#and then they close the breach finally. time to put this all behind them

[companionsofusall]

god a character can really drive you insane

[grotesquevi]

18+ mdni, pure filth, firefighter!sevika, cam!girl reader, she masturbates to your underwear, panty sniffer sevy yikes, sexting and nudes yehaaaaw, phone sex, guided masturbation, perv!sevika forever.

side note  #  this was a three-part series i made for my previous blog vicorices when reaching 800 followers, (the blog's terminated by tumblr out of nowhere if you're confused) one minute of silence,,,, also there's an ellie and vi version too connected with the same site and the same cam!girl user, it's listed bellow but you take a look at the directory if you want to.

‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ now that you’re here? check out spacemoth's or cherryvi's file.

her control was currently hanging on by a thread.

sevika must have lost the plot somehow when her entire life paralyzes as the yellow envelope comes to meet her eyes and she stays there for a second, finally resting from a long night putting up with the fire in a residential building outside the city.

she happens to know what's in it. but she keeps staring at it until suddenly kneeling to pick it up from the floor, collecting her house keys and closing the door behind her back: privacy. she needs privacy.

she's quick to tear apart the top of the paper-like textured package, letting the waste fall to the floor before her breathing hitches on her throat and she stays there, planted in the entrance in dead silence.

her muscles are sore, she's tired after a 24-hour shift and she's grumpy, craving to sleep her whole time away from duty — a plan that fails miserably when her mind drifts back to something entirely different that catches her full attention: underwear.

this important package here is indeed, your underwear.

there's a pair of polaroid pictures inside she holds between her fingers for a moment, and the scent of your arousal reaches her nostrils in mere seconds filling the air of the living room as she tosses her gym bag to the floor, unbuckling her uniform jacket to reveal a fitted white shirt tucked inside her working pants that made her look three sizes bigger: this was unexpected.

the air is hot all sudden and she has to search for her reading glasses before she has a good look of the picture. the sight of you wearing the same panties that were on her left hand made sevika's head spin, mouth dry when she sees you're there bending on the waist giving her a nice view of your ass, a warmth sensation going down her spine when she catches up the second one, someone else's fingers shoved inside your mouth while your tits are shown for the camera, and the black underwear you're pulling to the side is more than evident as a trophy almost cause you did, in fact, had more than just a good time using the pair she received in her mail.

you're a luxury clearly. a 250$ dollar luxury she can afford even when it might be a little breach to her economy. does not matter when she can feel her own underwear dampening against the image of you, unbuckling her pants despite the pain on her limbs, lazily dragging herself to bed.

it takes a while to notice the numbers written in black marker on the back of one of the photos, but sevika's breath turns hollow when she's aware that's a phone and a code area, pretty calligraphy, polished when she reads: write me for the review, send pics if you want x

you fucking kissed it with red lipstick.

it's been a while since the last time she felt so good like this — perverted behavior to it's finest when she's smelling on your underwear, pressing the lacy fabric against her nose just to take a sniff at it so she's finally aware of how you really smell after so many times imagining it.

the scent clings to the cotton even when it must be a while since you last used them, she can recognize you sprayed them with your perfume so it's a mix between this intense, fruity scent with subtle notes of citrus in it, and a musky one that is unexpectedly good in her nose. and in that moment sevika knows she would text sooner or later, find out if that was a real number there that you gave her, yet she's too busy now, busy fixating in something else entirely when her flesh hand goes down and pushes past her pants just to tease herself from over the fabric of her own already-soaked underwear.

laying in the comfortable space of a king-sized mattress, sevika doesn't need much more than your photos. it's enough to have her panting, fingers moving on their own against the slick folds of her cunt unable to get off her uniform, her shoes or anything at all as she takes care of that ache that pools in her stomach, that need that trespass beyond her own being.

so her index and middle finger rub consistently against her clit now, fast, sometimes messy movements: she's tired, can someone blame her? after a 24-hour-shift you're the one thing driving her insane just by holding a simple g-string in her hand — and despite any torture, sev fucking loves it to the core. how the whole scene turns dirty all sudden, the dry traces of your arousal visible in the fabric as she gives a deep breathe and there it is again.

"fuck-" she curses silently in the middle of a lonely room, hips jerking against her own hand in seek of a more direct contact just because unlike any other time; she’s not able to edge herself, tease like she usually do when seeing one of your streams or your saved videos on your profile in hotdozed. sevika’s quick and she goes straight to the point when filling her own cunt using her thick, long fingers until she's moaning in the privacy of an small apartment in the suburbs, door wide open as she ground her hips against her hand and hell, she's so needy for it.

a coppery taste leaks into her mouth and she didn't know she was biting on her lower lip so hard it draw blood out of it, but it makes nothing more than spur her on to the point she can hear the wet sound her pussy makes each time she's thrusting herself. sweating, there in the edge, she can still feel her own smell after a whole day of being hard working, white shirt hanging dirty on her own frame showing the hairy lower-part of her stomach as she has a great view of her fingers stuffing herself until there's no space for more and you're there, there in her mind, under her fucking nose, in her memories — written all over like a damn poem.

your scent mixes so well with her's it's enough to make her cum, it drips between her legs and stains on her damn pants and she knows it's just chaotic, you only cause disorder as she lays on bed for a moment trying to catch on her breath for a second. your underwear now rests on the edge of her pants, slightly shoved inside her own soaked-through hip huggers, but not enough to be fully in contact with her fluttering cunt.

and if sevika was intelligent, she would be taking a shower and relishing every single hour of her much-needed days off now, but instead of moving from bed to do so, she's just reaching her phone cause she's been dumb as fuck lately, cleaning her fingers with the tissue papers she keeps on her nightstand before she's saving your phone in her contacts and taking a huge fucking risk she would never even take if being rational.

matter of fact, she shouldn't be allowed near a phone while being this horny. not even technology itself, but she's opening up the camera app and before even fucking checking if it's really you, she's taking this photo of her opened pants and her stomach, happy trail showing since she knows — fucking knows girls get off from it. your underwear is half shoved inside, visible in the shot and before she thinks it twice she's fucking sending it as she writes down:

nice panties. kinda thought your pussy would smell this good.

you don't answer until she's finishing her shower like an hour later or so, about to get some sleep now that she has satisfied herself enough to survive until the next morning, but it's clearly an interrupted plan again as her phone buzzes and sevika's forcing herself to open her eyes: too much curiosity to wait to the next morning, at least, that's the poor excuse she's been giving to her brain before she sees your name in the screen.

glad you like them, you think a lot about me normally?

next time you should finger yourself with them on your cunt so you can feel me closer- sevika right? nice view.

and to be fair, she caught you in a bad moment, a weak one. it's late at night, you're binge-watching this series you're so invested in until the phone you set up specifically for work buzzes and your mouth is watering at the sight of a good, satisfied client and you're debating with your very own self whether if you should answer or fucking not.

she got you hooked clearly, even if it's late — the firefighter pants, the hair on the lower part on the stomach, your panties lose inside her underwear: doomed cause when you zoom in, you swear to fucking heaven you can see her bush there peaking out ready to have some fun and it’s all it takes for you to respond, guilty of all charges.

you're breaking your own rules, the ones you put some good effort in following cause she keeps texting you and suddenly, you're turned on as ever while exchanging fucking texts for free just cause you're attracted to this client who happens to be a pervert who gets off from buying your used underwear.

got well fucked in this, peach? seems you enjoyed yourself on the photos you sent me.

thing is, sevika won't really show it much, but she knows how to flirt. the words roll out of her tongue easily as she's quick to pick up on a girl's attribute, so she's flirting with you until she's slipping another photo this time of the mirror in front of her bed — she had the need to turn up the lights of the room now and you thank her mentally for it as you stare at the picture, sharp angles of her face, she's not wearing anything else on top more than a silver chain that hangs in her neck and lands between her tits, holding the phone between her fingers to show her reflection.

you know that kind of people, the dangerous one — cause you expected a whole weirdo behind the screen, yet you're quickly ashamed of your poor judgment as you have to eat your words cause sevika's indeed fucking hot.

it's different from the other photo. while the first one was messy and dirty she didn't show her face; however now is nothing but the opposite. wet hair that sticks on the sides of her bone structure, wearing a clean, cropped tank top and briefs who's waistband hangs dangerously low on her belly, it's enough to give you space to peek a little for the intrinsic lines of her body without even fucking zooming in.

she's playing, you're playing. it's not like you really do that all the time anyway, but your fingers are tapping on the camera app too before wiggling comfortable in bed only to lift up your own shirt — it's simple and effective as you squeeze your tits together, biting on the fabric of your shirt only to pull it slightly upwards, you want to show some as well, tease like she does.

it's far from the complex shit you upload on hotdozed but god — turns sevika on more than ever.

maybe it's the normal factor to it, she can see the wrinkled sheets beneath you, a band shirt she does not recognize, plump lips; you're not wearing make-up and fuck's sake: each photo it's better than the last one. it's just flesh, simple skin but it makes sevikas mouth water, her body stiffens and her muscles ache, burning beneath fatigue and lust.

escalates quickly cause you're sending her an audio of your moans next and sevika cannot fucking believe it, not when she's been masturbating to your stuff months from now. she's pressing the play button before turning on the volume to hear it clearly and she's already familiar with low moans that fill out her solitary room, the wet sound of your drenched cunt on the background, barely audible but enough to make her chest explode: you're touching yourself.

you send videos not longer than ten seconds after, fucking riding your pillow and moaning out her name. playing dirty, fucking dirty because that's special content for her only, her favorite so far and she saw plenty already — fucks her up entirely as the message slips from her fingers without thinking about it: fuck weirdness. if so, sev's been always attracted to it, to the unconventional and the rather unexpected. hope you did too.

free to call ??

she didn't expect your reply either. it seems to take eternal seconds before sevika can read another one of your texts on her lockscreen again before she's about to forget about it.

yeah, go on.

simple and effective, she needs you to put a final stop on her misery. the phone rings one, two- three times before you're picking it up, voice rough and still panting for air before you talk on the other side of it — it seems sev interrupted something important when she's greeted instead with silence.

"already starting without me?" your client asks, and her own voice seems to travel throughout your entire apartment, strained, rough as she's already thinking now about her own release, how you should be getting off her uniform before it needs to be double cleaned.

"shit-your voice sounds so fucking nice" you admit on the other side, and she recognizes your tone already from your videos, the moans that don't differ much from the ones you're holding on as you speak "i don't really do this- so don't get any weird ideas, i won't answer your calls in the middle of the night. this is special."

"i wouldn't even dream on it, peach" sevika teases, resting her sore back against the head of the bed as she holds the phone close to her mouth: special, this is special — "now that you settled the basics, are you going to tell me what you're doing right now or do i have to beg you to start on spilling me the details, huh?"

"i uh- i'm riding my pillow" the tone you use to say it? fuck fuck fuuuuck her, it's not all so confident and cocky like she usually sees online, you're fucking shy as you're moving again and she can feel the sound of your bed creaking as your breathing becomes heavy again "got so turned on- s'all your fault."

"good, so you now you can feel just a bit of what you've been doing to me for months now" sevika spats on the other side, and you let out a moan against her words as you move again and the friction sends a shiver down your spine when your folds drag across the usual soft fabric now rough against your sensitive core — "does it feel good baby? does the friction feel nice?"

"yes," you breathe out as you're now moving faster, a wet trace now over the pillow marking up the constant back and forth movement you've been following "yes, need more-"

"so use your fingers then," she suggests, mushy brain at the idea "i know you have some nice toys doll, stuff yourself up so i can hear."

"pervert," you chuckle on the other side, laughs that are interrupted by the pleasure you were being a victim off, how quick your fingers seem to assault your own clit as you begin to move faster — "fucking pervert wanting to hear me cum- ah shit."

"the things i'd do to go down on you and taste that cum too," you're not putting an end to her misery but only aggravating it all, making sevika's hand sweat as she's sniffing on your fucking underwear again and she cannot get a grip from it, not when it's the closest thing she has to your smell, that same scent that must be coating your pillow now as she can hear the moans that each of your movements elicit "keep moving c'mon, don't stop rubbing on your clit and keep talking to me."

thing is, you cannot really talk after a few seconds. you're reaching your peak and dragging it slowly with each roll on your hips, your fingers rub perfectly against your puffy clit, swollen labia, the friction is fucking killing you to the point your legs are shaking on each side of the pillow, mumbling incoherent words now unable to hold on the phone.

"ride it out," sevika says on the other side, biting on her thumb as the pain seems to ground her own being — "please, don’t stop moving death. soak up your sheets and make a mess for me, you deserve it for being so good."

you comply without making her beg. stupid since you think a lot about her voice and how awfully nice it sounds when she says please, but the friction’s already overstimulating when your folds seem to open up to the form of the pillow now just sliding between your legs and in return, you have no voice to ask for anything at all, don't matter how much you'd like to.

your eyes roll to the back of your head and you know you're in deep trouble when sevika keeps talking you through it, convincing you to grab the dildo in your nightstand, to let the pink head of it kiss your entrance before she reminds how you need to be gentle, rub it slowly in your sore pussy cause that's how she'd do it with her strap before slowly pushing it inside your welcoming hole until you're full, full so you’re unable to think about anything else but her cock.

outstanding. you never let a former watcher call you. the phone number was set up for a way of making more money, but you want this from the bottom of your stomach, a desire that much rather feasts on your guts.

and sevika keeps her promise cause she don't call you the week after. surprisingly good when it comes to follow your rules cause she don't want to push your boundaries (not like this anyway) respecting every-single-one of your non-written rules when she's letting you call in again — in the dead of the night, when she's least expecting it:

you always call her first.

[ivonhart]

haircut | sevika x fem!reader

— one shot

masterlist

cross posted on ao3

gif credit: @terrapia

inspo credit: @roastedoatmilk

summary: You wake to Sevika struggling to maintain her hair and offer to cut it.

a/n: This was so self indulgent - I just love Sevika so much and wanted more fluff out there with her

You were gently stirred awake at the soft cursing that left the mouth of your girlfriend. What little light that could breach Zaun’s smoggy atmosphere trickled in from the torn blinds hanging from your bedroom window and illuminated her…as well as the smoke that surrounded her from the cigarette hanging from her lips.

Despite the sleep that clouded your vision you could see that she was hunched over at your desk in front of your vanity mirror. You watched as she gathered her shoulder length hair and attempted to tie it up before the hairband slipped from her fingers, causing her to curse once more. She was stressed…even in your sleepy state the fact she was smoking so early told you as such.

Ever since the death of Silco, neither you nor her have been able to scrape up enough money to get a replacement arm for her, leaving her back with one arm. Something she wasn’t used to after so long with a mechanical one. Each day you could see her get more and more frustrated at the Zaun and what it’s becoming.

Silco’s death had sent Zaun into a whirlwind of chaos and Sevika had to follow behind cleaning up whatever she could by herself. Slowly, you sat up, resulting in the thin blanket to fall from your bare chest, exposing your skin to the chill air that filled the room. With a yawn and a stretch you stood from the bed and made your way over to her. You didn’t bother to put a shirt on as you did. “My love…you should’ve woke me.”

Your soft voice visibly relaxed her tense shoulders as you ran your hands across the back of her neck before wrapping around it. The warmth from your bare chest heated up her backside while you rested your chin on her forehead. A heavy sigh left her mouth as she looked away from the mirror after you pulled the cigarette from her lips and brought it to yours.

“I should be able to tie my own fucking hair up.” Her tone was harsh but you knew it was only because she was hurting. She didn’t say it much but his death left a wound in her heart you don’t think would ever heal. And with everything else happening you knew she would burn out sooner or later. No matter how hard she tried to hide it from you…you knew.

With one last drag you put the cigarette out and climbed onto Sevika’s lap, she didn’t fight it - she never did, and silently cupped her scarred cheek and parted her mouth to allow the smoke you held in your lungs to travel to hers. Another heavy sigh forced the smoke from her mouth as she dropped her head against yours.

Her hand held your hip as you stroked her cheek. “You don’t have to keep doing everything alone.” You began to say while you closed your eyes. “Let me carry some of the burden.” Your words caressed the woman’s mouth as you whispered them. Sevika’s hand wandered up your body, mapping out every bump and scar that littered your skin as if she was afraid you would disappear from her very hands. “Everything went to shit after Sil…” The woman choked back the name of the man she admired so much.

While she spoke you softly rubbed your nose against hers. “I just don’t know what to do.” Her hand had traveled under your chest and around your ribs before moving up your spin to cup the back of your head. Knowing what it was she wanted, you pushed your head into her neck and wrapped your arms around her shoulders.

The embrace seemed to halt time. All that was and would ever be was the two of you. Sevika felt a burn behind her eyes as she gazed at the ceiling. She didn’t know why she felt such emotion. Perhaps Silco’s death was finally hitting her, or the exhaustion was catching up to her. Or maybe it was the pure and unforgiving love she held for you.

“Maybe I could cut it for you?” The question snapped her out of her thoughts and she quickly blinked any tears away. You pulled away and smiled softly. “I’ve always thought you’d look good with an undercut and besides, it would be one less thing for you to worry about.” Any tension Sevika once held was washed away as she cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Oh…really?” Your soft smile grew wide as you nodded before you pushed her hair out of her face and tucked the strains behind her ears. Showcasing the large eyes you fell so hard for. “So?” You asked while mimicking her facial expression.

-

“You're the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” The words escaped your mouth before you even realized as you looked at the final product. After putting a shirt on and getting everything set up, it had taken about an hour until you finished cutting her hair.

Sevika felt heat bloom under her cheeks at your words, causing her to clear her throat. Despite dating for a few years, sudden words such as that threw the fighter off. Sometimes she’d think she had made you up. “Alright, let me see, woman.”

A soft laugh escaped your mouth at the name, knowing she only called you that when you made her flustered. When you handed a small handheld mirror to Sevika you watched with bated breath as she took in your handiwork. You were, in no way, a hair dresser so you were worried how she’d react. “D-Do you like it?”

In the blink of an eye you were suddenly in Sevika’s lap again with her lips against yours. She swallowed your gasp before you slowly kissed her back with a large smile. When you pulled away you spoke. “So was that a yes?” Your breath ghosted over her lips as she bore her gaze into yours. “Marry me.”

You pulled back to look at her face fully as a beat of silence filled the air. The sudden words you’ve been longing to hear from her threw you for a loop, causing you to stare blankly at her. Sevika’s eyes shifted between yours with nervous energy as she slightly shifted you in her lap.

“What?” You whispered as tears began to fill your eyes. The brute that you softened cleared her throat before repeating it. “Marry me.” All of a sudden, Sevika’s center of gravity was thrown off as you launched your arms around her shoulders once again, causing the two of you to tumble to the ground. “YES!” You screamed with a loud laugh. Sevika couldn’t help the chuckles that left her lips as you covered her face with pecks while the tears fell across her skin.

“What in Janna’s name is happening here? When did Sevika cut her hair?” Jinx’s questions were barely heard of the sounds of joy that left the two of you. When you finally registered her presence you stumbled to your feet with a wide smile, noting Isha standing next to her with matching blue hair. Seemed Sevika wasn’t the only one who changed hairstyles.

“SEVIKA ASKED ME TO MARRY HER!” Another beat of silence followed before Jinx broke out in a loud cheer while Isha followed along with loud claps. Sevika made her way off the floor and to the bed as she watched you, Jinx, and Isha jump around in a circle with interlocked hands while cheering. Jinx saying ‘Took Lefty long enough’ over and over again as the three of you did. The warmth she always felt around you burned even brighter, knowing she’d be with you till the end.

[andy-15-07]

Can you write a hc for Joaquin Torres where he mentors the young 20 smth reader pls?

Or perhaps shes a younger assassin (think like Eve/Ballerina from John Wick) which happened to maks her his tempory ally which kept happening for some time, so him and Sam just asked her to join their team and let Joaquin show her the ropes

Headcanon — "Training a Ghost"

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 868 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

A/n:hi, I hope you are well. I have a few things to say to you and the first is I'm sorry if this Headcanon didn't come out well, it's the first time I've written something like this and the second thing is that I have a small (big) crush on danny, so he is very handsome and talented. So I hope you like what I posted, I'm waiting for your requests for Danny and his characters.

🔥 The Accidental Ally

You first crossed paths during a weapons extraction op in Berlin. You were in, silent and lethal, before Joaquin even breached the building. “Who the hell is that?” “Not Hydra.” “...Not ours either.” You cleared the room, nodded once at him, and vanished through the window like a damn ghost. He never forgot.

🔁 The Repeat Offender

A few missions later, you show up again. And again. You’re always on the same objective. Sometimes you beat them to it. Sometimes you finish what they start. “She’s either stalking us or freelancing with really good timing,” Joaquin mutters. You once left a note on Sam’s bike: “Tell your rookie to stop watching me. He’s loud.” Joaquin’s obsessed. In a concerned way. (And also in a “why does she smell like gunpowder and vanilla” kind of way.)

🤝 The Recruitment

You get injured during a shared mission. Joaquin finds you bleeding behind a collapsed wall and refuses to leave. “I can do it myself.” “Yeah, and die in 5 minutes. That’s a hard pass for me.” He carries you out. Sam sees it and goes, “So... should we just put her on the payroll already?” You resist, but they offer something you’ve never had: stability. Trust. A team. You finally agree — under one condition: “I don’t do uniforms.” Joaquin: “Noted. But you’re getting a communicator. And a nickname.” You: “Absolutely not.” Joaquin: “Too late. I already call you Shadow.”

📚 The Mentorship

Joaquin is assigned to “train” you. Joke’s on him — you don’t need training in weapons, combat, or stealth. But you’re awful at teamwork, briefing protocols, and… asking for help. Joaquin: “You can dismantle a bomb blindfolded but can’t tell me when you’re hurt?” You: “Weakness gets people killed.” Joaquin: “No — silence gets you killed. We're not solo anymore, Shadow.” (That “we” lingers in your brain way too long.)

💬 The Softening

He sees you at your quietest, cleaning knives on the balcony after a mission. You see him at his softest, laughing into a comm call with Sam. One night he brings you coffee and says nothing — just sits nearby, like he knows you need silence more than words. You fall asleep against his shoulder. He doesn't move for an hour.

🧨 The First Real Fight

A mission goes wrong. You break orders to save Joaquin. Sam’s pissed. Joaquin waits until you’re alone and says: “Don’t ever risk your life for mine again.” “You would’ve died.” “I’d rather die than lose you to a reckless choice.” The air goes tense. Your hand brushes his. Neither of you moves away.

❤️ The Shift

He starts calling you “partner.” Not “asset.” Not “recruit.” He tells you his real fears. You let him touch the scar on your ribs. One night, while sparring, you end up on top of him, both breathless. “You learning yet?” he teases. “I learn fast,” you whisper. He doesn’t kiss you. But it’s close. And it’s coming.

[cod-bin]

call me simon

simon (ghost) riley x reader

content: violence, slow burn (again), injury, reader gets hurt, soft!ghost, not proof read???

wc: 4k

The mission had been simple—infiltrate, extract, and get the hell out. At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

You and Ghost had worked together for years, and in that time, you had come to understand him in a way no one else had. You could read the subtle shifts in his body language, the way his hands flexed on his rifle when he was tense, the almost imperceptible softening in his gaze when he looked at you. He never said much, but you didn’t need him to.

But even now, after all this time, he still kept you at a distance.

“This one’s risky,” he had warned you before you deployed.

You had grinned, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Since when do we play it safe?”

Something flickered behind his eyes, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he just nodded once, gripping his rifle a little tighter.

That was the last conversation you had before it all went to hell.

The ambush came out of nowhere. A planned extraction turned into a massacre, bullets raining down from every angle. The comms erupted with frantic voices—Price barking orders, Soap cursing as he tried to cover the retreat. You had been close to Ghost, always covering his six, but then—

The explosion.

A deafening roar swallowed the world, and then there was nothing.

When Ghost came to, the first thing he felt was the cold. The second thing was the weight in his chest—the suffocating pressure of something far worse than any physical injury.

“Where’s (Y/N)?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a growl.

Silence.

Soap was the one who finally spoke, his voice grim. “We couldn’t find them, mate.”

Ghost’s world tilted. His hands curled into fists, rage and grief colliding like a storm inside him. “That’s not an answer.”

“We searched,” Soap continued carefully. “We didn’t see a body, but… there was a lot of blood.”

A sharp, ugly sound tore from Ghost’s throat. He wasn’t the type to break—he had seen too much, lost too many people. He had told himself he was used to this. But this was different.

This was you.

Price put a hand on his shoulder, but Ghost barely felt it. His ears were ringing, his heart pounding against his ribs. He thought about the way you had smiled at him before the mission. The way you had promised to have his back.

And now? Now you were gone.

Ghost had lost people before. He had buried every shred of his past beneath layers of concrete and steel, building himself into something untouchable. But this? This felt like a bullet straight through whatever remained of his soul.

The weeks passed, but Ghost felt like he was stuck in the moment he lost you.

He barely spoke. He barely slept. Missions were carried out with brutal efficiency, every target eliminated with a level of ruthlessness that even made Soap worry.

He told himself it was just another loss. Another name to add to the long list of the dead. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake you from his mind.

Every night, he saw you in his dreams—sometimes laughing, sometimes covered in blood, sometimes reaching for him with a look of betrayal in your eyes.

Why didn’t you save me?

The question haunted him.

But then, weeks later, intel came in. A captured operative—one matching your description—had been sighted in enemy hands.

And just like that, the world snapped back into focus.

Ghost wasn’t losing you. Not again.

The safehouse was heavily guarded, deep in enemy territory. But Ghost didn’t care.

He was going in alone.

The rest of the team had tried to stop him. Price had warned him that this wasn’t a one-man job. Soap had reminded him that rushing in blind would get him killed.

None of it mattered.

The moment he breached the compound, it was a blur of bullets and blood. He cut through the enemy like a shadow of death itself, his every movement precise, brutal, relentless.

And then he found you.

You were in a dimly lit room, shackled to a chair, battered and bruised but alive.

Ghost felt something inside him crack wide open.

He was at your side in seconds, hands trembling as they worked to undo your restraints. “(Y/N)…” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first. Then, recognition.

“You—” Your voice broke. “You came for me.”

He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against yours for the briefest second. “Always.”

Getting out was messy, but Ghost didn’t let go of you once. Even when you were safely back at the base, even when the medics took over, he stayed nearby, hovering in the shadows, watching over you like some kind of silent guardian.

When you were finally stable, he sat beside your bed, hands clasped together, head bowed.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you murmured, voice weak. “Could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

Ghost exhaled sharply. “And leave you behind? Not a chance.”

You studied him for a long moment, something unreadable in your gaze. Then, with a shaky breath, you reached out—fingers barely brushing against his.

He didn’t pull away.

For the first time in a long time, Ghost allowed himself to feel.

And in that moment, in the quiet space between pain and healing, between loss and love—he realized that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

Maybe neither of you were.

The medbay was quiet, save for the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside your bed. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, highlighting the cuts and bruises left behind by your captors.

Ghost sat by your side, his gloved hands resting on his knees, body hunched forward like a man carrying the weight of a thousand ghosts.

He hadn’t spoken much since the rescue. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he didn’t know how.

What could he say? Sorry I let you get taken? Sorry I wasn’t fast enough? Sorry that you had to suffer because of me?

You stirred slightly, wincing as you shifted in bed. Ghost’s hands twitched, instinctively wanting to reach out, to do something—but he held back.

Your voice was hoarse when you finally spoke. “You should get some sleep.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Not tired.”

You cracked a weak smile. “You never are.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and full of words neither of you were ready to say. Then, in a softer voice, you asked, “How bad was it?”

Ghost clenched his jaw. How bad? Bad enough that he still saw the image of your battered body every time he closed his eyes. Bad enough that he had nearly lost himself entirely during the rescue, consumed by a single, violent purpose.

“You’re here,” he said gruffly. “That’s all that matters.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, but it lacked warmth. “That bad, huh?”

His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, he let his mask slip—just for a second. You saw it then. The raw, unfiltered guilt. The anger. The self-hatred that festered beneath his ribs.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his forearm. It was a small touch, but it was enough to make him freeze.

“Simon.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

His breath hitched. He hadn’t heard his real name from your lips in what felt like forever.

But before he could say anything, before he could acknowledge the way his heart clenched at the sound of it, you let your hand fall away, your exhaustion dragging you back into unconsciousness.

Ghost sat there, staring at where your fingers had been.

And for the first time in years, he wished he was someone else.

Someone better.

Someone who deserved you.

It took time. More time than Ghost was comfortable with.

You were healing—physically, at least. But there were nights when he caught you staring at the wall, eyes distant, lips pressed into a tight line.

He knew that look. He had seen it in the mirror too many times.

The ghosts weren’t just haunting him anymore. They had their claws in you, too.

One night, as the base fell into silence, Ghost found you sitting outside near the barracks, knees pulled to your chest, the cool night air brushing against your skin.

He approached cautiously. “Can’t sleep?”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Funny. I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

Ghost lowered himself onto the bench beside you, his broad frame casting a long shadow in the moonlight.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, softly, you murmured, “I thought I was gonna die in there.”

His fingers curled into fists against his thighs.

“But worse than that,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper, “I thought… I thought I was never gonna see you again.”

Ghost’s heart clenched. He swallowed thickly, staring straight ahead, unable to meet your gaze. “You’re here now,” he said, though the words felt hollow.

You turned your head, studying him. “Yeah. But are you?”

He stiffened.

Because that was the real question, wasn’t it?

Ever since he’d pulled you out of that hellhole, something inside him had shifted. It was like the barriers he had spent years building—the cold, unfeeling armor that protected him from pain—had cracked wide open.

And you had seen it.

And worse? He had let you.

“You don’t have to keep carrying this alone,” you murmured.

Ghost let out a sharp exhale, running a hand down his face. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.” You reached out again, this time grabbing his wrist before he could pull away. “You think I don’t see it? You’re killing yourself over this, Simon.”

His breath caught.

The way you said his name—it wasn’t an order. It wasn’t a reprimand. It was something softer, something that made his chest feel tight.

Something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

He shook his head. “I can’t—”

“You can,” you interrupted, squeezing his wrist. “You just won’t.”

Ghost clenched his jaw. A part of him wanted to argue. To tell you that you were better off not knowing what he carried. That his ghosts weren’t just whispers in the dark—they were bloodstains, scars carved too deep to ever fade.

But the way you were looking at him now—like you weren’t afraid of what you might find beneath the mask—made his resolve waver.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, he wanted someone to see him.

The real him.

The man beneath the name.

Not Ghost.

Not the soldier.

Just Simon.

So he didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

It wasn’t easy.

Ghost didn’t know how to let people in.

But you didn’t push. You didn’t demand things from him that he couldn’t give. You just… stayed.

And little by little, he started to let you in.

He started to sit a little closer. He started to speak a little more. He started to allow himself to believe—maybe just maybe—that he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

There were still bad nights. There were still moments when the past clawed its way into the present. But you were there. And somehow, that made it bearable.

One night, as the rain pattered softly against the window, you turned to him, voice barely above a whisper.

“You saved me.”

Ghost stared at you for a long moment. Then, quietly, he admitted, “You saved me first.”

And for once, he let himself believe it.

For once, he let himself breathe.

Ghost had never been good at this.

Not at connection. Not at letting people in.

He was used to distance—to keeping others at arm’s length, ensuring that no one got close enough to matter. Because when people mattered, they could be taken away. And he had lost enough already.

But with you…

It was different.

The realization crept up on him in the quiet moments. The way his heart beat a little differently when you looked at him. The way your voice softened when you said his name. The way your touch—so simple, so fleeting—made him feel human again.

And that terrified him.

Because Simon Riley didn’t get to have this.

Didn’t deserve this.

But still, he stayed.

And so did you.

It was a chilly morning when the shift finally began.

The two of you were on a routine patrol, your boots crunching against the frost-covered ground as the sun barely peeked over the horizon.

Ghost had always preferred silence, but with you, it never felt heavy. It never felt like a wall.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked suddenly.

Ghost glanced at you. “The military?”

You nodded.

His answer should have been automatic. No.

But instead, he hesitated.

“…Sometimes.”

You stopped walking, turning to look at him fully. “Really?”

He huffed out a quiet breath. “Used to think I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I ever left this life.”

“And now?”

His fingers flexed at his sides. And now, I think about what it would be like to wake up somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. And not be alone.

He didn’t say it out loud. But you must have seen something in his expression, because your gaze softened, your voice gentler when you said, “I think you’d be okay.”

Ghost swallowed. Looked away.

And for the first time, the idea of something beyond this didn’t feel like a distant, impossible thing.

It was an accident.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

The mission had been simple—routine. But the terrain had been rough, the weather brutal. By the time you made it back to the safe house, you were shivering, your hands trembling as you tried to warm yourself up.

Without thinking, Ghost pulled off his gloves and reached for you.

You stiffened in surprise as his hands wrapped around yours, his calloused fingers rough against your cold skin. His touch was warm—warmer than you expected.

He meant to let go. He really did.

But then you exhaled, leaning into the heat, your fingers curling slightly against his. And he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Time stretched between you, heavy and thick, something unspoken crackling in the space where your hands remained locked together.

It wasn’t just comfort. It wasn’t just warmth.

It was something else. Something Ghost had been running from for a long, long time.

Your eyes met his, searching. Waiting.

But then you pulled away, clearing your throat, the moment slipping between your fingers like sand.

Ghost clenched his jaw. Fisted his hands at his sides.

And told himself that it didn’t mean anything.

Even though it did.

Something had changed.

Neither of you talked about it, but it was there—in the way you moved around each other, in the way his gaze lingered for a second too long, in the way your fingers brushed his shoulder when you passed by.

Ghost wasn’t stupid. He knew what was happening.

He just didn’t know how to stop it.

Or if he even wanted to.

One night, as you sat together in the barracks, an unusual quiet settled between you. The others had long since gone to bed, leaving just the two of you and the dim light flickering above.

You shifted slightly beside him, your knee brushing against his. He didn’t move away.

After a moment, you spoke. “You ever let someone in before?”

Ghost let out a slow breath. “No.”

“Not even once?”

His throat tightened. “Tried once. A long time ago.” He hesitated. “Didn’t end well.”

You didn’t push. You just nodded, your expression unreadable. But then—so softly, so carefully—you reached out and placed your hand over his.

Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just there.

Ghost felt like his lungs stopped working.

He could have pulled away.

Should have.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned his hand over, his fingers slowly curling around yours.

A quiet acceptance. A silent confession.

And for the first time in years, Simon Riley let himself hold on.

The rain had started sometime after midnight.

It wasn’t the kind that lashed against the windows or roared through the wind—it was quiet, steady, a soft patter that filled the air with something almost gentle.

You and Ghost had been out on the balcony of the safe house, the night stretching between you in comfortable silence. The mission had been successful. For once, there was no immediate threat. No orders waiting to be carried out.

Just the two of you.

He stood beside you, his mask still on, arms crossed over his chest. His presence was solid, grounding. And yet, something felt different tonight.

Something had been shifting between you for weeks now, threading its way into every glance, every touch, every quiet moment where neither of you said what you were both thinking.

You stole a glance at him. He was looking at the rain, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against his arms—like he was wrestling with something just beneath the surface.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s on your mind?” you asked softly.

Ghost exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You wouldn’t wanna know.”

You turned fully toward him, tilting your head. “Try me.”

Silence.

For a long moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then—so softly, so hesitantly—you heard it.

“Don’t wanna lose this.”

Your breath caught.

This.

The space between you. The warmth that had slowly, inevitably grown over time.

The thing neither of you had dared to name.

Ghost shifted, his hands dropping to his sides. When he finally turned to face you, his gaze was unreadable, heavy with something you weren’t sure he even knew how to explain.

“I don’t—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t do this. I can’t.”

Your heart clenched. “Why?”

His hands curled into fists. “Because if I let myself have this—have you—I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk away.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “What if I don’t want you to?”

Ghost went still.

For a moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the rain, the distant hum of the world beyond this fragile moment.

And then—so slowly, so carefully—he lifted a hand.

Not to push you away.

But to touch.

His gloved fingers ghosted over your cheek, barely there, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he held on too tightly.

You leaned into the touch, closing your eyes for a brief second, letting yourself feel it. Letting yourself feel him.

When you opened your eyes, he was watching you, something raw and uncertain burning behind his mask.

You reached up, your fingers hesitating at the edge of his balaclava.

“Simon,” you whispered.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

Then, without a word, he reached up and pulled the mask off himself.

The air between you shifted, thick with something neither of you could ignore anymore.

And then he whispered it, his voice rough, breaking apart at the edges.

“Say it again.”

Your heart pounded. “Simon.”

A sharp exhale. A decision made.

And then—

He kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, hungry, a collision of everything unsaid. His hands came up to cup your face, fingers sliding into your hair, holding you like you were something precious—something real.

Like he had been starving for this.

Like he had been starving for you.

And God—so had you.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, pouring every unspoken word into the way your lips moved against his. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the undeniable truth that this had been building for so long, and now that it had begun, there was no going back.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, your fingers still tangled in his shirt.

Ghost���Simon—let out a shaky breath. “You really should’ve walked away from me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, nudging your nose against his. “Too late.”

His lips quirked slightly, a ghost of a smile, before he kissed you again.

This time, it was softer.

This time, it was real.

And this time, he didn’t pull away.

Not now.

Not ever.

a/n: add yourself to my taglist

[love-toxin]

hyrule spice <3 (rauru, byrne, tauro, link)

(general cws: graphic smut, fem/afab pronouns, breeding, knotting, hylian/zonai relations, pet names/name calling, dirty talk, degradation, squirting, fingering, overstim, bondage, unprotected sex, rough sex)

rauru of hyrule

Rauru never falters, never hesitates. He wants you and you're his. There's no fighting it--there simply can't be any doubt that you have his love.

But as the king of Hyrule, he has a duty to fulfill. Marriage, family, continuance of the royal bloodline...you understand, don't you? Even as a Hylian, you must. As a man and a Zonai, he has needs.

One of those needs, especially when faced with a pretty Hylian like yourself, is to breed.

"Ah, ah, ah--ahnnnngh-!" Is it you now, is it him? Who even cares at this point, you're basically the same being by now; bodies intertwined and moving in unison, every shuffle dictated by Rauru's massive Zonaite body towering over yours. Both his furry, clawed hands rest over yours, palms dwarfing your tiny Hylian fingers as he plants his body firmly into every thrust. The thin, fuzzy layer of hair that protects his cock is now coated in your arousal, sticky and slick from the pounding you've taken so all that rings in your ears is a hefty plap plap plap from behind as you take his thrusts.

Rauru once apologized to you, when you met, about his "off-putting" appearance. His ears, his claws, his snout that makes it difficult to kiss, his fur and his tail...he doesn't apologize for it anymore. He knows now that he doesn't have to, not when he gives you treatment like this.

"Forward," He snarls into your ear, gone mad with the weight of his lust and the frenzy of his mid-month heat. His teeth could rip the flesh from your bones, yet even in this state he uses them only to pierce the sweetest of claiming bites into your throat and down your spine. "Bend...until you break."

He can't be satiated by thought alone. Nor even the touch of his own hands, or a concubine if he owned one. It can only be you. Only your soft, squishy flesh rubbing up against his fur, your hands pinned beneath his claws, and your womb pierced on the tip of his thick, knot-heavy cock that's just begging to lock itself within your cunt and never let go.

Those claws dig painfully into your back, yet it doesn't dissuade you, and he loves that. He loves that at the end of the day, you'll submit to your king as he forces you to the sheets and pins your hips under his, his knot swelling and swelling until he finally breaches that soft place and all becomes right with the world. Through the pain you still adore him, and through the pleasure even more so.

Now, it's just a matter of soothing your bruised, marked-up body with his voice and his doting touch, with kisses and whispers of love and promises of all the gorgeous gifts he's going to present to you, as a token of gratitude for allowing the first of the Zonai to mate with the first Hylian--and person--he's ever truly loved.

byrne the dueling spirit

One hundred years. One hundred years of hard labour, training, and agony. Loneliness and isolation and anger, fury building itself up and up and up until it boils, begging to be let out on anyone close enough to make a decent punching bag.

Byrne doesn't know love. Never has, never feels like he ever will--he only knows pain and weakness, the desire to grow stronger clawing at him like a ravenous dog. Maybe that's why he finally lets loose on you. You were within reach. Never said no, never gave him anything but a smile.

And you're regretting it now, he bets. Because you have a muscled, weighty beast of a man on top of you, and you can feel the way he's learning this kind of touch for the first time as well as you can see clouds in the sky.

Or could, if you didn't have your face forced into your pillow, back arched so deeply the sweat pools like a puddle in the dip of your back. And it shakes and spills with the creaking of your bedframe, your down mattress squealing for mercy as Byrne forces you down and bullies your pussy into submission.

"Shut up." He groans, as if his bandana hasn't been balled up and stuffed into your mouth to quiet your incessant noises. If he didn't like you, he wouldn't say anything. But he can't help but tease you...can't help but make you wish you'd never invited him back to your house in the first place. "....Useless bitch." He grumbles, the smirk on his face going unnoticed as your lust-numbed brain leaks out your ears. Your pussy's cute, but it won't let him go--and even when he tries, your body just sucks him back in like you can't go a minute without being fucked.

But it just gives him the chance to put that metal arm to good use. It isn't rubbing or pinching he uses to his advantage, but a cold, hard, wet slap against your clit that finally shocks you enough to let him go--just barely enough to slide out before you clench down on the tip, though, and your muscles won't loosen as if you've been made to have a vice grip most inconveniently. He's gotta go. "Can't stick around fucking you all day. Let go."

Pop. With a deep, clingy squelch, he's finally pulled free from your soaking wet, tight as hell abyss, contrary to your whines and squirmy wiggling that beg him sweetly for more. To stay.

You're pretty and all. He likes you, and he doesn't like anyone. But he can't stay....and you can't get too attached to him, or else you're just gonna end up heartbroken.

But, maybe...maybe he can spare you a little dignity and make you finish. He thinks as he slides his cockhead through your folds again, unaware of just how hard he's falling in love as he sinks back in.

tauro the scholar

Your scholar is a nightmare because he won't let anything just lie. He needs answers. Evidence. Scientific proof. He needs logic and deciphered clues to figure out life's greatest mysteries.

Hence why he's doing today's case study on your soft, cute, and sensitive little pussy.

"Subject-responds-to-stimuli-even-under-duress," He speaks softly as his free hand scribbles out his notes on the pad between his feet, his fingers on the other hand buried deep within your twitching, stretched pussy lips. The 'stimuli' being him, and 'duress'....well, emotional duress counts. Especially when you've orgasmed 8 times today. "I believe in you, baby." Tauro replies cheerfully to your fucked-out groans, a smile permanently etched on his lips as he curls his fingers deep into your cervix. "I can make you ejaculate today! We're almost there!"

Somehow the sterile language he likes to use--which would normally be a bit of a mood killer in bed--just doesn't faze you anymore with Tauro. He's a bit of a kook, a cute airhead with the kind of knowledge the Sheikah themselves would kill for. A sweet, silly man who likes to tease.

A man who isn't intimidated by the pulses of your pussy nor the jerk of your hips as the pressure pushes down on your bladder, who positions his face right up close between your legs despite you gasping out that you feel like you're gonna pee. Embarrassment is nothing to him.

"That's what it's supposed to feel like."

He growls with an eager grin, fucking your cunt even faster with those thick fingers that's toe-curling but not yet cusping on painful. The bristly hairs on his freshly-shaved chin rub your soaked skin as he leans in, laving his huge, hot tongue over your tortured clit that's been messed with like a hot button all day today.

It's only when your shaking hips and arched back come to a standstill that he's finally satisfied--drenched in your juices, his face glistening as he talks you through and urges you to "let it all out baby, give everything to me" until you're squirting just like he told you he'd make you do for him.

Rarely have you seen such satisfaction on his face upon finding the answer he was looking for. Each tremor comes as he eases more out of you, every gasp and spurt of fluid getting him more excited about the results. You drench him from head to lap and he couldn't be more ecstatic, licking every bit he can get off his fingers and his palm as he looks up at you through hooded eyes.

"Now..." He pants, hair slicked down and tongue lolling out of his mouth as he laps up the droplets sticking to your folds as you tremble. "...Let's see if you can do that again, hm?"

link the hero

Link needs very few, simple things in life to coexist with reality. Those are primarily food, warmth, sunshine...and sex.

Poor hero. All he needs is an orgasm or two to get him back into the fight when he's exhausted from his toils. That's not so much to ask for, right?

That's where you come in. Such a pretty thing--and such a nice girl to help him out when he's in need. Link can show up on your doorstep night or day, rain or shine, healthy or half-dead, and to see you let him in and give him a place to put his feet up makes him feel like he's in love.

And whatever ails him is sure to clear up with a dose of your sweet, slick pussy that he swears was moulded just for him.

"Ha...ha...hah, ah-!" Link huffs out as he comes to a close again, hips bucking violently from below as he lets those animal instincts run wild with you. He can't be stopped, hence why you have to use those handy Lynel-silver shackles to cuff him to your bed, all so he won't break free in the heat of the moment and start fucking you rabidly on the floor of your cottage. Not like that's ever happened before, and he accidentally traumatized your milkman when he came knocking on the door....

"D-Don't strain, Link..." You gasp, his cum flooding down your thighs from hours upon hours of rabid coming-home-from-battle sex. "You'll hurt yourself."

Link doesn't talk much as it is, but the wobbly grin and the rolling back of his eyes in his head serves well enough to say what he thinks about that sentiment. Don't care. Need to blow my load. That's what's written all over his expression, and you can't say you're much surprised...or disappointed.

"Fine," You sigh, swirling your hips in deep circles to slow his thrusts--and to remind him of how much he's at your mercy now, no matter how strong of a warrior he is out on the field of battle. Your chuckle causes his back to arch up off the bed, his wrists pulling hard at the cuffs while his heart nearly beats out of his chest. "Then be a good boy and cum already. I've got a mess to clean up."

Link growls, that feral growl that only comes out when he's really, desperately in need of release. He starts thrusting more violently, his hips barely meeting the mattress anymore as he chases that pleasure against your womb--against that blasted little wall that feels like heaven but constantly stops him from shooting ropes right into the source of that ecstasy he loves. Maybe one day.

For now, it only stops once you've had your cervix appropriately bruised, and he's made you slump over him in a panting, gasping mess as his seed flows out of you and into his sweaty lap. Maybe he doesn't need Hyrule, Hylia's blessing, or the Master Sword, or anything anymore.

Maybe all he needs in this world is you.

[chaosherald]

Harding Week Day 2

Inquisition/Veilguard

Thank you @datvcompanionweeks for hosting! (Previous prompts: Day 1)

A diptych. History has a way of repeating itself and scouts often see things other people miss.

(Or Harding gets a front row seat for two emotional break downs caused by the Dread Wolf. ~3,000 words.)

I.

Night watch along the approach to Skyhold was generally a quiet affair. Fire at your back, quiet conversation with the soldiers on patrol, maybe a book or a snack to pass the time.

Harding didn't get assignments like this anymore. She had proven herself invaluable in the field, acting head of the Herald of Andraste’s own vanguard, setting up base camp and collecting reports for Inquisitor Lavellan and her companions as they chased rifts and demons around Ferelden and Orlais.

Tonight, however, Harding had been feeling magnanimous when Derry begged for a favor. His wife and kids had just arrived in Skyhold and he really wanted to be with them as they settled into the fortress. There were worse ways to spend the night, and Derry had thrown in some fancy cheeses in exchange for taking his watch.

Harding was considering how best to enjoy her “thank you for taking my watch” bribe when movement in the distance caught her eye.  A solo rider, coming in fast. Grabbing her spyglass, Harding waved a hand signal at the nearest soldier and tried to make out whatever details she could. The horse wore barding marked with the Inquisition's symbol. The rider was cloaked, but it didn’t take long for Harding to make out who it was. After all, she spent a lot of time watching the Inquisitor come and go when out in the field.

But why was she riding back to Skyhold alone in the middle of the night? 

The soldier Harding signaled had come up to the scout’s side and was squinting towards the rider. This far out and lacking a spyglass, he didn’t seem to recognize who it was. “Trouble?”

“I’m not sure,” Harding said. It didn’t look like anyone was following the Inquisitor. No obvious signs of injury. She considered raising a formal alarm, but if the Inquisitor wanted the troops mustered, there were alchemical and magical signals she could use that would be visible from even further away than she was now.

Something was off, something Harding couldn't put her finger on. Collecting more information before waking up the entire fortress seemed prudent. “Wait here and wait for my signal,” she told the soldier.

Grabbing a torch, Harding jogged down the trail. The Inquisitor had slowed her horse, though she looked agitated, holding her shoulders stiffly as she turned her head to the side. She looked like she was considering galloping off in the opposite direction as Harding approached. “Inquisitor? Is everything alright?”

She didn’t answer, though her grip on the reins tightened.

Yeah, something was definitely weird here. Harding scanned the area, ready to drop the torch and take up her bow if she spotted anything amiss. “Is something chasing you? Are you injured? Do you need…” 

The Inquisitor had finally turned her head in a way that allowed the torchlight to illuminate her face. Her starkly blank face. The light green Dalish tattoos, like tree branches reaching across her cheeks and up her forehead were gone.

Harding trailed off. She tried not to stare. She was absolutely staring. “Your markings, they’re…what happened?”

The Inquisitor, usually so serene, so unflappable, the steadfast leader of their organization, crumpled. Harding watched in horror as she hunched over, sobbing. It was lucky her mount was well trained. As it was, the horse side stepped a bit, tossing his head in reaction to his rider’s distress. The last thing they needed was the only hope Thedas had of closing the breach breaking her neck after being thrown off her horse.

Harding waved her torch towards the soldier she had left behind, signaling he should approach, then moved to get the Inquisitor off her horse. “Umm, Inquisitor? C’mon, let's get you down from there.” Sticking the torch in the ground, Harding awkwardly pulled the Inquisitor out of the saddle. She didn’t resist, didn’t react, and barely seemed aware of Harding’s presence at all as she folded in on herself on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest and continuing to cry.

Harding stood over her. She felt like she should say something, do something. Before she could sort out how to try and comfort her boss when she didn’t really understand what was going on, the soldier reached them, gasping once he took in what he was seeing. “Inquisitor Lavellan?”

He sounded terrified. Which made an awful kind of sense. Harding realized whatever was going on, they needed to minimize how many people saw the Inquisitor in this state. Everyone relied on her, pinned their hopes on her. Seeing her breaking down would do awful things to the morale in the Inquisition. It was doing awful things to Harding right now. She turned to the soldier. “Hey. Look at me, alright? I need you to keep this quiet and I need you to go find someone who can help.”

The soldier didn’t seem capable of taking his eyes off the Inquisitor. His voice was pinched and slightly panicked when he spoke “Um, who? Who should I get?”

“Try to find Solas or…”

“No!” The Inquisitor looked up at that, her eyes wide, her voice shaky. “No, not….he…” 

Harding felt her stomach drop. Solas and the Inquisitor were close. Like, scandalously shared a tent in the field close. If they had fought or something, that would explain why she was so upset. It was also deeply uncomfortable to consider the Herald of Andraste, vessel of the Maker’s will, everyone’s salvation, being reduced to something so mundane as a broken hearted woman crying over a fight with her boyfriend.

They definitely needed to minimize who found out about this.

“Um, so not Solas. Dorian. Varric. Or Cassandra, or Cole? Anyone in the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Take the horse. And seriously, keep this quiet. We don’t want to cause a panic.”

The soldier nodded and saluted and almost tripped over his own feet as he turned to mount the horse and ride back towards Skyhold, leaving Harding alone and still unsure what to do. 

The Inquisitor looked so small. Her sobs had quieted, but her shoulders still shook and she was all curled around herself in a way that looked really uncomfortable on the hard ground of the trail. Harding finally settled on crouching down right next to her, almost but not quite close enough to touch, and kept watch. 

She wasn't sure if she would be able to or was permitted to offer comfort. The Inquisitor was always so professional. But she could make sure she was safe. That was part of her job.

Minutes passed in relative silence. Harding noticed when the Inquisitor stilled then went stiff, lifting her head off her knees and surreptitiously wiping at her face while looking around her like she was seeing where she was for the first time. 

Her expression slowly smoothed and calmed and it was like watching an actor putting on a mask. Harding wondered if this was normal, if every time she had seen Inquisitor Lavellan with her placid perfect persona, if it was just that. An act, a show, covering all the same ugly awful feelings that everyone facing this crisis was struggling with. Just, when you're the person in charge, the symbol everyone else is looking towards, you couldn't really afford to show any of that ugliness, could you?

Harding had figured that out when the soldier had sounded so scared upon seeing their leader falling apart, when she herself had felt so unsettled by what she was seeing. The Inquisitor must have figured it out a long time ago.

That realization made Harding terribly sad. It seemed so unfair, even if she was Andraste’s Herald. People needed to fall apart sometimes, and to have people around who could help them pull back together. She started to reach out, to put her hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder or something, but stopped. It still felt inappropriate. Too forward and too familiar and what if she just ended up making things worse?

The Inquisitor - Keara, her actual name was Keara - didn’t say anything, but must have caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. She glanced at Harding and shot her a small, tight smile, as if Harding were the one in need of comfort and that made it all the sadder and all the worse.

They stayed there in silence until Dorian and Cole arrived. Harding stood up and moved to the side, trying to get out of the way. She was immensely grateful that there were people here now who were better equipped to help. Dorian went to the Inquisitor immediately, helping her to her feet and keeping much better control of his face when he got a good look at her than Harding had. “You were going somewhere with Solas tonight,” he muttered, frowning slightly.

The Inquisitor started tearing up again and Dorian immediately folded her in a hug. “Oh, I am going to kill him.”

Cole hung back, looking between Harding and the Inquisitor. “He hurt her. He didn’t want to. The love was barbed, getting too deep to pull out without pain and the last time someone loved him it changed everything. He doesn’t want her to be another regret.”

He then looked at Harding, smiling. “She knew you were here. Embarrassed, but grateful. So alone but not alone and it was enough.”

“Right,” Harding said, shifting her weight. “Good? I’m going to get back to my post, but I guess let me know if you need help. I’ll catch up with you later, Cole.”

Heading back to the lookout, Harding tried to sort through the uneasy tangle in her chest. She had done what she could. Kept things quiet, kept the Inquisitor safe, sent for people who were actually the Inquisitor's friends and would hopefully be able to help her. She also trusted Cole. If he said just being there helped, then that was something.

She just wondered if she should have - or could have - done more. Particularly after, once the breach was closed and the truth about Solas came out and Harding continued to work with the Inquisitor and her shrinking inner circle. There was a hollowness to her. Cracks in the mask and carefully hidden bleeding scars, and Harding wasn't sure if she could ever have done anything to prevent it, but she knew what taking on the role of “Inquisitor” had cost and she resolved to really get to know anyone else she worked for or with. Good and bad, she would see the people and not the position, no matter how important or untouchable. She hated seeing someone hurting and she hated not being able to help.

She also knew she would never forgive Solas.

II.

Elation. Utter, glorious, relief from the all consuming stress of the past few weeks washed over Harding as they pulled Rook out of the Fade prison. It didn't fix everything. They still had to rescue Bellara. They still had to stop Elgar'nan and Solas. They were still mourning Davrin and Assan, but it was a start.

Rook looked like she was in shock, staggering as Taash and Emmrich steadied her and Neve released the tear in the Fade. Lucanis was teary-eyed, staring at Rook as if he feared she would be whisked away a second time. He stepped forward, reaching for her and whispering her name.

Rook recoiled, jerking back out of Taash and Emmrich’s hands, away from Lucanis. She scrunched her eyes shut and fisted her hands in her hair, shaking her head. “No,’ she muttered. “No, no, no - not again. Not him. Get out of my head. Get out of my head!” 

And then Rook, can-do, anything is possible, always making a joke in the face of minor inconvenience and existential horrors alike Rook stumbled to the ground and started screaming and Harding was a decade in the past, watching another fearless leader falling apart.

Everyone else froze. Of course they did. Nothing prepared you for the stark reality that your leader, your hope, was just as fragile as everyone else.

But this time, it wasn't a distant symbol shattering in front of her, it was her friend, everyone's friend. And Lace Harding was a decade older and a decade wiser, and had been determined from the beginning to do everything she could to keep Rook from ending up like the Inquisitor, lost in her role and dying in pieces without anyone noticing. Ignoring the licks of veilfire that were flaring around Rook, Harding kneeled in front of her. There would be no waiting around for someone else to help this time.

“Rook,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Amara. You're safe, with your friends. Back in the lighthouse. We need you to talk to us, though. Tell us what’s wrong.”

Rook had frozen when Harding said her name, but was still a ball of tension, breathing way too fast with her eyes screwed shut. At least she had stopped screaming. “This isn't real,” she whispered. “None of this is real.”

The stomach dropping sensation in response to Rook’s words was familiar too. Harding heard Taash cursing behind her and the mages muttering something to each other. Lucanis had followed Harding's example and was also crouched down, but didn't move any closer to Rook. He had probably noticed the same thing Harding did, that reaching for her had set this off and Harding really hoped they weren't going to have a second breakdown to deal with in a moment. 

Harding took a breath and made sure she was calm when she answered. “It’s real. We think you've been stuck in the prison Solas built to trap the Evanuris. I don’t know what you saw there, but this is real.”

Rook didn't move. Didn't reply. The veilfire still flickered around her.

Lucanis shifted next to Harding. “Rook -”

That got a response. Inhaling sharply, Rook opened her eyes and looked from Harding to Lucanis and back. Her face scrunched up, like she was going to cry or start screaming again.

So it wasn't the reaching for her that had been the problem. It was something with Lucanis. Harding caught the devastated look on his face and knew he had picked up on it too. Hoping she was right and this wasn’t about to make things worse, Harding reached over and grabbed Rook's hand, holding it tightly and pulling herself closer, forcing Rook to focus on her face. 

Rook stared at her. There were tears streaking down her face and she opened and closed her mouth a few times before whispering “...Harding?”

Harding kept her grip on Rook’s hand. “Yeah.”

Rook’s hand twitched in hers. The veilfire sputtered and died down. “You’re…this is real.”

“Yeah.”

Rook flung herself forward, almost knocking them both prone. Harding pulled Rook into a tight hug. She could feel her friend shaking, her tears wetting her shoulder, and could see the questioning concerned looks on the others’ faces. Words messily spilled out of Rook, halting and strained. “This is - you’re real. But Varric wasn’t, he died and I didn’t - Solas made me think he was still here and now. I - I can’t do this. He’s still in my head. Now it's Lucanis - I can’t do this, I can’t.”

“Wait,” Harding said, pulling back a bit so she could see Rook’s face. Her eyes were wide, twitchy and manic as she glanced at Lucanis and flinched away. Harding could see him processing everything, though he seemed frozen in place, unable or unwilling to risk upsetting Rook more. They had known Solas was in Rook’s head, but the idea that he had been making her see Varric, making her think he was still alive, that was awful. There was absolutely going to be some messiness to deal with coming out of that. The other part, however, seemed like something they could fix right now.

Harding moved slowly, making sure she kept one of her hands on Rook as she deliberately reached to the side and grabbed Lucanis by the shoulder. “Lucanis is real too, Rook. I don’t - Varric died during the ritual and whatever Solas did after, we’ll figure it out, but Lucanis is right here.”

Rook gaped at Lucanis, eyes going impossibly wider. “I saw you die. I…” she reached out a shaky hand towards Lucanis and he took that as the permission it was and scrambled towards her, pulling her into his arms.

Harding stood up to give them some space. Rook was definitely crying again, but this was different. Tears of relief, of things being put back together, not of things breaking apart. Lucanis was glowing, wings a ghostly cloak curving around him and Rook both as Spite made his presence known too.

Elation. Exhaustion. This wasn’t exactly the reunion they had all hoped for, but Rook was home and seemed to believe it and Harding found herself strangely glad that her friend didn’t feel the need to hide that she was hurting.

“Blood magic,” Neve said, terse and angry, rubbing her forehead as she came to stand next to Harding. “I should have realized something else was there.”

Emmrich still stood on the other side of their small circle, looking at Rook through a field of green light suspended between his hands. “We know Solas is powerful, Neve,” he said, solemn and weary. “If anything, we should expect things to get past us.”

“Solas is an asshole,” Taash muttered, wrapping their arm around Harding. “Hey. You were really good at that. Helping Rook. That scared the shit out of me but you just dealt with it.”

Harding shrugged, smiling. “Just helping a friend,” she said. “I kinda wish I didn’t have any experience with this kind of thing, but…besides, Rook did the same for me, with the Titan stuff.”

“Yeah,” Taash said, tightening their arm around her.

And this didn't fix everything. Rook, still shaky, still clinging to Lucanis, was asking about Bellara and Davrin and Harding knew that would be just the next in a line of awful conversations they needed to have. 

But Harding would see this through and do everything she could to make sure her friends made it to the other side in one piece. 

And maybe before this was over, she'd have a chance to let the Dread Wolf know exactly what she thought of the hurt he had caused.

[atlasthegreatest]

Mystic and Wonder / Cassandra Sandsmark x Doctor Strange! Male Reader

Y/n Strange senses a dangerous mystical disturbance and realizes he can’t handle the threat alone. Seeking assistance, he reaches out to Cassandra Sandsmark, also known as Wonder Girl. And despite the urgency of the situation, Cassandra wastes no time playfully flirting with the Sorcerer Supreme, clearly enjoying how easily she can make him flustered.

Word count: 4711

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

The Sanctum Sanctorum was unusually quiet tonight. Too quiet. The air crackled with lingering traces of magic as Y/n Strange stood in his study, flipping through an ancient tome. The threat he sensed earlier still gnawed at him—an unknown force creeping at the edges of reality, waiting for the right moment to strike.

He needed help.

With a flick of his wrist, a portal shimmered to life, revealing a different part of the world. Specifically, Washington, D.C. And more importantly, her.

Cassandra Sandsmark. Wonder Girl.

The golden-haired demigoddess was in the middle of sparring at the Hall of Justice, effortlessly dodging and countering attacks from her training partner. The moment she noticed the portal, her lips curled into a smirk, curiosity dancing in her eyes. She parried one last attack, knocked her opponent down (a little harder than necessary), and strode toward Y/n without a hint of hesitation.

“Doctor Strange,” she said teasingly, stepping through the portal with ease. “What’s the matter? Did you finally realize you need a little Wonder in your life?”

Y/n sighed, already regretting this. “I wouldn’t have come to you if it wasn’t important.”

“Uh-huh,” the blonde demigoddess hummed, crossing her arms. “So you do need me.”

Y/n shot her a look before snapping his fingers, causing the portal to close behind her. “There’s a disturbance in the magical field—something powerful is trying to break through. I need an extra set of hands, and you’re one of the strongest warriors I know.”

Cassandra tilted her head, eyes flickering with amusement. “Flattery? Keep talking, Doctor, I like where this is going.”

Y/n cleared his throat, ignoring the way his face felt slightly warmer. “Anyway—I believe this could be tied to an ancient being attempting to breach our reality. I need someone strong enough to hold them while I perform the sealing ritual.”

The Amazon took a step closer, just enough that Y/n could catch the faint scent of sandalwood and something uniquely her. “So let me get this straight—you want me by your side, helping you save the world?”

“That’s… one way to put it.”

Cassandra grinned, resting a hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder. “You know, if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked me out instead of summoning me for an emergency.”

Y/n’s brain stalled for half a second. “W-What?”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, a magical battle sounds like an exciting first date,” she said, leaning in just enough to make the man’s pulse jump. “But I was thinking more along the lines of dinner. Maybe somewhere nice? Or are you the type who prefers mysterious candlelit studies filled with arcane books?”

The sorcerer opened his mouth, only for nothing to come out immediately. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it before—Cassandra was Cassandra, after all. Confident, beautiful, and effortlessly charming. But he was Doctor Strange. He had responsibilities, and a duty to protect reality.

And yet…

“I—uh…” Y/n rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling the weight of her gaze. “Are you seriously asking me out while we’re discussing a world-threatening crisis?”

Cassandra chuckled. “Multitasking. But hey, if we survive this, dinner’s on you.”

Y/n exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine. If we make it through this, I’ll take you to dinner.”

Her eyes brightened with victory. “It’s a date, then.”

Y/n turned, summoning another portal to their destination. Even as the looming battle waited ahead, a part of him couldn’t help but smile.

Perhaps this wasn’t the worst deal he’d ever made. And he'd make worsen.

The portal shimmered as Y/n and Cassandra stepped through, emerging atop an ancient temple hidden deep within a jungle. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and magic, the ruins humming with an eerie energy. Strange symbols glowed along the temple walls, pulsing like a heartbeat. Whatever was trying to break through… it was getting close.

Cassandra placed her hands on her hips, surveying the area. “You know, for a first date, I was expecting something a little more romantic. Candles, music, maybe less impending doom.”

Y/n let out a dry chuckle, adjusting his Cloak of Levitation. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t usually take my dates to places teetering on the edge of reality collapse.”

“Wait—” Cassandra’s grin widened. “So you do take dates out?”

Y/n faltered for half a second, realizing what he just admitted. “That’s— I�� that’s not the point right now,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “The point is that something is trying to break through this temple’s seal, and we need to stop it before it does.”

Cassandra smirked but let it slide—for now. “Alright, Doctor. What are we dealing with?”

Y/n moved to the center of the ruins, holding his hands over an ancient pedestal. The air shimmered, revealing a translucent image of a monstrous entity clawing at the boundaries between realms.

“A Dormammu-class entity,” the sorcerer explained. “It’s been feeding on the ley lines around this temple, weakening the barrier between dimensions.” Y/n traced a sigil in the air, and golden runes flickered to life. “I can reinforce the seal, but I need time. That means keeping whatever comes through at bay.”

Cassandra rolled her shoulders, cracking her knuckles. “So you handle the magic, I handle the punching. Got it.” She pulled out her Lasso of Lightning, golden strands sparking as she twirled it effortlessly. “You know, I think I like this team-up already.”

Before Y/n could respond, the ground trembled beneath their feet. The air split apart like shattered glass, and from the cracks in reality, a towering creature emerged. It was all shadow and writhing tendrils, eyes like burning stars staring hungrily at the world beyond.

“Great,” he muttered. “It’s early.”

Cassandra didn’t hesitate. “Hey, ugly!” she called, launching herself at the creature with a burst of divine strength. She slammed into it with enough force to send a shockwave through the air, her lasso wrapping around one of its limbs. Electricity surged through the beast, making it screech in pain.

Y/n wasted no time, weaving spells with precision, and tracing protective wards into the air. The entity thrashed against Cassandra’s hold, but she held firm, every movement effortless and controlled. She was strong—incredibly strong.

“How’s that spell coming, Doc?” she called, dodging a swipe from the creature’s massive claw.

“Almost there!” Y/n replied, fingers moving rapidly as golden sigils locked into place. He could feel the energy shifting, the seal reforming—until the beast roared, sending a blast of pure chaotic energy toward him.

Before he could react, Cassandra was there.

The Amazon landed in front of him, bracing herself as the blast hit her dead-on. The shockwave sent dust and debris flying, but when the smoke cleared, she was still standing, her arms crossed. She looked over her shoulder at Y/n, winking.

“That’s twice I’ve saved you tonight,” she teased. “You definitely owe me dinner now.”

Y/n let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Fine—just keep that thing busy!”

Cassandra turned back to the monster with a grin. “With pleasure.”

With renewed force, she launched into battle once more, her movements fluid and powerful. It was impossible not to admire her—her confidence, her sheer presence.

Shaking off his distraction, Y/n returned his focus to the spell. The final glyph locked into place, the air around him igniting with golden energy.

“Now, Cassandra!” the sorcerer called.

The Amazon nodded, gripping the lasso tightly. With a mighty pull, she yanked the creature toward the rift just as Y/n unleashed the spell. The air crackled, and the beast let out a final screech as it was dragged back into the void. The portal sealed shut with a thunderous boom, and the ruins fell silent once more.

Cassandra dusted off her hands, turning to Y/n with an easy smile. “Well, that was fun.”

Y/n exhaled, the exhaustion finally hitting him. “That’s one way to describe it.”

The blonde demigoddess walked up to him, close enough that he could see the amusement in her bright blue eyes. “So, about that date—”

Y/n rubbed the back of his neck, the realization settling in. “You’re actually serious about that, aren’t you?”

She arched a brow. “Doctor, I just saved your life twice and helped stop a reality-ending disaster. The least you can do is buy me dinner.”

Y/n opened his mouth to argue but found himself… oddly flustered. It wasn’t just the adrenaline; it was her. The way she looked at him, the confidence in her stance, the sheer charm she radiated.

Y/n sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “Alright. Fine. Dinner it is.”

Cassandra grinned. “Good choice. Just don’t make me wait too long—I’m not known for my patience.”

Y/n gestured, summoning another portal. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As they both stepped through, Y/n couldn’t help but wonder: had he just made a deal with something even more powerful than the forces of the cosmos?

Possibly.

And strangely, he didn’t mind.

——————————

The portal shimmered as Y/n and Cassandra stepped back into the Sanctum Sanctorum, the familiar warmth of his study replacing the eerie energy of the jungle ruins. The battle was over, the rift was sealed, and yet, despite the exhaustion tugging at him, one thought lingered in his mind.

Did he just agree to a date with Cassandra Sandsmark?

Y/n glanced at her as she strolled through his study, taking in the arcane artifacts and shelves stacked with ancient tomes. She whistled, picking up a small, glowing relic and inspecting it with clear amusement.

“I gotta admit, Doc, your place has a certain… mysterious charm to it,” she said, rolling the relic between her fingers before setting it back down. “I can see why some people might find this whole sorcerer thing attractive.”

Y/n crossed his arms, leveling a look at her. “Some people?”

The Amazon smirked, stepping closer. “Well, one person in particular.”

And there it was again—that effortless confidence, the way she spoke as if everything was a game and she was always three moves ahead. Y/n wasn’t used to this. Not that he was inexperienced with women, but Cassandra had a way of keeping him off balance.

The man cleared his throat. “I still don’t understand why you’re so insistent on this whole… date thing.”

Cassandra tilted her head, pretending to think. “Hmm. Maybe because you’re interesting? Smart, powerful, kinda broody, but in a way that’s more ‘mysterious protector’ than ‘emotionally unavailable.’” She gave the sorcerer a playful nudge. “And let’s be real, watching you get flustered is adorable.”

Y/n instinctively reached up to adjust his Cloak, using the movement as an excuse to avoid looking at the Amazon for a moment. “I am not flustered,” he muttered.

Cassandra’s laughter was warm, lighthearted. “Sure, Doctor.”

Y/n exhaled, forcing himself to regain composure. “Fine. You want dinner? I’ll take you to dinner.”

Cassandra’s smile widened. “Now we’re talking.”

“But,” he added, “I pick the place.”

The Amazon held up her hands in mock surrender. “Deal. Just don’t take me somewhere boring.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Do I seem like the kind of man who does boring?”

Cassandra’s grin turned mischievous. “We’ll see.”

With a flick of his wrist, Y/n conjured another portal—not to some war-torn battlefield or ancient ruin, but to a cozy, dimly lit restaurant hidden away in the heart of New York City. A place that wasn’t on any map, existing somewhere between the physical and the mystical.

Cassandra stepped through first, glancing around with an impressed nod. “Okay, I’ll admit it. This is a solid choice.”

The sorcerer followed after her, letting the portal close behind him. “I told you—not boring.”

The Amazon slid into a seat, resting her chin on her hand as she watched the man in front of her. “So, Doctor Strange,” she mused. “Tell me—what does the Sorcerer Supreme even talk about on a date?”

Y/n sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Good. That makes two of us.”

For the first time in a long while, Y/n allowed himself to relax. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

——————————

The restaurant was unlike any typical dining spot in New York—hidden between dimensions, existing in a pocket of space only accessible to those attuned to the mystic arts. The warm glow of floating lanterns bathed the intimate space in golden light, casting flickering shadows against the dark wooden walls inscribed with ancient runes.

Cassandra looked around, clearly intrigued. “I’ll give you credit, Strange—this is definitely not boring.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Do all your dates happen in secret interdimensional hideouts?”

Y/n smirked as he removed your Cloak of Levitation, draping it over the chair. “Only the special ones.”

The Amazon arched an eyebrow. “So I’m special?”

Y/n hesitated for half a second, realizing his choice of words had given her even more material to tease him with. “That’s… not what I meant.”

Cassandra grinned, obviously enjoying how easily she could get under the man’s skin. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, Doctor.”

Before Y/n could respond, a waiter—if you could call a floating, translucent entity a “waiter”—drifted over to the table. The being hummed with arcane energy, its form shifting between different shapes as it handed Y/n and Cassandra menus written in glowing script.

Cassandra tilted her head as she studied the menu. “So, what’s good here? Because I’m not sure if I should be concerned that half of these dishes sound like incantations.”

Y/n chuckled, appreciating her ability to take things in stride. “The cuisine here is… unique. Some dishes are enchanted to enhance flavor, others to improve energy and focus.” The sorcerer pointed to an item on the menu. “That one, for example, is said to bring clarity of mind.”

Cassandra smirked. “Yeah, I don’t need any more clarity. I already know I’m into you.”

Y/n nearly dropped his menu.

Cassandra, as expected, looked thoroughly entertained by his reaction. “I swear, this is way too easy.”

Y/n cleared his throat, regaining some semblance of composure. “You’re impossible.”

The Amazon rested her chin on her hand, watching the sorcerer with amusement. “And yet, you still agreed to dinner with me. Makes you wonder, huh?”

Y/n shook his head, biting back a smile as the waiter returned to take their orders. Cassandra—ever the adventurer—told the entity to surprise her, while Y/n ordered something more familiar.

As the waiter floated away, Cassandra leaned forward slightly, curiosity flickering in her blue eyes. “So tell me, Doctor—when you’re not out saving reality from collapsing, what do you do for fun?”

Y/n blinked. “Fun?”

“Yeah, fun,” she repeated, swirling the condensation on her glass with her finger. “Or is the great Sorcerer Supreme always brooding and solving cosmic crises?”

Y/n considered the question for a moment. It had been a long time since someone asked him about his personal life—outside of magic, outside of duty. “I read,” he admitted. “Study new spells, expand my knowledge.”

Cassandra arched an eyebrow. “Nerd.”

Y/n rolled his eyes. “You asked.”

The blonde demi goddess grinned. “Come on, there’s gotta be something else. What about hobbies? Music? Movies? Do you even have a favorite food?”

Y/n hesitated, the normalcy of the conversation catching him off guard. “I… suppose I enjoy classical music. Jazz, sometimes. And as for food, I have a preference for simpler dishes—though I do have a weakness for good tea.”

Cassandra studied the man for a moment before shaking her head. “Man, you really are all business, huh?”

Y/n frowned slightly. “And what about you? What do you do when you’re not out saving the world?”

The Amazon leaned back in her chair, shrugging. “Training, mostly. Hanging out with Donna, bugging Diana, causing a little mischief when I can.” She smirked. “And, you know, flirting with handsome sorcerers in my free time.”

Y/n sighed. “Of course.”

Cassandra laughed, then rested her arms on the table, her expression softening just a little. “But seriously? I like experiencing new things. Life’s too short to waste time hesitating. That’s why I go after what I want.”

Y/n met her gaze, feeling a shift in the air between them. There was a sincerity beneath her playful nature—an undeniable confidence that drew him in.

For the first time in a long while, he felt… present. Not weighed down by the responsibility of guarding the multiverse. Not trapped in the endless cycle of duty and sacrifice. Just here, in this moment, with her.

The food arrived, breaking the quiet tension, and Cassandra immediately dug in, her expression lighting up as she took her first bite. “Okay, this? Really good.”

Y/n chuckled, taking a bite of his meal. “I told you I don’t do boring.”

She winked. “That’s why I like you, Doc.”

Y/n shook his head, but for once, he didn’t argue.

Maybe—just maybe—Cassandra Sandsmark was exactly the kind of chaos he needed in his life.

Bonus Chapter:

A few nights had passed since Y/n’s unexpected—yet undeniably enjoyable—date with Cassandra Sandsmark. The sorcerer wasn’t sure how to categorize what was happening between them, but one thing was certain: Cassandra had a way of keeping him on his toes.

And tonight was no exception.

Y/n had been deep in study, his focus locked onto an ancient tome detailing the unstable nature of certain dimensional rifts when the faint crackle of divine energy rippled through the Sanctum Sanctorum.

The sorcerer didn’t even need to look up. “Cassandra.”

A voice filled with amusement responded from behind him. “You know, most guys would at least pretend to be surprised when a beautiful woman sneaks into their place uninvited.”

Y/n sighed, closing the book with a quiet thud before turning around. Sure enough, Cassandra stood in the middle of his study, looking far too pleased with herself. She had teleported inside—again—despite Y/n’s very specific spells designed to prevent such intrusions.

Arms crossed, Y/n gave her a pointed look. “I really should reinforce those wards.”

The Amazon smirked. “You could try. But let’s be honest, you kinda like having me around.”

Y/n didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Cassandra strolled closer, casually picking up one of his artifacts from a nearby table. The golden ring glowed faintly in her palm, its inscriptions shifting as if responding to her presence. “You’ve got some interesting things lying around, Doc.”

Y/n plucked the artifact from her hands with a flick of his wrist, making it disappear in a swirl of magic. “And you have a habit of touching things you shouldn’t.”

Cassandra grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

The sorcerer shook his head, exasperated but—if he was honest with himself—not annoyed. Something was refreshing about her unpredictable energy. After years of dealing with the weight of magic and its consequences, having someone like Cassandra breeze into his life felt… different.

Unpredictable.

And, perhaps, dangerously tempting.

She hopped onto the edge of your desk, swinging her legs casually. “So, I was thinking…”

Y/n arched an eyebrow. “That’s never a good sign.”

The Amazon ignored his comment. “Since you dragged me into your whole ‘reality-ending disaster’ last time, I figured it’s only fair that I drag you into my world for a bit.”

Y/n gave her a skeptical look. “And what exactly does that entail?”

A mischievous glint flashed in her eyes. “A night out.”

The sorcerer blinked. “A what?”

“A night out,” The demi-goddess repeated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “No magic, no interdimensional threats—just a normal, fun night. You do remember what fun is, right?”

Y/n crossed his arms. “And what exactly does ‘fun’ entail in Cassandra Sandsmark’s world?”

She smirked. “You’ll just have to come with me to find out.”

Y/n stared at her for a moment, debating whether this was a terrible idea. On one hand, he had pressing magical research to attend to. On the other hand…

Cassandra was looking at him like she already knew he was going to say yes.

Y/n exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Fine.”

Her face lit up. “I knew you’d cave!”

“I didn’t cave—”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that, Doc.” The Amazon hopped off his desk, grabbing Y/n’s wrist before he could even think about changing his mind. “Now come on, let’s get out of here before you remember how to be boring again.”

Y/n barely had time to protest before she whisked him away—no divine teleportation, no magic. Just Cassandra, pulling him out of his comfort zone with nothing more than a mischievous grin.

And against all logic, the sorcerer found himself not minding one bit.

—————————

The moment Cassandra pulled him through the doors of a dimly lit rooftop bar, Y/n knew he was completely out of his element. The place was buzzing with energy—music thrummed through the air, neon lights cast a soft glow over the sleek modern decor, and people were scattered across the space, chatting, laughing, and drinking like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Cassandra let go of his wrist, turning to face him with a triumphant smirk. “See? Normal fun. No mystical artifacts, no dimensional rifts—just a good time.”

Y/n sighed, adjusting his coat. “I don’t exactly… do places like this.”

“Yeah, I figured,” The Amazon said, leading the way toward the bar. “Which is exactly why we’re here.”

The sorcerer followed reluctantly, his senses still trying to adjust to the sheer normalcy of it all. No eldritch whispers in the air, no arcane auras lingering around objects—just the steady hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table.

Cassandra slid onto a barstool and gestured for the man to do the same. “Come on, Doctor, take a seat. You do sit, right?”

Y/n rolled his eyes but complied, resting his hands on the counter. The bartender approached—a man with a cybernetic eye and a glowing tattoo running down his arm. Y/n wasn’t sure if that was just a fashion choice or if there was something actually mystical about him.

Cassandra tapped the counter. “I’ll have a whiskey neat.”

The bartender nodded and looked at the sorcerer.

Y/n hesitated. It had been a long time since he’d had a casual drink. He typically preferred tea, something grounding—but Cassandra was already watching him with an expectant grin.

Y/n sighed. “Old fashioned.”

Cassandra’s smirk widened. “See? You do have taste.”

The bartender left to make their drinks, and Cassandra turned her attention fully to Y/n, resting her chin on her hand. “Alright, Strange—since we’re playing by my rules tonight, no brooding, no lectures about the fabric of reality, and no sneaking off to ‘go check on something.’ You’re stuck with me for the night.”

The sorcerer scoffed. “I wasn’t planning on sneaking off.”

The demi-goddess gave him a look.

Y/n exhaled, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll play along.”

“Good,” she said, looking satisfied. “Now, let’s talk about something not magic-related. Like… have you ever been in a bar fight?”

Y/n blinked. “What?”

“A bar fight,” The Amazon repeated, amused. “Because you look like the kind of guy who got into one before the whole ‘Sorcerer Supreme’ gig.”

Y/n hesitated for a moment before sighing. “…Once.”

Cassandra grinned. “Knew it. What happened?”

Y/n rubbed his temple, recalling the memory. “It was during my residency. I was arrogant—thought I could say whatever I wanted to someone without consequences. Turns out, some people don’t take well to that.”

Cassandra laughed. “Let me guess—you got punched?”

“More than once,” the man admitted.

She shook her head, still grinning. “I would’ve paid to see that.”

“Yes, I’m sure watching me get knocked around is very amusing to you,” Y/n deadpanned.

Cassandra chuckled. “Hey, at least you survived. Besides, you’re a little less insufferable now, so maybe you did learn something.”

The bartender returned, setting their drinks down. Cassandra grabbed hers immediately, raising her glass slightly toward the sorcerer’s. “To a night of not saving the world.”

Y/n hesitated for half a second before mirroring her motion. “To whatever this is.”

They both took a sip, the warmth of the drink spreading through them.

Cassandra leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “So, Doctor… do I get a second date after this?”

Y/n nearly choked on his drink. “Cassandra—”

She laughed, reaching over to tap the rim of his glass with her finger. “Relax, Doc. I’m just messing with you.”

Y/n gave her a skeptical look. “Are you, though?”

She smirked. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

And just like that, Y/n found himself smiling—genuinely—as the night carried on, the weight of his responsibilities temporarily forgotten.

—————————

The night stretched on longer than they expected.

Somewhere between the drinks, the stories, and the teasing, Y/n found himself relaxing—a rarity in his life. Cassandra had a way of making things feel lighter as if the weight of his responsibilities could be ignored, even if just for a little while.

Y/n wasn’t sure how she did it, but he wasn’t complaining.

Eventually, the two of them found themselves on the rooftop terrace of the bar, looking out over the city skyline. The hum of traffic below blended with the distant thrum of music, and the cool night air was a welcome contrast to the warmth from the drinks.

Cassandra stretched her arms over her head before letting out a satisfied sigh. “Alright, I’ll admit it—you’re more fun than I expected.”

Y/n huffed out a quiet laugh. “I feel like that’s not exactly a compliment.”

“It is. Just… not a big one,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

The sorcerer shook his head, but before he could reply, Cassandra tilted her head, studying him with an expression he couldn’t quite place.

“You know,” she mused, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed before.”

Y/n glanced away, exhaling slowly. “I don’t usually have the luxury.”

The Amazon frowned slightly but didn’t press. Instead, she leaned back against the railing, a thoughtful look on her face. “Well, maybe you should make a habit of it.”

Y/n gave her a dry look. “And let me guess—you’d personally make sure of that?”

She grinned. “Obviously. Someone’s gotta drag you out of your wizard cave every now and then.”

Y/n rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth in his chest that he couldn’t quite ignore.

A comfortable silence settled between them.

For a moment, the world felt… still. No looming threats, no cosmic crises—just him and Cassandra, standing side by side beneath the glow of the city lights.

Then, before Y/n could overthink it, the demi-goddess shifted closer, her shoulder brushing against his.

“So,” she said casually, though there was an unmistakable playfulness in her voice, “since I was kind enough to drag you out tonight… I think I deserve something in return.”

Y/n arched an eyebrow. “And what exactly do you want?”

Cassandra smirked. “A kiss.”

Y/n froze.

Her confidence was unwavering, but there was a teasing glint in her eyes as if daring him to back out.

His throat went dry. “Cassandra—”

“Oh, come on,” she interrupted, stepping in just a little closer. “I know you’re overthinking it. So let’s make it simple—you want to kiss me, right?”

Y/n opened his mouth, but no immediate response came out.

The Amazon grinned. “That’s not a no.”

The sorcerer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you still like me,” she countered easily.

Y/n wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, the atmosphere, or just the undeniable pull he felt toward her—but before he could stop himself, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of golden hair from her face.

Cassandra’s smirk faltered slightly, just for a second, before she tilted her head up toward him.

Y/n hesitated—only for a moment—before leaning in.

The kiss was soft, far softer than expected from someone as bold as Cassandra. It was brief, but the warmth of it lingered even after he pulled away.

When Y/n finally met her gaze again, she looked… pleased.

“Huh,” The Amazon mused, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “So the great Sorcerer Supreme does know how to loosen up.”

Y/n sighed, shaking his head as he tried (and failed) to fight off the warmth creeping up his neck. “You’re going to tease me about this forever, aren’t you?”

Cassandra grinned. “Oh, absolutely.”

And despite himself, Y/n found that he didn’t mind one bit.

[nevertheless-moving]

Angsty Continuation of this Crack Szeth/Kaladin Time Travel AU:

"Sir, may I speak with you? It's a matter of some importance."

Dalinar looked up sharply, locking eyes with his Captain of the Guard.

Some of the clerks he had been meeting with had bristled, affronted as ever by what many saw as the unreasonably jumped up dark eyes. His intrusion into the room with barely a knock probably hadn't helped their opinion.

Dalinar ignored them for the moment, choosing instead to maintain eye contact. A chill ran down his spine.

Stormfather. When had the Captain started looking so…worn out? The man's gaze had always been strikingly intense, tired shadows kept at bay by a fiery rage. But now… Dalinar had perhaps seen that expression before, in a dying Chasmfiend. Embers of an unfathomably immense blaze, finally burning itself out. The heat it gave off still enough to scorch a man, but dying nevertheless.

He felt a twinge of guilt. Surely… he hadn't done that? Almight knows he asked a lot of the young man, too much perhaps. But storms… no, something must have happened. He had just seen the man, what, yesterday? Perhaps it had been a week since they had spoken more than in passing, but still. A week of overwork didn't burn through a person like that.

The Highprince cleared his throat. "I assume this has something to do with security?"

Captain Kaladin nodded firmly.

"Very well. Zaninel, Sherath, you're dismissed."

They left without a word, and barely a glare. Perhaps they had also caught something in the Captain's expression.

Kaladin closed the door behind him as he entered. He proceeded to the table, then all but collapsed into the chair across from the Highprince.

Dalinar raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

The darkeyed man rubbed a hand across his forehead, palm seeming to linger across the brands there. He started, sitting up.

"Sorry sir," he said hoarsely. "I forgot myself."

He pushed his weight forward as if to stand, but Dalinar waved him back.

"Its alright," he said. "I'm not one to make a soldier stand when hes clearly on his last chip."

The Captain sagged back.

"I apologize for the breach in decorum, I… last night…" He sighed, squaring his shoulder's and seeming to steel himself. "Well, sir, there's been vital matters I've been debating how to best present to your attention, but now one aspect has come to a head. Bridge four had… a visitor to our fire last night, scared the light out of my men. I've been trying to figure out what to do with him all night."

"A visitor?" Dalinar frowned. "This man is a security concern?"

Kaladin barked a humorless laugh. "It would be fair to say that, yes."

Dalinar waited for more of an explanation.

Kaladin sighed heavily. "I'd like to make a request sir."

"A request."

"That you not immediately put this man to death."

"Not…immediately?" Dalinar felt like an idiotic river spren, only able to mimic words/ But for the life of him, he had no idea where this conversation was going.

The captain nodded, drumming his fingers on the table. "I think he's of more value alive than dead, sir. And… I swore to try and help him regain some measure of his sanity. I can't do that if you kill him on sight."

"Kelek's Breath!" Dalinar said with some disbelief. "This madman if yours, he's truly so alarming, that you think I would do such a thing?"

Kaladin nodded, and Dalinar felt dread pool in his stomach.

"Who is this man?" he whispered.

"His name is Szeth."

"Szeth."

"Yes sir."

"That sounds like a Shin name."

"It is sir."

Dalanir stared down at the Captain, uncertain at what point he had stood up.

"Captain Stormblessed," he said with calm he didnt feel. "I can think of only one Shin man that I would desire to kill on sight."

Kaladin winced, then looked up locking those exhausted, burning eyes with his. "Yes."

"The assassin in white is here." Dalinar stated flatly.

"Yes."

The Highprince took a deep breath to steady himself. "The assassin who killed my brother?"

"Yes."

"The assassin who has been killing world leaders, throwing kingdoms into chaos."

"Yes."

Dalinar grabbed the lapels of Kaladin's jacket, towing him up with an enraged growl. He breathed heavily for a moment , attempting to restrain himself as he stared at that tired, dark expression.

"I trusted you," he hissed. "I trusted you with everything I had, everyone I loved, and you've been working with the Assassin in White."

Storms, did he feel tears in his eyes? Surely this betrayal couldn't hurt worse than Sadeas, but the dagger sharp pain in his sternum said otherwise. Had it all been a ruse? The tower, the retreat, Oathbringer…all one large, intricate lie to trick an old fool?

"No." The captain said firmly, meeting his unsaid questions with a steady, inarguable honesty.

"No, your maj — Sir. No, I have not been working with him. No, I had nothing to do with your brothers death — I was a child at the time, and Szeth and I hadn't even met. When we did first meet, I fought him. Then we fought again. I thought I killed him. I… I actually did kill him, from what i understand."

Kaladin Stormblessed's expression went very far away, but his words continued with that discordant lighteyed crispness he had had from that start.

"He was brought back by… a higher power. I'll explain what I can, but honestly, there's a lot a don't understand. He still very disturbed, but he is trying. He's taking another step along the journey, each day. Szeth is only a danger to himself now."

Stormblessed paused, then looked pained anew.

"Well…mostly. He's prepared to serve you, including as a killer. And…he's indicated that he's similarly willing to listen to my commands. He trusts me, sir. It…I realize this puts you in an uncomfortable position."

Dalinar felt his fingers unclench, and he lowered Stormblessed gently to his seat. There was no question in his mind if he could accept the Captain's word on this, he knew as instinctively as ever that this mans could be trusted.

Knew it more now than ever, seeing in those eyes a man who would rather break himself than break his oaths.

The pain of betrayal ebbed away, leaving a mess of emotions and thoughts in their wake.

Dalinar sat back heavily, rattling the maps and folios on the table.

"Storms!" He scrubbed a hand across his face. "You realize how mad this is, right?"

Kaladin laughed humorlessly. "Very much so."

"I —" Dalinar didn't know where to begin. "Where is he right now?"

"My office — my quarters in the Bridge Four Barrack."

"And he's under guard?"

"I have the Lopen and Rock switching off with him, but like I said, hes rather not a threat to anyone right."

"The Lop— wait, isn't Rock your cook's name?"

"Yessir. And you’ve probably seen Lopen before, he's hard to miss —small, loud, Herdassian."

"The one with one arm? You have a cook and a one armed man guarding the most dangerous man alive? Guarding a known shardbarer?" Dalinar found himself standing again, voice close to a shout. He forced himself back down.

Kaladin smiled weakly for some reason. "He gave me his shardblade, actually. As part of his surrender."

Dalinar glanced at Kaladin's hands, as if to find a shardblade he hadn't noticed.

The Captain opened his mouth, but Dalinar raised a hand. "…I'm not going to enjoy your answer on the location of that either, am I."

"Probably not, no."

Stormlight AU Masterlist

[ncillary]

Self Aware AU (Caleb)

Summary: You have the lowest Affinity with Caleb. The reason is because you hated him. Once. You hated yourself more as you, MC, were the cause his wings clipped, grounded. He should soar freely in the sky among clouds. You want him to forget about MC. Forget all the pain and the intense spiralling he went through much worse than the black hole he made. You will create his safe haven this time.

/🎶 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CALEB 🎂🌻🍎🎶/

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Masterlist Self Aware AU

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"Dummy, Flapple. Dummy dummy." You 'hit' him once, forehead collided on his chest. Silently noting it probably hurt your forehead more than his well-built chest.

"I...I'm sorry..." came the nervous reply, "You can throw a Pokeball at me..." he tried to lift the mood.

You were overwhelmed. Sobbing. Fisting his costume more. Relieved. Real. Him in your grasp.

He caressed your back quietly. Accepting his role as the outlet for all your pent up turmoil that was masked well until now.

Annoyed, you looked up. Only to pinch his cheeks while appreciating the purple irises that you had only seen behind the screen was glowing clearer in front of you.

"DUMMY. DUMMY. Why did you leave me? I know it's you. I recognize your voice."

You saw the confusion. Releasing his cheeks, you lowered your head before backing away.

You took a breath then recited a very familiar sentence.

"It's going to be a bumpy landing. Close your eyes. Hang on."

Realization flashes in his amethyst twin. You smiled.

"Thank you, Mr. Pilot. You landed us safely back to our family."

His mouth gaped, a million questions passing by in his head and you knew which one you should answer first.

"When the game was out of sync that one time, I realized it was a really familiar voice. I try to find you without knowing your actual name. So I just use the game name. Captain Caleb." An amused smile.

"Who knew it worked and I found you even though it was just one old interview during your graduation day. Sure enough. Similar face. Same voice." You chuckled.

"Why are you even using your real identity? And how did you become a reference for the game?"

He sighed, "It was my grandma's lil' project. It was also how I was able to find you."

"That's a privacy breach, by the way."

"Fairly warned of death none other than my grandma if I cross the line." He put up his hands in surrender.

You realized he must be uncomfortable in the costume for so long and offered him the break room to suit off. Not before...

*GROWL*

Both stared at each other. Then the gaze moved to the stomach of the person in front of them.

"You haven't eat yet?"

"You didn't get lunch?"

Both quietened.

He chuckled, "Let me cook for us."

You huffed, "Buy me dinner first before you can step into my house."

"Breakfasts, lunches, tea times. Not dinner but I think it's enough to cover one dinner date with you right now." A wink.

Brows furrowed until it hits you, "You... So it wasn't 50% off for regular when I eat there? You stalker."

He gasped, "Call it "taking care of you", at least. You wound me, pipsqueak."

"Nickname is banned." You looked away.

The nickname reminded you of the otome game and you were not going to be a part of the charade.

He noticed, smiling gently and grasping your hand, "How about... my lil' beacon."

"Same difference."

"I assured you it's not." He kissed your knuckles.

A blush creeping in as you pulled him to the stairs, avoiding his gaze. He chuckled but took his chance to start a story. A story that refreshes your memory to an encounter you have never thought much of until now.

+---------------------------+---------------------------+

The mouth watering smell permeates all through your apartment. Once he was out of the guest room after suiting off as Mr. Puppy, he had somehow made himself like home in your kitchen. Guessing correctly on where you keep your stuff.

"Am I that predictable?" You asked as you made drinks.

"Not really. I just looked it in your point of view."

Insulted, "Are you mocking my heights?"

"No no no no... it's just..." he sighed, "I was there when you cooked the spaghetti. So... I could already get the gist of your kitchen."

Ah, the fateful incident.

"But who could have thought the shaky man at the staircase was you. And look at you now. Cooking perfectly fine in someone else's kitchen for the first time."

"Only for you, my lil' beacon." He glanced at you before continuing his cooking.

You blushed, "Okay, I'll take it back. You can call me 'pipsqueak' all you want."

"Too late."

+----------------------------+-------------------------+

"I can't believe these delicious foods are made using ingredients in my kitchen."

You picked up his plate to wash after some debate from your side that guests shouldn't have to do it. He looked sad to have lost. You ignored it.

"Actually, Caleb...."

*CRACK* *BOOM*

*PLANG* *SKID*

He was shocked to hear the loud thunder. But he was fine with it. What surprised him more was the plates falling into the sink.

He was halfway standing as he saw you stood still by the sink, "Hey, you okay? It's quite loud-"

Hand gripping the side of the sink. Water was left flowing from the faucet. Head down.

Somethings wrong.

Then, something clicked.

Why was she near the secluded emergency staircase?

What makes her realize the sunglasses actually worked?

Why did she block the sound out?

You didn't hear it but you felt the rumble of steps getting closer to you.

The faucet was turned off.

You felt warmth behind you, encasing you. Ears were gently cupped by big hands.

"Close your eyes. Hang on."

Flashes brighten your house.

A flinched, you noticed.

Hand raised to close his eyes.

"What are you-"

"You're the one who should close his eyes. I'm fine with it. Keep blocking my ears."

Both of you shuffled awkwardly towards the window as you pulled a shield of thick curtains to hide the flashes. Then, the awkward shuffle made you reach the couch. Slowly, you push him to sit and assured him it was fine to let go.

*Crack* *Boom*

A flinched.

Scratch that.

You placed your hands on top of his, "Okay. You can let go- Woah."

Falling backward as your waist was pulled, you braced yourself for the impact. The couch was nice to sit on. But now there's an extra presence on both sides of your legs. Your back wasn't on the soft couch as it was supposed to be.

It was sturdy.

It was warm.

It was annoying.

"Caleb!"

"Yes, my lil' beacon?"

"Mr. Puppy behave so much better than you." You grumbled.

With a smirk, he repositioned you so that he could see you, feet dangling on his thigh. A small protest from you was bluntly ignored with a teasing smile. He pulled you closer to hide one of your ears on his neck since the hand that cupped it previously was firmly, gently, holding your waist. The other loyally cupped the other ear.

"You were there to hide too, huh."

"The toilet was full and it actually echoed much louder in there. That's when I saw you stumbling to get through the door and helped you out. Who knew the emergency staircase could block the sound so much better."

"What a combination we are. One had to deal with the sound. The other one had to deal with the flashes." He let out an amused laugh.

You smiled to see his amethyst, shining much better now, "A great combination actually."

Relenting to his method, you let yourself fall into serene silence. Your hand holding his arm, caressing it. While he was thumbing your cheek until it lulled you to full comfort, lids got heavier within seconds.

A kiss on top of your head, you barely registered.

You huffed. Smiling, nonetheless.

"I'm here, my lil' beacon."

+---------------------------------+---------------------+

You sighed.

The secret garden was a mess.

"Pipsqueak... This is going to take more than a day to clean up."

"Good thing you'll be here everyday onwards."

"Is that a force labour I heard?"

He ruffled your hair then you splashed him with the water on the potted plant you were holding.

Yes.

This is the clear sky after the storm that you like to snapshot every time you see one.

The safe haven.

For Caleb.

Together with you.

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Masterlist Self Aware AU

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Taglist: @mentaltrouble2201

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[ladyhoneydarlinglove]

one piece drabble | zosan | pride kisses 2025 challenge

{ SEDUCTIVE KISS | mercenary AU }

Sanji first receives the tip from Sniper, who swears up and down that he saw it through his scope during yesterday's fighting at the Dustbowl.

"You're sure they were kissing?" Sanji asks, unable to help his skepticism. He's done his due diligence as BLU's Spy finding out all that he can about the RED mercs, and nowhere in his dossier of intel is there so much as a hint of a relationship between their Spy and Demoman. Everything that Sanji has on him suggests that the RED Spy is as much of a ladies man as he is, and even if he does occasionally bat for the other team, surely such a refined gentleman would have better taste than to shack up with a grubby, soot-stained Demoman?

But Sniper is insistent. "Look, maybe it wasn't kissing, but it was definitely some kind of canoodling. Their heads were bowed together and their mouths were all close and it definitely looked like they were about to kiss."

"So you didn't actually see it happen," Sanji says flatly.

"Well no, but—"

"Then why, pray tell, should I believe you, Sniper?" Sanji sighs, taking a drag off his cigarette. "You do have a tendency towards exaggeration, after all."

"I know, I know, but this time I'm not lying, I swear!" Sniper says. "Look, I'm not saying you have to do anything about it right away, but just watch them. I know what I saw."

Sanji’s not terribly inclined to believe him, though he keeps the tip tucked away in the back of his mind, just in case. But the longer time goes on—the more he watches the RED Spy and Demoman—the more Sanji has to concede that Sniper might have been on to something.

It's subtle, which Sanji would expect from a professional like the RED Spy. Less so from their brash, brazen, alcoholic cyclops of a Demoman, but then again, Sanji supposes that he must be capable of some delicacy, or otherwise he wouldn't be dealing with explosives. As his own team's mossheaded, irritating-as-fuck Demoman is so often keen to point out, no one’s ever heard of a bad Demoman because bad Demomen don’t tend to live very long. So perhaps it makes sense that when it comes to any clandestine partnerships, a Demoman would be good at keeping things under wraps.

But nonetheless, the signs are there. They're found on the battlefield together more often than not, at least when the RED Spy isn't busy skulking behind enemy lines; certainly more than Sanji could ever be paid to be found with his bastard of a Demoman, whom he dreams about being able to knife in the back. If one of them dies, the other is quick to figure out who did it and enact their bloody revenge, which Sanji supposes he can respect from a personal point of view if not a professional one. And once, when Sanji was trying to infiltrate his way into RED's side of the Well, he saw them… Canoodling, as Sniper had put it. Not kissing, not even really being intimate in any discernible way; but standing shoulder to shoulder, heads pressed in close, voices soft as they spoke. Sanji wasn't near enough to hear exactly what they were saying, but his lip reading has always been top notch, and he'd bet money that the RED Spy called the Demo 'mon amour'.

He finally gets a chance to test the theory for himself on a day spent fighting over briefcases at 2fort. The RED mercs have a tendency to rotate through who guards their intelligence more evenly than the BLUs, and when Sanji catches a brief glimpse of the RED Spy trying to breach BLU's lines while also not being able to find the RED Demoman out on the battlefield, he knows that must mean he's by the Briefcase Room, waiting to rain explosives down on anyone that gets close. Waste of a Demoman's explosive potential, in Sanji's opinion, but if the REDs want to be idiots about their defensive strategy, Sanji's certainly not going to complain.

Sure enough, he finds the one-eyed explosives expert stalking up and down the hallway leading to the safe room, wielding what looks to be a custom-built grenade launcher rather than the stock Mann. Co garbage and scowling like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Probably pissed that he isn't getting to blow anything within line-of-sight to kingdom come, which Sanji hopes will work in his favor as he slips into disguise. Not that he really thinks he needs the extra luck; he and the RED Spy have such similar mannerisms already that imitating him comes almost as naturally to Sanji as breathing, and if the RED Demo is anything like BLU's (and Sanji's pretty sure that he is), he won't have a whole lot going on upstairs anyway.

Sanji rounds the corner of the hallway, making sure to let his footsteps fall loud enough to announce his presence. He sees the line of Demo's shoulders tense as he looks up and catches sight of Sanji in his RED Spy disguise; his finger twitching on the grenade launcher's trigger, but he doesn't pull it. Instead, his brow furrows.

"Spy?" he asks, head tilting curiously as he leans back against the wall. "What are you doing here?"

"Mon amour," Sanji replies with a charming smile, nearly laughing out loud when Demo's gaze falls to the side, clearly embarrassed at the pet name; this is going to be easier than Sanji thought. "Thought I'd check up on you, since I'm sure you're about to blow yourself up from boredom."

Demo rolls his eye. "Ha ha," he says flatly. "More like you're here to taunt me since I'm stuck playing guard duty."

Sanji grins, half-lidded and a little sultry. "A man can do both, can't he?" he says in a tone nearing a purr, thrilled when Demo's shoulders hunch and his scowl morphs into a rather bashful half-smile. If Sanji weren't straight as an arrow, he'd almost be inclined to call it cute.

"Don't you have better things to do than annoy me?" Demo grumbles, without any heat.

"Of course, mon amour," Sanji says, sidling up to him. Demo's back is still against the wall so Sanji can't stab him quite yet, but he's sure he can get there with a little patience. "But since I'm already here…"

He trails off, mouth quirking suggestively since his eyebrows are hidden by his mask. Demo frowns for a second, and then his eye goes wide. This close, Sanji can see it's a rather pretty shade of hazel-grey; shame to waste such a nice color on such a brute.

"What, here?" Demo asks. "We're working."

Ah, Sanji thinks, so there are some ground rules for their entanglement. That will be good to know for the future. For now, he simply shrugs.

"Just a kiss, then. Since there's no one else around."

Demo's brow furrows as he chews on his lip, considering. For a brief moment, Sanji's almost worried that his ploy isn't going to work after all, but then Demo sighs and says. "Okay. Just a quick one, though; we are on the clock."

Sanji has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning too broadly.

"If you insist," he murmurs, leaning in to place a soft peck on Demo's lips. 

Sanji intends to be the one to deepen the kiss after an appropriately teasing pause, but to his surprise, the RED Demo all but melts against him, mouth going slack against Sanji's own and one hand coming up to fist in the front of Sanji's suit. Sanji goes with it, licking into Demo's mouth which is… Not as disgusting as he thought it'd be given the amount of alcohol he's seen the explosives expert consume, if Sanji's being honest. In fact, it kind of tastes like toothpaste.

Demo lets out a pleased sigh and suddenly Sanji finds himself being shifted so that he's the one with his back against the wall, with Demo pressed all along his front as he continues to kiss him with increasing fervor. Sanji can't help grinning into the kiss as he reaches one hand up to thread itself under Demo's bandana and into his (surprisingly fluffy) hair while carefully sliding his butterfly knife out of his sleeve with the other, only to freeze as a sound rings out in the relative quiet of the empty hallway—

A pin, dropping against the concrete floor.

Sanji wrenches himself away from the kiss and looks down in horror to see a live grenade trapped between the RED Demo's chest and his. Demo barks out a laugh, and when Sanji looks back up, he sees that his bashful smile has been replaced by something sharp-toothed, mean, and vaguely feral.

"You didn't really think it was gonna be that easy, did you, BLU?" the RED Demo asks, voice low and sultry in a way completely at odds with the fact that they're about to be blown to smither-fucking-reens.

"Are you insane?"  Sanji hisses, lashing out wildly as he struggles to free himself from the RED Demo's grip. "If you don't let me go we're both going to die!"

"Mmm, true," Demo concedes with a rather manic gleam in his hazel-grey eye. "But my respawn point is about fifty yards that way. Yours, on the other hand, is all the way back on your side of 2fort. Seems like a pretty easy call, don't you think?"

"I think that you’re crazy!" Sanji spits as he fights against Demo’s hold, but the bastard is fucking strong—Sanji might as well be fighting a brick wall for all the good it's doing him. "Are you seriously going to blow yourself up along with me?"

"Yup," the RED Demo says, in the same kind of calm, collected tone that one might use to comment on the weather. Sanji tries to headbutt him, and gets what feels like a steel reinforced forehead to the nose for his efforts.

"Oh, and by the way," the RED Demo cackles as Sanji curses him out in every language he knows while blood starts streaming from his nostrils, "since this was such a pathetic fucking attempt at espionage, I'll give you this as a freebie: it's not 'mon amour', it's 'marimo'."

Sanji doesn't even get a chance to ask what the ever loving fuck 'marimo' means before the grenade explodes.

[f4iry-dvst]

Futura Free

a/n: requests are always open for fic ideas!

pairing: Chris Sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: Chris is obsessed with putting a baby in you

cw: smut, daddy kink, breeding kink, cum eating

“Do you want it baby? Want me to come in you, huh?”

Chris already knows exactly what you want, how you want it and when — he much prefers to draw it out of you, though, even if it’s the last word to leave your mouth for days. He’s pounding into you, fast and with enough force behind his thrusts to throw you across the room, just the way you like it. Over time he’s grown to learn this is exactly how you always want it, there’s no need to even ask anymore, he just simply settles in you and surges forwards with all the strength he can muster in his hips to make you feel good.

A response is yet to breach your lips, whines and broken moans taking its place in your throat and flowing out like a fountain at the overwhelming pleasure your boyfriend’s giving you. He’s an impatient guy, you know that, and you’d respond at the click of a finger if you actually could. You can feel he’s getting aggravated with the radio silence on your end, if his harsher grip on your hips and ragged breaths heaving from his chest weren’t telltale enough you’d have to be dumb. He thinks you might be…honestly.

“Come on, tell daddy what you want sweetheart”

You stutter, tripping over every word you attempt to muster up, huffing in annoyance at yourself as Chris simply chuckles at your struggle. God, even when he’s just taking the piss, he has this effect on you that you can barely rationalise.

“Oh…fucked you dumb, did i? How adorable… Still need an answer baby or you get nothing, you know that.”

His thrusts have slowed down ever so slightly, but the difference between the paces is insane to you. Your hips instinctively grind down into him, messing the bed sheets up just that bit more as you move until a hand lets go of your hip just to slam it down into the mattress with his palm. He’s teasing you, working you up enough that you’ll break and spill every word that comes to mind — ashamedly, it works every time. A final pleading whine escapes your lips before the teasing grin that once adorned Chris’s face melts away and leaves his face cold; you realised then you really had to beg for it all.

“D-daddy…fuck- breed me, please!”

Your boyfriend smirks at that, diving head first into the quickest and roughest pace he could pick up. You both look down to see the way his cock disappears inside you like a vacuum with every thrust and you let out a moan louder than any tonight then. The combination of the overwhelming feeling inside and the sight of Chris pumping into you is driving you fûcking insane, you could cum on the spot, realistically.

Suddenly, the hand he was holding your hip down with was snaking it’s way down your sides, to your thighs, all the way to your middle, immediately dipping his middle finger in to tease your clit. Your hips shoot up and he can’t hold you down this time, so instead he moves with you, following the movement of your hips while his finger eagerly circles and tweaks your clit.

“Oh yeah? Want daddy to put a baby in that little cunt of yours“

You almost screamed them, or maybe you actually did, this was all so much for you but you loved it. Could never ask for less when your boyfriend had you speechless and in a puddle of yourself whenever the fuck you wanted it. You’re so close you can practically taste the orgasm on your tongue, and by the looks of things, so can Chris too. His hips are stuttering and his thrusts are not as smooth as they were before, signalling his own impending orgasm.

Chris’s finger twirls around your clit once more, and that’s the last straw for you as you tumble straight into the most intense orgasm. It feels so good you can’t help but clench down on his cock, watching his face change and overcome with pure glory at how good this is. You release all over him, feeling it drip down your thigh while your pussy just throbs and clenches out of your control. That’s what did it for Chris: the feeling of how tight you are around him no matter how many times you fuck sent him over the urge. You watched as the muscles in his stomach tenses again and you run a hand over it feeling the smooth plane of skin burn under your fingertips, just your touch sets Chris’s nerves alight.

“Fuck- God…baby you’re so…”

It’s his turn to be at a loss for words now as his cum empties into your cunt and fills you up so nicely, smothering his cock in it too as he continues to thrust ever so slightly. Your orgasm was mostly done with now, but the feeling of his cum painting your walls has you moaning all over again, rolling your hips down to coax even more out of him. The obscene squelch that sounds then almost breaks the sound barrier, and as gross as it is, it’s enough to get you horny all over again.

Chris pulls out slowly, watching his cock pull from your body and listening to your pretty whines at the loss. You always enjoyed being so stuffed and full with your boyfriend, in fact you’d keep him there forever if you could. A trickle of cum pumps out of you following his cock and hits the bedsheets,

eliciting a smirk from Chris you’d barely notice. You’ve closed your eyes, still breathing heavily and laid back to regain some life back into you — he knows this is the perfect time to play with you.

“Look at that…so full of my babies princess”

You whine again as you can’t muster up anything else, dick drunk and hazy from how good this is all was and Chris simply chuckles. He reaches forwards and dips his middle finger into your cunt, immediately feeling all the stick cum inside of you and a sense of pride drapes over him then. There’s something about fucking your partner so good and then leaving a little part of you with them afterwards. Your body twitches at the feeling of something inside you again, rubbing against your walls and working its way inside; it’s overstimulating, but you love it. He scoops up some of the cum he’d left inside you with his finger and retreats his hand, bringing it up to your face instead.

“Open up, baby”

Eyes closed, completely unaware of what he’s doing and still your jaw falls slack and drops open without a second thought. Your tongue lays in wait, because even if you don’t know what’s happening, your body does. His finger lays flat on your tongue, dragging it down until it slips off and all that’s left is the sticky white substance you always crave so much. He closes your jaw for you then and you open your eyes, staring up into his crystal blue ones with so much lust Chris is almost drunk with the look. He nods, and you swallow with a quiet moan.

“That’s a good girl…you love daddy’s cum don’t you, huh?”

You nod as well, you can’t deny that.

[plo-koons-favorite-padawan]

Last line challenge from @biscuityskies

Actually putting two snippets in here. As a treat! I'm not sure who to tag so you can consider this your invite to post anything you want!

From my Codywan fic (on my extended Clone Wars timeline AU—this is year 7):

The journey to Moraband saw the revival of the 212th hull-ball tournaments. Cody watched Wooley lead Team Bridge Command against Team Parjai, who were the undefeated champions, in the opening rounds. Five days in, Team MedSurg upset Team Bomb Squad in the day’s quarter-finals. Cody, as the highest authority on the rules by which the game is played, found himself adjudicating point disputes. He started using his HUD to give him an action-replay to analyze particularly close calls. Watchdog acted as a second pair of eyes when necessary.  Obi-Wan commed him every night. He filled Cody in on details of his Temple life. He had been mobbed by Jedi Initiates that morning in one of the meditation halls. He was spending more time teaching. He was thinking about taking another Padawan, after the war. They spoke in code about information not available in reports: Vos was alive. Fox had eaten a meal that day. The full journey took three weeks. By the end, Parjai were still undefeated, and most of the men had moved on to gambling at cards. Vos was still alive. Fox was going for a lot of long runs.  Cody had decided somewhere around year two of the war that ferruginous planets were his least favorite. The reddish, oxidized soil rubbed into armor or mixed with sweat on skin always looked like blood. It took days to polish the red scuffs out, and that was after the actual blood was all washed away. Obi-Wan had told him that Moraband used to be known as Korriban, that it was the homeworld of the ancient Sith race. Cody was not sure what else he could have expected, other than this blood-colored mess of mountain ranges and sandstorms that vomited hundreds of thousands of battle droids into the galaxy each week. Watchdog stood with him on the bridge, looking out at the rotation of the planet as the atmo transports were prepared.  “Ugly fucking thing, isn’t it?” he asked. Cody hummed in agreement, hands folded behind his back. “First wave leaves in fifteen. Figured you’d want to be on it.” “Thank you, Watchdog. Keep everything locked down up here,” Cody said, nodding to him. “You have the bridge.” Watchdog saluted.  In the lift, Cody sent a typed message to Obi-Wan’s comm. Landing soon. Will report tonight. The doors opened to a rush of astromechs and GNK droids. Mechanics, pilots, and troopers flowed along walkways and into larties, into Nu-Class shuttles, and smaller fighters.  Moraband did not get any prettier when they got closer to the surface. Breaking atmo revealed hideously jagged mountain ridges. The droid foundry was ten heavily-armed kilometers from the drop zone. Cody was not looking forward to the trek.  He never got that far.  He was glad that he was wearing his jetpack, because when the first round of anti-air artillery hit the LAAT, he had less than two seconds to react to the gaping hole in the hull, to the sudden absence of eight other troopers, to the breach alarms wailing, before the next blast hit. He grabbed two of the other men and leapt out the side of the ship. His jetpack was not designed for this heavy of a lift, and they were falling too fast. The propulsion was sputtering; the explosion of the ship above them hailed flaming debris and blasted them towards the surface of the planet. His comms were screeching in his ears as fighter pilots scrambled to support. The ground was coming too fast. One of the men, Quarter, was shouting to drop him so that he could save himself and the other man, Piecemeal. He started to beat on Cody’s wrist, but Cody held on. The ground was coming too fast. Cody’s jetpack sputtered out, and they fell the remaining one-hundred and sixty feet to the surface of the planet. Cody went out on impact.

From my QuinFox fic (same timeline, this is year 1):

Fox’s office was empty when he opened the door. It was empty when he tugged his helmet off and set it on the shelf by the door. It was empty when he keyed the door closed and locked. It was not empty when he turned around.  “So,” said the man leaning against Fox’s desk. “Pretty interested in Kenobi, hm?” He had a lightsaber clipped to his belt. The gold tattoo across his nose and cheeks flashed in the light.  Fox had a hand on his blaster. “Don’t move,” he warned.  The man raised his hands. “I come with peace in my heart and curiosity in my mind. You’re a great slicer, for what it’s worth. Took me forever to figure out that it was you.” “That what was me?” Fox was grinding his teeth. His right hand was itching. “You pulled Obi-Wan’s records. Don’t totally understand why you covered your tracks so thoroughly, though. That’s what I want to know.” He stepped forward, hands still raised. “It’s not like you were breaking any regs. What gives?” “Get out of my fucking office,” Fox snarled. “Ooh, you’re mean,” the man said, smiling at him. Fox stepped back and adjusted the grip on his blaster. “I like that in a guy.” Fox knew he was blushing. Idiot.  “And shy, how charming.” The man had crossed his arms. He had a matching gold tattoo on his bicep.  Fox called to mind the standard punishment for murdering a superior—firing squad—and weighed his options. “How did you get in here?” “Oh, it’s a fun trick. But if I explain it, it’ll ruin the fun.” “I’m not very interested in fun,��� Fox retorted. “Somehow I don’t think that’s true,” the man said. “But if you insist…” He vanished. “Fuck,” Fox whispered, followed by a much louder, “Fuck!” when the man reappeared inches from his face.  “Part of the job,” the man said, smirking at him and not the least bit uncomfortable being within striking distance. Fox swallowed. “You’re a Shadow?” The man nodded, spreading his arms.“Quinlan Vos, at your service. No need for any formalities—I’m not technically a member of the GAR.” “Fox.” “So, back to my original question. Why so interested in my friend Obi-Wan?” “I think you probably already know. Why come if you know who I got them for?” “You caught me,” Vos said, smiling. He had a small gap between his front teeth. “I know you got those records for your batchmate, who they call Kote.” “Cody,” Fox snapped. “Cody, sorry. He wouldn’t have had access to those without going through Obi-Wan. You don’t have a Jedi overseeing you,” Vos said. “So you can get any records you want.” Fox raised his eyebrows. “I fail to see how any of this warrants sneaking into my office.” “Well, this was more for fun,” Vos admitted.  “You have a strange definition of ‘fun,’” Fox said, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. “And you don’t?” Vos had one eyebrow raised. “Well, you’ve had your fun,” Fox said. “So, now you can get out.”

[love-toxin]

hyrule spice <3 (rauru, byrne, tauro, link)

(general cws: graphic smut, fem/afab pronouns, breeding, knotting, hylian/zonai relations, pet names/name calling, dirty talk, degradation, squirting, fingering, overstim, bondage, unprotected sex, rough sex)

rauru of hyrule

Rauru never falters, never hesitates. He wants you and you're his. There's no fighting it--there simply can't be any doubt that you have his love.

But as the king of Hyrule, he has a duty to fulfill. Marriage, family, continuance of the royal bloodline...you understand, don't you? Even as a Hylian, you must. As a man and a Zonai, he has needs.

One of those needs, especially when faced with a pretty Hylian like yourself, is to breed.

"Ah, ah, ah--ahnnnngh-!" Is it you now, is it him? Who even cares at this point, you're basically the same being by now; bodies intertwined and moving in unison, every shuffle dictated by Rauru's massive Zonaite body towering over yours. Both his furry, clawed hands rest over yours, palms dwarfing your tiny Hylian fingers as he plants his body firmly into every thrust. The thin, fuzzy layer of hair that protects his cock is now coated in your arousal, sticky and slick from the pounding you've taken so all that rings in your ears is a hefty plap plap plap from behind as you take his thrusts.

Rauru once apologized to you, when you met, about his "off-putting" appearance. His ears, his claws, his snout that makes it difficult to kiss, his fur and his tail...he doesn't apologize for it anymore. He knows now that he doesn't have to, not when he gives you treatment like this.

"Forward," He snarls into your ear, gone mad with the weight of his lust and the frenzy of his mid-month heat. His teeth could rip the flesh from your bones, yet even in this state he uses them only to pierce the sweetest of claiming bites into your throat and down your spine. "Bend...until you break."

He can't be satiated by thought alone. Nor even the touch of his own hands, or a concubine if he owned one. It can only be you. Only your soft, squishy flesh rubbing up against his fur, your hands pinned beneath his claws, and your womb pierced on the tip of his thick, knot-heavy cock that's just begging to lock itself within your cunt and never let go.

Those claws dig painfully into your back, yet it doesn't dissuade you, and he loves that. He loves that at the end of the day, you'll submit to your king as he forces you to the sheets and pins your hips under his, his knot swelling and swelling until he finally breaches that soft place and all becomes right with the world. Through the pain you still adore him, and through the pleasure even more so.

Now, it's just a matter of soothing your bruised, marked-up body with his voice and his doting touch, with kisses and whispers of love and promises of all the gorgeous gifts he's going to present to you, as a token of gratitude for allowing the first of the Zonai to mate with the first Hylian--and person--he's ever truly loved.

byrne the dueling spirit

One hundred years. One hundred years of hard labour, training, and agony. Loneliness and isolation and anger, fury building itself up and up and up until it boils, begging to be let out on anyone close enough to make a decent punching bag.

Byrne doesn't know love. Never has, never feels like he ever will--he only knows pain and weakness, the desire to grow stronger clawing at him like a ravenous dog. Maybe that's why he finally lets loose on you. You were within reach. Never said no, never gave him anything but a smile.

And you're regretting it now, he bets. Because you have a muscled, weighty beast of a man on top of you, and you can feel the way he's learning this kind of touch for the first time as well as you can see clouds in the sky.

Or could, if you didn't have your face forced into your pillow, back arched so deeply the sweat pools like a puddle in the dip of your back. And it shakes and spills with the creaking of your bedframe, your down mattress squealing for mercy as Byrne forces you down and bullies your pussy into submission.

"Shut up." He groans, as if his bandana hasn't been balled up and stuffed into your mouth to quiet your incessant noises. If he didn't like you, he wouldn't say anything. But he can't help but tease you...can't help but make you wish you'd never invited him back to your house in the first place. "....Useless bitch." He grumbles, the smirk on his face going unnoticed as your lust-numbed brain leaks out your ears. Your pussy's cute, but it won't let him go--and even when he tries, your body just sucks him back in like you can't go a minute without being fucked.

But it just gives him the chance to put that metal arm to good use. It isn't rubbing or pinching he uses to his advantage, but a cold, hard, wet slap against your clit that finally shocks you enough to let him go--just barely enough to slide out before you clench down on the tip, though, and your muscles won't loosen as if you've been made to have a vice grip most inconveniently. He's gotta go. "Can't stick around fucking you all day. Let go."

Pop. With a deep, clingy squelch, he's finally pulled free from your soaking wet, tight as hell abyss, contrary to your whines and squirmy wiggling that beg him sweetly for more. To stay.

You're pretty and all. He likes you, and he doesn't like anyone. But he can't stay....and you can't get too attached to him, or else you're just gonna end up heartbroken.

But, maybe...maybe he can spare you a little dignity and make you finish. He thinks as he slides his cockhead through your folds again, unaware of just how hard he's falling in love as he sinks back in.

tauro the scholar

Your scholar is a nightmare because he won't let anything just lie. He needs answers. Evidence. Scientific proof. He needs logic and deciphered clues to figure out life's greatest mysteries.

Hence why he's doing today's case study on your soft, cute, and sensitive little pussy.

"Subject-responds-to-stimuli-even-under-duress," He speaks softly as his free hand scribbles out his notes on the pad between his feet, his fingers on the other hand buried deep within your twitching, stretched pussy lips. The 'stimuli' being him, and 'duress'....well, emotional duress counts. Especially when you've orgasmed 8 times today. "I believe in you, baby." Tauro replies cheerfully to your fucked-out groans, a smile permanently etched on his lips as he curls his fingers deep into your cervix. "I can make you ejaculate today! We're almost there!"

Somehow the sterile language he likes to use--which would normally be a bit of a mood killer in bed--just doesn't faze you anymore with Tauro. He's a bit of a kook, a cute airhead with the kind of knowledge the Sheikah themselves would kill for. A sweet, silly man who likes to tease.

A man who isn't intimidated by the pulses of your pussy nor the jerk of your hips as the pressure pushes down on your bladder, who positions his face right up close between your legs despite you gasping out that you feel like you're gonna pee. Embarrassment is nothing to him.

"That's what it's supposed to feel like."

He growls with an eager grin, fucking your cunt even faster with those thick fingers that's toe-curling but not yet cusping on painful. The bristly hairs on his freshly-shaved chin rub your soaked skin as he leans in, laving his huge, hot tongue over your tortured clit that's been messed with like a hot button all day today.

It's only when your shaking hips and arched back come to a standstill that he's finally satisfied--drenched in your juices, his face glistening as he talks you through and urges you to "let it all out baby, give everything to me" until you're squirting just like he told you he'd make you do for him.

Rarely have you seen such satisfaction on his face upon finding the answer he was looking for. Each tremor comes as he eases more out of you, every gasp and spurt of fluid getting him more excited about the results. You drench him from head to lap and he couldn't be more ecstatic, licking every bit he can get off his fingers and his palm as he looks up at you through hooded eyes.

"Now..." He pants, hair slicked down and tongue lolling out of his mouth as he laps up the droplets sticking to your folds as you tremble. "...Let's see if you can do that again, hm?"

link the hero

Link needs very few, simple things in life to coexist with reality. Those are primarily food, warmth, sunshine...and sex.

Poor hero. All he needs is an orgasm or two to get him back into the fight when he's exhausted from his toils. That's not so much to ask for, right?

That's where you come in. Such a pretty thing--and such a nice girl to help him out when he's in need. Link can show up on your doorstep night or day, rain or shine, healthy or half-dead, and to see you let him in and give him a place to put his feet up makes him feel like he's in love.

And whatever ails him is sure to clear up with a dose of your sweet, slick pussy that he swears was moulded just for him.

"Ha...ha...hah, ah-!" Link huffs out as he comes to a close again, hips bucking violently from below as he lets those animal instincts run wild with you. He can't be stopped, hence why you have to use those handy Lynel-silver shackles to cuff him to your bed, all so he won't break free in the heat of the moment and start fucking you rabidly on the floor of your cottage. Not like that's ever happened before, and he accidentally traumatized your milkman when he came knocking on the door....

"D-Don't strain, Link..." You gasp, his cum flooding down your thighs from hours upon hours of rabid coming-home-from-battle sex. "You'll hurt yourself."

Link doesn't talk much as it is, but the wobbly grin and the rolling back of his eyes in his head serves well enough to say what he thinks about that sentiment. Don't care. Need to blow my load. That's what's written all over his expression, and you can't say you're much surprised...or disappointed.

"Fine," You sigh, swirling your hips in deep circles to slow his thrusts--and to remind him of how much he's at your mercy now, no matter how strong of a warrior he is out on the field of battle. Your chuckle causes his back to arch up off the bed, his wrists pulling hard at the cuffs while his heart nearly beats out of his chest. "Then be a good boy and cum already. I've got a mess to clean up."

Link growls, that feral growl that only comes out when he's really, desperately in need of release. He starts thrusting more violently, his hips barely meeting the mattress anymore as he chases that pleasure against your womb--against that blasted little wall that feels like heaven but constantly stops him from shooting ropes right into the source of that ecstasy he loves. Maybe one day.

For now, it only stops once you've had your cervix appropriately bruised, and he's made you slump over him in a panting, gasping mess as his seed flows out of you and into his sweaty lap. Maybe he doesn't need Hyrule, Hylia's blessing, or the Master Sword, or anything anymore.

Maybe all he needs in this world is you.

[lerulpes]

actions that produce thoughts | Rogue Trader x Heinrix

disclaimer: silly little thoughts of mine because I am SO OKAY about a certain van Calox citizen that I think about him almost every day. Here you can read something about one of the first romance scenes and get to know my Rogue Trader a wee bit :D

also: the thoughts about etiquette breach are sponsored by post from rokamakofo

also #2: english is not my first language, so excuse me. or not.

Lord Captain's chambers appeared as usual. The vox stood silent, the ship hummed, the clocks in the corner were ticking as they did for every other von Valancius before, but Elisabeth was a bit unwell. She laid on her bed, still in her clothes, and looked at the ceiling. Who would've thought that a simple gesture would unsettle her this much.

During her years in the Militarum, people only saluted her and shook her hand on rare occasions: no one dared to touch general Scipio-Grimald in any other way. Since she became a Rogue Trader, nothing really changed, maybe people just tended to bow more. But who knew that her hand would ever be kissed, and kissed so... so... Failed to form a definition, Elisabeth exhaled and lifted her palm.

Calloused fingers covered with scars - burned, cut and Emperor knows what else, short nails - her hands were less noble than people wished they were, and Elisabeth usually wore gloves in public. She took them off when talking to her retinue or in her quarters, and for the first time a certain someone took advantage of this.

The palm folded as if someone was still holding it. An image reappeared before her eyes: dimly lit room, regicide table, interrogator van Calox two steps in front of her. He was going to leave, and Elisabeth wanted to extend her hand to shake his, but Heinrix was faster. Rustle of his jacket as he stepped forward and gently grabbed her hand; warmth of his skin, not contained by uniform, when his fingers interlaced hers; softness of his lips, first lips to touch her knuckles; slightly hesitant look in dark eyes as he finally found the strength to pull away.

A deep breath. Elisabeth felt her cheeks grow hotter once again.

Why, why did this youthful crush seized her in most irrelevant period of her life? Why didn't her heart wait for things to settle down, why did it choose an Inquisitor who tortured people in front of her and would gladly hand her over for this infatuation? Elisabeth hissed.

She blamed her stupid, stupid head, blamed her heart for being ready to fall into his arms, blamed Heinrix for accepting her gestures and not discarding them. Well, maybe it is just a matter of etiquette he suddenly remembered from his childhood? - asked a voice in her head. He never did this before, - answered another. And we never chatted tete-a-tete drinking amasec before too. Not an activity you engage in with a hound dog (even if pretty and charming) of the Inquisition.

"Damn you, van Calox," hissed Elisabeth, trying to get dark-haired Inquisitor out of her head, but all in vain.

meanwhile

As the elevator doors shut behind him, Heinrix allowed himself to exhale and relax his shoulders. He pinched his nose bridge, closing his eyes, put his hands on his hips and stared at the ceiling lamps. Well done, van Calox, simply lovely.

Years, no, decades of service went smoothly. With cold head and heart he hunted down every traitor, sniffed out every hint of heresy, he was Calcazar's best hound dog. Never has he thought that all that can be swept away by a woman who dared to speak not with interrogator van Calox, but with Heinrix.

A deep breath. Must be the booze; he got too relaxed and decided he can allow himself something more. Now he needs to write a gentle reminder not to drink in her presence on the back of his head.

Well, it won't help the need to be around her, to help her and touch her. To his own regret Heinrix realized that, even being totally sober, he wants being this close: to give her hand, to hold her shoulder, to pass an object and accidentally touch her fingers with his.

Everything was much more simple when her desk was between them. A fine border that cannot be crossed. But of course something told him to go to this damned table and tell her some nonsense - a nonsense that somehow caught her attention. "Finally you talk about something that interests you," - oh, he wished he didn't.

Heinrix closed his eyes once again, and an image reappeared before him, her image. Relaxed, smiling - not a clump of nerves ready for an ambush. Could he blame himself for wanting to kiss her? To make it an answer to all of her gestures? Maybe a kiss on the hand was the lesser evil after all.

He touched his lips - lips that weren't touched by anyone for a long time - with his fingers. He almost felt her knuckles once again; her hands were anything but a noble lady's, but what can you expect from an operative? If he was still on his homeworld, though, he'd bet his mother would already scold him and lecture about propriety.

Although propriety was the last thing on his mind when Elisabeth looked him in the eyes. It was extremely unbearable a few minutes ago when she looked at him over her hand: mouth agape, shock on her face, slightly disheveled hair and reddening face - a kiss on the hand clearly was the lesser evil.

The elevator beeped when approaching needed floor. Before exiting, Heinrix put on his stoic mask once again. Politely nodding to every officer he met on the way, he opened the door to his cabin, slipped in and shut it back. A deep breath, a hand combing through his hair trying to cool down.

"Damn you, Elisabeth," hissed Heinrix, trying to get the Rogue Trader out of his head, but all in vain.

[greenrow]

Kiss it better

Lance and Keith are officially a couple and everything should be great! ... So why are the thoughts in Lance's head so loud?

Notes: let it be known that this is a birthday present and an adaptation for @herodzn

This comic

Also read on ao3 here

Lying on his back, Lance looked at the ceiling. Its white color blinding him slightly. He closed his eyes. Hearing how Keith shuffled nearby. Opening his eyes just enough, Lance observed Keith’s movements. He placed his guitar against the wall. Unlike Keith’s warm toned walls, Lance’s were cool toned and bare, disregarding a few posters hung haphazardly next to his table. Shedding off his jacket, Keith threw it onto the bed, its leather fabric crinkling and looking strangely blended with Lance’s blue bed sheets. And, finally, he sat on the foot of the bed, sliding down so that he could sit on the floor. With his legs pulled comfortably to his chest, he saw how Keith started to look around his room. He couldn’t help but laugh. He had been to his room countless of times. They have hang out in this room more times than he can count.

Closing his eyes again, Lance relaxed onto the pillow under his head and onto the bean bag he had claimed after they arrived from their work project.

He tried to enjoy the quietness that surrounded them. Peaceful. Their week had been quite chaotic with all the assignments they had and with the hangout sessions they had with everyone else. Loving. He couldn’t really add anything else to it. Being with Keith was just lovely. Like a pleasant dream he didn’t want to wake up from. His mind started to wonder. If being with Keith felt like this, then wouldn’t that mean that their perceived feeling were also a fantasy? Wouldn’t Keith grow bored of being in this dream with him? Wouldn’t he get annoyed at him?

Before he could stop himself, Lance called out to Keith.

“Hey, Keith?”

He hesitated for a second. Taking a shallow breath.

In and out.

“You like me right?”

Even without looking, he could picture Keith’s expression. Bewildered. Confused. Maybe even hurt.

“What-”, Keith tried to question. What a weird question to ask.

Lance interrupted him, almost stumbling over himself.

“Like…”

Deep breaths. Lance repeated in his mind.

He opened his eyes. Deep breaths.

In and out.

“Do you have feelings for me?”

In and out.

Keith stared at him, his expression completely blank. Well, maybe not completely blank. He could see how his eyebrows raised. Confused. Where had this come from? In a very matter of fact tone, he called out his name.

“Lance…”

Lance wanted to die. How could his name sound so precious coming from Keith’s mouth?

“We’re dating.”

No hesitation. They were in fact dating.

“Of course, I do?”

A question.

Lance closed his eyes. Keith’s eyes on him felt almost painful. He couldn’t look back. Not now.

“Right, right… I guess I-”

Deep breaths.

In and out.

Curling into himself, Lance puts some distance between them.

“I… get scared you might reevaluate those feelings…”

His voice became quiet, almost trembling. He hated how he sounded. Why did he have to bring this up now? He opened his eyes catching a glimpse of Keith’s face. He looked concerned. Sad. Lance averted his eyes.

In and out.

“Why would I?” Keith leaned forward, breaching the security distance he had put between them. Flinching when he felt Keith put a gentle hand on his knee. A loving encouragement to bring the truth out of him. With only a few movements, he was able to pull the words that formed a knot in his throat. Still looking away, Lance swallowed dryly.

“Y’know I can be a lot sometimes…”

Deep breaths.

In and out.

He took a sneak glance at Keith. He had furrowed eyebrows, clearly taken aback. Lance didn’t like that look on his face, much less being the reason behind it. He looked away once again.

“You’re not a lot, Lance.”

Keith did not hesitate. He sounded so sure, like this was the most obvious truth to ever exist. And, maybe, just maybe, it really was. Lance could hear the soft smile on his voice.

At times like these, Lance remembered how Keith used to be. Such a hotheaded guy. One that didn’t spare a single glance or thought to those around him, especially if Shiro was there. He remembered how they used to clash. Always fighting, bickering. God, he used to find Keith so insufferable back then. If it hadn’t been for Pidge, Hank and Shiro’s persistence, and for professor Coran’s insistence in them working together every single time there were group projects (which were most of the time, mind you), Lance didn’t believe they would become such good friends. The perfect partners in crime. Let alone dating.

Keith shifted, now closer. With his personal space starting to be intruded, Lance’s breath hitched, surprised. Still refusing to look at his boyfriend, he kept himself closed off, arms hugging his torso. He was trying to hide. If he was as still as possible, as small as possible, Keith might back off. *Might leave*. Oh. He didn’t want that. Never *that*.

Deep breaths, Lance. Deep breaths.

In and out.

In and out.

In and—

He felt a gentle touch on his cheek. Lance had to fight, really hard, to not just melt into the touch. Keith always did this. Touch him so softly. So preciously. He wanted to cry. Tenderly, Keith turned his face towards him. Eyes drinking every feature on his face, Keith smiled.

Was Keith always this pretty? His faced felt warmer. Yes. Yes, he was.

“I love you for you.”

Keith whispered. Like it was a secret, the most cherished one.

Lance definitely wanted to cry now.

“I uh…Pssh—” Lance looked all around his room. His bed as a good place, for now. “You- I uh…” He retreated more into himself. Shyly turning his head in a different direction making sure to still be within Keith’s warmed hand. “I mean, really?”

A beat passed. Then another. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Lance looked back at Keith.

Oh, so that’s why.

Keith was just staring at him. Lovingly so, he’d like to add. Lance stared back. He allowed himself to finally melt into Keith’s hand. He leaned forward when he felt how Keith pulled him in. Still giving him a chance to back away if he so wished. He didn’t.

They kissed. They talked in a way words could never. Words they never found. And so, they kissed.

And for now, all of Lance’s insecurities felt insignificant. Fell quiet.

It was just him and Keith.

And because of that, he was ok.

He breathed him in.

In and out.

He was happy. Safe. Loved.