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thoseboysinblue · 1 day ago

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Santa Baby

Mason Mount x reader

You and Mason welcome your first daughter shortly before the holidays.

Word Count: 8400+

Requested: No

Warnings: Oral sex (male receiving), swearing, child birth (under 18 DNI)

A/N: This is an old draft I had for Mason and to be quite honest, I'm a bit nervous to post since it has been a while. I had every intention of getting this posted before Christmas, but it just didn't happen. Feedback always appreciated.

Mason had left for training early that morning, after you had reassured him several times that you were fine. You were sure the uneasy feelings you had were more related to Braxton Hicks contractions and the excitement of the upcoming holidays more than anything.

You were still three weeks from your due date with your and Mason's first baby and your midwife appointment a few days ago was uneventful and you were showing no signs of progressing towards labor at that time.

Christmas is next week and if you can just get through the last few things on your to do list you will be fine. However, the irregular pains you were feeling earlier in the morning have since become more regular and slightly more painful, enough so that you decided to give the midwife a call to ease your mind.

"How often?" she asks, trying not to sound overly concerned.

"Every seven minutes," you breathe.

"And getting stronger?" she follows up with another question.

"Yes, definitely getting stronger," you sway your hips standing at the kitchen counter, seeking any kind of relief you could get.

"Where's Mason?" she asks another question.

"Training, he should be home in a couple of hours," you wince slightly at the pain.

"Oh no," you gasp when your water breaks sending a cascade of fluid onto the floor.

"Y/N, can you still feel the baby moving ok?" she asks after you explained what happened.

"Mmhmm," you groan, "shit, that hurts a lot worse now."

"Y/N, you need to call Mason and get him home, I will meet you guys at that hospital. Congratulations mummy, it's baby day," you can hear the smile in her voice.

"Hi, Catherine," you grit your teeth through another contraction, "it's Y/N Mount, I can't get Mase on the phone, I'm sure he's still training, but can you track him down and have him call me, it's urgent."

"Yes, of course, is everything ok, dear?" she asks.

"Mmmhmmm, or it will be, I hope, just have him call me as soon as possible please," you beg before ending the call.

You do your best to clean up the all of the fluid out of the floor, changing clothes quickly and grabbing all of the things you had thankfully already packed the week before.

When Mason calls you back, you can tell he's out of breath and sounds like he's running still. "Hey baby, is everything ok?" he asks his voice full of concern.

"My water broke, Mase, I'm in labor," you groan as you hear him starting his car.

"I'll be there as fast as I can," he says nervously.

"Be careful, don't speed, I'm not going anywhere," you laugh softly, calming him a bit.

"Ok, I love you, see you soon," you hear the engine rev.

"I'm serious, Mason Mount, it won't do me any good if you don't ont get here in one piece," you say sternly.

"Yes ma'am," he chuckles.

"I love you, be safe," you sigh.

About ten minutes later you hear Mason clatter through the door, still wearing his training kit, boots and all.

"Hi baby," he smiles at you, coming over and wrapping you in a hug, gently rubbing your back when you groan as you have another contraction.

"They are about five minutes apart now," you breathe out.

"Go shower, quick, I don't want our baby meeting you when you smell like sweat and grass," you smile up at him.

A few minutes later he is rushing back down the stairs, freshly showered and changed. He grabs your things and puts them in the car and then helps you into the front seat where you lay a towel down trying not to ruin the interior.

He holds your hand and soothingly strokes over the back of it with his thumb as he makes the short drive to the hospital.

"Thank God, we picked somewhere close," you sigh as you pull into the car park.

He turns off the car and moves to open the door when you grab his hand, "Mase, wait, what if I can't do this, what if I can't get her here safely," you look at him, your eyes brimming with tears.

He leans his forehead against yours, "y/n, baby, you've done so well this whole entire time, you've been so strong, I know you can do this, everything is going to be fine."

He kisses you softly on the lips, "let's go meet our baby girl," he smiles at you when you nod.

Once you've settled into the delivery suite, your midwife comes into check you. "Already at 6cm, y/n, you're doing brilliant," she beams at you, "I would say this little one will be here in a couple of hours if you continue progressing this well."

Mason stays beside you, holding your hand, rubbing your back, and encouraging you every step of the way. He doesn't even wince when you hurl a few curse words his way for "getting you into this mess."

Once you're fully dilated and it's time to start pushing, the panic really sets in.

"Mase, I can't, I can't do this," you shake your head at him, tears slipping from your eyes.

"Baby," he says, brushing your hair out of your eyes and kissing you on the forehead, "you can do this, I know you can, I'm so proud of you, y/n, you've done so well, just a little while longer, yeah? She'll be here soon, I love you so much."

You nod and close your eyes, willing yourself to keep going, for him, for your baby girl that you can't wait to meet.

"I'm ready," you breathe out, squeezing his hand.

"That's my girl," he smiles proudly at you.

A short while later, cries fill the room as your baby girl enters the world and is placed on your chest.

Mason looks at you with tears running down his face as they ask him if he would like to cut the cord. He nervously takes the scissors and does the honors, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"I'm so proud of you, you were amazing, look at her, she's perfect," he smiles at your newborn who is now quietly laying on your chest.

"I'm going to take her over here and clean her up and check her over," one of the nurses smiles at you as she removes her from your chest and places her under the warmer.

"I love you so much, y/n, thank you," he smiles at you before kissing you softly.

He stays by your side but keeps glancing over to where the nurses are looking your daughter over.

"Mase," you get his attention, "you can go over there," you smile at him.

"You sure?" he asks but his eyes keep wandering over to his baby.

"Yes, Mase, I'm sure, go see her," you nod at him kissing the back of his hand.

"I'll be right here if you need me," he says kissing you on the forehead again.

"Unless you've miraculously learned to sew, I think I'll be ok with the midwife," you chuckle.

He looks at you a bit puzzled.

"Stitches, Mason, she's putting in stitches," you giggle when you see his eyes widen once he realizes.

"Oh," he shakes his head at himself, "do a good job," he smiles at the midwife, "I mean, take good care of her."

The midwife chuckles at him as he moves around the end of the bed.

"I am so sorry," he says when he glances to where she's working, never even looking up to your face.

You and the midwife shake your heads at one another as he makes his way over to his baby girl.

"Dad, would you like to put her on her first nappy?" the nurse smiles at him.

"Yeah, sure" he says nervously.

"Have you done this before?" she asks handing him the diaper.

"Once or twice, but never when they're this new," he looks down at his newborn baby girl, gently starting to put the diaper on her.

"You're not going to break her I promise," the nurse chuckles at him.

He finishes up and she swaddles her in a blanket and hands her to him. "There you go dad, all yours," she smiles at him as tears well in his eyes.

"You're all mine," he grins, "you've got the best mummy in the world little girl, she's so brave and so strong and I hope you grow up to be just like her," he says as tears stream down his face.

You take a couple of pictures of them with your phone before getting his attention. "Mase," you smile at him when he looks up at you with the biggest grin on his face while you take a few more photos.

He moves over to stand next to you, "thankfully she has your nose, I think," he grins.

"But I hope she has your eyes," you smile up at him.

"She's got a head full of dark hair," he continues smiling at her, pulling the hat back enough for you to be able to see.

"Alright mummy, just going to clean you up a bit and put a fresh gown on you and get you some fresh linens," the midwife smiles at you, "then you can do some skin to skin with her."

Once you're cleaned up and have a fresh gown on and clean sheets, the midwife takes a few pictures of the three of you before placing your baby girl on your chest.

"She might be hungry soon, you can call the nurses to come help you with feeding her when you're ready," she smiles at you.

"She's beautiful, you both did a great job," she takes another picture for you before leaving the room.

Once she's left, Mason is standing beside the bed looking at both of you. He takes a few pictures with his phone and continues hovering over both of you.

"Mase, come here," you say scooting over in the bed and making room for him to sit with you.

He kicks his shoes off and climbs into bed, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as you cuddle into his side. He places his other hand over your baby's back as you both cradle her to your chest.

"She's so perfect," he whispers against your temple before kissing you there lightly, "I really can't believe she's here."

You both sit quietly, just taking in your first moments as a family of three until she starts to stir a bit and begins sucking on her hand.

"I think she's ready to eat," you say quietly as Mason calls for the nurse to come in.

He starts to get out of the bed when she comes in until you grab his arm, "just stay here, I'm more comfortable with you beside me," you smile at him.

He wraps his arm back around you and settles back at your side while the nurse helps you get your daughter latched on and eating.

"Let her eat as long as she wants to, if you get uncomfortable or need help switching her to the other side let me know," she smiles before leaving you alone again.

"You're so amazing, y/n, I'm so proud of you, I don't think I've ever seen you look as beautiful as you do right now," he speaks quiet words of affirmation to you while you're feeding her for the first time.

"Thank you, Mason, for everything, you've been wonderful this entire time, I couldn't have made it without you," you smile up at him.

"My girls," he whispers as he strokes his thumb over her head and squeezes you a little tighter before placing a soft kiss to your lips.

Once she's finished eating, the midwife comes in to check on you and offers to help you to the toilet.

"Mason, would you like to do skin to skin?" and before she even finishes her statement he's whipping his shirt off and tossing it across the room.

You both chuckle at him as you place her on his chest and cover them both with the blanket.

"I'm pretty sure you whipping your shirt off is what got us here in the first place," you grin at him.

"I think it was the other way around," he winks at you.

After you've been to the bathroom, the midwife brings in a couple of sandwiches and snacks for you both to eat.

"Mase," you say between bites, looking at him with your daughter sleeping soundly on his chest, "I know I just pushed a baby out not too long ago, but I'm so turned on seeing you with her right now," you smile shyly at him.

"I'll keep that in mind for later," he chuckles, watching as she wraps her tiny hand around his finger.

"I'm in so much trouble," he sighs, "she's gonna get away with everything, and I'm going to spoil her rotten."

"Well if you spoil her more than you do me, you might need another job or two," you lean against him, holding up one of the sandwiches for him to take a bite of.

"We should probably let people know she's here," he mumbles as he swallows his food, "I didn't even tell anyone you'd gone into labor."

"Let's wait just a little longer, I'm kind of enjoying having the two of you all to myself for now," you speak through a yawn.

"Why don't you take a nap, I'll be here, just staring at her," he says as he leans his head over on yours.

"Okay, but wake me up if you get sleepy, and I'll trade with you," you yawn again.

"Get some rest pretty girl, you've earned it," he kisses you on the top of the head before you drift off.

You wake from your nap a little while later when the baby starts to stir, you feed her while Mason makes a few calls letting your families and close friends know that she's here and everyone is doing well before you both settle in for the night.

The next morning, you are released to go home. Even though the midwife gives you the option to stay one more night, you want nothing more than to retreat to the comfort of your own home.

As you are filling in her the birth certificate prior to leaving you look over at Mason, "I guess it's really time for us to finalize her name," you smile at him.

While you'd both narrowed down a short list, you had decided you wanted to meet her before making the final decision.

"Would it be cheesy if we make her middle name something Christmas related?" you smile over to him while he balances her on his knees, just staring at her while she sleeps.

"So we've settled on Isla, correct?" he glances up to you before looking back down at her.

"Mmm" you hum in agreement, twirling the pen you are holding in your hand.

"How about Noelle as her middle name?" he smiles at her as she stirs slightly before smiling in her sleep.

"I think she likes it," he grins at you.

"Me too, pretty name for a pretty girl," you grin back at him.

The drive home is slow, as Mason refuses to drive the actual speed limit. You don't fuss at him, though, its incredibly sweet how protective he is of both of you.

Once you are at home, he takes over taking care of everything he can, refusing to let you lift a finger for more than feeding your daughter.

Mason misses a couple more days of training and a match to stay home with you, but you can tell he's getting antsy. He's not used to not being busy with work obligations and while you are grateful for his help and support, you also know he needs to get out of the house.

"Mase, I think you should go to training for a bit in the morning," you smile at him as you climb into bed beside him.

"No, I don't want to leave you," he shakes his head.

"I know, baby, but I can tell you are getting restless. At least go in for a couple of hours, we will be fine, I promise."

You watch as he mulls it over in his head.

"Maybe just for the outdoor work on the pitch, I can do the cardio and weight training here," he flashes you a smile.

Your days are consumed by caring for Isla, Mason does all he can to balance trying to get back into training with helping you at home.

He makes the extra effort to help with getting things together for Christmas, picking up groceries and trying to honor the traditions the two of you have.

One evening, as you are watching a Christmas movie and enjoying the cookies the two of you had baked earlier, he looks over and notices you've started crying.

"Y/N, baby, what's wrong?" he asks as he pauses the movie.

"I've just realized Christmas is only a couple of days away and I haven't finished my shopping and wrapping, and I didn't even buy her anything Christmassy to wear because I didn't think she would be here yet" you sob, suddenly overwhelmed.

He wraps his arms around you and kisses you on top of the head, "stay here, I'll be right back."

He disappears and then returns a few minutes later with a few bags in his hands.

"I picked up a couple of things the other day when I was out," he smiles at you, handing you the shopping bags.

You open them to find that he's bought matching pajamas for the three of you for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, as well as a Christmas dress for Isla, a few cream color baby outfits and a blanket that says "Baby's First Christmas" on it.

"I noticed you looking at those a couple of weeks ago when we were out shopping," he smiles as you admire the things he picked up.

"You're too good to me," you let the tears fall from your eyes again.

He wipes them away gently and kisses you lightly on the lips, "you've given me everything I've ever wanted, it's the least I could do, sweetheart."

"Thank you," you choke out, "I'm sure it's just the hormones making me emotional."

The next morning after he's left for training, you hear a knock at the door. You hear chattering outside before you can open it, but as soon as you do you hear "Auntie, Y/N" as Summer squeals and then wraps her arms around your legs.

To your surprise, you find Mason's mother and sister and nieces standing outside.

You usher them in before Jazmine wraps you in a hug.

"We're sorry to show up unannounced, but Mase called last night worried about you," Debbie pulls you into an embrace after Jazmine.

"He said you needed help finishing up Christmas things," Jaz adds.

You nod, "I got a bit overwhelmed last night, I'm sure it scared him."

"He just wants to take care of his girls," Debbie smiles at you, "so put us to work, whatever you need.

"Thank you both, I'm sure you've got plenty to be doing yourselves, you didn't need to make the trip up here," you smile, thankful for the trouble they've gone to.

"Nonsense," Debbie grins, "any excuse to come and see that gorgeous baby works for me."

They had been here a couple of days after you had gotten home from the hospital, everyone eager to meet the new addition to the family.

Your mom is planning to come and stay a few days after the New Year since that's when you previously expected to go into labor.

"Mum is going to stay here with you and the girls, I'm going to run into the city to finish picking up whatever you need, if you can just let me know where you need me to go," Jaz offers.

You chat while they admire, Isla and you finish up your shopping list before Jazmine sets off.

While she's gone, Debbie helps you to wrap the gifts you already have that aren't wrapped and showers you with compliments over how well you are doing with everything and you have to admit it is nice to hear.

She arrives back to your house with the items she's picked up for you as well as dinner for you and Mason.

She cuddles her new niece while you wrap the last few gifts and spend a few minutes playing with your nieces.

Once they are sure you are feeling better about everything, they bundle up the girls and leave, heading back home after serving as your elves for a few hours.

Mason arrives home in the early afternoon to find you napping on the sofa with Isla in the bassinet next to you. He takes a few minutes to admire you while you sleep, never having felt more in awe of you and the way you've handled transitioning into this new role so flawlessly.

On Christmas Eve morning you wake to find Mason gone from the bed, you glance around and realize he must have gotten up with the baby and left you to sleep a little longer. You make your way downstairs to the living room and find him sleeping on the sofa with Isla snoozing on his chest. You take a few pictures of them, both sleeping with the Christmas tree glowing behind them and you've honestly never felt so content and in love in your entire life.

You make coffee for the two of you and gently wake Mason up.

"Morning, daddy" you grin at him sitting your coffee down before taking Isla and placing her in her basinette.

You hand him his mug as you sit down beside him, "you know my brain realizes I'm actually someone's daddy now, but my dick doesn't," he chuckles before leaning over and giving you a kiss.

Later in the afternoon Mason's family arrive to celebrate Christmas Eve and stay the night just as they always have. You enjoy your normal family traditions with them over the evening and next day; eating, opening presents, making cookies and playing games.

As Christmas Day draws to an end, your heart is full from spending the day enjoying Isla's first Christmas surrounded by those you love. When Deb offers to be on baby duty for the night, saying she will bring her to you when she needs to eat but otherwise let you and Mason get some much needed rest, you reluctantly give in knowing you could use some alone time together.

"Babe," you call out from your closet as you make a final adjustment to the red satin pajamas you put on, you're not quite ready for lingerie yet, but you admire your post baby curves and the way your breasts spill out of the top of the camisole you're wearing, knowing Mason will enjoy the way you look as well.

"Yeah," he answers and it sounds like he's in the bed.

"Could you do me a favor and sit on the end of the bed and close your eyes," you call back to him, "I have one more gift for you," you grin in anticipation.

"Ok," he answers a bit puzzled.

"You there?" You call back.

"Yep," he chuckles.

"No peeking," you smile at him as you look around the door to make sure he followed your directions.

You walk over to him, gently taking his hands and placing them on your hips while you stand between his legs and rest your hands on his shoulders.

"Okay, you can open them" you whisper.

He opens his eyes and the look on his face is one that you hope you won't forget anytime soon. His eyes are full of wonder and love, mixed with a flair of lust and heat.

"Jesus baby, you look incredible, what's this all about?" he grins up at you.

"Well, I figure I've been on the nice list all day, but I kind of want to end the night on the naughty list," you wink at him.

"I didn't think we could, you know..." he trails off and knits his eyebrows together.

"We can't, yet, but I've noticed your showers have been extra long lately, and just because some things are off limits doesn't mean all things are off limits," you lean down to kiss him hungrily.

He raises his eyebrows as you pull a red satin ribbon from beside him and move to cover his eyes with it.

"One last look" you wink at him as his eyes rake up and and down your body before you blindfold him.

"You are naughty," he chuckles to himself.

"I haven't even gotten started yet, babe" you smile at his eagerness as you settle on your knees in front of him.

You kiss along his chest and abdomen, flicking your tongue along the smattering of hairs just below his navel before he jerks his hips involuntarily.

"Patience baby," you smile against him as you slip your hands in the waistband of his pajama pants and slide them down his legs when he lifts his hips for you.

"Have you not had on underwear all day," you ask him as you take his hardened length in your hand and enjoy the quiet gasp that escapes his lips.

"Nope," he breathes out stifling a moan as you flick your tongue over his tip lapping at the precum that has already collected there.

"If I'd have known that I would've given you your present earlier," you whisper before licking a stripe along the vein on the underside of his shaft.

"Oh god, baby," he moans as everything seems more sensitive without being able to see what you're doing.

"Mase you're going to have to try to be quiet," you chuckle, "we do still have guests."

"Got it, I'll try, but I can't make any promises," he groans as his head tips back when you take him in your mouth and begin to slowly work him just the way you know he likes it.

You alternate bobbing your head with swirling your tongue around his tip, working what won't fit in your mouth with your hands. He places one hand on the back of your head to steady your pace and to ground himself a little.

"So good baby" he breathes out, "so so good."

You glance up to see him with his head back as he's still blindfolded, his chest rising and falling as he tries to keep himself quiet.

You take more of him into your mouth, gagging as his tip hits the back of your throat.

You continue working him, letting him feel the tip of his cock in your cheek when he grazes his fingers along your jaw.

"So perfect," he bites his lower lip.

"Can you take a bit more for me?" he pleads as you relax your jaw and take as much of him into your mouth as you can.

"God, yes, that's it baby, so good for me," he groans when you hollow out your cheeks and suck harder as you pull back off of him a little.

"I'm close," his head falls back again as you drop extra spit down his cock and work him with your hands.

"Come on, Mase, cum for me, I want every drop of it."

You swirl your tongue around his tip again before taking him fully into your mouth and running your tongue along his shaft.

"Fuck, y/n" he moans as his abs contract and he shudders and releases himself into your mouth.

As his breathing slows you reach up and pull the ribbon from his eyes, allowing him to see you on your knees in front of him, with his cum on your tongue before you swallow all of if and wipe what spilled from your lip and chin with your thumb.

"Just when I didn't think today could get any better, you pull something like this out of your bag," he grins as he pulls you to your feet and then into his lap.

"I'm full of surprises," you chuckle before you kiss him deeply, allowing him to taste himself.

"This has been the best Christmas," he smiles as he lays his head against your chest.

"Because of the blow job?" you giggle.

"Well, I mean, I've got no complaints there, but because it's just been such a good day with our new little family. You're so incredible, you've handled everything so well and I'm so proud of you and fall more and more in love with you every single day," he glances up to see the tears in your eyes.

"I love you, Mase, I'm couldn't do any of this without you, you've been amazing," you lean down to kiss him gently.

"Merry Christmas, baby" you smile against his lips before he falls back on the bed and pulls you close to him.

"Merry Christmas, love," he whispers.

Taglist:

@neverinadream @chilwellsancho@pulisicsgirl @lovelynikol16 @swimmingismywholelife @xjval

#mason mount #mason mount fic #mason mount imagine #mason mount smut #mason mount x reader

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steamberrystudio · 2 days ago

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2024 wrap-up and 2025 plans

It's been a really weird year for me and the last few months have been particularly challenging - so much so that I can't really remember much of the start of the year. There's been a lot that has happened and yet it feels like almost nothing has happened.

With a personal move in the works at the moment, and lots of lists and packing and cleaning, the last couple of weeks have felt like a blur of limbo as well.

But rather than just complaining let's jump into the wrap up and plans for 2025.

2024 Progress Wrap up

When looking back over a year of visual novel development, it can be really easy to forget progress and victories because it all smears together into an indistinct timeline.

You know stuff happened but you lose sight of the details of that stuff.

Even while writing this last night, I forgot that A Faerie's Tale was something completed and released this year. I remembered it just now while doing a final proofread of this post.

Development is such a long and repetitive process that you forget all the individual steps it took to get where you are. When I look back over 2024, I admit I feel like I somehow didn't do that much...that time slipped away while I did very little actual work.

And of course, that isn't true. (Or is it?? Self-doubt assures me that I didn't do anything noteworthy this year.)

When Stars Collide

At the start of 2024, When Stars Collide sat at 485,000 words. I was finishing up editing Asher's route but had portions of the other routes to draft. The UI was still the old design, most of the backgrounds were incomplete and none of the additional features like the flowcharts and affinity meters were set up.

I wanted to release an updated demo and the more new people told me they were playing the demo, the more I died inside because it was not at all reflective of the project any more. But I was missing critical backgrounds that I actually got only a few weeks before Episode 1 went to beta.

The point is that back at the start of 2024 the game was still very unfinished but I had big plans. My goal was originally to start releasing episodes in June of 2024 but editing and coding just took so much longer than expected that it just wasn't possible.

From a writing perspective, I learned that drafting and editing a game in this overlapping route style was hard. It was just genuinely so much more difficult than the separate route structure I'm used to. It really requires different processes and styles of planning than what I've done in the past. The burden of meticulously matching a timeline of events across 6 routes simultaneously is really tricky with the way I write and form the choices in my games.

You kind of have to either never refer back to anything that happens within a choice scenario or you have to remember and track a lot of variables and conversations and events. Additionally, writing one plot line from multiple relationship perspectives is actually quite tricky. Things have to align in very specific ways but you also kind of want to make sure that each play through is interesting. You don't want the conversations within the LI-specific content to be identical but they have to be similar enough you can manage the difference with a few key variables.

I honestly found it a really exhausting way to write. There's so much less complexity and so much more freedom when you are writing separate routes. And for that reason, the writing took a lot longer than I am used to.

One day I want to write up all my thoughts on route structure in visual novels but I haven't had time yet.

Ultimately I drafted about 172,000 words this year. The total word count of the game before I coded it was around 657,000 words - plus an additional 8-10k or so of bonus content. Of course, that shrinks when I code it but that was the total uncoded word count. So that is quite a jump from the 485,000 words I started with this year.

I always say that working on VNs really skews your view of what "a lot" of words is. To me, as weird as it is to say, 180k doesn't feel like that much writing, which is silly because it's like writing two YA novels.

But between the end of the Kickstarter for Gilded Shadows and the end of that year, I think I wrote about 250,000 words. That's 70,000 more words but in less time. I think it just shows how much more difficult writing WSC has been due to the structure of the routes.

I remember having a conversation with someone once where she told me that writing a game like Gilded Shadows is *definitely* harder and more work than writing a game like When Stars Collide. GS has multiple plots and a lot more words. In WSC, the routes share a plot, they share scenes and content, there's only one plot line and there are far fewer words.

I think it really underestimates the simplicity buff and the freedom buff that you get from having a single separate route in its own space time where you don't have to care as heavily about continuity across routes or a shared timeline of events or all of this other stuff that was such a burden to me when writing overlapping routes.

I maintain that I'm really glad I wrote When Stars Collide the way I did. I learned so much about game structure and choices and all this mechanical stuff about how visual novels work that I'd never really had to think about for. It was really, really enlightening.

But I will never do this game structure again. Lemme just say that.

Drafting aside, I had to also edit all that writing which was its own special layer of hell.

And then the art. The art has been enjoyable. I really love this game's aesthetic and the character designs. And the characters. I really enjoy them all so much. They are the most adorable crew of nerdy gremlins out there.

But the art has had is own challenges. I've done about 20 CGs for the game so far and a lot of them are easy enough but the colour slider MC is definitely a bit of a challenge for the CGs. With GS where I recoloured by hand, there were times that I had to slightly tweak Morgan's default colours to look good in CGs. For instance, one of her skin tones looked quite odd next to Magnus, who is very pink. And I had to just slightly tweak that skin tone in his CGs so they looked okay together side by side. It was easy to test that sort of thing before the CG even got into the game.

But I colour Wil in greyscale and I don't see them in colour until I test. And each colour available on the slider is represented by a number. And there are essentially 100 of them. So testing all of those isn't really viable. I do test multiple skin tones from my saves. But in some ways it's more cumbersome to make sure all of that looks good.

Wil also has 8 hairstyles…in two colours (which are recoloured manually because a couple of the hairstyles just don't really looks as good recoloured automatically (it's my art, not the dynamic colour slider tool).

It's a lot of work. Hair 5 usually puts my hand out of commission for the rest of the day (so I save it for last. Ha ha). I don't regret it and again, it's something I wanted to to do as an experiment. I knew that 5 hairstyles was probably manageable and 8 was definitely pushing and I was right so no hard lessons really learned there. It's sometimes valuable experience to push yourself right to that line and really see where the division between "feasible" and "too much" really is. Because then it's no longer hypothetical. You know where the line is.

A lot of how WSC is set up was me testing if the line was where I thought it was.

Beyond the art, I also got all the other new features set up and experimented with a few things I hadn't been planning on. Many of those features had the core elements set up and coded by wonderful programmer friends and colleagues (Feniks and Windchimes and Jeneara) but I still had to implement all those things in the code to make them function as part of the game.

Which, for things like the flowcharts - is time consuming. Flowcharts are like that.

The flowcharts in WSC use a different method than the ones in GS. It's a brand new tool and I'm still learning how to use it but there are also some kinks that rear their heads (not those kind, you guys! The annoying kind that break the game!)

I think the feature most people are most excited about would be the save screen. It's quite popular. Ha ha.

With all of that stuff done, I was able to finally….*finally* release the official version of Episode 1 to Patreon and on Itch.

And I released Episode 2 (minus two CGs that have been delayed by an abrupt move to a new place and me just not having time to draw right now) to Patrons in early access. (and the Itch version should go out mid-January. I hope).

So the point is…that is actually a fair amount of work that has taken place this year. And a lot of challenges that have been met and overcome.

A Faerie's Tale

Another thing I did this year was finish and release A Faerie's Tale as part of Amare Fest and with a team of friends to help out.

AFT is a concept I've had since about 2020 (prior to WSC actually). It was based on a dream I had as was always meant to be a cute little side project. But it kind of fell by the wayside in favour of my larger projects.

Being able to get it released was definitely fun. Jen and I definitely want to go back to it and release Lachan's route though - it was something we didn't have time for previously and it would be nice to get it truly complete.

Thornewood

And while I haven't specifically mentioned it anywhere outside of my server and Patreon...

The truth is...

I've secretly been planning my next project. But not really all that secretly since I have mentioned it a few times.

I've been torn, for a while, on two projects I'd like to tackle. One is called The Crown Wheel and the other is called (tentatively) Thornewood. I still go back and forth over which one I really want to do next.

Crown Wheel is the one I *really* want to get out there. It's another story that's close to my heart with some ancient characters of mine that I really love and would love to throw out there for other people to enjoy. But…

Thornewood is a bit more solid a project when it comes to planning and plot. Crown Wheel is a little more nebulous in terms of where the story would go. I'm getting side tracked…I'll get into this more in my 2025 plans.

I have not been working on any other project regularly or in any truly significant way. I've really been working on outlines and character profiles more than anything and I typically do it late at night when I can't sleep but can't draw any more because I'm resting for the day and while I just don't want to be working on WSC because I worked on it all day.

I think I have about 13000 words of outline. I did a rough summary of each route and have been trying to expand those and detail them out a little bit more. So technically that is work I've done this year too.

2024 still somehow feels like a weird year for development. I can't articulate why but it definitely was an odd year for sure.

So What are my 2025 Plans?

That's really the big question at this point. What is in store for Steamberry Studio?

First and foremost, the plan is to get When Stars Collide fully released. This isn't as straightforward as it seems though. With the writing complete, I'm focused on the coding and art, but...

Coding expressions is currently a bit tedious because there have been a ton of group scenes in this game so far. This is because it is somewhat of a 'closed set' so when you are not 1x1 with a love interest…you tend to be with a group. This will diminish in upcoming chapters as the plot kicks off more and you also get longer scenes with the love interests. But unfortunately it does come back in the last few chapters.

But for now I'm looking forward to heading into parts of the game that are more 1x1 or at least smaller groups at a time.

Additionally the CG situation has been somewhat up in the air for me. I was originally planning to do CGs in every chapter but I wasn't sure if that would a) be sustainable for me and b) make sense.

I suspected that there would be chapters coming up where there just weren't necessarily any good CG moments. So the "CGs in every chapter" thing was always going to be a bit squishy.

I know, for instance, that chapter 6 probably won't have any because there aren't any good moments for it to be honest?

Anyway. I am thinking that I may take a less formulaic approach to CGs and focus on making sure there are CGs in every episode if not every chapter. Maybe chapters 5, 8, 10...and then...Idk. One or two of the ending chapters.

Even if it's just four of the remaining chapters, that's still 24 more illustrations for the game. Which I feel like is a very reasonable amount considering there are already about 20.

Another thing I'm really going back and forth on is the nature of episodes moving forward.

Do I want to continue with 2 chapters per episode or do I want to drop to 1 chapter per episode? I battle myself on this all the time. It's such a hard call for me.

One challenge with moving into single chapter episodes is that I just feel the episodes would be less satisfying with only one chapter. Realistically the chapters aren't that small - even the short ones are more than 30,000 words each. That's...half a YA novel.

But, again, *realistically* when we reduce that to a play time, it's not that much.

People consume unvoiced visual novels at a rate of about 250 words per minute. That means 15,000 words per hour.

So 30k is just two hours of content. When you start dividing this up between "main plot" and "LI route content", you start whittling away at how much content *per character* there is. If there are 20,000 words of "LI content" - yeah, that's more than half the chapter. But that gets divided by 6 characters. And that means 13 minutes of playable content *including all the choices* for each character which isn't a lot. And most people are not going to play through every choice option.

Which means people could be getting through the unique content for their favourite character in less than 10 minutes.

By combining chapters, that means we get episodes that are 70,000 words or 90,000 words. It boosts the amount of content per character by a significant amount and that is really what I'm looking at when I consider episode layout.

I try to think about what is going to make for the most satisfying episode for players. The drawback of 2 chapters per episode is that it's…a lot. It's a lot of expressions. It's a lot of flowchart work.

It just takes more time.

Regardless of whether it's just 1 chapter at a time or whether it's 2 chapters at a time, I really want to move forward with steady releases and get the game fully released to players in 2025. That is obviously my primary focus going forward.

The story is finished. It's burning a hole in my laptop. (Not really). But I want to get it released.

Having the story already written but delivering it in smaller bites to players is doing a lot to save my drawing hand from inevitable doom but it's so hard for me mentally. I know the things coming up in future episodes and I'm so keen to release it and see reactions and talk to people about it. And it's just so difficult to not be able to do that as fast as I want.

I'm trying to be patient and I hope all of you are willing to be patient with me.

In other work…

I will likely continue to plan out my next game on the side, though I don't intend to start working on it or writing it until WSC completes. It's too hard to manage two projects like that - at least for me - most of the time.

When it comes to Thornewood (the most likely contender for 'next project'), it is a 'dark fantasy' in that the setting is gritty and grimy fantasy with an underlying darkness in the world. It's not really a dark romance though.

I always view dark fantasy as including settings where the darkness comes from outside the main character interactions. The setting is dark and the stories have danger and darkness....

But dark romance is when the relationships themselves are also dark. And I feel like I don't really write dark romance. I don't write perfect relationships either but I wouldn't describe them as 'dark' by any stretch.

Either way I'm looking forward to working on something more overtly fantasy again.

I've been dabbling in science fiction for a long time now (since 2019 - that's when I started Gilded Shadows!!) and I've been wanting to move back into fantasy settings for a while now.

Even just working on the profiles and outlines and world building for fantasy projects, it feels like the Fae and the magic are calling me back home. So I'm really eager to wrap up WSC and bury myself in a more fantasy themed setting again.

But I have a long journey to get to that point.

There's a lot to do in 2025 and I still have a lot of stories to tell.

I hope you will all be here with me for the journey.

#whenstarscollide #game development #indie otome game #amare game

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where-does-the-heart-lie · 2 months ago

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Sabo analysis time!!!!

Do you guys ever think about how Sabo didn't visit Dressrosa to see Luffy again? And him meeting up with Luffy was probably his very last option to secure the fruit, otherwise he would probably avoid it? Cuz i do…

Let me elaborate.

So here's what we know from the source material:

We know Sabo and the other revolutionaries were there since the early morning since Hack was already inside the coliseum for RevArmy snooping reasons.

The prize of the Tournament was revealed after the Revs were already there.

Sabo/Koala were not in contact with Robin to know if the straw hats were anywhere near Dressrosa as seen by Koala saying "I hear Robin-san’s here in this country, too."

Sabo confronted Luffy about getting the Mera-Mera No Mi only after Hack lost during Block B and Luffy got out of his own block.

I had always assumed that Sabo showed up to Dressrosa for the Mera-Mera No Mi and meeting Luffy, but that really isn't the case. Idk why it took me so long to figure that out, it’s literally shown in the Episode of Sabo (EOS) explicitly. Although, the EOS isn't exactly source material. I cant find anywhere stating whether its canon or not, but I cant find anything that would have it conflict with the original plot so i see no reason why it wouldn’t be. All that evidence from before is canon though so even without the EOS, this claim still holds water.

Speaking more of the evidence we have from of the episode of Sabo, we see him snooping around the Colosseum during the tournament, we see the moment he realizes that Luffy is participating in the event, and we see the moment he realizes that Luffy cant participate any further.

Like look at him here. He looks absolutely unprepared for what he knows he has to do. And after this in the scene right before he starts talking with Luffy, he’s like literally walking to him as slowly as he possibly can. Taking pauses in his stride to probably think about how much of a bad idea this is.

Plus, at the beginning of the episode when he’s visiting Ace’s grave, he says “I guess both you and Luffy are both mad at me.”

Sabo has had so many opportunities to meet up with Luffy before he actually does, both in Dressrosa and since he regains his memory. But he doesnt. Because he cant. Because he’s terrified of being met with scorn, anger, or even violence from his beloved little brother.

Finally, we see him plucking up the courage to walk over to luffy. All surroundings are silent besides the loud footsteps coming from his approach echoing in the hallway.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

Then he stops.

Its dead quiet.

Sabo has been pretty much deadpan this entire time, but he then smiles before he says

“I wont let you have the Mera Mera No Mi, ‘Straw hat’ Luffy.”

This is a fairly serious thing that he’s saying to this man in a fake beard and outrageous helmet, and he’s terrified of this meeting with his brother, but he cant help but smile when he’s talking with him.

The conversation that continues is very confrontational, but suddenly something clicks in Luffy’s mind. His body relaxes from it’s tense posture, he starts to tear up, his speech slows,

Then he starts to scream with recognition.

That’s his big brother.

He’s alive…

He’s Alive!!!

He’s here! Right here! Right where he should be!

Alive. Living. Free!

Luffy GRABS Sabo’s face and propels himself towards him. Suffocating and probably giving his brother whiplash in that second within that assault-hug.

All of a sudden, Sabo’s fears of scorn, anger and violence all wash away.

Luffy loves him.

They have each other now.

And now, Sabo is on his way to get that god damn fruit.

Sabo absolutely didn’t think he was ready for this re-connection, but he’s so glad he went through with it.

He has his brother back, his other brother’s powers, and the bragging rights of being able to flaunt both.

This is what I'm sayin with the "seems like fire favors these brothers" post I made. The fact that both the mera mera no mi and Luffy and Sabo were all in the same place to come together at once is a crazy coincidence. How many coincidences does it take, for a happenstance to be Fate? Probably that amount.

In conclusion:

Get this man a therapist. Please.

Heres another sabo analysis if you wanna hear more

Thank you for reading my ramblings about a fictional man. I think about him a completely average amount.

#this has been in my drafts for a while so i cleaned it up and added pictures n junk #whery thoughts #one piece #sabo #monkey d. luffy #asl brothers #one piece fan art #portgas d. ace #sabo the revolutionary #long post

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honeydots · 11 months ago

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i love olivia's flying dancer alt so obviously inigo needed an outfit too.....

#fe inigo #fe13 #fire emblem awakening #this is based off an OLD art of mine (which was never posted here) and i wanted to redo the design...#'but he can't ride a pegasus!' well he gets a horse then. and then when he goes to fates he finds a pegasus #and they bond and have a wonderful dancing career together yayyyy #the og art was him in nohr so. it works. it works out.#this has been sitting in my drafts for a while but i decided to clean up the sketches between comm work #and here we are!#dots draws

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onepiexe · 2 years ago

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i just realized i never sent a msg back oops

#logbook #showed interest in a job and my msg sat in drafts to their response. embarrassing.#also i spent yesterday so tired i just. lay in bed and ate food. and slept a decent portion.#i cant decide if im getting sick again or if my depression is starting to hit me harder than usual bc im not doing anything #and im worried abt working money etc etc lol #i cant even play a game or anything bc i have no energy for stuff i like. and i cant go to my shops bc a) plant shop = no money and #b) i dont have a job update and dont wanna talk abt it at the other so. . .cant do that #and i dont have energy to hikeand weather has been bad so that too #so im stuck in the house in my messy room eith dying plants. yeah. im depressed lol.#while nobody moves fast on a job im stuck doing nothing. i tried to room clean for an hr and i got overwhelmed and quit.#may try it again. for now i'll maybe push myself to play a game today. ik i dont deserve it but itd be smth.#oh gm btw<3 im having. a month lol.#oh yeah and im still reeling over beinv 25 and going wow this is my life lol how pathetic. ok ill shut up now. blah.

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ceilidho · 1 month ago

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Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position.

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood.

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby—I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache.

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish.

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income.

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air.

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him.

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss.

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic.

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt.

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you.

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance.

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job.

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit.

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed.

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.”

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him.

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment.

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone.

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are.

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you.

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you.

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy.

You don’t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking.

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations).

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too.

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man.

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin.

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap.

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind.

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams.

“Not bad,” you squeak.

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #price/reader #john price x reader #john price x you #john price/reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you

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nereidprinc3ss · 6 months ago

Text

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going.

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted.

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word.

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—”

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot?

“I need to see her.”

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents.

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?”

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.”

“Sir, unless she—”

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard.

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.”

Spencer’s frown deepens.

“She’s refusing pain management?”

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle.

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face.

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him.

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?”

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face.

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs.

You sniff.

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?”

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying.

“Sweetheart...”

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks.

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!”

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.”

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm.

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.”

You sniffle.

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?”

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.”

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.”

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair.

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you.

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.”

“Not funny,” you whisper.

He ignores this.

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?”

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs.

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway.

“Wait,” you plead.

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time.

“What, honey?”

“I don’t...”

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t.

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.”

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it.

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did.

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?”

At least this time you don’t immediately say no.

“Will you come right back?”

“Of course.”

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead.

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes.

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy.

“Can you lie down with me?”

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain.

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.”

“Spencer.”

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair.

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.”

“Why? Do they still hurt?”

“You should see the other guy.”

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless.

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?”

“Clock starts now.”

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?”

“Mhm. Love breathing.”

“Mhm. And your arm?”

“Like I got shot.”

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?”

“Right. Spencer?”

“What, my love?”

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip.

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?”

He takes a silent, very deep breath.

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.”

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.”

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.”

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.”

He stares at the ceiling and considers this.

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.”

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.”

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.”

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.”

He sighs in mock annoyance.

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.”

You hum.

“Sexy.”

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic

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artinvain · 16 days ago

Note

anything sevika + shimmer + strap = world peace

wow, this has been in my drafts for so long.

cw: drug usage, lesbian smut, strap usage, breeding kink, strap referred to as cock, squirting, so many l-bombs, established relationship.

NO: men, minors, agless or blank blogs!!!!!! DNI

honestly you'd both overdone it. sevika had had a week without anyone giving her shit or trying to kill her so you decided you'd laid low long enough to have one crazy night out. you were high on a dose of ecstasy cut with high grade shimmer and sevika was starting to really look like a god, the way the lights were creating a halo around her shiny hair, her eyes bright purple as she pumps shimmer needlessly into her arm, her blood stream.

the lights of the club beaming and strobing around you, you can’t help the grin that stretches across your face - sevika’s mouth mimicking yours as you dance your way to the middle of the floor.

she uses her heavy mech arm to pull you closer as you dance to the music. her arm holds you steady, as she pulls you nearly off your feet to grind up against her. you drape your arms over sevika's shoulders and moan at the feeling of her free hand roaming your body.

your skin sensitive and every squeeze and tug she gives your plush body sends bolts of pleasure to your pulsing clit. sevika's hips grind up against your ass and the whimper you make is all it takes for sevika to haul you into the bathroom and lock the door behind you.

your girlfriend entraps you between her large arms and presses her body against you, slowly letting her finger tips blaze a trail down your stomach and into your panties where she just gently touches your clit. "I can feel you throbbing for me," sevika whispers in your ear, dipping her fingers lower to moan at how wet you are.

and god her fingers are tingling the drugs making her touch so sensitive, she has chills running up and down her body as she strokes through your pussy.

"s'a little pathetic, how needy you get for me," she moans as you start to kiss and mouth at her neck, muffling your sounds of pleasure as she sinks her fingers into you. "but that's okay baby, m'always gonna take care of you," she cooes as she curls her fingers and holds you up with her mech arm as your knees give out.

the feeling of the music is still bumping in your bones, her fingers feel so big, so deep and fuck how did you get so wet and needy and, you can barely breathe as you hold. stars flying behind your eyes when you close them and bury your face in her neck. you cling onto sev's shoulders moaning, your eyes crossing with euphoria as she brings you to your high.

sevika groans as your pussy pulses around her fingers and closes her eyes at the taste of you as she sucks her digits clean. "home, now."

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at home, sevika's whole body is thrumming, it feels like there are bright sparks of electricity riding on her blood cells. she can only moan and whine as she feels you press yourself against her, as close as you can while you’re trapped against your bedroom wall.

sevika holds you close and supports your knee on her waist as she flesh fingers slip inside you again. your walls are wet and silky and she slips in so easily, your pussy is pulsing around around her fingers trying to pull her in. "god, you're so fucking easy," she moans, "my girl so open and wet for me," sevika grunts as your pussy constricts and she kisses over your neck and she chuckles. "my dirty little slut."

“oh fuck sev,” you whimper as she curls her fingers and starts to rub them over her g-spot, her hips grinding against yours as she fucks you. your hands claw at her back, your hips trying to meet her thrusts.

"god, you're so good - so good to me," you whine out "i love you," you whimper,

"i need to be inside you," sevika snarls her teeth bared as she bites your lip between kisses. her fingers withdrawing from their loving assault on your walls and pushes you down onto the mattress.

you pull your clothes off as sevika undresses and secure's the straps on her hips, the rose at the base of her dark purple cock secured against her clit and she can feel it rubbing against her with every movement. it's heaving and bobbing deliciously, so good you have to kneel and -

"please fuck my face," you groan your hands rubbing up and down her thighs, "fuck," sevika mutters, gathering your hair in her hand and guiding your mouth onto her cock, her flesh hand cupping your jaw softly.

sevika's heart is beating in her throat as she watches your pouty lips part around the tip of her cock, fuck she feels like it's throbbing. "oh my love," she moans as your mouth opens and your tongue extends to lick the underside of her strap.

she can't take the teasing, can't help the way her hips jut forward and she sinks her cock into your mouth, groaning - her abs tightening as she watches your eyes roll back. "god, that slutty mouth," she whines "you love this - love me using you just to get off?"

you gurgle around her as an answer and sevika continues to mouth off, your fingers dipping into your panties, rubbing your clit, as she fucks your face, deep, sharp snaps into your throat. at the sight of your face scrunched up in pleasure sevika pulls out quickly at the risk of cumming.

"wanna cum inside you," she moans raising you up and sitting you on the bed, sevika pulls your panties off and raises your legs - spreading them open and moaning at the sight of your glistening cunt. sev spreads lube on your pussy and kneels on the bed, sinking into you.

"oh my god - fuck you're so big," your back arches as sevika pulls back and tries again to snap into your tight cunt. your girlfriend whimpers your name as she sinks in to the hilt and rests her forehead against yours. sevika presses a tender kiss to your forehead and gasps as she starts fucking you.

"you feel so fucking good baby," sevika mumbles into your neck, her belly tightening as she pumps into you, "fuck your pussy sounds so sloppy taking my cock," she whines, getting up on her knees. sevika pushes your thighs up to your chest and holds them there at your knees with her mech hand.

your girlfriend takes a sharp breath through her teeth at the sight of your cunt, swollen and leaking - stretched around her cock. she closes her eyes and snaps her hips into you. she has to pause and crack her neck to relieve some of the tension from her body - before she snaps. she's almost under control when -

"honey, fuck, please," you start to babel, "i love you please fuck me, sev -" her hips start to move involuntarily at your begging, "harder, please i need you, feel so good - god you're so deep," you whimper and sevika groans, her mouth open as she fucks relentlessly into you. the tip of her cock rubbing against that sensitive textured patch inside you.

you yelp and you can feel yourself on the precipice of something, she's pounding deep and hard and filling you up everywhere and your skin is on fire. "m'gonna squirt," you gasp.

"good girl," sevika croons and the spring tightens inside you. sevika snaps her hips hard and fast before pulling out and rubbing your clit, your legs falling open as she smacks the sensitive nub until you're tearing up "come on baby, let me see you cum," sevika leans over you and kisses your open mouth. you whine as her thick fingers twist into you, "my sweet girl, i can feel you clenching baby, you gonna cum?"

you nod and sevika kneels, her cock fucking into you again, and her fingers don't let up on your clit your eyes white out as your body burns hot with pleasure. your fingers tighten on your sheets and you don't hear yourself yelling profanities as you squirt your throbbing clit crying as sevika rubs over it.

"good girl, that's it baby - god you're such a good girl. look so pretty crying for me, crying over my cock - fuck," sevika groans, "please i need to come inside you," she whines and you nod wildly gasping and scratching at her arm.

"please cum inside me, please i need it,"

"oh baby, yeah okay m'gonna cum," she grunts "gonna cum inside you and knock you up, make you a mommy," she moans,

"please, i love you!" you cry out and sevika cums, "f-fuck, so good f'f'me - ha uh, i love you," sevika's hips buck in and out of you sporadically as she cums, her body tightening and releasing as she collapses on you.

"i love you so much," sevika says kissing your face, her body still lit up, veins in her arms still glowing purple, her hips start moving again, your sensitive walls tightening on her cock, the veins making butterfliers erupt in your stomach.

"hey," sevika whispers laying a small smack on your cheek and you open your eyes giving her a dopey smile, "there's my girl," sevika smiles and smacks you again, her thumb coming to rub your lips.

sevika pushes into you and pushes her fingers into your mouth at the same time, "god you look so pretty all full of me," she moans and starts to fuck your face and your cunt.

you're both whining and moaning your arms drape over her shoulders and you've never felt so satisfied, so full everywhere. "my god - you're so perfect. cum with me," she says and you both fall over the edge your highs colliding as her wraps her arms around you and holds you tight.

"i love you, i love you,"

tag list: @archangeldyke-all @sexysapphicshopowner @sevsbaby @iamaboringrattat @lavendersgirl @opropheticsoul l @ariariarr @femme-historian @maneskinwh0re @sevikasgirl

#lesbian #men dni #18+ mdni #lesbian smut #nsft lesbian #sevika arcane #mdni #sevika arcane smut #sevika arcane x reader #sevika arcane x reader smut #sevika x reader #sevika x reader smut #arcane

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tbaluver · 21 days ago

Text

Husband/ Father Headcanons- The Love And DeepSpace Men

order: xavier x fem! reader, zayne x fem! reader, rafayel x fem! reader, sylus x fem! reader genre: fluff fluff a/n: hihi lovelies! i apologize that my reqs are coming supa late but i should finish and post them so soon after my school semester ends! i literally have so many in my drafts (╥﹏╥) i usually overthink my reqs which is why i take super long but here's some husband material to feed you all for now i hope ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ talk to you all so soon mwah (∩˃o˂∩)♡

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

He loves doing simple things with you like going to the supermarket. He’s read somewhere on the internet that that's what married couples are supposed to do on earth.

Morning routines with Xavier are always so warm and sweet. As you both get ready for the day, he’ll take your hand, carefully adjusting your wedding ring before giving it a soft kiss.

Whenever your newborn baby starts crying just as you’re both about to eat, he always prioritizes you. He’ll reassure you that you can go ahead and eat without him and enjoy your meal, promising you that he’ll take care of the baby.

You and Xavier share a special inside joke just between the two of you about the cute sounds your baby makes. Whether it’s the random babbling or their adorable squeals, always brings a smile and laugh to the both of you.

Xavier loves hearing and seeing your child laugh and will do absolutely anything to make them smile whether it’s through tickling, playing peekaboo, pulling silly faces, or using a high pitched voice

Lots of snuggles with you and your baby. You’d have your little one nestled safely right in the middle of the two of you as you all fall into deep slumber. He especially loves having his child rest on his chest while you snuggle up beside him.

Zayne:

Whenever your baby girl starts walking or crawling, he’ll consistently clean the floors of the house multiple times to keep the floor clean for his baby girl and to also have a clean house in general.

Your daughter has her own little kitchen playset because she loves watching either of you cook. Sometimes, while Zayne’s busy with his patients reports, she’ll run up to him with a plate of her plastic food to share her ‘cooking’ with him. He loves to play along to see her adorable smile, pretending to savor it and tell her how delicious it is.

Whenever it’s a quiet time between the two of you, enjoying each other’s company and doing your own thing, Zayne often reaches over to gently rub his thumb against your wedding ring, often reminiscing about the day you two got married and a small smile curling on his lips.

Anytime you ask him to grab something for you while he’s out, he always goes the extra mile and adds a little something extra for you- and for him as well especially if it’s something sweet. If you ask for the next series of your favorite book you love, he’ll just get the entire collection so you can binge-read it right away. He’ll even pick up a copy of the book you’re currently reading so he can talk about it with you.

Rafayel:

Everyday being married to you feels like a blessing from the gods. He wakes up in the morning to see your beautiful sleeping figure right beside him, wearing the wedding ring on your finger that ties you both together forever. Rafayel always greets you with something cheesy when you wake up like, “Hello my beautiful wife.” with a big smile on his face.

Rafayel flirts with you as if you haven’t been married for a couple years now and often says “I love you” with any chance he gets. “Heyy my lovely gorgeous wife, before you come home, do ya think you can pick me up some extra brushes? I think our little glub glubs hid them again...oh and by the way I love you!”

He always wears his ring. He can’t help but fidget with the ring whenever he starts to miss you, smiling as thinks about the day you both exchanged your vows.

After a long day at work, you can always find your lemurian children running up to greet you with your husband. Sometimes they like to show off their artwork they’ve all made together and most of the time it’s all just for you.

However he can always tell when you’re exhausted and drained, so he’ll gently excuse the kids, assuring them you’ll spend time with them later. For now he’s happy to entertain the children so you can get your rest. He’ll make up a random activity to keep the children busy so he can do small things for you like running a bath or preparing some meals for you

Sylus:

Anytime Sylus and his baby girl are shopping, he’ll always ask her what she wants or what she prefers. He treats her like a princess just like her mommy.

“hmm....pink! no, red!...pink!”

“how about....we get both dear?”

and there’s something so adorable seeing her so happy that makes him feel so warm and fuzzy inside.

Sylus does not mind in any timeline or universe if you’re comfortable being provided for. He can afford it and nothing can hurt his card even if you tried.

As years go by, he’ll make sure your wedding ring isn’t getting worn out or has any chips in it. Not that it would ever get worn off from its high quality. If it does have any problems, he’s quick to get it fixed, making sure that your ring will always shine with you.

Before you both unwind for the night, he’ll gently kiss the back of your hand where your wedding ring rests, before slowly slipping it off for the night.

Anytime you’re home from a long day of work, he’s already outside waiting for you to take out things in your car so you don’t have to carry anything.

After a long shift, you can always come home to find a warm dinner waiting for you with your favorite drink. The house would be clean and your baby girl is already tucked in. He’ll sit by you at the dining table, a glass in his hand, sharing stories about his day or simply listening as you tell him about yours.

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heartthrobin · 5 months ago

Text

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle.

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports.

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge.

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner.

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers.

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor.

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed.

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish.

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster.

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge.

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you.

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone.

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move.

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face.

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches.

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.”

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again.

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.”

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor.

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick.

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.”

He’s brushing past you.

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded.

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable.

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?”

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked.

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration.

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him.

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.”

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle.

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own.

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.”

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness.

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms.

It’s quiet.

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks.

“Why’re you out here alone?”

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him.

Why do you care?

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters.

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.”

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t.

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent.

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room.

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.”

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours.

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!”

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow.

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction.

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way.

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it.

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets.

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

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2K notes · View notes

phas3d · 5 months ago

Note

Hi there! I’m not sure if your still taking requests, but I would love to know your thoughts on how Lorenzo, Theo, Draco, Mattheo, and Tom would react to their s/o wearing their hoodie/sweater. I was thinking headcanons or a Drabble but anything would be great! I really love writing and hope you feel inspired to write even more soon!

Wearing Their Clothes | Slytherin Boys

type :: fluff

tw/cw :: calling theo a man whore, calling enzo a twink,

contains :: draco, tom, mattheo, theodore, lorenzo

notes :: inspired by uhh, nothing really - this prompt has been in my draft for ages and i finallyyyy finished it - THANK YOU to everyone who sends requests, I'm finally getting to them

DRACO MALFOY

When you complained about being cold, he instantly started lecturing you

"I told you it would get cold but your little pea brain didn't process that"

But while he's lecturing you, he's taking off his jumper and handing it to you

It smells like him and it's super soft

He only buys the best material for his clothes, because duhhh

He lets you wear it until you're somewhere warm

Although he loves you, he loves his jumper more

But he does sacrifice some of his jumpers by letting you wear them because, he hates to admit it, but you look super cute in his clothes

TOM RIDDLE

He watches you shiver for a few minutes until he decides to offer his jacket

You could literally be turning blue but he won't offer his jacket until he feels like it

He sighs, as if you asked for his jacket, and drapes his jacket around your shoulders

And guess what,,, he even ZIPS IT UP FOR YOU

AHHHH

Even though he's a dickhead at times, he's still a gentleman

When you put on his jacket, he slightly smirks at how big it is on you

Not cause you're cute, but because it makes him feel powerful to know he's bigger

MATTHEO RIDDLE

Is so so happy when he sees you out in the cold during his quidditch match

He's beaming and passes by you in the bleachers for a quick second as he throws his spare jersey in your arms

When you put it on, you smell his sweat and musk

Which would smell disgusting to some but to you, that's your boy :)

During his game, he glances over at you and smiles when he sees you wearing it

It helps push him to win even more

THEODORE NOTT

Sadly, Theo is a man-whore

Meaning he is always serving cunt,,, meaning he rarely wears jackets or sweaters

So if you're cold,,, so is he

Buttt on the lucky chance he is actually wearing a jacket and hiding his muscles, he doesn't hesitate to give you his jacket

And his jackets are 10 times better because not only is it always great material, clean, but it's also stylish

He always takes pictures of you when you wear his jacket, it makes him feel so happy and giddy

It kinda inspires him to try and style outfits for you to wear

Possibly plans matching outfits, that way if you get cold and he needs to give you his jacket - it will match both of you :)

This man is a THINKER!!! mwah

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

This man is a twig, twink, pocket sized

He will fly away in the wind like a napkin

BUT luckily, he loves getting massively oversized hoodies

It smells like the woods, a hint of lavender, but mostly fresh grass and sunlight is his scent

He loves to cool and comfy looks it gives - always gets a cool ass design on it as well

When you borrow his hoodies, he gets so giddy

He loves it so much since it's like he's claiming you in a way

Similar to how you leave hair ties, claw clips, and extra lip glosses all over his room

Definitely stacks up on big hoodies, that way you have a bunch of options to choose from

Even gets you guys matching designs in different colors

#slytherin boys #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #lorenzo berkshire #lorenzo berkshire x reader #slytherin x reader #slytherin headcanons #harry potter #harry potter x reader

1K notes · View notes

tusk-rumours · 21 days ago

Text

sweet girl ⁀➷ — sam winchester x fem!reader

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

word count: 3.9k

summary: sam and his girl get filthy and lovey late in the motel room.

warnings: explicit, a lot of smut, soft!dom sam, fingering, p in v, finger sucking, swearing, sams very very sweet. ridiculously detailed.

a/n: this is just a service to myself honestly. it’s incredibly filthy. i’m terrified to post this i’m not even sure if i like it. i also wrote this like over two months ago so this has been finished in my drafts for a while lmao

i dedicate all of my works to my super sexy writing judge @mxilkyways.

Papers and lore books scattered the table, covering the surface in so many layers that the aged wood was barely visible underneath. You stood with your thighs pressed against the side, leaning over to gather the mess, packing up for an earlyish night. 1am wasn't so bad, not compared to many other nights spent working anyway. Besides, you had something you wanted to stay up for, something you'd had on your mind. Something which you know had also been on your boyfriend Sam's, too.

It hadn't been spoken, but you knew, you could just tell by the air between you, and the way you could feel his eyes on you packing up even with your back turned. As you predicted, he eventually crossed over to the table, standing near you as he helped you sort the papers. The heat you already felt radiating off of him was intense, and your breath caught in your throat just thinking about how wonderfully overwhelming it would be to feel that heat pressed right up against your skin.

You composed yourself with a breath, trying hard not to watch his large and slender hands gather the papers, his fingers working and crooking to pick them up. Sam knew damn well how much of an effect his hands had on you, and tonight he wanted to use it to his advantage.

He purposefully let his fingers brush over your own atop the pages, his eyes flicking to your face, watching your reaction. Your skin tingles at the touch, and you smile at his attempt to tease you. You stay silent, not wanting to break first, and you continue piling your stack, keeping your eyes on the task. It doesn't take long for his fingers to dance across the pages again, this time grabbing your fingers firmly, pulling you in close to him.

You laugh, and his arms snake around your waist, an amused breath escaping his smile and fanning across your face.

"Knew you'd break first." You say, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his mess of brown hair.

"Mm, you know I just can't resist you for long, bunny," he mumbles, his head dipping so his lips meet your jaw, pressing a soft path of kisses along it. You let out a breath of laughter into his ear, basking in the warmth of his arms and chest.

He squeezes your waist, his lips moving down to your neck, smiling as you squirm in his hold from the ticklishness of his warm breath.

"I should finish cleaning up, you know. Easier for tomorrow."

"That's not what you want right now and we both know it." He says immediately into your neck, breathing in the smell of your perfume. "You think I couldn't tell what you've been thinking of all day? I know you, baby. I bet you're soaking already."

Your breath hitches at his words, your fingers gripping his hair just a bit tighter, eliciting a small groan from him.

"Well you haven't been too subtle either, honey," You breathe into his ear, your breathing starting to get a little laboured from his touches.

This makes him smile into your neck, and his hands roam across your lower back and hips. His lips make a quick path of kisses up to your chin, and his eyes meet yours.

"Maybe I wanted you to know just how weak you make me." He says, his breath tickling against your lips. His soft lips graze your own, and his quirk up when you try to chase them. His fingertips dance along your back, one hand climbing up your spine into your hair as he leans in again, kissing you agonisingly light.

His lips are warm and sweet, but the gentle press of them just isn't enough, and you know it's not for him either. His kisses quickly turn more hungry and passionate, his tongue swiping against your bottom lip as he holds you close, his fingers tangled in the hair at the back of your head. You instantly let him in, and his tongue makes quick work of intertwining with yours, the taste sweet and hot inside your mouth. You let out breathy noises from your open mouth, and he swallows them in his own as he starts to guide you towards the bed.

"Been on my mind all day. ‘m gonna make a mess out of you tonight, baby" He mumbles against your lips, his voice low and sultry. "My pretty girl."

The mess on the table is long left discarded, your work left half tidied as his warm hands are slipping underneath the hem of your shirt, pressing up against your bare sides. His tongue is still invading your mouth and licking against the roof of it, causing soft breaths and whines to fall from your lips. His hands simultaneously work to bring your shirt up to expose your torso. Your hands untwine from his neck, nimble fingers helping him to pull your shirt up and over your head.

He pushes you gently to step back until your knees hit the bed, and he guides you onto your back gently, silently instructing you with a nod of his head to crawl back up to the pillows. As you do, he immediately crawls over you, the mattress dipping as his palms press into the pillow on either side of your head.

Before you can get a word in he's attacking your neck, his lips nipping and sucking at your skin feverishly and you gasp at the feeling, your hands quickly finding his hair again. When he hits your sweet spot, that sensitive patch of skin beneath your ear and starts biting and kissing, you let out a whimper, instinctively pulling on his hair. He groans, his hand moving to your cheek, cupping it in his large hand firmly. When you pull again he moans, his tongue pressing flat against your skin to soothe his bites.

"God, honey—" He chokes out, his words slightly muffled through his relentless work on your neck.

You start to squirm under him, the sensation of his hot mouth on the side of your neck and his hair tickling against your face becoming too much to bear. Your hands slide down his back to the hem of his shirt, tugging desperately. He lifts his head at your silent request, and he smiles, relishing in the way you ask without saying a word.

"You want this off, huh honey?" He says a little breathlessly, his lips red and swollen from his consistent attack on your neck.

You nod, your chest heaving, breathing out a whispered 'please'. He sits back, his hands reaching for the hem of his shirt. He pulls it off quickly, discarding it somewhere on the floor, and you're in a daze, drinking in his broad shoulders and perfect skin.

He crawls over you again, his bare chest now hovering above you, and you somehow feel even hotter from the almost tangible pull you feel from his body and the sight in front of you.

You can't help but press your palms flat to his chest, just exploring his warm skin and sturdy chest with your hands, and his fingers are moving through your hair, his fingertips brushing down your neck so lightly it's ticklish, and all you want is just to feel even more of him.

You plant your lips against his jaw, leaving messy, hot kisses to his skin, your palms pressing firmly up the slope of his neck. He lets out a shaky breath into your ear, his large hands caressing your chest and torso, his fingers feeling against the lace of your bra. You arch your back as his fingers travel across your sides, giving him access to the clasp on your back. He makes quick work of it, gently pulling the garment down your arms and away from your chest, handling you so delicately, because he just wants to worship you.

Once your bra is discarded on the floor, he sits back for a minute, his large hands resting against your ribs, his eyes widening with pure admiration and lust as he stares down at your bare upper body.

"Jesus, honey. You're so beautiful." He breathes. "Can't get enough of the way you look, all pretty."

He reaches a hand up, a finger lightly tracing your collarbone, until it moves along to trace along the necklace sitting against your chest. His fingertips lightly play with the pendant, a small smile on his lips as he admires the necklace he got you so long ago sitting pretty on your neck.

His fingers travel up your neck, and suddenly he's caging you again, his chest and pretty face returning to view above you. His hands are placed on either side of your head again, and when he leans down to capture your lips with his, you try to meet him halfway, only to be yanked back by his palm accidentally planted firmly on your hair that's strewn across the pillow.

You wince, letting out a soft noise of pain followed by a laugh, and Sam's instantly in panic mode, lifting his hand and smoothing out your hair, thumbing your cheek.

"Shit— i'm so sorry, bunny, jesus— are you okay?" He rambles, and you laugh, taking one of his hands in your own to stop his fretting. Now that your hair's freed from his accidental hold, you lean up, capturing his lips with yours, the kiss is messy from your amused smile and giggles against his lips.

"'m sorry" He mumbles against your lips in between kisses.

You hum when he eventually smiles back, and you pull him down so you're head's back against the pillow, deepening the kiss.

His lips leave yours, to press an abundance of quick and sweet kisses all across your face in an attempt to soothe the accidental pain he caused. Starting at your chin, he works his way across your cheeks, nose and forehead. He lets out a breathy chuckle against your skin when your giggles become louder, your cheeks reddening, which only causes him to kiss them more, loving how hot your skin is underneath his lips.

His hands are still smoothing out your hair, his hands now cautious and somehow even more gentle as he caresses your cheekbone, his thumb and forefinger dipping down to your chin to lift your head slightly, capturing your lips again in a kiss somehow deeper than the last.

His hands cascade down your shoulders and collarbone, before settling on your breasts, his large palms covering the entirety of each of them. Slowly, he begins to knead them, squeezing and pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh. You moan softly into his mouth, your back arching into his palms.

His thumbs move across your breasts to gently circle your nipples, and you whine, the slight pressure making you shiver. He presses the pads of his thumbs a little harder, before his palms caress the entirety of your chest again, his lips leaving yours to nip a path down your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point, just feeling the rapid pace of it. He kisses down your collarbone, the sound of both of your laboured breathing filling the air.

"Sam..." You breathe his name out desperately, his hair now tickling against your chin.

Finally, his mouth dips down to your chest, his lips dragging across your skin until he takes your nipple into his mouth, kissing and sucking as his tongue licks across it slowly, fully enveloping you. You moan at the feeling, grabbing onto him tighter as his hand works on your other breast simultaneously. You cry out when his teeth nip at your nipple, and he smoothes the sting with his tongue.

"You're unreal, honey," He breathes against your chest, his warm breath tickling against your sensitive skin. He continues sucking with an intensity, until you're squirming, your legs shifting against his, in a silent, physical plea for more.

Sam would give you anything you want in a heartbeat, especially when you're like this, all soft and needy underneath him. His hands and mouth dip down, his palms and fingertips running down your ribs and stomach, his eyes locking with your own as he reaches the waistband of your jeans, silently asking for permission. You nod immediately, your chest heaving in anticipation. His lips quirk at your desperation, and his nimble fingers work at the button and zipper.

"Lift your hips up for me, baby," He says softly, and you oblige, lifting them so he can carefully pull down your jeans, slowly pulling them down your legs until they're off, and lying in a heap on the floor. He kneels in between your legs, a hand grazing against your lower belly, and your skin shivers underneath the touch, the cold air against your clothed core making you hiss lightly.

His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties, his thumb rubbing against the lace. His eyes flick up to you.

"This okay, sweetheart?" He questions. His constant checks for consent and permission despite how many times you've done this never fail to make you just turn into a puddle right there on the sheets.

"Mhm" You nod, a gentle smile on your lips, as he smiles too, hooking his fingers on his other hand underneath now too, and you lift your hips to help him slowly pull your panties off your legs, discarding them along with your jeans.

His hands make a path from your ankles up to your knees, his palms covering the entirety of your knee caps as he gently spreads your legs apart, his eyes glued in awe at the glistening sight between them.

"Fuck, baby, I knew it. You're soaked." He lifts a hand, running his index finger through your folds, and you let out a breathy hiss at the sensation.

"So wet for me honey, god—" He breathes, and suddenly he's hovering over you again, his large palm cupping your core, and you squeeze your eyes shut, your hips bucking up into him.

When he starts to rub your clit you mewl, and his soft voice is in your ear, his fingers gently caressing the hair on the top of your head as his forearm rests beside it.

"Shh, honey, doing so good f'me, shh..."

He presses his forehead against yours, his soft breath fanning against your face as the pads of his fingers gently circle your clit, the pressure firm yet soft.

Only once you're squirming and knocking your knee against his leg do his fingers slide lower through your folds, his fingers prodding at your entrance. His index finger circles it as he looks into your eyes, making sure he has your full attention on his as he slowly pushes a finger into you.

"Sam...hah—” You whisper out his name, a sharp gasp following as his finger gently plunges in deep, until it disappears almost entirely to the knuckle. You let out a shaky moan when his long finger slowly slides out again, and you whine at the loss of it, which is cut short by a small cry as he plunges in again, a little faster this time.

"Good girl, mm...look at you, so wrecked just from one finger....I wonder if...?" As he trails off, he adds a second finger into you, watching as your eyes squeeze shut tighter, groaning softly. He lets out an approving hum, his fingers slowly crooking and curling deep inside of you.

You cry out even louder than the last when his fingers brush against your sweet spot, and your moans get even more whiny as he repeatedly nudges it more firmly. You feel yourself getting close, as you flutter around his long fingers.

"Look at me, baby." He breathes out, and when you open your eyes, they immediately lock on his above you, blown out with adoration and lust.

"There's my girl. I wanna see you come for me, sweet girl." He says softly, his voice rough with arousal.

You nod, your foreheads still pressed together, your expression contorted in sweet pleasure as you whine and gasp under him.

When he crooks his fingers in that perfect way again you tense up, your whole body washing over with pure pleasure, down to your extremities. You cry out his name in desperate whimpers, his smile watching you come only making you flutter around his fingers harder.

He gently slows his movements as you relax against the mattress, carefully extracting his fingers from you, watching your expression closely, taking in the way you whine at the loss of him.

Once his fingers are exposed again do you both take in the way his fingers are soaked with your slick, practically glistening. He smirks, his eyes flicking up from his fingers to yours. Once he's sure he's got your attention, he sensually brings his fingers up to his mouth, letting the underside of them slide along his tongue before he wraps his lips around them. He closes his eyes and hums and moans in pleasure, as he licks and savours the taste of you on his fingers.

Your jaw falls slack in a silent moan at the sight, what he's doing in front of you just so incredibly hot you're sure you can probably come again just by watching him. He doesn't stop, wanting to savour and taste every last morsel of you on his fingers. You sit up, taking his wrist in your hand, pulling his fingers out of his mouth before you're guiding them into your own, your eyes looking up, locked on his.

You relish in the way he lets out a choked breath, a soft moan falling from his pretty mouth as he watches your lips wrap around his fingers, dragging them fully into your mouth, maintaining eye contact as you suck on them.

"Jesus, honey," He breathes, his eyes widened as you let your tongue slide along his fingers, tasting the last remnants of your arousal on them.

His thumb brushes against your jaw, mesmerized by you. Eventually, you give his fingers one last long lick, before pulling your mouth away from them. He's in a daze, fully captivated by just how unbelievably hot you are, until he's pushing you down onto your back again, quickly shedding himself of his jeans till he’s bare. He sighs at the relief of freeing himself from the tightness of his jeans, the sight of how hard he is making your mouth go dry. His skin is hot and flush against yours as he settles and murmurs above you, his voice heavy.

"So fucking sexy, baby, jesus," He caresses your soft hair with one hand, while his other his trailing down your body, from your collarbone down to your hips, before he's reaching for himself in between the two of you.

He slides the head along your folds, and you hiss, feeling as he glides so easily from just how insanely wet you are.

"Ready, honey?" He asks, watching closely for your response. You nod quickly and desperately, whispering back.

"Please, Sammy."

"Okay, I got you, honey. I got you." He murmurs back, lining himself up as he slowly pushes into you. You gasp at the feeling of how he stretches you out perfectly, and just how good he feels inside of you. You whimper softly as he continues to slide in slowly, listening to his groans above you.

"Fuck, Sam— you're so deep." You breathe out as he pushes the entire way in.

"Yeah, baby? You feel me all the way up here?" He moves his hand, his fingertips lightly pressing against your stomach.

You gasp at the added pressure, your fingers clawing into his broad back. He lets out a breathy chuckle, leaning down to press gentle kisses to your face, waiting for you to adjust to the stretch of him.

"You okay, honey?"

"Mhm," You nod, your forehead brushing against his, your fingers tangling in the hairs at the nape of his neck. His lips make their way to yours, capturing them in a soft and loving kiss.

"I love you," He murmurs in between kisses. You melt, lifting a hand to his cheek.

"I love you too. So much." You mumble against his lips, and he kisses you again, all sweet and loving.

"You ready?"

"Yeah," You breathe, nodding. Slowly, he starts to pull out, until only the tip is still inside of you, before sliding back in at a taunting speed, and you can feel everything.

You moan loudly into his ear, your arms wrapping even tighter around him. His hips move against you at the perfect pace, lewd sounds filling the room.

"Fuck, baby, you feel so good. You like how I fill you up, hm? Like how I stretch you out so good, honey?"

You moan at his words, somehow getting even wetter at how filthy he can speak to you when you're together like this. You curse, your brows furrowed in ecstasy, nodding pathetically against him. He speeds up his movements, gripping your hips to angle them in a way that lets him bury into you even deeper.

When he presses against that sweet spot, you cry out, loudly, your head thrown back in pleasure against the pillows. He hits it again and again, and you feel your release creep up on you, your walls fluttering and clenching around him even more intensely, which makes him moan into your ear, hissing in pleasure.

"Oh, Sam— Sam" You breathe out, your fingers tapping at his shoulder.

"I know, baby, I know. Come for me, wanna feel you." His voice is gravelly and breathless in your ear, and when he slows right down, you mewl, and you look like you're about to burst into tears. You cry out and press your head to his when he plunges back into you, deeper and more forceful than his previous ministrations. When he hits that spongy spot inside of you again, that does it.

You cry out loudly, your body tensing up once again, your walls fluttering violently around him, your body shaking as you ride out your release.

"Fuck— wanna fill you up, honey," He mumbles as his hips stutter against yours.

"Mm— please" You manage to breathe out as you're wrapped up in your high.

Feeling you orgasm around him is what pushes him over the edge, and you feel his release, the warmth of his cum coating your walls. He fucks into you a few more times, riding out his own high and pushing his release further into you.

His warm body collapses against yours, and you let out a breath, a euphoric smile on your face. He buries his head into your neck, and your hands rub against his back, feeling as it heaves and shudders.

"So good, honey, god, just perfect." He manages to rasp out through his laboured breaths. He lifts his head, locking eyes with you, his expression full of love. He brushes the hair that's stuck to your forehead away from your face, resting his hand against your cheek, leaning down to capture your lips with his once more. The kiss is long and sweet, and you can tell he's pouring all of his love for you into the gesture.

"Can I pull out, pretty girl?" He mumbles against your soft lips, and when you hum in approval, he slowly pulls out of you, both of you hissing at the sensitivity. He looks down in between your legs, his lips kicking up into a smile.

"God, sweetheart, I did make a mess of you." He huffs out a laugh, his hand caressing your thigh gently. His head dips down to press a tender kiss to your knee, and his hands continue to rub at your thighs and hips.

"Let me clean you up, baby," He murmurs. But before he disappears to the bathroom, he's leaning over you again, his hand moving to press against your cheek, his thumb rubbing underneath your eye and along the slope of your nose lovingly.

"My sweet girl," he murmurs, almost under his breath. "I love you, honey."

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester im in love with you #supernatural #spn #smut #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader smut #sam winchester x y/n #jared padalecki #sam i need you rn #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction

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marvelobsessed134 · 1 month ago

Text

Why don’t I show you?

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

A/n: heavily inspired by a very hot porn video I watched a while ago. This also has been sitting in my drafts for a while 💀

Warnings: smut, dom!nat, sub!reader, strap on use (r receiving), teasing, oral (both receiving), degradation

You were staying at Natasha’s house for a while because your stupid ex boyfriend dumped you again and you had no where to go. Luckily, your best friend was more than happy to take you in. And it’s totally not because she’s secretly in love with you or anything…

One day you decided to be helpful to the redhead because you felt guilty for staying in her house for free, so while she was working in her home office you snuck up to her room to clean up a bit. However, underneath her bed you found something rather shocking.

A modestly sized strap on. While you obviously knew Natasha was a lesbian, you weren’t really sure why she’d have such a thing if she wasn’t into guys. The curiosity got the best of you and so you grabbed it and went downstairs to her office.

Dropping it on the table you asked, “What is this?”

The redhead looked up from her computer and then down to the object on the table, “It’s a strap on.”

“I know that but, why? Aren’t you a lesbian?”

“Yes, but some of my hookups are bisexual and so, this gives them the best of both worlds. Besides, I like wearing it.”

“Mhm…so you like to fuck girls with a fake cock?”

The redhead shrugs, “Yeah I do,” she then leans forward, “I love to watch their pussies clench around it, the way they moan and cry out for me to go faster, harder, deeper. The way they cum all over my dick even though I can’t feel it…it gets me off.”

You stood there, blushing, “O-oh wow. Um, that’s great. But…you know, I’m more of a kinesthetic learner…” you teased as you slowly took off your shirt to reveal your lacy bra underneath.

Her eyes noticeably darkened as she stood up, “Oh yeah? You want me to fuck your pussy, baby?”

“Yes.” You breathed out. She chucked, grabbing the strap and your hand, “Come with me.”

She lead you into her bedroom and the two of you got on the bed. She grabbed your head and pressed her lips to yours in a passionate kiss. You moaned into her mouth as you kissed her back, both of you guys feeling each other up.

Natasha pulled your shirt off to reveal your light pink lace bra, she grinned, “I’m gonna fuck your pussy so hard, baby.” You giggled at her words and kissed her again, slow and passionate.

The redhead’s hands creeped behind your back and unclasped your bra, tossing it on the floor before groping your tits, twisting your nipples between her fingers.

“Ooh-“ you hissed.

“Such pretty titties.” She praised, continuing to play with them before sticking a nipple into her mouth. You stroked her hair as she sucked and bit on the sensitive flesh, making your moan and hiss.

Natasha pulled off of you and took her own shirt and bra off. You kissed her once again, letting her tongue dance in your mouth, before kissing down to her breasts. You tweaked and played with her nipples and groped the soft flesh before sucking on one of her nipples. She moaned, “Oh, good girl.” You pulled off of her and she kissed you once more, the two of you not getting enough of each other’s lips it seems.

Soon, you were lying on your back, your shorts and panties pulled off, legs spread revealing your dripping core. The redhead spit on your pussy before rubbing it at a medium pace, making you bite your lip. Then she leaned down and licked a bold stripe against your pussy, flicking her tongue as she moved her head up and down, gripping your thighs with her toned hands. You gripped her hair and she ate you out, moaning loudly at every move she made.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Was all you could muster out as she tongue fucked you. When her tongue meticulously flicked on your clit, you were done for. Your eyes rolled back as you came, letting out shrieks of pleasure.

“Good girl, fuck you taste so sweet. Now you have to do me a favor before I give you my cock okay?” She looked up at you from between your legs. You nodded. She got up and laid next to you, unbuttoning her jeans and pulling them down along with her panties. She spread her legs to reveal her dripping center.

“You have a pretty pussy too, Natty.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you come taste it?” You leaned in between her legs and licked her making her moan. You continued to lick her, flicking your tongue and eating her out as she gripped your hair, moaning and bucking her hips against your tongue.

“So good, right there!” Natasha moaned. She cried out as she came all over your face, you lapped it up desperately and she chuckled.

“On all fours.” She commanded. You complied immediately, and turned your head to watched her put on the harness before teasing your entrance with the tip of the strap.

“Please.” You begged.

“Mmm I don’t know…you think it’s gonna fit?” She teased.

You whimpered, “Y-yes. Please, Nat.” You begged, backing up against it.

“You naughty girl. So desperate to be filled with my dick?”

Lord, you had no idea Natasha had a thing for teasing. But you loved it.

“Y-yes! Need it so bad!”

“This pussy is so tiny, but you are very wet…” she slid in without warning, filling you to the brim. You moaned and gripped the sheets as she began to thrust into you, gripping your hips tightly.

“Fuck, such a good little cockslut. Is that right? Say it, say you’re a good little cockslut.”

“I’m a good little cockslut.” You cried.

She continued to thrust into you, gripping your hips like a vice. Her cock repeatedly hit your sweet spot making you see stars. You clenched around it and cried out as you approached your orgasm.

“Fuck yes, cum all over this dick babygirl.” Natasha groaned.

Soon she pulled out and took off the harness, tossing it aside and helping you lay down.

“So, what did you think?” The redhead asked.

“I liked it…a lot.”

“Good. And now that I’ve had my hands on you, I’m never letting you go.”

#marvel x reader #marvel smut #top natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff smut #wlw smut

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ohdeerfully · 10 months ago

Note

K hear me out, a wife! Reader x Alastor and Charlie finds out they had a kid when they were alive. (I don’t mind what the kids name is but make them young and passed due to Spanish flu, dark I know)

omg this has been sitting in my drafts so long, i love requests like this </3 im sorry if it seems rushed, i really wanted to finish it!

Mourning Dove

Alastor x Reader (angst, slight comfort at end) TW: CHILD DEATH, child sickness, reader referred to as a woman but doesnt effect story too much join my discord! ═══ ◈ ══════════ ◈ ══════════ ◈ ══════════ ◈ ═══

You sat yourself unceremoniously at the bar in the hotel lobby, shoulders slouched and cheek squished against the cold countertop. You weren’t one for alcohol, but you didn’t mind the company of Husk. He didn’t say much unless prompted, but that didn’t bother you. It was nice, honestly, after a day of dealing with the others.

“Somethin’ the matter?” Okay. Nevermind about him not saying much.

“Hmm?” You responded, barely peeking up from your finger that dragged patterns in the surface you laid against. “I’m good.”

“You don’t look it,” Husk observed, and you knew he was referring to the discoloration of your eyes and the residual dampness of your cheeks from crying. Your hair was a mess, too. Yeah, you looked like shit. “Tough day?”

“I guess, yeah,” You sighed, pushing yourself up and leaning back in a stretch while your fingers gripped the countertop to steady yourself. “Just thinking about… Y’know.”

He didn’t pry, and you were thankful for that. Husk did know a little, actually, and knew better than to push for more details. After being stuck with Alastor for so long, with the guy owning his soul and all, he inevitably learned some deep shit about him and, by extension, you. He just grunted in response and went back to spot cleaning his bottles of booze.

“(Y/N)!” A chipper voice called your name, and you squeezed your eyes shut in frustration. You thought you were done with all of this for the day, and you were so ready to just go to sleep. “I wanted everybody to join me for dinner today! We have a few new residents, so I want everybody to meet each other.”

You squeezed your lips to prevent a harsh word from responding to Charlie’s invitation. You were so tired. You feigned a weak smile and looked at her. You wanted to say no, to say you needed to sleep, but those huge, pleading eyes of hers caught the rejection in your throat. You tried to reason with yourself that Charlie doesn’t host stuff like this very often. It would just be one night. You’ll survive.

“Okay.”

She clasped her hands together and jumped on the balls of her feet, thanked you, and took off to find the next resident to invite. You held your head against your hand and you sighed dramatically. Husk looked at you from the corner of his eye, but opted to remain silent. You stood up after a few more minutes of quiet sulking, deciding you should fix yourself up for dinner.

In your room, you gently fixed your hair and threw on a casual outfit. Nothing super nice, just in case food started flying–knowing the antics of some of the hotel residents, it wouldn’t be a surprise.

You slowly made your way to the banquet room, which Charlie had installed for events like today. You could already hear the low murmur of small talk, and you were surprised to see a few new faces. Not a whole lot, just about five, alongside the familiar faces of your friends. Charlie’s hotel was, slowly but surely, becoming more successful.

You spotted Alastor quickly–he was hard to miss due to his height. You settled yourself in a chair next to him at a long table that Charlie had dragged into the room for everybody to sit at. You felt your skin prickle with the familiar sensation of static, which increased slightly as his attention turned towards you. He gave you a grin before focusing his eyes on the racket that was already picking up. You watched his smile curl, a bit sinister, as the sound of shouting caught your attention.

“-my fuckin’ business!” You picked up the tail end of Angel Dust fuming at Vaggie, one pair of arms crossed under his chest. He had a third hand on his hip, with his fourth hand jabbing an accusatory point at the woman in front of him.

“Guys, please!” Charlie pleaded, pressing her shoulder against Vaggie’s in an attempt to move her away from Angel. “I don’t want to scare my new guests away!”

“Tell this bitch to keep her nose outta my shit! I can’t have my fuckin’ life on the line because she doesn’t like my job!” Angel spat. There was a dangerous, maybe even frantic, look in his eyes. Before Charlie could say anything, Angel had spun around and stormed to the table. He ripped the chair out and slammed his body down. All four of his arms were crossed now as he glowered at the wooden tabletop.

You sighed, and felt a headache already forming.

Angel’s spirits quickly changed when Husk sulked into the room. He had his paws stuffed in his pockets, and glared at the air in front of him. He sat down at the other end of the table, but Angel was quick to stand up and saunter his way over to sit next to the cat. You couldn’t quite catch the flirtatious remarks that made Husk roll his eyes.

You observed them for a while, watching as Husk slowly grew more comfortable in the small talk he and Angel shared. He would never admit it, but you knew Husk didn’t hate Angel’s company. Husk seemingly said something about you to Angel that made him whip his head up to look at you. You quickly averted your gaze.

Charlie had been standing by her own chair, and a cough from her throat made the chatter die down. You didn’t really listen to the overly sappy speech she had started to give, your mind drifting away in absent thought. You picked your nails into the edge of the table, fidgeting with the light cloth.

Alastor caught your attention by lightly nudging his leg against yours. You trailed your eyes up to his, meeting his red gaze. There was a hint of worry in his eyes, and his grin twitched at the edges as he looked at your exhausted face. He tilted his head in a silent question.

You merely shook your head in response, and mouthed a quick “it’s nothing” and hoped that he wouldn’t press. He didn’t, but you knew he’d ask again in a private room.

Charlie sat down again, and Vaggie rubbed her shoulder, murmuring a silent praise. You dragged your eyes across the table, making note of the handful of new faces. None of them seemed to take Charlie very seriously, but that didn’t come as a surprise. They probably just liked free food.

The food in question seemingly materialized out of nowhere, and you chalked it up to her “princess of hell” type powers that she didn’t use very often. You smiled gratefully and, though you didn’t have much of an appetite, you started slowly picking at the plate in front of you.

The room once again began to rumble with small talk, but at some point the multiple conversations began to melt together until the whole table was talking to each other in one. Charlie was doing most of the heavy lifting with keeping the conversation going.

“-the deal with the Radio Demon and that gal next to him?” You perked your ears when you heard this reference to yourself. One of the new guests, some sort of lizard demon, had a finger pointed at the two of you. He had a slight country drawl in his voice. You saw Alastor’s smile widen when the attention of the table turned towards himself.

“My darling wife,” Alastor stated simply, briefly placing a hand on your shoulder. His eyes were closed as he smiled proudly. You silently nodded with a light, polite smiling. “We knew each other in life. It’s only natural for us to remain together. It would have been a shame for death to do us part.”

“Didn’t think you was the type…” The lizard said slowly, eyeing the two of you carefully. You didn’t blame him; what kind of nut job would marry the Radio Demon? Though, as Alastor said, you were married before Hell, and he wasn’t so… infamous back then. He was actually rather sweet, besides the whole serial killer thing–which, in your defense, you weren’t even aware of till he was shot to death.

“Didn’t think ya were the type to have a kid, either,” Angel piped up absently, one arm thrown lazily over the back of his chair. You watched as Husk tried desperately to shut him up as he continued to speak, but you barely heard the words over the sound of your heart picking up pace, and the increased radio frequency of Alastor’s. His body had stiffened and his eyes had shot open, quickly narrowing as his smile strained and curled dangerously, his gums visible in a snarl. His eyes were not on Angel, but on Husk, whose ears were flattened against his head and a nervous look in his wide eyes.

You weren’t really paying attention though, but you felt the intense tension and rapid prickling on your skin. Your breathing became more labored and you pointed your face to the table to try to hide the building tears in your eyes. You had tried so hard, all day, to push back the memories that kept threatening to resurface. What are the chances that on the same day, the topic was brought up, destroying the wall you had built to contain the anxiety, regret, grief…

You were kneeling by the wrinkled, messy sheets of the twin bed your son had been in for the past couple days. Your heart was tight, and you could barely breathe as you looked at him. He gazed blearily at the ceiling, following the path of the rocking fan. Every breath he took scratched at his throat, as if there were pebbles blocking the path. He barely had the strength to cough. His lips were dry and cracked, and his graying skin still had a flush of fever. You used a damp rag to clean the dried snot under his nose.

You had tried everything. Every recommended antibiotic, every treatment, therapy, exercise; nothing had worked. Nobody knew how to treat the illness. You had even tried to work with witch doctors that Alastor knew. You had spent so much of what little money you had trying to save your little boy.

Alastor was often gone during this time, being the one to go out and find something new to try. You never left the room, even when your husband tried to push you to go outside to stretch your legs or take a shower. He promised to watch over your son. But you just couldn’t, not with David laying on these dirty sheets, looking so frail, weak, and small. You had often called him little dove, and it made you sick to think that your nickname was now like a cruel adjective to describe his current state. A sick, frail baby bird. He had barely eaten in the past eight days, and you didn’t want to admit to yourself that any scratchy breath he took could be that last one.

You stiffened when his head rolled over towards you, and his eyes struggled to focus on you. His cracked lips grimaced for a moment, followed by a sharp, grating cough that made your heart drop and your eyes sting. You reached a shaky hand forward to smooth down his knotted hair.

“Am I going to be okay,” David said weakly. His voice caught on the tightness in his throat multiple times. “I feel really bad.”

“I know baby, but you’re okay,” You said tenderly, continuing to stroke his hair. “Your dad is getting you some new medicine. You’ll be okay.”

You were lying to him, and to yourself. But you couldn’t help but cling on to a morsel of hope–it was all you could do, really. David just looked towards you, his eyes flicking around slightly, unable to truly focus on anything.

“I’m tired.” He said. His breathing was labored.

“I know.”

Your emotions threatened to spill from your eyes as you watched him turn his head back towards the ceiling, eyes shutting. You didn’t want to cry; you couldn’t, not in front of him. You needed to stay strong for him.

You pressed the back of your hand to his burning forehead, and then trailed your hand to his chest, lightly pressing against him to feel his heartbeat. It was slow, and slowing. Your own heart picked up in response.

You heard the door in another room open, shut, and footsteps quickly pace towards the room. The door cracked lightly, and the tall, thin frame of your husband peeked in. He held a brown back tightly in his fist. With one look into your eyes, he knew something was wrong. Or, well, more wrong than usual.

You clenched your jaw to prevent any sob from escaping your lips as he sat the bag down on an end table and kneeled next to you, gripping your waist tightly as he looked at David. The boy’s breath had gotten dangerously quiet.

You watched as his eyes opened again.

“I’m tired.” He repeated, weaker this time.

Both you and Alastor leaned towards the bed, his hand on David’s leg as you gingerly lifted the boy’s head into your arms, pulling his light body towards yourself. You shifted yourself up into the bed with him, trying to wrap as much of yourself around your son as possible. You could feel his heartbeat getting slower with every weak breath he took.

“Sleep, then,” your voice trembled. You felt Alastor grip your shoulder, his other hand softly rubbing David’s arm. You couldn’t describe the expression on his face. “I’ll see you in the morning, little dove.” You lied.

“In heaven?” He responded. Your breath hitched at his words. He knew, somehow, that he was dying. How sick it was, for such a young boy to be aware of his impending death. How cruel God was.

“Yeah, I promise,” Was all you could muster. You worried that any more would destroy the dam that held back your tears.

It broke, though, when you felt David’s heart finally stop. You choked on a sob once, twice, before finally you started wailing. Screaming. You held a vice-like grip on the boy, both your arms and legs secured around him. Alastor was still quiet, but he had sat across from you on the bed and pulled you towards him, securing you and David’s still-warm body in an equally tight grip. You could feel his strained breathing and tight jaw against your head. He said something, but you didn’t hear him.

Your mind rushed back to the present when you felt a hand on your back. Your head whipped towards Alastor, who was looking at you. The table was dead silent, and there was still a look of rage in his eyes, but his smile held a softness that was only ever given to you. Your heart still beat strongly, and you struggled to breathe, but you were at least glad that your mind was still back in the present.

Evidently, barely any time had passed. Angel had a nervous look in his expression, which he tried and failed to mask as Husk cursed at him. Charlie was looking at you in worry.

“(Y/N),” She said softly. “...How come you never-”

“Truly, there is no point in speaking of life before death,” Alastor interrupted her, the usual cheer in his voice lilted by a masked emotion. You knew he felt the same grief as you, but he was a million times better at acting naturally. “What a waste of time and emotion.”

Alastor stood quickly, his hand trailing against your shoulders as he walked past you and towards Angel and Husk. Husk’s ears flattened to his skull again as Alastor loomed over them, hands behind his back as a smile twisted his features.

“Husker, my friend,” He said, the cat demon visibly flinching at the mention of his name. “Let’s take a walk.”

Husk didn’t move, and the room grew heavy with tension with every second as the sound of radio frequency got louder and somehow sharper. Alastor bent at the waist, his snarling smile inches away from the panicked expression on Husk’s face.

“Is the tomcat getting too old to hear?” You barely picked up Alastor’s words, but you definitely heard the threatening tone in his voice.

The cat swallowed hard before standing up. He shot one last infuriated look at Angel, before whipping his head back to attention when Alastor tapped his cane against the ground impatiently. The two of them left the room, and the tension in the air immediately lifted when the door shut.

Charlie startled you when she placed a delicate hand on your upper arm, and she guided you to your feet and out another set of doors. A weak smile touched her expression.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked as you both went up the stairs towards your hotel room. You shook your head silently at her offer. She only nodded back, and said nothing more. She opened the door to your room for you, and waited till you settled down in your bed before saying a string of comforting words that you didn’t really pay attention to. The door clicked softly, and you once again began to sob.

Only a few minutes passed before you felt your skin prickle with a static-like feeling. You had grown to find comfort in the odd sensation, and felt incredibly relieved when you knew Alastor was sitting next to you. You didn’t even hear him enter the room.

He pulled you wordlessly against his chest, lying the two of you down. You twisted yourself in his grip till your ear rested against him, listening to the odd drum of what you assumed was a heart.

“Has David been troubling you all day?” He asked you when your sobs slowed and you caught your breath. You nodded. Alastor rubbed a soothing hand on your shoulder blade. You recognized the tone of grief in his voice as he spoke. “What a pesky boy, even all these years later.”

You wrapped your arms tightly around Alastor’s neck as tears began flowing again.

Though you would never tell him, you often hoped Charlie’s idea of redemption would work. Your husband himself would likely never follow that path; you knew he saw no point and enjoyed the power he held in Hell. But, you wished every day to see your son again. To see your little dove.

You had promised him.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #angst #TW: child death #child death #ohdeerfully

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