#Wrath of The Dark Curse

[cassianandfenrysaremyboyos]

A fictional man: *is dark haired, morally grey, has a traumatic past and a teasing grin*

Me:

[i-only-see-daylight]

Emilia: Go to hell! 

Wrath: Where do you think I come from?

[etruatcaelum]

On Semblances.

As this post mentions, neither Salem nor Ozma have ‘true’ ancient magic anymore: her immense power derives from the pools of light and darkness, and when Ozma created the maidens, they sacrificed their divine gifts but awakened their aura. Both now wield powers functionally identical to the aura and dust-based magic of modern humans; the sole difference between them and ordinary humans is vastly greater experience and, in Salem’s case, the interaction between her infinite aura and her grimmness.

(That is the subject for another post, but in essence grimm flesh and atrum ‘burn’ aura and this reaction can be controlled and channeled just like dust; Salem, who is grimm, uses this to her advantage to mimic ‘true’ magic.)

And, because their ‘magic’ is really just aura trained to a level beyond what any mortal could achieve in a single lifetime, both of them do have semblances.

Salem’s semblance is less an outward projection of her self than an inward one. It developed through the slow reconstruction of her mind and soul after a long period during which she had no sense of identity and was just kind of mindlessly dreaming all the time; her semblance sparked from the need to become whole and to know herself again. What it does, in essence, is immanentize her thinking.

Think method of loci, but crystallized from the imaginary construct into a real, tangible place—in a sense, the interior of her soul, her semblance, is a realm. Not one anything like as vast or complicated as Remnant or the Ever After, but quite a bit larger and more intricate than the vaults, and accessible only through doors she chooses to open.

It’s how she keeps herself sane and also why her sense of identity and conviction are so unshakable in the present: Salem knows herself extremely well and nearly everything that defines who and what she is, she made a deliberate choice to include as a fundamental part of herself. She is capable of change—and in fact capable of changing herself very rapidly and easily, once she decides to do so—but she cannot be forced or coerced or compelled or worn down or manipulated into it. Because the only way she can change is for her to literally disassemble and reassemble parts of herself and her semblance will not let her do that if she doesn’t truly want it to.

Ozma doesn’t know that they even have a semblance, because their semblance fluctuates from one life to the next; they believe the permutations of their own semblance have all been semblances taken from the lives they steal. What’s actually going on is that their very fragile sense of self gave them a semblance that lacks clear definition because it has yet to be fully-realized. It warps and bends and molds itself into the hollowed-out masks of every host, then loses that shape once those masks crumble again to expose Ozma.

There are, however, some constants:

The base essence of their semblance is remembrance and accretion of time. It’s the grasping for another chance and the tearing pain of almost and the venom of what if and maybe then and it wasn’t supposed to happen this way all rolled into one. It’s the aching possibility on the trailing edge of a mistake. Often, it takes the form of small-scale temporal manipulation: with Ozpin, it became an ability to ‘skip’ a second or two here and an idle moment there and ‘save up’ that time to spend all at once, squeezing several minutes worth of action into a single fraction of a second. (<- Ozma still has this ability and Oscar can tap into it for a while, but after the events of V8 it fades as their self-identification as Ozpin disintegrates.)

As themself—once freed from their curse and restored to live as their own person—their semblance is effectively only half-formed: not quite latent, but not truly manifested either. They will need to find themself and know themself before they’re able to fully bring it out. In its true, unalloyed form, Ozma’s semblance is unbinding: the breaking of chains, the opening of doors, the snipped thread of fate to unleash boundless possibility.

In less poetic terms, they will be able to reach back and bring forward the moments when what is now became inescapable. Nothing can be undone, nothing erased: the past cannot be unwritten, but what they can do is create a second chance to rewrite the future, whether by literally making a new possibility that didn’t exist before or by cutting through whatever beliefs or rationalizations a person clings to to pretend that they have no other choice.

Their fully-realized semblance will turn inward and confront them whether they like it or not; toward other people it is entirely under their control. (<- It is also quite likely the one thing capable of reaching into Salem’s head and shaking the foundations of her self, by drawing out her line of reasoning for committing to those choices and asking her to walk those paths anew, decide again.)

Oscar does not have a semblance and will not have a semblance until he’s separated from Ozma. If the integration were completed he would eventually produce a new permutation of Ozma’s, but it wouldn’t in any meaningful sense belong to Oscar, because Oscar as an individual would, for all intents and purposes, be dead.

But once he’s separated from Ozma, and once he sorts out who he is and who he wants to be outside of the looming existential dread of becoming Ozma, he’ll be able to discover his semblance.

(<- Also his aura, when not subsumed by Ozma’s, will turn out to actually be orange. Like a pumpkin. Because his Ozian allusion isn’t Tip OR Dorothy, it’s Jack Pumpkinhead)

Oscar’s semblance is… essentially, a hyper-specialized form of empathy: he can take the words people say and unfold them to reveal the things they mean, the feelings they’re trying to express but can’t communicate clearly, and then find the words to articulate those things back. He’s an interpreter, not of language but of emotions. He’s able to very quickly talk through to the heart of a problem, and he’s preternaturally good at listening in a way that makes people feel seen and heard. It also has the side effect of making him almost impossible to lie to.

Even with Ozma in his head, there are traces of this latent ability eking through to the surface—his determination to connect with Ironwood throughout V7, his intuitive sense for what to say to Hazel and Emerald to earn their trust, and even earlier, his realization that Ozpin is lying and his ability to break through long enough to spill Jinn’s name: these are all inklings of what could be, if not smothered by Ozma’s curse.

That sort of rising-to-the-surface is very rare among Ozma’s hosts. With Oscar, it’s happening partly because he’s fighting so hard to hold on for as long as he can, partly because his upbringing gave him a pretty strong sense of identity to begin with, and partly because the nature of his semblance itself resists falsehood and obfuscation. Latent though it is, it still gives him a firm place to stand when he pushes back and asserts himself against Ozma’s resignation. This struggle also has the effect of deepening the potential of his semblance—in effect, training it before it even properly manifests—so that once he’s free and it emerges fully he gets in tune with it fast.

[thefatalflawexists]

[minthy-fresh]

For Laira: stillness, roots, hair?

Heyo! Thanks for the ask!!

stillness: How does your OC act while still? Are they fidgety? Do they have any common gestures or tics? Does their clothing affect how they hold themselves while at rest?

She have a tendency to cross her arms when she's standing still, holding a dagger in her hand. She's not really what I would call fidgety, but more cognizant of her surroundings and looking around. When she's really deep in thought, she will often look to the sky and tilt her head, sometimes closing her eyes to concentrate. She'll also tap her fingers on her arms when she's not holding a dagger. The inquisitor outfit that she wears help give her more confidence and allows her to be less likely to holding daggers, as she will be able to get them out pretty quickly!

roots: Is your OC's look inspired by any specific style of clothing or fashion trend? What are the roots and/or inspiration for their look?

I remember looking at the inquisitor robes and immediately really liking the outfit and designing based off that. Her look was honestly more inspired off of colors more than any particular fashion trend, but I think her look is inspired by a mix of combining Van Helsing and Dracula, but less noble than what Alucard wears. She would fit pretty well into a Curse of Strahd/Ravenloft kind of game.

hair: How does your OC wear their hair? Does it have some kind of meaning?

She wears her hair incredibly long and ties it back during the heat of battle in stressful situations! She used to have it in a pixie cut back during her time in the temple she was raised to better fit the hat that she was required to wear, but she hated how it felt. She now wears it long and she feels vastly more comfortable in it, and she views it as choosing how she follows her faith in her own way instead of the extremes of her temple.

[halfblood045]

Monsters could be created but never tamed

kingdom of the feared

[shadowglens]

shadowheart leaving shar behind being the thing that helps cress leave bhaal behind i'm 😭

[fairysluna]

the wolf's cage.

After being captured by the Northerns, you found yourself with the Lord of Winterfell whose strange politeness makes you doubt his true intentions.

MASTERLIST

PAIRING — Cregan Stark x Wildling!Reader.

TAGS — smut (p in v, m!oral, spanking, use of the word whore, face fucking, hate sex(?, dirty talk, degrading/praise, belly bulge), cursing, mentions of war, blood and bruises, kind of enemies to lovers, dilf!cregan, and idk if this counts as dark!cregan but I'll add it just in case. If something is missing let me know!

AUTHOR'S NOTE — it's the first time that i write smut after a very long time, and i wrote this in a rush, so it's not perfect but i loved it anyway bc i fell in love with this trope. Reader is loosely based on Osha from GoT. REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOMED.

WORD COUNT — 5.3k. (oh damn)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤenglish is not my first language.

“We found her close to the Godswood,” one of the men said. “She was hiding and preparing herself to kill, my lord.” 

Cregan walked slightly closer to you, his curiosity peaking when he noticed how small you looked curled up in a corner of your cell, covered by thick pieces of fur. Your face was stained with dirt and dried blood. His men had told him you were a menace, but after looking at you, he didn't believe it. 

“She seems harmless,” he pointed out, kneeling beside you. 

“She is not, my lord. She's responsible for the death of three of our men,” the same man explained. They were all in combat position; holding the hilt of their swords just in case you would dare to attack their leader. Cregan, however, seemed to be unafraid, getting closer to you and trying to see more of you. He was certainly intrigued.

How was a young girl like you able to kill a group of ruthless men? 

He raised his hand and gently pulled a strand of your hair out of your face; he saw a scar on your cheek and a cut on your lip. Then, you met his eyes with yours. Your cold and mercenary haze did little to intimidate him. You were finally in the presence of the man you hated the most; the man who had killed your people in cold blood. He could see your wrath burning through your haze, and he understood it. 

With his thumb, he removed the drop of blood that was dripping from your lip — a soft touch that felt so foreign to your skin. He attempted to do it again, but you moved your face away and he knew it was enough. With a sigh, he stood up casting a large shadow over your smaller frame; you looked down at the floor, ignoring his penetrating stare on you before he turned around and walked out of the cell. 

“Tell a maid to give her a bath, then bring her to the dining room,” he ordered. 

“My lord, I don't think-”

“Tell the cooks to make a meal for two, and tell a maid to keep Rickon out of my room tonight,” he abruptly interrupted him, the guard was left in surprise. 

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I do not think it’s a good idea at all,” The maester advised him, talking in whispers so you would not hear a word. “I believe that being in a room alone with that savage would put your life at risk. We cannot afford that, not when we're in the middle of an imminent war.” 

Cregan turned to give one more look at you before one of the guards locked your cell again. You looked so fragile, and you were probably starving after spending days in the merciless Winter cold. He knew you would not be such a threat in such a condition, so he did not follow his loyal Maester’s advice.

“The decision has been made,” he spoke as he started to walk away from the dungeons. The old man quickly followed his pace. 

“I would advise you to make some double thinking about your decision-” 

“Are you questioning my methods?” His voice came out low and slow, but it carried a bit of an intimidating undertone that was easy to catch. The Maester took a step back when his superior turned around; his Lordship was an imposing man, tall and with wide shoulders and some grey eyes that would pierce through your soul. Lord Stark was a kindhearted man, but whenever he was angry he was unrecognisable. 

And the Maester trembled when he saw a small glimpse of his anger. 

“Of course not, but it is my duty as your advisor to give you the best options… risking your life it's certainly not.” 

“That girl is craving for a meal, I will not let her starve,” he grunted. “Besides, I might steal some valuable information from her. She's just a girl, and she's unarmed. She will do no harm.” 

The old man simply nodded, knowing that it was a lost battle and not having the guts to continue to defy his lord. Cregan cleared his throat, repeated the instructions and then turned around to leave his men behind. They shared confused looks, doubting his plan and how unusual it was for him to have mercy with the people of your kind. This new and sudden sympathy towards you raised suspicion among the northern guards, but they were all too afraid to speak up. 

They just obeyed the orders of their Lord. 

Cregan was tapping his fingertips against the table, patiently waiting for your arrival as he was blankly staring at his half-empty cup of wine. The only sound that was heard was coming from the fireplace, and the rest of the room was deadly silent. He was wondering how much time would it take for you to arrive when two guards opened the door, and two others were carrying you inside. They were grabbing your arms, tight enough to leave a bruise behind. Cregan stood up the instant you showed up, and, with a slight nod from him, you were freed from their grip. 

Lord Stark took the time to look at you, shamelessly glancing at every inch of your body. He noticed how your skin was glowing now, freed of any stain or impureness on your face, except for that scar on your cheekbone that seemed to be quite recent. Regardless of that, you were such a sight for his eyes, so pretty and young and fierce all the same. The glow in your eyes was still yelling your hate for him and, somehow, that would make you even more appealing to him. He followed the trail down your neck and found your bossom being squeezed by the dress which looked a bit too small for you, but that fit your body like a glove; shaping your curves and enhancing them, he had to take a deep breath after seeing you. 

All the beauty that was previously hidden under thick layers of clothes and dirty hair and face was now starting to show.

“You can leave now,” he indicated to the guards. They nodded and followed his orders immediately. 

Once they were alone, Cregan pointed at the chair on the other side of the table, inviting you to take a seat. You were reluctant, staring at the large amount of food with distrust; you thought this was a trap, no one ever invites their foes to supper. You did not obey him at first, standing still in your place, using a pair of borrowed shoes that were almost crushing your feet and making you feel like walking on burning coal. 

You knew one thing for sure; you needed to get out of there as soon as you could. Or, better yet, you had to kill that man. 

“Please, be seated,” he spoke so softly and politely that you could not believe it. It was so blatantly obvious. “The pork it's better when it's warm.” 

A glance at the table and you saw your plate already served; this did nothing but increase your mistrust. However, you walked towards the spot, slowly and with your guard up. The sound of your shoes clacking on the wooden floor as you made your way to your seat until you finally sat. 

Then, a silence fell over the room. Cregan's eyes seemed to never look away from you as he raised his cup and brought it to his lips. You nervously played with your cup, already filled with wine. 

“I gave myself the liberty to fill your cup,” he said. 

Besides that, your plate was full of beans, pork, carrots and mashed potatoes. Everything was already cut into tiny pieces, and only then did you realize you only had a spoon; no knife, and no fork. 

“Is wine not of your taste?” Cregan asked after your long silence. “Would you rather have some ale? or juice?” 

Nothing came out of your mouth. Cregan was losing his little patience, but he knew better and he stayed calm. Upsetting you would only make things worse. 

“You might be wondering why I spared your life today,” he started, attempting a two-sided conversation. “If you were any other, your head would be in a spike by now… but you might be useful for us.” He made a pause, sipping his wine so delicately and manly. Then he added, “For me.”

Again, no answer. 

“I believe you have valuable information that would help us to understand your people better,” he explained, trying to sound likeable and friendly, even giving you a warm smile. “Maybe that way we'll understand your reasons.” 

“Why would I give information to the one who's murdering my people?” You finally spoke. 

Cregan heard your thick northern accent and a smile was drawn on his face. He hid the gesture by grabbing his fork and knife and cutting a piece of meat before putting it inside his mouth. You realized that contrary to you, he had a knife; you wondered how you could reach it without him noticing.

“Ah, so you can speak,” he claimed, cheerfully. “For a moment I thought you were mute.” 

“I am not,” you grunted.

“You could stop an imminent war, you know?” He continued the previous conversation. “Save the lives of your people, avoid a bloodbath.” 

“You are the only one causing those things, my lord,” the mocking tone in your voice when you uttered the last two words was obvious. “This war carries your name.” 

“You are the ones taking over our lands,” he debated. 

“We're escaping,” you snapped. “You have no idea what's beyond that wall. You and your men would do the same in our position.” 

“And what is it that's up there with all of you?” 

“You wouldn't believe my words. You'll have to see it.” 

He hummed, not convinced at all. He leaned back on his chair. 

“How did you get that scar on your face? It looks quite recent,” he slightly narrowed his eyes. 

“An accident while climbing the wall,” you simply explained, not wanting to give out too many details. 

“When did you cross it?” 

“A few weeks ago.” 

“And what have you been doing all this time?” 

“I already told you… trying to survive.” 

Cregan clicked his tongue, sipping his wine once more and letting the topic go. “You haven't touched your food,” he pointed out. “Nor your wine. The cooks work hard on this food.” 

“I'm not hungry.” 

“It's not poisoned,” he let you know as if you would believe his mere words. “If I ever kill you it wouldn't be with a drop of venom, that it's not an honourable way to murder your opponent.” 

“Honour,” you repeated with a mocking tone. 

“Does that word sound funny to you?” 

“It does when it's you saying it,” you muttered, clenching your jaw. “You have the blood of innocents in your hands, you have no honour.”

The tense environment was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Soon, a small child entered the room and ran towards Cregan; it was his son, his spitting image standing right next to him. His weakness. You looked closely, and you noticed how Lord Stark's demeanour was briefly replaced by a softer one when he held his child in his arms, only to get angry again when one of the maids walked in rushing behind the boy. You were observant, and then quickly an idea of escape lighted up your mind. 

“I apologize, Lord Stark,” the maid murmured, shaking and breathing unevenly. “Little Rickon wanted to say goodnight and he ran away from his chambers-” 

“Don't let it happen again,” he stopped her before she could go on with her explanations that were of little interest to his Lordship. “Just take him to bed, and don't let this happen again.” 

“Yes, my lord.”

He kissed the child's forehead and hugged him one last time before the maid pulled his arm and took him away. The boy was looking back at his sire with saddened eyes as he walked, and once he was out of sight, Cregan was back to his tough facade. However, you knew new information, and now you knew exactly how to manage to escape.

“Was that your child?” 

“Indeed,” he nodded. 

“Beyond the wall, children are taught to fight and hunt from a very young age,” you randomly told him. “Does he know how to do that?” 

“He's still learning.” 

“How old is he?” 

“We are not here to talk about my child,” he snapped, growing impatient with each passing second. 

You stopped, only for a brief second to let it rest and prepare yourself for the next thing. The suddenness of your next question left him speechless.

“Where's his mother?” You noticed how he tensed, clenching his jaw and forming a fist with his hand. There it is. “Is she around?” 

His silence gave you the answer you were expecting, you had to hold back a smile.

“Let me guess,” you murmured, “Childbirth?” 

His fist smacked against the table and you noticed how all the plates jumped due to the impact. He stood up, fuming, all the kindness and politeness vanishing from his body as he lost his patience with you. Yet, you did not seem fazed by his roughness, you barely flinched. You stood up too and slowly started to walk around the table, to get closer to him. 

“I bet your nights might be lonely now that you've lost your wife,” A false tone of empathy was heard in your voice as you kept taking step after step. “Does your bed feel empty at night?” 

“That's enough,” he growled. 

“You dressed me, bathed me and fed me… perhaps you're trying to convince me to stay by your side,” you deduced, using your seduction skills to distract him from the fact that you were getting closer to the knife on the table. “Is this your intention? To make me yours? To turn me into your whore?” Your voice lowered itself a few tones, getting raspier and more seductive.

You reached his side, his eyes were stuck on your face as his breathing was starting to get faster with each second. You saw his jaw, sharp as the knife you were trying to grab, and tensed as he tried to hide his growing arousal. Of course, he has noticed your attributes before, and of course, he had secretly —and shamelessly— fantasized about ripping your dress to see what was underneath, but now your words would only make his struggle grow. 

Perhaps the Maester was right. Perhaps this was a bad idea. 

“Have you heard what they say about the women from the Free Folk?” You were teasing him, boldly raising your hands until they went to his thick coat and untied it; it fell around his leather shoes, and only a thin shirt was beneath it. Your eyes glanced at him, noticing the chest hair on his skin as your hands felt the hardness of his abdomen; years of training with the sword had certainly made its effect. “People say we're difficult to handle, but that we fuck like goddesses. Wouldn't you want to try it out?”

One of your hands travelled lower and lower until it was able to feel the shape of his growing cock in your palm and through his pants. A winning smile appeared on your lips. His growing lust did not allow him to see the moment when your hand took the knife. Luckily for him, his reflexes were quite fast, and he was able to stop your hand right before you almost stabbed his neck. Your eyes widened as he grabbed your wrist and turned your body around, slamming you against the table. He pressed himself against you, your dress now ruined with the food beneath your frame. 

Cregan's hand grabbed a big portion of your hair and pulled it back, roughly, forcing you to arch your back. You could not help but whimper due to the pain in your skull. His breathing soon reached your neck and caused shivers down your spine; it smelled like wine. 

“You little whore,” he mocked you, “you thought you could've killed me?” 

His voice was completely different to the one you have heard before; it was almost like a growl, so deep, slow and hoarse. You would be lying if you said you did not find it amusing. His touch was rough and lacking the gentleness and delicacy that it had hours ago when he wiped the blood off of your lip. 

“It was worth the try,” you breathed out, laughing at him when you felt his arousal pressing against your arse. 

“What's so funny, huh?” he grunted, pulling you harder and making you hum. “I could kill you right here, right now,” he threatened. 

“But you won't,” you murmured. 

“That's right,” he mumbled, breathing in your scent. Even after taking a bath you still smelled of pine tree, it was an intoxicating smell. “I will prove your word first. Let's see if the wildlings whores fuck like goddesses, mhm?” 

Your eyes widened when you felt his hand freeing your hair and going towards the skirts of your borrowed dress. He lifted them, holding them in place on your waist behind your back. He saw how your pussy was already starting to glisten with your arousal, even when he had barely touched you beforehand. His cock twitched inside his pants when he noticed that all of this was because of his rough touch. 

You filthy slut, he thought. 

You heard a soft stump on the floor as his pants fell down his thick legs. It did not take too much time for you to feel his leaking tip brushing against your folds, spreading them open and smearing your slick all over it. You had to bite your lip, holding back a gasp as he teasingly rubbed against your clit; this was certainly not what you were expecting, but it felt good enough to make you want more. 

Slowly, he started to make his way inside you, grabbing your arsecheeck with his free hand and spreading it only to see your needy cunt taking him. Cregan gasped, your soft walls were wrapping around him perfectly, squeezing him just right and creaming all over him. He hummed in delight as he felt your legs already starting to shake. Gods, he was big, stretching you out as of you were a fucking maiden, providing you with that sweet pain that made your eyes close. 

When he was halfway in, he pushed himself all in with a single thrust. His head touched that sweet, spongy spot inside of you. “Fuck!” you cried out, involuntarily spreading your legs further, at the same time your hands pushed all the plates and cups away from your side. It all ended up spilt on the floor. 

He remained there for a few seconds, still inside of you and not moving an inch. Cregan's hand reached for your hair once again, pulling it back until your back was pressed against his chest and his lips were brushing against your ear. His breathing was ragged and unsteady; his tongue licked his lips as they started to get dry. You were able to feel him, his veins pulsing inside of you as he would twitch each time you clenched around him. Cregan hummed against your ear. 

Without warning, his hips started to move and your legs suddenly felt as weak and giggly as jelly. Your hands gripped the border of the table as his movements started to increase his pace. He was filling you up so good, so deep. You found yourself murmuring senseless words as you slowly started to lose your mind, which was a weird thing for you; you would usually be the one in charge. 

Though you did not mind submitting to him for a while. All your morality was soon gone, and all thanks to the man whose cock was good enough to make you forget about how much you hated him.

His hips started to meet yours with more force, thrusting hard but slow. It was just the beginning, and he wanted to make sure you would feel every inch of him, to feel every vein. All while he was also losing his mind over how good your pussy was taking him; your tight grip around him was sending him to the heavens, his eyes never looking away from the place where both of your bodies would join. Your walls contracted around him whenever he was pulling out, almost as if they were reluctant to let him go. Cregan loved that a bit too much, he might have become addicted to it. 

Then, he sped it up. His grunts and moans were falling from his lips in cascades that reached your ears. A vocal man he was, expressing his lust with the most arousing sounds you have ever heard. It brought a sense of pride to your chest, having such an imposing man as him reduced to a moaning mess. But the truth was, you were not doing any better; his animalistic movements were now sending you over the edge quicker than you thought. The sound of your bodies slapping against each other and the feeling of your arousal falling down your thighs was enough to pull you into a cloud of raw lasciviousness. Your mind felt dizzy. 

Suddenly, Cregan grabbed the knife you were trying to reach and threw it right next to your hand. You saw it through your heavy eyelids as you panted and gasped. You felt his lips pressing against your ear once again, but this time he spoke,

“Try to kill me now,” he hoarsely said. “Go on. Where's the girl who tried to kill me? Not so brave now with my cock ripping you apart, huh?” 

“Fuck off…” you managed to say in a murmur. Cregan mockingly laughed, and his hand fell against the soft skin of your rear, leaving a pinching pain behind. Gods, you hated the fact that you loved it so much.

“So fiery, and yet you're a mess…” he chuckled, his heavy breathing against your nape making you tremble under his touch. “I wish you could see how your little cunny is taking my cock… you're fucking soaking for me.” 

You moaned, louder than you should have. 

“Want to take a look?” he teased you, pushing deeper inside of you. You tried to mumble an answer, but nothing came out of your mouth. His hand met your arse again, this time slightly harder. “Answer me,” he demanded, using his lower tone which made your knees go weak. 

You had no choice, “Y-yes…” you whimpered as tears of pleasure were gathering in the corner of your eyes. 

He pulled out of you and you immediately whined, complaining about his absence. His hands went to the ties on the back of your dress, starting to pull them out to get them loose enough to remove that piece of fabric that was just bothering him. When he finally did, he pulled it down in a single movement, and just like that you were completely exposed to him. 

He took a quick look at your body once you turned around, glancing at your breasts and your perky nipples, and then looking at the glistening mess between your thighs. His hand wrapped around your jaw, and he leaned forward; his leaking cock rubbing against your belly as his nose touched your cheek. Suddenly, his lips trapped yours in a heated kiss that lacked any delicacy; he was claiming your mouth, swirling his tongue around yours and devouring you. You heard how he pushed the rest of the dishes, plates and cups on the ground, then he lifted your body forcing you to spread your legs. Only then he pulled away. 

He looked down, watching your pussy drenched with your arousal and chuckling at the sight. “Didn't know wildlings women were such whores… getting this wet when I fuck you rough,” he mocked you, tightening the grip around your jaw and forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

Cregan guided his cock towards your slit, repeating the same teasing game as before, rubbing his tip against your now throbbing clit soaking it with the mixture of your juices and his. He gave a few taps afterwards, making you whine and your legs shake. You never, in a million years, thought you would be thinking of begging a Lord like him, yet there you were, about to plead to have him inside of you once again because the ache between your thighs was becoming unbearable. 

As if he had read your thoughts, he soon pressed his cockhead against your entrance, pushing just the tip. You sighed, biting your lip as you looked down at it. You could have come right there as you saw how he slowly filled you up and stretched your walls once more. The way your labia would spread to take him in; such an obscene sight it was, yet you couldn't bring yourself to take your eyes off of it. 

Once he was fully sheathed in you, you managed to perceive a small bulge forming in your lower belly which would appear each time he would bury himself deep inside of you. He did not take too much time to be rough this time, starting to snap his hips against yours and making you moan and drool until your mind was fully gone once again. His big hands were grabbing your hips, his nails digging into your flesh and making it slightly painful for you; yet, you didn't want it to stop. The sound of him entering your wetness was enough to make you mumble nonsense, and it wasn't long before you managed to see a ring of your juices around the bottom of his shaft. Your eyes rolled back. 

His animalistic movements were sending you over the edge, and it was humiliating how loud your cries of pleasure were; you were certain that they could be heard in the hallway, but neither you nor Cregan cared enough to stop. Both of you were consumed by each other's touch, it was rough and passionate, you could feel the heat running through your veins as he possessed every inch of your insides until you were nothing but a moaning mess. Your skin was glowing with a layer of sweat, and Cregan leaned forward to lick on your collarbone, his tongue creating a path to your breasts; his lips closed around your nipple, sucking and nibbling. You grew desperate for release. 

“Fuck- I need to… I'm so close,” you whimpered, your eyes locking with his. 

“Come on,” he hoarsely murmured. “Show me how good of a whore you are, and make a mess on my cock.” 

His words blurred your mind, sending a stimulus right into your core. You felt that sweet sensation of culmination when he touched your most sensitive point inside of you over and over again until you were sobbing with the tears of pleasure gathering in the corners of your eyes as you felt your release exploding and washing over you until your legs felt sore. You felt weak, trembling and overwhelmed. Your hair was sticking at your forehead due to your sweat and you were far gone into the pleasure he had just provided you. Yet, he seemed to not have enough. 

Lord Stark pulled out of you. His length had a layer of your release coating it, and you felt your cheeks grow warm. It was unusual for you to feel this shy in this situation, but this whole thing was something rather unusual and rare. Sleeping with the biggest foe, you were a traitor now. 

But Gods, it felt so damn good.

“Get on your knees,” he ordered. His hand wrapped around his leaking cock stroking himself, legs slightly parted as he looked at you with darkened eyes filled with lust. He was achingly hard, you could tell; his stones seemed heavy with his seed, which you would rather feel inside of you. 

Yet, you obeyed, kneeling and looking up at him through your lashes. He cursed with a sigh, twitching with the lustful sight of you ready to take him once again. 

“Open wide,” he instructed, brushing his cockhead against your swollen lips. You did what you were told. “Wider,” he demanded, and you obeyed again. “That's a good little whore…” he hummed, content. 

You stuck your tongue out and felt his salty taste as he tapped his cock against it. You moaned, and he grabbed the sides of your face to keep you still as he started to move in and out of your mouth. He groaned, looking up and then back at you; such a skilful little minx you were, taking him so well. 

Soon, your gags were echoing in the room along with your gulps and his moans. You were drooling; your saliva running down the corners of your lips as he fucked them as fast and hard as he pleased. 

“There you go, take it all just like that,” he praised you, and you felt the warmth of the tears falling down your cheeks. “Mhm, fuck. I might start to believe what they say now. You're sucking my cock like a fucking goddess…” 

You felt the back of your head pressing against the border of the table as he sped up. You were choking around him, and the sounds that came out of it were obscene and filthy, and Cregan loved it. 

Before you could tell, he spilt himself inside of your mouth, forcing you to swallow every drop that left him. And you did. 

Once he freed you from his grip, you pulled away. A string of saliva was still hanging from your lips as you desperately gasped for air, and only then Cregan noticed the big mess you had become. Hot and soaked cheeks, eyes tearing up, your lips swollen and covered with his thick and pearly seed. You were such an unholy sight. 

His thumb reached for your lip, wiping your drool out of it. Such a gesture brought you back to that very same evening when he wiped the blood out of the cut in your lip. It did not feel foreign anymore. You were breathless, trying to regain composure as Cregan looked down at you with a satisfied glance. 

“Seems like the rumours are not false,” he muttered, starting to pull his pants up again. “I might keep you so that I can feel those pretty lips around my cock again.” 

“Keep- keep me?” you asked, confused and overwhelmed.

Cregan arched an eyebrow, “You think because I fucked you I will let you go?” he chuckled. You felt his hand wrapped around your jaw once again, forcing you to stand up. You trembled a little, feeling your legs shaky and weak. “So naive of you… to think that I would have a taste of you and then let you go.” 

You felt your heart sink inside your chest as you heard him. 

“Since you offered so nicely before, I will accept,” he sighed, picking up the dress you were wearing and throwing it up to you. “I’ll make you my personal whore, how about that?” You went silent. “Oh, come on, don't pretend this was not your idea… I was going to let you go with a warning but you came out with a better proposal. How could I say no?” 

“I don't- I-” you shook your head. 

“You belong to me now,” he chuckled. “A wildling made just for me to fuck as I please… Sounds perfect, does it not?” 

You look into his grey eyes, perceiving and reading the mischievousness in them. You tried to escape and return to your freedom. Instead, everything went wrong and now you were trapped in the wolf's cage once again. 

You were not sure how to feel about that.

follow @by-fairysluna for updates!!

[radiance1]

Inspired by this because I thought that an otherworldly entity speaking obscenities through a child be FUNNY.

When Danny defeated Pirah Dark, he didn't become Ghost King, nor the Prince, instead.

He got another passenger in his head.

It's like, Pirah Dark is somehow astral projecting his thoughts to Danny, and Danny doesn't know why. He does not need the commentary of an eons old Ghost King stuck in his head thank you very much.

Then it got even worse when said Ghost King managed to astral project a small piece of himself that just, hangs around Danny 24/7.

Which nobody but him could see.

How the hell did he even manage that when he's a damn ghost for ancient's sake, he didn't know.

He' just gotten used to him, at this point.

One thing he's learned about Pirah Dark, however, is that said ghost has an extreme competitive streak.

Most of his newfound obscene vocabulary came from him. Not that he could use said vocabulary, mind you, because his mother would have his head in that case.

But still.

The number of games Pirah took over from him and progressed fast through was... both inspiring and somewhat insulting.

But anyways.

Until he got summoned by cultists, because apparently having a small piece of the Ghost King floating around him 24/7 is enough for him to get summoned in his place, and Pirah's eyes landed on one guy in a coat.

Well.

He didn't even know like 90% of the words he used could be profanity.

Then he expected him to say all of that to some guy he doesn't even know. He sweat dropped, because, while physically he could say all of those words, his mother has a sixth sense when it comes to such things.

Curse a guy out word for word by a Ghost King and face his mother's wrath for saying such words, or decidedly don't do that and not face his mother's wrath?

He'll take the second option, thank you.

[styllwaters]

KNIGHT DEITIES

It's been a hot minute since I posted Vivere 44 art. Been intensely busy with school for the past few months but now that I've graduated I've got a lot of time to kill! Since the Knights post surpassed 1k notes I figured I may as well elaborate on them more. I'm so blown away by how much love they're getting already! Thank you all <3

I'm gonna talk a bit about Mountain and Plains Knight religions, mythology and a snippet of evolutionary history. I will cover Polar Knight religions in another post. The focus is on two gods in particular, Uwet-Jana and Kiraiarik.

_______

Uwet-Jana is the demigod of good health, vitality, and inner balance. In some regions they are also the god of fertility. The name of their Host is Uwetsil, and their Helmet is Serrjana. Mainly worshiped by Mountain cultures, Uwet-Jana takes the form of a Knight whose Host and Helmet are physically merged into a singular being.

Kiraiarik [pronounced ki-rai-ah-rik] is the personification of the host-helmet symbiotic relationship. They are the god of symbiosis, rebirth, and love. Kiraiarik was the name given to two immortal partners, a Host and a Helmet, who began as a singular being born to the sea in Ettera’s prehistoric era. Ettera decided to make them Two, one half (the Helmet) ruling over the sea and the other (the Host) having domain over the land. The story goes that in every form they take, they try to find each other - for their body remembers being One.

Both gods have lots of lore to their name. Further information below!

UWET-JANA

Uwet-Jana's Host body has long spines and red stripes like a Pike, and long fingerlike paws like a Helmet's manipulators. The Helmet section sports two long horns and elegant facial markings. Uwet-Jana has an iridescent sheen on their golden fur, catching the rays of the sun in a shimmering glow.

The story of Uwet-Jana is as follows: Both Uwetsil and Serrjana were born as runts, in a dark time when sickly Knights were seen as curses and not worth caring for. Their Order, believing them to be bad omens, cast them out to wander the tundra alone. They believed that the natural forces of Ettera (the Knight’s homeplanet) would quickly end them. However, Ettera took pity on the castaway, sending them three blessings. The first gift was a bone with marrow inside that ensured one is never hungry or thirsty again. Then, Ettera sent a warm, sweet wind into Uwet-Jana’s lungs which warded off all sickness and disease. Finally, a sun shower fell, the rains cleansing them and blessing them with a coat made of ivory and gold.

Transformed into a demigod with a hybrid body, Uwet-Jana was offered a place among the deities in the sky - but they refused, preferring to stay on the ground to share their gift with the mortals. Unbeknownst to them, their Order who had exiled them was struck by three curses from the Gods to mirror Uwet-Jana’s blessings: all the rivers in the area dried up and all their hunts were unsuccessful, leaving them with no food or water. Infections and diseases picked them off one by one, and a great storm ravaged the land, destroying their home and all remaining survivors. Uwet-Jana now blesses Knight Orders who take care of their sick and ailing members, and ignores those who don’t, leaving them to the wrath of the Gods.

Although they are nomadic and always on the move, many Mountain Orders will refuse to leave any sick members behind. They may also keep ivory statues of Uwet-Jana in their bags as a token of good fortune. Sometimes these statues are filled with bone marrow, or have holes which make a whistling sound as wind passes through it as a reference to Ettera’s gifts. Occasionally Pike Helmets are born with an extra long ‘horn’ spike, and are considered a child/reincarnation of Uwet-Jana. Additionally, whenever it rains while the sun is still shining, it is seen as a blessing from the demigod.

_______

KIRAIARIK

Kiraiarik's Host is depicted as a small creature with a striped pelt to mirror its ancestral form, and the Helmet as an aquatic beast with long, trailing red fins. It is frequently shown twisting around the Host, sharing its blood. Kiraiarik is also often simplified as two disembodied eyes looking at each other. (And yes, the artstyle is a nod to medieval depictions of heraldic beasts!)

To understand Kiraiarik, one must be aware of how much Plains religions are intrinsically tied to concepts of evolution and paleontology.

Digression on the origins of Etteran symbiosis: 

Large stretches of Plains Knight deserts and scrublands were once submerged beneath the sea. As a result, there are countless fossil hotspots which have been unearthed over the centuries. These high concentrations of fossilised remains have lead to Plains cultures basing their religions around said discoveries. Although many features have been warped, the general timelines are strikingly similar.

For instance, a mass extinction event occurred on Ettera millions of years ago, caused by a series of catastrophic volcanic eruptions on a worldwide scale. This event is known in Plains culture as The Remaking, traditionally interpreted as the planet shedding its skin. Many species were decimated, but some groups survived; these happened to be phyla who possessed an exposed ‘Interfacer’ organ, a precursor to the specialised Integrator organ which connects the Host’s brain to the Helmet’s. Before The Remaking, there was no prior record of the deep symbiotic connection which Knights possess (scientifically deemed ‘Hyperadvanced Mutualism’). The Interfacer organ was used in the phyla for species to communicate simple stretches of data to each other, such as health and reproductive status. After the extinction, populations of these species were dwindling. To ensure their survival, an odd phenomenon occurred in which many individuals began to interface with different species who possessed the same organ - strangely enough, some were able to successfully exchange information. These individuals survived and passed on the practice to their offspring, eventually culminating in what would be discovered as a very primitive form of mutualism. Host and Helmet ancestors (pictured above) were some of the first species to achieve this.

As the planet recovered and populations increased, the relationship continued to solidify and become more complex, with symbiotic species sharing memories, emotions and complex thought. In modern times there is now an entire class of organisms on Ettera which possess an Integrator organ for Advanced Mutualism, including Knights.

Kiraiarik is said to be a manifestation of this relationship. After The Remaking, their two halves finally managed to find each other again, eternally locked in a joyous dance of love. (Side note: the love in question is not platonic nor romantic, but a deeper kind which is indescribable and not easily understood. Due to their intricate nervous systems, Knights have a higher degree of emotional intelligence and can experience sensations we would consider alien). When a Plains Knight is experiencing inner turmoil, they will often pray to Kiraiarik to restore a healthy connection. The god’s blessing is also called upon when an infant Host and Helmet first Assimilate.

Note: Many Plains ‘saints’ and deities have palindromic names which can be read both forwards and backwards, an indicator of holiness. Fun fact, the word Kiraiariku means “Your heart and mine are very old friends.”

Thank you for reading! More Knight content coming soon ;)

[cassianandfenrysaremyboyos]

I'm not saying that Wrath going feral with jealousy, destroying half of Greed's castle and grabbing Emilia and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes is hot but it's hot!

[diejager]

Hi hi I love your monster fics you don't have to write anything about this I'm just a little curious on how you think the boys are react to their human reader getting turned into a monster and then reacting to the painful process and you can choose whichever monster and whichever way I'm just a little curious

Pairing: Monster!Task Force 141 x reader

Ce: mentioned torture, blood drinking, biting, vampire!reader, forceful transformation, canon-typical violence, imprisonment, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.7k

Let’s imagine you were contacted by Laswell before the MW2 campaign, freshly given the rank of corporal and still as dumbfounded that Price had asked for you. You had the time to connect with the other men - monsters - and get to know them, to see farther than the image they portrayed to others: broad, gruff and dangerous beasts of the 141.

Graves caught you and Alejandro, locking you in different isolation cells that were made to hold hybrids. You were bitten pale in the darkness of your isolation, your cries and whimpers of being sucked nearly dry reached the other men who were equally unfortunate. Alejandro seethed, growling and turning in his cell, he swore curses and threats at Graves and his gang of servants. He turned you the same night, weakened and dying, ichor dripping from your wounds. He used your moment of submission, of weakness to feed you his essence, a part of his being in his blood. He cradled you as he drank the last of your life force from your veins, making room for his own to fill the emptiness in you, to remake you into his own. Your body was wracked with jerks, limbs shaking and twitching, and you convulsed in a cry of pain, every fibre of your essence remaking itself into the thing he created: a thrall. 

Alejandro, the one who bared witness to your change and suffering in his cell, felt guilty for not being strong enough to escape, it weighed heavily on his mind that he had been the first to get captured and in turn, hadn’t been able to protect you. He’s the first to rush to your cell once he’s freed, if you jump on him in hunger or remained seated against the corner of your cell, restraining yourself from jumping Alejandro, he’d let you drink from him anyway. Partly a token of apology from him, for failing you and himself, and another part because he wanted to be the one to curb your hunger and rage from your transformation. It would be an honour to help you ease into the life of a monster, even though he seethed with wrath and dripped with threats. He’s a shifter, his bones crack and bend every time he shifts, so he understands the pain of changing, he - and Soap, he guessed - could relate and ease the first pains. With his shifting came enhanced strength and agility, easier to withstand your onslaught of attacks when you trained with him. He doesn’t use his claws or teeth on you (unless you’re playing bite with him like you do with Soap, he wouldn’t mind leaving a mark or two on you.), but will take your charpentes nails and practiced blood manipulation that you trained with Ghost. He doesn’t know how dangerous or potent his blood is to vampires and thralls, if his blood enhanced your abilities, made you weaker or sent you in a frenzied state that made you high and dazed, so he let’s you feed on him occasionally. 

Rudy - Rudolfo - was the seconds behind Alejandro, he bared witness to you cradled in his colonel’s arms. Shock and confusion were his first reactions, followed by devastation and guilt. Devastated that you’d been forced into the life of a monster, the world-shattering change happening under stress, anxiety, pain and betrayal. Guilt that he hadn’t been there when you were taken, vanishing in the dark before all of this happened, he couldn’t have done anything to stop Graves from turning you. Although he wasn’t one for violence - unnecessary violence that would cause the death of a person in the most painful and violent ways - he felt anger pulse under his skin, threatening to burst from his bulging (in anger like in animes cuz it’s funny to imagine that) veins. Rudy would be there to help you through the transition, being the one who’s closest to being a human, he could pave the way to control yourself. He would let you fed from him, his mostly human constitution would be nourishing and safe for you than the rest of the men on the Task Force. He might dangle this opportunity over their heads, brag about how he’s the lucky one in all of them when you aren’t looking. If he could - and if you’re comfortable enough - he’d take every feeding in public, smiling smugly in the frowning faces of the rest while you fed.

Ghost, all he could see was red the moment you were taken from him. He had to watch you convulse and cry, the little human from his Task Force - under his protection in las Alma’s - tumbling over the edge and flinch every time he tried to touch you. He knew the possibility that Graves would turn you - he’d made it apparent in his jokes when you first joined them - but that didn’t help the waning fear and anger that churned in his soul. He couldn’t do much to soothe you when you whimpered painfully, all he could do was to hold you as you clung to him, whining at how much your body burned and hurt, as if every fibre of your being was being ripped apart and put back in the wrong places. He knew the danger of having Graves’ thrall in his team, but he couldn’t let you waste on your own. Once he made sure Graves was dead (he’s as destructive as he is suicidal, Ghost would’ve bathed Graves under enhanced UV lights that would burn the vampire but he wouldn’t let Graves die. Stuck in a constant loop of burning and healing, having his blood rendered useless and weak to him. If only Soap hadn’t blown him up in a tank, Ghost would’ve had so much fun torturing Graves for the things he did to you.), he would help you control your powers, master them and use it against others; never again would he let you be captured. Wraiths were deadly creatures, hybrids even more so, so he wouldn’t let you drink from him, not until Laswell had some tests ran on his blood’s constitution for your safety.

Soap, in all his life, never felt more angry with himself and Graves. At himself for not reaching you in time, and at Graves for his transgressions. He sympathized with your transformation, the pain and anguish he felt from you. He held you tightly in a comforting embrace on the ride back to Alejandro’s safehouse, whispering sweet words to your trembling figure. The moment he had his hands on Graves, he made sure he died burning in his tank, sending it sky-high in a grandiose explosion. Every thrall would feel the death of their master, including you. So when you cried about feeling empty, he held you, telling you: “Dinnae worry ‘bout it, m’eudail.” while caressing you. Soap’s a cuddler, he’d cuddle you while you slept on his bed for comfort, letting you bite a him if he bites back. He’s mouthy too, he’d make the best of every situation he or people he cared got into. Now werewolf blood, some find it revolting - mostly pig-headed pure blood vampires like Graves and the like - and others drink it as often as human blood, but you feed from him when he bares his neck to you, smile cocky and posture relaxed. He also likes to show the others - both Rudy and him - their marks, two small puncture wounds on their neck and shoulders. Soap loves close-combat training and will fight you, let you run free with your vampiric strength that would break and kill humans. He’d laugh and chuckle when you try to chase after him and tackle him, it’d be like two kids playing rough.

Gaz felt guilty about not being in Las Almas to help you, only seeing you after you were rescued and trying to adjust to your new skills, and like the rest, he’s angry, feeling the agony oozing from your every pores. He regretted not following you that night to Mexico and now, leaving you locked in a cell where Graves’ influence wouldn’t reach you while they went to retake Alejandro’s base. Although he hated not being the one to end Graves, he was grateful that Soap went wild with explosive, truly the demolition expert of the Task Force. Everything he knew was from the four men’s retelling of the events prior and after your rescue, there was little he could help but work through comforting you with his calming and gentle tongue. He’d make use of his wings to wrap you in a soft and warm cocoon when his talons were too much of a risk to place on you. He knew you liked his fuzzy wings, so why not use them for your comfort. He could fight you, but his constitution meant that he had hallow, but sturdy bones, a thrall’s strength would hurt but not break them like Price, Alejandro or Soap. Gaz’s a bit sensitive, he knew that but still wanted you to be able to depend on him when you were hungry, he might whine here and there, but he liked the thought of having a bit of him inside you.

Price took it the hardest, it was his Task Force, his responsibility to take care of his pack - his dragon’s hoard - and you were the most vulnerable one and the baby of the team, so you held more weight in his heart. He was disappointed in himself for not seeing the trickery from Shepherd, the red flag of finding America ballistic missiles on the mission and not connecting it to the General or the USA. He blamed himself for your change and your temporary imprisonment while they went to kill the one who did it to you, who brought you so much suffering. Anger filed his quest and protectiveness made it successful, taking down your torturer so that you could live influence-free of Graves. Price, like a father-figure, protected and cared for his family and he failed. He could trust Gaz, Soap and Rudy to comfort you, to ground you to earth. He could trust Ghost and Alejandro to teach you, to help you protect yourself. And he, all he could bring himself to do without feeling shame, was to urge you to rest. Little acts that would give you more time to rest and less duties, he had experience and restraint, he would help where the others lacked. He’d refrain from letting you drink draconic blood, the power and potency of it would overcharge you for a time. Perhaps he’d let you take from him before an especially difficult and dangerous mission, but outside that, he’s known for his self-restraint.

[vivwritesfics]

"He Does Know"

The requested part two to "He Can't Know" It can be read as a follow on or as a stand alone.

I'm, maybe, 10000% sure that my ankle is broken so I've been sat in my bed all day trying to write this (no, my ankle definitely isn't broken. I twisted it when rather drunk last night, but it's an already bad ankle so I am in so much pain :')

Part One

When Y/N Wolff told her father about her relationship, she fully expected him to go to the Ferrari garage, bat in hand. But he didn't. Y/N was actually frightened about how calm he was.

The next race was Monaco, Charles' home race. The only people who knew about their relationship was them, and Y/N's dad. It was all a question of what to do next.

Whatever that next step was, Monaco was the perfect place to do it.

The Wednesday before the race was when Y/N arrived in Monaco. Her father hadn't booked her a room in a hotel this time. This time around, she was to stay with her boyfriend.

It was weird. When Y/N first arrived in Monaco and Charles had somebody pick her up, it was awkward. When she made her way to his apartment, it was awkward. When Charles let her in, it was awkward.

"I can't believe this is your first time in my apartment," he said as Y/N sat at the kitchen island.

When he handed her a glass of wine, Y/N gratefully accepted it. "It's really nice," she answered him, looking around. "I'm really happy to be here."

She really was, she was just having a hard time expressing it. It was weird, having their relationship so out in the open. It was weird, not hiding away in the empty corridors. It was weird, being with him and not have to hide away.

It took Y/N an hour or two to properly settle in. Charles helped speed that process along. The sat together on the couch, watching a movie that didn't much need their attention. By the end of it Y/N had a tongue down her throat and couldn't tell you what the movie was about.

"Where do we go from here?" She asked when he finally pulled away.

"What do you mean, mon ange?"

"I mean, now that my dad knows, do we announce it to the world? Do we post it on our social media? Do we just tell the grid?" She sat back beside him, laying her head on his shoulder.

Charles went red. "Well, Max already knows," he confessed.

That settled it then, they were going to tell the grid.

***

Y/N and Charles couldn't yet walk around the paddock hand in hand. They weren't yet ready to be seen by the press together. So, Y/N and Charles resorted to telling the grid individually.

As Charles went around to Red Bull and McLaren, he got congratulated and clapped on the pack. As Y/N told Mercedes and Williams, her father watched over her shoulder, glaring as people congratulated her. They couldn't hug her like they did Charles, not if they wanted to survive the wrath of her dad.

When the entire grid knew, it was like a weight had been taken off Y/N's shoulders. Not a huge weight, but it definitely helped. Now, they just had to get up the courage to tell the rest of the world.

It was funny, wasn't it? How life works out sometimes? If Y/N hadn't resented her father so much, she never would have tried to reconcile with him and she never should have met Charles.

It was all she was thinking about during the race. That, and him. It was her first time at the Monaco Grand Prix, the first time in his home country.

Watching the race was quite an experience. Y/N spent the race with her nails between her teeth, biting them out of anxiety. Monaco was maybe the most anxiety-inducing race on the calendar. As Y/N watched Charles moving around the tight corners, she was sweating.

No podium in Monaco for Charles, but that was expected. His curse, if you will. But still, Y/N celebrated. And, as she celebrated his win hidden away in the dark corner of the Mercedes garage, she realised she was ready.

She was ready to go public. She was ready to tell the world about her love for Charles Leclerc. If it only meant she got to celebrate his races with him.

Still, this was something Y/N wanted to go to her father about. Maybe even ring Susie and ask for her advice. And definitely talk to Charles about it.

Later that evening, tucked away in his home in Monaco, Y/N and Charles talked. They were wrapped in a duvet, the windows opened as they laid together, bare skin on bare skin. "You were amazing today," she said as she ran her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp with her nails. "I love watching you race."

"I love knowing that you're there watching me. I love that everybody on the track with me knows I have the most stunning girl out there," he replied and kissed the top of her head.

Y/N sat up and Charles sat up with her. "I just wish we could celebrate together."

He looked at her with wide eyes. "You mean, tell the world?"

She nodded.

That evening, Y/N posted to her Instagram story. It was a soft launch, one of the softest launches most F1 fans had ever seen. It was just a picture of his bed, the Ferrari hat on the end of it being a dead giveaway. 

Y/N watched as the fans went feral. It was incredible to watch. The tweets and twitter mentions were non stop, the comments on her latest Instagram post (which had nothing to do with Charles) were going crazy.

Charles was next. He pulled up his Instagram on his phone, which was already going crazy, and moved to post a picture. It was cute, one they’d taken in the hotel room during the Australian Grand Prix. Charles holding Y/N on the couch mid cuddle.

The internet went insane.

They got congratulations from their friends in comments and private messages. Even Susie left a comment on Charles’ picture. And then she sent Y/N a message, asking why she was the last to hear about. Of course Y/N had to send back an apology to her step mother, accompanied by a candid of her and Charles

Now, the world knew. It was freeing. Y/N could express her love without fear. There was no telling what her father would do when she swapped her Mercedes hat for a Ferrari one.

[sunboki]

— KEEP IT BUSINESS. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, coworkers! au, first kiss? au (hehe), domestic/soft minho, fluff

WARNINGS. cursing, making-out, inexperienced kissing, annoying coworkers

WORD COUNT. 6.9k words

AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.

or alternatively :

If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.

Four years.

It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.

The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.

.

.

.

Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.

Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.

Then the loneliness set in.

It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.

So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.

And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.

Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.

Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.

At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.

You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.

“Looking forward to it?”

Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.

“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.

The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.

You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.

Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.

“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.

Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.

“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.

Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.

Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.

8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.

Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.

Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.

Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.

Back at it, again.

Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.

Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.

Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.

Except, it seems he had the same idea.

Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.

Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.

“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”

“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”

Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.

Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.

Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.

In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.

“Drinks at my place?”

Your grown loudly in agreement.

Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes

Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.

Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.

This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.

It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.

Hyeongmi’s face.

What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.

“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.

“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“

“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“

Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.

Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.

She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.

Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.

It irritates you.

Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.

Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.

Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.

“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.

And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.

Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.

Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.

“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.

“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”

Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.

Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.

“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”

Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.

“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”

Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.

“Shoot.”

He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.

“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“

Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.

Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?

…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.

“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.

Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.

He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.

When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.

That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.

Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.

You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?

Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.

It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!

Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.

What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.

Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?

Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.

You blame the alcohol.

Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.

“Minho.”

He grunts.

“You’re really pretty.”

Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.

What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.

Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”

And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.

You blame the alcohol.

The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.

Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.

First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.

Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.

You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.

Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.

Over.

And over.

And over.

The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.

Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.

He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.

You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.

“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.

All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.

Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.

Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.

“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.

He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.

“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”

He’s hopeless too, apparently.

Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.

In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.

Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.

As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.

Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.

Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.

Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.

“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.

“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”

Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.

Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.

At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.

Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.

Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.

Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.

Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.

“Come here.”

You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.

If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.

“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.

How unfair a human can be this round.

Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.

Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.

“Yes?”

He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.

“I’m not feeding you.”

Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.

“No.”

“Y/n.”

You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.

Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.

Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.

Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.

“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”

“Yes ma’am.”

And of course he has to be endearing.

Such a pain.

You’ll stop by tomorrow.

If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.

Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.

The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.

Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.

Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.

January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.

What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?

The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.

Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.

Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.

Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.

It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.

Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.

Come over to my place after work.

What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?

As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?

Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—

Woah. Stop there.

Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.

A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).

So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.

Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?

You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?

Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.

Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.

..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.

Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.

Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.

Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.

Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.

Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.

What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?

Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.

Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.

Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.

A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.

And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.

You really, really want to date him.

And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.

Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.

Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.

“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.

You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.

“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”

“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.

Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.

Your wish?

Let Minho and I go well. I like us.

Every bit of it was the truth.

Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.

Maybe.

Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.

“So.. how does this work?”

‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?

He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.

“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”

You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.

Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.

“Together?”

Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.

He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.

“Together.”

Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.

Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.

Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.

It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.

One in particular you recall:

I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.

Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.

This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.

Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.

Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.

Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.

..Until a midday conference.

Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.

More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.

“Are you- Are you two holding—?”

Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.

Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.

Pouting.

Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.

Unbelievable.

If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.

This was simply an early death.

“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.

And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.

“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”

Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.

“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.

“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“

“I...”

Want to punch you in the face.

You keep it to yourself.

“I’m gonna go.”

Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.

Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.

You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.

Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.

Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.

Or so you thought.

“Y/n?”

“Yes, Hyeongmi?”

“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”

Apparently, it can go lower.

Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.

Your beach day.

“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”

All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.

Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.

“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.

Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.

“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.

He knows.

“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”

Ah. You want to kiss him.

“Minho.”

He turns on his heel.

Kiss me.

You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.

Close, closer.

No. Not yet.

Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?

Not yet.

“..Okay.”

Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.

It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?

By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?

Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.

Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.

Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.

“Alright, be honest with me.”

He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.

“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”

Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.

He’s breaking your heart.

You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.

“Of me?”

The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.

“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.

Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.

“Y/n.”

Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.

He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.

“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“

“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”

Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.

He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.

“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.

“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.

You burst out laughing.

“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.

“What? No treat for valentines?”

Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.

Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.

Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.

“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”

And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.

Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?

Knock.

Knock.

Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.

Knock. Knock.

Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?

There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.

And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.

Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.

He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.

Lee Minho is nervous.

Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.

His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.

“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”

And his ears are red.

You’re going to implode from how cute this is.

Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.

Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.

What.

Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.

“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”

…

You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.

Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.

Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).

For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.

Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.

He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.

He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.

As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.

That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.

Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.

Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.

Oh how you love him.

Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.

Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.

Nose, cheek, but never lips.

No.

Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.

“We-“

The look he’s giving you, shock.

You feel a hundred degrees hotter.

“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.

Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.

“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“

“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.

“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”

His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.

“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”

You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.

Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.

You add that to your long list of things you love about him.

Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.

If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.

“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”

Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.

“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”

One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.

Gentle.

“And I can teach you how.”

It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.

It’s terrifying.

“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”

You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.

Curse the shakiness of your voice.

“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”

You quickly shake your head.

No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.

“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”

It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.

Best word to describe it? Messy.

“Breathe through your nose.”

“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“

You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.

Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?

“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”

His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.

Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”

“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”

“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.

Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.

“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.

From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.

Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.

And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.

“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”

Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.

Of course he does.

Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.

Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.

It seems the Valentines Pact sealed the deal.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @gimmeurtmi @jisuperboard @porang-poranglinos @palindrome969 @stayceebs97 @inniescandy-01 @idklin0

[thewulf]

Who Did This To You? || Rafe Cameron

Summary: Request - Rafe fic based on song wait in the truck by Hardy. Basically he sees her one night that he’s going for a drive to calm down picks her up and drives to the house of maybe her dad or boyfriend and shoots them... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wrote this quick but had so much fun omg love a protective Rafe!! Thank you so much for the request @loving-and-dreaming

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k+

Rafe’s truck raced down the winding street on the Pogue’s side of the island. He stopped at Barry’s needing to pick up another supply for the party he’d planned to be at that weekend.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was you stumbling along the side of the road completely disorientated and disheveled beyond repair. He parked his truck close to your trembling body that kept trying to walk but seemed to betray itself.

“Y/N?” He called seeing you off in your own head. He shivered seeing the amount of blood that coated the front of your body once you turned responding to your name. He didn’t see that. You were fucked up. Beaten up by somebody who clearly wanted to hurt you. But who could have wanted to do that to you? You might have been a Pogue, a Maybank even, but damn he’d be lying if he didn’t say you weren’t a big ass ray of sunshine. Despite every shitty circumstance thrown at you, you handled everything so well.

“Who did this to you?” Rafe asked brushing your shoulder careful not to touch anywhere you may be bleeding from. There was so much fucking blood. It made his own damn head queasy, and Rafe was used to blood. He wasn’t sure how you were even standing. The metallic smell of the drying liquid brought him back to the urgency of the situation, “Maybank,” He raised his voice a bit but cursing to himself when he say you shy away, “Hey, Y/N. Who did this to you baby?” He asked once more trying to help. But the alarm in your eyes told him he’d fucked up somehow. Was he standing too close? Did he touch you where you might’ve been hurting from?

You shook your head trying to get away from his grasp. This wasn’t the Rafe Cameron who ragged on you day in and day out. He’d never, ever call you baby. No, you were hallucinating. Just had to keep going, JB’s cottage wasn’t too far now. You tried your hardest but whatever it was you were dreaming was stopping you from moving.

“Y/N?” He asked pulling you back towards his truck. He didn’t want to hurt you, but you clearly weren’t in the state to be wandering down a dark ass road with what looked like half the blood in your body coating every inch of exposed skin and drenching the clothing you had on.

“Please.” You whined trying to pull your hand away from his gentle embrace, but you couldn’t. You didn’t have any more damn energy to try and fight him off.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He brushed the hair that was clinging to the dried blood on your cheek away drawing a soft groan from your lips, “I’m so sorry pretty.” What you thought was the hallucination whispered at you, “Why don’t you sit down in the truck Y/N?” He asked you. Worry laced his eyes seeing a blown-out pupil in one of your eyes as he finally made eye contact with you. He knew you were in rough shape. A blown-out eye was never a good sign.

“I can’t. Have to get…” You coughed feeling the adrenaline wearing down and the full effects of the beat down from your father start to set in. He’d hit you before, yes. But never had you experienced the full wrath of your drunk and likely stoned dad. It was a damn miracle you were even alive right now. Had you now been able to get a kick to his chest knocking him off balance you weren’t sure if you’d be breathing right now.

Gingerly, Rafe placed his hands on either side of your head trying to get you to focus on him, “I’ll take you, okay? Just, sit down. Please baby? You’re hurt. Really fucking bad Maybank. I need you to sit in my truck.” He said with a little more authority trying to get you to acknowledge him. Sure, he’d never been exactly kind to you but seeing you like this? Broken and shattered? That enraged Rafe.

You weren’t each other’s biggest fans, but he still grew up with you. He watched out for you at parties. He knew what his friends said about the younger Maybank. He also knew you had your brother and his friends protecting you. He was never worried about you. So, seeing you looking like you’d just escaped a crime scene on the side of the road at ten o’clock at night sent alarm bells ringing through Rafe’s head.

You nodded into his hand, “Okay.” You croaked out noting how damn bad it hurt to speak.

“I’m going to pick you up, okay?” He asked softy, only more concern and worry lacing his eyes as you listened to him.

You nodded not having it in you to answer him.

That’s all he needed to scoop you right up as quickly but gently as he could muster. It made him sick seeing you so broken in his arms. He’d always thought you were beautiful. Everybody on the damn island thought you were. What set you apart from the others was your kindness though. No matter how nasty he and his friends were to you and yours you always greeted him with a smile and sometimes even a wave. No matter what. No matter what nasty comment he threw your way. You always handled him and his stupid ass friends with grace. Something your older brother lacked greatly. What he lacked in your made up for greatly and vice versa.

Rafe set you down as softly as he could in the passenger’s seat of his truck, his father’s truck. Not really giving a damn about the blood that would surely be staining the seat below you. Never in his wildest imagination would he thought this would be the reason he’d be hiding the truck from his father until he could get it detailed. He always thought he’d wreck it, or it’d be his blood coating the seats beneath him. Never would he have guessed it could be you in this scenario. He’d always had a soft spot for you. Always picking on you a little less and a somewhat more lightly than he did any other pogue.

“Can you stay awake there for me Maybank?” He asked reaching over you to buckle you in. When you didn’t make a sound he panicked leaning back to look at you, “Y/N?”

“I’m trying.” You sighed closing your eyes while leaning your head back. God, you felt like absolute death. How in the hell did John B and JJ get into this shit so often? It was downright painful. Boys were mad you’d concluded quickly.

“Thank you baby.” He buckled you in making sure to pull it the seat belt tight knowing you weren’t really in the state to hold yourself up, “I’m going to take you back to my place okay? Get you cleaned up. Then, we can find your brother when you’re feeling up to it?”

You couldn’t stop the tears that slipped from your eyes. It was too much. All too fucking much. It felt like Rafe was killing you with kindness. He wasn’t acting like the guy you thought you knew. You thought he was an absolute dickhead with literally no redeeming qualities. But this? This had you reeling. Rethinking everything that you thought you knew. He was being so sweet. So kind and gentle. So loving.

“Hey, hey. Y/N? Are you okay?” Another round of panic flashed through his eyes seeing your tears roll down your face now. So softly, so unlike anything you thought you knew, he brushed those tears away with the pads of his fingertips.

You let out a shaky breath nodding your head, “I’m okay.” Finally, you opened your eyes to look him over. He looked, rough. To say the least. Panic had thrown his appearance out of whack. It was hard to see with one eye being nearly busted but he didn’t look like the confident Rafe who never seemed to break.

He gave you a long look over, almost unsure with your answer. You clearly weren’t okay. But you were alive. You were tough. You were Y/N. The beauty of the island. The girl who seemed to brighten anybody’s day without even realizing it. A gem among mounds of coal. A fucking Maybank of all people.

He gave you a curt nod before shutting the door. Not a moment later he jumped in the driver’s seat, “You can stay in my room tonight. Dad and Rose are on the mainland working a deal. Sarah is with John B for the night. Wheezy is sleeping over at a friend’s. The house is mine, ours.” He spoke while starting the engine. Looking over to make sure that was fine with you.

“Sounds good Rafe.” You spoke softly, finding it easier than speaking at a normal volume.

He had to ask again. Looking you over as he drove back towards his house it was a damn miracle he’d found you. He wasn’t even supposed to be on that road, but he stopped by Barry’s on a whim. Low and behold he fond you. Broken and barely moving.

“Who did this to you, Y/N?” He asked with a little more authority in his voice. The anger rose as he heard you wheezing, seemingly trying to gasp for air. Likely a broken rib making it hard for you to breath in.

“I don’t…” You tried but he quickly spoke over you.

“Yes you do Y/N. Who did this to you baby? Please tell me. Please” His tone of voice turned to one of pleading. You looked over at him seeing his broken look studying the road ahead of him, careful not to put you in more danger than you already were in.

You let out a broken sigh. Why were you trying to protect the scum bag anyway? You were tired. So, fucking tired of hiding from him. Screaming at him when he was wailing on JJ. Screaming at him when he was punching you. This wasn’t a life you wanted. Wasn’t one you could stand much longer.

“My dad. My dad did this.” You clenched your hands together to stop the shaking.

Rafe looked at you incredulously, almost as if he didn’t believe you, “Your dad?”

You nodded silently closing your eyes once more. Afraid to see what judgment might form in his look.

“Is your dad still at home Y/N?” He asked a lot more seriously than he had been moments before.

“Yeah I think so.” You spoke quietly. You felt the truck slow and change directions, “Where are we going Rafe? I thought you said we were going back to yours?”

He hummed, “We are. Just making a stop at your place first.”

You shook your head, “No, Rafe. Don’t. He’s not worth it.” You knew him stopping could only mean trouble.

He kept driving knowing you weren’t in the state to put up even a little bit of a fight, “Look at you Y/N. I’m just paying old man Maybank a quick visit.” He cooed seeing how distraught you were right next to him. A gentle hand laid to rest on your thigh. He rubbed his thumb in circles trying to soothe you just a little, “You just wait in the truck baby, okay?” He asked not giving you much of an option.

More tears spilled, “Please be careful Rafe.” You felt an internal sense of dread as his truck rolled up on the gravel sidewalk in front of the piece of shit trailer you, JJ and your dad lived in. You should be grateful, or so your dad always fucking told you.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll get you cleaned up, yeah?” He leaned over placing a soft kiss on your forehead. Surely, you were in some sick dream. Who in the hell was this man? He was so gentle, so soft with you.

“Hurry.” You whined feeling your body losing to the grapple of consciousness. Rafe must’ve sensed your fading into blackness as he nodded before hopping out of the truck. You didn’t miss him grabbing the gun under the front seat. You gulped as you heard him beating on the front door calling out for your surely passed out father. He wouldn’t be very happy when he came to. But you didn’t hear the rest. You succumbed to the darkness letting the hold of darkness take control for the first time in a while.

“There you are.” Rafe’s voice made you turn your head toward him. You felt him grab at your hand giving it the most delicate squeeze. Acting as if your hand was made of the finest porcelain.

“Rafe.” You sighed, “What happened?”

He gulped turning away from you, “I’ll uh… I’ll let your brother explain that.” He gave you a soft laugh, “Let’s just focus on you right now, how are you feeling baby?”

“Baby huh?” You finally commented on his newly used pet name on you. You were usually ‘Muddy Maybank’ or the ‘Pogue Pleaser’ as he so kindly called you.

Rafe smirked knowing this meant you had to at least feel a little bit better if you were commenting on it, “Sure. Suits you.” He nodded his head brushing the hair out of your eyesight knowing you were probably far too sore to be moving so soon.

You quirked an eyebrow in surprise. Maybe you looked really fucking bad because this wasn’t the Rafe you’d known for the last fifteen years, “Does it?”

He nodded giving your hand another soft squeeze, “If you want.” He left it up to you.

You thought for a moment. You weren’t blind. He was bloody fucking gorgeous the man was. Tall but not stalky. Built but not too muscular. Fine as hell. Dapper as could be. Style beyond recognition. Class further than you could ever imagine. But… he had that mouth that put you down so often. Put your brother and friends down too. You’d sworn him and his type off completely long ago. But why, for the love of God, did it make you feel the tiniest amount of giddiness when that word came off his tongue?

“Maybe I do.” You admitted.

His smirk only grew to a smile as he heard you, “Yeah?” he scooted the chair closer to his bed that you were lying in. You looked yourself over impressed at how well he’d managed to clean you up while you were unconscious.

You nodded giving him a soft smile, “I like the sound of it.”

He hummed using his free hand to run his thumb along your unbruised cheek bone, “Then it’s settled. I’ll call you baby so long as you let me.”

You grinned feeling that dull flutter turn to more rapid nerves in your stomach as you let yourself fall more and more into the man sitting so closely next to you, “Rafe?” You asked feeling the exhaustion come over you once more.

“Yeah?” He answered you with a small amount of concern seeing your eyes flutter closed once more. Had he missed something? Were you still feeling bad? Were you bleeding internally?

“Will you sleep with me? I’m tired.” Your soft voice broke him from his own train of thoughts.

He looked you over seeing the delicate state you were in. But that sweet begging look on your eyes when you looked at him had him agreeing with you too quickly, “Anything you need baby.”

He climbed into the bed next to you. Softly he grabbed at your waist pulling you as gently as he could towards himself letting you adjust to him as best as you could, “Thank you.” You whispered letting yourself nuzzle into his chest falling asleep before he could even respond.

“You have no idea, sweet girl.” He knew you were asleep, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and giving you a soft kiss on your forehead. He didn’t miss the sweet smile that came to your face as you slept in his arms. Rafe could certainly get used to this.

Permanent Taglist (Message me or comment below if you want to be added!): @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

✨D.D. MASTERLIST ✨

[banner and dividers created by @saradika​]

[DRABBLES]

At Fault (1.7k words)

Common Mistake (1.8k)

Deep Blue, but You Painted Me Golden (1.8k)

Familiar & Unfamiliar (4.1k)

I Miss You, I Miss You Too (0.5k)

In a Perfect World, You Love Me (6.9k) // Perfect World pt. II (2.5k)

Language Barrier (1.0k words)

Lost in the Light (1.4k)

Ni Ceta, Cyar’ika (7.8k) // I Love You, Cyar’ika (4.5k)

⏤ Do You Want Me, Cyar’ika: HAPPY END (6.7k), DARK END (5.1k)

Not Like This (1.3k words) // Not You (2.3k words)

One Hundred and Fifty Seven (4.1k words)

That’s Not My Name (632 words)

din djarin x female!reader

Playlist

Older!Grogu Inspo Art

summary: When you made plans for your future they never involved being hired by a Mandalorian to baby-sit his adorable, green gremlin of a child. However, after your life fell apart in the span of one disastrous night, you found it to be the only feasible option you had left. Nevarro was a far cry from Coruscant, but the thriving community turned out to be exactly what you needed. Every day you spend in Nevarro you fall more and more in love with your new life, but when your past rears its ugly head you find that perhaps peace wasn’t meant for everyone.

✨: signifies a ‘AFS’ deleted scene/drabble!

#01: Two Porgs, One Blaster

#02: Are You Trying to Say Bear?

#03: Marshal Daddy

#04: Mayfeld Didn't Mean to Step on Him

✨#4.5: He is a Quick One✨

#05: Wife Material

#06: Trikar'la, Buir!

#07: Soran

✨#7.5: Like The Wizards✨

#08: You're His Home

#09: Buir, Grogu, Ma

✨#9.5: Ma’s Got You✨

#10: Show Off

#11: You Didn’t

#12: Grogu, Grogu, Baby, It’s Okay

#13: The Danger Has Passed, Cyar’ika

#14: Am I Making You Quiver?

#15: Mando Looks Like He Knows How to Fuck

#16: I Don’t Want It to Be a Sin

#17: Close Your Eyes, Ner Kar’ta

✨#MID 17: Take a Break, Doc✨

#18: Talk About a Power Couple

#19: My Boys Needed Me

#20: Short Stick Bears His Wrath

#21: Made of the Right Stuff

#22: Like Father, Like Son

#23: It’s a Surprise

✨#23.5: Am I Close to Redemption?✨

#24: Right Between Your Thighs

din djarin x female!reader

summary: It was like fate or destiny had planned from the beginning for you to be on the run from the law. With the words ‘I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold’ adorning your rib cage you always wondered what was worse: Knowing you were bound to being wanted or realizing your soulmate was a cursed bounty hunter. You had a mission to finish and no bounty hunter, soulmate or not, was going to stop you.

#01: Unstoppable Force Meets Immovable Object

#02: Falling For You

#03: Call it Fate, Destiny, Call it Luck

#04: Cool Motive, Still Murder

#05: Right Person, Wrong Time

#06: Partners in Crime

#07: A Favor For a Friend

#08: But You’re Still a Traitor

[SEVEN DAYS]

Cowboy!Din Djarin x Female!Reader

Summary: The Mandalorian, a morally gray and hardened bounty hunter, makes a decision that alters the course of his fate and yours. As your two very different worlds collide, you learn the Mandalorian is more than his reputation has led you to believe, and you have only seven days to decide if saving his life would be worth destroying your own.

DAY ONE

DAY TWO

DAY THREE

DAY FOUR

DAY FIVE

DAY SIX

DAY SEVEN

AFTER