this?”

“Absolutely, silly. The others are super cool, and they’re all total weirdos, just like us! That’s why we all fit in so well!”

In hindsight that might have been a little rude to say about your friends but it made Junpei laugh, the first real laugh you’d gotten out of him since everything went to hell.

So it was totally worth it.

Ahhh okay this was so much longer than I intended it idk i kinda Ike it! Junpei deserved better 😤

[gilverrwrites]

Heel

Slade Wilson/Reader, 750 words Kinktober entry 6: Piss Warnings: Mentor/mentee | abuse of power | piss | humiliation Requested by: Anonymous

The blunt edge of Slade's practice sword presses against your throat with enough pressure to bruise as he straddles you, securing your body to the mat beneath with his own, impossibly stalwart form. His disappointment is evident by the scowl fixed to his lips as he glares down at you. You don't care about any of that. All you're focused on right now is mustering every inch of willpower you've ever had to keep from releasing your bladder under the pressure of your mentor's mountainous weight.

“What's wrong with you?” He asks firmly, pushing harder on your neck. Despite the pain, you breathe a sigh of relief as the move elevates some of the strain from your stomach. What's wrong is you'd let him convince you to drink an extra water at lunch, and now your entire lower body is throbbing, begging for release as you await your allotted bathroom time. “You're off your game.”

“I- eh.” You bite your tongue, figuratively and literally. You hated to whine, Slade hated it even more, but you'd also sworn not to keep secrets from him. Eventually, you swallow your pride, allowing your word to outweigh your dignity, just as he’d trained you to. “I have to pee.”

Slade blinks his stony blue eye at you, once, then twice as he comprehends your conundrum.

“I see.” His face fixes into the cold neutrality you know so well as he stands. “So go.”

“Really?” You're dubious but relieved; at the very least to be free of his weight. Neither lasts long, however. Before you can make to thank him for his uncharacteristic leniency, the hard sole of his steel-toed boot lands on your bloated stomach. How cruel of him to goad you like that. “Teasing doesn't suit you, old man!”

He's more than capable of taking and combating a joke, but clearly he’s not in the mood. You immediately regret cracking wise as Slade swiftly kicks down, hard and fast enough that you're unprepared. Heat spreads through your slackened form as a tiny trickle of piss escapes you. But oh boy does it feel good. Whether your little accident is evident to him remains to be seen as you hide in shame behind your hands.

“I'm not teasing. You can piss yourself or you can wait the 45 minutes. Your call.”

It doesn't feel like your call when more than 250lbs of supersoldier is pinning you beneath his heel, gradually pressing more and more of that poundage to the problem.

Hesitantly, you peek through your fingers to gauge his expression, he stares back at you with that vaguely annoyed, impartiality you’ve come to expect from him, but there's a tent in his pants that couldn't be overlooked if you tried. The sick old perv gets off on torturing you, knowing you'll take it if it means remaining his mentee. A bratty part of you would love to deny him the satisfaction but you're painfully full. You won't make it 45 more minutes.

Closing your fingers once more, your body shudders, tingling at in sweet relief as piss begins to leak from your bowls. Its potent smell quickly fills the air. The slow trickle quickly builds to a fast, hissing gush as Slade crouches down, supporting his weight on your guts in the process. The added discomfort making it hard to keep your mouth from falling open and releasing a crude moan.

“Look at me.” He barks, and instinctively you follow orders, dropping your hands to your sides and staring into his lurid face, until eventually the floodgates subside to a to a gentle stream, then a few forces drips, and finally nothing.

"Don't act so embarrassed." He states cooly, continuing once you painstakingly nod your understanding at him. "Should you ever be taken captive, enemies will seek to use your discomfort against you."

Despite his words and the comfort of an empty bladder, your body is still flushed with mortification. Amplified by the warm, sodden workout clothes that cling to your skin and Slade’s unwavering gaze. You weither in discomfort, wrapping your hands around his leather boot as you plead; “Please get off me.”

“Why? Where are you going?” He replies instantly, unmoving from his position, but for his arm which reaches beside you to pick up your discarded weapon. His flips it over in his hand, showing off before he extends it, handle first toward you.

You eye is cynically, before batting him away.

“To shower and clean up!” You answer exasperated, heart sinking when he shakes his head at you.   

“Bathroom is still off limits for another 41 minutes.” Again, he nudges the sword toward you, fully intending for you to finish out your sparring session while drenched in your own piss.  

It'll builds character ;)

Kinktober Masterlist

[moodymisty]

Hi love your fics. Would you be willing to do an angron x reader. He gets so little content

Part 2

Author's Note: You are my light, anon. Thank you for giving me the platform to go fucking apeshit about my favorite Traitor Primarch. Even if he's not a traitor (yet uwu) in this. It's not my best work, but I've been sitting on this idea for awhile now and decided to just write it before I lost it to time.

Summary: Angron takes interest in a poor young soul who's presence can soothe the nails, much to your own terror.

Relationships: Angron/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Uhhh it's fucking Angron?, It's pretty early so he's not as consumed by anger as he is later in the Crusade, Angron looks at another Primarch's serf and goes yoink I want that, He doesn't kidnap you yet but he wants to lmao, General 40kness so war death blood mentions etc etc (for those curious, this is vaguely based after canon, where it's said that the thought of Sanguinius could soothe Angron's Butcher's Nails)

Word Count: 2002

You have ten more minutes. You know once these men finish their set of training drills, you'll have to be back in the librarium. Your desk and it's piles of documents hails you like some sort of terrible beckoning call.

This has been your system for awhile now, as the frigid air blows through your clothing. The Astartes in training are entertaining during your rare moments of peace, as you lean against the railing to watch.

To think so few people will ever live to see an Astartes, and you watch them train so often. A luxury to be taken advantage of, you suppose.

You lean against the railing with more weight, your arms crossed over the ornate topping. They're so far away you can't quite tell what chapter they belong to, but you can see bits of white and red on the few men that are wearing pieces of their armor.

You wonder if they even know you're here, and if they did, if they'd even care. You're not of their chapter that much is for certain, as they lack the blue gold coloring and the stalwart regime that is signature of the Ultramarines. These warriors fight like it's a free for all, unlike the rigid one on one training the Astartes of Macragge are accustomed to.

You swear you feel the ground almost shake for a moment, but you just end up assuming that it's from the training down below. Or perhaps something elsewhere out of view. You pay it no mind, and continue enjoying your few minutes of respite.

Then there's a feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes your lips purse, looking up at the sky. You can just barely see the legions of ships moored close enough to the planet. There's always so many, even more so when a chapter returns to Terra for brief periods of time.

You hear footsteps coming from behind you; Heavy and armored. More than likely an Astartes, if you had to take a guess. It's better for your own well being if you just make yourself small and don't catch their eye, hoping they don't even notice you.

The footfall continues closer, and closer, until it sounds like they're mere centimeters from you. They must be passing by, until they suddenly stop. There's a shadow overtaking your form from behind, And when you see it's outline, you freeze.

The shadow is massive. It swallows you up and the ornate edges of the armor cue you into the fact that this isn't just anyone. Unless they are of a high enough ranking to sport such unique armor. But you're gut says that this shadow is far too large to belong to an Astartes, and every other sense in your body agrees.

It has to be a Primarch. You can see the absolutely massive shadow, the booming footsteps from earlier, and the feeling. The feeling alone makes you know well this isn't a random Astartes who's becoming oddly interested in you.

The sons of the Emperor are known to have what can only be described as an aura around them, which seems to affect anyone in there vicinity. How they react to it depends on the person, but for most, it's usually fear hidden underneath a mask of stalwart servitude.

Thickly swallowing, you glance as far to the side as you can to see if you can figure out which one it is.

You can see, gold. brushed, but faded gold armor. Beaten and worn though still containing a particular luster about it. Higher up your eyes travel, and you see a faded outline of something around the kneeplate. It looks like, spikes, or a crude representation of teeth. Up a little farther, and you see something dangling from his hip; Cleaned bleached skulls and-

Oh god. Oh god.

You feel your heart slamming against your chest. It's going to break out, you just know it and you can't do anything to stop it.

It's not as if coming face to face with any Primarch is something to be taken lightly. But this isn't The Angel or The Raven. This isn't even your own Primarch Guilliman, who you've only seen a few times in your life.

This is Primarch Angron.

You can't run from him. He'd kill you within an instant if not for the sheer disrespect of it, but for triggering something in him that makes him think you're prey. You only hope that you can hold strong enough that he doesn't hear your heartbeat, or how your trying not to shake in your boots.

Slowly you turn your head more, eyes trailing up his legplate, then his chestplate, before finally reaching his face.

The metal cords coming from his head fall over his armored shoulders almost like chunks of hair, though distinctly old and worn. The metal is rugged; Beaten and warped. Underneath some of them you can see deep red tattoos, some of which trail onto his face. They're warped and shifted by his numerous scars, scattered across his face from forehead to neck. They're all old, long healed and forever telling a story that only he knows.

His eyes bear down on you, the deep red unreadable. He isn't reacting to you at all, but that angered expression is permanently spread across his face. The deep furrow in his brow, the look in his eyes. He's like a pot constantly on the edge of boiling over and scalding everything close.

He has to be toying with you. Like a Fenrisian wolf tossing it's broken, beaten prey up in the air like a game before finally taking the final bite. Is there any other reason why someone who dances along the line between man and god would look your way? Is he just waiting to see how long until you react?

But as quickly as he arrived, he leaves. Turns on one massive armored boot and begins walking down the gilded hallway.

You only have the will to turn your head and watch him move away when he's taken more than a dozen steps away, seeing the battered gold of his armor. His thick furred cape just barely brushes the ground- the frayed edge ripped from endless wear and tear flowing behind him . You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and look back down towards the training Astartes. You peel your hands away from the railing you didn't realize you'd been holding with a death grip, palms slick with sweat.

You hoped desperately that it would be the only time you'd see the Primarch of the World Eaters. To survive once you'd already consider a miracle.

But it wasn't. Maybe the gods that are whispered about in various tomes have something planned for you. Maybe it's some sort of sick joke.

You see him once more not long later, and the exact same interaction occurs. You don't say a word, he doesn't either, and you assume you either pass some sort of trial only he knows or he just grows bored of you, and leaves.

The third time however, you dare to speak.

"Lord Primarch, do you, require something of me?"

Your voice is so soft he barely hears it, over the sound of clashing weaponry and fists on flesh. You look up at him but hesitate to look him in the eyes, but his own look traps you none the less.

You're a librarian or historitor of some sort in allegiance to the Ultramarines. He recognizes the blue and gold symboling embroidered onto your clothing from the various Astartes that traipse around with it plastered all over their armor, and their fancy, hand woven capes.

Gawdy and pointless. You'd topple over your own robes if you tried to run.

But you aren't running, aren't you?

Other serfs he passes by crumple like paper and plastic flimsies, but you're holding strong; A steel box that might be crumpling and walls concaving but still held together.

Angron looks to his left and over the railing out onto the vast open area. Khârn is out there, training Neophytes and newly blooded World Eaters. The warrior has no need for the diplomacy that you're more than likely used to from the Ultramarines, as Gorechild smashes into a thick plating of ceramite with one heavy swing. It sends the Neophyte to the ground in a split second. He looks back towards you, and notices that while your eyes glanced for a moment to follow his own, they now look back at him.

"You enjoying watching them fight." It's what he's found you doing every time he's passed you.

But it takes you a moment until you look up and see that he's staring at you, and that he wants an answer from you.

"Yes. I do."

You see his hand reach out, massive- Your eyes blink closed for just a moment in preparation for whatever he was about to inflict on you.

But instead, he grabs your jaw.

It still hurts, squishing your skin upward and forcing you to look up at him from an awkward angle, but it's far better than dying. You notice the way he stares at you.

He stares back, watching as your wide eyes dart around his face looking for answers.

Then he feels it.

He feels the stabbing, shrieking, aching pain of his nails dull ever so slightly as he watches. Glances over your soft skin. Meets your eyes. So the first time hadn't just been a trick of the light.

Your hands are frozen hovering at waist height, trying to figure out what you should do. Should you put them down, hold completely frozen until he finds or doesn't find whatever he's looking for in you? Or should you reach up and dare to touch the tarnished golden armor that has such a hold of you?

"Lord Primarch?" You mutter, hoping for an answer he doesn't seem keen on giving.

If anyone has passed by this scene they've not so much as uttered a word. None of them would, you'd have to be insane to interrupt a Primarch doings. You wonder for a moment if this scene would look comical from another's point of view.

One of your hands reaches up, shaking as you place it on the armor of his forearm. It's almost hilariously tiny- but much to your surprise the armor feels less cold that you would've thought. You place it there in the rough area of his wrist and try gently hold on and support yourself.

You're still petrified; Angron can see that emotion no matter how deep it's layered beneath other emotions on someone's face. When young men were thrown at him to die in those sandy pits, and he'd see the fear hidden underneath their anger. But as it fades and you become more confused by him than frightened, he feels yet another soothing wave go over his Butcher's Nails.

It's nowhere near enough- they still rip through his brain demanding him to kill to main to scream and bellow, but to edge that away just slightly is to give him relief he hasn't felt since before they dug this hideous tech deep into the recesses of his skull.

He doesn't know what it is about you that's doing it, but he knows he wants it. He wants you.

"Your name. What is it."

You stutter for a moment before speaking. The name is foreign; But given you more than likely hail from one of the many planets under Guilliman's rule, it makes sense.

His fingers shift over your face, and your jaw aches. He notices your hand on his arm and when he lets go, you use that same hand to rub your face.

He'll have to be careful. You're more breakable than him. But if you can dull the pain that sears through his head at every aching moment, then perhaps he'll have enough room in his head to spare the thought to be.