#that was a slow severing over the course of decades | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ichorai · 10 months

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airbag ; steve rogers.

track one of OK COMPUTER.

pairing ; steve rogers x reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; five time steve tries to propose to you, and one time he actually does.

words ; 4.3k

themes ; fluff, mild angst, kind of avengers tower au?

warnings / includes ; mentions/descriptions of injury, alcohol, lots of lovesick fluff, rest of avengers are mentioned, natasha and tony Meddling, reference to spider-man & sandman :)

main masterlist.

Steve considered himself a romantic of sorts. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked bringing you flowers, he liked taking you to the theater, and he liked walking you home—all the way up to your door and listening for the lock, so he knew you’d be safe in there.

It was only fitting how cliché it felt when he realized he was in love with you. Firework-igniting kisses and butterfly-filled tummies and face-splitting grins. Everything described in those movies you enjoyed watching—but so much more.

Steve Rogers wasn’t a man to waste time. After all—enough of that had been done while he was frozen in the ice. If he was going to start something, then he was most definitely going to go all the way and finish it, too.

Almost immediately after your first anniversary, he bought a ring. It was simple and classic, maybe a bit out of style but hey, you seemed to be into that. You were dating a century-year-old.

It was December then, soft snow lining the streets and piling upon naked tree branches. During the drive to the fancy restaurant he’d found (courtesy of Tony), there were children building snowmen and sledding down shallow hills. You smiled watching them, eyes rife with fond warmth, and Steve knew then that he had to do it. He had to propose to you tonight.

Inside, you wouldn’t stop telling him how underdressed you felt, but Steve reassured you by saying a simple, “You look perfect, I promise.”

And he wasn’t lying. You did look perfect to him.

Dinner consisted of several decadent courses, with the waiters serving platters the two of you could barely even pronounce. It was delicious, nonetheless, and the chef had even come by to shake the hand of the Captain America.

During the last course—a silken slice of chocolate cake for dessert—Steve slipped his hand into his suit’s pocket, the velvet box smooth beneath his fingers. He replayed the question over and over again in his head, rehearsed a million times prior to the dinner.

Will you marry me?

And just as he was about to pull the ring box out, another diner pushed his chair back just far enough to accidentally knock into a waiter passing by, holding a plate of spaghetti. Completely sauced, to top.

To Steve’s horror, the plate tipped, almost in slow motion, and fell with a wet, splattering noise all over your outfit. You’d let out a small yelp of surprise, the spaghetti was hot, but not enough to burn. Steve stood up a second too late, hand falling away from his pocket as he rounded the table and placed it on your shoulder, asking if you were okay.

“I’m okay,” you told him gently, reaching over to grab a few napkins at the center of your table.

You didn’t get mad, of course you didn’t—it was part of the reason Steve loved you so much—instead, you were kind and patient, reassuring the flustered waiter that it was alright. “Mistakes happen,” you said. Another waiter came by a few minutes later with a few damp cloths so you could wipe the rest of the spaghetti sauce off.

Needless to say, the chef insisted that the meal was on the house that night, much to Steve’s chagrin.

The drive back home smelled of marinara sauce and oregano, but the heavy weight in his chest at the failed proposal seemed to lighten when you joked about how the five course meal ended up being six.

Natasha knew about the ring. Steve wasn’t quite sure how—he’d never explicitly told her—but then again, he wasn’t surprised. Nat seemed to always just know things from the smallest of details. It was why she made such a brilliant spy.

“So,” she’d said once she stumbled across from Steve in the Avenger Tower’s lavish gym, a sly grin stretching over her lips, “when are you popping the question?”

There was a pause to his movements—the dumbbell he’d been curling hovered in the air, his muscles tensing. He thought about it for a little longer, considering asking her how she knew but—he seemed to sense that Natasha would wave it away with a laugh and a light, “A magician never reveals her secrets.”

Instead, he told the red-head, “I’m working on it.”

Natasha leaned against a treadmill, arms crossing over her chest. The smile on her face seemed to grow even wider. “Uh-huh. How long have you had the ring?”

Steve resumed doing his reps. The burn felt nice, even if it was only barely there. “Long enough.”

There was a soft tenderness to Natasha’s eyes, and she bumped a fist into his bicep. “Take Y/N hiking. Far away from the city, where it’s quiet.”

Again, Steve paused his exercise. Slow, he put the weights down, thinking over her words.

“That’s actually—that’s a good idea, Nat.”

“Of course it is.” There was a knowing glint in her eyes.

“Thanks, really. I just want things to be perfect.”

She dipped her head once, before climbing onto the treadmill. “Send pictures. I’ve got a bet going on—Clint would want proof.”

Steve spared her an amused roll of his eyes. With a wave and a hurried goodbye, Steve rushed out of the gym to take a quick shower. The weather app on his phone (that he took an embarrassingly long time to find) told him the skies were going to be clear that afternoon—perfect for hiking.

Maybe, hopefully, perfect for proposals.

Half an hour later, you were ready to go, too, bouncing on the balls of your feet excitedly.

“I packed us sandwiches.”

“Did you? Oh, great—thanks, honey. We could have them as an early dinner.” He rubbed your shoulder and nudged you into the car.

“I packed a bunch of snacks, too.”

Steve arched a brow. “Like?”

“Gummy worms, popcorn, chips, cookies. Oh, and Wanda actually made something for us, I’m not really sure what it is, but it smelled nice—”

Your words died away when Steve laughed, loud and chesty. Of course you’d pack just about the entire pantry. How you managed to stuff all of that into your travel backpack with room to spare was beyond him. You couldn’t help but break out into an infectious smile when he leaned forward to kiss you on the forehead.

The drive out of the city to the hiking trail was long, and you nearly dozed off if not for the road getting progressively bumpier the closer you got.

The sun was high in the sky by the time you arrived. You slipped out of the car with a pleased hum and stretched out your limbs, ready to get the hike over and done with. You might’ve been dating a superhuman, but you had no powers of your own. The pressure to keep up was something always in the back of your mind.

And that’s how the hike went—you were determined to stay on par with Steve, no matter how grueling the terrain became. Even when he suggested a break to have some of the many snacks you’d packed, you tossed him your bag and kept trekking on—you were worried that if you stopped, you would never get back up again.

Really, you shouldn’t have overexerted yourself this quickly—the two of you were barely halfway done with the trail. Your feet were starting to drag, and your pace grew staggered. Just as you turned around to face your boyfriend and ask for a breather, your foot caught on a tree root that poked up above the trail’s surface, and you stumbled forward.

Thankfully, Steve’s quick reflexes came in handy, and he darted forward to grab you before you could go rolling down the steep hills.

He tugged you close into his chest, not yet registering your wince of pain. “Are you okay? That was a close one!”

When you pulled away, you gingerly tried to test your wait on the foot, but quickly lifted it back up with a grimace. “Oh, God. I think I’ve rolled my ankle.”

Steve stiffened, glancing further up the trail. It was maybe another two hours, but that was only with two fully-functioning pairs of legs.

The proposal would have to wait another day, then.

He cupped your face, soft and gentle. “Wrap your arms around my neck from behind. I’ll carry you down to the car.”

“You sure, Stevie? I can try hopping down on one foot.” You tried to demonstrate, but nearly lost your balance again. All the jostling sent bolts of pain down your foot, which surely wasn’t a good sign, either.

He snorted, huff-laughing, other hand slipping over your waist to keep you still. “I’m sure. Come on.” He leaned down expectantly.

Relenting, you wrapped your arms over his shoulders and hooked the inside of your thighs over his waist, careful to keep your injured foot extended so it wouldn’t bump into him. It was beginning to throb.

“‘M sorry,” you mumbled, resting your cheek over his shoulder, one of your hands lifting to toy with his short, blonde hair. He began to walk down, and you tried your best to ignore the pain in your ankle. “Ruined our hiking trip. I was so excited.”

“It’s okay, honey. It was an accident! We can always go another time. Maybe a different trail, though.”

You apologized again, the whole way down, in fact, despite his assurances that he wasn’t at all tired. He really wasn’t—barely broke a sweat during the descent. Besides, he quite liked the feeling of your holding so tight onto him, your nose pressed into the side of his neck, your soft laughter brushing over his skin in one moment, your slight winces in the next.

“I love you,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He felt a shiver traverse down his back, and briefly wondered if you felt it, too.

“I love you, too. That tickles, though.”

Your laugh was abrupt and ever so heart-warming. “Sorry.”

The movie, you’d told him, was a cult classic from the seventies. Steve couldn’t really remember what it was called. Callie? Cassie? It was an awful lot of blood. The arm he had wound over your shoulder squeezed you every time someone screamed in the film—which was… startlingly often.

Proposing in the middle of a gorey movie wasn’t exactly the romantic vision Steve had in mind, but since the previous attempts really didn’t work in his favor, he wondered if keeping it casual was the best way to go. So when you asked if he could come over for an abrupt movie night, he readily agreed—and brought the small, velvet ring box with him.

It was tucked safely in the pocket of his slacks, on the side you weren’t pressed up against. The weight was a constant reminder of what he wanted to ask you—occupying his mind away from the movie he should’ve been paying attention to.

He’d propose once the credits started rolling. Yes, that’d be best, right? Wouldn’t want a horrified scream interrupting his profession of undying love to you.

And so he watched. He watched and watched, absentmindedly wondering what on earth the movie was even about. He dragged his knuckles up and down your arm. When a particularly gruesome scene unfolded, Steve glanced over at you.

To his surprise, your features were softened with sleep, only barely illuminated by the crimson glow from the television, your lips slightly parted and eyes shut.

With gentle movements, Steve reached over to guide your head onto his shoulder. Your hair tickled his cheek, and he let out a soft puff of a sigh before smiling. He kissed your temple, nose resting over your forehead.

The proposal would have to wait another day.

Tony’s parties were always an affair that Steve looked forward to. He wasn’t a party-goer by any means, but he found that the grand events were a great way for him to catch up with all his colleagues, acquaintances, and work associates he otherwise wouldn’t have spoken to for months to come.

And, of course, your excitement always seemed to rub off on him. You were buzzing about the room with what looked like twenty different outfits hanging off of your arms, holding them between you and the mirror with a scrutinizing look.

“Tucked or untucked?” you asked, more to yourself than him. He wasn’t given the chance to respond, anyway, since you chucked the shirt somewhere behind you and promptly started looking for another.

When you’d finally settled for appropriately formal attire, and Steve slipped into a button-up dress shirt (which was his one and only option, much to your envy), the two of you set off for Tony’s.

The party was already in full swing by the time you got there. Steve wasn’t entirely sure what the event was for—an anniversary or birthday, maybe? Fundraising gala? A celebration of some sort of scientific breakthrough Steve couldn’t even begin to comprehend? It was always a toss-up with Tony.

You were greeting people here and there, stopping to chatter amicably about what you’ve been up to, how work was going, the latest shows you’ve been catching up with…

And then you kissed his cheek and told him you were going to go grab some drinks. Steve watched you go with fond eyes. You looked incredible tonight.

A hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his reverie, and Tony Stark’s smug face came into view.

“Enjoying the party?” he asked, sly and knowing. What did he know?

“Hey, Tony. We only just got here. What’s all this for, by the way?” Steve crossed his arms and glanced around for any telltale signs.

A smirk flitted across his expression. “Just thought we all needed a bit of social activity pumped into the team. It’s a great place to… get your courage up, hm?” Tony smiled, and Steve narrowed his eyes.

“Did Natasha tell you?”

Tony snorted. “We all know.”

“Great.” Steve slid his hand into his pocket and traced the smooth grooves of the ring box. “Is everyone expecting me to propose tonight?”

“No, pfft—we don’t want to pressure you or anything…” Tony pointedly glanced at a stage conveniently placed front and center of the room. “But if you need some, what should I call it… assistance, the stage is all yours to use.”

Steve balked. Proposing at a party was one thing, but proposing on a stage in front of hundreds of people was completely out of the question.

Or was it?

“I’m not going to propose on a stage. That’s more your style.”

With a shrug, Tony rolled his eyes. “I mean, Pepper hasn’t left me yet, has she?”

Steve chose not to grace him with a response, but frown-smiled when Tony grabbed a flute of champagne and shoved it into his hands. He was gone the next second, off to greet a new round of guests.

Thirty seconds later, you appeared by his side, positively beaming, but slightly out of breath. There were two chilled glasses clutched in your hands, almost sloshing over with how quickly you bounded to him.

“Oh, you already got a drink?” you asked, grinning. You clinked both glasses against his, chiming, “Cheers!”

And as you were downing the sugary alcohol in your right hand, Steve ran a finger along the ring box again.

Maybe… maybe it really wasn’t a bad idea. He looked back at the stage. There was a microphone stand on there. Has it been there since the beginning?

He turned his head back to you, and you told him about Banner inviting the two of you over for dinner some time. Just as he was about to reply, his phone started buzzing in his other pocket. Deftly, Steve slipped his hand away from the box and went to pick up the phone—Sam’s caller ID staring up at him.

His friend’s voice sounded strained through the phone, and Steve gripped your hand and led you to a more quiet hallway, away from the crowd and the thrum of music.

Sam hurriedly told him that there was trouble downtown—something about Spider-Man and a very sandy guy.

“Sandy?”

“Yeah. Dude’s made of sand.”

“Oh.” Steve paused, brows furrowing. “I’ll be there in twenty. Can you keep it together till then?”

“Don’t have another choice, do I, Cap?”

With that, Sam hung up. Steve looked to you, crestfallen.

“Honey, I gotta go.”

Your voice was light and airy, despite your slightly crestfallen and confused countenance. “Sam’s in trouble?”

“Yeah. I’ll—” There was an uncertain pause. Steve leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you at home. I love you.”

Your brows pulled together. “I love you, too. Stay safe, Steve.”

It was something you just had to accustom yourself to—when your boyfriend was a superhero, his priorities encompassed far more than you. But you understood, as you always did, and let him hurry away with a stiff lip.

The hospital was packed. Claustrophobically dense. You hurriedly wove through the crowd of anxious people hovering around the information desk, having already gotten the text which room Steve was in.

A few twisting hallways later, you pushed through a door and just about collapsed with relief when your eyes landed on Steve.

He was badly bruised. Hues of deep purple and faint blues were blossomed all over his face. One of his eyes was swollen, his sandy-blonde hair was tousled, and his bottom lip was split. He was wearing a hospital gown, and you felt nauseated wondering just what other injuries he was hiding beneath the fabric.

But he was alive. That was the least you’d hoped for.

Tears pricked your eyes, and you only then registered that Bucky was there, standing by the bed, expression grim and steeled. His blue eyes darted away from his best friend’s face to meet yours.

“I’ll give you two some space,” he murmured with a tight edge to his voice. Bucky patted your shoulder and whisked off before you could say anything.

“Steve?” you croaked, drawing nearer to the bed. Your throat felt tight. “Oh, God…”

Despite his entire face aching, Steve managed to tug one of the corners of his lips up into a meager smile. “Hey, honey.”

His voice sounded hoarse and overused, but was still utter music to your ears. You just about collapsed onto the side of the bed, reaching out to gently brush the back of your shaking knuckles over what little of his face wasn’t bruised.

“I heard what happened on the news,” came your tearful whisper. “I was so worried you…”

Something softened within the blue of his eyes. “I’m still here.”

You dipped forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead, and his tired eyes slid shut.

“Has a doctor checked on you yet? Any permanent damage I have to look out for?” You pulled away so you could roam your eyes over his form once more.

“Just a few bruises. Bone fractures. Nothing I can’t recover from,” he replied, though he winced when he tried to shift and sit more upright. You placed a hand on his back and helped him move, cautiously slow.

“Take it easy, old man,” you warned. “Don’t want you to pop a hip.”

Steve wheezed out what seemed like a laugh. Then, his eyes darted to the bedside table, where some spare clothes were neatly packed in a bag. Bucky had brought them, making sure to hide the ring box safely underneath a few layers.

Should he? Now, when he had the chance?

“I have something to ask you…” he began, tentative, dragging his eyes back onto you. You tilted your head pointedly, beckoning for him to go on.

Just as he was about to say the words, there were three rapid knocks to the hospital room’s doors and they creaked open immediately after, two nurses shuffling in, clipboards in hand.

“Hello, just here to run a few more check-ups!” one of them chirped. “It’s not often we get a super admitted in here.”

Steve just about physically deflated. Your brows kinked, and you patted his cheek fondly.

“I’ll come by later—gonna go see if Sam is okay. You should rest, Stevie. Love you.” With one final kiss to his cheek, you got up from his bed and made space for the bustling nurses. He barely managed to lift his hand to wave you goodbye before you hurried out of the room, back into the packed hallways.

A month had drifted by since he wound up in the hospital (and discharged the very next day). It was pleasantly breezy that day—gusts of wind tousling his now-overgrown hair and whistling sweetly in your ears.

Steve bent at the waist to place the bouquet of flowers down in front of the headstone. If it were any windier, he was sure it would’ve blown away. But it stayed put, the petals only barely swaying to and fro, and he righted himself back up.

“Sarah Rogers,” you whispered, eyes trailing across the smooth grooves of her name indented into the slab, voice thick with fondness. “What did she look like?”

Your arm wounded over the small of his waist. The two of you had visited the cemetery a few months prior, where you helped him scrub all the moss and dirt from her headstone. He told you about many of his adventures with Bucky before his time frozen in the ice, but very little about his mother.

A wistful smile touched the corner of his face. Now fully healed, much to your relief.

“She was blonde. Blue eyes. Crow lines, I think. Really faint, but they appeared every time she laughed.” There was a nostalgic warmth to his tone.

“Took after her, then.” You beamed down at the grave. “She must’ve been beautiful.”

Steve leaned into your grasp and kissed the very top of your head. “She was. She would’ve loved you, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“She would’ve thought you were perfect. She saw a lot of terrible things in her lifetime, but you—you would’ve made her laugh a lot.” A pause. The wind hummed a disjointed tune. “She always believed in me, even though she was terrified for me all the time. Worried herself sick. If only she knew I’d end up here…”

Your head landed on his bicep. “She knows. She knew from the very beginning.”

The blonde smiled at you again, and you couldn’t help but notice his crow lines, too. It was comforting to know that there was so much of his mother in him.

“You ready for lunch?”

“I’m starving.” you told him, before blowing a chaste kiss to the headstone. “See you soon, Mrs. Rogers.”

Steve began to lead you away, and he couldn’t seem to scratch the smile from his lips. The two of you started walking back home, taking your sweet time. You were saying something—something about a nice lasagna you had frozen in the fridge—

But Steve could barely hear any of it. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. He had to tell you now.

“I love you,” he interrupted. The words died on your tongue and you regarded him curiously, as if he’d grown a second head.

Apparently, there was a near manic look to his eye that prompted you to worriedly query, “Is something wrong, Steve—?”

Instead of answering, Steve stopped walking. He dropped down onto one knee, brandishing the ring box from his pocket, flicking it open. The realization broke across your features just a second later. Your eyes widened, and you reared back in shock.

And the words—the words just came tumbling out. Not at all what he’d scripted for months on end, but something entirely different. Something raw and unfiltered—purely from his heart. “I love you, more than I can ever put into words. You’re just—amazing, perfect in every goddamn way. I don’t want to go another day without calling you mine. I want to be yours, honey. All of me, every single bit of me, with all of you. It’s been an honor being your boyfriend. Really, it has, but I’m… I’m ready to be your husband, if you’ll have me. Will you marry me?”

There were tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You were only but a streak of color before you were yanking him forward, practically burying his face against your chest. He didn’t care that there was a rock digging into his knee. Barely even felt it.

The next moment, you were pulling away to yank him back up, kissing him like he was the very air you needed to breathe.

“Is that a yes?” he asked against your lips, slightly muffled. He was smiling, because he already knew your answer.

You nodded into the kiss, refusing to pull away. “I’d marry you a million times over, Steve. Again and again and again, until you get sick of me.”

“Could never get sick of you,” he whispered, forehead leaning over yours. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The two of you broke apart minutes later, reluctantly, though you had permanent smiles etched across your faces the entire way back home. The ring fit you perfectly.

When the news broke to the rest of the Avengers, they all erupted into an array of groans and cheers, and multiple wads of cash were passed around. Natasha sent the two of you a pleased wink. You two just landed her a combined total of a hundred bucks, but some secrets were simply better left unsaid.

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luciferlightbringer · 6 months

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Love in a Hopeless Place

Chapter 12

Hey! I'm so sorry that this chapter took a while! This week was a lot and smut takes a lot of energy for me to write because I care about the details and all. But now it is here! Also, I was gonna put a more cute/loving gif of Lucifer for for this one but then I saw this was and I couldn't stop laughing, so here we are. Enjoy~

Chapter 11|Chapter 12 (FINAL CHAPTER)

Lucifer x prostitute fem!reader Word Count: 5.3 k CW: Slowburn, Angst, Prostitution, Hurt/comfort, trauma, fluff, depression, anxiety, insecurity, kissing, SMUTTTT (penetration, oral, handjobs, sub/dom, sex toys)

By the end of the day, all your things had been moved over to the hotel. Lucifer had offered to put your things in his room, but you had asked for your own, both because you wanted to have your stuff separate for now... and part of you wanted a separate place to be if you after Lucifer ever had issues come up. You didn't anticipate it happening, but the anxiety that came with a new relationship, especially your first healthy one, left you needing some time to adjust. Lucifer, being the good man that he was, respected it, but not without a little pouting, but you reassured him that you would still be spending every night sleeping by his side.

By the end of the day, you were tired, and honestly, so was Lucifer. The physical and emotional toll of the day had caught up to the both of you and you went to bed early that night. Snuggling up in each other's arms.

The next morning, Lucifer woke up early, excited, with a plan for the day. Lucifer got up and got dressed for the day, gave you a swift kiss on the lips as you laid half awake in bed and whispered, "I have some things I need to do today, but see you later. Ok? You're booked out with me starting dinner time, got it?" You nodded sleepily. He kissed you again, deeper this time. "I love you, Duckie." And then he left to go pick up supplies for his plan with you later.

A little bit later, you finally woke up and laid in Lucifer's- Lucifer and YOUR's bed... that would take some while to get used to. You heard a faint sound of commotion down in the lobby. You decided to get up to see what all the commotion was about, throwing on a basic shirt and shorts. It had been forever since you had gotten to have a slow day and wear clothes that weren't required to make you look like a sex toy, the change was really nice.

You skip downstairs to come face to face with a couple of familiar faces... some of your friends from the brothel! Gemma, Natalie, and Katrina, had all come also wanting to move into the hotel and give redemption a try. They saw how Lucifer and the others had fought for you, and they wanted in on that kind of support, even if they were still going to work at the brothel. You hugs them all and cried happy tears.

"You, uhhh... wouldn't be willing to spare one more hug, would ya, Babydoll?" You turned around at the familiar voice to see Larry standing behind you.

"Larry!" you hugged him, "What are you doing here?"

"Well.." he said sheepishly, "Truthfully, I've been losing the heart to run that brothel over the last several decades... Although business is already up a lot since it got out the Lucifer used my place, haha! We will see what happens... I am still running it, but... I might not be trying to find any new girls is all. Learning about this hotel here... gave me something else to try out... if... you are ok with me being here... that is..."

You smiled at Larry and hugged him again, "Of course I am! Every sinner is welcome here! Just one thing though... my new boyfriend might not be too fond of you calling me Babydoll anymore."

Larry laughed, "Fair enough, wouldn't want to upset him, I already know what that looks like, yeeshh," he said playfully pulling at his collar, "How about just 'doll'?" You nodded with a laugh, "That should work". You helped Larry and the other girls move in most of the day. Luckily you were distracted enough that you did not see Lucifer pop in and out the the hotel several times with supplies.

Eventually it came dinner time and you went off to your own room, to shower and get dressed for the event with Lucifer that night. You walked into your room to find a beautiful black and red dress with matching shoes and a bag next to it with a note saying:

Got you a little something for our first official date, I hope you like it. Love, Luci <3

Your heart swelled, you had no idea how your life had ended up like this, but you were the happiest you had ever been. You sighed happily and went to take a quick shower, did your hair with simple makeup and put on the dress. It fit your dimensions perfectly, like scary perfectly, and had no tag.

Did he have this made for you? This was going to be a lottttt to get used to, you were dating a King. Oh my god, you were dating a King. No... you were dating Lucifer, he could have been a sinner just like anyone else and it wouldn't matter to you. He could fall to an even darker pit of Hell and you would follow him. This must have been how Lilith felt all those years ago. You finished getting ready and you heard a knock on your door at your usual time.

You went to go open the door and saw Lucifer standing in front of you, wearing a more simple suit that was still just as sexy as his normally outfit, but with more black and red details to match you. As you catch his view, he catches yours, and you both look at each other with jaws agape as you take in each other's beauty. Lucifer was so happy that the dress fit you, and in all. the. right. ways. He gave you a prideful smile.

"I'm glad I got the measurements correct," he said with a smirk.

"So it was custom made, how did you know my dimensions?" you smirked back at him.

Lucifer raked his eyes up and down your body, "I'm just... good with spacial awareness." He wiggled his eyebrows.

You chuckled and nodded with a cheeky smile, "Wow, I never thought such a nerdy sentence could sound so hot~" you purred.

Lucifer got a little flustered, "Oh shut up," he grabbed your hand and putted you into a deep kiss. You two stood in the kiss and embrace for a few minutes before Lucifer pulled away, breathing heavily.

"I don't want to get too ahead of myself, we have an itinerary to keep to" Lucifer says as he taps his cane on the floor. Before you can ask what he meant, he teleports the both of you to a secluded room with large windows that overlook the Pride Ring, music softly playing in the background, Swan Lake.

You looked at the view and smiled, "All this for me?" you ask.

"Oh this is just the beginning of our night, my love. And yes, you deserve this and much much more," he kissed both of your hands before taking you to your chair. You and Lucifer ate dinner together, spent hours listening to music, flirting, and eventually got up and started dancing together. This made Lucifer think about how things used to be with Lilith, but he could appreciate that it was different, it was with you.

He dips you and kisses you deeply, running his hands down your frame. His body had been aching for yours all day during the preparations for the night, but he knew he had to be patient just a little longer. We wanted so desperately to claim you, but also, to fill you with all the love and pleasure that he could muster. It was the least you deserved.

Lucifer pulls his head back to be able to look at you as you look up at him, his eyes full of love as he smiled down at you, "I love you my darling, and from this day on, I will make sure you never go a day in your life where you doubt that."

You felt tears well in your eyes, "I love you too, King of Hell, King of my heart. I will do everything in my power to be by your side and love you." You kiss him again as he ends the dip, standing you back upright.

"Are you ready for the rest of the evening?" He said with some flirty mischief in his eyes, wiggling his eyebrows again.

You tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, "Oh I am."

Lucifer tapped his cane and you both teleported back to the hotel, in front of your door. "I have one more outfit for you tonight, get changed and come to our room in ten minutes," he asked trying to hide the excitement in his eyes at his plans for you. You nodded.

Lucifer kisses you again, deeper than all of the others, barely able to keep himself from taking you right there in the hallway. He parts and walks back to the room he called both of yours. You smiled and watched him walk away before going into your room. On the bed was another new outfit, who had put that there while you were gone? It was Angel, Angel wanted to help

On your bed, was a simple but elegant robe, the type of robe you would find at a spa or something, and nothing else. What was he up to? Before putting on the robe you also put on a set of lingerie that you had gotten a while ago, just for him to see if he had ever wanted to have sex with you back when he was still paying for your time, but now he got to see it for free, and that made you even happier.

You slipped on the robe, and after ten minutes, you walked down to your shared room with Lucifer and knocked on the door. Lucifer called for you to come in, and you opened the door to the room filled with lit candles, rose petals on the floor, a table over on the side that had stuff on it covered in a cloth, and Lucifer standing near the side of the bed, also wearing a robe that matched yours, this hat and cane off to the side. All you were able to see was his chest exposed down to the V in the robe and his black arms up to his elbows and his black legs to to the knee where they started to transition to white.

You laughed as you walked into the room towards Lucifer, "What is all this?"

Lucifer looked you over, Hells he wanted to rip that robe off of you, "Well... I wanted this all to be special. I know I could just toss you on the bed and probably have my way with you but... I want this to feel different... I don't this to feel like just another job... I want it to feel like love."

His words left a pang in your heart, you got close and cupped his face "You don't have to do all of this for me to feel like that, everything about you makes this feel like love... frankly... I struggled most of the time to see you as just a client... after a while I hated that you were because I wanted for it all to be real."

"Just for both of us to find out it was real the whole time," he said as he nuzzled into your hand, "I love you, and I'm going to spend the reset of the night and every day after showing you just how much I do." Lucifer then pulled you into a deep kiss. Both of you start to explore each other's bodies with your hands a little before Lucifer stops you again.

"Hells, you make it so hard to stop, but I have a plan here," he clears his throat, he is already shaking a little out of excitement and nerves, "You have spent a lot time using your body for others and I want to make you feel good, so I was going to give to a message. Does that sound ok?"

You melted, hell he was sweet and really hot, how could he possibly get more hot? "That sounds amazing actually..."

Lucifer's eyes lit up, "Great! And then uhh... whenever we move on to other activities... I may have uhh... gone with Asmodeus to get like... a bunch of new toys! Hahah... we don't have to use them now, if you don't want to. I just wanted us to have options..." he said pointing over at the covered table on the side.

You looked over at the table and then back at him with lust and mischief filled eyes, tucking a hair behind his ear, "We should probably get the massage started before I start perusing those toys," you purred.

Lucifer's face turn red and his loins stir, he gulps hard as he walked you over to the bed. As you laid down, you looked at Lucifer as you slowly shrugged off your robe and tossed it to the side, leaving you in only your lingerie as you laid down on the bed with your back and ass to the sky. Lucifer raked his eyes across your body and gulped hard again, this is the first time he had seen you this exposed since the night you met, and the memories alone did not do you justice.

He jumped up on the bed beside you, swiping your hair away from your back and covering his hands in massage oil before starting to rub into your back, and beginning his goal of feeling every inch of your body with his hands. He started to work his way down your shoulders, neck, lower back, and it felt amazing for him to touch and for you to experience.

As he moved his hands around your curves, he looked for points of tension and pain, and used a little magic to help in aiding his hands in relaxing you and making your body feel good. His touch feels incredible to you, even without the magic, and you can't help but moan and sigh as he worked your muscles. The attention he gave your back alone was already enough to get you turned on, even though you already had been pretty turned of from all the kisses, but you felt yourself starting to get more wet.

Lucifer held back a moan as he hear you start to sigh at the pleasure of his hands on you. He loved that he was making you feel good, making you feel pleasure. He wanted to worship you, your body. Your body was the alter to the entity that he now wanted to worship for the rest of his life. He felt himself already start to get drunk off the feeling of your soft skin, your beautiful muscles and curves. His hands started to explore more down an arm, down to your hand, working at your palm and trailing kisses down from your shoulder to your wrist before moving to the other arm and repeating the process there before doing the same down each leg.

You continue to moan and sigh as he moved across your body. The massage felt so good but your pussy continued to ache for him, every time he got close to your entrance, you started to shake and moan more. This was not lost on Lucifer, he loved seeing you quiver beneath him, and he wanted to badly to just dive into you... but not quite... he needed to torture you a little more.

He quickly snapped the back of your lingerie top and before you had time to talk, he quickly flipped you over and got on top of you. He straddled you as he slowly undid the tie on the front of his robe and slipped it off of him, leaving him completely exposed above you. You were now able to see the entirely of his well sculpted body, chest, back, hips... and his cock that was already hard and erect for you. Hells it looked incredible, you just wanted it in... so many places... He gave you a long and passionate kiss, with some exchanging of saliva between your mouths, tongues exploring each other before he starts to work to massage to front of your body.

The touch on your front was much more sensual thought than it had been on your body. Lucifer slowly kissed down your neck, your collarbone, your chest, down to you breasts. Lucifer removed the lingerie top the rest of the way before massaging around your breasts, playing with your nipples, kissing and nipping around one, before putting his mouth on it and sucking on it. The nerves in your nipples felt like they were on fire and that each flick of his tongue made your loins start to throb as you groaned. You started to weave you finger though his blonde hair tugged at it a little. He took his time before moving over at repeating the process on your other nipple.

You felt like you were going crazy with lust at this point, you had never been so desperate for someone to enter inside of you. You opened your legs a little, hoping for him to take the hint to just dive in... to devour you.

Lucifer chuckled to himself as he felt your legs shift open, he decided it was time to start ending your torment. As he finished his attention on your second breast, he traced a hand down your stomach and down to your mound, moving the fabric of your thong out of the way before starting to tease your entrance.

You start to pant and groan louder, "Luci, baby please... Please touch me... put your fingers in me... I can't take it... Mmmm.... pleas-uhhH!!!!" You moan louder as he cuts you off mid-plea by sliding a finger into you, and starting to pump it in and out. He was now able to feel just how wet you were.

"Mmm, all of this wetness for me? With how much fucking you do, I wouldn't think you would be such a dripping mess for me, I'm so honored," he purred as he stared up at you from your chest, mischievous lust dancing across him face, burning in his eyes. Slowly, Lucifer added a second and then a third finger into your dripping hole as he continued to finger you and he continued to kiss and nip his way down your stomach and down your thighs. curling his fingers up into your G-spot making you cry out with pleasure.

As soon as his mouth reached your thighs, he removed his fingers, getting better access to bite and kiss his way up your thighs towards your dripping mound, he was pussy drunk just looking at your gorgeous entrance. He looked up into your eyes as be positioned his mouth just above your folds.

"Oh my love, every inch of you is the most exquisite and radiant treasure... are you ready for my tongue to ruin you?" Lucifer growled.

"Yes... Luci, yes please... ruin me... eat me..." you whispered.

Lucifer gave you a wicked smile, "Good... because I've been starving since the day I met you, and it's time for me to eat my fill." Lucifer then enclosed his mouth around your folds and starts to swipe his tongue up and down your entrance before plunging his tongue deep into you.

You let out a scream of pleasure as his tongue assaults your entrance, it was incredible and he had barely started. Every touch from him set your body on fire. You grabbed onto Lucifer's golden locks as he lapped at you with a vicious hunger, as if he had not eaten in eons and your juices were his only source of food. Your screams of pleasure made him rock hard and he started to grind his own crotch against the bed to alleviate some of the need.

Seeing this, you make the decision that you wanted to take a more active role in the pleasure. You figure out how to flip Lucifer on his back, which caught him my surprise, and then you crawled up onto him so that you were hoovering your pussy over his face and were able to get access to his dick.

Lucifer grinned wildly at the sight of your mound hoovering above him, and grabbed both of your thighs to encourage you down until his mouth locked onto your folds again and his tongue was about to gain access to the inside of you again.

At the same time, you reached down and grabbed his dick, which caused Lucifer to moan deeply beneath you. As you started to stroke him more, Lucifer moaned more, and started to thrust his hips up into your hand. You guys try to match each other's pace with each other's pace of licking and pumping.

Lucifer pulled out his favorite trick, which was elongating his tongue inside of you and snaking it around until he heard you sharply inhale, indicating that he had once again found the sensitive bundle of nerves inside of you. He locked in on that spot and gave it as much attention as he could muster, even though he was finding it a little harder to focus due to the incredible feeling of your gorgeous soft hands on his throbbing shaft.

You and Lucifer continued like this for a while, an symphony of moans and sighs building between the two of you until you couldn't take it anymore, you needed him inside of you.

"Luci... uhhh... baby I need you... Oh hells... I need to feel you inside of me.." You sighed. Without another thought, Lucifer moved his hands up to your stomach and pushed you back onto the bed. He flipped around and crawled up to you, giving you a deep and hungry kiss as he spread your legs apart, finally ripping off your thong completely and discarding to the side so that it would not be in the way anymore. You loved getting lost in the taste of your juices on his tongue.

He broke off for a moment, panting, readying himself, teasing his cock at your entrance. He looked up into your eyes, a fire raging of lust and love as he growled.

"I've wanted this since the moment I saw that gorgeous sinful body of yours, since the day that the divine powers made it so that you were the one that ended up at may door, above anyone else. And now here we are, you naked in my bed, begging to feel the blessings of my cock inside of you? Oh well then I will RUIN you like this every day for the rest of your life, you hear me? This is your eternal punishment now, in my bed, slobbering, drunk off of my cock. Now tell me, darling, tell me what it is you truly desire?!"

You cried out, "I want you to fuck me Lucifer Morningstar!"

And at that, Lucifer started to slide into your entrance. You both moan loudly as you make connection with each other. Lucifer could on contain himself as his wings started to unfold from his back as he railed you. He looked down to see your head thrown back and your eyes rolling, and again he could not contain himself as his demon form emerged. Horns sprouted from his temples, eyes red, claws sharp, and a sharp black tail twisted out from behind him and wrapped its way around one of your thighs.

You looked up to see the new view of his, his angelic an demonic combination of features were so beautiful and terrifying in the sexiest way possible. His hands glided and squeezed along your body, kissing your legs as he held them up. You felt yourself starting to unravel.

"Luci-, oohhh... baby... it's soooo goodd.... I... I'm gonnnaa..." you tried so hard to hold yourself together a little longer.

Lucifer looked down at you with red eyes and growled with a smirk, "Cum for me, baby... let me finally claim that pleasure of yours... I'm so close..."

At his encouragement and growl, you threw your head back and moaned loudly as you felt yourself completely unravel, cumming and contracting around his beautiful cock. As you scream and your walls tightened around Lucifer, he felt himself also come undone as he felt waves of pleasure take him over at he hit his climax, emptying himself into you.

Lucifer then collapsed and rolled over to you side to breathe, "That... was... amazing..." he gasped.

"Ya... it was... fuck..." you weren't ready to had your hands off of him. You pulled him close and started kissing and making out with him again. He rolled back into your embrace to kiss your lips. After a few minutes, hands started to trail around each other's bodies again and you both started to let kisses roam as your bodies grinded against each other. You guys were both ready for another round.

You took Lucifer's shaft back into your hand and you started to pump un and down on it, and it did not take long before it was rock hard again in your hands. You then flipped onto you hands and knees at you continued to stroke his cock, still glistening and wet from your juices. A bead of pre-cum started to form at the tip, which you swiped off with your tongue, causing Lucifer to let out a pitiful moan and grab onto your hair.

"Oh baby... please.." he begged. All of the dominance and power he had earlier was gone, leaving the submissive desperate man you remembered meeting the first night. This reminded you of your plan from that night, you eyes glittered with mischief.

You slid your mouth around the head of his mouth, swirling around the tip before taking as much for his dick into your mouth. Lucifer was already losing it at the tip, but when you dove deeper around him he let out a long pitiful moan.

"Fuccckkkkkkk babyyyyy... ahhhh!!!!" he cried. You continued to pump your mouth up and down his mouth, some times removing your mouth completely to lick up the side from base to tip, and taking his balls into your mouth before returned back to filling your mouth with his cock. After several minutes of this, you stopped and slipped you way off of the bed.

Lucifer looked at you confused and in a happy daze as you walked over the the covered table and removed the cloth. The table was filled with more toys than you had ever seen in your life. The options were limitless, but you were looking for one thing in particular. You scanned the table until you found that you were looking for.

You grabbed a strap on and held it up, and gave a sly smile over to your prey that was still a slobbering mess over on the bed. Lucifer's eyes lit up and he gave you a dazed nod. You then took the strap on and started to secure it to you before strutting back to the bed, letting the shaft sway from side to side.

Lucifer slipped off the bed and got in his knees in front of you, taking the plastic phallus in his mouth to kiss and suck on it as well as the surrounding skin of your hips. You enjoyed the view of Lucifer on his knees in front of you for a minute, before you reach down his hand to tip his face up and make him you up at you.

You smirked at his submissive gaze up at you, "Up. On the bed," you commanded.

Lucifer nodded and scrambled onto the bed on all fours, his back arched and and up and ready for you. You grabbed a small tube from the table before slowly making your way back to the edge of the bed, putting a dollop of lube on your fingers before starting to massage his entrance. He gawked and moaned in response, especially he you started to work a finger in, and then two. It had been forever since Lucifer had been pegged, and hell did he miss it. He loved being at someone else's command, not needing to think for a minute. It was pure bliss.

You then started to spread some lube around the plastic of the strap on tip and shaft, making sure there was enough as not to hurt him. You positioned yourself to tease his entrance while you reached forward and grabbed around his throat, pulling him back, and you whispered in his ear.

"Now... are you ready for me to take you back to Heaven, darling?" you growled in his ear.

"Y-yes... yes mommy," he whimpered before you let go of the grip on his neck and slowly eased yourself into him. Lucifer let out a long moan as you slid into him. He dropped back down to all fours, and as you started pumping, he matched your pace in response. He felt so full and high on the feeling of you inside of him. As he got used to it, you started to pump faster and faster, his moans getting louder and louder. You waved your fingers through his hair, griping it and pulling his head back as you railed him, the grip of his hair making him moan and cry even louder, tears of pleasure running down his cheeks. Lucifer reached down and started to stroke himself as you pounded him. You took his other arm and held it behind him, forcing his face with squish into the bedding, muffling his cries.

After a while, Lucifer couldn't take it anymore, "Baby...oh hells... I need... mmmm... I need to fuck you... I beg of you." It made you so wet to see him like this, to have this power over him and to be pleasuring him in this way.

You cocked your head to the side and stopped you momentum while inside of him, and you pull him back up so you could whisper in his ear, "What is the magic word, Luci?" you purred.

"Mmmm... ahhh... p-please?" she whined. You obliged, removing yourself and replacing him on the bed on all four. Lucifer made quick of work of getting you in the same position you had just had him in, but with both hands behind your back as he quickly entered you and began pounding you again, screaming and moaning. You were sure the whole hotel could hear you, but you guys didn't care. It didn't take long until you both were reaching climax again and came at the same time before falling on the bed again in an exhausted heap.

Once he caught his breath, Lucifer pulled you in close, to cuddle against your naked body. Your bodies felt like magic against each other. He wanted to do nothing else other than hold you the rest of the night, you guys had the rest of time to try out the rest of the toys. He found your hand and laced his fingers in with your as he looked in your eyes. All you saw in each other's eyes was love and joy.

"y/n, I love you so much. Now and forever."

"I love you too, Lucifer."

You pulled Lucifer into another passionate kiss.

As you drifted off you sleep in Lucifer's arms, you whispered "I'm so happy we found each other, found love... in a hopeless place."

THE END

(unless?)

______________________________________________________________

Thank you all so much for the love I have gotten for this story! This is beyond anything I ever thought I would see from this and I am so happy. Some people are interested in a 2-5 years later chapter, would anyone be interested in that? This would be a chapter 13 that I would probably be posted in a few weeks. Let me know in the comments. Also! I will be starting my next Luci x Reader story in a few days, "Talk to Me", which will focus on a Fallen Angel Reader. Let me know if you want tagged in Chapter 1 of that! xoxo, dany ❤️

Taglist:

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rongzhi · 2 months

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genuine question, what other option is there other than to vote harris? because third party votes aren’t going to be able to overtake both democrat and republicans out of nowhere and the only other person to vote for is trump, who wants to completely dismantle democracy

I feel like I’ve seen this question get asked all over the place and there is no good answer to satisfy the person asking, because when you say “What other option is there” and then immediately discount the idea of third party voting, then you’ve already made it clear that all your faith is in the popular vote to prevent Trump from attaining office again, which is all that matters to you, presumably.

And before the accusations fly from anyone else, obviously no, I don’t want Trump in office any more than the next guy, however I do not think he will dismantle democracy even if he was because he would be incapable. The idea of project 2025 and Trump as some ultimate ender of democracy is ridiculous if you beat down the hysteria for long enough to think about: first, project 2025 is nothing new, just everything the likes of the Heritage Foundation and conservative lawmakers have already been pushing for years (ie turning the U.S into a Christian theocracy more or less), written out in a way to get liberals dizzy with fear. It is alarming but no more alarming than the slow slide in this direction that I personally think we have already been taking for several decades. And it is insane. People can see that it is insane and extremist and as much as people who are terminally online like to wring their hands about it, I think that the average voter that we don’t hear from is going to be put off by it. It is offputting to liberals/Democrats obviously, it is offputting to centrists, and it is offputting to many moderate conservatives/(mainstream) Republicans. It is fringe and unpopular enough that even Trump himself doesn’t want to be directly tied to the whole thing. Like, I feel like people are not grasping just how fringe true MAGA and extremist Christian Nationalists are in the broad scheme of things. I think the cable news is getting a lot of mileage out of the current election cycle in their usual gleeful way, but for all the 24 hour coverage and charts and panels and panic, I don’t think Trump is going to win. Of course, feel free to come back in a couple months and wag a finger at me if that turns out not to be true.

Either way, by asking “what other option is there?”, I feel you overestimate the power of your individual vote. You are not voting for the president anyway. You are voting for electoral delegates, and to put it broadly, those guys don’t have to listen to you. Or have we all just forgotten about that too?

And I’m not saying “don’t vote”, either. I just think you should be voting for something and not against something else, and I don’t subscribe to the way of thinking that a third party vote is somehow less of a vote (see previous paragraph for the irony). I think voting has its uses, especially in local elections where council members, etc, have the power to more directly effect your life. As to the matter of Harris, look, as I said, if you’re already planning to vote Democrat, I’m not going to persuade you to not do so—I can understand people feeling the need to do so, especially if they live in a swing state, and that’s their prerogative. Of course, I think that should also be done recognising what that means in terms of what foreign policy decisions you are voting for when voting for Harris. And that being the case, I think Harris voters have no ground to turn around votescold (not saying you are doing that, anon, but simply speaking to the broader trend I’ve seen online over the past months), especially toward any single-issue voters voting third party or abstaining over the very serious single issue of supporting genocide. Me personally, I voted uncommitted in the primaries and will likely vote for Jill Stein or Claudia de la Cruz, depending on who gets ballot access in my state, as Cornel West didn't get ballot access.

So, those are my approximate thoughts on the matter and sorry for any typos or unclear thoughts. Probably forgot to say some things, but I don’t think I’m saying anything new, either, and I will not be answering any additional asks about voting or the U.S elections, including the ones that have come in after this one, as it’s not really my wheelhouse. There's been enough discourse on the matter that I feel like at this point, you should know what you're going to do one way or the other.

EDIT: bolded a few areas that some of you could afford to reread!

#text #answered ask #u.s elections #long post

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halsinsheart · 9 months

Text

a/n: welcome to kinkmas day 1 aka me delving back into writing.

summary: halsin & reader get distracted while mushroom foraging.

tags: NSFW MDNI, size difference, gn!reader, pet names (love, little one, songbird)

wc: ~1.8k

kinkmas masterlist || reblogs > likes

“Woah, look at that one there!” You pointed to a unique shape poking out from the rotting wood of a felled birch, garnering the attention of your large companion who chuckled softly at your childlike fascination.

“Some Purple Jellydisc; inedible but interesting to look at nonetheless.” Halsin crouched down next to you, his expression equally as captivated by the fungi as yours was.

Food rations in the camp were stable at the moment, but considering how your party seemed to grow and with inclement weather looming on the horizon, you coaxed Halsin into foraging with you. However, coaxing might have been an overstatement because the druid all but jumped up from his spot where he was whittling in favor of joining you on your excursion. You were a decent distance into the forest now with a basket on your arm that was slow to fill, but in your defense, you were understandably distracted.

Halsin stood sturdy against the incoming storm’s wind, a pleasant buffer between you and the elements. It was also the most opportune moment for you to admire just how broad he was while your mind wandered with thoughts of him. The irony of the man built like a tree worshipping the Oak Father wasn’t lost on you, although you wondered exactly what type of oak he would be. Perhaps a Southen Live, with its wide expanse and evergreen foliage? Or maybe the Bur with its massive heights and impressive longevity?

“Ah, here we are- Lion’s Mane! Edible and full of flavor.” Halsin’s deep voice shook you from your rambling thoughts and as you took in the mushroom he was slicing, it was your turn to laugh.

“They really know how to appropriately name these guys. Shame that Turkey Tail isn't edible, it’d be funny to serve it with actual turkey. Hey, wait, there’s Old-Man-of-the-Woods!” You scrambled over one of the broken trunks in front of you to squat down in front of the fungi and cut the fruiting body off before placing it into the basket with the others.

“I’ve been here the entire time, little one, ripe for your harvesting.” The joke was delivered with his usual charming smile as he held his arms out in a gesturing manner towards himself.

Thoughts faltered within your head for a moment as you processed his words and tried to grapple for a response that didn’t make you sound like an immature teenager. “Ripe for my harvesting, yeah? If we don’t find too many more edible things I might have to take you up on that offer.”

“Of course, I'd hate to see you starve. By all means, consume me, little songbird.” His voice lowered at the same time he leaned in closer while his stance widened and his chest puffed outwards, only making him appear larger.

Swallowing the air stuck in your throat, you braced yourself on the tree behind you and looked up into the hazel irises of the druid. The pet name nearly made you whimper as he loomed over you, but his words gave you confidence. You would consume him wholly and entirely. Lips met in a fevered kiss and your hands cupped his face gently while his own covered a wide expanse over your hips, squeezing ever so slightly. Again and again, you kissed until you were gasping for air, leaning your head back to obtain some oxygen, yet Halsin persisted with kisses along your exposed neck.

“Breathtaking.” He whispered against your skin while his hands massaged your ass before he plucked you off the ground.

A surprised squeal of excitement left you as you clamored to hold onto him while you were lifted several feet off the ground. Finally, at eye level, you took advantage and kissed him again, reveling in the decadent noise that left his lips when your hands tugged at his hair. After a couple more tugs, his hair fell from its half-bun to frame his face and tickle at your cheeks. Your legs wrapped around his thick torso, though you didn’t have a chance of crossing your ankles around his back, your legs simply too short and his body far too wide.

Traveling your hands down his neck to his torso, you pulled at his tunic until the front laces came loose. Halsin shuffled you around in his arms like a mere burlap sack so he could shrug his shirt off, while you were left to ogle at his combined balance and strength until he brought you back to him. His warm chest was now bared to you and his hands made quick work of your shirt, being mindful not to tear it while he discarded it. When your bare skin met, it felt like a jolt of electricity coursed through you and ultimately ended as a pulse to your core.

“Please,” your voice wavered as you pleaded with him, tugging at his hair to no avail in an attempt to remove him from the sensitive part of your neck, only earning a breathy chuckle before he responded.

“Please what, my love? Share with me your fantasies and I’ll make them a reality,” his breath fanned across your neck as he relished in your scent, hands caressing up and down your back while his eyes closed.

A desperate whine left you when you realized he was making you voice your desires out loud, still, you were desperate enough to obey the demand, “Please, touch me more. I want all of you.”

“I’d love nothing more,” his last words were nearly a growl, reverberating down through your bones and back.

In one swift motion, you were laid in a soft patch of white clover that embraced you as gently as the druid hovering over you did. Your limbs splayed out as they welcomed the caresses from both plant and druid, the latter of which ever so slowly slid your bottoms off until they were discarded to the side. Halsin sat back on his haunches, fingertips still ghosting your skin while he simply admired the view of you splayed out just for him.

A shiver ran down your spine at the teasing sensation and you parted your legs in a silent beckon for him. Never one to ignore the call of nature’s desires, especially ones that concern your desires, Halsin obeyed. His movements were skilled and experienced, much more than that, he listened. Every movement, every noise, and every twitch you gave told him everything he needed to know about how you were feeling and what you needed from him.

So much so, that it didn’t take long for you to be drowned in ecstasy not just once or twice, but until your body movements were beyond your control and any attempt you made to quiet your noises was futile. Only by the grace of the gods were you finally able to beg for him to stop, and even then he took you over the edge one more time.

“You always taste divine, I can’t quite help myself,” he chuckled under his breath as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “but now you’re more than ready for me, little one. And I intend to give you all of me.”

“Ha, I’d expect nothing less,” you responded breathlessly, still recovering from the praise his mouth and fingers gave you, trying to ignore the way he used your words from earlier against you now.

Sweet kisses were peppered across your face as Halsin slowly slid inside of you, making sure to pause every time one of your small hands squeezed at his bicep. Your mind melted as he pushed deeper inside of you, each additional inch making your eyes roll back. The stretch burned yet the way his heavy hands massaged your hips emboldened you to take more.

Once his tip reached the deepest part of you, he pulled away from leaning over you to down at where you were joined and back up at you, “Well, not quite all of me, though I’m sure we can improve that.”

“Sh-Shut up,” you mumbled while your face heated with embarrassment at his words and your lower half relaxed in anticipation of what was to come.

“Fair enough. So long as you sing for me, my love,” his lips pressed kisses into your hands before holding them to his heart and leaning down once more to shield your smaller form from the rest of the world, his forearms resting in the clovers next to your head.

Nodding, you both agreed to his request and gave him the okay to start moving. He kissed you one more time before giving a testing thrust, after seeing you adjusted to that alright, he slowly picked up a rhythm as smooth as the flowing river. You weren’t new to this, weren’t new to him, you knew what to expect. And yet, when he put his efforts into chasing your high, you found yourself gasping and hands flying to hold onto his shoulders for stability.

The sounds of the daily nature activities didn’t stand a chance at drowning out the noises that resulted from your coupling. You only hoped you were far enough away from camp to avoid the walk of shame, though shame was far from any emotion you had over this. The number of times your pleasure crested was impossible to count while in your current mind state, with some ebbing right into another high.

Halsin was familiar with your body inside and out, and he could see the focus leaving your eyes as your mind went white from the overload of pleasure. His words of praise and sweet promises kept you grounded long enough for you both to worship and relish in the other’s body for one last, deliciously sweet high.

Heavy breaths mingled as your foreheads rested against each other and Halsin’s movements ceased except for the adoring caress of his hands that rubbed back and forth over your thighs. As your lucid thoughts returned to you, a smile spread across your face and your own hands reached out to brush a piece of hair from his eyes.

Decadent bliss filled the small clearing that you shared as pure unfiltered adoration radiated off of one of you flowing into the other and returned tenfold. Within this solace, where the forest surrounded you and hid your tryst away from the rest of the world, you longed for an eternity more of sharing your life with the large druid, whatever may come.

Whatever may come. Including the vampire elf’s near-tantrum when you returned to camp after many hours with less than adequate storage provisions.

©halsinsheart ~{2024}~ you do not have permission modify, copy, repost, or enter works into AI.

#🍄{my creations}🐻#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #halsin #bg3 halsin #halsin silverbough #halsin smut #size difference #x reader #gn reader #🥀kiss me once queue me twice #kinkmas

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endless-ineffabilities · 1 year

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MORE MARQUIS MOREEEEEEE I LOOOOOOVED IT, L - O - V - E - D ITTT!!!!!!!

le marquis et le moineau - (ill)fated

Marquis de Gramont x f!reader

synopsis: one of several short stories, set up as a prequel to this oneshot of le marquis et le moineau. This is set in the early days, depicting the beginning of what would turn into a dangerous mutual infatuation.

more of moineau: le marquis et le moineau ▪︎ first dance ▪︎ other works

word count: 2.5k ▪︎ themes/warnings: slow burn, mentions of violence (it's the John Wick universe ofc), language

"Welcome to the New York Continental. How may I be of service?" Charon asks in his flawless genial manner.

You stand behind him, his shadow in training. After only 3 short months as the 'Assistant to the Concierge' - (a title you picked over 'Assistant Concierge', in reference to a certain beloved TV series) - you've come to learn the ins and outs of the Continental.

What makes it tick. The demands of its peculiar crowd of usual guests. What is required to keep such an establishment up and running.

In truth, it takes a lot of fucking work. Much and more need to be swept under the rug so as to not attract attention. Guests need to be kept satisfied, their particular requests adhered to. As long as it is well within the rules of the High Table, of course.

The only thing separating you from the animals.

As if everyone in this sort of life has not already become animal. Well, isn't ignorance such bliss.

The man who introduced himself as Chidi says, "I have come ahead of my superior, the Marquis de Gramont. Needless to say, we must ensure that everything is well-prepared for his stay here in New York. Wouldn't you agree, Charon?"

"Of course, sir." Charon tilts his head. "I will personally see to that, don't you worry. Is he still set to arrive tonight at the planned hour?"

"He should be here at 6 this evening. I trust that the... agitator is being dealt with?"

Charon walks in front of the counter, taking a parcel from a bellhop. He keeps his gaze trained on Chidi. "With compliments of the Continental, sir. The proprietor has ensured that the liability will be brought to the penthouse of the Marquis."

"Very good." Chidi taps Charon on the shoulder once, before walking away, a satisfied sneer on his face.

"Just remember, sir," Charon calls out to him, making his stop in his tracks, "that no business may be conducted on Continental grounds."

"Hmm."

After a moment, you move to stand beside Charon.

"So, sir, what was that all about?"

He turns his head towards you fondly. "I'm sure you've heard of Marquis Vincent de Gramont."

"Well, I've heard that he comes across as a pompous ass, if that's what you mean."

Charon simply raises his eyebrows at you, already accustomed to your blunt, sarcastic manner of speaking. "Well, he will be staying with us for a couple of days, as he has some... business to deal with."

"I won't even ask."

He moves to stand in front of you, finding your eyes. "Dear child, might I suggest steering clear of the Marquis and his associates whilst he is in residence with us here? It would simply be for the best. His reputation does preceed him."

You can't help but smile at Charon's nickname for you, one that heralds back to when your family first moved across the hall from him in one of the High Table sponsored apartment buildings in downtown Manhattan.

You had been only 12, but you were already well aware of your father's line of work. One that required him to be away on business to faraway cities each month, and caused him to rub elbows with the dregs of the underworld.

Not all of them were bad though. You grew fond of some of his associates, namely Charon, of course. And the one they called the Baba Yaga, but to you he was just Johnny.

John Wick hated the name, but he liked you, so the name stayed. Him and his then wife somehow became your second set of parents, with your dad never around and your mother usually drowning in her fancy liquor.

More than a decade later, your father met his end on one of his jobs. One that was only supposed to be "quick and easy". He promised he would be back to you in no time, with a box of your favourite chocolates from Paris.

But he never came. And neither did the fucking chocolates, which truthfully, you now hated. Your father lost his life in that city, so you grew to loathe everything about it.

And now comes the Marquis, the man practically in charge of all of Paris. Not to the public eye, of course.

If Charon asks you to steer clear of him, it must be for good reason.

But you've never been good at following orders. Or staying out of trouble. Or keeping your mouth shut.

"Whoever this Marquis is, I can handle him," you say determinedly. "I'll just act normal, do my job, go about business as usual."

Charon takes a deep breath, resigning himself. "Very well. Just try not to catch his eye." A tenant raises her hand, demanding his attention, so he starts to head her way.

"You know me," you call after him, an impish grin on your face. "I'm only a shadow."

The Marquis de Gramont stands in the ornate lobby of the Continental, surrounded by his posse. Clad in an impeccable three-piece cream suit, his hair perfectly coiffed, his polished shoes gleaming to the naked eye.

He is never beating those pompous ass allegations. You can't help but smirk from your post behind the concierge desk.

You look down briefly, smoothing out invisible creases on your black button-up shirt. Don't laugh. You roll out your shoulders. Compose yourself.

Winston and Charon had greeted his entourage upon entering, and they've been hashing out the details of his stay for the last minute or two. Apparently, the Marquis has some very specific demands. Of course he does.

Those in the group exchange some final words, nodding to each other, seemingly satisfied. Charon raises his arm, directing the Marquis. "Right this way, if you please."

Hands on his hips, the Marquis makes his way over to the private elevator. Which only means that he will have to pass by your post.

You try to keep your head down, as a practiced sign of cordiality. Also, so that you don't let out an impromptu sneer. But you can't help it. Right when he passes by, you raise your head.

And he is already looking straight at you.

The corner of his lips is in a downturn, as if he is judging you where you stand. Pompous prick.

You don't let it faze you. "Welcome to the Continental. We hope you enjoy your stay," you greet him, eyes not leaving his in some sort of defiance.

"Hmm." He walks by, slowly, and you only want to urge him on. But just when he is clear of the reception desk, he turns on his heel.

"What is your name?" He asks, a perfect brow raised in anticipation.

You answer him, keeping your voice steady. You've learned a long time ago not to allow men like him the chance to intimidate you.

A momentary pause, before he repeats your name. You want to hate the way he says it, as if he testing it on his tongue, seeing how it tastes.

But hell, that French accent can make anything sound heavenly.

"Is there a problem, monsieur?" Charon has moved to your side, wary of the attention from the marquis.

Marquis de Gramont barely acknowledges Charon with a sideways glance, before looking back to you. "Non, no problem at all."

He finally walks away. But of course, of course he has to drive a chill up your spine as he calls over his shoulder, "Have her come up to me in twenty minutes."

You grit your teeth in an attempt to maintain cordiality. "Excuse me, sir?" He could have at least addressed me himself.

Nothing. He doesn't even look back at you as he enters the elevator, head dipped in hushed whispers to his security team.

"So much for your being 'only a shadow', hmm?" Charon echoes your sentiment, which has just been apparently disproven.

Winston draws closer, worried look on his face as he says, "Quite a conundrum, dear one. I'm considering sending someone else in your place, however, he did ask for you markedly."

Your stomach churned. "Maybe he just needs some attending? Room service? Basic cleanup? I don't know..." Basic cleanup being clearing the blood of the surfaces of his penthouse, especially after he deals with the man the establishment had caught and presented to him.

Deals with. But not kill. Never that. Not whilst on Continental grounds, that is.

Winston responds, "Perhaps so. I trust that you will handle it? I know you can, child."

You straighten yourself. "Of course I can. He's just some overgrown French brat."

But what the fuck does he want?

"If anything," Winston adds calmly, "and worst comes to worst, your dear Uncle Johnny would surely be happy to lend a hand."

Of course he will. Feeling much lighter, you shoot a smile at Charon and Winston, before returning to your post behind the desk.

18 more minutes.

The Marquis stays in the biggest penthouse of the Continental. The most exclusive part of the property, made even more opulent per his request.

New pieces of artwork are hung on the walls, requested from some New York Baron's private collection. Not that he had a choice.

The man - the traitor - known as Laurent had been staying at the Continental in the week prior, stupidly believing that he is free of the Marquis.

It only took one phone call, and of course, Winston had to relent. They kept Laurent in one of their best suites, lulling him into a false sense of security, all while preparing for the Marquis' arrival.

Then Laurent's room was filled with nitrous oxide, and he was tied up and taken to the Marquis' penthouse.

Laurent sits in a lone wooden chair, nearly unconscious in the middle of the drawing room as you enter, a gash of deep red on his temple.

Chidi sits directly in front of him, seemingly carrying out the interrogation. His superior, on the other hand, lazily sits on the plush couch on the far side of the room. Looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here. As if there isn't a man being tortured right in front of his eyes.

One of his men announces your arrival, but you sense the Marquis has already noticed your presence.

You clear your throat. "You asked for me, sir?"

"Mmm," he hums, and tilts his head. "Tell me, what was so funny?"

"I'm sorry?"

"When you first saw me in the lobby," he stands, stalking over to you, "you smirked. I wish to know what it was that brought you to react in such a manner."

This is why he asked for me? Because I smirked? Oh, for fuck's -

He steps forward, closer. "Cat got your tongue?"

"No, sir, I... I must admit, I don't quite remember what you speak of. I smirk to myself all the time. I've got plenty of inside jokes and all that."

"To yourself?"

"Yes."

"Are you... well in the head?" He twirls his fingers beside his temple. The bastard.

"Yes, Marquis." You take a deep breath, but you can't help yourself. "But I assure you I'm just as demented as you are."

A gloom falls over his face, and you sense his security team tense up. Preparing for him to say the word.

Your eyes trail around the room, and continue, "And everyone else in this world of ours."

The Marquis stares at you. Half-indignant, and dare you think it, half-amused.

His lips twitch, fighting back a smirk of his own, and his eyes rake your figure. From your uniform shoes to your hands to your lips. Then back to your gaze.

"Fair point." He shrugs, and the room settles once again. His men look away from the pair of you.

He turns, beckoning you to follow. A few feet in front of Laurent, he asks, "What do you make of this?"

Of this? You mean of him? The way the Marquis speaks, as if Laurent is merely a thing to be dealt with and not a person, bothers you. But such is the way of your world.

"Laurent Castillon. French-Italian sommelier. If I understand correctly, he cheated you out of what would have been successful dinner plans."

Sommelier, an arms dealer. Dinner plans, whatever you can concoct with the use of guns. You're more than accustomed to the language, having picked it up over the years.

"Excellent." The Marquis clasps his hands, pleased. "Now, what do you make of this? What would you do, if you were in my shoes?"

He is testing you, prodding you on. Seeing if you would curl back in your shell or flinch.

Is there a wrong answer here, or is this all just some game?

"I would set things right, I suppose."

"You suppose?" He repeats, dissatisfied. "We don't deal in half measures."

"I would - ," you look him directly in his eyes, "I would make him pay."

Something sparks in Marquis de Gramont's eyes. Recognition? Appreciation? Excitement?

"Won't that be a waste?" He takes a step closer, eliminating the space between you.

Stand your ground.

You shrug, "Such is life."

He smiles, "Indeed, petit moineau."

In a flash, without breaking your gaze, he takes a handgun from the inner lining of his jacket and shoots Laurent in the knee. He keels over, screaming.

The familiar sound rings in your ears, making you dig your nails in the flesh of your palm.

The Marquis does not even flinch, does not even look at Laurent who is writhing on the floor in pain.

"And what now?" He rubs an eyebrow with his thumb, still holding his gun carelessly with that hand.

"That depends." What the fuck did he call me? Moineau? "How gracious do you feel tonight?"

"Why?"

"Well," you say carefully, knowing the wrong word might set him off, "you could let the fool go. You've already taught him a lesson."

A long, torturous pause. He does not seem to like that suggestion.

"Take him away." He gives a sudden order, and all his men rush to obey. Seconds pass, and Laurent is out of your sight. Only Chidi and two other men are left hovering in the corner.

"Leave us," the Marquis finally says. Well, shit.

The door shuts behind the men, and you are left alone, with one of the most notorious men in the city. Perhaps the world.

"What's going to happen to him?" You find yourself asking, to fill the silence and also because you're genuinely curious.

He looks at you in confusion, as if the answer is the most obvious thing. "He dies, of course."

You swallow, a picture of forced composure. "Of course."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure, not here on the Continental and all that nonsense. But it does not matter. He dies anyway."

He dies. He says that so easily, like a life means nothing. It probably means nothing to him. Your father would probably have only been another life to spend, just another one in the roster, in his eyes.

"I hope you aren't busy," he says, walking to the other room.

"What did you have in mind?" Why can't he just send me away already?

"We shall dine together. I could use the company."

You grumble under your breath, "So much for being a shadow."

"Pardon?" He asks, just before reaching the archway to the dining room.

"I said, it would be my pleasure."

"Hmm."

Two can play at this game, Marquis.

And even more to come - taglist open!

Next in moineau...

More Marquis, just as it should be.

My HotD series works are not going to be discontinued. The next part to fire like yours will be up next, but don't hold me to it 🖤😉

#marquis de gramont #marquis de gramont imagine #marquis de gramont x reader #marquis vincent de gramont #marquis vincent de gramont x reader #marquis vincent de gramont imagine #john wick 4 #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard imagine #vincent de gramont #vincent de gramont x reader #vincent de gramont imagine

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matan4il · 6 months

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One of the worst justifications for the Hamas massacre that I have seen is the idea that the Palestinians had been suffering for 75 years, and such a long period of suffering is what made them be so brutal towards the civilians in the Jewish state.

This ignores, of course, brutal massacres that happened way before decades had passed since Israel's Independence War (which the Arabs started and lost). One such massacre took place on March 17, 1954. Less than five years after the end of that war. The other day, we commemorated 70 years since it happened. In order to remember, one reporter interviewed a survivor.

The entire piece was too long for Tumblr even after I downgraded the vid quality, so I edited out parts that were less relevant to understanding the massacre, and the story of this one child survivor.

Translator's notes:

-> Chaim'keh is the affectionate diminutive for Chaim, Mira'leh is the same for Miri.

-> In another interview, Miri shared that the reason her dad was taking them to Eilat, was because he wanted them to move to Israel's most southern city, meaning he felt Chana and the kids should see it.

-> This is the Ma'ale Akrabim road, you can see how serpentine it is, and the bus was driving uphill, explaining why it had to slow down so much that it became a perfect target for the terrorists.

-> 'Confirmation of killing' is a military term, referring to any situation where after shots have been fired at someone, the shooter comes closer and shoots (or wounds) again, from a much smaller distance, to make sure the victim is indeed dead, and not just wounded.

-> Chaim was shot in the head point blank, but somehow he technically survived. However, he was left in a coma for the next 32 years, before passing away and becoming the final murdered victim of this massacre.

-> Excluding Chaim, but including Miri, 5 people survived the Ma'ale Akrabim massacre.

-> Ha'Shomer Ha'Tzair (Hebrew for: the young guardian) is the first Zionist youth movement, established in 1913. It's also a socialist one.

-> A chuppah is a canopy under which Jewish couples get married.

-> Sayeret Matkal is an elite Israeli unit, whose most well known operation is the 1976 IDF rescue of Israeli and Jewish hostages (all the non-Jewish hostages were released, other than the French air crew of the hijacked Air France airplane, because the Captain refused to leave the Israeli and Jewish hostages on their own. The kidnappers were 2 German terrorists and 2 Arab ones who were members of a Palestinian terrorist organization. The Israeli and Jewish hostages were held in an airport in Entebbe, capital of Uganda, that the terrorists believed the IDF couldn't reach, since the distance was greater than Israel's airplanes could fly to and back, and passed over enemy territory. Several movies have been made about the operation, including an Israeli one, which was nominated for an Oscar, for best foreign film, in 1977).

-> Z"l is the English transcription of the Hebrew abbreviation ז"ל, which stands for may his/her/their memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #resources #israel under fire #israelunderattack

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smallgodseries · 1 year

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[image description: A tiny Oriole sits cheeping on a branch. But this wee bird has tied a big colorful toucan beak over his own, and added a bright red-orange comb. We see him against a bright green rainforest background. Text reads, “18, YUCAN TU, the small god of faking it until you make it”]

Sometimes education isn’t enough. Sometimes you can study and study and try and try, and never quite cross the last bridge between where you are and your heart’s desire.

Sometimes you need to tell the perfect little lie to get there.

Once upon a time there was a small god of orioles named Yucan who wanted nothing more in the world than to be a god of toucans, to manifest himself as a big, beautiful, tropical bird that people would stop to ooo and ahh over when they saw it in the trees, something impressive. It was a good thing to be a god of songbirds. There weren’t as many of them as there had been before cats became quite so popular as house pets, and the ones remaining needed all the divine intervention they could get their wings on. He appreciated their attention and their worship, but he wanted, so very badly, to be more than his nature was allowing him to be.

So he hatched, over the course of several slow decades, a plan, and one night, with no warning whatsoever, his faithful woke and found him gone. He had abandoned his divine duties, flown the coop, left the nest, and no one could find a single feather left behind! All the little birdies were distraught…but not for very long, as little birdies have short memories, and there were other gods of songbirds around to serve. If it wasn’t quite the same, well, nothing ever is, not even following the same god from one day to another. They adjusted. They adapted.

And far away, a very small god with a very big dream put his plans into action. He donned a false face, he told everyone who met him that he was the god of endangered tropical birds, and if no one had ever seen him before, well, some of those birds were very endangered. Deforestation and poaching, don’cha know? So many dangers to evade. So many fledglings to protect. So he lied, and lied, and pretended, and did his best to live up to his own lies. He protected those who came to him, he spread his wings over the nests of species unknown to science, and he tried, and he lied, and he tried.

Until one day, the mask would not come off when he went to go to nest. One day, he noticed that his wingspan was greater, and he no longer heard the prayers of songbirds, but of the birds he had claimed…and of more than them. Of frightened high school drama students and would-be figure skaters, of novice computer programmers and new-made lawyers.

They had their own lies to tell.

And Yucan Tu would be with them every step along the way, singing goldfinch songs in their ears and spreading his wings to defend them from the risks of their own actions.

He is a god of falsehood, yes, but also of sincerity, and of effort.

___________________________________________________________

Artist Lee Moyer (Trident of Aurelia, 13th Age) and author Seanan McGuire (Wayward Children, October Daye & InCryptid series) sincerely thank to each and every one of you who share Small Gods!

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

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bucky-fricking-barnes · 4 months

Text

Someplace Like Home

Title: Someplace Like Home

Pairing: Nomad!Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Canonical violence, minor injuries, minor blood, non-descriptive mentions of hospitals, mild language

Summary: Y/N owns a hostel in Croatia. When the very handsome Grant comes to work for her, she falls hard and fast for the new handyman.

A/N: This story takes place between Civil War and Infinity War, when Steve is on the run. There are a handful Croatian phrases/words used, which are translated at the end of this fic. Don’t ask me why all my Steve stories suddenly have foreign languages in them. As always, thanks for reading and supporting my writing in all the ways you do. Enjoy!

Dividers are by @firefly-graphics

Your morning starts off slow, like it always does, and after the handful of guests have finished breakfast and left to spend the rest of the day at the beach or in the mountains, you settle yourself behind the front counter and pull out your laptop. The dirty dishes can wait until later—Ana will be here in an hour, and she prefers doing the dishes over going over the books, so you have an unspoken deal that you’ll do the bookkeeping if she cleans up after meals.

You’re just opening up the software on your laptop when the front door opens. The bell above it jingles as a man steps in, bringing with him a warm gust of air. June has been unseasonably cool, but today is the warmest it’s been in weeks. You’ve kept most of the windows open all morning, even though it was still a bit chilly.

“Dobro jutro,” you greet. You carefully shift the laptop off to the side a few inches, being careful not to mess up the carefully arranged papers you’ve sorted out on the counter.

“Kako vam mogu pomoći?”

The man has a gray hiking backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s tall and blond, a dark blond that looks golden in the light from the outside but brown in the shadows. His thick beard and mustache are well-trimmed. You automatically open up the leatherbound reservation book and reach underneath the counter for a key.

“Dobro jutro. Uh, govorite li engleski?” asks the man. He smiles politely, and you smile back, nodding.

“Of course,” you answer. “How can I help you?”

His eyes move to the pen in your hand, already poised over the next open spot in the reservation book. “I’m not here for a room. I’m here about the opening for a handyman.”

Surprised, you close the book again and tuck it back under the counter where it belongs, along with the key you’d grabbed. No one has come about the open position since you’d posted it months ago in the local cafe. Not even a sign outside the hostel has helped.

“In that case, my name’s Y/N. I’m the owner here.”

“Grant,” he replies, his hand already held out for you to shake.

You oblige with another smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Grant. Can I ask how you found out about the position? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around town.”

He nods once. “I just moved here from Italy, and from Switzerland before that.”

“So you’re making your way through Europe, then?” you ask. You’re not entirely surprised—he looks rugged enough that he could handle a long backpacking trip or several months of solo travel, unlike some of the college students you normally have traipsing through your village.

“In a way,” he answers. “Truthfully, I’d like to settle down someplace, but it’s been a rough few years. I haven’t quite found the place that feels like home yet.”

Secretly, as you listen to him explain the various European cities in which he’s lived, you wish that he’ll come to feel at home here. Brdonik isn’t large enough to be on any maps, but it’s been your home for almost a decade now, and you can’t imagine a better place. The whole community bands together, and people look out for each other. There’s enough tourism from backpackers and small cruises that you’re not totally isolated, but you’re still far enough removed that your daily life isn’t saturated with commercialism and the big city nonsense you often hear about through your guests. You’d experienced it enough before coming to Croatia, and you don’t ever plan on going back to the life you’d had before you moved.

“To answer your question,”—Grant’s gentle continuation pulls you from your thoughts—“I saw a flier posted in the cafe down the street. I stopped there for lunch.”

“What did you order?” you ask. You prop an elbow up on the counter and level him with your gaze.

“Is that important?

“If you want this job it is. You can tell a lot about a person based on what they order at a restaurant.”

He smiles a little. “I got the turkey sandwich.”

You consider his choice for a moment before giving him a nod. “Simple, but respectable. A clear tourist choice, but I like it.”

“You can’t go wrong with a turkey sandwich,” he adds.

“It’s a classic!” You smile back at him and then come around the counter into the main part of the lobby. You grab your clipboard from its hook on the wall.

“Let me give you a tour,” you tell him. “I’ll point out some of the things that need fixing, and then you can tell me if you still think you’re a good fit.”

Grant agrees, and he walks beside you as you lead him through the hostel. You show him the currently unoccupied rooms, as well as the common areas, and you give him plenty of time to inspect the stalled projects and major fixes that he’d been in charge of. While he looks around, you watch him carefully. There’s something familiar about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but he doesn’t set off any alarm bells in your head like some of the previous candidates had. He’s respectful of the property and the few lingering guests you come across, and Grant is polite enough to open doors for you as you approach them. He speaks softly and clearly, and his sense of humor is well-timed. Somehow, despite his hulking frame and obvious strength, you feel safe around him.

Eventually, you lead him to your office. Grant takes the seat in front of your desk and you close the door behind him, then sit behind your desk and pull a pad of paper from the drawer. He’s almost too big for the chair you normally reserve for college-age backpackers looking for a few days of housekeeping work. He’s relaxed, though, and he rests both arms on the thin wooden armrests as you get out what you need. You sneak a glance at him as you sit upright again. His eyes move slowly and carefully over the framed photos and documents on the wall, taking in each one of them individually before he moves onto the next—your college diploma from NYU, a photo of you with your family the last time they came to visit, a certificate of operation from the local government. His backpack is leaning up against the front leg of the chair and his left leg, and you briefly wonder how he’s afforded to travel so much. The bag looks brand new, and high-tech, too. Is he a tech mogul of some kind? A grown-up trust fund kid? Did he steal it, or is he just really good with money?

“You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t have any questions prepared for you,” you tell him as you reach for a pen.

He nods and looks back at you. “You weren’t expecting me to walk in today, I understand.”

“Either way, I have to say that so far, I’m very impressed with you.” You glance up again and give him a polite smile, then look back down as you write his name and the date at the top of the page. “What did you say your last name was again?”

“Carter,” he says.

Nodding, you add that at the top and make your first bullet point.

“Grant Carter. Are you named after someone? That seems a pretty traditional name for a guy your age.” You immediately cringe at the question. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. You don’t have to answer that.”

Chuckling, Grant shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. My mother was a big fan of Ulysses S. Grant.”

“The 18th president?” you ask, grinning wide.

He nods and lets out another small laugh. “That’s the one.”

“He’s not normally up there on peoples’ lists of favorite presidents.”

“She had her reasons, I guess,” Grant shrugs.

You hum a little with a smile and look back down at your almost empty legal pad. You have a million questions that you want to ask, and more that you know you should, but you allow yourself to think for a moment before you look up again. Whatever you ask has to be the right mix of the two.

“You’ve lived in a lot of really impressive places,” you begin, and Grant nods in confirmation. “Why come here? There are plenty of larger cities with more job openings. Better paying job openings,” you add.

“You sell yourself short,” Grant easily replies. He sits forward a little, his elbows sliding closer to the ends of the armrests. “Your town is beautiful. It’s comfortable, and a bit secluded. I’m looking for something quieter.”

“A lot of people are, but we’re not often what they want in the long run. How long are you planning on staying?”

Grant stares at you for a long moment before he replies, “Until I’m needed elsewhere.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s a bit cryptic, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask for a clearer answer.”

“I plan on staying indefinitely, but if it changes, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

Not quite satisfied with his answer, you still scribble down the response and make a second point on the next line down.

“Do you have handyman experience?”

Grant shakes his head. “But I’m a quick learner and I’m stronger than I look. Whatever I don’t already know how to do, I’ll pick it up quickly if I can get the information from someone or somewhere.”

I highly doubt you’re stronger than you look, you think, forcing yourself to look down at the paper and write, rather than at him. You already look pretty damn strong.

“Do you have a previous employer I can contact? Or references?”

“I can have that information to you by the end of the day.”

You nod and keep writing, and you don’t look up as you say, “We don’t typically provide housing for employees, as we’re a small enough village that commute isn’t an issue, but given that you’re new to town, I’m going to assume that you don’t have a place to stay yet.”

“No ma’am, I don’t.”

“I can get you set up in a room here, if that’s alright with you. I won’t expect you to work outside of normal business hours, except in an emergency, but that’s the same even if you lived off-property,” you tell him, looking up. You don’t lift your pen, and it’s a little satisfying to see that Grant looks mildly surprised. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who could be surprised by anything.

“You’re hiring me?” he asks.

“Should I not?”

He quickly recovers and shakes his head, giving you a small smile. “I was just surprised that you’re not waiting until after you’ve seen my references.”

“Are you a horrible person?”

“I don’t think so, no.

“Are you a terrible employee?” you ask, putting your pen down on the desk.

“I’m loyal to a fault.”

“Should I be concerned about criminal activity?”

Grant laughs. “I’m a model citizen, though I did steal a piece of cake when I was a kid.”

“I’ll be sure to inform the local authorities,” you tease, grinning. You slide the notepad onto your desk and stand, holding out your hand for him to shake. Grant obliges. “You’re hired, Mr. Carter. If you’re ready, I’ll show you to your room so you can get settled in before your first day tomorrow.”

“I’d like that, thank you,” he replies.

“I won’t take the room out of your salary unless it prevents us from taking guests, but I don’t see that becoming an issue, except maybe in mid-July,” you tell him as you move around the desk to the door. “The handyman position pays 800 euros a month. You’ll be paid bi-weekly in check or cash, whichever your preference. We don’t have direct deposit here. If you need an account in town, there’s a bank down the road.”

“Cash is fine,” he says. He picks up his bag and swings it over his shoulder before following you back out into the hallway, then out to the lobby. You make a pit stop at the front desk to grab a key before heading up the main staircase.

The private, single person rooms on the third floor are a little older, and you briefly worry as you climb the stairs if the beds will be able to hold Grant’s weight. You don’t use them as often now that you’ve finished transforming the old hotel into a hostel. There’s a thin coating of dust on the handrail and you make a mental note to give this floor a thorough cleaning tomorrow while he’s occupied, that way you won’t be intruding.

You lead Grant to the end of the hall, where the rooms are slightly larger and the windows overlook the ocean. While the view is great, most of your summer guests only fill the dorm-style rooms, so you’re fairly certain you won’t be missing out on any profit by giving him this room.

“Here we are,” you say, and you open the door before stepping aside so he can enter first.

Grant ducks through the doorway and flips the light switch, then looks around in silence. You wait in the hallway, holding your breath as he makes his inspection.

“This is nice,” he finally says, looking back at you. He drops his bag at the foot of the bed. “You’re sure it’s alright if I stay here?”

You wave one hand dismissively. “It’s fine.”

Your phone chimes in your back pocket and you pull it out, quickly reading the notification. It’s only mildly urgent, but you can feel Grant trying to look occupied as he waits for you to leave, so you look up and gesture back towards the stairs with your phone.

“I’ve gotta take care of something, but you’re in luck. Every Thursday night we host a group dinner for the guests. The food is all cooked by a chef from a local restaurant in an attempt to promote the local cuisine, so you’re welcome to join us, or I can recommend some other restaurants in the area, if you want to explore a little bit more. We eat at seven.”

Nodding, Grant smiles and crosses the room to pull the key from where you’d left it in the lock. “I’ll see you at seven. It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“You too, Grant. Welcome aboard!” You smile once more, then turn and head back down the hall. His door closes as you reach the top of the stairs, and suddenly, you can’t wait for dinnertime.

You occupy yourself for the majority of the day by compiling a list of projects for Grant, as well as contacting the references he sends you using the email address on the hostel’s website. He gets glowing reviews from each and every person on the list, though they all seem a little confused when you first ask about him.

Grant comes down to the first floor at five minutes to seven, and you’re just greeting the first small group of guests to arrive back from their excursions when he steps down from the bottom step. You glance over and give him a quick, acknowledging smile before turning back to the guests.

“Dobor dan! How was your time at the beach?” you ask. They reply politely in a mix of English and their own native language. You vaguely recognize it as French. You’re about to tell them in English about the dinner schedule, hoping that they’ll understand at least partially, but Grant begins talking in rapid-fire French before you even open your mouth.

It takes everything in you to keep your jaw from dropping straight through the floor. None of Grant’s references had mentioned he was bilingual, and neither did he. It feels like it should’ve been obvious, however, given that every single person he’d talked to had mentioned his incredible intelligence and ability to pick up skills quicker than anybody they knew.

Still, you watch in stunned silence from behind the front desk and Grant chatters with the guests. He leads them from the lobby and into the adjoining sitting area, where you hear them sit down and continue to talk. Someone laughs, and then Grant does, too. It’s a deep, mellow baritone, and you catch yourself grinning before you manage to stifle it.

When the next group of guests walk in, you guide them into the sitting room with the others. Grant catches your eye as you turn the corner, and when he smiles, you swear that your heart stutters in your chest.

He’s your employee, you chide yourself, and you turn your back on the group on the premise of prepping a plate of cookies for the coffee table.

“Dinner should be ready soon,” you say as you set the plate in the center of the group. Grant translates for you, first in French, and then in a language that sounds almost Spanish, but you know enough of that to know that it’s something different. All the guests nod in agreement.

You settle against one of the heavy wood bookshelves and watch quietly as Grant chats with the guests, switching fluidly between languages whenever he turns to a new person. It’s amazing, so you simply stay silent as you listen to the flurry of foreign words in the sitting room. You’ve never heard the pre-dinner conversation so lively. It brings a new warmth to the hostel, and you can’t help but smile as you watch the guests come alive, even though they’re exhausted.

“Dinner is ready!” Ana calls. She pokes her head in the door, and she smiles wide when she sees the guests talking excitedly. Every seat is taken. When she turns to look at you, you only grin.

“What’s going on?” she asks, stepping closer so she can lower her voice. “Who is that?”

You lean in, whispering, “His name is Grant. He’s the new handyman, and apparently, he speaks multiple languages.”

“Apparently?”

“I didn’t know when I hired him! This,” you gesture with one hand towards the circle of guests, who have started to rise now that Grant has passed along the message about dinner, “was a surprise to me, too. He just started talking to them on his own. I didn’t ask him to do anything.”

Ana raises her eyebrows, giving you a meaningful look. Before you can scold her for trying to meddle in your love life, she slips away and Grant appears at your side.

“Who is that?” he asks.

Goosebumps erupt on your arms at the sound of his deep voice so close to your ear. He’s leaned down so you can hear him clearly, and though he’s not quite in your space, he’s still close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. It should feel stifling in the early summer heat, but it’s comforting, and you turn towards him with a bright smile.

“Ana. She’s the manager when I’m not here. I’ll introduce you later. How come you never told me you spoke all those languages?” you ask.

Grant just smiles back at you. “You never asked.”

“I’ll make sure to add that to my list of questions for the next time I have to hire someone.” You gesture at the line of guests filtering through the doorway to the hostel’s dining room. “We should eat. Most of the guests have spent all day hiking or at the beach, and they’ll be hungry. Our local chefs are all amazing, so the food always goes quickly.”

“What’s on the menu?” Grant asks. He starts to walk and you fall into step beside him, noting how he angles himself sideways and stoops through the doorway so that you’re not squashed into the doorframe. It’s a miracle he doesn’t hit his head on any of the lowered ceilings or hanging decor in the building.

I’ll have to warn him about the lights in the rooms on the second floor, you note.

“Punjene paprike. Stuffed peppers,” you translate. You pause and watch as the guests choose their seats, silently making sure there are enough chairs. When it’s clear you’ve done the math correctly, you look over at Grant. “How many languages do you speak?”

He shrugs and surveys the long table filled with food. People are already piling their plates high and chattering with their friends and family, and the room is filled with amicable noise. The sun coming in from the windows is golden. The windows face south, which is one of the many reasons why you’d first purchased the building. It needs a lot of work, and it always has, but the view of the ocean from the dining room windows, along with the way the sun illuminates the whole room, helps make all the work worth it.

“This place is beautiful,” says Grant, quietly. “You’ve done well.”

You look over at him, surprised at the praise. It warms you from the inside out, and you smile when he meets your eyes. “Thank you. I’ve worked hard.”

He nods, and after a moment, he gestures towards the table. There are two empty seats beside each other, near the far end of the room. Ana has taken the seat across from them and she’s already begun to eat.

You follow Grant across the dining room, and you try not to act surprised when he pulls out the chair and helps you sit before taking the spot beside yours. Ana catches your eye as you reach for a dish, but you look away. You can’t risk having her embarrass you in front of the guests.

Or Grant, the cheeky little voice in your brain adds, but you quickly push the thought to the far reaches of your brain. Showing your hand—and your burgeoning feelings for Grant—right now is something you need even less.

“So, you’re from New York?” he asks.

You look up from where you’re pulling a napkin into your lap. “What?”

“Your degree. It’s from NYU, so I’m assuming that you’re from the States.”

Nodding, you allow him to serve one of the peppers onto your plate, and you heap an extra serving of rice onto the side of your plate before handing him the bowl. You don’t want to assume he likes anything, especially since he ordered one of the most American things on the menu at the cafe.

“I am. I grew up in Manhattan, and I decided to stay there for college. Once I got my degree in hospitality, I decided it was time I see more of the world,” you tell him.

“Why Croatia?” Grant asks.

You shrug and pick up your fork. “Honestly? I don’t know why. I didn’t even mean to come here. I ended up on the wrong train and decided to stick it out. I figured it would be a fun experience either way, but I fell in love with it here. On my second day here, I saw that this building was up for sale and I had just enough money in my savings to buy it. It was a big risk, but I think that it was worth it.”

He looks around the room, listening to the conversations for a few moments before he smiles. “I think so, too.”

“Where are you from?” you ask. “You’re clearly American.”

Grant laughs at that, nodding. “I grew up in Brooklyn. When I was old enough, I served in the army for a few years, and since then I’ve just been… traveling.”

The army thing makes sense, and you file that information away for later. The two of you start to eat, exchanging a few more words throughout the meal. Grant offers to help Ana with the dishes. She’s giddy at the proposal, so you let them head into the kitchen as you help guests arrange their plans for the next day. You find yourself straining to listen for the sound of his voice during the quiet moments, however, but by the time the dishes are finished, Grant tells you that he’s exhausted and he wants to get a good night’s rest before his first day on the job. You wish him goodnight from the front desk, then wait for Ana to appear and barrage you with a million questions about the new handyman.

You learn quickly that there’s even more to Grant than meets the eye. He’d been telling the truth in his interview—he’s deceptively strong, and he really does learn quicker than anyone you’ve ever met. His Croatian improves leaps and bounds in the first few months at the hostel. By the end of the summer, he’s practically fluent, even if he does bumble through some of the more complicated phrases with a faint blush on his cheeks.

The longstanding projects for the hostel are all completed by the end of August, leaving you scrambling to keep Grant busy. When you can’t find anything to do, however, he busies himself by exploring the far reaches of the island, speaking with the guests in a myriad of languages, and keeping you company in the lobby or in your office. His presence, which had once seemed much too large for the old brick building, has settled. He seems at home in the armchair you buy for the corner of your office, and he’s become a fixture in the doorway of the lobby, where he likes to stand and watch traffic pass by.

It’s on one of the hottest days of the year that you first get a glimpse behind Grant’s ever-friendly facade. You’re behind the desk, going through the reservations for the upcoming week, when there’s a shout from outside. The front door to the hostel is propped open in an attempt to let in a breeze, and Grant has taken up residence in his normal spot. You’ve only just processed the shout when there’s an explosion. The floor beneath you shakes and shudders, and you grip the edge of the desk in an attempt to keep upright.

Grant whirls around and fixes his eyes on you. He’s scanning you, up and down, searching for any sign of injury.

“Are you okay?” he asks. You nod, swallowing thickly, and peer over his shoulder. There’s no sign of what’s happened outside, but you can hear screaming and shouting. There’s a gunshot and you flinch.

“Stay here, and stay hidden,” says Grant, and you know in an instant that it’s an order. “Stay quiet and don’t let anyone in. Okay?”

Nodding again, you drop to a crouch, then curl up on the floor with your back against the desk. You clutch your phone in one hand and listen as Grant closes, then locks the door. When he doesn’t appear behind the desk, you crawl over to the side and look out into the small lobby. He’s gone.

Your arms shake beneath you and you have to fall back against the desk for support before you fall flat on your face. Squeezing your eyes shut, you listen to the commotion outside. There are no more explosions, but you hear more screams and shouts, followed by a crash and gunshots. Your heart pounds in your chest as the noise gets closer and closer. You know that Grant was in the army, so he must have military training, but the thought of him outside—the thought of him in danger—makes you want to puke.

There’s a thud against the front door and you flinch. Your body tenses and you curl up in the fetal position, trying to maintain your breathing. It doesn’t work, however, and when there’s another bang, you scream.

“Molim! Molim, let me in!”

You look around the edge of the desk again. It’s a woman on the other side, and the desperation in her voice propels you to your feet and into the lobby without a second thought. You twist the lock and yank open the door.

A slim woman dressed entirely in black grins at you. Her eyes are a shocking shade of electric blue and her teeth are bright white—a stark contrast against the mask that hides the rest of her features.

“Sorry, dragi,” she says, and you gasp when she reveals the gun in her left hand. With the other, she reaches out and grabs you. “You’re coming with me.”

“No!” You fight against the woman’s grip, and when you lift your eyes to search for help from someone else, you can’t believe what you’re seeing.

Grant is lifting a car off someone. He lifts the car and tosses it aside with a heave and a grunt, and then he’s fighting someone hand-to-hand. The man in black is clearly trained because he gets in a few hits, but Grant never stays down for long. He’s slowly forcing the man back down the street, towards the beach, instead of towards the line of shops that’s on the other side of the hostel.

There’s a blast as another explosive goes off, this time in a restaurant diagonal from your front door. Stone and rubble flies in every direction. The street is empty of people, thankfully, except for the people Grant is fighting. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm is going off, and the light from the harsh midday sun is almost blinding. Your ears are ringing from the blast and the alarm. You think you scream at some point, but you’re not sure.

The man that Grant has been fighting has been thrown back by the blast, but Grant is still standing, as if he’s anchored onto the pavement. There’s a metal car door in his hand. He’s gripping onto a piece of the leather interior, and the red painted finish on the outside has been battered by the flying debris. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath.

The woman drags you out of the hostel and onto the street. She wraps her arm around your shoulders and places the gun against the side of your head. You stop struggling then, and your breath catches in your throat as your heart begins to pound even harder. Your vision is going blurry along the edges, but not enough to miss the way Grant’s jaw clenches when he catches sight of you.

“Captain Rogers!” the woman shouts.

He throws a second man off of him and turns fully towards you and the woman. “Let her go!”

In your ear, the woman chuckles. It’s low and dark, and full of malice, and you shiver. You close your eyes and pray that it’s all just a bad dream.

“Not until you come with us,” the woman replies.

“Leave her and the others out of this.”

When you open your eyes, Grant is looking past you at the woman. The light reflects in his deep blue eyes, and it’s then that you realize what he’s been hiding from you.

How did I miss it before?

“Steve Rogers,” you choke.

He looks at you again. “Y/N…”

“You’re Steve Rogers.”

There’s a pause as he watches you with clear regret, and then the woman laughs, shocking you out of your revelation.

“How precious!” she exclaims. “Your little boss had no clue who you were?”

“Let. Her. Go.” Steve takes a step forward and the woman’s grip on you tightens. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes you when she pushes the gun harder against your head, making you crane your neck to one side.

Two new men in black come up behind Steve. He turns his head slightly, listening to their approach, but he doesn’t move. You can tell that he’s calculating what to do next.

There’s a moment of clarity as you watch them launch themselves at him. Steve fights like he was born for it—and maybe he was, you rationalize—and as he easily overcomes them both, you have a revelation that’s nothing short of a rock at the pit of your stomach.

Steve has to get out of this alive. So many people count on him, and they always have. Though you know that there are a lot of people all over the world who consider him a criminal, you also know that there are a lot of people just like you that think Steve deserves a place of honor for all that he’s done and all the sacrifices he’s made.

The safety on the woman’s gun clicks off and Steve freezes. The two men take advantage of that, and they grab his arms, pulling them tightly behind his back and pushing him to his knees. He falls with a grunt. One of the men grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back until he’s looking at you and the woman from his place on the ground. He doesn’t fight back.

“Steve,” you plead. “You have to fight. You can’t let them take you.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he replies. He shifts his gaze to the woman without moving his head. “If I go with you, you’ll let her go?”

“You have my word.”

Heat swells in your eyes and you know that you’re about to cry. “No! Don’t trust her, Steve! You can’t believe her!”

The woman jostles you and you close your eyes on instinct. A tear slips down your cheek.

“Shut up,” she growls.

You swallow thickly. At your sides, your hands and fingers have gone numb, and your legs are barely holding you upright.

“Alright,” Steve agrees. “I’ll go with you.”

A sob bursts through and the woman releases you. She practically throws you to the ground, and you have just enough time to get your arms out in front of you before you hit the road. Pain shoots up both limbs and the pavement digs into your forearms. From where you lay, you watch the men pull Steve to his feet. He moves with them and doesn’t fight back as they drag him to a black cargo van on the perimeter of the blast zone.

“Steve!” you scream. Your voice breaks and your throat feels raw as you push yourself up and stumble in their direction. The movement sends pins and needles into your hands and feet, but you do it anyway. Your limbs feel completely out of your control as you attempt to go after them.

Steve looks back at you. He’s too far now for you to make out his expression, but you can see that he’s trying to tell you something. The man on his right shoves his shoulder and he’s forced into the van.

“Let him go! Steve!” You start to sprint, running after the van as the back door slides shut and the woman, who climbed into the driver’s seat while you were getting to your feet, begins to navigate it through the rubble from the explosions. The tinted windows keep you from seeing Steve inside and your mind immediately goes to the worst.

“Someone help me! Stop that van!”

You run until you physically can’t. The van is long gone, and when you collapse onto the street, a crowd gathers around you. People are murmuring and asking you questions. There are too many hands, too many faces, even if many of them are familiar. Your vision swims as you’re rolled onto your back. The summer sun beats down on you harder, and you try to focus, but all you can manage is a mumble of Steve’s name before you lose consciousness on the pavement.

When you wake, the soft beeping noise is enough to tell you that you’re in a hospital. You open your eyes, expecting to be greeted by white walls and bedding, and maybe a wall of cabinets with a sink. Instead, there’s a slanted wall of glass windows, each separated by a pillar of concrete. Thin, almost invisible computer screens with golden text are scattered around your room, each displaying charts, figures, and data in a language you can’t read. Some are embedded into the walls on either side of the bed, while others float above white counters that look more like control panels for a spaceship. There are scans of someone’s body and brain—your brain, you realize after a long moment—that spin in circles on the floating screens.

A hiss makes you flinch, and you quickly look away from the brain scan to where a young, dark-skinned girl is walking in through a set of sliding glass doors you hadn’t seen before. Her white, high-necked sheath dress looks nothing like hospital attire, especially since it’s sleeveless and only has mesh to cover her shoulders and a few inches below her knees, but she’s holding a tablet and looks so serious that you wonder if maybe she’s not a regular doctor. After all, this doesn’t seem like a normal hospital. Where are you? Did the men in black come back to get you, too?

“Y/N, it’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” she asks.

Her accent is jarring, and you blink. When you go to speak, you have to lick your lips a few times. They’re dry, and your mouth feels so much like sandpaper that for a moment you don’t think you’ll actually be able to say anything at all.

“Where am I?” you finally ask in return. “Who are you?”

She smiles briefly and checks something on her tablet, then glances over at one of the floating screens off to the side. Seemingly satisfied, she locks the device and sets it aside.

“My name is Shuri. You’re in Wakanda. You will be safe here.”

You frown. “Wakanda?” None of the hospitals even remotely close to the hostel hold that name, not even in passing, but it sounds familiar.

“Yes. We’re friends of Captain Rogers. When we heard about his capture, and how you were involved, we brought you here.”

Tears burn hot in your eyes as the memories from the street outside the hostel come flooding back all at once. How long have you been in the hospital? Who’s looking for Steve?

“We have located him already,” she continues, and you inhale sharply, shifting in the bed as you reach up to wipe your face. “And the Dora Milaje has been sent to retrieve him.”

“The what?” you ask. Your voice shakes and you swallow hard in an attempt to steady yourself.

Shuri smiles again. “The Dora Milaje. They are our special forces here in Wakanda. Let me ask again, how are you feeling?”

You move in the bed a little bit more, testing your limbs for stiffness or pain. Surprisingly, there’s very little. “I’m… I’m okay, I think. Confused, mostly. Thirsty.” Your stomach growls, so you quickly add, “Hungry.”

She laughs and nods, then picks up her tablet. Shuri taps a few times before glancing down at something through the slanted windows.

“Someone will bring you food shortly. I’ll also have someone come change the bandages on your hands and wrists. Your injuries are healing nicely. You should still rest a while longer, but I will make sure you’re notified when Captain Rogers has been safely returned.”

Nodding, you sit back against the pillows, but you quickly sit up again with a gasp. “The hostel! Ana!”

“We’ve sent someone to assist Miss Mitrovich in your absence,” Shuri soothes. She steps closer to the bed and you lie back as she approaches. “There were very few repairs that needed to be done to your building, but they are taken care of, and all your guests are safe. I have already dispatched a team of Wakandan specialists to help with the rebuild of Brdonik. We are also installing a security system in your building.”

You sigh in relief and close your eyes, swallowing against the dryness again. You lay in silence, listening to Shuri as she moves around the room and mutters to herself. When you finally open your eyes again, it’s because she’s greeting someone as the sliding glass doors hiss open for a second time.

“Grant,” you murmur, and he gives you a weak smile from just inside the doorway. You correct yourself, shaking your head. “Steve.”

“Grant is my middle name,” he quietly explains. “And Carter…”

“Agent Carter,” you finish. “I see the connection now.”

While waiting for your food, you’ve slowly been piecing together the different parts of Steve’s life that you knew, trying to get the full picture. You’ve known him personally as Grant, the quiet man from Brooklyn that is good with his hands, always knows exactly what to say when you’re in a bad mood, and is a hit with every guest that crosses your threshold. On the other hand, you also know him as Steve, the All-American super-soldier that’s plastered across every history textbook you’ve ever been given. He’s also the super-soldier that you’ve watched on the news, listening to reporter after reporter praise him like he’s a god, then publicly curse and shame him on their next breath.

Shuri quietly excuses herself. You stare at Steve as she leaves through the sliding doors behind him. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, and blood caked in his beard, right below a nasty split in his lower lip. He’s standing lopsided, like he’s keeping the weight off his right foot, and he looks like he could use a shower and a long nap.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He nods again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For dragging you into this,” Steve answers. He sighs. “For getting you hurt. For putting you in danger.”

You shake your head and sit up a little more in the bed, allowing the pillows to prop you upright. “None of this is your fault.”

“It is, and—”

“And nothing,” you interrupt. You give him a stern look and he presses his lips together with a wince. “You didn’t know that there was any danger. If you had, wouldn’t you have left?”

After a second, Steve nods, and you continue,

“And if you’d been able to stop it from happening, you would’ve, right?”

Another nod and you smooth the surprisingly soft hospital blanket over your legs.

“Then it’s not really your fault, Grant. Steve,” you correct again, more firmly this time. You’re still coming to terms with the fact that he’s not 100% who he said he was.

“But you still got hurt. I still put you in danger just by being there. I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. I got too comfortable, and too close, and I was careless.”

You purse your lips and watch him for several moments. Steve stays still under your inspection, waiting for you to say something.

Finally, you tell him, “I don’t regret what happened, and if I had the chance to go back in time and change things, I wouldn’t. I’m not in mortal danger, and you’re safe again. The hostel is being taken care of. None of the guests got hurt. Tourism might be down for a couple months but…” You shrug. “It’s the end of the busiest season anyway, and I have enough savings that I’m not going to worry.”

Steve shakes his head at you, then turns to look at the screens. He doesn’t seem to be actually reading them, but he puts his hands on his hips as he stares at a spinning scan of your hand and wrist.

“Do you regret it?” you ask.

He turns back. He’s silent for a few seconds as he watches you fidget with the hem of the blanket in your lap. “No,” Steve finally replies. “I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

When he doesn’t move, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. You’re not dressed in a normal hospital gown—someone has put you in leggings and a tunic of some kind—but you still shiver when your bare feet touch the floor.

“Y/N—” Steve limps towards you, holding both hands out to steady you if you lose your balance. You don’t, and he stops a few feet away.

“I don’t regret any of it, Steve,” you say. You start to close the distance between the two of you even more. “Not a single minute.”

“Volim te,” Steve murmurs.

You freeze, now within arm’s reach. “What?”

“Volim te.”

Your brain is working a mile a minute to catch up with what he’s said. Steve shifts in place, wincing as he transfers the weight to his injured leg.

“You should get that checked out,” you quietly tell him, glancing down at his leg.

He stares at you, as if he was expecting a different response. You know he was, but you’re suddenly so overwhelmed by everything that it’s the first thing out of your mouth.

“I—” You close your eyes and shake your head, letting out a small self-conscious chuckle. “I’m sorry. I love you too, Steve. I do. I love you. I don’t— I don’t know why I said that. I guess I’m just worried—”

He cuts you off by stepping into your space and cupping your face with one hand. His fingers thread up into your hair and he tilts your head back so he can press his lips to yours. Your arms fall limp at your sides for a second, but then your brain catches up. You close your eyes and reach up to put one hand on the back of his neck. The other slides around his waist, pulling him closer as he kisses you.

Steve’s body is warm and though he winces with pain, then pulls away slightly to touch his fingers to his busted lip, neither one of you actually moves away from the other. You stay close enough to feel the heat from his breath on your skin.

“You need to eat,” he murmurs.

“And you need a doctor,” you reply.

He smiles a little, more just pressing his lips together than anything, and kisses your forehead. You close your eyes again when he lingers.

“Don’t go,” he says as you step away.

You frown and crowd close again, and you place both hands on his chest. “Steve?”

“No. I mean, you should go now, but…” He struggles for a second, trying to find the words he wants to say, and you wait patiently. “What I meant was: Don’t go back to Croatia. Stay with me.”

“What about the hostel? What about Ana and the guests?”

“I’ve heard you say a thousand times that she could probably run the place on her own. Plus, it’s the end of the busiest season, and after everything that’s happened, tourism will probably be low. You said it yourself.”

Steve reaches up to pull your hands off of him, but he holds them and rubs little circles over your knuckles with his thumbs. He watches you carefully, giving you his full attention. His eyes are deep and blue, and the crinkle between his eyebrows has disappeared completely now that he’s sure you’re okay.

“So, what? I’d stay here in Wakanda? What would I do?” you ask, frowning. “They don’t really have tourists here, do they? It’s not like they need a hostel.”

“No, but I need a partner.”

“Don’t you already have partners, Steve? What about the Falcon? Or Black Widow? Or even your friend that you told me about—James? Isn’t he a superhero, too?”

Shaking his head, he answers, “That’s not the kind of partner I need, Y/N. I don’t need a partner to fight with. I need a partner that I can live with. Someone to make a home with.”

You stare at him for a second, allowing your brain to process what he’s just said, and then you give him a slow, sly smile. Inside, you’re giddy and jumping up and down, but all you do is pull your hands in a little more so he has to step closer to you.

“Steven Grant Rogers, are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I guess I am.” His ears are starting to turn a bright shade of pink, and it’s beginning to creep along his cheekbones as well, just above his beard.

Steve’s still holding your hands captive, so you simply raise an eyebrow. “Do you have a place to live here in Wakanda? Or are we going to be staying here in my hospital room until you find one?”

He shrugs and grins back at you. “King T’Challa gave me an apartment.”

“The king gave you an apartment?” You pull your hands away and step back. You can’t hide your disbelief, though deep down, you figure it’s very likely that the king tried to give Steve more. He’s a hero, even if most of the world doesn’t believe it.

“The princess was just in here going over your medical information, and you’re shocked that he gave me an apartment?” Steve asks, a smirk on his face.

You gape at him even more. “You’re kidding. Steve, that was not—”

“Princess Shuri. She’s made most of the technology around here, and she oversees the recovery of important patients. Like you,” he adds.

“If I’d known—”

He leans in and kisses your forehead again. “You don’t need to bow or anything. They don’t do that here, though I’m sure she’d appreciate a thank you the next time you see her. Maybe compliment one of her inventions. T’Challa says she likes that.”

“The next time?” you hiss. “Steve—”

This time, he laughs at you. It’s a full-bodied laugh, unlike the sparse chuckles you’ve gotten out of him since his return, and you relax. You smile, too, a real smile that makes your cheeks ache as you press your burning face against his chest. Steve wraps his arms around you. His body shakes as he laughs, but he quickly settles down and kisses the top of your head.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you tell him, not letting go. In fact, you hug him tighter around the waist with both arms.

“Me too. Come on, ljubavi. Let’s go home.”

Dobro jutro = Good morning

Kako vam mogu pomoći? = How can I help you?

Govorite li engleski? = Do you speak English?

Dobor dan = Good afternoon

Molim = Please

Dragi = Darling

Volim te = I love you

Ljubavi = Love/my love

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

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Forever: @aya-fay

Steve Rogers: @lipstickandvibranium @delicatecapnerd

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somedaylazysomeday · 7 months

Text

Noisy - Part Four

Despite your agreements, Viktor is being very loud... Again. You go to confront him about it.

Viktor x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 5,500

Warnings: Frustration, concern, hints of growing intimacy, unprotected sex, creampie, feelings

Previous | Masterlist

---

You couldn’t sleep.

You turned to your side, away from the window. Maybe the faint glow from behind the curtains was what had kept you awake. Or maybe all the thoughts crowding your mind were on that side of the pillow, sneaking in through your ear until they could snarl and snap inside of your brain.

Another sleepless night was not what you needed.

A moment later, you amended the thought. If there was going to be one night you couldn’t really rest, this wasn’t the worst night for it to happen. You didn’t have anywhere to be the next day and no real plans. You could sleep as late as you needed to recover what you were losing to your racing thoughts.

With that realization, you gave in and let your mind whir rapidly as it performed a variety of calculations it apparently thought were necessary.

The first - and accordingly most concerning - thought was about your impending departure from the Piltover Academy of Science, Technology, and Innovation.

You had been a student at the Academy for almost a decade. Your undergraduate work had been completed on time. Graduate work had slowed you down slightly as you started taking more advanced courses that required more field work. And your doctoral program seemed to have stretched on for an eternity. That was mostly because the Academy’s work-study program had left you attending courses only half of your time.

Even then, your main focus for the last semester had been on writing your dissertation.

From everything you had learned about other schools, Piltover’s Academy was unique in the way dissertations were presented, especially in practical fields. Instead of a simple essay, Academy dissertations were written as a proposal. You were to identify a problem, hypothesize about causes and solutions, and create a plan to help alleviate the problem or treat those suffering from it.

When you were finished with your dissertation, you would submit it to your mentor, Professor Ukkud. Once she went through it with you and you completed any final changes, she would present it to the Council of Piltover. They would read it, discuss your proposed solutions, then give you a chance to answer their questions and defend your intended methodology.

If you successfully defended your dissertation, you would gain a doctorate. You would also be approved a specified amount of Piltover’s money to put your proposal into action, backed by the Council. Doctors whose experiments and solutions helped people were often offered jobs in the government itself, working to improve the lives of Piltover citizens.

Your identified problem - the pollution in the Undercity, particularly the fumes found in the Sump sector - was easily proven. The causes were of concern to Piltover. The solutions were simple and relatively cheap. It was, by all accounts, tailor-made for a successful dissertation defense.

Except that you had been advised to start over.

Your meeting with Professor Ukkud that afternoon had been profoundly disappointing. It had been your first meeting with her since you had discussed concepts. The professor had left the Academy for several months as she delivered a beautiful boy. She and her wife had spent much of the following time bonding with their newborn son and, by the time she returned, your dissertation was almost complete.

Which was why it was particularly heartbreaking that you had presented your lovingly-crafted work to Professor Ukkud only for her to sit in uncomfortable silence. She listened to your explanation, but pushed the dissertation back to you unread. When she finally spoke, it was with an expression of sympathy and a delicate sort of tone.

“I understand your passion for this project and I think it would have a positive impact on the Undercity. However, I feel that there is a strong chance the Council will deny you the funds you’ve requested.”

You had been aghast. The Council rarely refused funds, and when they did, it was often because the attached proposal had been subpar. In a few cases, they had denied funds and awarded the defender their degree anyway, but it had happened only twice that you could remember.

It was considered slightly shameful to receive your degree with no accompanying funds. It was a sign that the Council thought there was no situation in which your special knowledge could play an role in improving Piltover.

“But… But this is important research…” you had protested, knowing it wouldn’t matter. “My solution is simple and cost-effective, and no one can argue the impact it would have on the lives of those living in the Undercity. Especially the ones who live in the Sump sector, but it could make a difference for people who live much further away.”

Professor Ukkud shook her head sadly. “I agree, and I believe there is a strong possibility that your proposal would improve lives across the Undercity and even along the border of Upper Piltover where the river is narrow.”

“Then I don’t understand the problem,” you’d said, openly frustrated.

“Simply put: the Council will not divert funds toward a project that will mostly impact the Undercity.”

You had suspected as much as soon as Professor Ukkud suggested you change the topic of your dissertation, but it was startling to hear her say it so directly. Worse, you knew she was right.

You wanted to rail against the unfairness of it all, but the prejudices of Upper Piltover ran deep. There was no other explanation for the poor conditions half the city lived in - and perhaps more, since censuses tended not to go well in the Undercity.

And, even worse, you partially understood. The Undercity rebelled against Upper Piltover on a regular basis, and most of those rebellions were violent. Yes, they were rebelling against a lack of representation and the fact that the Council didn’t put any effort toward improving the Undercity, but you could imagine that the proud Piltover people would see helping them as rewarding the very violence they were hoping to stop.

None of those thoughts had left you. Instead, you slumped and stared down at the stack of pages resting on the table. They represented literal months of your life. When you weren’t helping Ukkud in her classroom, you were researching or writing or editing or experimenting, all in the process of crafting the perfect dissertation.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” The question had sounded more defeated than challenging. “I can’t rewrite it. The semester is ending soon.”

“I think your best option is to stay an extra semester,” Professor Ukkud opinioned, looking visibly relieved that you weren’t planning to argue with her about it. “You could try to create a different dissertation, but in the limited time… You would either end up with an inferior proposal or be too exhausted to defend it.”

You hadn’t had anything else to say, by then. What was the point? Instead, you thanked the professor for her guidance and left the classroom. You’d spent the rest of the afternoon sulking and mulling over your options.

The way you saw it, you had two: spend an extra semester at the Academy to create another dissertation and proposal about an issue you weren’t as passionate about, or…

Or present the dissertation you had already prepared.

Professor Ukkud was right, you probably wouldn’t be funded. But you could leave here and go somewhere where you could make a difference. You had taken several grant-writing courses during your time at the Academy. It would be far more difficult to do things on your own. But wouldn’t it be worth it?

You turned onto your back once more, eyeing the ceiling with disgust. Now that you had rehashed everything about the disappointing meeting and rethought about the difficult choice that faced you, you had hoped sleep would come. But you were just as awake as you had been before and you clearly weren’t going to make any important decisions that night.

Sliiiiiide. Scrape. Scrape! BOOM.

Your initial jolt turned into you sitting bolt upright in bed as a tremendous noise came from the apartment above yours. You looked up at the ceiling, like you could see through it if you stared hard enough.

When that didn't work, you started to lay back down, but paused. Viktor knew you didn't need to be awake early the next day and had no specific reason to stay quiet, but this was excessive even for him.

Immediately, your mind started jumping to negative conclusions. What if Viktor had tripped? What if his cane had caught on something, leaving him tumbling to the floor? If had fallen badly enough to hurt himself, how would he call for help? Would anyone notice until the weekend ended?

The last thing you wanted was to imply that he couldn't take care of himself, but it would be good to check on Viktor, right? He couldn't be offended if you were making sure he wasn't hurt. And if he was, you could always pretend you were upset with him for making so much noise. He didn't know you had already been awake…

You pulled on a sweatshirt over your pajamas and started the trek upstairs. You had been casually sleeping with Viktor for months by that point, but you didn't go up to his apartment as often as you had expected.

And who could blame you? Not only did Viktor prefer to keep people away from the experiments that filled his apartment, but he also didn't have a bed. You liked to think you were fairly low-maintenance, but you did prefer not to have sex on the floor. Unless it you were in a particular mood. Or a hurry. Or-

You pulled your thoughts back to your current mission. Viktor could be hurt, and you needed to make sure he wasn’t in pain and waiting to be found.

The first obstacle was that you didn’t have a key to his apartment. It had never been necessary before and you were struck by the strangeness of that for the first time. Your relationship was strictly casual, but it would have made sense for you proximity to lead to more opportunities for hooking up. Including swapping apartment keys.

And so you knocked, your taps on his door were firm with an edge of urgency. Even as you waited for a response, you planned: if you knocked again and there was no answer, you would break down the door. How you would accomplish that, you weren’t really sure. As you eyed the solid wood of the door, you wondered if you might be overestimating your own abilities.

Fortunately, you and your poor shoulder were spared from seeing how you fared against the door when it opened and Viktor’s brown eyes peered out. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” you asked, a little nonplussed.

“Of course,” he told you.

“What are you doing up here?”

Viktor looked overly innocent, which was a good as a red flag in the current situation. “Nothing in particular. Why?”

You squinted at him. “Well, I heard a really loud noise a few minutes ago. I thought you might have fallen and knocked yourself out.”

“Do you really think so little of my balance?”

The dry question was met with a hard stare of your own. You had seen him trip over nothing, and if something impacted how his cane landed, he was virtually guaranteed to end up on the ground.

Graciously, you decided not to bring up any of that. Instead, you said, “You’re out of breath. A little odd for someone claiming not to be doing anything in particular. And it’s really dark in there…”

You tried to see around him and into the apartment, but Viktor leaned into your line of sight. “Seriously, did you knock over a lamp or something? It totally dark in there. Wait, not totally… Are those candles? I don’t think you’re allowed to have candles in the dorms.”

Viktor sighed heavily, letting the door swing out from his grip. You took a moment to process his bare feet and rumpled hair before accepting his silent invitation and stepping past him into the apartment. As always, you almost struggled to believe that his apartment shared a layout with yours, since his was decorated so dramatically differently.

His furniture was almost entirely missing, with the exception of a very old and well-worn recliner that he slept in. The rest of the space was taken up with various experiments. They had changed since the last time you had been there, but precise layouts of chemical, biological, and mysterious experiments still spread across every available surface. Each one was accompanied by a notebook containing neatly written notes.

It took a moment for you to check, but you couldn’t see anything around the room that would have caused the amount of noise that had brought you upstairs in the first place. That was good, since it meant that Viktor probably wasn’t hurt and trying to hide it from you.

There was a bare circle on one of Viktor’s countertops, all the experiments carefully swept clear. In the middle of the circle was a cluster of candles, throwing warm light dancing around the room.

“Well, at least you made sure nothing would catch on fire from your illegal candles,” you conceded.

Viktor came to stand beside you. “Well, nothing that I don’t want to be caught.”

Your eyebrows raised without your permission as you gave him a sidelong look. “Are you lighting things on fire in your apartment? Need I remind you that I live downstairs and that the building is ancient? And flammable?”

“Besides,” he continued, ignoring you. “I think they set a mood quite nicely. Don’t you agree?”

“What mood are you trying to set? Angsty serial killer, or are you going for-”

Viktor leaned close, the motion so sudden that you pulled backward. You would have thought it was just a rushed attempt at a kiss, but the way he was looking at you was anything but romantic. His amber eyes were studying your face like you were one of his experiments. You didn’t care for the feeling.

“Is something wrong?” he asked abruptly.

The bluntness of the question threw you off, made you less able to create a believable story. “Not- Not really? Bad day. Then my upstairs neighbor keeps being noisy.”

“Today was your meeting with Professor Ukkud, was it not?” he asked. It was a rhetorical question; Viktor had proven to have a near-eidetic memory when it came to the things you told him. “Did she have many critiques for your dissertation?”

“Something like that,” you admitted.

“Strange,” Viktor mused. “I thought it was rather brilliant.”

Your eyes snapped to his. Viktor was smiling slightly, but he seemed sincere. He had read your dissertation.

When you had asked him to the first time - claiming that you needed another set of eyes on it - he had refused. His explanation was that his ties to the Undercity were too strong, that he wouldn’t be able to look at your proposal with any objectivity. That had seemed like a lie to you, but you hadn’t pushed. A boundary was a boundary, even if he wasn’t giving you the real reason behind it.

“You… you read my dissertation?” you stammered.

“Of course,” he told you. “It’s you. How could I no-? Unh!”

You felt a little guilty about the way that his throat had collided with the top of your shoulder as you pulled him into a hug, but you couldn’t stop yourself from gripping him with your full strength.

It was only when he stroked a hand down your back, hushing you gently, that you realized you were crying. The entire story spilled from you then. Every detail about Professor Ukkud’s recommendation for rewriting, your crushing disappointment, and the nagging fear that she was right and that to present before the Council would be to set yourself up for failure.

Viktor held you close, making appropriate noises as the stream of words pouring from you finally slowed, then stopped. “Do you want to talk it over? Consider your options?”

“No,” you refused, smiling tearfully at him. “I feel better just telling you about it. But I could really use a distraction. That is, if you don’t mind? I know I’m all gross…”

Viktor’s soft lips halted your apologies and explanations. You still felt as gross as you had claimed to be, but you sank eagerly into the kiss. It wasn’t often that you let Viktor lead - normally, you were too excited for that - but you gladly followed the soothing motions of his mouth against yours.

“We do not have to-” he started when you pulled back to breathe.

“No, but I really, really want to,” you admitted openly.

“In that case…” Viktor stepped away. You immediately felt the loss of his warm body against his, but he was holding a hand out to you. When you took it, he started leading the way to his bedroom.

It took until you were at the doorway to remember why this was a bad idea. You tugged slightly against his grip. “I know I said I want a distraction, but I’d rather not get eaten by one of your plants, Viktor. That’s not exactly what I’m looking for right now.”

“Do not worry,” he assured you, pushing the door open. “I removed them last week.”

“...Why?”

He laughed openly at you. “You’re too young to be so skeptical.”

And then he stepped through the door, pulling you in behind him before you could continue protesting.

To your surprise, Viktor had been telling the truth. The plants that had dominated most of the bedroom the last time you’d been inside were gone, as were the colorful lights that had illuminated them. He had even removed the protective tape from the light switch.

Even without turning on the notoriously harsh overhead lights, you could see Viktor’s bedroom clearly enough for your mouth to fall open. “Is that..?”

“Yes, it is,” Viktor confirmed, smiling more broadly than you had ever seen.

You started forward, but paused. “I’m almost afraid to touch it. Is this a trick? A mirage? An optical illusion?”

Viktor only chuckled at you, gently shaking his head. You moved closer despite yourself, extending a hand until your fingers rested against the soft, sheet-covered surface of a real, tangible bed.

“It’s real,” you reported, awe heavy in your tone.

Viktor rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “I know, I moved it in here today.”

You rounded on him. “Is that what was making all of the noise? You shouldn’t have put it together yourself, Viktor. I would have been happy to help you.”

“I didn’t build the frame myself,” he said dryly. “I know my limits. I had some members of the housing administration bring the pieces and assemble everything for me this afternoon.”

“Then what were you doing that made so much noise?” you asked. “And how did the housing administration not freak out when they saw your collection of experiments? You have to be doing irreparable damage to the interior of this place.”

Viktor looked offended. “I know how to perform an experiment with minimal risk to the environment, myself, and others. And did it not occur to you that I could be trying to surprise you?”

“Honestly, the idea of you moving the plants was surprising enough,” you admitted. “But where are they? Are they okay?”

“They are fine.” You relaxed at the answer. Viktor’s plants may have tried to eat you, but that didn’t mean you wanted to think about them rotting somewhere. “The experiments were a success, so I had the plants moved into the lab for further testing and eventual propagation.”

You nodded, impressed despite yourself. Viktor’s efforts to grow plants using various colors of light had seemed ridiculous and frivolous when you’d first learned about them, but he had eventually told you that there were implications for growing them in the Undercity.

“Now,” Viktor said lowly, taking a step closer to you, “Are discussions about my botanical experiments distraction enough for you?”

You thought about it for a moment, but decided that, no, it wasn’t. “I think I need a distraction that’s a little more… hands-on.”

As you said the last, you grabbed Viktor’s spare hand, placing it on the curve of your hip. The warm weight of it made you tense with anticipation even as Viktor rolled his eyes. “You are impossible.”

“Flatterer,” you accused, leaning in for another kiss. Viktor dropped his feigned grumpiness immediately to seize the offer of your lips. Eagerly, you lost yourself in his embrace.

By the time you remembered that you were a physical being in a physical environment, you had changed positions entirely. You were sitting now, making good use of Viktor’s new bed. He was in front of you, cupping your cheek with a careful reverence that made you feel distinctly melty.

His graceful fingers traced up and down the stretched-out collar of your sweatshirt. “Tell me you are not wearing anything complicated under this.”

You shook your head, grinning. “No, you’re still the king of complicated clothing.”

Viktor gave you surprisingly wicked smile. “I planned ahead.”

And then you watched, fascinated, as he unbuttoned the few buttons on his vest. With it gone, you found that his shirt was held together only by the buttons that would show above and below the vest itself. With three more buttons undone, Viktor was bare from the waist up, and looking very proud of himself for it.

The laugh that burst from you was loud and joyful. That moment of silliness from Viktor had done more to lift your mood than hours of ruminating had. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Flatterer,” he returned. “You are also falling behind in this particular race.”

Your eyebrows shot upward. That was a challenge you had no intention of letting stand. You stripped off your sweatshirt in a single motion and - luckily enough - static friction pulled your sleep shirt off at the same time.

You gave Viktor a triumphant look, then both of you were fumbling to remove your own pants. Viktor had buttons to deal with while you did not, but you were stymied by the shoes you had put on to climb the stairs. He beat you, but only by a margin of seconds. You cut off any intended boasting with a deep kiss. And since you were already there, you straddled his thighs at the same time.

Viktor’s hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you back slightly. “No, I’m going to be on top this time.”

For the first time in a while, you felt a little uncertain. “Is that a good idea? Your leg-”

“-Will be fine,” he told you firmly. “It has improved with all the exercise it has gotten lately. Nothing long-term, but I can do this. Let me do this?”

The soft entreaty, more than anything else he could have said, convinced you. You gave a shallow nod and Viktor set to work. He guided you down to the mattress - and you were privately disappointed that the sheets didn’t have time to smell like him yet - and settled on top of you.

The weight of him was solid between your thighs, even with him bracing a hand against the bed’s surface. You were always mildly surprised at Viktor’s size - his height and narrow build often made him appear far more slender than he truly was.

You did have admit that you liked the position for how close everything was. When you were on top, you often felt further away from him than you wanted to be. But with Viktor taking the lead, his free hand roamed your body as both of your hands did the same to him. He alternated between kissing you and nosing along your skin while you did your best to suck tiny bruises into every stretch of his neck and jaw that you could reach.

After a span that seemed both endless and impossibly short, Viktor pulled away with a groan. “I am uncertain how much longer I can wait to be inside of you.”

Everything between your legs gave an eager pulse, your muscles helpfully lifting the cradle of your hips to press yourself more firmly against him. The length of him slipped easily between your folds, pressing against you.

You gave a stuttered breath at the contact - he wasn’t entering you, but the angle of him left his head brushing firmly against your clit and the sensations were dazzling. Viktor must have been in a similar frame of mind, because he gave another groan. This one was hoarse, verging on desperate, and you throbbed.

“Please,” you asked, lifting your hips once more.

It took a fumbling moment for Viktor to reposition the head of himself against your entrance, but he made up for lost time by sliding home the instant he was in place.

The noise you made was inarticulate and loud, and you were grateful that the only apartment connected to Viktor’s was your own empty one. Viktor was silent, but when you remembered to open your eyes, you found that his had fluttered shut. There was a wrinkle of concentration between his dark brows, but something about their upward tilt gave him a hint of beatific supplication. He looked like he was praying.

He drew in a breath - a long, shaking inhale - and opened those gorgeous eyes.

“You are never anything less than incredible.” His fervent, matter-of-fact delivery was sincere enough that you believed him. It wasn’t enough to remove the soreness of the day from your heart, but it certainly didn’t hurt.

But you were neighbors with benefits, not a couple. This level of emotion seemed taboo, somehow forbidden for two people in a casual relationship. You pushed your response aside, teasing, “Are you talking about me or my pussy?”

“You.”

The only way to hide your response to the affirmation would be to close your eyes, and that was a sacrifice you weren’t willing to make. So instead, you leaned up to give him a kiss, hoping to convey some sense of what he meant to you. You couldn’t be sure what came through, but at least he began moving inside of you.

Viktor felt exquisite inside of you and it was hard to concentration on anything other than the pressure he put on your g-spot every time he moved into or out of you. But in the quiet spaces in his rhythm, you gathered yourself enough to watch him. Not only was watching Viktor one of your great joys in life, you were also searching for any signs that this position was hurting or straining him.

True to his claims, it didn’t seem to be. Viktor’s pace was eager, nothing but intense focus on his face. The noises he made didn’t sound pained, either, and you let yourself relax into enjoying the entire experience.

Your finger traced along the lean muscle of Viktor’s chest, danced across his ticklish ribs, and met briefly behind his back. The feeling of his muscles tightening and releasing as he drove into you and pulled back out was intoxicating. It also made you aware of the way your hips were surging up to meet his thrusts, turning every stroke into a earth-shattering collision.

When your timing matched up with Viktor’s, it felt like he was pushing his way up into your stomach. The depth of it was a little strange, but it didn’t hurt. Far from it, actually. You jerked so hard that Viktor paused.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” you told him, adding, “If you stop, I’m going to hurt you.”

He laughed, and the desperate need pulled away long enough for you to see the humor in it. “It feels wonderful, Viktor. Please keep going.”

Viktor took you at your word and started thrusting into you even harder than before, but much faster. The pleasure came roaring back with a vengeance.

In moments, you were clutching at Viktor’s shoulders both to keep yourself from being pushed up the bed and in an effort to keep yourself grounded. This was overwhelming, but in a way that left you ready for more even while you were still experiencing it. This was something addictive, you realized, but you couldn’t even begin to worry about that.

Especially when your body started to tighten around Viktor’s.

“Close.”

Your panted warning made Viktor nod. He dropped his pelvis a fraction of an inch, making his occasional brushes against your clit far more often and intense. Seemingly instantly, that contact pushed you unceremoniously over the edge.

Viktor managed to keep his pace even with your body locking down around him. You shook and panted and gasped - and made some sounds that were far more dramatic - as he worked his way closer to his own orgasm.

When you drifted back down to earth, you were content to watch Viktor work above you. He was close, you could see it in the way his arms trembled, the drop of sweat from his temple tracing down over jutting cheekbones.

“Close,” he hissed, pushing into you so hard that it sent a shockwave through your body.

You smiled at that. You had asked him once why he warned you when you had already come. He had simply shrugged and told you, “It seems the polite thing to do.” It was so perfectly Viktor that you had laughed then. It still made you smile.

Viktor plunged deep inside of you, giving a low and hastily-stifled groan as he came. He was particularly beautiful in the throes of pleasure, you noted. His pale skin was slightly flushed with exertion, lips swollen and red from kissing you. When his head tipped back, you could admire the marks you had scattered across his neck. His eyes were closed, but you could picture the stunning shade of amber they would be when they glowed with pleasure.

When he was finished, Viktor’s arms were shaking badly enough that you were worried, but he managed to lower himself beside you rather than collapsing. You wouldn’t have minded that so much, but Viktor’s limbs were so long and angular that collisions tended to leave you with large, unfun bruises the next day.

“Are you okay?” Viktor asked.

You pulled your attention back to the moment. “Yes, of course. Why?”

“You are usually talking by now,” he told you. His eyes were still closed, but a tiny smile played around the fullness of his lips.

With a hum, you said, “Good point. Maybe we should talk about all of this.”

Viktor’s eyes opened at that. He looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You sat up slightly, wincing at the way his cum started trickling out of you. But you pressed your legs together, ignoring the sensation in favor of counting on your fingers. “The candles, the bed, the mysterious noise with no apparent cause…”

“That is what would make a noise mysterious,” Viktor agreed, an edge of sarcasm in his accented voice.

“Shush. Anyway, I’m working on a theory…” You paused to recheck your work, but arrived at exactly the same conclusion you had come to the first time. “Were you trying to lure me up here for some reason?”

“‘Lure’ is an ugly word.”

“That’s not a real answer,” you informed him. “Were you planning something? Something I derailed by bursting into tears before you could get to it?”

“It wasn’t important,” he told you. “Not by comparison.”

His closer hand was resting against the mattress, between his face and yours. You laced your fingers with his, and he returned your smile. How could you be sad when there was magic like this in the world?

“Will you tell me what it was?” you requested softly. “Please?”

Viktor’s smile turned a little sickly and he swallowed, but nodded. “I wanted to- Well, I still want to… Ask- If you might want something more serious.”

“With you?” you checked.

Now looking distinctly queasy, Viktor nodded again. “With me.”

You beamed, feeling inexplicably close to tears once more. “I would like that a lot, Viktor.”

“You-?” Viktor’s eyes were wide, even as he feigned a casual attitude. “You would. Very well. Then I believe we should enter into a romantic relationship together.”

“I believe the same,” you said, giving him your best grave expression. It wasn’t particularly solemn, not with the way you had been grinning a moment before, but it was enough to make Viktor roll his eyes as he tried not to smile. “When should we begin?”

“In my opinion,” Viktor said carefully, “we already have.”

“Fair point,” you conceded, squeezing his hand as you leaned in for another kiss.

---

Author's Note - As I've said on a few different fics I've posted this year, this is my last Fanfic February! The tolls of writing over 100,000 words to post all in one month is pretty high, especially when I have so many other ongoing projects.

I have some additional ideas for this story and I might continue it when I've caught up on the other works I've been ignoring. For now, I think this is a good pause point.

Thank you for reading!

#fanfic february #fanfic february 2024 #arcane #arcane 2021 #arcane netflix #arcane viktor #viktor #viktor x reader #viktor x you #fem!reader #reader #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #reader insert fanfic #reader insert fic #spicy #lemon #not suitable for minors #minors dni

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dykecubes · 5 months

Text

god the more that I think about it the more I do genuinely wish the qsmp would just temporarily shut down the server and go on hiatus for a couple months, not just because it would give them time to slow down and work on resolving the admin situation but because it also benefits everyone in other ways, think about it:

a lot of streamers have reached a point where they feel fatigued or burnt out with the qsmp, taking a few months off gives them the opportunity to relax and come back later on, refreshed and with new ideas

it gives a similar break to the admins and gives those behind the scenes time to plan lore or work on things like builds and mods for the server at a more relaxed speed

fans often have very little time to catch up on streams or vods with things like school and work, a hiatus gives them an opportunity to catch up

similarly, there are a lot of people who want to get into the qsmp, but the sheer amount of content overwhelms them and they often don't even start because of the fear that they'll never catch up, a hiatus gives them the opportunity to start

by the time the server finally comes back online, hype will have built over the course of the months until reaching an all time high on the day the server reopens

I think there's this sort of aversion to hiatuses nowadays because of the demand from video hosting and streaming platforms for daily content to appease the almighty, ever-changing algorithm. I think this caused fans to also fear the hiatus, considering a piece of media "dead" every second it isn't actively streaming or being made, but the past several decades of fandom history have shown that media, especially long form media, thrive off hiatuses, the original Homestuck fandom, for example, was literally built off of multi-year long hiatuses, which fans complained about, yes, but it allowed fan content to thrive and new people to get into the webcomic without the pressure of trying to keep up with some kind of daily update schedule

hiatuses are also somewhat of an under-appreciated and, I would argue, essential aspect of any kind of media production or fandom, long breaks helps prevent burnout and generate excitement towards that piece of media

idk, again this is all hypothetical, I don't think the qsmp would actually go on a break like this but the more that I think about it the more I want it 😭😭

#fae.txt #qsmp #qadmin situation #<- not really but just in case #anyway. girl help the constant media stream is overwhelming me and I'm getting nostalgic for the Homestuck hiatuses #long post

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foolishlovers · 7 months

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hiii!!! do u have any recs for long AUs??? thank you! :]

of course, i love long good omens AUs, here are some of my favourites:

[you can request more fic recs here.]

Golden Handcuffs by seekwill (E, 70k) Far from any city, near the Scottish coast, Tadfield College has a celebrated history, an unrivaled academic reputation, and two departments at war. When the Biology and English departments are forced to share a building, Senior Lecturer and botanist Anthony Crowley finds himself drawn into the orbit of the polite but strange English professor, Dr. Aziraphale Fell. As the new term begins, two academics navigate the politics of both their offices and academia, and try to solve the puzzle of one another.

Fifty-Two Blue by bendycello (M, 84k) It would be a gross understatement to say that Crowley simply didn't like Aziraphale. He was posh and stuffy and arrogant, and Crowley couldn't figure out why everyone else in the program liked him so much. It hardly mattered; they were competitors, and Crowley didn't need to make friends to become a surgeon. It takes several unleasant encounters, the excessive use of house plants as a coping mechanism, and getting stuck in an elevator for Crowley to start reconsidering his priorities. Or… Crowley and Aziraphale are surgical interns with competitive streaks a mile wide each, and they really do not like each other at all. Until they do.

Waking Up Slow by the_moonmoth (E, 87k) “Then you’ll just have to come back with me," Aziraphale said. “You what?” “You’ll have to come and isolate with me, at my cottage.” The thing about messing with people, Crowley thought, was that sometimes, they genuinely surprised you. After both being exposed to coronavirus, total strangers Crowley and Aziraphale are forced to wait out their isolation together. A tale of soft winter romance by the sea.

Slow Show by mia_ugly (E, 95k) In which temptations are accomplished, grand romantic gestures are made, and two ineffable co-stars only take four seasons of an award-winning television program to realize they’re on their own side (at last, at last.)

Car Trouble by summerofspock (E, 102k) Aziraphale's car breaks down so he takes it to the first mechanic he can find. From there, his mundane life changes drastically as he finds himself befriending the man fixing his car.

on the same page by Chekhov (E, 117k) Aziraphale Z. Fell is a rising star of the spiritual literary genre - the next Eat Pray Love guy - and his version of Chicken Soup For the Christian Soul is flying off the shelves. It's not that he's not grateful, but it's one thing to enjoy a career in writing and another completely to be pigeonholed into a specific genre, so much so that you are almost forbidden from writing anything else. So yes, maybe he has a bit of a secret. An outlet for his less… appropriate urges. And yes, if his typical readership got word of the sort of paragraphs he could put out on a particularly inspired night, they might suffer some form of heart attack typical for their age. But all of that is well hidden, and there is absolutely no way anyone would ever find out about his Arrangement with A.J. Crowley - the most debaucherous romantic fiction author of the decade. That is… until they have to pretend to be married to each other.

Married at First Sight by Aracloptia (T, 146k) “Well, that was a thing,” Crowley said once they were out of earshot. Without talking about it, they were both heading down the field, towards the lake where the photographer (and likely a few more people from the TV crew) was waiting. “That was a wedding,” Aziraphale replied, surprised at his own annoyance that somebody called a wedding a ‘thing’. “Yeah, obviously, didn’t miss that part,” Crowley said with a shrug, and waved abruptly in Aziraphale’s general direction. “Neither did you, from the looks of it, since you’re dressed like a wedding bride and everything.” “Excuse me, I am a—“ Aziraphale stopped himself, and started over. In which Aziraphale ends up marrying a rude stranger who wears sunglasses.

Old Vines by sevdrag (E, 189k) A.Z. Fell, one of the most respected names in wine and food blogging, has been sent on assignment with his assistant Warlock Dowling to spend six months in California Wine Country. Under direction (by his boss, Gabriel) to use this experience to double his blog followers and write a novel, Aziraphale is both excited and anxious about the opportunity. Anthony J. Crowley is the owner and viticulturalist of Ecdyses, a winery that unexpectedly fell into his lap eleven years ago when he hit rock bottom. He may be in debt, yeah, but he’s paying off his loans — and despite pressure from his lenders and their team of inspectors, Crowley has found a kind of contentment tending his little corner of terroir and producing extraordinary wine. Crowley’s old vines are the heart of his vineyard, and he’s never let anyone in. Crowley finds Aziraphale intriguing; Aziraphale finds Crowley enthralling. Turns out a famous wine expert and an experienced viticulturalist can still learn things from each other. The summer of 2019 unfolds.

What We Make of It (Shotgun Wedding) by charlottemadison (E, 213k) The important thing, Crowley tells himself -- the most important thing -- is Adam, his brilliant, creative, empathetic nephew. Being fourteen's hard enough; the kid didn't ask to deal with the weight of the world on top of it. And if taking care of Adam means Crowley has to tough it out at a job he can’t stand, so be it. And if Crowley's job means that Adam’s charming English teacher is NOT a romantic possibility, well, that's just how things go. But the occasional drink with Aziraphale proves hard to resist. They frequent the same pub, so who can object to them saying hello? Briefly sharing a table? Perhaps a little conversation? The painful knowledge that it can’t be anything more -- not without somebody getting fired or sued or both -- well, that can't be helped. Until Crowley stumbles onto a terribly reckless idea…

#you've come to the right place #i love nothing more than immersing myself in a really long good omens fic shshhs #if anyone has some recs for me PLS go ahead and send them!!#good omens #good omens human au #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #aziraphale x crowley #aziracrow #aziracrow fic #good omens fic rec #foolish recs #go fic masterpost

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younmexreaders · 5 months

Text

~~ Valus x Reader 18+~~

You get really curious about demons and decide to summon an incubus. He's willing to go slow and help you explore.

Fem Reader/Incubus OC | 4k words

Includes:

Demons

Tentacles

Oral

The rumors of witches with the ability to summon creatures of the night have been ringing through the town since long ago. You never believed any of it before, but your friend did. Lilith would adamantly try convincing you of its authenticity, claiming her mother and her mother's mother were a part of the coven and witnessed the creatures themselves. Of course, you didn't believe that, but you let her have her beliefs because she was your friend.

Then she brought a book of shadows to your home. You weren't too comfortable with that... Lilith refused to listen to your complaints and insisted that you would not even remember you were hanging onto it. But she gave no reason as to why she needed you to keep it.

No matter how much time passed, you couldn't ignore its presence. It was almost magnetic. You could swear it was drawn to you and, sometimes, you swore you could even... hear it. Calling to you. In a language you couldn't figure out nor find.

Late into the night you were lying awake, staring at it as it laid on your desk. Your nerves couldn't take it anymore. Every facet of your being begged you to tear it open and see what was inside. You shot upright, throwing your blankets aside and pulling on the lamp chain. The light hurt your eyes for a moment. Blinking it away quickly, you flipped open the book of shadows. The pages were full to the brim of different spells. You were nowhere near skilled enough to understand the differences between anything, but it seemed Lilith had written several notes all over the book.

She had given you an annotated copy of the book of shadows. With everything explained in depth and alternatives to several of the spell ingredients listed out. You felt... something. You couldn't really decipher what your brain was giving you. Thankfulness? It was sweet of her to take the time to explain every little thing in there knowing you were completely unaware of magic. Remorse? You did feel bad that you were so grumpy and scared of the whole thing. Continuing to read showed you that she scribbled over and tore out spells she knew would only make you uncomfortable. Fertility, curses, weird spells that affected the will of others. Things you wouldn't want to touch in your life. Destroyed so you wouldn't even know them.

There was one set of spells that caught your eye though. Summoning, annotated to mention that it was basically a lost art until a witch from decades ago revived the practice. You looked it over, curious what all these creatures with weird names were. Only the minor ones had any drawings attached. Thank you, Lilith. But the page titled "Incubus" gave you the most pause.

...You had grown exceptionally curious. The pages were only annotated to say what things meant, but it didn't mention anything about the creature's appearance or abilities. Lilith must not have summoned it yet. If she ever planned to.

You knew exactly what you wanted to do now.

You stormed to her house the next morning. The book was so comfortable in your hand, as if it were made for you, but the leather was so oddly cold to the touch. Lilith came to the door quickly with a grin that said she was expecting you to show up. There was a puff of incense smoke billowing out around her that carried the scent of lavender. Pleasant in any other light, but it was making you tense.

You stood there, trembling, book in hand, but you couldn't speak. The words refused to reach your throat at all.

"Nice to see you finally. How are you doing?" She said, tilting her head at you and wondering what you were doing there. You were still a shaking leaf without a voice. Lilith raised a brow.

"Did you... want to ask me something?"

...

"Were you just coming to say hi?"

...

Lilith frowned and looked around you to see if you were here for a different reason. She didn't see anyone in the vicinity, but she wasn't going to let you walk away like this just in case there was someone on your tail. That was the only thing she could think of that might do this to you. Taking your shoulder, she ushered you inside and shut the door swiftly, locking it.

"Are you okay? Was someone out there?" She asked, looking you in the eyes and firmly jostling you out of your freeze.

"I-I want to try this." You muttered finally, holding up the book. Lilith breathed a heavy sigh of relief and leaned on the wall.

"Jeez, don't scare me like that! Of course, dude. I'll help you out with any of them. Which one were you thinking?"

You flipped the book open until you found the page and showed it to her. Lilith scanned it before widening her eyes and turning red. She closed the book with your hands and turned her eyes away.

"Summoning is really hard for beginners! A-and who knows how that thing will act? It might get all insatiable with us..." Lilith stammered, finding excuses not to do it.

"Are you embarrassed?"

"D-Don't be ridiculous!"

She set the book on a stand on her desk, flipping to the page, and looking over the ritual. She hummed as she read it and nodded once she was done.

"Hah... well... I really want to try it. Maybe you can just tell me how to do it?" You suggested, hugging the book to your chest. Lilith pursed her lips and looked away. There must be some reason she hasn't done this summon and is so weird about it. You were hoping she would just tell you, but you both kept things from each other sometimes. Just saying how you felt could be really hard.

Lilith sighed softly and offered her hands to you. You handed her the book and followed her to a room near the back of her house where the floral scents were the strongest. There was an altar that was meticulously cared for. Precious gems and various minerals were high on shelves with stacks of different colored candles for future use.

"Alright. I'll show you how this is done... but I might leave before you start, okay? I'll just be outside just in case the Incubus gets... intense. Okay?" Lilith warned as she started gathering the materials from around the room.

"Okay... can I ask why?"

"Why it might get intense?"

"No, why you are leaving."

"Oh... uhm..." she paused, cradling the items in her arms and looking down, "I just don't want to get fucked by a demon. It's a line I won't cross."

"Is it wrong to do? Should I stop?" You were growing concerned. Maybe you made the wrong choice.

"No. It's a personal choice. There's nothing wrong with asking a sex demon for a bit of sex. You should enjoy yourself and they get to "eat". It's fine. I just don't want to be a part of it." Lilith set the items down and started setting up the summon space. She starts painting on the floor. A circle to border the large symbol. the symbol a strange design. A box with a line through it. Arrows on both sides with the top one being much thicker and changing color when colliding with the box. And two sideways S shapes on either side.

"Okay. Now I need you to, uh... undress." Lilith muttered.

"Right now?" You burned in the cheeks and fidgeted nervously. Lilith nodded and took a rose and a vanilla orchid with her to the desk, tying them into a bundle together with a green string. It was all precise and specific. Exactly what the ritual called for. But you didn't recall needing to be naked for it.

"It's an Incubus. It requires you to, uh, "present yourself" to them." She explained, lighting a white candle placed at the tip of the arrow through the box.

"o-oh ok" You say in a very small voice. You start pulling your shirt off over your head and yanking your pants down around your ankles. Once they were all off, you folded them up and set them on the floor beside the circle, just outside of the border. Lilith handed you the bundle of flowers and directed you to sit in front of the candle, leaving the majority of the symbol clear.

"Alright. Here are your notes. After I give you this, I'm heading out. Okay? Are you still sure you want this? You can back out." Lilith took your hand and placed the paper in your palms, looking you in your eyes as she asked for confirmation. You thought for a moment. You looked at the symbol, then the room, holding your opposite hand over your chest to attempt some decency.

"I'm sure. I want this." You nodded firmly.

"Good. Then here. You need to chant this phrase five times. No more, no less. It's in Latin and I have the pronunciation written just in case you haven't been practicing your Latin." A small jab, and yet still thoughtful. You gave a small pout, but you said nothing. Taking the notes.

"Burn the flowers. Wait for them to lose their petals. Then start chanting. It MUST be five times." She reiterated that point with a lot of stress. You could only assume what might happen if you failed to do that. Luckily, you won't be careless enough to forget. Lilith went to the door and waited for you to sit in your position before closing you off into the room alone.

You were a little nervous and shaky, but you were determined to do this.

It's been so long since you had some fun...

You took a deep breath and slowly lowered the flowers over the candle until they caught fire. You held them out and away from you while they burned, scrunching your nose at the smell. Once the petals all burned away, you set them down and opened your notes.

"Spiritus cortici et vitis. Servus carnis. Ego tibi cuncta quaero simul." You muttered.

Once.

"Spiritus cortici et vitis. Servus carnis. Ego tibi cuncta quaero s-simul." You shook a little on the last word. You could hear... wind? Was there a draft in there?

Twice.

"Spiritus cortici et vitis. Servus carnis. Ego tibi cuncta quaero simul."

Thrice.

There was a whispering in your ears that made you flinch and close your eyes tightly. You gulped and breathed deeply once more. You couldn't lose focus.

"Spiritus cortici et vitis. Servus carnis. Ego tibi cuncta quaero simul."

F...frice? Four times.

A wind began to swirl around you, picking up your hair and making you shiver. The flame never flickered.

"Spiritus cortici et vitis. Servus carnis. Ego tibi cuncta quaero simul!"

Five.

You shouted, spitting it out before the growing nerves made you freeze up. The wind stopped and the candle went out, leaving you in utter darkness. You sat frozen in the dark. Waiting for whatever might happen. The symbol gradually lit up with a mint green hue. Once each line was illuminated, the circle filled with light. Hands grabbed the edges of the portal suddenly, making you yelp with surprise and slap a hand over your mouth fearfully.

The demon pulled itself out of the portal, flicking a long tongue across his sharp teeth and standing tall over you. There were no eyes in it's face. The back of it's head was hollow and filled with blue fire. It was listening carefully with its pointed ears, turning its head down to face you.

"Good evening." It purred in a low tone that vibrated the visible muscle on its throat.

"G-g... Good..." You couldn't form more than that. You stared at the creature with your mouth agape in surprise and awe. The creature chuckled, bowing to you and waiting for the portal to close before approaching.

"I believe we haven't met. I never forget a pretty face."

"N-no."

"I'm Valus, dear. May I have your name?" He asked, kneeling on the ground to be on your level. You told him your name and reached for the candle. It was so dark in there. You couldn't tell anything about Valus save for what his flames illuminated. You lit the candle using his fires. You don't think he noticed.

He was dressed very formally, which was a surprise. You thought he would be naked too. His hands were rough like the bark of a tree, his flesh green like a forest. He smelled like a garden. You were comforted by the scent and his calm, restrained behavior.

"I am at your command, ____" He said, using your name in order to be familiar with you, "what would you like me to do?"

"Are there limits?"

"Hahah! Only yours. I am bound to do everything you ask."

"A-ah... Well, I'm pretty vanilla, I guess," you admitted with a small laugh, setting the candle on the desk so it didn't hurt anyone, "uhm... I think I wanted to summon a p-person like you so that I could branch out a little."

"I can do that." He nodded. He leaned back to start pulling all of his clothes off, which took a moment and gave you time to decide if you wanted to continue. Seeing his firm chest and the... length... he was working with made you absolutely certain.

"Let's start small. So I don't get spooked."

"Fair. Shall I lead the dance?" He asked, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his lap. He was very warm. You almost wanted to rest against him and sleep. His hands trailed down your sides to your butt, giving you a little squeeze. You felt your face burn again. Valus smirked before meeting his lips with yours. His lips were softer than you thought they'd be. He kneaded his fingers into your plush flesh as he held you against his chest. Your breasts pressing against him and making him smirk.

Valus's piece was beneath you. With the gentle kissing, it was still rather flaccid. You rested your hands on his upper arms and rocked your hips slowly. Grinding your pussy against his cock. He gave a small groan, separating momentarily to shudder his breath before returning to your lips. With each motion, he grew a bit more stiff. More and more until his cock was flush against your slit.

You started to feel something creeping along your skin. As soon as you realized the feeling is spreading, you pulled back and looked around. Then you saw the tendrils wrapping around you from your back, creeping up to grip your breasts and coil them securely. All the way along your mounds until the vines are tugging on your hardening nipples. You whined and hitched your breath.

"How is this?" Valus asked, his voice rumbling in his chest.

"I-it's nice." You answered, leaning back to allow him room to reach. He lowered his head, feathering kisses down your neck and shoulders until he reached your nipples and gave them some attention. You mewed and closed your eyes. The sensations were minimal. Slowly awakening your nerves for what was to come.

The vines lifted you up with ease. Each tendril gripping you securely so you were not discomforted by the action. His cock stood tall beneath you. Steadily leaking a small pearl of clear fluid.

"I should make sure you're ready." Valus purred. He dragged his tongue along your stomach as he lifted you higher until your crotch was at his face level. Two tendrils slid down to hold your lips open for him. He licked his lips and blew a warm breath across your moistening slit. You shivered and squirmed a little. His tendrils didn't cease with their tugging on her nipples.

Valus lulled a long, flexible tongue out of his cage of teeth and dragged it up and down the whole of your pussy. You snickered and looked down at him curiously. When his tongue caught her clit and began kneading into it. He was relentless. Swirling it. Sucking on it. The warm shudders of pleasure radiating through you and making you writhe.

He rarely left for any breath, giving your clit a relentless assault of sensations. You could barely hold back your moans after a point. Your chest heaved and you tried to hold Valus's head down, but his tendrils took your wrists and held them over your head. Possibly to protect you from mindlessly touching the fire? He buried his face into your pussy. His tongue pushed and slithered it's way deep inside your core.

It lashed at your walls, prodding for your sweet spot. He left nothing untouched. Your body becoming so warm with all the sensations he sent through you. It tightened a coil deep inside you. His sharp teeth threatening your moist lips would inch the coil tighter. You panted and rolled your head back. Your chest heaving and your mind beginning to go blank. You muttered curses as the intensity of the pleasure started to become overwhelming. You hugged your thighs around his face and shut your eyes tight.

His tongue slithered out of your core with a flick against your clit. He pushed his vine-like fingers into you and billowed his breath on your wetness.

"Are you going to cum for me~?" He purred. You nodded but no words could escape your throat. You were tense and ready to break. His tendrils teased you mercilessly, flicking your nub and plunging into you. You could barely think anymore. Valus's voice began echoing in your ears.

"Cum for me, darling. Let yourself enjoy it."

You could hardly contain the powerful rush that made your body spasm. You cried out as you came, gripping the vines tightly and arching backward in the air. You shuddered and gasped, sustaining the overwhelming pleasure until he pulled away from your twitching pussy and lowered you to the ground.

It took a while for the sensations to subside and your mind to finally clear enough to hear your own thoughts. You rested your hand against your forehead and laughed breathlessly.

"Ah... Sorry..." You muttered.

"Don't apologize for enjoying yourself," Valus held himself over you and pecked your lips. He rested on one forearm. His arms were in two separate parts connected by ghostly strings of muscle. He brushed a hand over your arm. Gently ensuring you felt comfortable as you cooled down. "Have you had enough?"

"That was more intense than I anticipated... I might have." You admitted. Though you felt bad that he was erect and unsatisfied. You rolled onto your stomach and pet his thighs, laying your head in his lap. He smirked down at you.

"Hm?"

"It's your turn now." You purred, dancing your fingers up his thighs and gently pulling on him to lift yourself up. He didn't stop you, sitting on his knees with his odd, 3 toed claws tucked under himself so he couldn't hurt you. He was visibly dangerous. Sharp in so many places yet exceedingly gentle and reluctant to hurt you.

You gripped his thick piece and kissed his tip. You stroked it slowly, awaiting to hear some noise that showed that you were doing well. He was quiet. You frowned and licked his head, stroking a little faster. It was comfortable in your hand and the pre-cum that had dripped down his cock already gave it a bit of slickness so you didn't have to spit on him. You didn't like that, it always felt so mean.

But he was so quiet.

Raising your head and keeping your hand's pace, you tilted your head at him. He was grinning, a crack in his lips to aid his breathing. His chest heaved with his breath but he somehow panted so silently.

"Y-You can make noise too, you know." You hummed. His ear flicked and he chuckled, turning away. You could swear there was some pink in his cheeks. Though the flames made it appear just like a darker green which was hard to tell different from his flesh.

"Ah... I'm not very loud. It feels good, you don't have to worry."

"Well," you pecked his lips and returned to his cock, kissing him there before swirling your tongue around the tip, "I want to know you like it." You wrapped your lips around his piece and attempted to mouth the whole length. You lowered to half of it's length, unable to go further. You weren't very practiced with blow jobs. But you were determined to make it good for him.

His cock twitched a little in your mouth as you bobbed on it, your hand sliding down and cupping his hefty sack. He groaned a little, holding himself up with his arms behind him. His face was a little more flushed this time around. The flame on his head flickering as he panted. You inched it further down your throat, but as you started to struggle with it, he placed a hand on your cheek and urged you to pull away. He was still panting, but you knew what he was doing. He didn't want you to strain or hurt yourself just to play with him. Fine. You hoped that what you could do was enough for him.

You bobbed on the first half of his piece and massaged your saliva into the rest of it. As you massaged his sack and rubbed what was left, you found your hand trailing down his pelvis to tease his flesh. You pulled off and licked him as you caught some breath, looking up at him to see how he was liking it. He had a hand over his mouth, his breath billowing out with light smoke, the flickering flames making their shadows dance on the walls.

He seemed close to falling apart. You had some pride that you could do that to someone. You sucked on his tip and swirled your tongue around it, rubbing it with an increased pace and utilizing both of your hands. As you worked he started to arch and groan a little louder. Still no more than a whisper.

"Are you getting close, now~?" You purred.

"Yeah." He breathed the word dreamily, leaning back on one arm and combing through your hair with the other. His tongue dragged over his dagger-like teeth and the smoke billowed once more.

"Do you like it?" You hummed. You rubbed him a little faster. His cock throbbed in your hand, the muscles in his throat visibly tightening as he choked back a sound. You wished he wouldn't.

"I-I love it." His panting was getting worse. He started to buck his hips a little, his nails digging into the floor. You rested his tip against your tongue and held your mouth open, awaiting his lust. The touch of your tongue sent a shock through his cock that finally sent him over the edge. He snapped his teeth together and groaned behind them, his head rolling back as he stuttered his hips. Shots of warm cum coated your mouth and tongue. Much more than you were anticipating. You closed your lips around it to ensure you could catch as much of it as possible.

There was only the sounds of heavy breath as you two tried to cool down. Valus leaned back against a wall and held you in his arms. Your head on his chest and your hand tracing over his toned stomach.

"I had fun~" You laughed.

"As did I. I haven't been called upon in a long time." Valus said, stroking your arm and brushing a finger over your cheek.

"You're far more gentle than I imagined an Incubus to be."

"My specialty. I find the meal is much more satisfying when both parties are enjoying themselves. Thank you."

You nodded and hugged him, nuzzling his chest. You wished you could lay like that for the rest of the night, but his purpose was fulfilled. He couldn't remain there for long. As you settled in to attempt taking a nap, you found the warmth was fading until you noticed his heartbeat was gone. You raised your head. The candle light from the desk showed that you were alone once more in the room. Task completed.

You would certainly have to summon him again.

#younme #reader insert #x reader #oc x reader #monster x reader #female reader #incubus x reader #smut #tentacles

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queerofthedagger · 6 months

Text

in my cold arms

[Fingon/Maedhros | T+ | 2.5k | AO3]

Tags: Canon Era, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Hair-Cutting as a Metaphor for frankly too many things, Light Angst

(Very belatedly) written for @feanorianweek day 1: Maedhros

Maedhros has been quiet since Fingon brought him back.

It should come as no surprise, of course, and in many ways, it is not. He sleeps a lot. He sits and watches as his brothers try not to choke or tear each other apart, caught between their relief and their guilt. He eats and drinks, slow and methodical.

It should come as no surprise, but Fingon catches himself thinking that it is. That it sits wrongly on the bruised, beautiful face—the blankness, the fissure cracks of desolation, the absence of fire.

Even sleeping as he is now, Fingon sitting beside his bed in silent vigil, he looks drawn. Fragile. As if he is only half there.

In all the years they have known each other, Maedhros has always burnt so bright that some days, Fingon could almost feel the heat of it, could sense the threat of what would happen to him if he dared come too close.

And Fingon had known that it would not be the same; had known it when he stood on the shores of the Helkaraxë, and when he learnt, later, that Maedhros had been taken. Knew it when he made the decision to find him, when he sang, when his arrow shivered on its string. More than anything, he had known it when he lifted his blade and saw the anguished resignation in Maedhros’ eyes.

He had known that it would not be the same, but Maedhros still looks at the world around him with that same anguished resignation, still looks, sometimes when he thinks Fingon isn’t watching, as if he can’t decide whether he has been rescued or condemned.

It looks wrong on him. No matter what Fingon had expected, it makes his skin crawl to see him like this. Makes him want to pick up his bow and his sword and march right back into Angband, enact his seething, bristling vengeance, claw the fire right out from beneath the accursed mountain until he can sink it back into Maedhros skin, let it warm him, make him whole.

Or perhaps that is overly arrogant. Perhaps Fingon just wishes that he could do something, something other than enduring the thick, lingering tension between them whenever Maedhros wakes. Something other than staring at the severed limb, wrought by Fingon’s own hand, whenever Maedhros sleeps.

He knows that it had been the only way. And yet.

“Stop.”

The voice makes him jolt, gaze snapping up to Maedhros face. He hadn’t noticed him waking, and there is said awkwardness, the unreadable glint in Maedhros eyes, the way that the air in the tent turns heavy with years of unspoken words.

Fingon wishes it were only Morgoth’s crimes lying between them.

“Stop what?” he asks, keeping his tone light. He does not think of how long it has been—weeks since they arrived in the camp. Years, decades since the light of Telperion washed Maedhros in glittering silver, his eyes like gems in the twilight. Since things were easy, shimmering promises hovering between them, a careful dance around a future just waiting for them to grasp it.

A lifetime, it feels, since then. Now Maedhros looks washed out and Fingon’s hands are shaking, and neither any longer knows how to talk to the other.

“Self-flagellating yourself over whatever supposed failure you are ruminating on this time,” Maedhros says, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. It vanishes as soon as it appeared. “What troubles you, Findekáno? We live yet. We breathe. Is that not all that counts?”

There is no accusation in Maedhros' mild tone, no bitterness. It is in the deliberate absence of it that Fingon sees it regardless, the space carefully measured and side-stepped.

He wants to weep, to shout. He curls his hands into fists until his nails bite into skin.

“Is it? Do you think so?”

He should not ask, should not pose the question like this. It has been decades, but he knows Maedhros, knows the flare of his temper and the meaning of how his eyes flash in response.

It is only a flicker, now, but it is more fire than Fingon has seen in weeks, and so he cannot help but revere it, to feel an answering spark inside his chest. To want to feed the flames no matter the cost.

He restrains himself. He is not here to poke and prod at Maedhros, to merely satisfy whatever his treacherous heart still, always still, wishes for.

Maedhros lifts a brow, and despite the scars twisting across his face, despite the tangled, matted mess of his hair and the ink-deep shadows beneath his eyes, he still succeeds in making it look imperious.

“I do not wish for death, Fingon; you may all be keeping a close watch on me, but I think I am yet capable of at least closing my eyes and meeting my end if I so pleased.”

It is not that easy, Fingon wants to say, but what use is it to argue. Maedhros is sharp-edged, a glinting blade yearning for blood, and Fingon has rarely ever seen him like this, but he knows him.

So he asks, “Do you want me to leave?” and pretends that his heart is not the pulpy, open mess of a wound within his chest.

Maedhros exhales sharply and slumps back into his pillows. His arm twitches as if he wants to reach for Fingon, and then remembers that he no longer has a hand to do so.

“No,” he finally says, after a pause that feels like years on grinding ice. “No, I would rather…”

He does not finish, and Fingon does not reach for him at the words he hears despite the silence.

Stay. I would rather you stay. I want to stay.

He settles back in his chair and lets his heart settle alongside it. Says, “Whatever you need, Russo,” and pretends that it is not an oath in its own right.

---

Fingon keeps staying, day after day in the dim tent. His father stays his tongue but his eyes speak volumes, and not all of their kin are as sparse with the proclamation of their judgement.

Fingon ignores it. With that, at least, he has long years of practice. And while progress seems slow, while Maedhros’ brothers watch him without bothering for subtlety, while some nights, Fingon still lies awake and feels blood on his hands, hears Maedhros’ screams, hears him beg, well—he at least no longer wonders whether he made the right choice.

Maedhros is alive, and he is clawing his way back to something akin to living too, arduous inch by arduous inch. When it comes right down to it, that is all Fingon wants.

Today, the late September day is brisk, even in the royal tent. He has a complicated relationship with the cold these days, but he doubts that it would be taken in anything but a pointed manner if he asked for furs.

So he sits, and lets his eyes linger on the bandages around Maedhros' arm, the unkempt hair, the battered mess of him.

He has not let anyone tend to said hair yet, none of his brothers and certainly not the healers, no matter how sharp Celegorm’s remarks or Maglor’s quiet offers. How obvious his discomfort.

“You are cold,” Maedhros says, once again catching Fingon off guard. At whatever Fingon’s face is doing, he huffs, waiting until Fingon meets his eyes. “You know me, Finyo; you forget that I know you, too.”

Fingon swallows his heart as it tries to leap up his throat. Smiles. Curls his hands into fists once more, and then uncurls them again, finger after finger, when Maedhros nods towards one of his blankets.

As Fingon takes it, warmth already suffusing his chest that has nothing to do with the actual fur, Maedhros pushes himself up. He is still unsteady, his recovery happening in staggering steps that are not helped by how some days, he pushes himself too much, and others refuses to rise at all.

Today, between the blankets and the tiredness and Fingon in the midst of it, he tangles himself up, leans on his own hair, and curses in a manner so foul that Nerdanel would have washed out his mouth for it.

Fingon reaches for him instinctively, and Maedhros doesn’t flinch away when he helps him to sit. It’s progress, and Fingon gladly takes it as such; he has long since stopped mourning for things he will not get back.

There is a pause once they have sorted themselves out, Fingon back in his chair and Maedhros perched on the edge of the bed. The braziers are rustling in the middle of the tent, and outside, the muted din of voices and people moving spools on without them.

Maedhros looks at him, a determined set to his jaw that Fingon, even after everything, is intimately familiar with.

And yet, when Maedhros says, “I want to cut it off,” Fingon stares at him for a heartbeat, two, too long before the words properly register.

“You what?”

Maedhros tilts his chin up. His eyes flash. Fingon wants to weep.

“The hair; I need it off, Fingon. It’s beyond salvation, and it’s—I need it off.”

Fingon swallows, and forces himself to nod. Deep down, he understands, he thinks; or at least he can try to.

And who is he to judge? Unlike other things, the hair will grow back if Maedhros wants it to.

He makes to rise. “Of course; do you want to do it now? I’m sure I can find you a knife or—“

Maedhros fingers close around his wrist, his touch warm. It is loose enough that Fingon could pull away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t; there is little that he wants to do less than to pull away from Maedhros. Never has.

“I want you to do it.”

It lands like a punch, like the ice of Helcaraxë down his back.

“Nelyo,” he chokes, the name tripping off his tongue even though he has not used it in many, many years.

“Well, I can hardly do it myself, can I?” Maedhros says, but he is smiling, his grey eyes almost dancing with mirth.

Fingon loves him so much that it burns.

“Of course,” he says. “Do you—now?”

Maedhros nods, and gestures for Fingon to move off the chair so that he can take his place. “Do you have a knife? There is one beneath my pillow, otherwise.”

Of course there is. Fingon takes his own from its sheath and moves behind him, and then he stares down at the fiery, beloved head.

He takes a strand of hair between his fingertips, careful; it feels rough, the knots and tangles and grime within it unmistakable; he wonders at it, the strong disdain that Maedhros has for it.

“How short do you want it?” he asks, and his voice comes out hushed. They haven’t been this close since before Valinor went dark, and Fingon—

Well, Fingon had thought that he had got a little bit better about the snarled riot of love inside his chest. He had thought that months upon ice and assumed betrayal would have at least allowed him to cut off some corners of his heart and harden it.

He is a fool, of course. He had known it when he learnt that Maedhros stood aside in Losgar, and there had been no doubt when he had walked into Angband with bow and harp alone.

It is only here though, Maedhros’ head bowed with trust before him as he asks this of Fingon—of Fingon to wield a blade upon him once more, of Fingon to take this burden, of Fingon to do this deed—that it hits him, harsh and unrelenting, how there is never going to be anything but this.

“As short as needed,” Maedhros says, and he shifts, almost, almost, almost leaning into Fingon’s touch.

He doesn’t. He wouldn’t. And either way, it is not about that, and so Fingon takes the knife and ignores the way it flashes in the firelight, the memories that want to lay themselves across the scene.

Strands of hair fall red like blood upon black stone, and Fingon’s hands don’t shake the same way that Maedhros isn’t trembling. Which is to say that neither of them does, but it is a careful, arduous exercise of restraint and bitten tongues.

Fingon tries not to touch more than he needs to, but his fingers keep finding skin. Keep finding the even way of Maedhros’ skull beneath the shortening hair, and he tries to be gentle about it; after everything, he wants to be gentle. Wants, more than anything, for his hands to bring relief, not pain.

He cannot tell if this deed will do so, but Maedhros had asked, and so Fingon will answer.

Strand after strand, the infamous hair falls. It is ceremonial, almost, as if alongside it the tension gets cut away, too, a weight lifting that has been making a home between them.

The end result, regardless, is uneven and chopped, and Fingon cannot help but run his fingertips through the remains of it, trying to memorise the feel of Maedhros, calm and complacent beneath his hands.

He stops once Maedhros tips his head back, blinking up at him.

“It suits you,” Fingon says, before he can stop himself.

Maedhros smiles, relaxes a bit further. It makes him lean back against Fingon, his shorn head right to the centre of Fingon’s chest.

“Thank you, Finyo, truly,” he says, and Fingon should move away, give him space. The blade is still heavy in his hand, and Maedhros’ bandages seem stark in the dim light.

Maedhros catches his wrist before he can tear himself away, keeping him in place, easy. There is a crease between his brows, uncertainty lingering in the lines around his mouth.

“Stay?” he asks, voice low; his fingertips press against Fingon’s pulse.

His head swims. Maedhros tugs at his hand until it rests over his chest, the beating, fiery heart of him. He asks again, “Stay with me?” and Fingon finally, finally, finally relearns how to breathe.

He leans forward, presses his lips to the shorn, vulnerable head of his. Hides his smile there and drops his knife, counting the beats of their hearts—one, two, steady.

“Always,” he says, and for once it is an oath that he thinks neither of them will come to regret.

#*mine #mona's writing #tolkien #silm #the silmarillion #silm fic #russingon #maedhros #fingon #feanorianweek #the way they've taken over my brain this literally took my by the throat and wouldn't let go till i wrote it #also i'm sorry for the late submission i saw this was happening and had to drop everything to get this in hope that's alright lmao <3

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