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missmatchablossom · 1 year ago

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Gojo x Reader Royalty AU | Part V.

summary: you are a princess in an arranged marriage with the crown prince of the country, satoru gojo. gojo leaves on a trip, leaving you to face your true feelings for him

a.n.: I just wanted to thank everyone who follows this series and takes the time to leave me comments about it! you are the reason I enjoy writing it <3 enjoy the angst + fluff of part 5!

tags: @lysaray @nourhanfarid13 @geniejunn @weirdoaroundtheblock

A soft rain pattered against the windows to Gojo’s bedroom, casting the grand space in a cool gloom that mirrored your own melancholy.

“Do you really have to go?” you asked quietly, wincing as soon as the words left your mouth. You meant to come off as playful, casual even. But you sounded more dejected than anything as you sat atop Gojo’s enormous four-poster bed, watching your prince pack away his clothes.

Though, by the way Gojo paused to shoot you a smile, he didn’t seem to mind.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, princess. I tried getting out of it, but apparently I’m so important that ghosting them could cause a cold war or something. Stupid, isn’t it?” he said, the corned of his lips upturned.

You rolled your eyes as you chucked one of his pillows at his head, which he caught easily in a fit of laughter. You layed onto the bed in a huff, curling up towards the edge with your back facing the prince.

Am I the only one sad that he’s leaving? you thought, burying your face into the pillow you hugged to your chest. The familiar sweet scent of his shampoo was a welcome distraction from your inner turmoil.

Gojo would be leaving the palace tomorrow morning to embark on a two week-long trip to visit the neighboring countries. He would be meeting with fellow blue bloods, doing important work to strengthen relations before your wedding.

Rationally, you knew two weeks wasn’t a long time. But when you were used to ending your nights cuddled into his side, it felt like eternity. There was an unspoken agreement that Gojo would slip into your room at night, and no matter how late he finished his work, you’d be up waiting for him. He’d outstretch his arm, beckoning you towards him with a smile on his face no matter how tired he was.

Your jolted in surprise as Gojo crouched beside the side of the bed you were on, leveling your eyes with his. He tilted his head slightly as he looked at you, sending your heart into a fury with his proximity.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked softly, reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind your ear. It was a gesture he repeated often, but it nearly coaxed your heart out of your chest each time he did it.

“No,” you began, cheeks burning as you fiddled with the pillowcase. He watched you patiently, all traces of his earlier teasing mood gone.

“I’m just going to miss you.”

You watched as your favorite blue eyes softened before you. He shut his eyes, leaning forward until his face was buried in your side, the cool, delicate skin of his eyelids pressing against your arm.

“Maybe I don’t have to go after all,” he murmured.

You giggled as you slipped your hands into his hair, something you did for him often to help when he had heacaches. He sighed as he leaned into your touch.

“Just come with me,” he said.

Oh, how you wanted to. But your schedule didn’t allow it, since you were undergoing strict “crown princess training,” filling your days with historical and political lessons to match Gojo’s education.

“I tried getting out of it, but apparently I’m so important that skipping training could cause a domestic war. Stupid, right?” you said, reveling in the hearty laugh he released. You heard him mumble something along the lines of such as smartass before he turned his head to the side so that his face was mere inches away from yours.

“Will you pick a few outfits for me to pack? That way, when someone compliments me, which they undoubtedly will,” he said, throwing a quick wink your way, “I can say my princess picked it out for me,” he finished, the faintest dusting of pink decorating his cheeks.

You mirrored his smile, chewing on the inside of your cheek to mask just how giddy his words made you feel.

“Mm, it will cost you,” you said cheekily, loving the way his eyes danced with humor as he shook his head at you. His eyes always seemed the prettiest when he was looking at you.

“You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you,” he said, laughing to himself as he disappearing into his closet.

“Good thing I came prepared,” he said, coming out with a stack of his hoodies. You threw your head back and laughed as he set them down beside you, raising his brows expectantly.

Gojo knew you loved wearing his hoodies. It wasn’t because you admitted how much you enjoyed the way his cologne clung to the fabric, making it feel like you were being held by him. You didn’t explain how you loved how casually intimate it was, wearing something of his. You weren’t sure what he thought, actually. Just that you must’ve loved them because of how often you asked to borrow one.

“Well? Do we have a deal, princess?” he said, making sure to drawl out his voice as he called you by his favorite nickname. The one that almost made you blush everytime you heard it, especially when he said it the way he just did.

Instead of responding, you slipped one of his oversized hoodies over your body, enjoying the indulgent look in his eye as he watched you.

Gojo leaving for his flight felt like a hazy memory, something that could’ve easily been a dream if you didn’t know better.

You vaguely remembered being awoken by the sound of shuffling and zippers. You lifted your head up, eyes heavy with sleep as you checked the spot beside you. The spot where Gojo usually occupied was empty, nearly sending you into a panic before you found him at the foot of the bed, the sound of a zipper reaching your ears. He turned to look at you, all dressed up in his formal attire. It had to be a crime to look so devastatingly good before the sun was even up.

“Sorry princess, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered, casting you an apologetic look. You shook your head, too tired you verbally tell him you didn’t mind. It wasn’t his fault that your sleep was already fitful and light, like your body was rejecting a good night’s rest knowing Gojo was leaving.

Gojo padded over to you quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed closest to where you were laying.

Your prince reached out, stroking his hand across the back of your head. You closed your eyes as he cupped your cheek, swiping his thumb against the soft skin.

“Go back to sleep, love. I’ll be back soon.”

You could’ve sworn you felt something soft press against the top of your head before sleep took you, and you woke up to a cold, Gojo-less room.

The hallways seemed dimmer. Food tasted blander. The sky looked duller. Maybe you were imagining things, but you didn’t imagine the sadness that has been nagging you since your prince left. There was no way to prepare yourself for how everything seemed to take more time and effort knowing you couldn’t go to your room at the end of the day and crash into Gojo’s arms, where no stress seemed to exist.

He messaged you as soon as he landed, sending you pictures of himself holding up the sweets he was trying. But the messages lessened as his trip progressed, and the daily news report was eager to tell you why.

You found yourself tuning in to the chanel everyday, watching your prince walk across the screen and shaking hands with a new noble every day. He thrived under the media attention, shooting endless smiles and waves towards everyone itching to catch his gaze. But you knew Gojo, and you recognized the dullness in his eyes. He was definitely tired.

don’t forget to get some rest and eat properly! You texted, sighing. He still hadn’t responded to your texts from before asking if he had time to call.

he’s busy, he’s just busy, you reassured yourself. It was taking all of your mental strength not to worry about him, not to feel disheartened by his lack of contact. He didn’t owe you daily updates…did he? You weren’t married yet.

The impassioned voice of the news reporter ripped you from your thoughts.

“Prince Gojo was spotted sneaking away with another girl! Is a secret love affair going on?”

A sour feeling plagued your chest as an image flashed across the screen. It was an obvious paparazzi shot, taken from odd angles unbeknowst to the subject of the photos. But there was no doubt in your mind that it was Gojo in the photo - you’d recognize his tall frame and proud shoulders anywhere. But his arm was wrapped around the slender shoulders of a girl you didn’t recognize. All you could tell was that she must be someone important or rich or royal by the fabric of her dress, the shine of her hair.

You felt jealousing rearing its ugly head, burning through your body as a wave of nausea hit you.

Who is that girl?

Is he…seeing someone else?

But we’re fiances.

But he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t choose to get engaged to you.

But I thought we had something together?

But you never discussed it.

But he could have been in love with this other girl the whole time and you came between them and ruined it

But….but?

Your bottom lip trembled as you dropped your face into your hands, taking shaky, deep breaths in a failed attempt to stop the thoughts assaulting you.

Maybe you didn’t know Gojo as well as you thought you had.

It was really hard to ignore the palace staff, with the loud glances and whispers you’d been hearing. You weren’t sure if it was pity or concern, but it made you feel miniscule nonetheless. You went about your work with your head held high, meeting their stares with a smile that they quickly looked away from.

As soon as you were alone, your brave face would crumple. There wasn’t much you could bring yourself to do except wander the outskirts of the palace, where you found comfort in being hidden amongst the lush overgrowth. Hidden away from the heavy eyes of the palace, hidden from the tabloids speculating about your failed engagement, hidden from the texts Gojo sent you.

sorry princess, they’re working me to the bone

I’m free to call now if you are

I miss you

princess?

everything okay?

can we talk?

You plopped down at the base of a tree, sighing as you read over the texts you’d received but didn’t respond to for the past two days.

It’s okay, I know you’ve been busy. Don’t forget to eat okay? We can talk when you get back

As soon as you hit send, your phone began buzzing with an incoming call. Gojo’s contact picture popped up on the screen - a picture you took of him laughing and reaching towards the camera. It was your favorite photo of him you’ve ever taken, but right now looking at it filled you with dread.

sorry, I’m pretty busy. I probably won’t be able to talk for a while, you texted, feeling yourself flinch at the lie.

you’re a bad liar, princess

please talk to me

But you couldn’t. How could you talk to him when you were questioning if anything between you two was real, or if it was him just doing his duty? Sure, he treated you well. But he never admitted he had feelings for you. You could’ve been misreading him the entire time.

You knew what you were walking into with your arranged marriage. The most you could ask for was to get along with your fiance, some people were stuck with awful partners. Gojo was never obligated to love you, and it was never something you expected, so why were you hurting so much?

Because I’m in love with Gojo, you finally admitted to yourself.

You slowly sank down against the base of a tree, tipping your head up as the tears rolled down your cheeks. As you came to the realization, your scramble of emotions fought for their spot in the front of your mind. Relief at finally accepting your own feelings. Fear that your love was unrequited.

You sat there for a while, gathering your thoughts as the wind and leaves kept you company.

Once you arrived back at the palace, eyelids swollen and cheeks rosied from the cold, you were approached by one of Gojo’s retainers.

“Pardon me, your highness?” he called out, eyebrows burrowing as he took in your appearance.

“Are you alright?” You shot him a tight smile.

“I’m fine, thank you. Did you need something?” you said, hoping he wouldn’t keep you much longer. The older gentleman narrowed his eyes slightly, and you knew he didn’t believe you. But he didn’t press it.

“I have Prince Gojo on the line, he has been requesting to speak with you.”

Shit.

“Please tell him I’m unavailable,” you asked quietly, bracing yourself for the man to tell you he couldn’t do that.

But the older man looked at you once more, his face relaxing like he could see the exhaustion and stress lining your features.

“Of course, your highness,” he said, tipping his head kindly as you thanked him.

When you got to your room, a tray of your favorite tea and cookies sat on cart next to the door. You swore to give that man a raise when you had the power to.

You had one week until Gojo returned to the palace. One week to figure out how to talk to him again and how to address the photo of him with the mystery woman. One more week for you to chicken out and ignore his texts and calls.

The evening was nearing, and you found yourself once more on the palace outskirts. You leaned your head back against your favorite tree, stretching your legs out to get comfortable. Your eyes burned and your chest felt like lead, but at least you had a beautiful view.

Heaving a deep sigh, you closed your eyes and tried focusing on what you would hear, a grounding exercise you’d been taught recently.

unidentified birds chirping

water flowing

breeze shaking leaves

footsteps

Footsteps? Your eyes shot open. No one ever followed you out here.

“Princess.” a voice began. It was low, haunted even. And painfully familiar.

You turned as you saw Gojo standing before you, dressed to the nines in his navy suit he only wore for official business. His silver locks were disheveled, his face was pale, and he looked uncharacteristically serious. His sweeping gaze felt heavy as it ran over your entire body, as if he were checking you over for an injury.

You blinked up at him, waiting to see if he was an illusion that would disappear the next time you opened your eyes. But he didn’t. He was real, he was here.

“You’re back early,” you stated, offering a small, close-lipped smile. You couldn’t bear to look him in the eye, though.

The harsh sound of his bag hitting the ground surprised you. He reached up towards his neck, roughly loosening the tie you knew he hated wearing.

“I had a more pressing matter to attend to,” he said, and you flinched at the cold lacing his tone.

“Rushing through a trip like that could be bad for international relations,” you commented evenly, not addressing the second half of what he said.

“I could care less about international relations when my wife has been ignoring me for the past week,” he said sharply, running his hand through his hair.

“I’m not your wife,” you said softly, knowing it was a low-blow. He sucked in a breath, kneeling down to be at eye-level with you.

“You will be,” he said with confidence, as if there were nothing in the world that could challenge that. You still didn’t look at him.

He cupped your face gently with his hand, turning your gaze to finally look him into his eyes - where a storm of hurt, confusion, and exhaustion brewed. It was enough for traitorous tears to begin slipping down your cheeks. You shut your eyes as you wept silently, feeling the soft pads of Gojo’s thumbs brushing against the delicate skin beneath your eyes,

“What happened, love?” he said softly, hearing the desperation in his voice.

You took a deep breath, struggling to make out Gojo’s expression through your blurry vision.

“I saw the picture of you with your arm around that girl,” you whispered.

The hand on your cheek froze, and you braced yourself to see a flash of guilt over his expressions. But he continued to stare at you evenly, like he had nothing to hide.

“I know you didn’t have a choice in marrying me. But if I came between you and someone else you love, then I’m truly sorry. I’ll be fine if you w-”

“Okay princess, I’m going to stop you right there.”

“Her name is Utahime. We grew up together but there has been nothing between us ever. In fact, she can barely stand me most of the time,” he said, sweeping his eyes across yours.

“I needed a huge favor from her. We were walking outside and she slipped on something, so I caught her by the shoulder to steady her. If the paparazzi had a front angle, they would’ve seen her flicking my arm off and looking pissed that I helped her at all.”

It hurt your heart, the way his voice wavered as he spoke to you. You had never heard him sound so scared. He was worried you wouldn’t believe him.

“Please say something,” he begged softly, laying his cool hand atop yours.

“I believe you,” you said, flipping up your hand to grip his own. The furrow between his brows relaxed, the tightness in his jaw easing as he slumped down next to you, in what might’ve been the least princely manner you’d seen from him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked calmly, turning your head to look at him.

“You didn’t give me the chance. I was losing my mind trying to reach you, princess,” he said, his voice heavy as he gently slid the back of his fingers against your cheek, his hand traveling until his hand cupped the side of your face.

“I’m sorry. The rumors were affecting me more than I thought,” you began, pressing your lips together to steady yourself.

“All I could think about was how you are being forced to marry me. And I began wondering what you would do, who you would be with if you had a choice. How much happier you could be,” you said, the self-loathing thick in your voice as more tears slipped out.

He looked as if you had just struck him. He took a deep breath, a determined look coming over his features as he leaned into your space.

“You’re right that our engagement wasn’t my choice. But it was my choice to fall in love with you,” he said, lifting your palm to his lips.

You weren’t sure if there was a word for how you felt hearing those words. The relief, the joy, the disbelief that Prince Satoru Gojo was in love with you.

“You…love me?” you asked in a whisper, like the words were forbidden. A smile made its way across your lips as you spoke last few words. Gojo’s smile responded to yours - immediately softening his beautiful face.

“I am in love with you princess. I would choose you over and over again,” he said reverently, looking at you in that way of his that made you feel like the only person in the universe.

You launched yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he caught you with a surprised grunt. His big hands coming up to stroke your back, his arms around you pulling you in close against his chest.

You pulled back slightly, until your foreheads were nearly touching.

“I’m in love with you too, my prince.”

The breath left your lungs as the most gorgeous smile you’d ever seen stretched wide across his features, lighting up his eyes and brightening his face.

“You love me?” he asked, his arms around your waist tightening you even closer to him.

“I love you,” you said again, giggling at the pure, childlike happiness emanating from his face.

Suddenly, you were up in the air as your prince lifted you up and swung you in a circle, like the ending credits of a Disney movie.

The two of you laughed and spun until you were both out of breath, Gojo settling back down against the tree with you on his lap once more.

“You make me happier than I ever thought I could be,” he said, sending the blush straight to your cheeks. But instead of looking away in embarrassment, you shifted closer.

“You took the words right out of my mouth. You are more than anything I’ve ever dreamed of,” you said, leaning up to press your lips against the smooth skin of his cheek.

A beautiful pink dusted across his skin, but that brilliant smile remained on his lips.

“So, can I finally kiss you then?” you asked.

You bit back a laugh at the pure shock on his face - the way his eyes widened, pupils dilated, jaw slackened, like that was the last thing he ever expected you to ask him at this very moment.

“Fuck,” you heard him mutter under his breath.

“My prince?”

“Kiss me, princess,” he said, his voice heady as he spoke.

You smiled as you leaned forward, gingerly pressing your lips to his.

One soft peck to test the waters, the faintest brush of your lips. Then another one - your lips lingered longer, long enough to feel the press of his soft, full lips that chased yours when you pulled back.

You stared into his eyes for a moment, his eyes that looked glazed over and nearly black as he watched you with fevered intensity that must have mirrored your own. You leaned forward once more, tilting your head as you slanted your lips against his.

He groaned softly as he met each press of your lips, one hand cupping around your jaw to pull you even closer to him, the other hand sliding up the hem of your shirt.

“You are so,” he began, speaking in between kisses.

“Soft,”

“and warm,”

“and sweet,” he rasped, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine as he lightly tugged your bottom lip between his teeth.

You broke away from the kiss for a second, your heaving chest a match to his.

“I love the way you taste,” you said, and it was true. His lips were sweet, and he tasted like the mints he always had.

But your words must’ve struck something in him, as those cerulean eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head as he tugged you to him with renewed fervor, kissing you like he would die if he stopped.

By the time you two finished, walking back into the palace well past sunset, the servants took one look at your linked hands and bruised lips and filled the halls with whispers and giggles.

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thearttolifesdistractions · 4 months ago

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i know

description: when you're with him, love feels like something fleeting. you act like you belong to each other, like it's official, but refuse to make it real. you tell yourself you’re okay with it, you always do. but when his phone buzzes, when you know it’s her, the weight of being his secret becomes hard. and still, when it’s time to leave, you don’t ask him to choose. because you already know he won’t. and maybe this situation won't grow as you hoped, but maybe that's okay.

warnings: mid writing, friends with benefits (ofc... my fav trope), mentions of nsfw but nothing explicit, angst but not really, not the best ending......

a/n: HELLO!!! crazy that you guys get two posts this week wooooahhhh…. anyways! so i wrote this after listening to 'i know' by fiona apple & i was convinced i was gonna make this a multiple part fic! buuut after writing this part i couldn't figure where to go from here 😭 well! maybe i'll make some more parts later if i can like…. figure out a plot but i figured why not post it anyways since i think it's alright as a standalone… enjoy!

wc: 3,127

paring: hozier x fem!reader

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The lavish, and entirely too expensive, room he’s booked is gorgeous. A five-star hotel in the City of Lights that makes your apartment back home look trivial, and that was quite expensive too. You’re curled up on the bed, body wrapped in the softest robe you’ve ever felt, watching as Andrew thumbs through a book, but his mind is clearly preoccupied, flicking from page to page without ever really focusing on the words.

He’s on tour right now, though somehow, he had it scheduled to have an entire week free in Paris, and it just happened to align with your schedule as well. The second you both found out you were free during the same week, you flew out to see him. But even now, in the most romantic city in the world, you can’t help but feel like you’re living in a lie, or a moment that neither of you really has any claim to. His distracted gaze keeps flickering to his phone on the nightstand, as though waiting for something. Or someone.

The thought of her has your stomach burning, with both anger and disappointment. He’s not technically dating her, but he keeps up the image to ‘keep the press out of his love life.’ You were supposed to be something real, something beyond whatever this is, but you’re starting to realize you’ll never be anything more than the girl that keeps his bed warm.

He doesn’t even know what that does to you, the way she’s always there, lingering in the background of every conversation. The way you always spend the last moments together wondering what he's going to do with her. He always has something planned with her after you’ve spent time together, claiming that it helps maintain the illusion that you two are just friends. He says no one will care about photos of the two of you having ‘friendly’ hangouts if he’s still going on dates with her.

It’s the last day before he’s back on tour. The last day before you go back home. It shouldn’t hurt this much. This is what always happens. You both have a brief window of time that lines up, and you meet up, privately playing the perfect couple, then going back to being friends until the cycle repeats. In the times where you both took breaks from releasing music, these moments lasted longer, sometimes months. It was hard to say goodbye then, especially after you'd forgotten how to be without him. So, it should be easier to say goodbye after just a week, right? But, he just makes it so damn hard.

You sigh quietly, the sound barely escaping your lips as you adjust to lay your head in his lap. Maybe being physically closer to him can bridge the gap, maybe it can help you convince yourself that this is normal.

His hand immediately moves to comb through your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp in a way that has your eyelids fluttering. You look at him now, meeting his gaze as he stares at you with a soft smile, and for a moment, you wish you could just ask him. Ask him what this is, what you are to him. But you know that won’t change anything. He’d probably just smile, brush it off, and go back to doing whatever it is he does. You can’t blame him for that. It’s hard being in the spotlight, knowing that everyone is scrutinizing your every move. It’s one of the first things you two bonded over.

Your mind races back to those early days, when you first met him a few years ago, working on a song together. It started as something completely professional, both of you working at the same label and they’d decided that a collab between the two of you would work well. You were both doing your part, helping each other out with a track that you’d been assigned to create. But somewhere during the late nights in the studio, they turned into late nights talks that turned into something else. You couldn’t have predicted how quickly the chemistry between you would go from creative to something more.

It was easy to grow feelings for him, almost natural. You had never really talked about what you were to each other, you just were. And it was nice. The understanding that whatever it was, it didn’t need to be defined. You think about those first days, the way he smiled when he looked at you, the subtle touches. And how, over time, it was like your lives just fit with each other’s.

The media had no idea, so they just called you "good friends," a convenient label that kept the press off your backs. It worked, until it didn’t. Of course, rumors and speculation grew about the nature of your connection: friends or something more? It wasn’t something you were worried about, understanding that whatever they said didn’t change the fact that while you were more than friends, you were still less than official. It didn’t bother you half as much as it had bothered him.

At the start of the rumors, he had opened up to you about his last public relationship. How she had received so much hate that she couldn’t handle it anymore, ending things with him in order to protect herself. How much it hurt him to watch someone he cared about so much go through so much pain because of his lifestyle. And she wasn’t even famous. He told you, then, about his fear of things getting out of hand with you. Since you both live in the limelight, how much worse it could be. You didn’t know it then, but that was his way of telling you that he wouldn’t be willing to take the risk to be with you fully.

It was at the height of the rumors that he had told you about her. Claiming that it was common amongst celebrities, saying that this “pr relationship” would be beneficial for both you and him, keeping the media out of whatever you two had going on. The way he had explained it, as a way to keep you private, at first, felt like a way of saying he didn’t want the innocence of your relationship situation being ruined by the harsh words of those who couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves. He told you that he didn’t want the two of you to rush into putting a label on things, only for it to get torn apart by the public eye. Now, you see that he really just wants to have you without the responsibility of defending you, you’re not worth the effort.

Regardless, you thought that it would be over quick. That he’d tell you he’s ready to make it official, let the media know he’s ended things with her, and continue keeping your relationship private but not secret. Of course, you were wrong. But, what did you expect? You never said it out loud, never set any expectations with him. Why would he go through the effort of ending something that requires so little from him for something that might be too much to handle?

His phone buzzes again, interrupting your thoughts, and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Another distraction. Another reminder that you’ll never really be his priority. He gives you everything he can, and it’s always just enough to keep you hooked. Not too much, not too little. And that’s all it will ever be.

He spares his phone a quick glance, and you relish in the way he tosses it to the nightstand and brings his attention back to you. “Are you alright?” He asks, finally, his voice soft, breaking through the silence. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your head. He can’t, not unless you say it. But you won’t. Not when the end of this reality is already in sight.

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice a little too steady. His eyes narrow at you, eyebrows raising. He knows you well enough to see right through the lie, but he also knows you well enough to know that you don’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t push, just gives you a look that says everything. That he sees right through you, but he’ll let you hold onto your silence a little longer. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to force the words out of you. He knows better by now.

For a moment, you both just sit there, the silence between you two comfortable. You never feel awkward with Andrew. You try to distract yourself, trying to focus on the way his hand moves gently through your hair. His touch is soft and intimate, but it doesn’t reach you the way it used to. Now, it acts as a reminder of everything that’s always just out of reach. A reminder of what could be, but never will. His gaze flickers down to you, and there’s that smile again. That soft, lazy smile that’s always just enough to make your heart skip and make you forget every bit of pain and self-doubt he’s caused.

“You know, this week was... nice,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. What an understatement. You want to say that this week was exactly what you needed, that spending time being intimate with him is the greatest comfort you know. That you want nothing but to spend every second with him, that nothing compares to the way he makes you feel. But, you’ll leave it at ‘nice.’

His smile grows as he nods, a knowing look in his eyes. He’s not oblivious of your inner turmoil, but he’ll respect your wishes to move past it. “Yeah,” he says softly, his thumb now brushing across your cheek. “It was nice. It’s always nice to be alone with you”

You wish he would have the courage to say what you wanted to. To admit that this time spent together is more than just nice, that it’s everything. The thought of him finally admitting what you both know flashes through your mind before you can stop it. But of course, he doesn’t say that. He never does. He’s always so close, just a few words away, but he’s never given you more. That might be your fault, you’ve never really asked for more than he’s willing to give. The truth is, you’re afraid to.

And not because you think he doesn’t feel the same, you know he does. You know he loves you, at least to some extent. You feel it in the way he holds you, the way his touch is always gentle, even in the most intimate moments. You feel it in the way he listens when you talk, how he’s present with you in those quiet spaces between the noise of the world. He makes you feel like you're the only one in the room, like nothing else matters when you’re around. His love is there, you know it, you feel it in every moment you share. But his fear might just outgrow it.

The thought creeps into your mind, and for the first time, it doesn’t sting as much as it used to. Maybe because you’re starting to accept that the love you share with him, as real as it is, will never be enough to make him choose you over his fear of the public, the press, everything that comes with being with someone like you.

His phone buzzes against the nightstand, and you know it’s her. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his attention flickers. For a moment, you want to reach out, take the phone, and throw it out the window. But you won’t. Because that’s not you, you’ve got a better grip on your emotions. Andrew sighs softly, his eyes glancing at his phone but not picking it up. He looks back at you, the silence stretching longer now. You know he’s trying to figure out what to say, how to ease the troubles in your mind without actually knowing them.

He knows you’re tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of being the girl that no one knows about. You wish you could ask him what it would take for him to just choose you. But you don’t, because asking for that would mean acknowledging what’s never going to happen. And if you acknowledge it, the end will be real. Instead, you shift in his lap, trying to find some comfort in the closeness, and it isn’t working as well as usual. His hand lingers on your cheek, the touch warm, but not soothing the coldness you feel inside.

“Tomorrow’s the day,” you say softly, the words heavier than you expected. It’s the end of your time together. The last moment of this unending season of your life. Tomorrow. you both hit pause until the next time. “You’ll go back to the tour, and I’ll go back to everything else.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes still focused on yours. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice soft but distant. “I guess we don’t have a choice.” You nod, the lump in your throat growing as you tilt head away, unable to look at him. You want to scream at him that you do have a choice. That he could ask you to stay, ask you to finally do him the favour of being his. That there is another option, he just has to say it.

“I know we don’t,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “But I wish we did.”

He sighs, eyes softening, his hand gently lifting your chin to meet his gaze. “I wish we did too. I wish I could give you what you need.” His voice is low, tinged with regret, and it makes your chest tighten in a way that hurts.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come to talking about it, and it was barely anything. And for a brief moment, you think maybe there could be more. But the moment passes quickly, fading into that familiar silence between you two. He doesn’t press for more, and neither do you.

You sit up slowly, lifting your head from his lap, ignoring his confused look as you shake his hand from your face. His expression changes as you shift, legs settling to straddle him, lowering yourself on his lap as you rest your head against his chest. You close your eyes as he wraps his arms around you, relishing in his warmth, listening to his heartbeat, and begging for the ache to stop.

Andrew lets out a quick sigh, breaking your focus on his pulse. “So, how’s the new album coming along?” he asks, and you can hear the playful undertone.

You look up at him, seeing the mischief in his eyes. “It’s coming along,” you reply, trying your hardest to match his new mood. “You know, the usual. The pressure of getting it right, the expectations, the deadlines.”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly to get a better look at your face. “Oh, yeah? Any songs about me?” His grin widens as he teases, the atmosphere going back to something just as familiar. You can tell he’s just trying to lighten the mood, and the effort warms your heart.

You laugh softly, the sound escaping before you can stop it. It’s like a breath of relief after the worries in your troubled mind. You sit up straighter, locking eyes with him, and you can’t hide the honesty in your tone despite your teasing smirk. “They’re all about you, Andy. They always are.”

His smile falls for a second, like that’s not what he was expecting you to say, which he probably wasn’t. Before you have a chance to clarify, he’s leaning in.

His lips capture yours in a kiss that’s too gentle for how much you both need it. It deepens quickly, the emotional tension feeling almost exactly like sexual. His hands slip around your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers pull at the hair on the nape of his neck.

You can’t help but give into him, the way his lips move against yours with the perfect mix of gentleness and desire. He kisses you like he’s always wanted this, and you think that maybe you have too. The thought of everything that you want to say but you can’t becomes a distant memory as his hands squeeze at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

It doesn’t stay slow for long. The heat builds between you as his touch grows more urgent, more desperate. You can feel it in the way he moves, in the way his breath hitches when you tug a bit harder at his hair. You move your hands to roam over his body, exploring every inch of him. You trace the outline of his frame, the curves of his shoulders, and the defined muscles of his arms. Your hands are eager, and his hands match yours, caressing your body with a softness that has you trembling.

As the kiss deepens, his tongue teases your lips, asking for entry. You part your mouth immediately, inviting him in, and letting your tongues mix together. The taste of him is addicting, something you could never get tired of. His mouth leaves yours as he trails kisses down your neck, stopping briefly to suck at that spot just below your ear that has your back arching into him.

His hands move lower, his fingers trailing down your sides, pausing at the waistband of your silk pajama shorts. His warm touch is calming to your soul, but overwhelming to your body. He pulls his mouth from your neck and rests his forehead against yours, both of you huffing and sharing breath. Your eyes flutter open and you meet his darkened gaze, before you can speak, ask him why he stopped, he beats you to it.

“Whatever’s got you tangled up inside, let it go,” he whispers, his words slow and soft, but deliberate. “Let me take the weight off of you, love. Please.” His voice is whiny, borderline pleading. It makes your heart flutter, not just because of the softness in his words, but because he wants to take care of you. He’s offering himself, wanting to give you a release. And it’s real.

It reminds you that he’s here, now. As fully as he can be with you, and for the first time, you feel like maybe you’re both letting go of all the things that separate you. The world, the expectations, and the fear. It all slips away just for this moment.

And maybe this is the realest you’ll get with him, but maybe that’s enough for now.

#andrew hozier byrne #andrew hozier byrne x reader #hozier fanfiction #hozier imagines #hozier x reader #hozier x you #i love hozier #hozier fandom #hozier fic #hozier fanfic #hozier x y/n #the hoziest #hozier

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queserasora · 9 months ago

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ZORO X FEM READER | NSFW / Soft Smut ™ WORD COUNT: 7.9k CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, nudity (duh), unprotected sexual intercourse (just don’t do it folks, only works in fiction), biting, scratching, kissing, lots of angst and sexual tension, if you’re looking for light and fluffy this isn’t it, excessive mentions of the moon (so if you’re anti moon gtfo), groping, nipple play, zoro talking too damn much and being a little nasty, for ZORO this is pretty TAME because he is like….enamored, so just let him be, allow this moment of softness because it doesn’t come often, so, SOFT ZORO, and like this is zoro being soft so if you don’t think it’s soft enough…idk what to tell you, it’s zoro, i proof read it twice so if you find a typo ignore it, if you tell me there is a typo you need to suck my dick first, thx

NEW MOON

A dreamer has no home in Mock Town.

Dreams were for children. Quaint little stories made of glittering sand sprinkled into their eyes, blinding them to the harsh truth of the world. The sting would force their eyelids shut, and they’d drift off into lands made of fantasy and fluffy clouds, carrying them off to somewhere peaceful; somewhere they would never be hurt, a haven safe from pain.

They’d lay in their bed woven from lies while the moon spills its light through the window.

It had been a long time since there was any moon watching over you. You slept in darkness, holding the lies you told close to your chest. A romantic heart held prisoner in a chest constructed by cynical chains. You spoke like a realist, even when it split your tongue in half. The taste of copper grounded you to your reality, and you swallowed it down, finding it a fitting exchange.

Your blood for the chance to avoid their scorn. It was the price you paid to live in anonymity.

Loneliness went down easily when you drank it with whiskey. You had learned this years ago, so you consume it daily; a necessary evil. It is smooth on your tongue as you watch them from your corner of the establishment. The back of their heads are unfamiliar as they sit at the bar. You think you imagine it, the way your heart seizes at the sound of his voice. A gruffness so rugged it cuts into your skin, spilling everything you held inside. You scoop it up immediately as you throw the rest of your drink back into your throat. The burn in your chest is antiseptic.

Dreams had nowhere to run in Mock Town. This is where dreams came to die.

It is a mantra you repeat, with every blow they deal on the loud captain and his swordsman. It is a mantra you clamp down on with aching teeth, when their navigator begs them to fight. Your fingers twitch around the etched glass in your hand. You grip it so tightly it cracks, like fault lines across the illusion you had been hiding behind. When they leave the bar, everything shatters.

You wake up, at last, from the nightmare you had built yourself only to plunge into a different colored one.

They’ll never come back. It is a lie you feed yourself, cram it into your mouth and down into your stomach, until everything overflows. Until you believe it. You pick up the fallen pieces left in their wake and start gluing them back together, before your heart can escape again. But he does come back, and a hammer swings into you when his fist flies into Bellamy’s face.

You chase after him as he takes his prize, your oversized kusarigama attached to your back. The chain links clink as you run, its sound chasing your steps. His name is stiff on your tongue but you cast it out, a coin entering a fountain–one last desperate wish. Luffy finds your proposal comical, and so is the weapon on your back. He smiles until the corner of his eyes crinkle, a smile so radiant you swear you’ve only felt the same warmth under the sun.

“Please!” your voice pleads, hands grasping at invisible strings. “I want to see the sky island too!”

His hum is contemplative. You feel time stop. You don’t breathe, you can’t, until he answers you at last: “Sure!” His laugh is infectious and odd. “You seem pretty strong, Kusari.” It isn’t your name. It never has been, but it sounds right when he says it.

It still sounds right when he introduces you to everyone; feels right in your bones. The swordsman’s eyes connect with yours–his gravity too large for you to avoid its pull. Inside you, the ocean’s tide begins to change. A smile graces your lips, congenial and friendly. One that was practiced and rehearsed, like every lie you told. Pretending was a curse you had been tasked with. It was easy and it was necessary. The method that always kept you safe.

Zoro shakes his head at everyone’s enthusiasm. Luffy’s impulsiveness was something he was used to, but disagreed with, time and time again. You were a risk he would have never taken. There were too many dubious variables, your background as a bounty hunter made you skilled and dangerous. His doubts on your genuineness are cast aside by excitement of a new adventure. Zoro lived on the edge of his swords, betting his life at every hurdle, his destiny always held firmly by his own capable hands. Sky island or you, it didn’t matter what the peril was. If it was in his way, he’d cut it down without mercy.

It would be a shame, he thinks–an afterthought polluting his resolve–if he would have to make you his enemy. Your weapon intrigues him, at least that’s his reasoning. There would be no other behind his curiosity. You had a face he could forget, if he really wanted to try.

He’d just have to want it badly enough.

WAXING CRESCENT

A persistent irritation, like a rash from a poisonous leaf, plagued him. You were too familiar, too quickly ingrained in his routine. Your sense of humor reminded him of Robin. Your mouth was always twisted, in a cynical kind of smile–but only with him. It annoyed him. You had no riddles for Sanji or Luffy or Usopp, but when you’d speak to Zoro–he was constantly baffled.

What was your insistence on befuddling him? He figures ignoring you would do the trick but your presence is unforgivable; a sin, like a nick on his blades, a scar on his back, a sake poured on dirt. He wanted to obfuscate your existence, like a dark cloud in a night sky, hiding the moon from sight.

Robin and you quickly become a pair, synchronized jokes, and synchronized looks. You team up and prepare riddle after riddle that Zoro can’t seem to solve. He contemplates leaving you two with Nami to your devices but there are so many unknowns in the jungle his conscience doesn’t allow it. His worries become unfounded when he watches you wield your weapon with ease. There was no sign of hesitation when you acted on Chopper and Nami’s behalf–placing their safety as a priority. His shoulders relax, but doubt still circles–a fin in the water–reminding him that it was still too early to tell if you were friend or foe.

Friend or foe, he can’t deny it.

Your face was one he could forget, if he really wanted to. The problem was, he was starting to believe he didn’t want to. In the brief free moments, his eyes would search for it–like a dry tongue seeking water. The softness of your cheeks beguiled him, made him wonder, like a fool, if they were soft as they looked. But your smile was a blade whose sharpness he knew too well. He couldn’t allow himself to be cut. It was a shame he could never live down.

FIRST QUARTER

An adventure on Sky Island had been one you never even had dreamed of. An island in the sky was something only children thought of. It had been a long time since you basked in innocence.

The thrill of surviving by the skin of your teeth still thrummed through your body. You giggled, a drink in your hand as you enjoyed the kitchen to yourself. The crew had gone to explore Water 7 and while you were happy to be part of the team–it was still something you were getting used to. Working by yourself, for yourself, had been something you’d done for years and were good at. Now, there were others; people you had started caring about.

He finds you in the kitchen, and immediately is envious of the glass in your hand. Not because the dark amber contents swirling around two blocks of ice is alluring. Not because of the way condensation clings to the glass, a sign of deliciously cold temperature enough to soothe most kinds of thirsts. He is envious of the glass, how you cradle it possessively when Zoro steps closer. He is envious of the rim, how your tongue flicks out to lap at a stray drop, sliding down–how it is graced by your lips when you bring it up for a drink.

“Looks good,” he says with strain. Tension pulls at his neck, making it difficult to talk. “Is there more of that?”

You gesture at the table, where you had left the bottle of whiskey. He intends to move, truly, as he is mere steps away from your body but your eyes are bright and mystifying. They jumble his thoughts and it takes a quirk of your brow to kickstart his brain once more.

As the moon commands, the tides obey, and a series of events unfolds that can’t be stopped. There’s so much to think of, you almost forget how much Zoro ails you. You forget how you think of him at night while you try to find a comfortable spot to sleep in. You forget the way his eyes pierce you during dinner, how they steal your breath. You forget the strange moments his hand brushes against yours when you pass him by, and the strange way he says your name as if it was a kiss given in secret.

You forget until Sanji is irate, top lip curled in anger. His words bounce off you, and you frown with a small shake of your head. You shake it, not because you find the accusation incredulous–you and Zoro had fought the best you could to protect the money–but because it feels as if you should care more. Zoro–usually calm, composed, quick to avoid drama–always flies at the handle at Sanji’s provocation. This time it’s no different. He comes, not to his own defense, but yours. The cloud over your mind lifts, and there’s a light beaming into your chest. Your mouth twists into a grimace.

You try to keep the light out by bringing a hand to your chest. Beams slip right through the cracks of your fingers.

Your hand is still over your chest when Robin goes missing. You seek her out, desperate for an ally to make you forget–to remind you of the dangers of letting others in. There was an unspoken understanding between you two; a darkness shared and understood. You understand this even when you find out about Robin’s possible betrayal. In your heart, you try to reason, in your mind you find enough to doubt. When Zoro speaks up, like the devil on your shoulder, and makes it clear he isn't holding his breath when it comes to Robin, coldness sets in. People were complicated. You had learned that lesson with blood in your mouth. You wonder if Zoro has learned this as well–or was he the darkness too? Did he find it hard to trust? Had he been forced to cement walls around himself?

You begin to sink in, hiding behind your usual facade. Lies slip out of your mouth, one after the other, snakes with two and three heads. It was better this way, fabricating a self so different from your true source that nobody could ever hurt you. Desire could only lead to disappointment. Whatever embers he had left behind on the back of your hand, you try to smother it out, covering it with your free hand.

WAXING GIBBOUS

Raucous laughter meets shadows and light.

Luffy could never pass up a party, and after saving Robin there was so much to celebrate. The taste of sake on his tongue was familiar; a pleasant burning whose limits he knew all too well. This was something he could control, a phenomenon that did not incite fear or anxiety.

He could not say the same about the phenomenon of your skin under the light of the moon. A throat so dry he feels choking seizes his words, so he drinks and drinks and drinks. Relief never comes, sentences he repeats in his head as he circles around you fester in the pit of his stomach. You are so happy–elated even, that Robin is back. You haven’t left her side, cracking joke after joke.

It’s sickening how much it irritates him that you refuse to be alone. If it’s not Robin, it’s Nami clinging to your hand, offering you another drink. If it’s not Nami, it’s Luffy trying to shove more food at you–food you gently refuse. If it’s not Luffy, it’s the stupid cook, hearts shooting out of his eyes as he touches your hand.

Your hand–the one he hasn’t touched.

He bites down so hard he thinks he’s cracked a tooth, so he spits at the ground, expecting blood. He sees nothing, and chooses to believe that this means nothing. The sake is rotten, and he is tired, so so tired. Zoro doesn’t pray, he has never prayed in his whole life but he considers it that night when he closes his eyes. So he hopes instead. He hopes he’ll be over it in the morning and you’ll be nothing–a long forgotten moonbeam in a distant night sky.

He wakes up, and realizes quickly that you are still not nothing.

He swings his swords repeatedly, motions that he is familiar with. He focuses on the strain of his muscles, the ache slowly setting in. He focuses on the sweat on the back of his neck, the one dripping down his rippling muscles. He focuses as much as he can, but your gaze on him is fastidious.

He senses you watching him, a strange lecherous feeling that twists his stomach. He refuses to meet your gaze and bites down again. If his teeth cracked then so be it.

You are shameless, he thinks, as he swallows his drink. Your dark eyes are unwavering, focused on his neck. Zoro swallows, heart beating in his chest like a wild animal. His foot is under the table, tapping away as he tries to keep the rest of him still. Nami is arguing with Luffy, and Zoro shakes his head slightly, trying to wake up from the spell you have casted on him. He should laugh with the others, he should ignore Sanji’s pointed stare, he should ignore the cold sweat on his forehead and the sudden dip at the pit of his stomach when you lick your lips.

When you finally drag your eyes away from his neck, in a way that looks like it pained you, Zoro takes a sharp breath. He thinks you have set him free from this twisted prison but you ensnare him again when you meet his eyes. Zoro brings his glass to his mouth once more, and swallows the remains of the whiskey.

It burns his chest on the way down, but there is a fire more heated and consuming at the bottom of his stomach. One that builds higher and higher when you smile at him.

Later that night, when he’s prowling the newly constructed Thousand Sunny like a restless large feline, Zoro has to remind himself why he even set out from his hometown. He reminds himself that he has to become the strongest swordsman, as he fights the urge to slide his hands down his stomach, to reach further down for the arousal that bothers him. His forehead pressed against the cold wood of the training room, he tries to reason with his breathing. He thinks about the new bounties announced, the thrill of new adventures. There is no room for deviation in his goals. He knows this. There is a set path to follow–the one the moon has been guiding him to all along.

Turning to you would just lead him to darkness. Zoro refused to be swallowed up by it, no matter how alluring the flash of its teeth were.

FULL MOON

A life for a life.

He thought nothing of it at first. He thought it necessary. At first he had lived selfishly, seeking to keep a promise given a long time ago. Somewhere along the way, his Captain’s dream had become as important as his. Somewhere along the way, he had friends he cared about, friends he wanted to protect. His strength alone had not been enough, and so for this sin: he offers his life.

If there was anyone who could protect the rest, it would be Luffy.

He tries to hold on to this hope as pain cuts into him. It rips at his skin, making tatters at what keeps him together. Blood splurts, hot and searing. A pain that burns so deep he thinks it’s in his soul. He clenches his teeth, willing for them to crack and splinter off, if it means keeping quiet. A man should not cry when his mind has been set up. His eyes are open but he sees nothing–not in particular, except his own blood clouding his vision.

He tries to focus on other things, when a pain so blinding and deep makes him want to drop to his knees. He thinks of Nami and Usopp, and hopes they’ll be okay. He wonders if Chopper will grow happier. He wants to believe Sanji will get stronger, enough to continue protecting everyone. That stupid, idiotic cook who had tried to offer his own life in his place. Zoro grimaces, a pained groan almost leaving his mouth so he bites down on his tongue–metal taking over his taste buds.

He had no regrets. He never had any but as his vision becomes blurry there’s a face that fills his eyes. A different kind of pain booms in his chest, until it fills everything, until it pushes out the air from his lungs. He takes a ragged breath, and feels fear for the first time in a long time. He fears regret. He fears never seeing her face again. He fears never knowing.

He should have held her. He should have kissed her. Just like he always wanted to.

He curses the sound of your voice, the same that cuts through the pain, and reminds him to hold on. He curses the softness of your skin–the back of your hand, the only sensation he knows of you. He curses how he craves to know more even in the face of this endless pain.

He curses you over and over again, until it is done, until all he knows is the pain you leave behind.

Sanji annoys him. Zoro tries to not lash out. His body feels heavy but he feigns it. He tries to keep it together for as long as he can. He has to make sure they’re all okay. Once he is convinced that it was all worth it, once he sees your face wearing an expression he doesn’t want to think about, he allows himself to rest. It takes all the energy he has left to leave you–to walk away from you without touching you, to not run his fingers through your hair, to press your body against his.

As consciousness fades, he wonders how much longer he can hold back. Would he regret it later? If he died? Would he regret never telling you? His inner voice becomes slurred, incoherent, distant until darkness takes him under.

Robin tries to tell you, even though Sanji tried to stop her. She tries to tell you the truth about Zoro but you dismiss her. You insist it is none of your business. Your voice is calm, flat even, as you fold laundry in an attempt to hide your trembling hands. In your mind, you’re screaming. In your mind, you want to run and grab him by the neck. In your mind, you want to understand what possessed him.

But in your heart you know why. In your heart, you know that Zoro wouldn’t have had it any other way, so you try to pretend you don’t know. It was the least you could do to pay him back for what he had given you all.

You know he will be fine. You know he will recover. He just needs time. You want to give it to him, and you do, as you try to stay busy. Still, your feet are treacherous. They keep taking you back to him. You watch him sleeping, a sickness weighing you down. Your eyes feel full, a heart so heavy you think you might collapse under its weight. Heavy feet root you to the spot by his bed. Trembling fingers reach out, so hesitant they can only touch lightly. You softly brush fingertips across his forehead; your silent prayer for him to wake up soon. The sight of his battered body makes you sigh, and your tear filled eyes rest on his hand. Those hands that had protected everyone time and time again. They seemed so strong every time he wielded his swords. Not once did you think they could look this frail. You reach out to touch the bandages, and gently squeeze his wrapped index finger.

Just as gently, you reach down and kiss his temple.

“Wake up, idiot,” you whisper, lips brushing against his clammy skin. “I miss you.”

Your confession feels like a knife you pushed into your own chest. You move quickly, almost run out of the room. Blood gushes, and you hold up a hand, trying to push it back in; the feelings, the words, that kiss.

When he wakes, it takes a moment to feel like he is awake at all. It isn’t until the straw hats leave Thriller Bark that he feels more like himself. Per Luffy, there’s a celebratory dinner. Brooks–someone Zoro was still getting used to–had taken it upon himself to be the night’s entertainment. Fish-Man Island was the next destination and Zoro’s excitement was slowly overtaken by hazy thoughts of you. The more he drank, the more he thought he should finally tell you. The more he watched everyone laugh, eat, sing, drink—the more he thought he should just accept it.

He should accept the pull you had on him. He should accept the command, the order of things; like the moon and tide.

He follows this pull up to the crow’s nest, newly remodeled by Franky. There’s little time for Zoro to admire the modifications. He is too busy trying to find a way to breathe again after the sight of you left him breathless. You’re bent over the telescope, gazing at the sky–he figures maybe the moon, maybe the stars. He’s not sure. All he’s sure of is that his heart might burst if it beats any faster. All he is sure of is that if he doesn’t find a way to silence it, you might hear it past the bones, and flesh entrapping it.

A fluttering of anxiety fills him with dread. A strange feeling he isn’t familiar with. It feels as if it was imperative he touches you; as if he didn’t, only death would follow, as if he didn’t hold you, the world–his or everyone’s–would end. It was such a dramatic, sickening feeling he wanted to rip his own heart out. If that was the solution, he’d do it but he had a feeling at the pit of his stomach that even that wouldn’t work.

He tries to quiet his breathing, not wanting to disturb you, too mesmerized by the sight of your round and plump ass. There’s fire over his skin, blistering and searing the hairs on his arms. He clears his throat, alerting you to his presence.

You turn around, embarrassed that you didn’t feel him entering the room. It’s a fleeting emotion, quickly overtaken by something much more complicated; heavier, infinitely more deadly. It is sickening, really, how insanely attractive he is. You swallow with difficulty, suddenly annoyed that you didn’t bring a drink with you; anything to whet your appetite if it meant keeping your hands off Zoro.

“Hey,” you say softly, trying to buy time for your mind to kick into gear. The cogs in your brain are sluggish. You blame the alcohol, and not the fire in your belly. You want to tell him you’re glad that he’s awake. You want to tell him how scary it was, but you know he wouldn’t want to hear that. “I’m sorry I drank all your sake while you slept,” you tell him instead, your mouth stretching into a crooked smile. “I figured someone should.”

He scoffs, matching your grin.

“That’s a poor excuse. You’re such a liar,” he tells you, and you take a sharp breath. You’re not sure if he meant it–that you were a liar–or if he just said it in passing. You blame the alcohol for your confusing thoughts, and you blame it again when you don’t notice the way he has quickly breached the distance between you two.

The moon is full and bright, hanging high in the inky night sky. Its light is bright and it shoots through the window, spilling over the floor. Zoro is mesmerized by the way it glistens on your brown skin. You look so small against the window, with your back to the moon, it makes him want to crush you against his chest. His mind is hazy, his tongue heavy. He blames the sake. He blames the sake and the moon. He blames them as his hand reaches out to brush a curl out of your face. He tucks it behind an ear, his eyes memorizing the roundness of your cheek, the shell of your ear. He blames the moonlight on your skin, when he cups your cheek to see if he can trap it there, between your skin and his calluses.

He blames the night sky, the smell of the sea when he reaches down to softly brush his lips against yours.

You can’t breathe when his nose brushes against yours. You still can’t breathe when he pulls back, enough to look down at you. His eyes stare into yours and you still can’t find your breath. You think you’ll die now, by Zoro’s mouth, by his hand on your cheek. Your heart pounding against your frail ribs reminds you that you’re still alive. It is a resounding call to arms. You think you should pick up your weapons, but the fire in his eyes burns your resolve to ash.

His heart is on fire. Zoro knows that is a ridiculous thought. He knows that’s not even correct or possible, but the longer he looks at you, the more he feels it to be true. He hears it in the distance; the sound of war—drums, and screaming, blades scratching against each other, sinew tearing, blood gushing; throbbing in his ears and in his veins.

The sound echoes in his body, a rush of adrenaline lighting small fires throughout his being. This moment feels infinite, as if he is frozen in time. A want so desperate pools inside him until it ignites.

He comes tumbling down when he kisses you again. A ravenous mouth open and seeking against yours. His large hands hold your face, as he brushes his tongue against yours with the sole purpose of consuming; conquering. Your tongue is warm and soft, slippery, a sensation he can’t get enough of. He hums when you give in, when you let him suck on it without inhibitions. His breathing is harsh through his nose, and it becomes quicker when you place your hands over his, when you move them down his arms onto his chest.

You grasp on to his shirt, as you return his kisses. His teeth are unforgiving. They bite down on your bottom lip, on the corners of your mouth. He is insistent on discovering everything about it. He runs his tongue against your bottom lip, his forehead pressed against yours. He wonders as he sucks on it, how many times have you bitten down on it, how many words have you swallowed in place to offer lies instead. He’s never told you how often he sees right through you. He sees it even now, as you struggle for control.

“Don’t fight it,” he breathes against your cheek, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Not now. Not tonight.” He kisses your closed eyes; one at a time. He kisses your cheeks, lips blistering hot. You feel him brush his mouth against your jawline. “Don’t think. Not until tomorrow,” he asks you against your neck, trailing kisses down the column of it. You think about this offer, consider rejecting, but when his teeth snags against the soft flesh on the hollow of your neck you forget everything. Your arms wrap around his shoulders as he follows your collarbone to one shoulder. He bites down with enough force to make you cry–one that turns into a soft moan.

It is enough. That is the sound that snaps his resolve. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to make this moment last, as if he would never have it again, but you are something he was never prepared to fight against. When you moaned, with your nails digging into his back he was left with no choice. He had to have you, tonight, at all costs.

His hands are as unforgiving as his mouth. They rip into your clothes, ignoring your protests. The sound of tearing fabric is accompanied by the sound of your gasps. His breathing is harsh against your ears, causing a wetness between your legs you try to take no responsibility over. It is the sight of his chest, wide and thick when he rips his own shirt that makes your mouth water. Your hands reach out immediately, just as you always dreamed of. You run your palms over his muscles, memorizing every dip and sharp angle, as you press your open mouth to his neck. You suck on a spot, determined to leave a mark–any. It was desperation. One that was fed by fear. You feared this moment not lasting. You feared never again touching his skin, kissing him, holding him.

His own desperation was evident by his greedy hands. They way he seized your hips, to press his erection against you. His hands slide over your hips to your ass, and he digs his fingers into the supple flesh. He’s kissing you again, a clash of tongue of teeth; sloppy, and messy, a wetness on your chin he licks up before sucking on the spot. Zoro’s eyes take in the sight of the floor, as you kiss his chest. He moans when you bite down over a nipple, and he pulls on your hair.

“Stop that,” he hisses, pushing you back towards the benches. “Or I’ll fuck you on the floor.” It doesn’t sound unappealing to your ears, so you try to bite his other nipple but he is faster than you. He picks you up by the ass, forcing you to shout in surprise. Zoro carries you to the bench, and he sits down after placing you back on the ground.

You look down at him, and his naked chest. His pants are still on and you feel extremely exposed. Zoro had, in his efficacy, ripped every single article of clothing you had on. Leaving you naked, and heated. You scoff.

“So you get to keep your pants on?” you ask him, pointing with a frown. Zoro laughs at you, as he reaches into his trousers with one hand. He pulls out his hardened cock, and strokes it gently. There’s a lump in your throat, one with no name, so you swallow it quickly. The sight of his pink tip is enticing. He smears the precum over his slit with his thumb. You think it a shame, and almost tell him so but he’s speaking trying to get your attention.

“Pay attention,” he tells you with a raised brow, his hand settled now at the base of his cock. You raise a brow to match his. Zoro smiles, and pats his lap with his free hand. “Come here,” he commands you to move towards him, heart hammering away at the prospect. You had thought of this moment before. You had no shame admitting it now. You had thought often of how it would feel to have Zoro inside you, so deep you could feel like dying. It seems Zoro had other plans when you approach him as he spins you around by the hips. “This way. Your back to me.”

You swallow and sit on his lap, feeling his cock pressed against your ass. He kisses your shoulder, your neck as his hands roam over your thighs. There’s a slick coating your folds. You’re more aware of it the more he touches your skin. His breath is hot against your ear when he speaks again: “I’m going to spread your legs,” he tells you, and follows through quickly on his statement, spreading them by grabbing your thighs. You gasp, cool air touching your heated core. Zoro runs his tongue along the shell of your ear. He nips the top of it, teeth sharp and digging hard enough to leave an imprint. You feel yourself getting wetter.

“You’re wet,” he breathes out–a heated whisper, almost trembling. His fingers rifle through your folds, slickness covering his fingertips. Zoro presses his mouth against your ear, his eyes closing at the pleasure. It feels so silky and soft in his fingers. He craves more. “I’m going to make you cum,” he tells you, slipping one finger in slowly, one knuckle at a time. “I’m going to make you cum over and over again. I want to touch you everywhere, deep inside.” He slips in another finger when you moan, curving them in search of that spongy spot. His desire builds the wetter you get, the more you moan and whimper in his hold. His cock is hard, and it leaks again against your back. You feel it there sticking to your skin. “I want you,” he growls against your shoulder, as he picks up the pace, scissoring his fingers inside your squelching pussy. “I want you so badly. This isn’t enough.” His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your shoulder. You cry out, as he clamps down harder, leaving a mark on your skin. He kisses the blooming bruise, hand moving desperately as you clench around his fingers. The soft pad of his palm beats against your clit, his calluses eliciting a pleasure you never knew could be possible every time they brush over your sensitive nub.

He leans over you, his broad chest making you feel vulnerable and small. Your thighs are aching as he continues to push his fingers in and out of you. “Maybe another one,” he grunts in between pants, peering over your shoulder. He watches himself insert a third finger into your soaking pussy. You cry out, at the sensation of being stretched. He is watching himself work, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Sweat clings to his temple, and runs down his cheek. You’re doing your best to hold back, the fear of being heard keeps you from giving in entirely but the sight of him so enthralled with the way he’s beating into your pussy makes you want to fold. “Do you like it?” he asks you, panting against your ear. You whimper and bite down on your lip, almost drawing blood. “You’re so wet and so tight. I think you do,” he insists, licking your ear, and sucking on your earlobe quickly after. “But why are you holding back?” His mouth is flushed against your ear, his breath humid. “Are you scared they’ll hear you?”

Zoro chuckles lightly against your ear, picking up speed until it becomes a brutalizing pace. The sounds in crow’s nests are lewd enough to make you blush. You hear the wet sound of your pussy, the way you keep whimpering and gasping. Your body is shaking.

“Come on, babe,” he asks you in almost a whine. You gasp, and moan, surprised at the visceral reaction your body had to the sound of his soft voice. “Let me hear you. The real you. Or do I have to fuck you harder?”

The moon continues to hang high in the sky as he works his fingers inside you. Its beams scatter in the room, casting shadows over the side of your face, and over your breasts. He wishes he could see more than he does. He wishes he could memorize the sight of you, falling apart to his touch, and never forget it. The scent of your shampoo haunts him, so he scissors his fingers inside you in a desperate attempt to even the odds.

He kneads one breast with his free hand, squeezing its nipple between index and thumb. When you cry out, he gasps loudly against your ear, surprised at how much that turned him on. He wants to hear it again, again, and again; so he repeats the motion, twisting and pulling until you’re moaning and whimpering in his embrace. Your skin looks so soft under the moonlight. He brushes his lips over your neck and shoulders trying to taste you. It isn’t enough so he tries again, chasing the essence that makes you who you are. He nips at the flesh of your back as you bend over, a particular strong jolt of pleasure forcing your tummy to contract. No matter how many times he digs his teeth into your skin, until you’re covered in crescent shaped marks, he can’t seem to get his fill of you. You feel so good around his fingers, your arousal dripping down his wrist and his forearm.

Your orgasm catches him unaware, and he slows down his fingers, surprised at the loudness of your voice. He finds himself laughing against the hair above your ear, pleasure making him shiver. His fingers slow down slightly before he pulls them out entirely. “About time,” he whispers before he has you flip over to face him. He adjusts you on his lap, until you’re grinding your soaked pussy on his cock. “But we’re not done. I need more.” He brings your face to him, a hand on the back of your neck. The kiss is forced, mouth pressed tightly against yours. You whimper softly under its weight. Whatever tenderness that kiss held evaporates when his attention moves downwards to your breasts.

He sucks on your breasts, as he grips your hips. His fingers hold you so tightly you’re compelled to move them against his length. He leaves bites over the swell of your breasts, and the fire inside you continues to burn. You had stopped trying to hold it in, your moans cast into the shield of darkness like stars on the inky sky. Zoro seizes them with his mouth, teeth bearing down on them. He pins them to his body like decoration and seizes to find more, conquer another every time he nips at your sensitive nipples. You hold on to Zoro, desperation forcing you to dig your nails into his back. Every time he kisses your breasts you feel like melting, disappearing into the heat of his mouth.

Your hands reach out to his face, trembling. Your hips move still, the heat of Zoro’s hands keeping them steady. His eyes on your face send a shiver down your spine. Your breath feels so out of reach, as if you’ll never catch up to it, to place it back in your lungs. You trace over the angle of his cheekbones, try to memorize the sharpness of his jawline by going over it with one index finger. Although pleasure continues to build, you’re distracted by the sight of his ears. His earrings trap the light of the moon, and they blink repeatedly, little stars hanging from his earlobe; a mesmerizing sight that makes you want to make a wish. If you wished with all your heart, would it come true? If you wished for a dream, would it be fulfilled?

Your breath hitches, eyes glued to his swinging earrings. Their beautiful golden color is made all the more striking against his tanned skin. You touch them, fingers playing with them. Zoro takes your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist, the pool of your palm. He moves your hand to his chest, and presses it there. The feel of his heartbeat steals your breath. You gulp, trying to shake the dizziness, but Zoro is kissing you, taking your bottom lip into his mouth gently. You hold his face between your hands when he pulls away, feeling like you’re holding on to water. His hands are back on your hips. He lifts you up, as the fingers of one hand drifts to his earrings again. You brush your fingers against them, and they make a soft tinkling sound–a quick little song–as he buries his cock inside you.

It is better than you could have ever imagined. He fills you in an instant, provoking moan after moan to flood your mouth. Soft, and steady, you tell yourself, pressing your forehead against his. He lets you lead at first, his fingers tapping repeatedly against your hips. He’s counting, for who knows what, timing an entrance.

Zoro thinks he's finally lost his damn mind. He was determined to savor this moment—like an expensive whiskey, consumed in small sips, swirled around the tongue before swallowing, but you’re so wet, your arousal coats his belly, and sinks into his pants. You’re hot inside, fiery, and smooth. Every swirl of your hips reminds him of how desperately he wants to ram into you, again and again. He thinks about you clenching around his fingers as you moan against his mouth. He sets his jaw, trying to tighten his grip around his willpower but your pussy is even tighter. His breathing is ragged, he shakes his head, trying to cast off the sudden heat in his eyes making him see red.

But he can’t help it. He can’t fight it any longer.

“Okay,” he says against your neck as you continue to bounce on his cock at a slow pace. His hands are on your hips, they grip tighter. It should have been your warning but you’re so caught up in the feel of him, eyes shut as your face is turned to the ceiling, that you don’t realize what’s happening. “I’m sorry but I need to do it my way now.” He holds you still, and starts thrusting up into your pussy at a maddening speed. You cry out at the sudden change of pace, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. He hisses, but he doesn’t let up, selfishly chasing the high of your tight pussy.

“Oh my God,” you cry out, eyes shut tightly, as pleasure courses through your body.

Zoro laughs against your pulse. He sucks on it even as laughter rumbles in his chest. When he comes up for air he asks you: “Who’s that? Don’t know him.”

You laugh but it turns shrill, morphing into a cry of pleasure. Zoro feels you clench around him, faster and faster. He moans, and bites your chin. He picks up the speed, angles his hips with his eyes on your face, determined not to miss a single thing. When you cum, fall apart around him, he watches you with his mouth open–barely staving off his own orgasm. You fall into him, and he holds you, your body twitching in his embrace.

“No,” he says, pushing your back on the bench. You look up, eyes fluttering close, your body feeling heavy and sore. “A little bit more. I need just a bit more.” You shake your head, weakly pressing a hand to his chest. Zoro takes your hand, wraps the arm attached to it around his neck. “Don’t act weak with me. I know how strong you are. So just take it. You can take it.” He takes one of your legs and places it on top of the backrest of the benches, your ankle bumping into the wall. Zoro stares down at you, and you’re caught again–by the heat of his gaze. Dark green lashes fluttering under the moonlight, his swinging earrings blinking at you, his mouth parted, a flush on his cheeks. It all looks so divine, you think this a sight belonging to the gates of Heaven. You think you’re close to dying.

And death comes calling when he enters you again. You have nothing left inside you to fight it. You moan time and time again, with every brutish slam of his hips against yours. His balls sound loud and impossibly perverse every time they slap against your ass. There are bruises forming, you’re sure, but you don’t care. You hold on to him, wrap your arms tightly around him but he pushes you down, determined to watch your expression. You cling to his hips instead, the ones that keep pummeling into you, harshly, his cock ramming into your puffy and overstimulated pussy. He thinks the sight of your face, twisted in a mixture of pain and pleasure is the sharpest knife he has ever been cut open by.

Zoro staves off a cry of pleasure by diving in for a kiss, desperately sucking your tongue into his mouth. He kisses the corner of your mouth. From his mouth, he hears stupid promises but his mind can’t believe it even through the haze of lust. He tries to take them back but he whispers into your ear again, soft and sweet things he wouldn’t dare speak in the light of the sun. You know he’s only saying this because he is not thinking straight, because like you, he is consumed by this burning lust. You know when a new moon comes, when this has waxed and waned, that he would forget the words uttered in a moment of madness.

He loves the way you feel, the way it’s so easy to kiss you. He loves the way your voice catches on his skin, slipping into the little cracks to stay forever. He hates it too. Hates how he thinks he’ll carry you always. Even in the light. Even in the dark. He thinks he should take it all back, the kisses, the words. He thinks this even buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around his length again. He thinks this even as he gasps and moans, cuming with you.

His body shudders as he spills inside you. You feel it start to ooze out of you, but you ignore it, just like you ignore the sudden flush of your face.

Zoro crumples over you, and covers you in kisses. Your hands are shaking as you seize his shoulders, trying to find the sense to speak about what just happened but he is gone the moment you grasp him. There are towels nearby, and he drapes one between your legs. He lowers himself over you, trapping your body between his arms. His mouth is still relentless, kissing your bruised lips over and over again. You see the moon caught in his earrings again, and you reach out for it.

Someone once told you, a dream was a wish you made on a star. Your fingers dance along his earrings. The gold blinks back at you–twinkling stars hanging from his ear. You wish, on all three, for the same dream.

You wish that maybe when the new moon comes, the pull it had on you two would bring you together time and time again.

#zoro x reader #zoro x you #zoro x y/n #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader

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v7lgar · 1 year ago

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Soft regulus whimpering humping on james' thick thigh

please make it happen

NSFW | 625 words

James was desperate.

Regulus was on his leg, naked and covered in oil, even his cock was shining under the dim light of their room. And he wasn't allowed to touch, not yet. Regulus was trying to see how much patience he had, and he started to think this was a bad idea.

“Regulus,” he breathed, watching his boyfriend hump on his leg, looking more gorgeous than ever.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpered in a quiet voice.

James was losing his mind, he wanted to touch him, kiss him, bite him, fuck him into the madness. He wanted and wanted. There was no end, only more.

“Your hair tickles me,” Regulus laughed softly, wrapping his arms around James’ neck, and pressing his ass onto James’ thigh more.

“This is not the exact right time to tell me that I'm hairy, Reggie.”

“But you are.”

“Touch me,” Regulus said, closing his eyes and squeezing his legs around James’ thick thigh.

He always told him how much he loved his thighs, how much they turned him on. And this was the idea they came up with after an exhausting day that they had. But James wasn't so sure if it was the best or the worst idea they ever had.

He grabbed him by his hips and helped him seeking friction. He could feel Regulus’ asshole slightly rubbing on his thigh, it made unspeakable things to his body.

“Please,” Regulus begged, kissing the side of James’ neck, slow and wet, “More.”

“More?” James murmured against his skin, gripping him firmer, as if if he let him he could go missing any minute.

“It's so good, but I want more,” Regulus moaned, eyes closed, “Touch my dick,” he said.

James didn't waste any time. He wrapped his hand around Regulus’ lean and hard cock and started stroking. It was slippery from all the oil they used, making filthy sounds that is tickling James’ insides.

“Oh,” Regulus moaned deeply, mouth agape and eyelids drooping.

��You are making me crazy,” James whispered.

“Likewise,” Regulus said and hugged him until their chests felt like crushing the other.

James knew how Regulus liked it, he twisted his hand and got a mouth full of moan from Regulus. He couldn't wait to pin him against the floor by his throat and fuck his sweet hole without breathing.

“James, James, James,” he kept repeating his name like a prayer, and to them, it was a prayer. They both worshipped each other like gods. There was nothing but them in that moment.

Regulus movements became rapid, he could feel his heart was racing like his own, beating to his chest. He wanted to make a hole for him just to keep him in his ribs, closer and closer.

“Fuck, you are burning.”

Regulus pressed his lips against his ear, speaking slowly full of desire, “From inside out, James, inside out.”

James shivered and turned his head to kiss him passionately. He wanted nothing more than him, all his life, he wanted nothing else.

He tugged Regulus’ dick faster, he knew he was getting stimulated but he didn't really care at this point.

Regulus kept on bumping his leg, looking all pretty and ready to get fucked. And he wanted to fuck him so much, it was making him insane. He was this close to the going mad, and it would be all worth it.

“James, James, I'm close— so close—”

“Keep going baby, you’re almost there,” James encouraged him, twisting his hand and stroking him from base to top, then he pressed his thumb under the tip of his cock and touched him there. It was one of the weak points of Regulus’s.

“James, James, James—”

He gave it a firm squeeze and Regulus was undone.

#agon answers #jegulus #jegulus microfic #james potter #regulus black #james x regulus

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supremeuppityone · 3 months ago

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This was written for Klaroline Fanfic Week @klarolinefanficweek; Week 3 [April 13-April 19, 2025] – Crime. Note that this is canonish related to TVD Season 3, Episode 3.

As a witch on the run, Caroline thought hiding out in a speakeasy in Chicago would be the perfect escape. She couldn’t have guessed there was an even bigger threat than the Ripper of Monterey also hiding out there...

A Little Spark

“I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Chicago was a long way from Mystic Falls. But maybe not far enough, Caroline thought with a grimace as she watched Gloria light a sage bundle with little more than an impatient twitch of her eyelid as she carried on a hushed conversation in a shadowy corner. Caroline may have been a young witch with only a paltry burst of power to draw from, but she knew that spell. And the juice coming off of her sharp-tongued boss had her rethinking this speakeasy was the best place to hide from her troubles. It was shameful how she’d forgotten the harsh lessons of Mystic Falls and had failed to see what was in front of her. Never trust another witch.

At least back home, she knew all the so-called “friends” and traitorous relatives that wanted to burn the witch out of her. Chicago appeared to be brimming with more enemies than she realized. Even the dark threat of the serial killer stalking Chicago’s streets didn’t fill her with the blind panic she now felt. Caroline had learned the hard way that witches led to vampires or werewolves and chaos and death always followed in their wake.

She straightened the black fringe on her dress and picked up another serving tray, determined to finish out her shift and earn as many tips as she could before catching a train far away from here. But she’d wait until morning when it would feel safer — the newspapers kept reporting that the serial killer — whom they kept pushing the wild rumor it was really the Ripper of Monterey — only attacked women at night. And then bizarrely reassembled their torn-apart bodies. Or perhaps not. Was it possible this was the work of a vampire?

Caroline sighed, heat rising in her cheeks at her foolishness. It was naïve of her to think that the supernatural wouldn’t flock to big cities just as easily as a frightened witch would. She squeezed through the wild crowd of drunken revelry, a sadness creeping in as she realized how much she’d miss Chicago despite these unsavory revelations.

It was a vibrant place, seemingly untouched by the oppressive government sanctions — if you knew where to look. Gloria’s had seemed like the perfect escape with its underground, seductive appeal. The live jazz every night accompanied by Gloria’s rich, gravelly notes along with the finest bootlegged liquor in three states drew in all the right people who wanted an escape.

Caroline carefully held onto her smile as she handed out side cars, gin rickeys and high balls. Warring mafia families all vied for control of the liquor racket, so it was best not to be too standoffish or too flirtatious because one never knew when they’d send in their boys to sniff around the bar to get the lay of the land. Like those three lounging about the VIP booth near the back — they clearly were affiliated with one of those deadly mob families.

The blonde, Rebekah, carried herself in a regal, elegant manner that Caroline envied. Except when Stefan, the guy with the carefully styled hair came around — then she became wild and flirty, holding him possessively close as they danced and drank. A dangerous pair, her instincts told her. The too-knowing glances and the casual displays of dominance whispered to her they were mobbed up.

A throaty chuckle drew her attention as it always did and she eagerly drank in the sight of him in his tailored white shirt and black silk vest and bowtie. Speaking of dangerous. She’d overheard Gloria greet him as ‘Klaus’ once, but had wisely prevented either of them from noticing her interest. Klaus was lovely to look at, but Caroline had no desire to become a gangster’s moll.

Power practically hummed at that back table, and she wisely ducked her head and busied herself with serving drinks, flashing just enough of her shapely legs to rake in a pretty bit of coin. Coupled with what she had shoved in the hollow bedpost of her tiny apartment, she might be able to make it all the way to Denver. It was a hopeful thought that stayed with her throughout the night, warming her right down to her toes, which is the only excuse she had for getting sloppy.

One of the other servers was out of gin, and Caroline offered to make the trip to the cellar through the camouflaged door in a false wall. It was a run she’d made numerous times without incident, but now several barrels blocked her usual pathway, which meant she had no choice but to squeeze past that VIP table. Where her eyes often strayed but she never wandered too close. Until now.

She could overhear Klaus telling Stefan that he’d killed most of his family, but not his sister, Rebekah, because she’d chosen his side. She knew it. They were part of the underworld scene. Mobsters, the lot of them. Just a few more careful steps and she’d be clear of their table. Now Klaus was asking Stefan to justify how he was worthy of Rebekah. Definitely mobsters.

Stefan called over one of the dancers, his voice a curious, flat monotone that was out of character with his normally arrogant tone. The dancer stumbled toward their booth with jerky, wooden movements. Even before Stefan took a knife to the poor girl’s wrist and bled her into a highball glass, Caroline finally understood what was going on. Vampire. Did this mean Klaus and Rebekah were vampires too?

Caroline held the serving tray aloft, carefully positioning the empty green and amber bottles to block her from their table as she finally slipped past them. She fought to keep her body from tensing as she overheard Stefan compel another man to drink the blood in the glass. Vicious, dangerous creature. Blue eyes widened as she realized Stefan could be the serial killer. Chicago was probably a prime hunting ground for monsters.

She let out a grateful sigh as the false wall covered in the gaudy bird and branches motif wallpaper closed behind her. The familiar brick stairs were somehow comforting as she made her way down to the hidden cellar. Carefully positioning one of the empty bottles underneath the row of barrels, she turned on the copper spigot. Refill these bottles, leave them for the server, and then spend the rest of the night down here taking inventory.

Gloria would appreciate the extra help and Caroline wanted the added safety measure as she definitely didn’t want to risk going back to her apartment in the dark. Vampires roaming the streets. Serial killer vampires. She’d just finished filling the last bottle when she heard a harsh scrape of wood against brick. Someone had opened the false door.

Panicked, she let loose the tiny bit of power she always kept close to the surface, feeling the flames before they flared across her palms.

“Impressive, love.”

Her pulse raced as Klaus suddenly appeared before her, studying her with a dimpled smirk. “Well, since you showed me yours,” he teased, black veins crawling underneath his eyes as he unsheathed long, curved fangs.

Vampire. Just as she feared.

“What do you want,” Caroline asked flatly, fingers curling around the long neck of a brown bottle. She knew it wouldn’t do any good, but the heft in her trembling hand was a small comfort nonetheless.

He nodded toward her makeshift weapon with an amused chuckle. “Let’s not be hasty, love. I mean you no harm. In fact, you captured my interest from the moment Gloria hired you.”

Impossible. She would’ve noticed a creature like Klaus noticing her. Except her power was puny — everyone back home had said so, which meant she couldn’t always sense dark creatures. Unable to stop the disdainful scoff that escaped, she said “I’m fairly certain capturing your interest is the last thing I want to do.”

He boldly toyed with the black fringe that brushed the top of her shoulder. “Then what is it that you do want? There’s such rage in that tiny frame. Even as you kept your head down and feigned meekness at every turn, you can’t hide that fierce gaze. Why, I’m certain if you had fangs, you’d gash them at every human that vexed you!”

Even in his monster’s visage, he had dimples. How could she still find him attractive? She hated the flicker of lust that surged through her at his bold advances. And from the low rumbling in his chest, Caroline was certain he could sense her fear…and excitement. Smug bastard.

“I want to be safe. Finally, truly safe,” she blurted out, secretly pleased with how her words seemed to momentarily stun Klaus.

The fingers that had been playing with the fringe on her shoulder stilled and he studied her with growing interest. “I can give that to you, sweetheart. All you have to do is ask.” Glancing at the small flames still stubbornly dancing on Caroline’s palms, Klaus added with a smirk, “Or, I could show you how to nurture that power until you can secure your own safety. You’d be surprised by what a little spark can do.”

#klarolinefanficweek #uppitybitch fanfic #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline aesthetic #aesthetic #klaroline #historical au #klaroline does roaring 20s #witch caroline #week 3 crime

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struckd0wn · 2 years ago

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Nobody talks about Shy tops and their equality shy bottoms enough so I will write it myself 😈

𝐒𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐩!𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 × 𝐒𝐡𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Smut and some fluff ig, kinda sappy LOL :3

18+, mdni

Both of you are too shy to initiate intimacy so it gets awkward when you're both in the mood but both to scared to make a move until eventually you both just explore

You and Tomas sit side by side on your shared sofa. You're both visibly antsy and desperate for one another but both of you are to scared to just reach out. Your eyes leave the television screen, examining your boyfriend's face. His strong jawline shifts as he clenches his teeth, watching you watch him from the corner of his eye. Eventually Smoke turns to look at you, catching your eyes. His face lights up bright red and you assume your cheeks are burning as well. The eye contact last a couple of seconds before the both of you collide roughly, leting out all of your pent up energy out.

Asking for thing is also difficult for the both of you. Mumble out a request, blush covering their face, only for the other to not hear. Repeating their selves, blush worsening as they see their partner blush at the suggestion.

"Hey love, Can I... eat you out." You look up to him from your phone, asking him to repeat himself as you didn't quite hear him. Tomas's face is bright red and his blue eyes refuse to meet yours. "Can I eat you out." The elder tells you again, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. You're almost speechless, taking your turn to blush a dull pink over your cheeks. You nod your head and your lover lights up immediately, dragging you along to the bedroom.

During Intimacy it's not to bad, the two of you are usually too caught up in the pleasure to feel embarrassed, but sometimes it's inevitable.

Tomas groans softly, his calloused fingers run through your hair as you bob up and down on his swollen cock. He opens his eyes, averting his gaze down to you in between his legs. The sight of you is almost to much to handle, your puffy lips on his erection, smaller hands wrapped around his shaft, tear filled eyes looking back up at him. Smoke burns, turning to look away, bashful and in a bit of disbelief at how good you look. You burn too, embarrassed as he watched you shamelessly choke down his length like it was nothing.

The aftermath is the most embarrassing part for the both of you, unsure of what to say or how to continue after such sinful activities.

Tomas leans over you, huffing heavily after finishing inside of you. Your legs quiver around him, eyelids drooping at your sudden tiredness. Your lover watches you from above, one hand holding him up and the other softly caressing you cheek. You stare back up at him, quickly feeling more embarrassed by the second, pulling up the blanket to cover your reddening face. Smoke laughs nervously, leaning down to hide his own face in the crook of your neck, turning both of you on your side to cuddle for the rest of the night.

a/n: sorry I've been gone so long LOL, kinktober burned me out horribly but I'm back >:3, I'll get to my requests soon I promise. I was sick and had covid the last 2 times I wanted to write the universe DID NOT WANT ME WRITING SMUT. anyways, I'll try to write more I promise :D!!!

#smoke smut #smut #gn reader #ftm reader #smoke x reader #trans reader #gender nuetral reader #transmasc reader #drabbles #sub male reader

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definitelynotstable · 2 years ago

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Camomile pt. 6 [Ghost x gn!Reader]

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10

AN: Hello! Finished my essay and then straight after had a ski trip organised so that’s why I’ve been awol! Missed you all loads. This one is a bit rough (not proofread) but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

Synopsis: You've been rescued by the 141, Ghost is the only one who can calm you down. Word count: 1.4k Warnings: trauma, injuries, medical shiz, reader thinks they are dead Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)

— — —

This haze doesn’t seem as peaceful as you expected death to be. Though you are probably going to hell, you think through the flashing of lights and colours. Killing was a sin, wasn’t it? Even if they were terrorists? Something like that.

There’s a ringing getting louder and louder. It’s piercing. Your chest hurts. You would do anything to relieve the pressure. Suddenly you can move your arms and your legs. Where are you? Someone’s hurting you. You thrash and flail against the grip of shadows and wisps.

— — —

A scream echoes down the hallway where the Lieutenant stands, arms crossed, jaw locked. Ghost stiffens, is that coming from your room? Nearby he watches as a nurse hurries past him and through a door. Medical personnel are yelling; something is beeping.

Shit.

Faster than he thought possible in all his gear, the Lieutenant races down the hallway. He comes to a screeching halt, catching the doorway.

There, in the centre of the room, is you. Almost five nurses and doctors are holding you down; you’re thrashing as they try to calm you down. You’re sobbing now, hyperventilating as a nurse tries desperately to hold an oxygen mask to your face. You’re saying something, what are you saying?

— — —

Who are these people holding you down? Where’s Ghost? What happened to those cobalt eyes you loved so much.

“Ghost!” You pant out his name between sobs, breath ragged. “Ghost please, they’re hurting me!”

You just need to see his eyes. You need to know you’re safe.

“Please!” You gasp, chest burning, “Simon!”

You’ve never used his real name before. It was something you had overheard Price call him when they thought they were alone in his office. Some people in the military were cautious about their names. You respected that and had never used it.

Until now.

— — —

“Simon!”

Ghost stiffens from where he watches from the doorway. He’d never told you his name. But the way you’d called out, scared and in pain, he couldn’t ignore it.

Before he even knows what he is doing the Lieutenant steps forward, roughly pushing between two nurses, batting their hands away. Their protests are silenced with a single glare.

“Let go,” he commands sternly, “You’re scaring them.”

— — —

Slowly the arms holding you down are gone. Something - no - someone enters your slightly blurred vision. The fluorescent lights give them a halo. Cobalt blue eyes blink down at you. Ghost. He looks ethereal. You raise a shaking hand, eyes watering.

“Simon?” Your fingers brush the shell of his mask, curling around his jaw, “Simon is that you?”

A gloved hand covers the one you have resting on his jaw. “It’s Ghost,” he corrects gently, with a nod.

“Ghost.” You repeat, eyes glazed as you struggle to keep him in focus. “Am I dead?”

He blinks, blond lashes fluttering. “No, but you will be if you don’t let these poor doctors help you.”

Suddenly you notice the five or so others hovering in your periphery. You feel your eyes well up with tears again.

“M’sorry,” you whisper, Ghost swipes a gloved thumb under your eye, “I got scared.”

“I know,” the Lieutenant nods, eyes still locked with yours, “But I’m here, I’ll look after you.”

Your lip wobbles, you feel so frail. “You will?”

“I will.” He squeezes your hand before placing it softly on the bed at your side, “Now let them work – I’ll be right here with you.”

You nod, their arms return, gentler this time. A nurse speaks softly as she walks you through everything she does. Eyelids heavy; you feel yourself slip away.

— — —

Something is beeping softly when you come too, lashes sticking slightly with sleep. Your room is empty, you hate it. You fumble for the call button at you side, pressing it hard.

A nurse walks in, she smiles to see you awake.

“How are you, honey? You gave us quite the scare.”

You swallow, throat dry and she leans over to help you up, her navy hijab tickling your cheek. A paper cup is pressed into your hands and you tentatively sip, the water cool and refreshing. You splutter a little and the nurse rubs your back, encouraging you to breath.

“Want more?” She asks, still supporting your back. You shake your head and swipe a hand over your mouth where some water runs over your lips.

“I was wondering -” you rasp up at her, pausing to clear your throat - “I was wondering where my friend went?”

The nurse nods, taking the cup back. “I think I saw them by reception, I’ll let him know you are ready for visitors.”

She swishes out of the door and you sink back into the pillows. Everything aches; it no doubt will for a while.

“Rags?” A gruff voice comes from the door, you look over as fast as your stiff neck allows you. A man stands, silhouetted against the fluorescent lights in the hallway. A hat sits, curled over his forehead. Squinting, you can make out his beard.

“Captain?”

The man nods; stepping into the room, he crosses to your side in two short strides. He isn’t who you wanted to see but his presence is welcome nonetheless. He stands over you, brows creased as he surveys you where you lie prone in the hospital bed. His eyes gloss over slightly, and he blinks, clearing his throat.

“Are you broken, soldier?” Price asks, his hand rests on the bedrail.

“No sir,” you croak out with a smile, he holds your gaze for a moment before sighing and sinking into the chair beside your bed. He pulls a hand over his face, scratching at his beard.

“Fuck, Rags I have to apologise, this should have never happened.”

You press the heels of your hands into the mattress and heave yourself up – waving Price off as he makes to help you. You settle with a groan, thoroughly exhausted from such small effort. You shudder at the thought of training after this.

“It isn’t your fault-“

-“but that’s the thing!” He cuts you off, voice raw with emotion you have never heard from him. “It is my fault. Makarov has it out for me and you were collateral.”

“With all due respect, sir, he has it out for all of us.” You retort with a long-suffering sigh, “I know the risks– we all know the risks of this job. Something like this would’ve happened sooner rather than later and I’m just glad it was me and not any of you.”

Price’s jaw ticks as he stares at you.

“Can you seriously tell me I am wrong, Captain?” You challenge, knowing you are right. But the guilt of being responsible for a team and for something to go so horribly wrong can’t be erased overnight. You know that.

The Captain swallows, “No. I can’t.”

“Exactly,” you sigh, with a wince. “Now quit sulking and get me the nurse, I need something for the pain.”

— — —

Soap and Gaz poked their head in a while later, Price was still there, tapping away on a laptop when they entered. He had stood up, patted your knee goodbye and given the two sergeants a nod as he left. You suspected they were taking some form of shifts so someone was always with you. You didn’t comment on it, you were secretly glad. They brought you a couple of books from your room and an eye mask – “because hospitals are bloody bright” Soap remarked passionately. Gaz offered to brush your hair while Soap sat in a chair fiddling with the adjustable straps of the mask. The younger man was careful not to pull at any of the wires which stemmed form your chest and to some of the machines beeping in the background; the gentle brush against your scalp causing your eyes to flutter shut with a small sigh.

“My mother used to do my hair,” Gaz murmured, running his fingers through your hair between brushes, “I never felt safer.”

You smile, cracking an eye up at him. “I think I understand why. I’m feeling pretty safe now.”

Gaz returned the smile, tilting his head to look down at you. “I’m glad,” he whispers, breath fanning down across your face.

A nurse came in not long after and insisted you sleep - Soap and Gaz resigned themselves with playing cards quietly in the corner as you dozed.

And slowly but surely the world slipped away around you.

— — —

Masterlist

Next part

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psychedelic-ink · 2 years ago

Text

We Fall Like Snow ║ Part ⅠⅠ

After the events that took place at the Cliff Beasts set, needless to say as his bodyguard (and friend) you became overprotective of Dieter. You have all your worries under control until you accidentally flip over a young fan by grabbing her wrist, causing the media to stir with speculations as to why. Luckily Dieter's family arrives in the nick of time, scooping you both from New York to their cozy cabin; however, winter wonderland can't last forever and you need to face the consequences of your actions sooner or later.

pairing: Dieter Bravo x bodyguard!ofc; Amina Addams, written in reader format

chapter summary: Going on a trip with Dieter and his parents? More likely then you think.

word count: 4.9k

chapter warnings: some family drama, mentions of past bullying, but mostly fluffy moments

**dividers by the amazing @saradika

“I think we all expected some drama to drop when Dieter Bravo was cast as one of the main heroes of the upcoming movie ‘Abyss Burning’ but surprisingly enough this drama isn’t about him but his female bodyguard,” the voice coming out of the phone’s speaker is pleasant, engaging. Your stomach drops at the spoken sentence. “So let’s start at the beginning–”

Dieter comes at you from out of nowhere and yanks his father’s phone out of your trembling hands. Your instincts kicking in (as if those same instincts haven’t caused enough trouble already) you reach out for the device but he’s already across the room, giving the phone back to his dad, a glare directed at the poor unsuspecting man. Mrs. Bravo looks somewhat aware of your distress, her gaze softens with kindness, she smiles when your eyes meet.

Dieter stands like a wall between you and his parents.

“Maybe you two should go out to the balcony, the weather’s nice,” Dieter says, tone full of implication. “I’ll talk to you guys in a sec,”

Mr. Bravo parts his lips, but before words can form, Mrs. Bravo ushers him out to the balcony and closes the door behind them.

You hadn’t realized but you were holding your breath, only now letting go.

“The last thing you should do is watch drama channels,”

The couch dips with Dieter’s added weight, you look down at your hands and witness the constant twitching of your fingers. The ever distressing sound of jingle bells ring loudly in your ears. Despite your focus being elsewhere, you hear him sigh. You feel him curling his fingers around your left hand, pulling it to his lap. You perceive your hand to be detached from the rest of your body, nothing but a lifeless limb between Dieter’s fingers.

“My mom taught me something when I was little, supposedly it helps when you’re feeling nervous,” he says. “Open your palm,”

Life returns to your skin with his touch. His fingers are warm. Heat seeps back into your skin, you can feel again, you move around your fingers before doing as he said. Dieter starts to draw patterns into your palm. It’s ticklish, the sensation forces a smile against your lips.

“She told me that I should write my name letter by letter into my palm and that it would calm me down.”

Dieter is already staring at you when you lift your gaze. His smile is soft, which surprises you. Usually his smiles were wide and broad, full of happiness, be it fake or real. This expression is a gift, a gentle reminder that you’re someone close to him. His forefinger continues to dance along your palm, blood simmers pleasantly underneath your skin. Slowly, you realize that these aren’t random patterns.

It’s your name. You half had expected him to write out his own name.

He repeats it, the tip of his nail catches along your palm, a shudder spreading throughout your body. Dieter’s gaze drops, his cheeks dusted with a beautiful shade of pink.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “Just breathe and focus on the letters, I promise you’ll feel better,”

Your eyes flutter shut, vague shapes caused by light moves like shadow-play beneath your eyelids. Your mind slowly comes together, you push away the thoughts of gossip. Instead you focus on yourself, on Dieter. You remind yourself of how close your lips were to his, your breaths mingling, your bodies seeking eachother’s heat.

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. The sharp pain clears your mind. Dieter’s finger still moves. You feel him drawing another “A”. Deep down you know you can stay like this for hours, for eternity. His finger, despite the lack of sexual connotation, makes heat to pool between your legs. You know that this will be the closest you’ll ever get to feeling him against your skin like this, so you allow yourself to postpone the moment of parting.

Time stretches, you imagine his fingers moving up your wrist, tracing the curve of your muscles until he reaches your shoulder and from there, to your neck.

Your body stiffens, goosebumps settle across your skin. Dieter traces an “I”. How long does he plan on tracing your name like this?

You fear that he can hear your thoughts echoing in the silence. You fear that he can see the pleasure written along your body. It’s a nasty feeling, one that coats your tongue with the taste of bile.

When you open your eyes, his gaze lifts in a way that convinces you that he knew the exact moment it would be too much. As if he knew the moment you would resort to opening your eyes. His smile is still there.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thank you,” his finger retreats, regrettably so. “I like that little trick. It’s nice,”

“Mrs. Bravo is a wise woman,” Dieter’s smile cracks into a grin. “Speaking of, I should probably check on the happy couple,”

You nod, “Yeah, okay.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

You will never be able to forget the look of concern he’s giving you. The crease between his brows is deep, eyes focused like you’ve never seen before. You fight the urge to scoff. You can’t believe it, Dieter Bravo of all people is actually worrying about you. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

You smile and nod, your thumb unconsciously pressing into your palm when he finally turns to leave.

You can see only a small fraction of the balcony. You witness Mrs. Bravo hugging her son, you see Mr. Bravo looking sheepishly at Dieter, his lips mouthing out words you can’t hear. Wanting to give them at least a bit of privacy you look down to your palm.

Your nail had left a crescent shaped mark. You smooth over it, you repeat the motion again and again, with each swipe of your thumb you feel your heart rate escalating. Anger bubbles in your chest. You were fine just a moment ago, this whole thing wasn’t that big of a deal. So what if drama channels were talking about you? So what if everyone was making speculations? You know the truth. You know it was an accident.

When you inhale, the breath you take is shaky and short. You close your eyes, then open them again. There’s an ache in your chest, you breathe and it hurts, you breathe again and again, wanting the pain to disappear.

You mutter out a curse and look back to the balcony, Dieter has his arm around Mrs. Bravo’s waist and Mr. Bravo’s hand is on his son’s shoulder. They must be close. Who would’ve thought? You really should’ve asked for their names before grabbing the offered phone to search what people were saying about the incident. Your gaze drops to your palm, the mark is gone, you remember the trick Dieter recently told you about.

Sighing, you start to drag your thumb in the shape of an “A”. You follow up with the other letters but it doesn’t make you feel better. Maybe I’m doing it wrong? You look back to Dieter and then to your palm again. You write something different for your second try. After each letter you feel your cheeks getting warmer and warmer.

You start to feel better.

The balcony door slides open and Mrs. Bravo is the first to come back inside. You blink dumbly at her, your thumb still moving across your palm. Dieter notices and you stop.

Now that you were aware who this couple was, you take your time observing them. Mrs. Bravo had Dieter’s eyes— though it would probably be more accurate to say that Dieter had his mother’s eyes. Her gaze sparkled more compared to his. Her hair a light shade of brown with soft, honey-like highlights between them. You spot a couple of grays pouring between the honey, making you believe that your initial assumption that her hair was dyed was actually wrong. The soft locks stopped right below her neck, slightly curling at the ends. She has a delicate gold chain around her neck, wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

“Amina,” she calls out to you, smiling wide. “Why don’t you come with us?”

“Mom…” Dieter cuts in, giving you a chance to understand what Mrs. Bravo was asking of you. Sadly, you still have no clue. “She doesn’t want to come with us. I barely want to go. The only reason I agreed to go is because we’re blood related.”

“Your cousin Everett is also joining us,” Mr. Bravo chimes in. “Didn’t you say that you missed him?”

“Like I said; Blood. Related.”

“Dieter, stop it.” His mom’s voice is sharp and clear. “Of course she would want to come. It would be good for her nerves and you said yourself you missed Everett,”

“Me missing him doesn’t make my point any less valid,”

His father talks over him, both parents ignoring him completely.

“Besides, isn’t she your bodyguard? Doesn’t she have to come along? You two have a contract right?”

“Yes but that’s not how it works–”

When the three begin to chatter among themselves, words getting a bit loud and heated, you raise your hand like a kid trying to get the teacher’s attention. You clear your throat.

“Go where exactly?”

“See, she needs this more than you think!” Mrs. Bravo proclaims triumphantly, her gaze moving from Dieter to you. “We have a cabin up in the mountains. It’s a lovely spot, near a ski resort so there’s people but not enough that you feel suffocated! We go there every year,”

“Except for last year,” Mr. Bravo cuts in, eyeing Dieter.

“It’s not my fault, I was working.”

“We would be happy if you came along,” Mrs. Bravo says with the most mother-like tone she can muster. You’re flustered, skin warm and tingling as she stares at you with hopeful eyes. Normally, you have no problem with telling people no —if you did your job would be a lot harder— but as her gaze zeroes in on you, all the excuses you could come up with die on your tongue. You nod with a shaky smile, telling her that you would love to tag along. “Fantastic! Dieter promised to show us around so you can pack during that time. We’ll come pick you up at about 9 PM. Dieter has your address right?”

“Y-Yeah,”

You’re overwhelmed at how fast she’s talking. Satisfied with your mediocre answer, she turns to Dieter.

“We’ll wait for you downstairs dear. Say goodbye to your friend!”

Both parents shake your hand before leaving, Mr. Bravo winks at you while mouthing a sorry, and follows his wife out the door.

It’s only you and Dieter now. The room is eerily silent.

He groans and falls to the couch, his one hand covers both his eyes, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips. You can’t help but giggle, sitting next to him you touch his shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” he groans out. “I can make up something if you don’t want to go,”

“Nah, your mom’s right, it might be good for me.” Your eyes move towards the door, you can still feel their chaotic energy crackling in the air. “I don’t know what I was expecting your parents to be like, but it definitely wasn’t that,”

Dieter peaks at you from between his fingers, you can see the corners of his smile exceeding the frame of his hand.

“They really are something else. I think they like you,”

“Really?” You sound genuinely surprised.

Dieter’s hand falls to his side as he lets out a hearty laugh, he looks beautiful like this. His head thrown back and a smile as bright as the sun crossing his face. Your heart swells.

“Do you think my mom invites over every woman, or man, she sees next to me?” he shakes his head. “She’s definitely planning something, I’ll tell you that much. I should warn you about my dad though, he doesn’t have much of a filter.”

You hum, “Reminds me of someone I know,”

“Har har, he’s much worse. Believe me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you gently hit his shoulder before getting up, Dieter looks at you confused. “You should get going, and I should go and pack,”

“Ah, yeah, I guess you’re right,”

Dieter walks you to the door, muttering about needing to get dressed first. He leans against the door frame, the gap suddenly looks small with him filling it, his broad shoulders filling the empty space in between as he crosses his arms.

“I’ll see you tonight then,”

Just as you proceed to move away, Dieter closes the door but remembering that you had a job to do, you push it back open.

“We’ll be making it back to the premiere, right? You can’t miss it,”

“Of course,” he says calmly. “Shannon would have my head if I missed it.”

The drive starts out full of excitement and laughter. You and Dieter are sitting in the back while Mr. and Mrs. Bravo are sitting up front. It doesn’t take you long to learn that Mrs. Bravo was a fan of Taylor Swift —and pop in general— which you find endearing.

While singing along to the lyrics of Love Story she turns to you, eyes gleaming with mischief. She asks if you know about Dieter’s singing and that he always wanted to be a singer. Then she proceeds to tell you how she caught him in the act of performing a private concert often while he was blow drying his hair.

Honestly you aren’t sure what surprises you more, Dieter singing, or the fact that a man who forgot to feed himself constantly used to blow dry his hair.

Dieter attempts to hush her but it’s too late, you already know his dirty little secret. Grinning, you beg him to sing. He refuses, a warm blush flaring across his cheeks. You don’t mind him denying you, you know that sooner or later you’ll make him sing.

After the first three hours, the inside of the car gradually becomes more and more silent. The music shifts from pop to something more slow and instrumental, Mrs. Bravo’s snores accompany the music. Meanwhile, Mr. Bravo is focused on the road, his body relaxed as he holds the steering wheel with one hand.

You’re looking outside, eyes following the silhouettes of trees. It’s colder now, an uncomfortable chill spreading from your hands and feet. Instead of opening your bag and wearing your sweatshirt you hug yourself. Your eyelids are heavy with sleep, you find it difficult to think properly.

“Hey,” Dieter whispers to you, his breath warming your neck. “Look, it’s snowing.”

He’s right, it was.

As you look up to the night sky, Dieter shimmies closer. Thick white flakes flutter down from the darkness, making you smile. Snow always makes you smile, regardless of the situation. It has you feeling that child-like wonder again. Your heart beats fast, cheeks warm as your hands and feet continue to freeze. Wanting to tell Dieter your enthusiasm for the weather, you turn, only to find his face an inch away from yours. With shock you jump back and hit the back of your head against the hard glass.

“Fuck,” you hiss out in pain. Your hands move up to touch your head but Dieter is faster. His hands cradle your head, pushing you down, he lets out a silent whistle.

“Shit, that sounded like it hurt. Are you alright? You’re not bleeding are you?”

Seeing that you are only mere inches away from his crotch, you slap his arms away and scutter back until you’re flushed against the cold car door. Your chest heaves. He blinks at you with an eyebrow raised. You take this opportunity to rub your head, wincing at the way it stings. Dieter attempts to move closer but you glue him in place with the raise of your hand.

“Stay there,” you grunt, your voice unwillingly thickening with anger. “I’m fine, you don’t need to do anything.”

“I was just trying to help…”

“Well, don’t,”

Dieter, as if lava suddenly formed between you, shuffles back until his cheek is flushed against the glass. His breath spreads and fogs up the window. Nails digging into your palms, your turn to face the dark scenery outside but as you move, your eyes linger on the rearview mirror.

Dieter’s dad is looking directly at you, not much emotion going on in his brown eyes. Great, I managed to piss off his dad. Guilt rising in your chest, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth and turn away, hoping that Mr. Bravo had done the same.

Your head still throbs but you lean down to pull out your phone and sweatshirt from your bag. Soft snores come from your side. Lowering the screenlight, your gaze snaps to Dieter. His cheek is completely smushed against the glass with his lips parted. You envy the way he looks so relaxed, but then again, he’s always been like that. You don’t know how he does it. No matter what happens, he always manages to come out on top relaxed.

It’s kind of annoying now that you think about it.

You scroll through your phone. A terrible idea really, and see that your follower count had shot up while you weren’t looking. You have thousands of comments, mentions, and a couple of hundred messages. You sigh and roll your eyes at the same time. Within the silence the sound comes out louder than it should and with panic your eyes search the reflective surface of the rearview mirror. Luckily you don’t see two very similar looking eyes staring right back at you.

You set your Twitter and Instagram accounts to private.

A lot of people assume Dieter is a bad actor.

Sure, he’s been in a couple of shit movies when he was younger, but honestly, did everyone really think that every production Brad Pitt was in was fucking perfect? Of course not. But god forbid Dieter Bravo does a couple of bad blockbusters. Those are the ones the world decides never to forget. It doesn’t matter really. The world can think what it wants, he knows that he can act. He gets paid extra to do cameos and now he’s actually in a movie with a script he kinda likes.

The world can think that he’s shit, but the proof that he can act is happening right here, in his parents’ car.

You are totally convinced that he’s asleep when in fact he is very much awake.

Dieter didn’t understand your reaction. He just wanted to check and see if you were bleeding or not, the hit had sounded painful. But then your reaction made him feel as if he was doing something downright heinous.

You two are friends right? Isn’t it normal for friends to check up on eachother? Is this one of those social cues that he has trouble understanding?

Maybe you weren’t friends.

No, that can’t be true, she protects me

Under contract

Shut up

Dieter listens to the sounds you make. You shuffle, open up your bag and pull something out. A light burns through the roof before you turn down the screen light. He knows what you’re doing. You’re checking out the gossip. Naughty girl.

He told you not to do that. He knows how easy the masses can get into one’s head.

You sigh, then throw your phone back into your bag. Shuffles and soft grunts echo in the silence. She’s putting her sweatshirt on. Now that he’s thinking about it, it is kind of chilly in the car.

The glass touching his cheek probably isn’t helping.

He continues to realistically snore until all sound slowly fades like the slow finish of an applause. One by one the claps would slow down and stop, the sound taking the shape of a bell. Dieter knows exactly what’s going to happen; first it would be you who falls silent, then his dad would turn off the radio, and lastly Dieter would stop his snoring, burying everyone in silence.

Ever since he was a kid, Dieter had done this—pretend to fall asleep. He’s not sure why he started, or why he does it, but there’s something peaceful he finds in it. He listens to the cars whooshing past them, the sound reverberating the car, light momentarily burning his eyelids…then the silence follows again, until another car passes them by. He hears his dad clearing his throat once in a while, sometimes his bones crack whenever he rolls his shoulders.

Poor old man. I should take him for a massage.

His mom shifts in her seat, and whenever she does, his dad looks over checking to see if she’s alright. Dieter can’t see, but he knows that’s exactly what’s happening. As someone who figured out at a very young age that the best way to correlate with others was to mimic them, Dieter’s observation skills have always been off the charts.

He’s seen the way his dad looks at his mom a million times, full of unadulterated love. It's a look that has always warmed his heart since he was child, then his fondness of the tender moment shifted into something envious, an ugly feeling.

Now, he just tries to ignore it all together.

He’s always been an outsider to people’s emotions, never the cause of them. Except for the moments he got someone in his bed. Dieter enjoys those moments where someone rakes their nails across his back and tells him how good he’s making them feel. When that happens he’s the only reason for whatever they’re feeling, which is pleasure— mostly.

Slowly, he feels the Sandman sprinkling golden sand into his eyes. His eyes water when he yawns. He looks up to the sky one last time before hugging himself.

It’s still snowing.

You wake up to the marvelous scent of coffee.

Looking around the car with narrowed eyes, you see that Dieter is getting back into the car with two coffee cups and a brown paper bag. Last night’s awkwardness completely eludes your mind as you move towards him and take the coffee from his hand. You rub your right eye as you take a sip.

“Morning beautiful,” Dieter says to you stoically, his voice deep with unsatisfied sleep. “We’re almost there.”

“Good morning dear,” his mother chirps at you, she grabs the brown paper bag from Dieter and pulls out a blueberry muffin. “I hope you slept well,”

“I did, thank you Mrs. Bravo.”

She waves her hand in a dismissive manner and shakes her head. “Please call me Adaline. Mrs. Bravo sounds way too formal, isn’t that right love?” He directs the question to her husband.

“I don’t know about that honey. It always gets me excited when people call you that, it’s a nice reminder that you actually took my name,”

Adaline lets out a laughter that you can only describe as being beautiful. Your cheeks feel warm witnessing their love and you take another sip of your coffee. Dieter stuffs a kit kat bar into your hand.

“Darling, it’s been so long. How can you still get excited about that?”

“I wasn’t aware love had an expiration date,” he starts the car and looks at you through the rearview mirror. You suddenly feel very anxious. “By the way, before you start calling me Mr. Bravo, I have a perfectly fine name you can use; Claus.”

“Claus?” you repeat.

Claus raises an eyebrow, his lips curl up with amusement.

“Something funny about it?”

“No no,” you reply with haste. “Just…you know…with Christmas nearing and all–”

The couple bursts out laughing. You’re not sure whether you should be embarrassed or not but you take this time to push the coffee cup between your legs and struggle with the wrapper of your kit-kat bar. Dieter groans, yanks it from your hands, opens it, then gives it back. His eyebrows make a flat line.

For a brief moment you fear that his anger is directed at you but you shrug the feeling away when Dieter addresses his dad.

“Dad don’t–”

“Sorry Amina, dear. We’re not laughing at you. Claus’s name has always been a source for some funny memories. Especially nearing Christmas,” Adaline says, cutting Dieter off. She lets out a sigh that is followed by a giggle. “In fact, when Dieter was a kid–”

“Mom!”

“Don’t interrupt your mother, Dieter.” His dad warns.

You can’t help but chuckle at the way Dieter pouts and leans into the seat with his arms crossed. You only feel slightly bad for him. Adeline continues her story.

“As I was saying, when Dieter was a kid he would tell everyone that his dad was Santa Claus! It was adorable really, he would always be extra nice to his dad during the holidays. ‘I know I’ve been good but just in case’ he would say while baking Claus cookies. I would help, of course, but he would never let me have any,” she smiles fondly at the memory, eyes glossing over.

“But one day he came back home crying, poor thing. Apparently one of the kid’s called him a liar and the rest of the class laughed at him. Honestly, I know you shouldn’t say mean things about kids but that class was full of rotten children. Dieter never could get along with them–”

“Frankly I’m glad he didn’t,” Claus interrupted, eyes fixated on the snowy road. “I would be more worried if he did get along with them.”

You feel Dieter getting smaller and smaller next to you. His mother nods at Claus’s words and takes a bite of her muffin. Your heart feels heavy in your chest, you can imagine it so vividly; A small Dieter , his hair ruffled and face bright with Christmas joy, telling his friends that his father is Santa Claus. Excitedly, telling everyone that his father can bring them all the best presents —because that’s just how Dieter is, he gives and gives and gives until there’s nothing left of him. A shell, until he fills himself with smoke— only to come back home a sobbing mess crying to his parents.

You feel like you’re witnessing a crime at how vividly you can see it all playing out. Him, playing alone at school, his young gaze glancing around to seek anyone that would spend time with him. Him, being bullied for having an overactive imagination and a good heart. Anger pounds in your ears, your fingers twitching uncontrollably around the half empty coffee cup.

“Anyway,” Adaline says between bites. “Furious at this, Claus dressed up as Santa Claus and went to the school. He gave all the children coal! All the parents were furious, so were the teachers, but the principal seemed not to mind as much so nothing happened,”

“You should’ve seen their faces.” Claus grins.

“Yeah dad, thanks, you’re a true hero,” Dieter rolls his eyes. The cold snap of his voice makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up. “After that I became the kid who was crazy enough to think his dad was Santa Claus to the kid who snitched on Santa Claus and made everyone get coal. They definitely cherished me after that.”

His sentence hangs heavy in the air. A cheerful morning ruined by the ghost of Christmas past. The back of your throat feels tight, stretched like a bowstring. You shuffle anxiously in your seat, the silence needles into your skin as you pay special attention not to face anyone. Your turn to the window and glance outside; the sky is a marvelous blue, snow covering every patch of soil. You see small white flowers above the snow, a patch of green within the cold. Words of excitement reach all the way to the tip of your tongue but you bite down before you can say anything.

Jingle bells ring again.

You see the ski resort that Adaline had mentioned before the trip. It seems close enough to walk but far enough so that the constant clatter of people won’t bother the locals. The car comes to a slow stop.

“When’s Everret coming?” Dieter asks.

You assume he does this to relieve the tension in the car, which you’re grateful for.

“He should already be here,” Adaline answers.

Claus doesn’t say a word, he simply stops the car and gets out. A moment later you hear the trunk door opening. Dieter mumbles something but you don’t understand, it sounds foreign. He sighs and all the lines on his face deepen. Much like his father, Dieter also doesn’t say a word when he leaves you and Adaline alone in the car. Worry crosses your face. He didn’t even glance at you before getting out of the car, you only needed a look. A sign from him that everything is alright.

Unrelated to your job, you’re also his friend and it’s been like that for a long while. But his life outside of the stage was a mystery to you. He didn’t enjoy talking about his childhood, and conversations about his family were always a fleeting one. Despite the constant eyes devouring his life to the bone, Dieter only shared what he knew other’s wanted to see; his sex life, his flirts, the insane grandiose parties, his fame and fortune.

With the corner of your eyes you notice both father and son carrying the luggage to the cabin’s door. A tall man with blond hair comes out to greet them.

Your eyes snap to Adaline as she sighs. She doesn’t meet your gaze, but smiles anyway.

“Don’t worry, dear. They’ll be just fine.”

You start to trace letters above your palm.

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo x fem!reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x fem!oc #the bubble fanfic #christmas fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

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last-herondale · 5 months ago

Text

You Are Enough Pt. 5

Astarion x Fem!Tav

Warnings: Cussing, mentions of past trauma

Fluff, trauma,

AN: some acts of love ❤️

Enjoy 🤘🏼

Pt. 1. Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt 4.

You had felt Astarion jerk a few times in his sleep previously, but tonight he seemed extremely agitated in his slumber. He tossed and turned, the movement causing you to wake in the middle of the night. You were just on the cusp of slumber once again, until Astarion startled with a sharp gasp as he sat upright.

“Star?” You asked alarmed. Your eyes flashed open as you adjusted to the darkness. You saw his outline in the dark, his back was hunched over as he tried to slow his breathing.

“Shit, shit, shit— fuck,” he said almost in a small whimper.

“Astarion,” you said his name in full. Your voice was laced with concern, and you reached out and touched his bare back. He jumped a bit at your touch and you immediately retracted your hand back.

“I’m sorry— I don’t— where…?” Astarion was panicking. His back heaved against his breathing. Your heart ached for him, wondering what kind of nightmare could have stirred him so. You yearned to touch him, to comfort him, but you also didn’t want him to spiral further.

“Astarion, listen to me, my love. You are safe. You are here, with me. I love you. I won’t let anything harm you. You are safe. You are loved.”

You repeated the words a few times, watching as his breathing evened after each time you said it. Finally, he took one last shaky breath before speaking.

“I’m sorry, my sweet,” he whispered, he reached his hand over to your side of the bedroll. You took it without hesitation and thumbed the soft skin of his hand.

“Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong,” you said softly. You pulled up a blanket and wrapped it around the two of you. Astarion hooked an arm around you, pulling you closer until he could rest his chin on the top of your head.

You stayed there a minute. This was not the first time this had happened, but it seemed to becoming more frequent the last few weeks inside of the cursed lands.

He hates the dark. This place must be a constant reminder of his past. Or maybe the idea of returning to Baldurs Gate… back so close to home… to him…

You didn’t push for him to tell you about the nightmare. You understood that there were things about his past, things so horrible and scarring, that you could only imagine what haunted him. You just wanted to make sure he wasn’t alone with his hurt. That he wasn’t alone with his darkness.

Astarion kissed the top of your head, as if in appreciation of your patience.

“It’s strange, really. After centuries of being… his. Centuries of suffering… of enduring… you’d think I’d have learned to block it all out.”

He sighed, running his hand along your thigh, pulling you closer still. Your heart ached at his words. You wished you could take away his pain, take away the memories that haunted him.

“But some nights… it still feels like I’m there. Still… his.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist and held him tightly, nuzzling your face in his chest.

“You’re not,” you said kissing his chest, “you’re here, with your friends who care for you, who would die for you.”

You kissed his neck.

“You’re here with me, wrapped in my arms,” you said softly, looking up at him and kissing his cheek, “And I would burn the world down if that meant Cazador couldn’t touch you again.”

You said the last statement harshly. You’ve never known such hatred as you did for Astarion’s creator. It was enough to make your blood boil.

Astarion chuckled, “I quite enjoy the image of you setting the world ablaze in my name, especially if Cazador is the first one under the torch.”

“Oh he’ll see my torch soon enough,” you grumbled against his chest. Astarion laughed again, and you were pleased that his earlier agitation seemed gone now.

“You are not his. You are mine.”

He sighed, smiling softly as he touched his forehead to yours. “And you are mine.”

You smiled softly as your heart felt warm. Your eyelids felt droopy, and slumber was creeping back in. Astarion too seemed calm enough to sleep again, but he stared at you intently, clearly not wanting to part with you yet.

“You are the sweetest of my dreams. If I had a say in the matter, I would only dream of you,” he murmured so softly that it made your body relax even more.

His kissed your lips softly, putting one hand behind your head to deepen the kiss. Your stomach felt fluttery in his embrace. Once he finally broke the kiss, he smiled wickedly.

“Come now, my sweet. I think I’ve kept you from your rest well enough for one night.”

He laid the two of you down, tucking you into his arms and keeping you close. You fell asleep quickly, feeling warm and secure within the embrace of your lovers arms.

Part 6

#fem reader #fan fic author #fic writing #fanfic writing #fluff #baldur's gate 3 #my writing #sweetness #vampires #bg3 tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #bg3

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lemoncrushh · 9 months ago

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Out of Bounds - Chapter 31

STORY PAGE

Word Count: 2996

I ran my fingertip across Harry's jawline, up his cheek and to his forehead. Then I traced his eyebrows, down his nose to his lips. I repeated, gliding my finger over every curve. He just stared at me as I did so, until finally speaking.

"What are you doing?"

"Memorizing your face," I replied.

He closed his eyes softly, allowing me to continue. I listened to him sigh, his expression relaxed and content. Finally lowering my hand, I pressed a kiss to each of his eyelids. He fluttered his eyes open again, the look of love glowing from behind them.

We laid tangled in the sheets, having moved from the living room to Harry's bed. I'd helped him blow out all but three candles which he'd brought with us to the bedroom where he'd made love to me once more. My body still tingled from his touch, my heart bursting at the seams. I'd never felt so loved, or in love. How could this even be real?

I'm not sure what time I finally fell asleep, but I managed to sleep 'til almost noon. I awoke to find myself alone in Harry's bed, but I could hear the faint sounds of someone in the kitchen, the sizzle of bacon and the smell of coffee. I quickly got up, grabbed one of Harry's t-shirts from the drawer and tiptoed to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of Harry's bare back before shutting the door.

When I emerged again, Harry was still by the stove, but this time he turned around when I stepped closer.

"Oh, you're up," he said, sounding a bit disappointed even though he had a slight grin on his face.

"What's all this?" I inquired, eyeing the various breakfast foods.

"I was hoping to bring you breakfast in bed," Harry commented.

"Aww, did I ruin the surprise?" I half teased.

"Kinda," he pouted. "But I like this."

He pulled me to him, cupping my butt cheeks through his thin t-shirt. I ran my hands up his bare shoulders and planted a kiss on his lips.

"I'll get back in bed," I whispered. "So you can feed me."

He patted my bottom as I turned back toward the bedroom. I propped up the pillows and sat back, waiting Harry's arrival. Finally he walked in, holding a tray full of food which he laid next to me. Without a word, he left again only to return with a mug in each hand, setting them on the nightstand.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said as he leaned forward to kiss me.

I watched him as he walked around to the other side of the bed and climbed in beside me. It was then that I finally took note of the food he'd brought: a massive mound of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and a variety of fruits.

"Goodness!" I voiced. "That's a lot of food."

"Too much?" Harry asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe not. I'm pretty hungry." I grabbed a fork and dug into the eggs.

"You should be," said Harry. "We burned a lot of calories last night."

It was a good thing I hadn't put the fork to my mouth yet, because I couldn't stop laughing. I playfully slapped Harry with the back of my hand.

"What?" he chuckled. "It's the truth."

The rest of the morning, or I should say afternoon, was lovely. Neither of us had anything else to do for the day. We devoured the entire breakfast, and other than Harry returning the tray and dishes to the kitchen, we stayed in bed until well past two.

After we showered and got dressed, Zack arrived home to get ready for work.

"I'm so excited for our Thanksgiving tomorrow," I told him, clapping my hands together.

"So is Penny," Zack laughed. "She was getting ready to start one of her pies when I left."

"Then I should probably get home and help her."

"Honestly, I think she's got it covered. She was making a layered salad earlier, and I offered to help but she shooed me out of the kitchen."

Zack grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and leaned against the counter, taking a large gulp.

"Well, I should head home anyway," I said, slipping into my coat.

I said goodbye to Zack, giving him a quick hug and Harry walked with me toward the door.

"Glad you guys didn't burn the place down last night," Zack joked as he rounded the corner toward his bedroom. "I can still smell the candles."

"Tisa, these sweet potatoes are the bomb!" exclaimed Zack, his fork halfway to his mouth.

"Thanks," I blushed. "Glad you like them."

"Everything is wonderful, ladies," added Harry.

I smiled at him as he reached under the table and squeezed my knee.

"Save room for dessert," I said. "Penny made two pies."

"I always have room for dessert," Zack commented, rubbing his belly.

"Oh!" shouted Penny. "We forgot to say what we're thankful for!"

Zack groaned. "Do we have to go around in a circle? That's what my family does every year."

"Yes," Penny scoffed raising her wine glass. "I'll go first since you insist on being a baby."

"I'm not a baby..."

Penny ignored him and continued. "I'm thankful for my health, my apartment, even though it's small, it's all I need. My job to help pay my bills, my band. I'm thankful for my boyfriend, Zack...even though he can be a baby sometimes..."

She eyed Zack who chuckled fondly.

"And last, but not least, my two amazing friends, Tisa and Harry. I love you all so much, and I'm so glad we could spend this day together."

"Hear, hear!" cheered Zack, holding up his glass.

"That was beautiful, Penny," said Harry, reaching over and kissing her on the cheek.

I couldn't form any words. My heart felt like it was in my throat as I wiped away a tear. Only Harry seemed to notice. He grabbed my hand and threaded his fingers through mine.

"Your turn," Penny told Zack.

He stood, making a production of it, clearing his throat.

"I am thankful that I had the balls to finally ask this gorgeous woman out, and that she said yes."

Harry and I laughed as Zack sat back down. Penny pursed her lips and poked him in the side. The light-heartedness put me more at ease as it was now my turn.

"I'm really just thankful for you three," I muttered, looking at my plate. "These last three months have been a whirlwind, to say the least. I don't know if I could have made it through without you."

Lifting my gaze, I looked at each of them individually and told them I loved them.

"I love you, baby doll," squealed Penny as she walked around the table to hug me. "I'm always here for you, you got that?"

I nodded and hugged her back. In such a short amount of time, Penny had become my best confidant. She was truly one in a million.

"Your turn, Harry," I sniffled when Penny had returned to her seat.

Harry shook his head, looking around the room. "I'm just thankful that I got to celebrate my first Thanksgiving with you lovely people. Thank you."

I smiled at him and reached for his hand again. He looked at me, seeming to gather his thoughts before continuing.

"But most of all...I'm thankful I found you. That we found each other. I love you so much, Tisa."

I stared into his eyes, almost forgetting there were other people present until Zack cleared his throat again.

"Who wants pie?"

By nine o'clock, we were on our third or fourth bottle of wine. I'd lost count. We had attempted a game of Monopoly, but Penny quickly lost all her money and had gone to jail twice before giving up. Then we moved on to Scrabble, which Harry was winning and challenging Zack on virtually every word he laid down. I was just having a good time, enjoying the friendly banter and the buzz.

When I was practically on the floor in a fit of giggles after Harry challenged Zack on lap dance, insisting it was two words, Penny announced game over. Harry was already way ahead anyway, so I was fine with calling it quits.

"This was still much more fun that hanging out with my family on Thanksgiving," said Zack. "Even if I do win at games with them."

Harry smirked at Zack as I boxed up the Scrabble pieces.

"What kinds of games do you play with your family?" I inquired.

"Oh all kinds," replied Zack. "Sometimes we'll get a really long game of Monopoly going. If my little cousins are around, they wanna play Guitar Hero on the Xbox. Or sometimes we might even get a football game going outside."

"Sounds like your family is close," I commented.

"Yeah, I guess so," Zack shrugged. "Typical family."

I smiled and turned to Penny. "What about you, Penny? Is your family close?"

"Not really," she answered, taking a sip of wine. "My parents got divorced when I was thirteen. They both live on opposite sides of the continent, so I don't see them that often. My dad's remarried so he's got his new family. I always feel like the outcast around them. And my mom's idea of parenting was taking me with her to whichever boyfriend's house she was screwing that week."

"I'm sorry," I said, immediately regretting my question. I hadn't meant to bring up sour grapes, but I suddenly felt an even deeper connection with Penny. This might not have been the time to discuss it, but I made a mental note to talk with her later.

"It's alright," she shrugged. "The way I see it, you can either wallow in your misery and blame everything on your crappy upbringing, or you can rise above it and be the better person. I've chosen the latter."

"Smart girl," Harry declared.

I bit my lip as he turned to look at me. I could tell he was trying to read me. Neither of us had yet conveyed the history of our families and childhoods. It was somewhat of a bitter subject with me. I knew sooner or later I would tell him the whole story, but other than James, no one knew what that entailed.

I wasn't really sure why I hadn't told Harry. It wasn't that I was ashamed, or that I was afraid he would like me any less. I guess I just hadn't felt it was all that important, and bringing it up would only cause pain, or at the very least, uneasiness. However, I was a little mad at myself for never asking him about his family. Here we were in love, and I knew next to nothing about his past. Surely he had a family. I had no idea where they were, if they lived in America or England. I suddenly felt a knot in my stomach. How could I be so obtuse?

I watched Zack and Penny as they moved to the couch, Penny sitting in Zack's lap as he tickled her.

"You're gonna make me spill my wine!" she cried, her head thrown back in a laugh.

I smiled at them as I stood up and headed to the kitchen. I grabbed a sliver of turkey and popped it in my mouth before covering the rest of the food to put in the fridge. As I began rinsing off the dishes, Harry came up behind me and brushed his fingers down my arms.

"Hey," he whispered in my ear. "You okay?"

"Mmm," I nodded. "I'm fine."

"You got quiet all of a sudden."

I stuck out my bottom lip and shrugged. "Just wanted to clean up."

"You don't have to," said Harry.

"Well, it looks like those two might be headed for the bedroom soon," I gestured toward Penny and Zack, "and if I have any more wine, I'll be too drunk to do it."

We were both silent for a few moments while I opened the dishwasher and began to load it.

"Tisa..." Harry finally voiced.

"Yes?"

I thought he was going to ask me what was wrong, but instead he grabbed a dish from the sink.

"Here, I'll help you," he muttered.

I almost told him no, I didn't need his help. But I didn't want him to think I was upset with him. On the contrary, I was upset with myself.

"Thanks," I smiled before giving him a peck on the cheek.

Just as I'd predicted, Zack and Penny retired to Zack's bedroom a little while later. I was cleaning off the countertops when Harry spoke again.

"Did something upset you earlier?" he asked. "Something that was said?"

"No," I lied.

Harry leaned against the counter, not taking his eyes off me. I knew he wasn't going to let it go, and he was only waiting for me to come clean. I tossed the dishtowel aside and gave a nervous laugh.

"I'm fine, really."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I let out a sigh. I guess it was better late than never.

"You've never told me about your family," I said.

Harry's eyes widened. "Oh. I...I didn't know this was about me."

"Why? What did you think?"

"I guess..." Harry scratched the back of his head. "Well, the subject of families was brought up...I guess I thought you were thinking about James."

"Oh! God, no!" I exclaimed. I took a step closer to him. "Not at all!"

"Sorry." It was Harry's turn to nervously laugh. "I started picturing you with your husband at Thanksgiving, and I guess I thought you were feeling sad about it. I don't know."

I shook my head. "No. When Penny told us about her family, it hit a little close to home. And I realized then that not only have I not told you a thing about my family, I've never even bothered to ask you about yours. I feel awful."

"Ah, love," Harry exhaled, grabbing my hand and pulling me to him. He lightly kissed my forehead. "It's okay. I probably should have asked you about yours, but I reckoned you'd tell me if you wanted me to know. And as for me...there's not much to tell. I don't have some big, dramatic story."

"Really?" I raised my head to look into his eyes.

"Really. My childhood was pretty normal. My family moved here when I was fifteen. After I started uni, my parents decided they wanted to move back to London. I stayed behind because...well, I like it here."

"Oh," I mouthed. "Do you miss them?"

"Of course," he replied. "I haven't seen them since they left, but we keep in touch."

"Oh," I repeated. "I'm sorry."

Harry chuckled. "Don't be. It's not awful. I wouldn't say we're terribly close, but definitely not dysfunctional."

I nodded as I gnawed on my lip again. I knew it would be my turn next.

"Tisa, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Harry expressed. "But you should know by now that I don't judge. I love you, regardless. I'm just here to listen."

"Well..." I began with a sigh, "My family life was a lot like Penny's. My dad also left and remarried. I thought he didn't give a shit about me anymore. But one thing he was adamant about was me getting good grades. So I graduated high school with straight A's. That summer, he and his new family moved away. When I started college, I realized all my efforts had been to make him happy but it hadn't even seemed to matter since he left me anyway. That's when I met Justine and started partying and then met Mark."

"And your mum? Where was she during all this?"

I swallowed hard. "I'm not sure."

"What?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"After my dad left she started drinking a lot. I didn't really know it at first, she hid it very well. But she would go out a lot, and sometimes she'd bring home men, and sometimes she wouldn't come home at all. I was a teenager, so I could take care of myself. And I guess in a way I sort of blamed her for my dad leaving. I was more focused on pleasing him than worrying about her.

"Anyway, I ended up getting a scholarship, and I moved into the dorms. Then...you pretty much know the rest. I didn't talk much to my mom after I left. By that point, she'd been seeing so many different men that I couldn't keep track of them all or her whereabouts. By the time I met James, our apartment was occupied by new renters. After James and I got married, I finally tracked her down, but she was a completely different person to me."

"I guess I can understand that," nodded Harry.

"So there you have it," I exhaled, throwing my hands up. "I guess I'm still pretty bitter about it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you all this, especially when I told you the whole Mark and James story, but it would have only made it longer, and I didn't think it was relevant."

"It's okay. You've been through a lot."

"It's funny..."

"What is?" asked Harry.

"I was afraid bringing it up would cause a flood of tears, but I haven't shed any. I feel okay."

"Maybe that means you're past it, and you can move on now," Harry said.

"Maybe."

I gave him a small smile as he brushed my hair off my shoulder. Then he lowered his mouth onto mine for a soft kiss.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"What for?"

"For everything. For listening. And not judging. And loving me."

Harry kissed me again, allowing his lips to linger over mine a bit longer.

"All of that is easy, baby," he murmured. "Especially the loving you part."

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

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