#Why use Flask

[a2zillustration]

I carried this thing for MONTHS with the EXPRESS PURPOSE of putting Raphael in it (knowing full well Larian wouldn't let me do that, mechanically) and I had one major miscalculation.

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[greenleaf4stuff]

Handmade

(my other TROP fanfics)

Silverscars (Adar x Celebrimbor), Modern!AU. Very lightly based on my Ask Game Answers drabbles (here or here & here) (prior reading is not required though!), in which I hint at Celebrimbor making an engagement ring for Adar and proposing during the Christmas days. This is how the proposal went. (This can also possibly be connected to a musician!Adar modern AU one-shot I haven’t shared yet.)

Aka, Adar and Celebrimbor celebrate Christmas together – and both are very nervous about their gifts. Unbeknownst to them, they both handmade their presents this year. Both will find themselves with something very special.

This is another entry for Cozy Cuddle(s) Week 2025 by @rivendellwatch. <3 I also used the chance to make use of a prompt from TROP Fluff Week ('I Made This For You') that I didn’t get around to writing during that event, which also overlaps with the 'handmade with love' prompt from @wowstrawberrycow’s amazing Give Him Nice Thing 2025 Adar Valentine’s Bingo prompts. (Also a Thank You to @plotdesigner, who gave me the idea with the Nightmare Before Christmas sweater for Adar through a conversation we had a few months ago.)

For those of you who want to read the fic on AO3, here is the link! <3

(Adar’s POV)

Adar couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d been so nervous; usually, very little could phase him, but this was very different.

He and Celebrimbor had celebrated Christmas together before, of course, though never quite like this – they had celebrated Christmas Eve with their friends and family, but with Adar’s youngest child having moved out this summer to start university, and their social circle having gotten a myriad of invitations for various dinners and parties, they had the second Christmas day all to themselves this time around.

Which meant that Adar finally had the chance to gift his partner a present he had been working on for quite a while, and which he’d wanted to give to Celebrimbor without any other people being around, due to its sentimental nature.

Celebrimbor himself had been in his little workshop for most of the day, after stating that he’d been hit with inspiration and the need to sketch out some new pieces. Adar had readily let him go. Celebrimbor’s occupation as a jewelsmith meant the other often worked odd hours, and sometimes, inspiration would hit him in the most random of moments; while washing the dishes, in the middle of the night, or as had just happened, after kissing Adar below some mistletoe.

The dark-haired man only shrugged and fondly shook his head. He knew what it was like, being a creative, and didn’t begrudge Celebrimbor his passion for his craft in the least. He knew he could go and drag the other out of his workshop anytime he wished with nary a complaint, after all. His partner had done similarly with him in the past as well, whenever Adar got too occupied with writing new lyrics or composing his music.

Also, Celebrimbor being in one place and away from their living room meant Adar didn’t have to sneakily tiptoe around him and make up some contrived excuse as to why the jewelsmith shouldn’t enter the area. Instead, he could prepare for the evening at his leisure, with zero chance of being discovered early.

After some brief deliberation, he decided to go all out – he cleaned the fireplace and set it up nicely, with new logs and after making sure all decorations were far enough away not to catch fire. He also pushed back the furniture a bit just in case. He rearranged the Christmas decor, and then prepared for the gift exchange later on:

He was torn between using the couch or having himself and Celebrimbor sit on the floor. The latter seemed far more romantic to him, but considering that both of them weren’t in their 20s anymore, and that they’d hopefully spend quite a while sitting together and enjoying some hot beverage, as well as Adar’s present, it ultimately made more sense to convert their couch into a soft, cozy nest.

Bummer, the floor would have meant they might have even laid down to sleep in the living room, perhaps. But if he played his cards right, maybe they could also do that on the sofa. It was one of those big ones, with extra sectional pieces to place one’s feet on, after all.

An hour or so later, he was rather satisfied with his work; the couch was covered in throw blankets and the covers from their bed, and probably ever single pillow in the house, including the spare ones they usually kept for guests. He’d even gone and pulled out the seasonal pillows he’d made for autumn last year, lovely soft crochet pieces in orange and black, made with a yarn that looked and felt like velvet.

He and Celebrimbor had very different ideas about personal style, which had become the most glaring when it came to Christmas; while Adar preferred his usual, darker style for all things, Celebrimbor adored the kitschy aesthetics of the festive season. Green and gold were his favorite colors, and there were glitter and velvet and metallics everywhere in the house.

The compromise had been a mix of both; black velvets, Christmas tree baubles adorned with skulls, the Top 50 kitschiest Christmas songs but as rock and metal interpretations, cookies baked to both resemble Santa Clause and the Grinch.

Staring at the couch now further reminded Adar of that fact. It was a lovely, eclectic mix of both their personal styles and preferences, combined into something that was so decidedly them that it made his heart swell. Even if some part of him still balked at the overly cheery depictions of reindeer, snowmen and Christmas elves on some of the pillowcases.

Satisfied that the couch was now a nest worthy of a cozy evening together, he went and brought over a tray, and began to set up what would be their 'drinks station' for the evening; a thermos filled with the hot chocolate he’d prepared on the stove, two large Christmas cups – one red, green and white, one black – and little bowls filled with marshmallows, whipped cream and a bigger one with cookies, as well as two or three small bottles of flavored syrup.

For music, he did select a mix of classical songs; Adar, at least, was already at the point where any more seasonal music might just cause him to run around with ear plugs at all times, so he hoped it would be alright with Celebrimbor if he chose something a little more neutral. They both did love classical music, after all, and it was a mix of nice, quiet songs, fitting the occassion.

There were a few other things to take care of, with the final steps being to take a shower – especially after he’d cleaned the fireplace and made sure the chimney wasn’t blocked by anything as well – and changing into something both comfortable but fitting for the night ahead.

Which soon after had him stand in the door to Celebrimbor’s workshop, while wearing black sweatpants, a Nightmare Before Christmas inspired sweater, and thick, knitted, black socks on his feet. The latter of which he’d made himself.

To his surprise, Celebbrimbor hadn’t been slouched over his desk, skribbling away as he tried to perfect some new design of his, but had instead been pacing his workshop while muttering to himself, something clutched in his hands.

He startled, rather badly, when Adar gently announced himself with a knock, and quickly hid his hands behind his back with a very shocked expression. Adar took a step inside the workshop in worry, in case he’d accidentally frightened the other somehow.

"Sorry, I tried not to startle you – are you alright?"

The other blinked, as if he’d seen Adar for the first time, before he quickly nodded. He still firmly kept his hands behind his back. "Uh, yes I- no need to apologize, I was just lost in thought, is all. You were very considerate, as always," he reassured Adar.

Perhaps he was working on something that didn’t come along very well, and he was still in the stage that he didn’t want Adar to see. It happened. The dark-haired man mentally shrugged, and decided to trust his partner’s word. "Glad to hear it. I have actually come to retrieve you – the hour is getting late, and I had hoped to spend the evening with you," he said, and then smiled secretively. "I actually prepared something for the two of us. Since we got the house all to ourselves."

Celebrimbor stilled, and then raised his eyebrows. "Oh- you are right. We are on our own today, aren’t we?" He briefly looked as if he wanted to apologize as well, for having spent all day in the workshop, when they could have spent it together. Adar gave him a stern look; they’d been over this, after all. The jewelsmith took the hint, and the dark-haired man could see the other’s shoulders lower as they untensed.

His partner still sometimes became incredibly sorry if he got too involved in his work. Adar knew this to be something that had been held against him in the past, and he also knew very well as to who exactly had done so. From his own experiences, he knew only time and patience could help the other heal – and that he already had, in some ways. But healing was always a process.

Celebrimbor swallowed, and finally lifted one hand to his front again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his palm over his face. And then, he moved his gaze to Adar again, looking more centered. "That sounds like a very good idea. Give me a moment to get ready, yes? I feel a little-," he looked down on his clothes, which were a ratty shirt and a pair of pants he’d specifically chosen as his work clothes, streaked with all manner of soot both from his forge and his time working on his gold and silver pieces. At least he’d already stripped out of his protective gear. "Underdressed."

Adar smirked in humor as their gazes met, and saw a smile break out on Celebrimbor’s face as well. "That you are. I already prepared the shower for you, and took the liberty of putting out some clothes for you," he winked, and then turned back from the workshop, aware that Celebrimbor was still hiding something behind his back and wanting to give him some privacy. "Come to the living room, once you are done."

"That is- very thoughtful of you. Thank you Adar," Celebrimbor replied, and Adar turned over his shoulder to see the other throw him a grateful look. He wasn’t sure who was looking at the other with more fondness in that moment.

"Anytime. Now go, I will complete some last preparations and then wait for you to join me."

Adar found himself glad that he had something to busy his hands with, during the time that Celebrimbor showered and changed. His earlier preparations had helped dispel some of his nervousness, but it had steadily risen again as he waited for his partner to come to the living room.

It wasn’t just the fact that he’d prepared everything for a cozy time between the two of them, no, his gift was the thing that made him fidget and pace the room. He knew Celebrimbor liked the things he made by hand, but this was...different. His present had taken a long time to make, and as was usual with things that took time, doubt had sown itself in Adar’s mind whether or not the other would even like it.

Was it too much? Was the idea itself silly? Would Celebrimbor be flustered about it? Would the other truly like the piece, or only the fact that Adar had made it?

He was likely being ridiculous, he knew as much, at least in the back of his mind. But that didn’t make him feel any better about the situation. He glanced at the large present by the couch, hidden under wrapping paper and a bow, itching to put it away and dash to grab the store-bought emergency gift he’d prepared, in case he might chicken out.

Just before he felt his resolve give, however, he heard steps coming from the first floor, down the stairs, and then quickly moving towards the living room.

Adar swallowed and straightened himself as Celebrimbor walked in through the open door.

He looked lovely. Hair fluffy from the shower and an attempt at towel-drying it, with his natural curls falling in his face and making him look at least 10 years younger, dressed in his favorite Christmas pyjamas – a horrible, gaudy thing, but even Adar couldn’t deny how soft they were. Forest green, made out of velvet of course, patterened with depictions Celebrimbor’s favorite plants – holly.

He also looked quite stunned, as he let his eyes move around the living room, took in the lit fireplace, the couch, the way Adar stood in the middle of the space and shifted from foot to foot. Which the dark-haired man stopped doing as soon as he became aware of it; he wasn’t usually one to fidget. And he didn’t want Celebrimbor to think that something was wrong.

Nothing was. It was all just in Adar’s head.

Bad thing being that Adar was in there, too.

The other still held something clutched in his hands, but it had been wrapped in cloth, and Adar couldn’t hope to guess what it might be, or why Celebrimbor had brought it. His attention quickly slipped away, more focused on the other’s reaction to the setup.

"This is- wow," Celebrimbor breathed, and looked at Adar in awe. "This must have taken hours."

"It did – good thing you were occupied in your workshop, that way I didn’t have to do it in secret," Adar winked, and was glad that the other wasn’t saying anything about how he could have helped. Adar was glad whenever the other offered, but in this instance, he’d wanted to do this on his own. He’d have likely not been able to work up the courage to go through with this in the first place, otherwise. "I wanted this to be something nice, just for the two of us. It’s...part of my Christmas present to you."

If possible, the other looked even more stunned, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline and his mouth briefly hanging open as he stared at Adar. "C-Christmas present?" He stammered, "Adar, you know you didn’t have to-"

"I do. But I really wanted to," the dark-haired man explained, and just barely kept from picking at his fingernails as he looked at Celebrimbor. He took a steadying breath and explained, "I figured, since this is the first time we can enjoy a Christmas day on our own in a while, that we should make the most of it, and have it be special. And I also- the gift I have for you isn’t something I wanted to give you with many people around. It’s...special, too."

"O-oh," the other replied, and Adar could see him clutch whatever he held in his hands tighter. "In that case – I am- this is- Adar, this is wonderful," he finally managed, obviously a little overwhelmed, and smiled at the dark-haired man.

"I hoped you’d like it. Now come, sit. I have something to give you," Adar said.

This was it. No backing out now.

Celebrimbor nodded, and moved over to the couch, "This is already such a wonderful present, getting to spend the evening with you. All the time you put into this- and then you have something to give me as well?" There was a bit of humor in the other’s voice. "You spoil me."

"Indeed. And gladly so," Adar replied, and saw his hands shake as he picked up his present. But Celebrimbor’s words were already putting him at ease; he had a way of doing that. It was clear he already considered this as something precious, the way Adar had prepared everything for them. He was certain that if he hadn’t mentioned the present, the other would already cherish the evening as it was.

One more reason why Adar wanted to give him this gift so badly. He overcame his own apprehension, those doubts that still lingered, and walked over to hand over the wrapped package.

"Here. I hope you’ll like it," he said.

"I have no doubt I will," Celebrimbor replied, devastatingly, disarmingly nonchalant in his certainty that whatever Adar might have chosen for him, he would enjoy and appreciate it. He took the gift as if it was precious, or fragile, despite how soft it was even through the thin wrapping paper.

As sappy as it sounded, it almost felt as if he was holding Adar’s heart in his hands in that moment. Adar knew he would handle it with care.

The other was slow and methodical to unwrap the present, gently opening the bow and pulling apart the paper without a rush, as if cautious not to rip or damage anything accidentally.

Soon, a large stack of fabric was uncovered, a myriad shapes and materials and colors, and as Celebrimbor stood and unwrapped it, it became a large, square shape, longer and wider than Celebrimbor himself was. Even when he stood on the couch itself, it was almost too long to reach the floor.

"That is-," he looked at the large piece, eyes moving over each part slowly as he tried to find words. "This is a patchwork blanket, isn’t it?"

Adar felt pride swell in his chest and nodded. "You are correct. It is," he smiled. His heart felt full, seeing the way Celebrimbor already beheld the quilt as if was something exceptional, something significant.

"You handmade this, didn’t you?" the other asked, and held the upper edge of the blanket to his chest with one hand, while using the other to spread out different parts, behold them, stroke a careful palm over certain pieces or trace the stitchings and shapes on others. "That must have taken...more than hours. Days. Weeks!"

Of course the other had an inkling as to how long it had taken. Celebrimbor, too, made things by hand. He’d seen Adar knit and crochet in the past, sometimes even sew. "I think 'weeks' is the pretty close. If I added all the hours together, certainly," Adar confirmed, with a gentle smile and a nod.

Celebrimbor’s eyes were wide, his expression so awed it seemed almost overwhelmed. "You must have put so much time and work into this...for me?" He blinked again, but this time, his eyes shone. "Adar that is...I don’t even know what to say."

"Perhaps I should give you a bit more context for this piece. But first, please, sit again," the dark-haired man gently advised, and helped Celebrimbor by offering him a steadying hand as the other sat down on the couch again, still looking at the quilt.

Adar reached out a hand, and touched it to a green square at the top, close to Celebrimbor’s chest. "Do you recognize this?" he asked, voice soft. Seeing that particular patch again brought back memories.

The other looked at it for a while, before he frowned and tilted his head, as if raking his brain. Adar could see the moment when he grasped at what his partner was saying. "Wait- is that-?"

"Part of the sweater you wore when we first met each other, yes," Adar finished, and found his own eyes getting a little misty as Celebrimbor’s lifted from the blanket, their gazes locking. They both still remembered that day. Celebrimbor had been working in a different profession, back then, and they’d been at one of Adar’s concerts. "Remember how I told you I’d take care of it, when it ripped and you wanted to throw it away?"

Celebrimbor stared at Adar, eyes still wide. "...you have worked on this since back then?"

Adar nodded, "I’ve had the idea ever since we met. I knew- I think I knew I wanted to be serious about you right away. I didn’t start until a year ago, but I’ve collected pieces to add to this probably since the beginning," he admitted.

He pointed to another square. This one was a crochet pattern, in green and black. "This I made on our first vacation together, when you went out to take a hike and I stayed in the cabin for a few hours. You almost caught me when you came back," he smiled, the memory a fond one.

Celebrimbor stared at him incredulously, then chuckled as he seemed to remember. "Oh you! I knew you were up to something – I remember how you claimed you’d read Rúmil. You held the book upside down when I came in, by the way."

It was Adar’s turn to look surprised. "I did?" He tilted his head. "Why didn’t you say anything?"

Celebrimbor shrugged and smirked lopsidedly. "I figured you’d fallen asleep and were embarrassed, or something to that effect. You had claimed you would cook us some dinner before I returned, after all."

The two of them laughed at the memory for a bit, then turned their attention back to the blanket. The mood became sentimental, and reverent, as they went over more of the squares; it was a trip down memory lane, but told through pieces of fabric, just as Adar had intended.

A piece of a table cloth, not the exact same one from their first, official date, but Adar had gone back to the restaurant and gotten to buy one they would have thrown out soon as a substitute. He’d decorated it with a depiction of the meal they’d had, using embroidery thread – and enduring many pinpricks to his fingers, none of which had left any traces on the fabric, thankfully.

A pillowcase, from the first time they slept in their shared bed in this house after they’d moved in together, the date and address stitched into the corner.

A knitted piece, depicting sage, both blossoms and leaves – Adar’s favorite flower –, which he’d made during a tour with his band, and finished on the last evening of it, before Celebrimbor had come to the last concert of the tour and surprised him with a home-cooked meal and a booked hotelroom, so Adar could get some good, proper sleep before driving home the next day.

It continued this way for the whole blanket. Scraps and pieces refashioned into a bigger one that showed their relationship, their shared history of the last few years, and most importantly – their love for each other.

It must have taken at least an hour, more likely two or three, going over almost every single square, talking and reminiscing together, before Celebrimbor looked up at Adar and said, "I love you. You have no idea how much. Seeing this, it’s a reminder of that, and all the reasons why I do."

"That was the intention," Adar grinned, before he sobered, and reached out to hold the other’s hands in his own. "I love you too. Collecting these pieces, each proved to me that what we have is something extraordinary, and profound, and something I wouldn’t miss for the world. As corny as it might sound, this quilt feels like our relationship, since it is made up out of so many moments we spent together, just like our relationship is. I think it’s...it shows how far we’ve come."

"I don’t think it’s corny at all," Celebrimbor breathed, and smiled brightly. His eyes were impossibly soft. "I think it’s the most romantic thing that I’ve ever received. I don’t think anything could ever possibly compare, with all the time and care you have put into this."

His words were sincere, his look fond. It took Adar’s breath away. His first instinct was to deflect, to reach up to rub the back of his neck, look to the side, make a quip about how Celebrimbor liked kitsch and therefore wasn’t impartial. But he swallowed all of that down.

"I am...very glad you think that way. And that you like the present. It makes me very happy," he replied instead, and squeezed Celebrimbor’s hands.

"I love it," Celebrimbor confirmed, and then reached up to cup Adar’s cheeks, before he leant over and kissed him. Adar gladly accepted the kiss, and soon returned it. The both of them were a little emotional, rightfully so, as they crowded close and pressed kisses to each other’s mouths, held onto each other and then finally, embraced as Celebrimbor peppered little kisses to Adar’s jaw and cheeks, and Adar buried his nose into the other’s hair.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Celebrimbor whispered, breathless and awed, into Adar’s ear, who held tighter onto Celebrimbor and placed a gentle kiss to his temple, then another to his locks.

"Of course," he replied, voice low, his heart so full it felt ready to burst. He felt oddly light, and safe, and so very cherished. Glad that Celebrimbor liked the present, and with the reminder of all they shared, he was just so utterly grateful.

To his surprise, Celebrimbor soon drew back, holding onto Adar’s shoulders as he pushed back from their embrace. There was an oddly determined look in his eyes, which had Adar blink at him.

"I think- no, I actually have something for you as well," the other said, and reached for the little piece of fabric on his lap. Adar had almost forgotten about it.

(Celebrimbor’s POV)

Celebrimbor was fairly certain he’d never been so nervous in his life. Not when he’d publically disowned his father and the rest of his family. Not when he’d decided to end things with his ex. Not when he’d quit his previous job. Not even when he’d presented his first collection as a jewelsmith to the public, his friends, and his boyfriend.

Not even when he’d decided to take a risk and accept Adar asking him out for the first time, or when the two of them had decided to be serious about each other and a possible relationship just a few days after their initial meeting.

A few days ago, when he’d first gotten the idea for Adar’s present, he’d been so self-assured of his idea. It had just seemed right, as they both stood under that mistletoe and kissed, Adar looking so incredibly attractive with that one strand of hair hanging in his face, the way he’d smiled softly at Celebrimbor and then immediately gone to fetch the two of them a drink right after, always looking out for them both.

He’d spent the time when Adar had fallen asleep that night frantically sketching, trying his best to be quiet and utterly relieved he hadn’t accidentally woken up his boyfriend with his antics; the ideas has simply flown out of him, too fast to contain.

He’d also spent every free minute in his workshop, being truthful insofar as that he told Adar that he’d gotten inspired, but not quite telling him in what way. The other was ever-patient, reminding him to come out and eat, but willing to let him get his ideas out of his system in the times between.

Celebrimbor remembered Halloween had been very similar, with Adar having spent a lot of time composing new music in the times when the two of them hadn’t decorated the house or the frontyard. The jewelsmith was glad that they both were creatives, and understood one another’s need to be creative, even if it came at inopportune or unexpected times.

So Celebrimbor had worked, time flying by as he fashioned the piece he had in mind. He felt as if he was floating on inspiration, and the drive to create – the drive to make this little piece in time before Christmas was over.

Only when it looked like he might actually succeed with his plan, did second thoughts begin to creep in.

Was this too much? Would he ruin Christmas, making something like this and presenting it to Adar? Would he pressure the other if he did this? What if the other felt inadequate for not having a similarly impactful present?

What if he refused Celebrimbor’s gift, and everything that came with it?

It had been that last thought that had made Celebrimbor stop pacing his workshop, his finished piece in hand, and shake his head at himself. Of course he would never presume to know Adar’s heart in its entirety, but- they both had already taken so many risks with their relationship. Would never have gotten this far if they didn’t.

This wasn’t any different; trust and confidence had gotten them to this point, and if Celebrimbor stopped trusting himself and Adar – their relationship – now, it would be a disservice to their previous struggles and accomplishments alike.

So, when Adar came to retrieve him for their evening together, looking cozy in that unique way of his, wearing an eager yet anxious expression of his own, Celebrimbor had swallowed his own insecurities and decided to take yet another risk.

He couldn’t have known that Adar had taken a risk of his own. Perhaps he should have been able to guess it; the two of them fit each other so well, after all, despite how different they were at first glance:

Celebrimbor, who had decided to turn his life around in the middle of it to take up the family occupation, and become a smith who worked only for himself. Who loved the Christmas spirit in all its facets and shapes and felt no shame standing in the living room, humming along to generic popsongs on the radio as he cleaned. And Adar, who had an exclusively all-black wardrobe, loved Halloween and had been making music with other people for all of his life, despite all the curveballs that same life had thrown at him, who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to pop music – except if Celebrimbor asked him to.

But they also had so much in common, too. Both of them creatives, both of them with a chip on their shoulder, both of them a little odd in their own ways.

In a way, Celebrimbor felt it was confirmation of his own plans and intentions, when Adar ended up presenting him with the quilt he’d made. And what a beautiful thing it was, a labor of love, with so much thought and work put into it, which had taken Adar weeks to assemble, but years to aquire and prepare all the pieces.

Nevermind that he’d taken the time and effort to turn their living room into a very nice, beautiful space for them to spend the evening together, just the two of them, some hot chocolate – and a new, warm, soft quilt to huddle underneath and appreciate.

It made Celebrimbor’s own nervousness fall away. He wouldn’t get a better moment than this, a moment where he’d feel this confident, this certain that he was making the right choice. This moment felt perfect.

If not now, when?

He reached down and lifted the bundle of fabric up in his hands; it didn’t look like much, due to the fact that he had completely forgotten to prepare anything more fancy to wrap the piece in, and so he’d merely taken a rag from his workshop.

At least the piece itself was hidden in a little box, which he slowly pulled out of the fabric while keeping his eyes on Adar as he did. The other had looked quite relieved at Celebrimbor’s reaction to his quilt, and now seemed mostly curious, head slightly tilted as he watched Celebrimbor fumble with his own present.

He blinked as the little box came into sight. Then his eyes seemed to widen, if only slightly – it was obvious that he had an idea as to what this particular piece could be. Celebrimbor beamed, even as his hands shook a little bit.

When their eyes met, Adar looked openly confused. He did his best to hide it, but Celebrimbor had learned to read him well over the years. And, truth be told, the jewelsmith was quite certain he hadn’t been subtle with the packaging he’d chosen.

It was a little velvet box, in black. The shape was familiar to both of them; Celebrimbor had used a similar one for his last collection of rings, which had also been inspired by Adar, and his band’s music.

He took a shuddering breath, and held Adar’s gaze as he began to speak.

"Do you remember, a few days ago, when we stood under that mistletoe at the party?" he asked, trying to ease both of them into what he was about to do. He saw Adar still, and then slowly nod at him, eyes moving between Celebrimbor’s face and the little box that he held clutched in his hands like a lifeline.

"When we did, I looked at you, and couldn’t help but think how lucky I am to have you in my life. You looked...lovely, as you always do, that night. But somehow, that moment was- special. When you went to get us some drinks afterwards, I looked up and at the mistletoe, and thought of our favorite plants. And I suddenly had an idea."

He grew a little sheepish, and scratched his cheekbone with two fingers, "Which is why I got holed up in my workshop for so long. I had the urge to make this piece, and I really wanted to get it finished before Christmas ended."

He held out the little velvet box, one hand beneath the bottom, one ready to open the top, the side that would open turned towards Adar.

Realization was beginning to dawn on his boyfriend’s face now. He looked almost like a deer caught in the headlights, and his hands were clutching the quilt before him, before they lifted and gripped Celebrimbor’s upper arms, as if he had to steady himself.

Celebrimbor took another breath, and slowly eased the case open.

The sheer look of surprised awe on Adar’s face would be forever imprinted on the back of the jewelsmith’s eyelids. He smiled brightly, and looked down at the piece as well.

It was a ring. Made from silver and gold, the former because it was Adar’s favorite metal, the latter because Celebrimbor favored it. Beset with small gemstones in violet, red and green, as well as some clear ones, the metal formed the shapes of entwined plants:

Holly, and sage, and mistletoe.

The center of which was a beautiful, clear gemstone, perfectly cut and without any imperfections.

Even to the untrained eye, it was obvious that this was meant to be an engagement ring.

The jewelsmith could hear Adar suck in a breath as his grip on Celebrimbor’s upper arms tightened, and their eyes found each other again. Celebrimbor expected to see yet more surprise, or perhaps overwhelm, in his boyfriend’s eyes.

What he saw instead was hope, and an inkling of joy that was steadily growing as Adar continued to look at him.

With his smile stretching across his own face and growing confidence in his heart, Celebrimbor carefully picked the ring out of the box and held it up, then discarded the box itself to put his free hand onto the back of Adar’s, stroking the skin there with his thumb.

"I feared this might be too much, but- your gift showed me that this was the right call to make. Seeing our relationship laid out like this, in pieces of fabric, in all these beautiful memories, I think there is no way for me not to do this," he explained, voice almost a whisper between them.

"I cherish every single moment we have spent together thus far, and I’d like to spend so many more moments with you in the future as well. I want us to spend the rest of our lives together, and to make more such beautiful memories. Enough to make another quilt out of, and more."

His smile turned watery, and he felt himself getting misty eyed. Adar wasn’t faring much better, however – his eyes darted between Celebrimbor’s own as he swallowed, lip faintly trembling, breath uneven. Subtle signs that this was emotionally affecting him, much more than one might grasp by looking at him with a cursory glance.

"Adar, I love you. Would you consider making more of these wonderful memories with me? Will you marry me?"

He had barely finished his sentence, when Adar began to crowd close, hands at Celebrimbor’s cheeks and their noses soon pressed together, frantically nodding as he gasped out, "Yes, yes – of course-, I will, I will-," and then he pressed their lips together, desperate and sudden.

Celebrimbor barely managed to take a gasping breath, and then they were kissing. He almost lost the ring as they moved, and only managed to hold onto it by some strange miracle. His arms wrapped around Adar’s shoulders and his hands grasped the back of the other’s head as if by themselves, as Adar’s words repeated in his mind.

I will, I will, I will-

Only slowly did it register, what he’d just asked, what the other had just said, that he’d agreed-

With a noise of happiness, Celebrimbor pressed back against his boyfriend and kissed him back just as frantically as the other did.

Adar was quick to react, and shifted his hands behind Celebrimbor’s back, before he pulled him forward and onto his lap, both of them grasping at each other to get even closer, wound so tight that nothing could have possibly separated them.

In their eagerness, they lost their balance, and tipped to the side, right into the soft mound of blankets and pillows Adar had prepared for them. Celebrimbor found himself even more grateful for Adar’s preparations as they did, before his attention was pulled back to what they were doing.

They gasped, and would have laughed if not for their lips still being locked together. Celebrimbor simply wrapped his legs around Adar and clung to him like a human octopus, not that Adar minded in the least.

They only broke their kiss when they felt the need to breathe, both gasping as they peppered kisses to each other’s lips, cheeks, eyelids, temples, any part of the other’s face they could reach. Adar was rubbing their noses together, and Celebrimbor had grasped Adar’s hair with one hand, the other curled around the ring but sparing two fingers to claw into Adar’s Christmas sweater in an attempt to hold on.

Only after another few minutes did they finally manage to lean back a bit and look at each other, both of them breathless. Celebrimbor laughed in joy, and at the position they now found themselves in. Adar similarly chuckled, and brushed Celebrimbor’s curls back from his forehead, touch gentle.

The jewelsmith smiled at the other, eyes fond, before he reached out and pulled one of Adar’s hands free. Both of them were fixated on their hands as he took the ring, and gently eased it onto Adar’s finger – it fit perfectly, as Celebrimbor had known it would. Having measured Adar’s fingers for a previous collection had really come in handy in more ways than one.

The piece looked beautiful on Adar’s hand. The two of them stared at it for a long time, watching it glint and sparkle in the firelight.

"It’s very beautiful," Adar breathed, and turned towards Celebrimbor. "Especially since you were so fast. You must have spent every single second in your workshop on this."

"I did," the jewelsmith confirmed, and kissed the tip of Adar’s nose. "Only the best for you. And, well, the fastest, in this case."

Adar snorted, and then grinned. "Well, it’s quite fitting. I spent the last couple of days frantically finishing the quilt as well. I didn’t quite anticipate that Gil-Galad would bully us into helping him decorate, or account for Glug realizing he hadn’t gotten you a present last minute."

It was Celebrimbor’s turn to snort, and then brush back some loose strands of hair from Adar’s face. "Well. It seems to have worked out for the best, at least," he joked.

"That it did," Adar replied. This time when they kissed, it was a gentle press of lips.

"Speaking of which," Celebrimbor said, and turned his attention to the blanket again. "Shall we make use of your present, and tuck ourselves in? Also that hot chocolate tray you prepared looked quite-"

Celebrimbor didn’t get to finish his sentence. With wide eyes and a gasp, Adar drew back. Celebrimbor likewise began to sit up, and they both looked over to where Adar had left the tray earlier; they both feared that their earlier tumble might have upended the tray itself – and its contents.

Thankfully, that did not seem to be the case. Some of the cookies had spilled out of the bowl, and the whipped cream didn’t quite look picture-perfect anymore, but nothing worse had happened. They heaved a sigh of relief; cleaning the couch or the blankets would not have made for a perfect ending to their Christmas.

As it was, they chuckled, and then carefully untangled themselves. The moments after were decidedly ordinary, despite the fact that everything about the situation was out of the ordinary; they went and righted the tray, put the wrapping paper and ring box away, and finally spread out Adar’s blanket before they crawled under it.

Soon, Adar had slung his arm behind Celebrimbor’s back and drawn him into his side, where the jewelsmith readily cuddled up, their legs tangled as they eased back into the pillows, as Adar pulled over the tray with the thermos of hot chocolate.

It was Celebrimbor who took it upon himself to distribute the hot chocolate between them, his with whipped cream and marshmallows and a bit of caramel syrup, Adar choosing only a cookie to dip into his.

They spent several moments afterwards by just looking at the ring and the blanket, linking their fingers and turning their faces towards each other, to kiss, to brush their noses together, to smile lovingly at each other as they settled.

"This Christmas truly is perfect," Celebrimbor ended up saying, some time later. Adar smirked and nodded in agreement.

"Indeed it is," he confirmed, and then fell quiet for a second, before he chuckled and shook his head. At Celebrimbor’s questioning gaze, he explained, "I just realized we get to call each other fiancé now. I – like it."

Celebrimbor smiled and felt his eyes light up. "You’re right!" His grin grew sheepish. "I must admit, calling you my boyfriend always felt a little odd, considering that we are. Well. Not teenagers anymore. Fiancé has a nice ring to it though. Pun intended."

Adar rolled his eyes, though it was clearly a fond gesture, before he replied, "Agreed. Boyfriend never felt quite right. Partner felt much better-"

"Ugh, no, that makes it sound like we work together," Celebrimbor argued, and then twitched and made a noise of protest when Adar playfully jabbed his side. "It’s too formal!"

"Good thing we took care of that, then," Adar replied.

"Indeed. I realize now the proposal was practically self-defense in that regard," Celebrimbor joked, trying to look grouchy but missing the mark by a mile; he just couldn’t stop smiling. "And you do realize that we’ll have to tell the others, don’t you?"

Adar stopped, and looked vaguely apprehensive for the first time since he’d presented Celebrimbor with his own present. "...are you implying that we should tell them? Right away?"

"Uh-huh," Celebrimbor confirmed, and chuckled at Adar’s responding groan. "I am afraid there’s no way to avoid it. I am also afraid they’ll insist on a party, some time after New Year’s."

"Well. I suppose we can handle that. As long as it’s not Christmas themed," Adar said, and found himself jabbed in the side this time, soon followed by more laughter.

They did end up falling asleep on the couch, some hours later. Though not before Celebrimbor had taken out his phone and snapped a few pictures to share with their friends – with Adar’s permission, of course.

Perhaps he should have suspected that he and Adar would wake up to their phones getting blown up with messages and questions from friends, family and acquaintances when he did end up referring to Adar as his fiancé in the captions. Or perhaps he and Adar had both decided it was way easier to just post about it and then tell the others the details later, instead of making a big, official announcement.

Aside from the two of them, nobody would ever know for certain.

[seud-luachmhor]

New level of anexiety unlocked: waiting at the council offices to hear the results of the public consultation period after your plan was posted and pitched.

[waywardsalt]

i spent all this time being scared of the godskin duo and dreading having to fight them and getting nervous just seeing their boss room and then it takes me two attempts to beat them

[prismit]

couldn't find any documentation on how many cells you get from boss rush, so i worked it out myself! (to the best of my abilities anyway lol, also if this info is out there already then i must have missed it in my search 😅 sorry)

quick note: this might not be 100% accurate, since i mostly used math instead of fighting every boss 6 times lol. but i definitely gathered enough data to find a consistent pattern, so if these numbers are off at all, they should at least be VERY close, and at least 0bc and 5bc are definitely correct.

so, here's the numbers for each difficulty!

Concierge: 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 30

Conjunctivius: 40 / 42 / 44 / 46 / 48 / 50

Mama Tick: 32 / 33 / 35 / 36 / 38 / 40

Death: 80 / 84 / 88 / 92 / 96 / 100

Time Keeper: 40 / 42 / 44 / 46 / 48 / 50

Giant: 60 / 63 / 66 / 69 / 72 / 75

Scarecrow: 50 / 52 / 55 / 57 / 60 / 62

Dracula: 80 / 84 / 88 / 92 / 96 / 100

Hand of the King: 80 / 84 / 88 / 92 / 96 / 100

Servants: 47 / 49 / 51 / 54 / 56 / 60

Queen: 80 / 84 / 88 / 92 / 96 / 100

Dracula Final Form: 40 on all difficulties

ALSO: you don't get any more cells than normal from modified bosses or flawless wins. the 4 trials give the same amount as DIY mode, so there's no bonus there as far as cells go.

[gender-euphowrya]

pushing through my steam library again and holy fuck death's gambit is fucking Good

[flaskuwu]

There's so many types of Constructs I'm thinking of cute lil designs to make them distinguishable.

Steward

Culinary

Ranger

Mining

Forge

Maker

[mekatrio]

TT______TT

[fear-is-truth]

contains : erotic & horror themes, including depictions of monsterfucking, violence & blood. reader is imagined to be black, though interpretation is open. MDNI 18+ note. english is not my first language, ignore typos

MAMA USED TO SAY AINT NO GOOD EVER CAME FROM A MAN WHO TALKED SMOOTH. told you that they’re either preachers or predators, and neither’s worth your virtue or your time. (sometimes, you think maybe she was just trying to ward you off pretty white boys.)

she also told you all about vampires.

according to her, vampires couldn’t cross a threshold unless you bid them, that holy water’ll make their skin slough off like boiled peaches. she said they couldn’t cross running water either.

that part, you’ve since learned, was nonsense.

it was a vampire who damn near carried you across the creek last week when your heel got wedged between the rocks. he didn’t flinch at the current—simply hitched up his trousers and waded through, big arms hooked beneath your thighs like you weighed nothing at all.

your mama was a wise woman, but there are things she couldn’t have known.

after all, she never met remmick.

he first came to you when the heat broke. the song of cicadas gone silent, purple bruised sky leaking copper. june’s breath turning sweet and spoiled like ripe fruit. you opened the door barefoot, porch boards sun-warm beneath your soles.

now he comes and goes as he pleases.

his skin is as cold than the river stones under your feet that day. cold even when he’s fully sheathed inside you, fucking into you nice and slow.

his pupils stay tar-black until he’s hungry. then they bloom red—rich and furious, red as poppies—just as he’s yanking your bloomers down, breathing hard against the inside of your thigh.

his mouth unhinges in such a way that can only be described as serpentine. you’ve seen the full spread of it. a row of fangs where a human’s teeth should be, gums slick and red like fresh meat. tongue, long and deft, moves with inhuman control—circling your clit, lapping at it in slow, surgical swipes like it was shaped for that purpose alone.

he keeps the claws tucked away most days. but you’ve seen them. curved obsidian sickles catching the lamplight, retractable like a cat’s. the first time he let them slip during sex, he raked them down your back mid-climax—tore your nightgown straight down the spine, left welts that stung for days. another time, remmick clawed through the headboard, splintered it clean, hips stuttering while his mouth stretched wide, teeth bared. you watched it happen from beneath him, utterly struck by the sheer violence of it. and the beauty.

he’s not entirely invincible, though. the smell of garlic makes him recoil in disgust. sunlight and silver blisters his skin on contact.

remmick is the monster you’ve been warned about. the thing with claws and fangs, glowing red eyes and cold skin.

you’re not stupid. you knew better. that’s why you keep a silver charm strung around your neck. holy water in a flask on your bedside table, and most importantly — a stake under your pillow.

but knowing hasn’t stopped you from letting him kneel between your thighs and lick you open with that obscene mouth in search of ripeness. hasn’t stopped those cold lips from murmuring “mo chroí… cailín milis…” against your skin as he pushes in slow, every thick inch of him dragging against soaked velvet walls.

you want him.

in ways that aren’t just carnal, even if you both pretend otherwise.

and maybe—just maybe—your mama wasn’t warning you about monsters.

maybe she was warning you about the mistake of falling for one.

[girl-lostconnection]

Hear me out

Bloodhound Knight Johnny x Witch!Reader.

Johnny who lived his whole life being a good instrument for his master, being a proper weapon in other’s hands.

Johnny whose training strips his words from him, his dignity, his honour. Dogs don’t have honour after all.

Dogs hear “bite” and they bite. Dogs hear “run” and they run.

Dogs return to their owners no matter how cruel the hand feeding them is. Because that’s what dogs do. That’s how it works.

Johnny who gets his knee injured badly and suddenly after years of servitude and being a good weapon he’s useless. He’s broken. No one needs a dog that can’t run. No one needs a dog that can’t hunt for its master.

They drop him off somewhere in the wilderness, not letting him keep even his sword, the weapon that became part of him, the weapon hilt of which is soaked in his blood and sweat and tears.

It’s his bloody sword! It’s his weapon! He earned it! Why can’t he keep it? Why isn’t he allowed to keep at least this much?

Why isn’t he allowed to keep anything?

But he’s dropped off in the woods and he doesn’t even know where the fuck he is. He doesn’t know what to do — shame and humiliation choking him out, pain in his knee agonising whenever he tries to hobble somewhere.

Dogs in the wild either die or become feral. Johnny isn’t sure what is better for him. He doesn’t have anything left in him to fight more.

He doesn’t have a reason to. Nobody tells him to bite or to run or to break himself piece by piece.

He’s feverish from pain and he’s hungry, god he’s so fucking hungry.

He hasn’t been so hungry since he was a wee thing and his mum couldn’t feed them more than once per day.

Family too big in a place that’s too cold and too barren to feed them properly. Family without men other than him.

Johnny closes his eyes, looking up at the sky, lips chapped and dry.

He doesn’t really mind dying. But he doesn’t want to be hungry. God he doesn’t want to die hungry, he let people break him to fit in the dog hide so he doesn’t die hungry.

And at the brink of it all. You find him.

You smell like herbs and something citrus-y, sweet and homey scent. Warm scent. Delicious scent.

Johnny tilts his head, not sure whether it not you are another hallucination of his feverish mind. Maybe you are. Well, at least that’s something.

Small mercies for a useless dog like him.

You say something, brows furrowed and eyes wary but Johnny doesn’t have any more energy to attack. There’s no fight left in him.

But you tug on him for some reason, you make him drink something — sweet and tangy, his empty stomach clenching with renewed hunger.

“Look at the state of you. Come on, knight, it’s no place to die. Come on, you need to get up”, you hiss at him, forcing him up and make him drink a little more of whatever you have in the flask of yours.

It dulls his pain a little, it sobers him up, his jaws clacking together, almost biting the tip of his own tongue.

It’s humiliating. He’s been his master’s best dog, the leanest hound, the favourite fucking weapon and now he’s just a broken toy that reeks of sweat and blood and infection, knee throbbing.

You should just leave him here. You should let him die.

But you don’t.

You force him to walk, hissing back when he clacks his jaws at you — his leg making the hobble a right bloody adventure but you are relentless. Pouring your drink down his throat, pulling him further in the woods.

Johnny thinks he blacked out for a while because the next time he’s out of delirium he’s lying on the bed, fire cracking in the heath.

His armour propped on the chair next to the bed.

You didn’t take it away. Why didn’t you take it away? He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a bad dog, a weak dog, a useless dog.

Can’t you see his knee? Don’t you know that he won’t be a good weapon for you, witch? What’s use to save him if he’s not useful?

But you don’t allow him to wallow in his own misery, spoon feeding him your weird fucking medicine, making him eat and pushing out of the house so he sits on the fallen tree.

“Some fresh air will do you good”, you hum matter-of-factly and he snarls at you, but it’s half-hearted at best. More for the show and you know it so well it’s infuriating.

You thrust watering can in his hands when he’s out of the woods and no longer risking to fall when he stands up too fast. Johnny looks at it, bewildered and looks back at you, earning himself an exasperated sigh and “water plants around yourself, you big oaf. Yeah, these ones near the log you sit on”.

Johnny feels fucking ridiculous sitting on the bloody log and watering plants around himself. Who the fuck is he? A garden gnome?

Johnny who doesn’t know what use he is to you but you come up with tasks for him and even if he finds them ridiculous…he’s not gonna turn his nose away from work.

You feed him, you house him, you patch up his clothing and make a polish for his armour. You save him for some unknown reason so if you say “water the rosemary, oaf” he’s going to water the rosemary.

His knee slowly gets better but the damage unfortunately is irreversible. He doesn’t lose his leg entirely but you quietly announce that he’s not gonna be able to run again.

Johnny nods, swallowing down his anger and bitterness, back of his throat hurting and spasming, bile rising up.

It’s not fair. He was a good dog, he was the best dog. It’s not fair that he won’t run again.

But you still push him to move, lending your shoulder when he awkwardly stumbles and limps, making ointments for his knee, teaching him how to bandage the thing properly.

He lives through the whole summer with you — sleeping in your bed, eating food you grow, watching you silently.

It’s not until first snow he starts speaking again, the first time scaring the living day out of you — his voice a raspy and wrong thing.

He haven’t used it in 20 years.

But he does now. Starts with clipped “yeah” and “nae”, building up to “thank you” and “morning”. He doesn’t talk much but he does talk and that’s already more than before.

More than he was allowed.

You teach him proper sheep shearing and with your combined efforts he gets himself a warm winter cloak. Then a sweater. Then another one.

It’s foreign and the clothes are warm, keeping him from shivering in winds that grow colder when he cleans the pathway to your house from snow.

You keep him warm.

The thought is a sharp thorn that grows in his mind, poking from inside, something long forgotten inside of him watching you with new intensity.

He still sleeps in your bed with you taking a small cot in the kitchen which wasn’t an issue during summer but winters are cold and when he notices the slight shiver that goes through you…

You keep him warm. It’s only fair if he repays the favour.

You wake up warm and fuzzy from sleep, mind hazy, eyes bleary and you aren’t sure why are you so warm, kitchen cools off during the night. Usually you are shivering when you wake up.

Someone’s breathing tickles your ear and you freeze, turning your head — Johnny’s impossibly blue eyes staring right back at you. Watching you with the same intensity hounds do when they lock in on the target.

With the same quiet obsession stray dogs that adore their owners have.

“What are you doing?”, you murmur quietly, voice husky from sleep, eyes squinting at him.

“Nothing”

Johnny isn’t sure what to do with the hot shiver he feels at the sound of your voice, so he just nudges you back under the blanket and to his absolute delight you comply.

Face pressing into his chest, dozing off in a matter of seconds.

Johnny wraps his arms tighter around you, warm and comfortable. You are soft in his hands, his fingers sinking in the softer parts of your body and god, you still smell good.

Herbs and dried citrus. Homey. Delicious.

Johnny guards you while you sleep, starting to move only when you stir awake. You got your rest. Wonderful.

Johnny nuzzles in your neck, lips mouthing at soft skin and he’s not sure what he’s doing or where he needs to go from there. But you make a soft breathy sound when he licks a wet stripe on your skin and he growls in appreciation.

Maybe it would’ve been better if you were like his previous master. Maybe it would’ve been better if you told him to bite or to run.

Maybe it would’ve been better if you chose his new purpose for him.

But you didn’t. So he chooses it himself.

Johnny’s palms slide under the thin fabric of your shirt, his body nudging your legs open so he can settle in between — slowly sliding under the blankets.

Yeah, he chose alright. Maybe his pretty witch doesn’t need a weapon. Or a dog. Or an instrument to use.

But he needs you.

Johnny rumbles out “bonnie” when he looks back up at you, eyes heavy and hungry.

Didn’t you know that hounds sink their teeth into their prey and don’t let go? Should’ve known better.

Now you aren’t getting rid of him.

Continuation

[sexy-monster-fucker]

Incubus

NSFW Art the Clown x F!Reader

Prompt: Reader is out with one of her friends when she runs into an interesting looking clown. Later that night, he seems to visit her in a dream. (Kinda going off the idea that Art is a supernatural being who can appear in people's dreams at will).

CW: Art being a freak, use of sex toys, oral f!receiving, multiple orgasms, choking, creampie

a/n: to quote Cassie from Euphoria "AND YOU CAN ALL JUDGE ME IF YOU WANT BUT I DO NOT CARE! I HAVE NEVER EVER BEEN HAPPIER" really going back to my sexy-clown-fucker roots with this one gang

~~~

Halloween Night.

You and your friends had been planning to go out like you had since you were teenagers. Getting dressed up in your sluttiest best Halloween costumes, going to your favorite spot in town to eat, then hitting up some parties.

Your group took up a large table at the same old diner you always met at. Friends pregaming with flasks and shot bottles they snuck in. Some more blitzed than others. As you got older, the desire for partying was beginning to leave your body. Wanting to be completely black out drunk in public becoming more embarrassing than exhilarating.

So when your best friend decided she wanted to mess with one of your fellow patrons, a lump formed in your stomach.

A tall man dressed in a half white and half black clown costume sat at one of the tables alone. Giant shoes adorned his feet, the tip of his long nose had a black dot on it, and a bald cap with a tiny hat rested upon his head. He had been staring at your group since he arrived. Most of your friends too out of it to notice.

Your friend walked over, leaning over the table he sat at. Pushing her cleavage directly in his face as she spoke to him. “Nice costume,” she batted her lashes at him. His expressionless face stared at her. A semi aggravated frown on his face. Everyone at your table began giggling as you watched in horror. She took a seat directly in his lap, wrapping one of her arms around him. She tugged at the hat on his head, smacking it down with a pop. “Awe, look how cute. But dontcha think it would look better one me,” she grabbed the hat off his head. Pulling the string and placing it down on her own.

Embarrassment ate away at your insides. All your friends stared and snickered at the situation. The man seemingly unfazed. She flicked at his nose with her finger. You could not take it any longer.

“Oh my God,” you grabbed her by the arm and yanked her away from him, “I am so sorry. If I had known she was going to do that I would’ve stopped her sooner.” You ripped the tiny hat off her head. “Here’s that. Once again I’m so sorry—“

“Why do you keep apologizing to this freak?!”

You shot a look at her, brows pushed together in frustration. Pulling her outside of the restaurant. She fought for you to let go of her. Stumbling in her drunken state.

“What the fuck is wrong with you! Why are you acting like this?” You were hurt by your friend’s actions.

“Why do you even give a shit, Y/N? That’s just some random skeezeball in a restaurant. I could fuck him and we’d never have to see him again.”

“Because you’re embarrassing me!” You shouted, folding your arms over your chest. Taking a deep breath and blinking away the feeling you were harboring.

She stood in front of you with a look of disgust on her face. Her hand planted firmly on her hip. A laugh erupting from her. Wrapping her hand around your wrist and pulling you back inside. Presenting you in front of the table of all your friends. “Go ahead if that’s really how you feel, Y/N,” she cocked her head to the side.

“I— I, uh—“

“Y/N said she’s embarrassed by us. Guess we huwt hew widdle feewings!” Your friend pushed out her bottom lip and mocked you. The entire table laughed at you. All your so called friends calling you names like “Debby Downer” or “Sour Puss” or “Buzz Kill.”

You stood frozen in shock. Unable to believe all your friends you had known so long were treating you this way. All of them a little drunk, but not drunk enough for them to not know what they were doing.

“Come on, everybody. Since we’re so embarrassing to be around. You can stay here,” your friend patted you on the head as she and everyone else threw some cash on the table to cover their bills. You were in disbelief. Feeling abandoned and hurt. Ashamed.

You looked over at the Clown Man who you were defending previously. His gaze fixated on you, expression completely emotionless. Sharp eyes cutting into you. Walking over to him one last time as you began to leave, “I really am sorry she did that. I hope your night goes better than mine.” You gave him a closed mouth smile as you walked out of the restaurant. Lifeless eyes watching you exit.

You held yourself as you walked home. Cold breeze hitting your revealed skin, sending chill bumps down your body. You tugged at the short skirt you wore when you saw a group of guys staring at you. Suddenly uncomfortable in your costume. You arrived home and began getting ready for the night ahead. You did love passing out candy. Something you really had not got to do in a long time. You loved seeing all the kids dressed up, excited for their sugar filled treats.

Time passed and the knocks on your door were scarce. Disappointed in the lack of trick-or-treaters. Feeling like you had lost all love for this holiday. One that was your favorite. Deciding to pass on dinner and just bake some cookies instead.

You sat on your couch mindlessly watching TV. The lack of trick-or-treaters had you drifting in and out of sleep. Finally dozing off…

You were in a dark room. Only lit by candlelight. A musky smell filled the air. You looked down to see yourself completely nude. Wrists and ankles tied to the frame of the large bed you laid on. Confusion ran through you.

Footsteps filled the room. Straining your neck to look down the dark hallway through the open door. Complete silence coming from the darkness other than the loud clap of shoes. The Clown from the restaurant earlier walked into the dim light. Facial expression flat, eyes piercing down at you. Heat dripped down your body knowing he was seeing you completely nude and on display. Approaching the edge of the bed, his head falling to the side as he stared at your bare pussy. A wicked grin crept upon his face.

His hand dug deep down into the bag he carried. The sound of all different textures of things tussled against each other as he went shoulder deep looking for something. An excited look washed over his face as his hand gripped around what he had been looking for. Pulling a deep red, microphone shaped vibrator from the bag. Your entire body flushed.

He crawled on the edge of the bed between your spread legs. Clicking the vibrator to the setting he thought you would enjoy most before teasing around your pussy with it. You moaned at the sudden sensation. Your thighs began trembling as he edged closer and closer to your throbbing nub. When the toy finally found its place on your sweet spot you called out to him, your hips arching at the feeling. Making circular motions with the vibrator, pulling every noise from you he could. Watching as your chest heaved with each shaky breath.

The waves of your first orgasm washed over you like a tsunami. Every inch of you quaking as pure ecstasy pumped through your veins. The Clown smiled at you from the position he was in. A prominent tent pitched through his satin suit. You bit your lip watching him palm himself through the fabric. Mouth beginning to water as the spot of his suit grew darker with his pre-cum. You rolled your hips at him, encouraging him to fuck you.

Dark eyes shot up to look into yours. Hand never leaving his erect member. Your eyes pleaded with him, a small quiet “please” falling from your quivering lips.

His hand clawed at the fabric around his cock, ripping open a hole big enough for him to pull himself out. Eyes unable to look away from how his gloved hand wrapped around his member. Tugging at his erection, his head falling back ever slightly as he savored the feeling of his hand. Almost like he was putting on a show for you.

His body weighed down the bed as he positioned himself to be directly in front of your aching core. Head of his cock prodding at your entry. Tremors of anticipation quaked through you. His lips were barely parted as he looked down at your face. Hooded eyes enjoying the view of you. He rubbed the tip against your folds, collecting all the remnants of you on himself. Ready to delve in.

… A loud knock at the door pulled you awake. You had been dozed off for a few hours now. It was almost too late at night for kids to be out. You sat up, grabbing the bowl of candy off the table in front of you. A second more aggressive knock. “On my way!” You called out as you walked to the front door.

Opening the door to a familiar costumed man. The Clown your friend had been rude to earlier. Little old to be trick-or-treating, but you did not care. “Oh— Hey! It’s you,” flashes of the dream you had been having about him ran through your mind. Heat rising to your cheeks. You swallowed heavy. A toothy grin painted his face as he waved excitedly at you. Holding up a black garbage bag asking for candy from your bowl. You smiled grabbing a large handful of candy and putting it in the bag for him. His eyebrows rose as his mouth morphed into a perfect ‘O’ shape. His hand went up to his lips blowing a silent kiss at you. You caught it with your hand and placed it on your cheek with a giggle.

“There plenty more where that came from. You’re probably my last trick-or-treater for the night. I’ve got all this candy left,” you shook the bowl tossing the candy around in it. The Clown stood before you not saying anything. Eyes staring at you with a wicked grin on his face.

The loud sound of your fire alarm going off made you jump right out of your skin. You looked over your shoulder then back at the man in front of you. His eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Oh— Oh, Crap! I forgot about the cookies I put in the oven!” You rushed back into your house leaving the door wide open. Running into your kitchen and grabbing the oven mitts you had left on the counter, pulling the charred cookies out and throwing the pan into the sink, running cold water over it. Smoke engulfed your kitchen. You opened the window over the sink, fanning the thick fumes out of the window with your oven mitt. Coughing as you accidentally inhaled some of the tar.

You leaned over the counter, hearing the squeak of shoes approaching you identical to what you had heard in your dream. You looked up to see the Clown examining your house. Waving his hand in front of his face as he scrunched up his nose at the smell. You sighed, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even get to introduce myself to you yet. I’m Y/N.” He waved at you acknowledging the introduction.

“Don’t say much do you?”

He shook his head aggressively.

“Hmm. Then how am I going to learn your name?”

He gleamed excitedly. Coming over and grabbing you by the wrist. Pulling you to your fridge where you had countless letters, newspaper clippings, and coupons pinned. He pointed to a picture about the local go-cart racing tournament that happened a few weeks back.

“Cart?”

He made an ‘X’ with his hands, shaking his head in disagreement. He reemphasized the ‘X’ before holding up one finger.

“Okay, minus one letter.”

He nodded with a bright smile.

“Car?”

He folded his arms over his chest, a look of disappointment on his face. His head falling to the side with a look that said “really?”

“Okay. Okay. Art?”

He jumped up and down clapping his hands with joy. Nodding his head rapidly. Clearly thrilled that you were so good at guessing.

“Art! I like that name,” you smiled suddenly realizing that his grip around your wrist stayed. Blushing at how close your bodies were to each other. Remembering your fantasy you were having about it pulling heat to your face.

“Well, since you’re already in here might as well make yourself comfortable. If you wanna sit in the living room I can bring you a glass of water or something,” you smiled. His wide eyes stared at you, smile never leaving his face. He slowly gave you a thumbs up before spinning on his heel and going into your living room.

“Can I tell you something crazy?” You smiled as you sat the glass down in front of him. He nodded. “I— you were just in my dream.” His mouth morphed into an ‘O’ shape, eyebrows raised in intrigue. “I dozed off after I got ditched at the diner. And we were— uh— well, you were. I was—“ Embarrassment washed over you. Realizing you were about to admit to having a sex dream about a complete stranger.

He made an okay gesture with one hand, sticking his opposite pointer finger into the o. You blushed at his insinuation. You nodded coyly. His face fell into a look telling you he thought your thoughts were naughty. Chastising you with his finger. You smiled. He rested his chin on one of his hands propped against his leg, waving for you to continue with the other.

“OH! No, you don’t want to hear the details or anything. It was…” you hid your face from him slightly. Unsure of what to say about the dream. Too awkward to fully admit it.

Art crawled off the couch, resting his chin on your bare knees like a begging puppy. A large frown decorating his face as he fluttered his eyes at you. Wide eyes stared down at him in your lap. Your nerves were set on fire. The source being where his chin touched your bare skin. You swallowed back hard.

He pressed his lips into the skin of your exposed thigh. Biting the soft flesh, leaving grease paint anywhere his lips touched. You felt your body quiver as his teeth dug into you. Bites turned into long licks. Saliva painted your exposed skin. “Art~” you moaned loving the feeling of him on your skin. A wicked grin crept on his face.

Partially gloved hands pried your legs open. Sadistic eyes stared at your clothed core. Noting how you had already soaked through your panties. Licking his way up your skin before planting a sloppy kiss on your core. You slid down the couch exposing yourself better to him. His long tongue lapped over your soaked entry, sucking on the fabric. Your hands gripped his head, eyes rolling back as he worked on you.

He suddenly stood up. You fluttered your eyes up at him. He walked over to his previous seat on the couch. Digging through the black trash bag he carried with him. Making a surprised face when his hand found what it was looking for.

Everything was so familiar...

Pulling something out and hiding it behind his back. Gesturing for you to join him. Patting his lap as you got closer to him. Hesitantly you straddled him. He leaned back into the couch, hooded eyes scanning your entire body. A mischievous grin painted his dirty teeth. He grabbed at your panties, ripping them clean off. Holding them up to his nose and taking a deep inhale, eyes rolling back into his head. Over exaggerating his exhale and putting your ripped garment down into his trash bag. The cool air against your now exposed core sent chills across your entire body.

There was a sudden hum coming from behind Art. He pretending to look around as if he could not find the source of the sound. You blushed at the realization of the noise. Revealing the same deep red want from your dream. You gasped.

"That's the same one from my-"

He cut you off by pressing the toy against your throbbing clit. You moaned loudly, throwing your head back. You rolled your hips against the vibrating silicone. Fire igniting deep inside you. Lost in the feeling.

Art watched how you played with yourself on the toy. His cock begging for the same attention the vibrator was getting. He smacked the side of your thigh to get your attention. Pulling you from your horny, dumb state. Your eyes meeting his gaze. His brows furrowed together as he pointed down to his erect cock. You continued your motions as you reached around to unzip his clown suit. Sliding the satin off his shoulders. His pale, slender body revealing itself to you. Propping yourself up so he could shimmy the material around his ankles. Noticing how he wore no underwear under the suit. You smiled as you stared at his cock.

Your first orgasm was rapidly approaching with the pace of the toy pressed into you. Art's gloved hands guided you down onto his member. Throwing his head back as you sunk down. The way your walls sucked him right in. Almost like your body was begging to be fucked. He blinked hard, his jaw agape. Hands encouraging you to bounce up and down. From the first few hops your orgasm took over you. Moaning his name and shaking. Walls gripping his member inside you. Art licked his teeth, mocking your orgasm face.

You expected him to move the wand so that he could fuck you to his own high. However, he pressed it firmer into your aching nub. Your hips rutted forward. Shocked expression taking over your face as you panted above him. Sweat decorating your skin.

"I-I can't do an-another one," you pleaded with the Clown. Your senses in overdrive as your pussy still spasmed around him occasionally. He pouted, mocking your pleas. Nodding his head to tell you, you would be having another one. Shaking entirely as he began a relentless pace inside you. Snapping his hips flush against your ass with each aggressive thrust. You cried out with each crack of skin. Overwhelmed with how good he felt inside you.

Fingers dinging into his bare shoulders. Gripping him tight enough to break the skin. His own fingers held your hips with a bruising force as he continued bouncing you on him. Feeling yourself approach another orgasm. Air hitching in your throat feeling your skin burn with pleasure.

Art reached one of his hands up and wrapped it around your throat. Squeezing tighter than anyone had ever before. Having you seeing stars, feeling like you could faint at any moment. Truly taking your breath away from you.

HONK!

A silver horn was shoved in your face as he released your throat. Bringing you back to the situation. Also causing you to grip his member again. He mimed a laugh when your body jumped at the sudden noise.

His head fell back against the head of the couch as he savored the feeling of you wrapped around him. Knowing his end was approaching. Sloppily thrusting up into you, circling your clit with the want. Willing you to cum at the same time. You watched as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Wishing you could lean forward and bite at his flesh. Decorate his skin with your markings. But you were far too close to your second high to change positions now.

Screaming out to him as you came far harder than the first time. You felt Art shoot up into you, spilling his hot seed into you. Continuing to thrust up into you as he rode out both your highs. Watching how he leaked out of you and pooled around his base. Smiling for a moment before his face fell flat. He helped you off his lap, sitting you beside him. Standing and attempting to reach his zipper on the back.

You stood and helped him. Making sure to pull the zipper away from his skin to prevent any accidents. Art turned and tipped his hat to you. You blushed as you stood in front of the man who just rocked your world.

You watched as he grabbed his black bag and threw it over his shoulder. Heading towards the door. Turning to blow a kiss at you one last time.

Catching it and placing it on your lips. Blowing one right back at him. He pretending to rub the blush off his cheeks.

And just as quick as he had entered he exited your home. You waved goodbye. Choosing not to question the stranger you had let into your home for a quick fuck.

Watching as he disappeared into the night.

~

[END]

// Thank you for reading! This is my first time writing for Art. You really gotta get creative when you can't use dialogue lol. I hope you enjoyed this story! I plan on writing more for him, so if you have any requests please send them my way! Or if you want to be tagged in anything let me know! //

{tags}

@hoe-for-daddywise | @cup1d-ends-here | @xenoanamorph | @getmeoutofhell |

[ofstarsandvibranium]

The Leg Bet

Fandom: The Pitt

Pairing: Jack Abbot x GN!Reader

Summary: As a gag gift, you give Jack a prosthetic leg that also doubles as a flask. He ends up actually using it.

A/N: twas a shit post and @baezen ended up liking the idea so here it is. THIS IS A CRACK FIC. NOT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY.

The Pitt Masterlist

Jack didn't care much for his birthday. After all the shit he's been through, he's just lucky to wake up every day with you by his side. He may not care for his birthday, but that doesn't mean you don't give him a present every year.

He's gotten various things from you. A new watch, a new radio, tickets to a game, etc. This year was...different.

He tears off the wrapping paper and then lifts the lid of the gift box. His brows furrow and he lifts the item out of the box, "Baby, what's this?"

"A prosthetic leg."

His mouth twitches in a smirk, "Yeah, I see that, but why did you get me one if the one I have is just fine?" he gestures to his current prosthetic.

You giggle mischievously, "This leg is special."

Jack observes it, "How?"

"It can hold liquid inside."

He cocks a brow at you, "Excuse me?"

You scoot closer to him, "This here," you point to the top, "It twists off," you demonstrate, "Voila! It can hold any beverage you like. Can keep your ice water cold or hot drinks warm all day!"

Jack can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of your gift to him, "Honey, I love you, you're very sweet....but why?"

You shrug, "I ran out of ideas for birthday gifts and I came across this! So I said 'fuck it' and bought it!" You watch Jack observe the leg and its sturdiness, "Honestly, it was mainly just a joke. I did buy us tickets to watch that band you like. So I can return this-" you reach for the leg but Jack pulls it back, "Nope. I wanna keep it."

It's your turn to look at Jack in surprise, "Seriously?"

He nods, "Yeah, I'm actually curious how well this'll work. I'm gonna try it on my next shift."

You snicker, "Okay, but you need to give me updates throughout the day about it!"

"I will, baby. Thank you," his kisses your lips and places the prosthetic back into the box.

_____________________________

Unexpectedly, the prosthetic leg flask ended up being a staple in Jack's every day life.

The first time he brought it to work, he put some coffee in it. During his lunch, he pulled off the leg and poured some coffee out into a disposable cup. His colleagues in the break room were frozen in confusion.

"Abbot, what the fuck is that?" Dr. Ellis asked.

He smirks, "Y/N got me a prosthetic leg flask for my birthday. Trying it out for the first time. I put hot coffee in it hours ago and it's still hot!"

Ellis shakes her head, "I'm so confused but so intrigued. Where did they buy it?"

"Internet," he senior attending replies nonchalantly, sipping on his still hot coffee from his prosthetic leg flask.

After the first few times, his colleagues were used to seeing Abbot pouring liquids out of his leg. It's become a frequent occurrence that now most the of the department has daily bets on what contents he has inside.

It's become this whole thing that neither you or Jack anticipated, but it's all in good fun. Fun that many didn't expect from the super serious senior attending.

Every day, on the white board hidden, What Does Abbot Have in His Leg Today? is written. Many say coffee, others say alcohol or water. Some have even said soup and, on some rare occasions, those people would be right.

Before Jack exits the ED, he'd reveal the contents and a collective groan or cheer would erupt, depending on who bet on what.

_________________________

The new residents peek at the white board that's hidden away from patients.

"'What does Abbot have in his leg today?' What the hell does that even mean?" Santos asks her fellow residents, Javadi and Whitaker.

"...I honestly have no clue," Whitaker says and Javadi.

As Dr. McKay walks by, Javadi stops her, "Oh! Dr. McKay?"

"Yeah?"

"What does that mean on the board?" the young resident points to the white board and McKay peers at it.

She snorts, "Oh, you'll find out. Wait until Doctor Abbot clocks out and then you'll see. He should be coming out any minute now."

Right on cue, Jack emerges from the locker room with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Those who aren't currently with a patient wait at central for him.

He stands there waiting for some to come by and then he holds a cup up, "Water," and places it in front of Dana.

Some of the nurses groan and some of the doctors pump their fist in the air.

The residents, still look absolutely confused. McKay fills them in, "Doctor Abbot's partner got him a prosthetic leg that also doubles as a flask. We all like to take bets on what he puts in it on a day to day basis."

Javadi speaks, "Well that's-"

"Interesting." Whitacker says.

"Fucking hilarious." Santos adds.

"-different."

McKay shrugs, "Gives us something fun to look forward to." The residents just nod and then proceed to their assignments.

Who'd have thought such fun would come from Jack's birthday gag gift?

[luvether]

STAR-SHAPED BRUISES ✦ he who once felt the cold touch of death before, so why did it matter if he risked it again? Only that it did matter, to you, and your yearnings for him felt so warm it almost made him want to be selfish.

anaxagoras x gn!reader. angst? & fluff! content. hurt with comfort (?) tensions and arguments. yearning and hidden pining. cerces playing matchmaker. might be ooc + anaxa character study. written before 3.2 and spoilers for the 3.1 story! [2.4k wc]

tagging @rainswept @eterjie @kazucee !!

“You seem troubled today, more than usual.”

The thin-layer of soundlessness is quickly replaced by the tamed billow of Anaxa’s tone, one that seems like he’s questioning for the sake of curiosity and not because of empathy. Looking up at how busy he looked, his eyes maintained upon his alembic that bubbled a violent cyan-gold hue, any second and you’re sure it’s gonna fulminate from the vessel.

You shift from your seat, feigning skittish. “Did my morose pique the curiosity of the grand performer? Or are you simply worried?”

“Neither.”

“What a benumbed reaction, Anaxa—“

“—goras.” He finishes for you. Usually, whenever he’d add on your behalf, you’d combat it with a snide but today, he’s left with nothing but silence. This made him look up from his instruments and papers, your lack of reactions made him forgo his current experiment.

It made him almost worry, almost.

He sighs instead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter.”

“You’re quick to lie to me,” Anaxagoras is now facing you, laying a hand on his hip. “That seems like something.”

The way he conducts his questions is making you want to be defensive with your petulant behavior. “Even if something is on my mind, I don’t see why I should be telling you about it.”

“Maybe you should, because if I can find some way to help, your mood would lift, no?”

“Since when have you cared about my moods?”

Silence then.

“Are you aware of what the principle of correspondence is?” Anaxa mutters out and you have the urge to exhale.

“Please spare me a lecture…”

“As above, so below, as within so without.” The professor starts nonetheless. “Everything around us is a mirror that reflects a projection on both our inner and outer manners, think of the relationships as interconnected roots of trees or simply dendrites. It’s the simple work of magic tricks—human behaviors more so than divinity at play.” Anaxagoras approaches you, the chains of his eyepatch filling the slowness of the room.

He levels his face with yours and from your position, you can clearly anatomize the fullness of his eye from here—the hollow of mint with a cut of boysenberry in the center, glowing beneath long lashes.

He continues, “even if I’m half-dead as what that titan said, I can still feel your vibrations and stress, an internal conflict, it’s making shoddy trembles of my glass flasks on that desk.”

“How does that even—“

“Your feet.” Anaxa finally says. “You were unconsciously tapping your feet.”

Oh.

You lay your palms flat on your knees, an unconscious manner.

“I apologize.”

“So you have the decency to apologize and yet not speak your mind further?”

The silence is indefinite yet present. It shallows over at every retort that spills in between both your stubborn tongues.

You shake your head. “You’re difficult.”

His eyes narrow. “You are the one being difficult, actually. I offered help, you refused, I asked about your well-being, you dismissed me.”

“You should consider how your candidness makes it exceptionally hard for me to be open to you, maybe think about that.” You bite back at him, the tension threatening to spill over. “You’re the last person I’d want to go to whenever I have worries, so just simply drop it for today. I’d have to apologize for my lackings, I'll provide you with better companionship and arguments when I’m feeling well.”

“…Truly, I didn’t mean to come off as heartless—“ but you’d already brush past his shoulder before he can fully explain himself like he’d always have, leaving Anaxa to his bubbling vessels, untidy scrolls and a heavy sigh.

Much to his dismay instead of the privacy that he wishes after that argument, Cerces appears just as you vanish from his sight, a liquidy chuckle slipping past their lips. “Sometimes, I even wonder if your heart died along with you, child of humanity.”

“I’d rather you keep silent while I work.” Anaxagoras distastefully returns back to his apparatuses, more quiet and solemn than before.

“You should give chase.” Cerces suggested instead. “That child was simply worried.”

“Worried?” He finds the titan’s words as credulous. “Did you not see the flush of anger directed at me? Besides, I’m preoccupied right now.”

“You say you’re preoccupied and yet it’s you who seem quite distracted. Are you curious about their source of trouble?”

“It’s nothing new, arguments like that. We’ve known each other long before you ever knew me on my deathbed so back off.”

When he’d state his intentions clear, the Titan of Reason—unfazed in their countenance—leaves the professor to his own bearings and he finally has room to breathe.

Your relationship with him has always been rocky. Arguments and walking outs weren’t new, you used to debate about claims and theories a multitude of times back in the Grove, it was part of your dynamic, but every time he realizes belatedly how his string of words had cut you deep beyond the usual shallow jabs thrown on a daily, Anaxagoras cannot help but feel like his hollow chest is being twisted upside down.

In some way, maybe it mattered because despite the clashes and quarrels, you’d stay. You’ve stayed by him for years even after he was ridiculed as a blasphemous fool or a heretic—you’d stay even longer, waiting for him to finish lectern speeches or classes without so much as an ounce of complaint. A simple gesture that he’d been grateful of and even he admits to himself that seeing you being upset with him and his words were the least satisfying things to behold.

It did bother him but admitting that aloud to that titan was the last thing he’d want.

So after an hour or two after he knew you’d calm down, the professor drops his vials and walks down the distasteful and boisterous streets of Okhema in search of you—or more specifically, cruising over to Hyacine and asking for your whereabouts to save him the trouble of turning the Holy City upside down.

It was tempting, for the sake of bringing an irate reaction out of that woman and her golden threads, but his sick body and rational mind stopped him so.

“You are here.”

Anaxagoras has finally found you in some remote corner of the city, you were sitting shiftless above limestone, carving names upon ordinary stones. There was a spare moment in which his dull eyes sought down to you—he’d noticed how your hair is wind-swept and how strands of it stick to your forehead and the skin of your neck. The leaves of your collar are strewn as well, showing the barest hint of collarbones and almost immediately Anaxa shifts his eyes away, he’d asked what you were doing to distract himself from his own keen observations.

“Nobody will remember each scholar that perished fighting the Black tide. I’m merely writing companions I remember that I used to do thesis with, those that don’t have families here in Okhema to remember them…”

Anaxa observes you again, then after a long silence you feel him approaching closer, his shadow stretching before you. Your mind stirs in alertness, noticing what he’s up to—but Anaxa is always two steps ahead of you, before you can cease the pen laid by your side, he has already swiped it. You tried your best to wrestle it from him but Anaxa held it out of reach from you, causing you to sneer.

“Give that back. I forbid you to write your own epitaph!”

“And why not? I’ve done it once in the Grove—“

“Well, this isn’t the Grove—!“ You've paused quickly, noticing that you interrupted him. You waited for an ire to come throttling down at you but when you gaze back at him, Anaxagoras merely raises a brow at you, a faint sheet of amusement in his expression.

“Give me a stone.” He’d ask.

“No—“

“Stone.”

Your shoulders deflate at his tight tone, accepting defeat with petulance and a huff.

Stubborn man, you curse in your head. Stubborn and hard-headed and mean…You digress, ending up giving him one, laying the stone harsher onto his open palm than you intended but his expression remained amused.

When a balance of tamed silence settles, Anaxagoras is the first to speak again after writing an elegy onto the stone, changing the subject with ease.

“It's getting late, you should retire for today.”

And in response, you turn away with a quiet huff of breath. “I‘m…still not used to the Holy City's constant daylights, and I should be saying that to you, the moment you were given apparatuses to quell your complaints, you’ve been doing nothing but your experiments since you’ve arrived from your fight in Castrum Kremnos.”

“Well, thanks to your concern this ill-stricken body has been recovering. Besides, I have nothing much to do, especially when that woman’s threads are all over the place.”

“You almost died.” Your statement held more bite than necessary. For you it showed him your true feelings and for Anaxa—the answer to today’s dismay.

A laugh breaks from his lips.

“Is this why you’re upset?” There’s a hint of mirth in his tone. “You’re upset that I got hurt back at the Grove.”

You rise from your seat, meeting him tooth for tooth, jab for jab. “Is it truly hard for you to comprehend that there are people that care whether or not you’re doing well—?”

Despite your anger, Anaxa is distracted for a moment, watching the sneer on your lips shaping vowels and long consonants, almost as if you're baring his teeth at him. The sudden urge to lean down, kiss you quiet and taste those angry syllables on his teeth stirs in his mind.

The Nousporist sage is anything but a romantic, but temptation truly is a humanistic sin, what is he to be shameful for such selfishness?

“It’s not that.” He answers your spite with dullness. “My field of study has made it easy to forget about one's well-being. You of all people know that very well.”

“Anaxagoras, you could’ve died again and—“

He never wanted for you to concern yourself with him like this. Anaxagoras knew he was risking himself, the nuances of alchemy and the splitting of his soul. So how come—observing the way your expression creases with a certain type of pain that makes it seem like you were the one that felt it, not him.

“If you continue like this, I would go through the same grief of losing you like I did the first time around.”

“Don’t say that, as a Chrysos heir it’s bound to—“ Anaxa is surprised when you reach out to touch him, to dare touch him so freely and yet rebuttals fall flat on his heavy tongue. The warmth of your fingertips that brush over the coolness of his own palm, you bring his hand up to cradle your cheek with utter delicacy like you’re holding glass, it makes his mind go numb.

He is aware of the way his skin dances with the plush warmth of your cheek, strands of your hair he wishes to tangle between his long fingers—to give into temptation and drag his hand slowly down your jaw, the expanse of your neck, down your arms…

“You really should start taking care of yourself more.” Your lips murmur onto his open palm. “Maybe not for yourself, but for me and Hyacine.”

He swallows. ”…I cannot keep promises.”

And you’d feel a faint tug on his end—and that fissures the tension. You let go and he quickly lets his own arm fall back to his side immediately. There’s a part of you that was terrified at the thought of offending him, you never got into Anaxagoras’ bubble without permission, your relationship stayed at a mere arm’s length. Only quirked lips with tongues of appraisals and maybe the occasional longing stares from across large rooms were exchanged between the two of you, no shoulder brushing, hand-holding, breaths upon goosebumped necks—this was your first time ever touching him, his numbed, cold skin against your own.

Maybe your sudden approach shocked him from his nonchalance and arrogance, you’d know because for the first time since you’ve known him, Anaxagoras’ frown is an inch too deep and there’s a concerned fold on his brow.

He clears his throat, his eye looking anywhere but at you. “I need to go, I have to meet with the other Chrysos heirs at the baths today.”

Anaxa looked quite adamant to join the meeting, despite his distaste of the baths and Chrysos heir meetings.

He spares you one last look, “after you’re done with your business, you really should try to rest.”

You frown at his dismissive behavior, nodding your head nonetheless. “Alright, best of luck then.”

He’d merely nod stiffly at your reply and quickly turn on his heel. You would have let out a heavy exhale and scold yourself for touching him without prior permission—if it weren't for a certain titan that appeared before you, their brown curls turning gold under Kephale’s dawn.

“He’s quite provocative, that Nousporist sage, don't you think so too?” Cerces spares you conversation, their voice honeyed with light teasing.

“Anaxagoras’ probably born to be spiteful, so I cannot fault him for such a character flaw, we all have one.”

“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?” Cerces states and heat furnaces upon your cheek at their bold claim. Before you can find some excuse to defend yourself, they spoke again.

“So is he to you. I’ve noticed that whenever you’re around, he’s reduced to a passive child. His tongue is barely glib when you try to put him in his place and the way those sharp eyes soften, oh it reminds me of my lover all too much. It’s an endearing exchange.”

Cerces spoke their affections and you could do nothing but listen to them with a credulous expression. Anaxagoras being endeared by you? You’d try to wrack your mind of instances where you capture such a manner, but all you can remember of him was his sassiness, his dullness, his casual dismissiveness. There was no softness, endearments, fondness.

Despite being called the Titan of reason, you find their reasoning hard to comprehend.

You wouldn’t have believed them, that is until you gaze back at Anaxagoras’ retreating form in the distance and watch him closely, and closely you watch when you catch him moving his hand that you held so closely,

Observing how he flexes his fingers by his side.

[colouredbyd]

Operation: Kidnap Sirius Black

poly!marauders x fem!reader

Summary: On the night Sirius Black tries to vanish, three hearts steal him away for a birthday he never asked for but always needed, one filled with warmth, laughter, and love he never thought he deserved.

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: not proofread, mentions of bad childhood, typical Black lore, self loath, lots and lots of fluff

Authors note: idk why this turned out to be this long...

masterlist

There are rules to loving Sirius Black.

The first is that you do not, under any circumstances, mention his birthday. Not in passing, not in jest, not even in the quiet, half-lit hours of the evening when he’s sprawled beside you with his head in your lap. You don’t say it when you press a kiss to his temple or when you catch him watching the moon with that faraway look he gets sometimes. You pretend, with almost painful devotion, that the day is like any other.

The second rule is that Sirius Black has the uncanny ability to detect a surprise from miles away. He can sniff out whispered plans and hidden presents like a bloodhound, and if he does, he will vanish with the kind of dramatic flourish that would make a Victorian ghost proud. Once, in fifth year, he avoided James’s entirely innocent “just us lads” birthday breakfast by hiding under the stairs with nothing but a stolen blanket, a flask of firewhisky, and a bitter scowl. He emerged a day later like some tragic orphan prince ( which he kinda is) and said, with deadpan sincerity, “I nearly died of excessive affection.”

The third rule is that none of that matters. Because loving Sirius Black means knowing that he pushes love away with both hands, only to fall apart when it’s given freely.

It means watching him light up when he thinks no one’s looking—when Remus absentmindedly runs fingers through his hair while reading, when James loops an arm around his shoulders without fanfare, when you look at him like he’s something holy. It means understanding that despite the leather jackets and loud laughter and relentless charm, Sirius is soft in ways he’s terrified to admit.

Which is why, obviously, the three of you are going to kidnap him.

“Yes,” James says between bites of toast, crumbs flying, “we kidnap him. Midnight. Sack over the head. Classic move.”

Remus looks up from his book with the slow, patient expression of a man who has survived many ridiculous plans and expects nothing less than full insanity before noon.

“Literal sack?” he asks, voice dry.

James nods eagerly. “We sneak into the dorm, throw it over him, and carry him out like some mystical offering to the gods of romance and good intentions.”

You set down your tea and raise an eyebrow. “You want to throw a bag over Sirius’s head and drag him into a surprise celebration of his birth?”

James beams. “Exactly!”

Remus sighs, folding the corner of his page. “You two are mad.”

But there’s the smallest curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The kind that means he’s already planning what poem he might read under the stars, something gentle and aching and quiet, something Sirius will pretend not to like even as he leans into it.

You glance between them, heart aching in the best possible way, and think that maybe this is what love looks like, plotting birthday kidnappings, stealing moments under moonlight, holding all of Sirius’s softness without asking him to hand it over.

And just like that, Operation: Kidnap Sirius Black is officially underway.

Planning a kidnapping, it turns out, is a surprisingly delicate affair, not just about stealth or timing or who gets to throw the sack over Sirius’s head (James insisted on this for far too long before being overruled), but about details, about love folded into every corner of the plan like a secret charm meant only for him.

“I’m just saying,” Remus starts carefully, perched on the edge of James’s bed like he’s conducting a seminar on criminal mischief, his notebook already opened to a fresh page titled OPERATION: STARRY DOG, “we can’t just burst in, throw a sack over his head, and drag him to the tower. We need finesse. He needs to feel… safe. Even if we’re, technically, kidnapping him.”

From the floor, where he’s sprawled like a fallen Quidditch poster boy, James groans and throws one arm over his eyes. “You all keep saying kidnapping like it’s not a love language.”

You smile faintly, curled up near the windowsill, your knees hugged to your chest in a blanket that still smells faintly of Sirius—cologne and firewood and ink. “I made him a cake.”

James bolts upright like he’s been electrocuted. “You what?”

You look down at your hands, suddenly shy. “It’s chocolate. The really dark kind, not too sweet. I layered it with spiced cherry preserve and this vanilla cream I stole from the kitchens, then topped it with sugared rosemary and little silver stars that melt on your tongue. It sparkles when it’s quiet, like the sky.”

There’s a beat of reverent silence, and then James exhales like he’s just been handed a sacred text. “I have never been more in love with you than I am right now.”

“Back off,” Remus says without looking up from his notes, “you had your turn on Tuesday.”

“I was talking about the cake.”

“No, you weren’t.”

You lean back, warm with quiet pride. “It’s hidden under seventeen preservation charms in my closet. I’ll bring it just before we go.”

Remus adds a new line to the plan, murmuring aloud as he writes. “Phase One: Cake secured. Phase Two: Distraction via James’ unbearable voice.”

James makes a face. “Unbearable? I’ll have you know I’ve been voted Most Charming Voice in Gryffindor.”

“By you. Three times.”

“It still counts.”

“And while you’re talking nonsense,” you interject gently, “Remus sneaks the wand out from under Sirius’s pillow, I toss the sack, and we Apparate him to the tower.”

“Blankets. Candles. Cake,” James counts off on his fingers. “And then—gifts.”

You pause, heart stuttering a little. “I made him something else too.”

Remus glances up, softening immediately. “What is it?”

You hesitate, then reach into the sleeve of your sweater and pull out a small box, barely big enough to fit in your palm. Inside, nestled in magical tissue, is a necklace—not gold or silver, but a long, dark ribbon threaded with charms you’ve carved and bound yourself. A small onyx dog. A sliver of red jasper for courage. A tiny vial filled with ash from the Gryffindor common room fireplace, sealed with wax. A music note. A miniature bell. A hollow star. And four hearts interlinked at the center.

“He always says he doesn’t belong to anyone,” you whisper, your voice quieter now. “I wanted him to have something that says he belongs to himself. To us.”

Remus doesn’t speak, just reaches across and touches your arm with such reverence that you feel like you might cry, and James, for once, says nothing—just nods, eyes suspiciously bright behind his glasses.

“I got him socks,” James says finally, like a confession. “But not just socks. I mean, they’re enchanted. They warm up when he gets anxious. They smell like cedar and bergamot. He won’t even notice they’re magic, but they’ll help. I had them made in Hogsmeade last month.”

Remus clears his throat and sets his notebook aside. “I—mine’s a bit strange.”

“You’re strange,” James says fondly.

Remus gives him a look. “I made him a book. It looks blank at first, but when you hold it, it writes itself. Letters. From us. From me. From you two. From future days, from nights we haven’t lived yet. Every time he opens it, there’ll be something. A new message. A memory. A reason to stay.”

You cover your mouth with your hand and blink hard.

“And I added one entry from Regulus,” Remus adds softly. “Just one. I thought… it might help.”

James is staring at him now, open-mouthed. “That’s… bloody brilliant.”

“I know.”

You breathe in slowly, letting it all settle—the gifts, the cake, the plan, the ridiculous affection swirling in this little room like a charm too strong to name.

But then you all smile, because you know—really know—that he’ll keep the necklace and wear the socks and trace the book with careful fingers and tuck the cake tin under his bed when he thinks no one is looking.

You know he’ll treasure it all.

You know that somewhere beneath all that bark and fire, Sirius Black wants to be loved so badly it nearly ruins him.

“He’s going to fight us,” James says after a long moment, lips twitching. “He’s going to swear, and glare, and threaten to hex my kneecaps.”

“He’ll be terrified,” Remus agrees. “But he’ll be loved. That’s what matters.”

You smile again, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Let’s make sure he knows it. In every possible way.”

James grins suddenly, that bright, reckless kind of grin that promises both trouble and triumph. “Alright, squad. We move at midnight. Cloak on. Cake in hand. Wand removed. Sack ready. Sirius Black has no idea what’s coming.”

“And thank Merlin for that,” Remus mutters, but even he’s smiling now, even he’s warmed by the thought of it—by the vision of Sirius blinking sleep from his eyes in the candlelight, baffled and bleary and utterly surrounded by the people who love him in ways he’s never dared believe were real.

You are hiding from Sirius Black and somehow that still feels like the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not so much a tactical retreat as it is a sacred ritual by now, the three of you—Remus, James, and yourself—folded into the narrow stairwell landing that overlooks the Gryffindor common room, cramped behind a tapestry that smells faintly of dust and forgotten lemon drops. 

Your knees are digging into the floorboards, your head is pressed lightly against Remus’s shoulder, and James is sprawled half on top of both of you with the easy recklessness of someone who’s never truly considered the possibility of discomfort. And just beyond the railing, just a few short steps away, is Sirius—long-limbed and lazily dangerous, draped across the couch in a position that defies both gravity and logic, flipping through a Quidditch magazine and occasionally scoffing aloud at the broom designs like they’ve personally offended him.

He has no idea what’s coming.

And it is, frankly, a miracle that none of you have burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“We’ve reached peak espionage,” James whispers, breath warm against your temple, eyes narrowed in that cartoonish way he does when he thinks he looks serious. “I should’ve brought my cloak.”

Remus gives him a side-eye. “We’d still be too loud. You stomp like a bloody centaur.”

“I stomp with purpose.”

“You stomp with your whole chest.”

You barely suppress your snort and nudge Remus with your elbow, earning a secret smile, small and quick and warm like a candle in winter. Outside, the sky is beginning to melt from gold to amethyst, the kind of slow-burn dusk that feels like it’s holding its breath. The castle is quiet in the way that only late afternoons can be, when the students have either vanished into books or broomsticks, and the world seems to stretch wide and long and waiting.

Your fingers are curled around the soft edge of the cake tin nestled in your bag, still faintly warm with charm-work, enchanted to carry the scent of cedarwood and cinnamon unless touched by someone with less than honorable intentions. 

You shift slightly and meet Remus’s gaze.

“Do you think he’ll cry?” you whisper.

Remus, who knows Sirius like no one else—knows the tilt of his jaw when he’s pretending to be brave, knows the sharpness of his tongue when he’s scared, knows the way his eyes soften when he thinks no one’s looking—tilts his head, thoughtful.

“He’ll protest,” he murmurs. “Maybe try to leave. Make a scene. But yes. Eventually. When he realizes it’s real.”

“He might punch me,” James adds brightly. “I’m sort of banking on it. Birthday punches are a tradition.”

“I don’t think Sirius has ever had a tradition that wasn’t laced with trauma.”

“Well, now he has one,” James says, proud, “called Getting Loved by Idiots Who Worship the Ground He Walks On.”

Remus sighs but doesn’t disagree.

A soft clatter from the common room makes you all freeze. Sirius has tossed the magazine onto the floor and is now sitting up, stretching like a cat, ribs sharp beneath his jumper, hair falling into his eyes as he rubs the back of his neck and mutters something under his breath. His face is unreadable from this angle, a little tired maybe, a little restless. He does that sometimes—sinks into silence without warning, like the weight of existing has suddenly crept back onto his shoulders and he’s just remembered it’s there.

You exchange a look with Remus. Then James.

It’s time.

But you don’t rush.

Instead, you move with care, with reverence, with the strange hush of people about to trespass into something holy. James stretches his limbs like he’s preparing for a dramatic dive into battle. Remus rolls his shoulders, muttering under his breath and flicking his wand in practiced arcs—charms for sound, for subtlety, for gentleness. And you reach into your pocket for the blindfold, soft and dark and worn from being held too tightly, too often, during too many rehearsals.

Your heart pounds, not from nerves but from anticipation, from the secret thrill of loving someone so fiercely that it bends the very air around you.

You don’t want this to be a joke.

You want it to be an offering.

You want him to feel how real it is.

James gives a soft nod, and then, like a switch has been flipped, he’s launching himself dramatically down the stairs and into the room.

“SIRIUS BLACK, YOU QUACK-HATTED IMBECILE,” he booms, arms flailing in the way only James Potter can truly pull off, “EXPLAIN TO ME, IMMEDIATELY, WHY THE WINDWALKER 500 SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO EXIST.”

Sirius startles so hard he nearly drops the glass of water he’s just conjured. “What the absolute fuck are you talking about—”

“IT DEFIES BASIC AERODYNAMIC THEORY,” James shouts, already halfway across the room and pointing like an angry professor, “AND THE HANDLE DESIGN IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY.”

“I will actually kill you.”

“YOU’LL TRY.”

And while the chaos unfolds in loud, gesturing glory, you and Remus slip in from behind, soft as secrets, quiet as breath, moving with practiced grace until you’re right there—close enough to see the confusion beginning to blossom across Sirius’s face, the way he turns half-toward the stairwell just as you step into his space.

“Hey, love,” you whisper, and before he can reply or protest or even frown, you press a kiss to his temple, and Remus slips the blindfold down over his eyes.

There’s a pause.

A heartbeat of stunned stillness.

Then—

“What the actual hell,” Sirius says, half-laughing, half-panicked, not quite moving but also not resisting, “what’s happening—why is it dark—why do you smell like frosting—”

“Because we love you,” you say simply, taking his hand.

“Because it’s your birthday,” James adds, circling back around and grabbing his other arm.

“Because you deserve a night that doesn't end in us getting kicked out,” Remus murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of Sirius’s head.

And somehow, despite the complaints and the muttering and the occasional threat of murder, Sirius lets you lead him out of the common room, barefoot and blindfolded and vaguely cursing in every direction.

He doesn’t know where you’re taking him.

But he follows anyway.

Because somewhere deep down, Sirius Black knows that love is the only thing that’s ever truly stolen him away.

You walk him slowly through the halls, careful not to let the candle slip from its charm or the silence crack too hard beneath your footsteps. Sirius is between the three of you, bracketed like a secret that refuses to break open, walking with the kind of reluctant trust that only exists when love has been proven more than once, when it’s survived the breaking and still chooses to stay.

His hands are in yours and James’s, callused fingers curling instinctively when he stumbles slightly over a stair, and behind him, Remus hums low beneath his breath, steady and close, a grounding presence that doesn’t need to speak to be heard.

You’ve rehearsed this more times than you’d admit. Not out loud. Not formally. But in half-sentences and half-gestures and mornings where you passed notes instead of toast. In glances over cauldrons. In the quiet of late-night library corners when you should’ve been studying but couldn’t stop sketching cake designs instead. 

The room you’re leading him to—your little borrowed haven on the seventh floor, the one with the charmed window that shows the stars regardless of the weather—has been glowing with waiting all day, filled with soft enchantments and glowing lanterns and the kind of magic that’s stitched more with memory than spellwork.

You pause before the door.

“Sirius,” you say, gentle, one hand smoothing down the edge of the blindfold, “we’re going to show you something now. If you want us to stop, we will. If you hate it, we’ll vanish. Just say the word.”

There’s a long silence. Then Sirius exhales, a sound that trembles slightly before it settles.

“Okay,” he whispers, and it’s not defiant, not snarky, not coated in armor. Just small. Just real. “Okay, go on.”

So you open the door.

And the moment it does, the room breathes for him.

It isn’t grand or overwhelming. It isn’t the kind of party the Black family would throw, with icy chandeliers and gold-trimmed plates and smiles sharp enough to cut through skin. No, it’s something else entirely—it’s candlelight dripping slowly in warm pools across wooden floors, soft music humming low from a wireless in the corner, the smell of cake and rosemary and cinnamon hanging like a memory across the air. 

There are blankets draped over every surface, mismatched and soft and lived-in. There’s a little table set with three mugs and one glass tumbler, because you know he prefers that. There are paper stars stuck across the ceiling, some of them spelled to twinkle, some of them wobbling slightly where James got too excited and glued them crooked.

It looks nothing like the world Sirius was born into.

And everything like the one he deserves.

You untie the blindfold slowly, your fingers brushing his hair, and the moment the cloth falls away, Sirius freezes.

He doesn’t speak.

His mouth parts like he might. Like he wants to ask what this is. Why? But he doesn’t, because you think he already knows, because he’s clever and broken and beautiful in that way that makes him flinch from kindness, like it’s something hot he forgot how to hold.

 His eyes flicker across the room in slow, stunned disbelief—landing on the cake first, then the gifts, then the trio of you, standing slightly too nervously close together.

“I—what…” he says, and then his voice breaks, just a little, and he swallows it down fast like he’s afraid it’ll betray him. “What is this?”

“It’s your birthday,” you whisper. “And you’re ours. So this is for you.”

“You hate your birthday,” Remus adds softly, stepping forward, “but we thought maybe you wouldn’t hate it if we did it like this. If we didn’t make it a celebration. Just… a love letter.”

“Love,” James says, shrugging, “and cake. Mostly cake. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, it might be eighty percent cake.”

Sirius lets out a choked laugh, the kind that sounds like it got lost somewhere on its way out of his chest. He rubs a hand over his mouth, blinking rapidly, and then his eyes fall on the cake you made, still warm, still dusted with silver sugar like the sky. 

It’s got five candles, not twenty. Because five is the number of fingers that brushed your cheek when you asked him what home meant. Because five is the number of stars you wished on the night before you loved him for the first time. Because twenty is too many and too loud and too close to the people who made him hate this day in the first place.

He walks toward it like it might disappear.

“You made this?” he says, voice hoarse.

You nod.

“It’s cherry and chocolate,” you murmur. “Because I know you pretend not to like sweets but you always sneak the last slice when you think no one’s looking.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just stares at the cake.

And then he stares at you.

And then, with a noise that sounds very much like surrender, he sits heavily on the floor.

“Oh, love,” Remus breathes, sinking beside him. “You okay?”

Sirius nods. Then shakes his head. Then laughs again, watery and sharp and aching.

“I just—I didn’t think anyone would… you know. Care enough to plan something like this. Let alone you lot. You’re all idiots.”

“We are,” James agrees, kneeling beside him, “but we’re your idiots.”

“Always,” you say, sliding in on his other side. “For as long as you’ll let us.”

Sirius leans into you like a tide, slow and steady, pressing his face to your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

The room holds the silence gently.

And then James reaches for the gifts.

“Right,” James says, voice just a little too chipper to be natural, like if he speaks quickly enough, none of them will notice how watery his eyes are. “Present time. Let’s do this before I start crying and ruin my reputation.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, already suspicious. “What reputation? You cried at that one Honeydukes ad. The one with the kneazle in the scarf.”

“That kneazle was cold,” James mutters, reaching under his chair for a dark parcel wrapped in deep blue paper that glimmers when it catches the light, like stars turning slowly behind a veil of clouds. “And also don’t change the subject. This is about you.”

He passes the package over. Sirius takes it carefully, eyebrows arched as he weighs it in his hands. “It’s not going to explode, is it?”

“Just open it, you dramatic git.” James laughs.

Sirius does, fingers dragging through the folds like he’s peeling back something fragile. Inside, he finds socks. Soft black wool, thick and warm-looking, folded with surprising care. They’re plain, mostly, but there’s a tiny red star embroidered on each cuff, small enough to miss unless you’re looking.

Sirius blinks. Then looks up at James.

James leans back on his elbows, smirking. “The finest socks in all of Britain. Possibly enchanted by the gods themselves. Who’s to say.”

Sirius stares at the socks for a long second, longer than he probably means to. He doesn’t speak, just runs his thumb once over the little red star stitched near the cuff, something unreadable blooming behind his eyes. 

Then, without warning, he sets them gently aside and steps forward, closing the space between them in two strides. No words, no jokes, no shields—just the quiet urgency of movement as he throws his arms around James and buries his face in his shoulder.

James stiffens at first, startled, his hands half-raised as if unsure what to do. But then he exhales, a soft breath against Sirius’s hair, and his arms come down slowly, wrapping around Sirius’s back like that’s where they’d always belonged. He presses one hand between his shoulder blades and just holds him, saying nothing, letting the quiet stretch and settle like dusk spilling across a windowsill. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Sirius mumbles.

“And you’re warm now,” James replies, quietly smug.

Next is Remus. He clears his throat and stands slowly, pulling a small, velvet-wrapped item from his bag. The green is soft and worn-looking, tied with a ribbon the color of smoke. He doesn’t hand it over immediately.

“I changed my mind about it three times,” Remus admits. “Almost didn’t give it to you at all.”

Sirius tilts his head. “Why not?” Remus shrugs one shoulder, eyes flicking away. “Because it’s not something you can unwrap all at once. It’s not flashy. It’s slow. And it asks you to stay.”

Remus holds it out with a quiet kind of care, as though it might break if he let it go too quickly. Sirius reaches for it without speaking, hands brushing gently against Remus’s, his expression unreadable but tender at the edges.

It’s a book, at least on the outside. Plain, unassuming. No title to boast its purpose, no gilded spine to catch the light. Just a deep, velvety cover the color of twilight, the kind of hue that settles between dusk and darkness, when the world forgets its sharpness. Sirius opens it with slow fingers, as though the contents might breathe if he turned the pages too fast.

Inside, nothing greets him. No letters, no sketches, only pale blank pages that seem to hum with waiting.

He lifts his gaze to Remus, puzzled but curious, and waits.

“It writes itself,” Remus says, quiet as falling snow. “Only when you're holding it. Letters. From us. From me. From James. From the versions of us we haven’t met yet. From mornings we haven't woken into and nights we haven't survived. The words come when you need them. A memory. A promise. A reason to keep going. It’s never the same thing twice.”

Sirius looks down at the book again, his thumb tracing the edge of a page, slow and deliberate. There’s something flickering behind his eyes now, not quite tears but something older, heavier.

Remus swallows, and when he speaks again, it’s barely more than a breath. “There’s one from Regulus. Just one. You don’t have to read it. I only thought… maybe one day, it might matter.”

Sirius doesn’t answer. His mouth twitches slightly, as though a dozen words are caught behind it, all of them too fragile to survive the air. Instead, he closes the book slowly, pressing it to his chest like something sacred, and then he steps forward without hesitation.

He gathers Remus into his arms, holding him tightly, as if to anchor both of them in the moment. Remus folds into him easily, one hand resting at the nape of Sirius’s neck, the other curling into the back of his jumper. For a while, they say nothing, and nothing is needed. The silence between them is soft and filled with the weight of everything they didn’t have to explain.

“Thank you,” Sirius breathes into his neck. “God, thank you.” Remus just squeezes him tighter.

Then it’s your turn.

Your gift is the smallest of all. The box fits neatly between your palms, wrapped in worn brown paper and tied with a length of twine, sealed carefully with a pressed wax star that gleams faintly in the light. You hold it out with both hands, as if offering something fragile.

“It won’t open unless you’re smiling,” you tell him, voice soft but unwavering.

Sirius raises an eyebrow at that, his eyes narrowing with the kind of fond suspicion he always gives you when he knows he’s about to lose a battle.

“That’s cheating,” he murmurs, though there’s a curl at the edge of his mouth already, something quiet and resisting.

You only tilt your head. “Smile or no gift,” you reply, and wait.

His lips curve, slow and reluctant and inevitable, like moonlight slipping through the edge of a curtain. The wax seal shimmers and releases with a gentle sigh of golden smoke.

He opens the box.

Inside lies a necklace. Not delicate in the traditional sense, but tender in its care, its meaning. A long ribbon, dark as stormy dusk and soft as memory, threaded with charms that each hold a story. A hand-carved onyx dog, polished to a gentle gleam. A sliver of red jasper for courage. A tiny vial of ash from the Gryffindor common room fireplace, sealed in wax the color of candlelight. A silver music note. A bell small enough to fit on the tip of a finger. A hollow star, weightless and glimmering. And at the center of it all—four tiny hearts, carved and bound together, impossible to untangle.

Sirius lifts the ribbon gently, letting it spill across his fingers like water. His thumb brushes the onyx charm, then the star, then the interlinked hearts. His hand trembles faintly, and for a moment he looks too young for everything he’s carried.

You step forward instinctively, unsure whether to say more—but before you can speak, he pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you with unexpected urgency, the necklace still cradled in one hand against your back. He presses his face into the curve of your neck, not saying a word, and you feel the breath he exhales there, uneven and quiet. You hold him back just as tightly, your heart beating too fast and too full, your hands buried in the soft folds of his shirt.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are glassy, but he’s smiling—truly smiling now, like it reaches all the way through him.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever given me something like this,” he says, voice thick with wonder. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I didn’t know I needed that until now.”

When he finally pulls back, he fastens the necklace around his neck. The ribbon settles against his collarbone, each charm catching the light like tiny memories.

Then he gathers all three of you close, pulling James and Remus into his arms again, and somehow makes room for everyone. They go without protest, folding into the hug like they’ve done it a thousand times, like they’ll do it a thousand more.

“Thank you,” he says, over and over, into your hair, into James’s neck, into Remus’s chest. “Thank you. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

And Remus kisses his temple. And James ruffles his hair.

And you, gently, press your hand to his heart.

“You don’t have to deserve it,” you whisper. “It’s yours.”

The candles have burned low by the time the cake is reduced to crumbs and the laughter has softened to hums and sighs and starlight. The gifts lie scattered around like petals, unwrapped and open and worn already. The room feels like a heartbeat now—slow and alive and familiar—and the windows show a sky that must be enchanted, because every star looks close enough to touch.

Sirius is curled in the middle of the pile of blankets, his head resting on your lap, hair soft and unruly beneath your fingers, legs tangled with James’s, whose arm is draped lazily across both their stomachs like he forgot how to let go. 

Remus leans against your side, a book half-open in his hand, though he hasn’t turned a page in what must be an hour. His eyes are closed. He’s not asleep. Just listening. Breathing in time with the rest of you. All four of you are pressed together like something sacred, something whole.

Sirius hasn’t said much for a while.

He’s been watching. Touching. Letting his fingertips run over your sleeve, James’s knuckles, the stitching of the green velvet that once held his bracelet. He’s quieter than usual, but not closed. Not locked away. It’s a stillness that feels new. Not the kind forged by fear or shame but the kind that grows when there’s nowhere to run, and no need to.

You trace soft shapes into his temple. A crescent moon. A star. A question mark.

“What are you thinking?” you whisper, because it’s quiet enough that whispers feel like the only right way to speak.

Sirius doesn’t open his eyes.

He lets out a breath like a song.

“I’m thinking I don’t remember the last time I felt like this wasn’t going to end.”

You don’t answer at first. Just let your hand move gently over his hair, threading through the strands, smoothing the corners of his restlessness like folding down a page in a well-loved book.

“It’s not going to end,” you say, not like a promise, but like a truth.

James shifts slightly, tightening his hold, and presses a kiss to Sirius’s ankle, almost absentmindedly. Remus hums low in his throat and lets the book fall to the floor with a soft thud.

“We’ll keep showing up,” he murmurs, voice drowsy and thick with affection. “Even when you hate it. Especially when you hate it.”

Sirius opens his eyes finally, grey and silver and wet with unshed things. He turns his face into your palm and breathes in, like maybe this is the first time in years he’s dared to believe the air was meant for him.

“Stars above,” he mutters. “You lot are such saps.”

“Only for you.” You smile.

There’s a long, warm pause. Sirius stares up at the ceiling. Then at the three of you. And you know he’s been building this moment for hours, stacking courage like bricks in his chest, trying not to let it fall apart before he reaches the words. You don’t rush him. You never have. So you wait. And the room breathes with you.

And then, so softly it barely lands on the air, he says it.

“I love you.”

His voice cracks on the last syllable. But the words don’t break. They don’t disappear. They settle. They root.

“We know,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his forehead, “we know.”

The silence after that is full, not empty. Sirius closes his eyes again, not to hide, but to rest, to finally let go. His breathing evens out slowly, and for once it’s not the sleep of exhaustion or escape but of peace. You stay like that, all four of you curled together in the soft, glowing dark, the charm on your pendant warm against your heart, the stars flickering gently above like they’re watching a story that ends better this time.

And outside the window, the sky keeps shining.

Because love, when given freely, never needs to be loud.

It just needs to be true.

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── OAKWOOD PUB ♫

...or rafe fucking reader in a bathroom.

✮ pairing .ᐟ pogue!reader x fuckbuddy!rafe

✮ summary .ᐟ meeting up with rafe after your gig when you’re horny.

✮ warnings / tags .ᐟ smut, MDNI! unprotected piv, drug use wc: 1.1k

✮ author's note .ᐟ i wrote this AGES ago but never posted it on my former acc… but i edited it a bit and decided to post it as a part of my 3k celebration.

3K MASTERLIST ✮ RAFE MASTERLIST

rafe didn't know what to expect when he had woken up to a text you had sent him only minutes earlier, his mind still groggy with sleep and his morning wood pressing against the fabric of his boxers. he rubbed at his eyes, trying to make sense of the message you had sent.

cum 2 oaks @ 9pm

he scoffed at the absurdity of you telling him where to be and when, especially the dump you were trying to get him to come to. of course, he knew what you meant when you referenced 'oaks', also known as the oakwood pub, a sleazy, rundown bar in the cut that was filled every weekend with every lowlife living in the area, and apparently that included you. rafe rolled his eyes, before typing out a response.

not happening. not coming to that shithole just for some pogue pussy.

yet, there he was, at 8:55pm, walking into the crowded bar, surrounded by old drunks, some local band playing on the stage while his ears simply blurred it out along with the noise that came from the other patrons, his eyes trying to find you amongst the sea of strangers, mostly consisting of men his father's age or even older; but he couldn't seem to find you.

he finally looked to the stage with an irritated scowl on his face, only to be met with your grinning face as you stood there, in front of a microphone, singing to the crowd.

your body swayed to the music, your eyes closed as if you were being controlled by something other than yourself, like your entirety drowned into the song you were singing. your bandmates basically melted into the background, but when it came to you, it was as if you owned that stage, like you owned the entire bar, your voice so melodic that it managed to drown out all the chatter of the other patrons.

"thanks everyone for listening." you said with a husky voice after the song came to an end, pushing your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss on one of your bandmates' cheek, the same girl handing you a flask that you took a big chug out of.

without even realizing it, rafe had started nearing the stage, and you spotted the boy from the corner of your eye, gesturing towards the bathrooms. he made his way to the empty men's bathroom as you exchanged words with your bandmates for a moment, joining him moments after in the men's bathroom.

"why did you-"

you cut him off by pressing your lips on his, guiding him to one of the stalls, tugging the door closed without caring about the thud it made, your hands behind your back as your fingers worked to lock the door while your lips were focused on his.

he pulled away breathlessly, his pupils now much bigger than the blue of his eyes as he looked down at you, his semi-hard cock pressing against you. "why did you call me here?" he managed to ask.

"i get really horny after shows. don't read into it.''

he grinned, and you pushed him to sit on top of the toilet before straddling him, connecting your lips with his as if you hadn't eaten in days and he was your favorite meal.

his hands were all over you, rafe's hands dipping below the hem of your top, making their way up to your tits, his eyes widening slightly when he realized you hadn't worn a bra, a grin on his lips as you slowly pulled your lips away from his.

you stood up, rafe's gaze following your hands as you slowly took off your black lacy panties from underneath your skirt and put it in one of his pockets, leaving the rest of your clothes on as you bit down on your lower lip.

"you cool if i do a line?" he asked, pulling a bag of coke out of the pocket of his jeans, the boy already preparing to pour some onto the toilet lid.

"go ahead, but i wouldn't recommend doing it off of that. sage, my bandmate, did that once, and she got a weird ass cold for two weeks. don't recommend it."

rafe scoffed, shaking his head, "then where should i do it? your tits?" he asked, fully jokingly. but you couldn't resist the temptation.

you straddled his lap once again, now without any panties, pulling your top down slightly to reveal more of your breasts, a small grin on your face. "go ahead."

and it didn't take too long until rafe had a hundred-dollar bill rolled up, snorting a line of coke off your heaving tits as you looked down at him, a part of you enjoying how almost vulnerable he was in that moment before he threw his head back, your lips attaching themselves to his neck before he pulled your face back, rubbing the remaining coke into your gum, a soft moan leaving your lips as he was rubbing your clit with his other hand.

"you look like a dick when you wear this..." you murmured, taking his backward cap and placing it on your own head, rafe almost laughing as he pulled down his jeans along with his boxers, his cock straining hard in front of you.

"you ready?" he asked with a grin, guiding his cock right below your entrance.

"shut up." you scoffed, placing your lips on his as you let yourself sink down on it, the feeling of every inch of his cock sucked in by your warm, inviting cunt making you moan, but a part of you didn't want him to know how much pleasure he was giving you, didn't want him to give the satisfaction to know just how much you wanted it.

"this is so that no one catches us..." you mumble, your mind hazy, taking his hand and bringing it to cover your mouth while you start getting yourself off on his perfect cock, moving your hand to your cunt, starting to draw circles on your own clit.

rafe's eyes roll back as you ride him, but you don't pay any attention to him, one of his hands still covering your mouth and the other one was on your hips, almost as if he was trying to pull you closer, both of your heads thrown back in ecstasy, lost in the feeling of fulfillment. he pushes two of his fingers into your mouth and you comply, sucking them in deeper, moaning around them as you move your hips up and down on his cock as you felt the tufts of hair at the back of his neck.

the sloppy thrusts slowly turned into more precise ones and you felt the tip of his cock kiss that sweet, spongy spot inside of you each time and you sped up the small circles you were drawing on your own clit, feeling yourself getting closer, the band in your stomach getting close to snapping.

"i'm-"

and before you could even utter the full sentence out, you were clenching around him and creaming on rafe's cock, your thoughts floating to the way rafe's jaw had slackened when he saw you singing on stage, the boy now groaning as he felt your pussy clench around his cock.

and when you felt him spill his warm load in you in spurts, gasps and small whimpers escaping his lips as you let him ride out his orgasm in you, you knew that you had as intense of an effect on the insufferable kook as he had on you.

[leyavo]

| Genus | 3

Part three. Previous parts > [Bug masterlist] (I just keep thinking of this)

Bugs get crushed, so mind where you go. Wouldn’t want to step on you.

It had been drilled into your head since you’d earned the call-sign, Bug. Sure the names were never something nice, but yours was given you to remind you of your place. That no matter how good you were, there was always someone bigger trying to crush you.

So you tried your best to stay under the radar, never going above and beyond what ever orders were sent your way.

After one particular training session though, Captain Price pulled you aside. The guys winding down on the opposite side of the training ground, stretching their aching limbs. Roach, however trails close by as if he’s trying to listen in.

“Are you a dog or a bug?” Price said, his hands raising to cross over his chest.

You tense, bracing for his knuckles to drive into your shoulder, but nothing.

“What am I, Captain?” You don’t even bother picking from the lot, knowing that he’ll tell you exactly what you are either way.

Is this the question he’ll ask each time you do something he’s not fond of? Or whenever you mess up. Just like your previous captain asked you, what are you? Are you to say you’re a dog now? Someone made just to follow orders no matter the task.

Anything to make your life a little easier. You’re tired of trying to dodge your superiors anger and let them have at it.

The Captain sighs, dabbing the sweat dripping down his brow with the cuff of his fleece. “I don’t want ya to be a dog, there’s more to this task force than following my orders, Bug.”

You’re not sure if this is some kinda test, something for you to slip up on. So you remain silent, waiting for him to tell you what he really thinks. Used to the verbal lashings from anyone superior to you.

“Why do you think I put you with Roach?”

He’s hard to kill. Hard to kill, that’s why you’re with him. Someone to drag you out if you ever fuck up. Your gaze wanders to Roach and he looks away as soon as your eyes connect with his. Turning his attention the dirt beside his boot, toeing the gravel beneath it.

“He’s good at thinking on his feet, adapting and bending the rules in his favour to get the job done. He listens to his orders, but is also in tune with the variables around the situation.” The Captain’s voice lowered, he’d never outright compliment Roach as he gets a mixed bag of emotions. Doesn’t want to add to the weight he already carries, so Price leans in for just you to hear.

He knows his team, knows who needs encouragement or praise, but also knows that sometimes it’s not always practical.

A pat on the back and a nod of the head from the Captain is enough for Roach.

“You want me to ignore a direct order, Captain?”

“No,” he scoffs, “I want you to embellish them, think of them as a guideline. The nitty gritty details are down to you, Bug.” The captain lifts his hand, but drops it deciding not to give you a reassuring pat on the arm. He balls his fist and shakes it, a symbol for strength.

“Yes, Captain.” You watch him walk across the training ground, falling in line with Ghost as they make their way back to the main building. Soap and Gaz have disappeared, just a lone Roach kicking the gravel a couple feet away from you.

Your legs tremble, the last few training drills settling in your aching muscles. The sun burns your scalp and coats a thin layer of sweat all over you. You don’t care how you look though, your knees crashing to the ground. The shuddering rise and fall of your chest, faltered breaths easing as a flask wiggles in front of your face.

Roach’s gloved hand grasping the neck of the flask. “Tougher than we seem us bugs,” he said, crouching down in front of you and poking your t-shirt. He lifts his finger, showing a red little lady bug perched there before it flies off.

You’re a bug, not a dog.

[Next part]

Bug’s still trying to figure out what type of Captain John Price is and doesn’t have a past superior who was good to compare him to. So she’s thinking the worse (which is what she’s used to).