#i can offer nothing but words prayers and love

[g0dlyunsub]

hey!!! Ugh I just love your account! I have a request for Spencer Reid x fem reader!! Can you do one where he is always working and it makes the reader upset bc he is cancelling dates and coming home late and kinda neglects her feelings and doesn't really notice how much it affects her and how sad she gets and then he misses their anniversary dinner and she breaks and tells him that it makes her upset when he's gone all the time and he just feels so awful bc he's so in love with her and never wants her to feel that way because of him and apologizes and reassures her and makes sure she feels loved!!

ty for the request and i loved the idea for this one!

wishful thinking.

pairing :: spencer x fem!reader

warnings :: angst with a fluffy ending; very mild makeout session at the end :3

word count :: 2.4k

author’s note :: i kind of giggled at the ending as i was writing it, but i’m pretty proud of how this one turned out!

accompanying song :: neverthere by xander

spencer’s phone is quite literally the bane of your existence.

you know what to expect whenever it rings, so you hate when it actually does – its earthquaking vibrations and trilled beeps tear the happiness straight out of you.

it’s the second date in a row that he’s had to pass, and you wonder if you should just stop trying so hard. was it selfish to want to have him all to yourself, to have him seated right across from you, sharing your laughter as you pass him his plated pasta? were you expecting too much, imagining a serene life with him ten years down the road, perhaps with kids or pets of your own? was it unfair to think that you could craft a lie, telling him your stomach hurt really bad, so bad that you would have to curl up on the floor and pray he’d stay by your side just this once to comfort you?

all you ever wanted was spencer. more specifically, you wanted spencer during your first three dates, when he’d silence all of his phone calls, and wave them off like nothing even though you insisted he take them. maybe if you didn’t bring up the importance of taking work calls, none of this would have ever happened. maybe it was all coming back to bite you for your non-confrontational nature, since you could never plead him to actually stay.

but he’s your boyfriend… and that’s all that matters, right? after all, he has lives to save – people whose names are called out during prayers day and night by their loved ones as they cling on to the sliver of hope that your boyfriend and his team promise during the darkest hours. granted, spencer would drop everything if you were in a similar situation, but none of your problems have actually been life-threatening. but a girl can dream, can’t she? your first anniversary date was when spencer promised to make amends, a formal compensation for all of the past dates that he missed and left you feeling empty on your shared bed, stains of mascara chalked up on your dry cheeks.

“i’m so sorry, honey, i’ve just been… called in for work,” spencer stands, dusting the napkin that was folded nicely on his lap. you watch as he takes a sip of his glass of water, then walks over to you to plant a kiss on your forehead.

he runs his fingers along the velvety texture of the sleeves of your dress, and you offer him a weak smile.

“it’s okay, duty calls, right?” you feel the tears surfacing and you have to fight yourself to not blink. it’s too early to cry.

“i-it’s a really bad one this time, and i hate to do this on such an important day-” spencer begins to apologize frantically, and his face marks an expression of genuine concern with his brows furrowing and lips twitching.

“it’s okay. you need to go, i understand.” you state plainly, and you immediately feel shameful – your words are too assertive and snarly for how you normally respond.

spencer pauses briefly, fidgeting with his fingers, before he gives a slight nod in your direction. he then walks over to the couch, grabs a book, and tightens the clasps on his bag. 

“i’ll be back as fast as i can,” spencer utters quietly and walks out of the door. when the apartment door locks with a click, you break down immediately.

at first, the tears fall one by one. but then, a salty stream evident of pure emotional wreckage makes its way into the slight gap of your lips, and it’s an unstoppable domino effect. your shoulders shudder and heave as you struggle to catch breaths in between, and you splutter cries of your boyfriend’s name. 

maybe it would’ve been better to just stay as conversational partners, to exchange updates once in a while when he’d actually commit to a time. it was your fault for getting your hopes up high, and all of this – fanciful dinner and dressing your best for the occasion – was wishful thinking. you just didn’t want to admit it.

“y/n?” 

you look up to see spencer in front of the doorway, and his bag that was barely holding on to his shoulder drops to the floor with a thud.

you quickly look away, brushing the tears away with one arm and sniffle before choking out a response.

“i thought you left already, why are you here?” again, your words come out icier than you had hoped and hit you with a sharp pang of guilt.

spencer narrows his eyes ever so slightly as if he’s scrutinizing you, observing your body language. it doesn’t take a genius to know that you’re upset.

“i was going to. realized i forgot-,”

he clears his throat when you raise your eyebrows and proceeds, "i misplaced my wallet."

he slips out of his loafers, shoving aside his pair of converses that lie adjacent to your pretty pair of heels. he walks over to you, and you realize that you’re still seated at the dining table. you must look so stupid right now, waiting as if he’d just be returning from a bathroom break.

“i need to head out, but i promise… i promise we’ll talk about this really soon. we’ll have the anniversary dinner and-”

“did you even try?” you blurt out, and you look up at him with your puffy eyes glazed with tears.

a deathly silence clouds over the entire apartment, and you’re thinking of two options: leave the apartment and go run to a friend’s place, or confront him and see whether making amends – again, wishful thinking – would be possible.

“y/n. please believe me when i say that i’ve tried to, i’ve tried-”

you slam a hand to the table before standing up, your face twisting into an expression of outrage.

“no, because then you would’ve silenced it. you would’ve cut the call, just like you used to.” you fire your words at him as your hair sticks to the drying tears on your cheeks, and you begrudgingly wipe at your face. 

a slow sigh escapes from spencer’s lips, and he looks at you with those eyes – the eyes that seemingly warn you, saying you don’t want to go there. not right now.

but you double down on him, the rage fueling your words as you lash out. 

“it was just this one time. i only wanted you to stay for dinner just this one time.” you helplessly drop your hands to your sides, the tears landing on the floor with soft plops.

“i know. and i’m terribly sorry.” spencer bites his bottom lip and takes a step toward you. but you take a step back, and maybe that pulls a string between the two of you, because you can see how his shoulders tense up.

“look, can we talk about this when i get back? i’ll make it up to you, i swear.” he combs through his hair, the stress almost palpable as it leaks from his shaking fingers.

while you know he has to head out again, the way he so easily brushes off the conversation like it’s something he doesn’t even want to think about feeds into your disbelief. soon, however, your anger subsides into a tired frown. 

“i don’t know, you might come home late… when i’m asleep or something.” you look at the wall where a photo of the two of you is framed, and you weakly smile at how happy you seemed then. 

“i’ll give you a call, is that okay?” he searches your face for any signs of approval, but you’re zoned out thinking about the past, of how everything used to be.

“whatever, just go.” you wave him off and walk to the couch, where you lie down and turn against him to face the plush fabric.

spencer sighs, and his hand looms over your head momentarily before he grabs his wallet from the table. you hear a faint sorry trail from behind as he leaves the room, and your nails claw at the arms of the couch before the darkness cradles you once again.

it’s 10:30 pm, and you hear the doorknob click again. you had just cleaned up the dishes after eating dinner alone and left his portion in the fridge. you were now changed into your pajamas and getting ready for your night routine.

you peep out of your bedroom door to see spencer, his suit all wet. he looks at you as he takes off his shoes, and a sullen expression paints his face. did it start raining after he left? you realize that you were mostly cooped up in the bedroom since his departure, so you wouldn’t have known.

bravely looking up at him in the eye, you state: “you came back early.” you hate how unwelcoming you sound in his own home.

he pauses before he sets his wet bag on the floor and removes his blazer jacket to throw over a chair. 

he approaches you, hands in his pockets and hair twisted in matted curls. 

“hm.” he grabs a towel from the closet and makes his way to the shower, brushing past your shoulder. you feel an icy shudder spread through your spine after he closes the bathroom door.

was he giving you the silent treatment right now? 

you hear the water start from the bathroom and you sink into your bed while turning to twist the lamp lights on.

after all that torturous waiting you went through, he was giving you the silent treatment?

fifteen minutes later, a knock reverberates from the other side of the bedroom door, and even though you don’t respond, spencer steps in. he’s changed into a t-shirt and black pajama pants, and he drops next to you on the bed.

“i’m taking the week off.” 

the sentence startles you, and it’s something so unexpected you choke on your own saliva.

“what, what do you mean you’re taking the week off?” you ask him, finally turning to face him in the eyes. his brown irises blaze into your own.

“i’ve been pushing off everything you wanted to do with me — things that I wanted to do with you — and i’ve just been…” he turns away to play with the wrinkles on his pants as he speaks, picking out the dust that lies embedded between the folds.

he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep sigh. he continues, “i don’t know if it’s all worth it.”

silence casts a blanket over the two of you.

“spence,” you say after a while, and hesitantly lay a hand on his thigh.

“nothing’s more important in the world to me than you. you and your happiness. i know you love this job and i know you love helping people. you’re such a kind hearted man, and it’s why i fell in love with you in the first place.”

when spencer gives you no response, you confess: “spence, i get jealous sometimes.”

this time his eyes widen, and he looks at you.

“you do?” he asks softly, peering into your eyes and you cave instantly. 

“of course i do. it’s… everybody wants you, spencer. we all need you, whether we realize it or not.”

he scoffs.

“but i only want you.”

his voice is raspy yet mellow at the same time, the smoothest stream of sweetness seeping through your eardrums. god. you can never stay mad at this gorgeous man, the same man that made you cry on numerous occasions just counting the past week.

“you need to do more than that, if you… you know.” you quietly murmur as you fidget with the hem of your nightgown.

“i know,” he speaks with a hushed tone. “i told hotch, and i told him it was going to happen whether he liked it or not. the demands of this job are… tough, but i don’t want to miss out on all the things we planned together. i won’t.”

you start bawling right when he delivers the last word, and all the tears that you were holding back spill over your flushed cheeks. your boyfriend immediately leans in to console you, pulling you into a tight embrace as his chin rests on top of your head. 

it’s okay, he murmurs reassuringly. you ease into his touch, and you realize how much you missed this. how much you missed spending time with him.

his left hand tugs lightly at your soft hair while his right rubs your back in smooth circles. 

“i missed you,” you speak with a hushed voice, looking up into his eyes as a glassy coat of tears blur your vision. 

he cups your face with his hands before whispering, “i missed you too.”

you continue to blabber words of love-stained anguish but he cuts you off short, pulling you in for a short kiss on your lips, which are now tainted with your tears.

“you taste… salty,” he whispers, giving you a slight smile as he brushes off the rest of your tears that weigh down on your eyelashes.

“it’s because of you, silly,” you drawl as you taste the salty residue of your tears.

yeah, spencer responds hesitantly. but he’s wearing a small smile, tilting his head to one side as his eyes emit a glint of tranquilizing peace.

he reaches into his pajama pocket and takes out a piece of candy. you curiously watch as his fingers quickly remove the wrapper, revealing a glazed cherry-flavored sphere. 

“may i?” he asks, and his faint voice is a gravitational force that you can’t resist.

you briefly respond with a lazy hm? before he plops the candy into your mouth and kisses you again. the sweetness explodes like fireworks with his warm breath, and the sticky layer of sugar melts like acid on your intertwined tongues. you let out a satisfied hum when you pull back, and it’s undeniably attractive the way spencer licks the corner of his lips.

a tear falls from your eye again, and this time, it’s not out of sorrow.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Christian Woman

(König x Nun!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k Tags/warnings: Pining intensifies, religious despair intensifies, minor injuries, treatment of wounds, crying, enthusiastic kissing, König gets a few boners. 18+ for eventual smut in this story.

A/N: Don't tell me you wouldn't get horny scared too if you saw this tall guy suddenly emerging from the shadows in his full war gear :) There's a cute date night and a lot of angst in this chapter too, I tried to summon an actual plot here... As always, I need to explain why they’re bonking! But smut is coming, next and last chapter will be full of fluff and steamy first times (Reader is virgin!)

Part 2

You have a feeling that this is the last day you’ll see him.

The stranger from the Austrian Alps, the kindest mercenary you’ve ever met – the only mercenary you’ve ever met – the giant soldier who now carries a piece of your heart with him. You wonder if he even knows he owns it.

The morning prayers and mass are a chore and bring you no comfort, and the usual dawn bliss is gone. You find no delight in singing with your sisters, and withdrawing to your cell for solitary prayer feels like stepping back inside your own personal purgatory. 

You’ve been in heaven and in hell for days now. Maybe since the moment you met him...

But at the same time, you know it must’ve been the Lord who brought you together. There must be a reason for God to make you two meet, you refuse to think it’s only because He wishes to tempt you. There must be a bigger plan; the connection, as sinful and carnal as it is, has to serve some higher purpose.

And you wonder if you’re going mad, because your most sinful thought is that you actually see God in him. It’s just your lower instincts speaking, a demon of some sort that tries to misguide you because no man is like Lord Jesus. 

And yet, don’t they always preach that you meet Him in every person you meet? And that through you, other people meet God too…? 

This reasoning feels much better. It solidifies the mercy you’ve longed for during the brief weeks you’ve known this man who brashly calls himself König. You want to believe that he carries a spark of the Divine in him, and that you hold a grain of the Virgin Mary’s compassion and love in you. 

You decide to hold on to this thought: that you were meant to meet so that you could come to know God through each other. For in König, you see a suffering God, a crucified Christ who rises against evil by offering himself to the cruelty of men. Somehow, the image of him as a mortal man starts to twist into a divine, dark trooper, someone who battles the forces of the evil in this world.

And this reasoning leads you to think that it is only natural that you, a Sister of the Faith, have helped him find some rest and relief in the middle of his work. It’s pretty clear that König has found some solace in your company, and even if things have ventured into a forbidden area of low, simple lust, it’s not dark enough to taint the beauty and grace you've felt together. As long as you hold on to this purity, nothing can go wrong.

While praying for both of you that morning, you find yourself replaying the smiles and touches König has given you these past weeks. You know you will drown yourself in memories after he's gone because they are all you’ll ever have of him.

And they're more than enough.

Or at least they should be…

You feel a tiny dagger of guilt push into your heart, the place reserved for Christ, when you’re assigned to do some spiritual reading instead of helping out in the kitchen or organizing the small library. The appointed texts are about falling into temptation and sin, reminding you about the consequences of such actions. You read the passings with a heavy heart and then slip out to meet König, possibly for the last time.

You wear your everyday clothes to the café, and König says nothing about your sudden moral choice, only gives you another longing, enamored once-over. You keep him at arm’s length, both physically and emotionally, and the effects of this unexpected cold shower are immediate. The man doesn’t even try to disguise the sad, puppy-eyed stares he shoots your way. 

You hate it that the bright, playful air of your meetings is gone, and your heart is tearing itself apart in your chest because the only thing you wanted was to spread joy into his world. Even the Lord seems disappointed in you being so cold-hearted, and you can’t bear to see His sadness and suffering in König’s eyes.

You get offered not one, but two coffees today, and a large piece of dark chocolate cake that tastes of pure sin. He talks about how he would love to write to you, but you tell him you can’t be in correspondence with a man who isn’t your brother or father. König isn’t even married, so it would only raise questions – you would find yourself reading spiritual texts about lust and sin until it drives you crazy.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he finally reveals with a voice thick with sorrow. “Can I see you before I go...? One last time?”

“I’d love to, but… I’m sort of being watched,” you say, slowly coming out of your shell to make it clear that you’d want to spend the rest of your life with him, but you simply just can’t.

Your weak, apologetic look is like a dose of confidence shot through his veins because the face opposite of you brightens immediately. König’s whole posture gets a hopeful uplift.

“Just for a little walk...? To see what the city looks like in the evening?”

“I don’t know if I can make it… I have to work until six... And attend the evening prayer at seven. And then silence starts at eight…” 

You’re wringing your hands under the table while you explain, hoping König will come up with a solution to this dilemma.

“We can go for a walk after silence, then,” he shrugs.

“I–I can’t just escape from the window.”

“...Why not?”

You look at König; he looks straight back.

The man’s serious about you sneaking out your window at night; he’s actually serious, even if there’s a dark, playful smile rising on his lips. 

“I can help,” he grins.

Your heart cracks open, it shoots full of light only more and more with that smile. König doesn’t need to ram a door down and shoot his way through your chest; all he has to do is sneak inside your heart and take the place that belongs to God. You don’t even feel the difference as he makes himself at home. 

Well, actually, you do... It’s like your Christ’s love and mercy have finally come to flesh and blood before you. They're materialized in the man sitting opposite of you, bouncing his knee excitedly and grinning like the most innocent little devil on Earth.

You find yourself whispering “Ok”, and the whole world shifts. 

You take a step towards something forbidden but great, your whole heart starts to sing along with life. You haven’t even done the actual thing yet but you’re already filled with bubbling laughter and excitement. If only your friend could see you now, about to do things she probably did when she was fifteen...

But everything feels so right that it can’t be a sin – if it is, it just so happens to be the most natural, most divine thing to do too.

If this is the last day you’ll ever see him, you can surely steal a tiny moment for yourself and forget about rights and wrongs for a moment. Just forget about the rules, and live in the actual world for a few hours, breathe the worldly air, see what normal people do and pretend you’re one of them, for just one night. 

…

You feel like Cinderella when picking clothes for the evening.

You rummage through the only closet in your room – during the time that should be spent in silent prayer before bed – and notice you still have your old jeans.

They’re light blue and still fit; actually, they fit more than well... You know that König’s eyes will be glued to your butt when you’re not looking.

You have completely forgotten how nice you look in jeans, and it’s the Devil talking, making you admire yourself in tight denim like this. You never cared about how you look before; you certainly never gave much thought to how men see you or if they’re checking out your butt or breasts. Now you’re grooming yourself like never before, trying to decide what to do with your hair as if your life depended on it.

You choose a simple, black t-shirt to pair with the jeans and not make it too obvious that you’re trying to flaunt yourself. It hugs your form but is otherwise plain, and for some people, your choice of clothing is probably their regular work outfit. To you, it feels like you’re about to go out to seduce everyone.

Everything’s so tight and earthly; everything’s so… there. Visible... Touchable.

Lord, have mercy on me. I know I’m weak. But please let me have this, just this once…

And König has seen you without makeup all this time, so what on earth has possessed you to lament the fact that you don’t own a single case of lipstick? You’d kill for a few sweeps of mascara, too, just to bat your lashes at a silly man.

It’s not a date, you remind yourself.

It’s not a date... It’s not a date. You’re just going to have a short walk with him.

And you fear that accepting König’s “help” was a mistake. If you get caught with a man on the convent perimeter, you’ll get your ass thoroughly whooped…

Can a man of his size even keep quiet?

He probably suggested it so that you wouldn’t chicken out of this. If König is at your window by 8 and there’s no sign of you, he’ll probably just come in, throw you on his shoulder and jump out. He knows where your window is located now, and surely has some questionable skills due to his profession, skills you know nothing about, but you’re still about to have a panic attack from pure excitement when the clock strikes 8. 

You push the window ajar and settle on the sill to keep watch, gasping when you hear his familiar accent down below as soon as the window is open.

“Kätzchen...”

“König…?”

You peek down and meet his stupid, grinning face – God, he’s so happy to see you kept your promise. His eyes are shining, his fingers interlock to help you have something to place your foot on. 

“Here, kitty, kitty…”

You could easily jump out the window without hurting yourself, but of course he wants to help you since you were so kind to tell him where he could come and "pick you up".

But to see that playful smile and hear him trying to coax you out like you’re some skittish little kitten…

Could a grown man get any more silly?

You wiggle yourself out the window, trying to ignore the fact that he’s probably staring at your butt, still grinning like crazy while you do it. 

SupportING your entire weight like it’s no trouble at all, he helps you down. You’ve never been this close to him since you bumped into him: you have to take support from his shoulders as you search for a footing, and he scoops you in his arms the minute both your feet are safely on the ground.

“I knew you’d come,” he purrs with joy, and you place your hands on his chest – not to keep him at bay, but to touch him in a way that is as appropriate as possible when a man is hugging you like this.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you whisper, still unsure if this is the best or the worst decision of your entire life.

“Kitty… Live a little, hmm?”

You have to crane your neck to look up at him – you’re not sure if you’re in the embrace of Jesus or Lucifer because the warmth of those eyes compare to the love of God, but they also make you weak and helpless. Whenever you’re with your sisters, the feeling is pure, pristine love, not a surge of complex emotions and thrill like it is with König.

“You’re a bad influence,” you breathe – König only laughs, and the grip around you tightens. 

“My lady. You’re the one who climbed out the window.”

“Because someone would’ve probably thrown small rocks on it if I hadn’t…!”

“Natürlich. And if that didn’t work… A serenade or two. Do you like love songs?” 

You look down at his chest, smiling, heart fluttering at the thought of a silly Austrian man serenading under your window. You have no trouble imagining him singing something syrupy in German, waking everyone up with his racket.

“You’re crazy, did you know that...?” 

“Sure. They tell me that all the time at work. Aber du… Du bist süss.” 

“...What’s that?” 

His smile only widens as he takes in your lips, your neck, the tight shirt that finally gives him something more to look at.

“You’re cute.”

…

The whole evening is heavenly. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted from a date and more.

He doesn’t take you for a short walk, oh no. He takes you out to eat, at some lively restaurant where they serve delicious, artisan, wood-fired pizzas. You have créme brûlée for dessert, and König gives you his strawberries when he notices you eat them first, but only on one condition: you have to let him feed them to you one by one. 

He buys you a rose: a big, red, plump one. No man has ever bought you flowers before, and even if you love lush, abundant bouquets, the fact that he chose you a single red rose after you’ve spoken about the beauty of simplicity, doesn't escape you.

König hasn’t only listened to you these past few weeks: he gets you. And how symbolic is it that he chose a rose that’s also tied to all the mysteries of God?

You walk the streets with a flower in one hand and his palm in the other. It's a holy trinity of him and you and the Great Mystery, it’s passion and it’s thorns, it’s blood and beauty and pain, and you feel like he just gets you; he knows you through and through. 

You pass by an outdoor bar with live music, and the place is so crowded that people are dancing on the streets. No cars honk as they slowly pass by the scene, the music and the laughing, dancing pairs make even the grumpiest passersby smile.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that König pulls you to him before you get to escape the scene. You’re drawn flush against his chest, hips colliding with his, hands finding each other in a slow sway that has never even seen the steps of Latin dances.

“Nuns are allowed to dance, no?” 

He smiles dreamily, enveloped in the same sweet haze as you.

“Not with a man,” you correct, but don’t even bother to push him away. Instead, you let König guide his hand down your waist and draw you closer. If this isn't a date, you don't know what is...

“I can take the blame,” he says. “You can tell everybody it was me.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” you laugh. 

“Why not?” 

His eyes are glued to yours, making you warm all over, so much so that you feel like you’re burning from the neck up. You guide your stare down to his chest, then over to the quick heartbeat on his neck.

He's nervous, too... Your cruel soldier is nervous, and kind, and shy because he's pressed against you.

You rest your head there on his chest, watching the golden sunset far away, painting the rooftops with a genial glow. Your heart is made of molten gold, too, as you allow yourself find a home in his embrace.

“I can take your sins,” he promises above you. “Jesus did that too, right?”

“You’re not Jesus,” you smile against his shirt – black, always black...

“Are you sure? I would go to hell for you.”

Your dance comes to a halt as you swallow and lift your gaze. The smiles are gone now, both yours and his. He’s so close now he could touch your lips with his if he wanted to.

And he does want to.

You don’t shy away as he leans down to kiss you. It’s chaste at first, a slow exploration, but then he opens your mouth with his, demanding, hot, intoxicating. You melt in his arms, and he somehow supports you through it all, turning the dance into an embrace and the decent little kiss into a full French one.

It’s hot and wet and slow, so, so passionate that your knees are about to give in. You devour him back, feel how he grows hard against your stomach – the swelling erection makes you dizzy before you come to your senses, but only barely.

You break away an inch, panting into his mouth while he’s panting into yours. What a blessing that you don’t own any lipstick; both of your lips are red without it…

“This is–”

“Inappropriate?”

His voice is husky, and sends a flood of wetness down between your legs. Your heart is racing, but you can’t even note how terribly alive you are before he attacks your lips again.

The kiss is even more desperate than the first one, and the slow urgency is gone. His mouth leaves you without air, and then – he wraps his arms around you and picks you up from the ground like you weigh nothing. Your hands get squished somewhere between you, naturally coming to cup his face as you kiss him back. 

It’s eager, pure lust, so powerful and needy that it scorches through your chest and ties your heartstrings into tight little knots, makes your brows knit together, too.

He grunts into your mouth, sensing you’re more than up for this after all. You let him see the full depth of your hunger and your lust, just waiting to be released and taken – made love to until you’re both sore and messy and limp.

God… This is better than God…

You hear whistles and whoos in the distance, some men yelling, “Let’s go!” and “Get a room” while they pass by. Realizing you’ve fallen into a dream trap of strong arms and needy lips about to depart tomorrow, you know it's something you could have had years ago, perhaps, but not anymore. You'll lose everything if you break your vows tonight: basically, you’ve already broken them, but no permanent damage has been done.

You can still turn back if you turn back now…

You push yourself away, push him away, heart clenching when you see his adoring, love-drunk, half-lidded stare.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, fighting back tears as you come down from your high. “I just–I can’t…”

He breathes labouriously, still clutching you against him, holding you in the air like you’re the thing he has searched for his entire life and now, finally discovered… Only to be told that he now has to put it back where he found it. 

You’re crying by the time he sets you down, and you have no heart or will to pull away. Instead, you bury your face in his chest and cry your fill in his shirt. It’s soon damp from your tears as König hugs and supports you through his own stoic heartbreak.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry…”

You repeat it until you can’t repeat it anymore, bawling in his chest while the world around you continues to spin despite your heaven and hell, despite your vows, despite your stupid devotion. The world revolves like it always has, as you choose a crucified man over the one who’s flesh and blood and holds you through your pain.

“Kätzchen, don’t cry,” he pets your hair while you sniffle and tremble in his embrace. You know this is not the last time you will cry your heart out over him, but knowing it doesn't help you when he offers you his last, bittersweet comfort.

“It was a good dream while it lasted...”

…

The rose withers in your cell.

You turn it upside down and tie it to the curtain rod to prevent it from dropping its petals. It dries beautifully and keeps its bloodred colour, now reminding you of both Jesus and him. 

There hasn’t been a word from König in months, and of course there hasn’t. You denied his wish to write you, and the dried rose is the only thing left of your time with him. 

In the first weeks, it’s hard to keep up a charade. You show up to prayer, work and mass with red eyes, revealing to everyone that you’re going through a loss of some sort. Somewhere during the first week, the abbess summons you to meet her and you brace yourself for a scolding.

God knows you don’t need the rebuke, and when you close the door and turn to face the symbolic mother of the convent, you end up breaking into tears right in front of her.

“Whatever you were up to, my child, I am glad that it is over now,” she says with all the gentleness of the world. 

“Me too,” your voice breaks, and when the abbess extends her hands, you go to her, fall to your knees, and have another heartwrenching cry with your face in her lap.

You’ve denied yourself love and mercy for days, expecting to be expelled or shamed or ridiculed, but mercy is what you’re offered now, even after you’ve sinned.

The abbess caresses your hair just as softly as König did just days ago, and the fact that her kind gesture reminds you of some silly, infatuated soldier, only makes the breakdown worse. You bawl like a little child who’s deprived of candy, and you don’t even have the strength to berate yourself for it.

“I hope you haven’t done anything irredeemable...?” 

“No... Nothing happened,” you sob and look out of the rose window, desperate for sun while your head rests on a gentle but distant lap. 

Nothing happened except the most sinful, beautiful, lustful kiss of your life... Nothing happened except that you saw this man every time you could, held hands with him, swam in his smiles and affection, and went to bed with thoughts inappropriate for any human being. 

“The world tests us in many ways... But Lord never tests us. He only loves us.”

Something in that sentence finally quenches the neverending flow of tears. Your muscles start to relax, and you remember that this is the eternal truth: to surrender, over and over again, to a power far greater than you. 

The abbess never asks for details about what you have done. She never tells you you have sinned; you don’t need to be told that. The punishment has been dealt already: whoever ties herself to this world and its temptations will suffer exactly like this when the passion and excitement ends. The key to escaping its grip is to simply let go first, once and for all, surrender to the love of God, and trust that everything fill fall into place eventually.

“You must offer your mind and body to work now,” the motherly voice speaks above you. “Work, time and prayer will ease your pain.”

…

Work, time and prayer do ease the pain. 

They ease all pains, but it takes almost six months to stop thinking about him every hour of every day.

You’re proud of yourself when you find out one day that you haven’t thought about him at all. He just now crossed your mind when you remember how he used to smell: of salty seabreeze mixed with intoxicating musk, the scent of excitement and safety all in one. 

You could almost swear you catch a whiff of that particular scent in the yard when you go and water the flowers one evening, but it can’t be: he’s gone, and there’s nothing you can do about it, nothing you even want to do about it because you already made your choice. This path leads you to greater peace of mind in the long run, and you know you made the right decision even if it hurt you and König.

Sunsets still remind you of him, the colour of rose and gold mixed with endings, but the memories are now laced with bittersweet love rather than blunt despair and pain. The times you spent with him are a collection of brief, blissful moments, and you treasure every single one of them in your heart. You still pray for him, not every day, but nearly every day. You touch the rose when the hurt reaches its peak, but the last time you did that was almost a week ago.

And you thought you had forgotten his scent, but apparently, you have not. In fact, it seems to drift to your nose again, which is odd because you’re outside, after all…

“Kätzchen.” 

A whisper is hissed from the shadows just as you’re about to straighten and investigate, because either you’re going crazy or then there’s someone here who smells exactly like him.

You startle and almost drop the watering can, staring straight into the shadows under your window. The tallest man you’ve ever seen steps out from the dark in full combat gear, and while you can’t see his face because it’s covered with a draping black hood, you recognize it’s him simply from the way he moves. 

“Don’t be afraid. It’s me,” he rasps and tries to straighten from the slightly hunched position he’s in, but immediately falls back, then slants to lean on the wall. His gear is dirty, and he holds the side of his stomach with one hand, the lively blue eyes either drunk or very very tired.

“Dear God… What happened to you?”

You abandon the watering can and rush to him; it’s useless to ask if he’s injured when, clearly, he’s trying to prevent himself from slumping to the ground. 

He’s enormous and intimidating even when wounded, a soldier loaded with ammo and weapons and protective paddings and guards, wearing a hood and a helmet and a radio of some sort, his tactical gloves bloody and eyes droopy. The weapon by his side is almost half as tall as you, and God – is that a grenade strapped to his vest?

“I got compromised,” König looks down at the wound but doesn’t remove his hand. He looks so different, like another man entirely when he’s not dressed in his customary olive green pants and a casual black t-shirt. He seems even buffier now, even taller, so terrifying that you wonder if you ever even knew this man.

You must look like a frightened deer because König mistakes your horrified look as sweet, simple concern.

“Don’t worry... They have it much worse, I assure you,” he says with his usual grin – you can hear it from the way he says it that he’s smiling. But it’s so weary now, so exhausted and frail compared to his confident, playful laughs and that husky voice with which he spoke to you after your kiss.

“I came to ask for help,” he continues under his breath, wobbling even when leaning against a wall. “You’re the only one I can… trust.”

“Of course, anything. I will do anything I can.”

His eyes smile down at you from behind the executioner’s veil. It’s that same devoted stare you’ve been trying to dispel for months now. You give yourself a quick mental shake, then tell him to wait here while you go in and call for an ambulance. 

König bounces off the wall and seizes your hand, telling you he can’t go to a hospital and that, if anything, he must avoid any kind of public places. You don’t ask any further questions, even if you know you’re in a pickle now, and not only because those glacial eyes are making your knees weak again. There’s nothing much you can do: he’s wounded and still in danger, saying he can’t trust anyone else. Of course you have to help him in any way you can. If he says it’s not safe, then you must help him get somewhere where it is safe. 

And besides, aren’t you a nun? You’re supposed to help those in need. 

So when he asks you if there are any motels or a bed & breakfast nearby, you say you know just the place. 

It makes your heart bleed that König takes support from you while you slowly make your way down the street. A man of his size, a body trained to withstand whatever his job throws at him, seeking support from a frail little nun… It’s a joke, indeed, and a horrid one. 

When you get to the small place run by a humble old man, you don’t know who to feel more sorry for: the elder behind the counter or König, desperately trying to stay on his feet.

“I mean no trouble,” he says while pushing an unnerving amount of money across the table. “I just need a place to rest.”

The receptionist’s eyes dart to you, then back to König, who still has what you suppose is a loaded rifle dangling by his waist. The safety is on, probably, but there are also knives and grenades strapped to his person, and with that hood, he mainly looks like a terrorist of some sort.

“She’s here to help. See...? Bride of Christ. Even less trouble than I am.” 

You try to smile reassuringly as the man risks a better look at you now instead of being fixated on König or his weapons.

You must make an odd pair, a soldier and a nun... The old man probably has a ton of questions in his head right now.

“No shooting,” he says to you, but his words are directed at König.

“No shooting,” he promises. “No mess if no one knows we’re here. Ok...? You’ve never even seen us.”

The receptionist nods. Then he extends a trembling hand and takes the money, and hands out a key without taking any check-in information.

You go to König and help him up the small stairs and into his room paid with bloody money and a menacing appearance. The fitted carpet is old, and floral patterned, the room small and adorable and meant for visitors far more petite than König. The bedspread is old-fashioned and floral too and has never even seen blood, of that you are sure when König lays himself down with a grunt. 

You spend the next minutes – or hours, you can’t tell – in a tunnel-visioned fog as you do exactly as he says.

You help him out of his gear and weapons and lay them aside quickly but gently, you cut his shirt with an ugly-looking knife, then get a watered towel for him to press against the wound. You rush back to his tactical vest and search for a first aid kit and some medicine, and start to treat his wounds per his advice.

The sun sets in the window, and you patch up your injured soldier with care, trusting his word when he says it’s only a flesh wound and that it looks far worse than it is.

“I should get shot more often,” he purrs when you’re cleaning the rest of the blood off his skin.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scold, trying to focus on your task and not the vast plates that make his chest. Or the thick abs, right there under your fingertips… Or the fact that he has incredibly narrow hips, and a luscious breath of dark hair leading from his navel down and underneath the waistband of his pants. 

You suppose this is what your friend calls a happy trail...

And it does make you very happy.

You don’t dare to look beyond that because the pants he usually wears aren’t as tight as these, and you fear he’ll catch you checking out his junk in an attempt to see if your friend was correct about his size. 

To your blessing – or your curse – you don’t even have to look straight at it to see he’s having an erection. You can actually see from the corner of your eye how König grows hard while you’re treating him – it’s right there, a robust tent that rises beside you while you concentrate on wiping off the blood. 

“Pay no mind to that,” he says thickly and completely without shame. “It just happens… Can’t control it.”

He breathes a bit too heavy for someone who’s lying down, and you fear it’s because of the blood loss. But then you start to suspect it’s probably because all the remaining blood has gone between his legs… He doesn’t even try to tone down the heated, obsessive stares he shoots your way, and you suppose he’s either missed you very much, or then there’s a fever rising after all. You’re not sure if you’re glad or disappointed that the bullet didn’t scrape his leg instead.

“I missed you,” he says like he just read your thoughts. He whispers the sentence slowly and with purpose, saying it like a long-withheld secret.

“I missed you too,” you whisper back. 

Gosh… Here you are, a silly little nun who’s tried to get over a crush for six months, crying after him at night and caressing his rose during the day. You’ve been petting a withering flower some mercenary gave you in hopes of getting into your pants, you’ve fawned over memories of a few smiles and a kiss, all the while the said mercenary has killed people for money and now got shot. He came here to work again, but never sent a message, he only came to see you when he was injured… 

...And you’re glad he did. If a bullet was needed to bring him back to you, then you’re grateful for it, no matter how horrible it is.

“Did you ever… find someone?” You ask while keeping your gaze fixed on his navel instead of the raging bulge in his pants.

“Someone, who?”

“Someone to hold hands with.”

He gives a strained laugh. “Ah. No. No time for that.”

You swallow, and slowly guide your eyes to his.

“Are you still happy with your crucified man?”

Ouch.

“I… I don’t know.”

His brows knit together; you can see it even in the dim light of the table lamp, you can see it even if there’s some godforsaken black war paint all over his face under that hood.

There’s a distant hurt in his eyes before he blinks softly, slowly.

“I wrote to you, Braut Christi... Many times. Never sent the letters… They’re still in my room, at the base.”

Your heart skips a beat. 

He hasn’t had “time” for women, yet has written you letters all these months. He’s written letters while you’ve caressed a rose…. 

You wonder if hearts can find each other, even through a distance, and if you’ve felt the urge to go to the flower he gave you at the same time König has gotten the desire to write another letter to you. It’s bittersweet, like this whole thing between you two, the mystery that both brings you together and rips you apart. 

“I wish I hadn’t… I wish I...” you start, but can’t bring yourself to finish.

“Liebling. I should’ve sent them anyway.”

You go get rid of the bloodied paper towels before you start to cry in front of him.

God… You’re not only in a pickle, you’re neck-deep in trouble, and you only notice you forgot to wash your hands when you return to him.

He reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Peace settles in, even if there’s blood on your hands and the man you adore is lying next to you, patched up with the help of a first aid kit when he should be lying in a hospital, receiving treatment and care.

There’s a knife and a pistol tucked under the bedspread, next to his hand, and the fact that he’s still prepared to fight anyone who tries to come through that door underlines the fact that you two come from very different worlds. König is more than just a rose buying, coffee offering gentleman, he's more than just a silly guy who threatens to sing serenades under your window if you don’t come out to play with him.

You’re not sure if you’re more enamoured or scared.

“You’re an angel,” he rasps from the bed as you try to swallow the tears that refuse to go down.

“No I’m not.” 

“Yes, you are.”

A teardrop falls on the innocent floral bedspread as you wish you were in this room as a married couple instead of an injured, horny soldier and a childish nun in love. Spending your honeymoon or something, getting some rest after an eventful day in town, choosing this absurd old Bed & Breakfast as your place to stay for the night.

You wish you were doing anything else than treating his wounds, lethal or not.

“Are you crying?”

His voice is gentler than you even remembered. Six months of despair have turned him into a dark, alluring trickster when he’s really just a man, a big, amazing, tender man who’s multifaceted, multitalented, and always kind.

He's about to fall asleep, and it’s no wonder. The events of the evening have left you drained, too. You kneel beside his bed, too tired to even sit on a chair, wondering if he’ll die from his wounds tonight or get hunted down by the people who still want him dead. 

“I wish you would stop killing people... I wish you would stop getting killed.” 

You must look silly, kneeling beside a giant soldier’s bed, crying and holding his hand between yours as if praying. But his eyes smile at you, and while you’d want nothing more than to see his face again, you realise you kind of like König this way. Masked and menacing and mean to his enemies, but stripped down to his soul when he’s with you.

“I wish you would stop praying... And start living,” he mutters gently.

“Praying helps sometimes,” you whisper.

In truth, you wish you’d start living, too. You always thought you were brave when you said ‘no’ to the world. Perhaps you were only running away from it…

The hand is warm but not feverish. His breaths start to even, and his lids get heavier; his thumb gives you a small caress before he drifts off to sleep.

“Perhaps that’s why I’m still here, Kätzchen.”

[takami-takami]

Like Animals.

kinktober day 4: sex pollen.

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. smut

warnings— afab!reader. dubcon (sex pollen/heats, but both have been pining like idiots). breeding if you squint.

keigo's beloved crush sidekick gets hit with the unluckiest quirk possible. he quickly discovers his rut suppressants ain't shit.

Through all the horrors and adverse life events Keigo has endured in this line of work— brutal near-assassinations, negotiations with international crime syndicates, purchasing sugar-free canned coffee with Splenda substitute by mistake before his morning shift— he has always been able to find a silver lining in the darkest of moments. 

Which makes it infinitely more concerning that for the first time in his life, he nearly whines through his teeth the words, "why me?" 

A palm drags once down his face, thumb and index finger pulling down his darkened eye bags. His hand collects the beads of sweat and stops to rest over his mouth. 

He supposes this must be his penance for taking a risk and trusting faulty intel. 

Keigo's informant told him the villain he and his darling sidekick were meeting would have a limited-ranged fire quirk, so the diligent hero stuffed ointment and cold packs in his pockets before leaving just in case. 

If he had known the villain was a plant heteromorph and possessed a heat-inducing mist quirk instead, and that the person he was hopelessly in love with had a bit of a crush on would be caught in the direct line of fire? 

He would have brought a paper bag to hyperventilate into instead. And some prayer beads. The god to which the prayer is delivered doesn't necessarily matter, he thinks. He'd simply pick one and drop to his knees in a bid for mercy.

"I'm taking you to a medic," Keigo puts his foot down for the fourth time this evening. 

"Fuck no," you groan from the couch, shifting to squeeze your thighs together. It offers not even a modicum of relief from the incessant throb. "Do you want my cause of death to be humiliation? Is that your plan, genius? 'S bad enough as it is that you're here." 

The subtext is unspoken, but clear to him through your adorable pout: I only trust you to see me like this.

It's unlucky that the man you've had the most innapropriate-for-work crush on for the better part of two years happened to be the one beside you that day. And it's just your sorry luck, you lament, that Keigo would also be the one to catch you, to fly you home cradled in his painfully capable arms, to refuse to leave your side and insist on making his favorite chicken soup for you in a desperate flail of support. 

He'd respect your decision and leave, should you ask him to. You know that. And yet the humbling truth gnaws at your pride: doing so wouldn't do much to save your image at this point. He’s already seen you like this, you grumble. The proverbial cat has long since escaped the bag, waltzing its way over to rub its purring body against Keigo’s leg to your abject horror.

If you close your eyes, you can attempt to trick your brain into thinking this affliction is a flu of some kind. 

Yes, this is just some common cold. You're wearing nothing but your work partner's shirt (your clothes were contaminated by the quirk's dust, Keigo explained, speaking in that strict work mode voice that makes you picture your mouth stuffed and drooling somewhere beneath his desk and between his spread legs). You pull the damned fabric down over your core as you try your hardest to not writhe in fits of pleasure underneath the blankets, rubbing your thighs together for any friction against your swollen clit.

All symptoms of an affliction of the flu, of course. 

You don't need to reach down and touch to know the slick would string those thighs together, should you attempt to pull them apart. 

Keigo knows that, too. But he doesn't say anything about it. 

You would be mortified if you were aware of the truth. 

That he knows everything.

Keigo knows exactly how you ache; like you're constantly on the precipice of an orgasm, perpetually ablaze from the heavy heat scorching your body from its surface to the boiling core. 

You try to suppress your glee as he spoon feeds you the broth, reminding yourself that this is just what good friends do for each other.

Friends coo praises at each other when they swallow, friends tilt each other's chins up with one finger and mutter things like that’s a good dove and you can take another as they watch their throat bob in tandem. 

Friends shiver from their wingtips down their spine when they pull the spoon back. They let their gaze linger for just a second on those lips that open wide, aching to touch.

Ever the gentleman, Keigo stays lowered to his haunches and places one hand over your forehead to check for a fever, redirecting his focus toward taking inventory of your vitals. He doesn't wince when he hears your moan at the contact, even though the pitiful sound pings at his weak points. His avian instincts remind him he needs to protect you, please you, take care of you; to make it go away, to fix that feeling he knows better than anyone is aching like a bruise between your thighs. 

He doesn't allow his eyes to wander astray or trail their way downwards, especially when you're in such a vulnerable state; but his professional assessment is that if he could only wet his appetite, the flat of his tongue alone could— 

He shakes his head and blows a puff to cool the soup, raising another spoonful to your lips. 

"Here. Another. You need to keep your energy up," he reminds you, voice stern. It's nearly clinical and achieves the opposite of its desired effect.

Your heart rate picks up to thump at a steady, thrumming beat at the innocuous gesture of domesticity. 

How have you never noticed how capable of a mate Keigo would be…? He’s all musculature and sincerity, sharp ridges at his knuckles and soft curves at the small of his waist where he only trusts you to touch.

You huff an involuntary moan. 

He picks another god to praise that the couch you're laying on obscures his lower half. 

Today, Keigo discovers his suppressants are only designed to reduce the chance of a rut being triggered. It brings the possibility of it starting in the first place to a comfortable near-zero, allowing him to carry out the spring and fall seasons as if he were entirely quirkless.

But if that rut passes through the blockers' biochemistry in, say, the event Keigo's luck rears its ugly head, for example… It does fuck all to reduce the actual symptoms. 

More importantly than his own anguish, however, is this: his mate work partner got hurt because of him— hurt being a stretch, he'd know if he weren't overthinking so much, given the blissed out panting just two feet away from him; but you’re probably suffering and it's all his fault. It’s all because of an unlucky, once in a lifetime slip up from Keigo Takami himself, and he can't detangle himself from the guilt.

If drowning in the unexpected whirlpool that is his first rut in half a decade is his penance for the crime, then Keigo will hang his head and take it.

The huff he lets out is your last straw.

"I'm going to my room," you state, moving to leave like you left the stove on and are trying to avoid an upcoming house fire.

When his hand darts out to stop you, the touch against your shoulder sends shockwaves down your stomach.

He's touching you. He's taking such good care of you, feeding you, providing for you in his nest and now he's touching you?

It sends your hormones into overdrive. 

You'd do well to conceal it, if his heightened instincts couldn't smell your desperation. 

"I'm afraid it ain't that easy, dove," he warns, eye contact averted. "I'd avoid doing that, if I were you." 

Keigo schools his expression, but not before you catch a flash of something hungry. 

There's no chance in hell he's letting you out of his sight. Not like this. You're confined to the couch while he keeps an eye on you. Attempting to fix it yourself will only make the feeling unfathomably worse, something he tries to communicate to you with a look that only ends up making him look like a kicked puppy.

You squint right back when you process the implication of his words, eyes raking down his form in suspicion. 

"How do you know all this, anyway," you ask.

Keigo goes silent, hand concealing his mouth. 

Ah, it hits you. 

Bird things.

Your head falls back against one of the numerous pillows your partner propped up behind you.

"The couch is soft," you murmur, situating yourself against the cushions and throw blankets he so carefully arranged. You trail your fingertips along a silk pillow. Keigo slams his eyes shut.

"Please don't say it like that." 

"Why not?" Your lids droop, heat overtaking your better judgement. Tentatively, you play along the bounds. You allow your hands to run along the soft divots of the blanket covering your body, squeezing your chest and pinching the peaks. "It's like a little nest, isn't it?" 

His hand drags down his face before pinching his nose bridge, suppressing a whine. "Baby, please—" 

"You don't wanna join me?"

"You don't know what you're talking about. It's just the heat," Keigo tells himself more than you. "For the love of God, dove, stop talking—"

"But it hurts, Kei'." It’s a low blow, judging by the protective coo that escapes his lips. 

Fed up, he leans forward and swings his right leg over your hip, crawling atop you as if his body has a mind of its own, utterly bogged by desire and yanked like puppet strings.

With him kneeling tall above you, the bodysuit of his hero costume hides absolutely nothing. The musculature is quite impressive, actually. Proof of his viability as a mate— all dominant and masculine and gorgeous.

And at this angle, you can see the most painful erection straining against his pants. 

"I need you, Kei'. I need— mmph!" 

A palm silences you; slapped down, hot, imposing, and heavy like a weight against your mouth. 

The authority of the action makes your cunt clench; and Keigo would die before he lets that feeling go to waste, so his hips drop down to grind once against it. 

Your eyes go wide, doughy and stunned, darting down in haste, following the trail of his thick bicep up toward the disciplinary scowl on his face. 

His nostrils flare with the heaving in his chest, eyes screwed shut with his last slivers of patience holding its grip on his psyche.

"One more word," he says, pulling his hand away. "One more word and I'm ripping this blanket off and fucking you raw." 

After a moment of silence, you speak.

"Please." 

Keigo is wordless when he unbuckles his belt and lets it— and his inhibitions— drop with a satisfying clink.

The reality of what you've gotten yourself into comes crashing down as it hits you how utterly fucked you are. The scaffolding of years of sexual tension comes crumbling down like bricks to rubble, a city of restraint reduced to pure, animalistic desire. 

Years of Keigo's eyes darting away when you nonchalantly change into your uniform in front of him, even though he never seemed bothered by any of his other peers doing the same; years of you both curling in on yourselves at the furthest edges of the bed you had to share, cramped close in those under-the-radar motels on stealth missions; years of the words "idiot, can I kiss you," held back by your lips as you watch him moan when he sinks his teeth into his comfort restaurant's chicken teriyaki every stupid Friday night, sitting cross-legged and at home on the carpet of your apartment floor. 

Not a single word is exchanged as he pulls his cock free from its confines, nearly too thick for his fingers to meet when they wrap around it. He tosses the blanket to the side with haste, dragging your shirt (his shirt) up to your collar, exposing your chest when he lines his cock with your entrance. 

"Please, Kei'," you sniffle. "Hurts." 

"Oh, I know, baby... I know." His lips are pursed when he shushes you, tracing your cheek with his palm. "I'll make it go away."

When your lips meet, it's like static electricity; and it's entirely remorseless.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he groans against your mouth, dragging his length along your sticky thighs before plopping the thick of it atop your soaked cunt. 

"So wet for me," he reveres, dragging the plump tip through your mess to get it slick enough to rub against your clit. 

Your rutting hips buck with impatience in an attempt to glide his length against your swollen pussy, but that only serves to fuel his desire; and those desperate little whines only feed into his insatiable need to fuck, to breed you until you're silent. 

Until you shut the fuck up. 

Those pathetic little sounds are music to his ears, a siren's song that used to play only in his most shameful fantasies; the ones that kept his fist tight around his cock the moment he returned home after missions, the sight of you panting and spitting blood after battle with a smile on your face still fresh in his memory. 

Keigo wants to hear you moan. 

But his rut needs to fuck you wordless with satisfaction. 

"Oh, fuck," he hitches, shifting his hips back and forth to the tune of the audible shlicks below. Unable to stay upright any longer, his chest falls flush into yours in a rut-afflicted haze, rutting against you like animals. 

When he slips his cock inside, it's with a kiss to muffle his voice.

And he wastes no time setting a punishing pace, aided nicely by the slickness that coats the sides of his cock. The legs of the couch surely must be scraping indents into the floorboards, judging by the creaks that mingle with the sounds of his belt buckle at every thrust. You'd notice if either of you were lucid enough to care. 

It's a brief consideration of a possibility of an afterthought, like a sheepish voice behind a roaring crowd. 

Pulling out, that is. 

Yeah, if he were a stronger man, he could probably will his hips to stall. There's a chance someone far stronger than him would hiss when he does it. His cock would weep in denial of that sweet, velvet entanglement, dripping out in the cold when he fists himself to completion mere inches away from what might as well be the center of his goddamn universe.

But when it comes to you, when it comes to his rut, Keigo is not a strong man.

He allows his cock to throb in the vice of your cunt, instead.

"God, baby," he moans into your neck, wings flapping once, twice with each thrust, shedding a few feathers before straightening out and grazing the ceiling behind his back. "Baby. Oh, baby. You're so tight. You're so— fuck!"

He's babbling, but so are you. Legs hooked across the small of his back, you bump your hips as best you can to aid in his efforts; and with your last shreds of lucidity, you decide for the both of you how things will end. 

With watery lashes, you open your eyes enough to blink away some tears and clear your vision just enough. Your gaze crawls up his legs that are still clothed to the thighs, peeking over the curvature of his ass and up his shuddering spine— all to mark onto your scarlet red prize.

When you entangle your fingers into the downy feathers at the base of his wings, it shoots straight to his cock and he spills.

With eyes wide open and a strangled choke at the back of his throat, Keigo's hips stutter when he empties himself. With every throb comes another rope from the tip, sticky and excessive from the rut, mixing with your wetness as you crash over the edge soon after.

When the ringing in your ears ceases and you finally come to, it's to the sight of your now probably-more-than-a-work-partner pulling out and staring between your legs as if under a trance, eyes glimmering.

"Kei', you okay?"

"Uh huh," he answers absentmindedly, utterly transfixed on the mess he made. 

It's strange, he thinks. Whatever urges his rut transcribed into cravings, every instinct that tugged at the avian etched in his DNA and called him to fill you pales in comparison to the satisfaction of having indulged himself at last.

His eyes flick back to meet yours.

"Does this mean I can kiss you at work now?" 

You snort. So that's where his mind goes in the end.

"It means a whole lot more than that," you say, rolling you both over so he lands square on his back.

[talaok]

Can you write a pedro x sick!reader story, but the reader doesn't just have a little cold im talking SICK reader. Like rushing to the emergency room hurt/comfort kinda thing.

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

a/n: ok first of all im incredibly sorry for the wait, genuinely im really really sorry. and secondly im not 100% sure i did what you had in mind, which makes me feel like shit even more, so if it's not, you can tell me and ill try to write it again 

"Sir I need you to calm down"

"I will as soon as you answer my questions"

"sir," the paramedic said more sternly now "I've already told you I'm not a doctor so I cannot answer your questions, now please calm down"

And he wanted to fight more and beg that woman to answer his questions because, after all, the only one he cared about was: Is she gonna be ok?

But your eyelids fluttered and the ambulance took a turn and all the sudden he couldn't talk or think or do anything anymore but take your hand in his and start a low chant of the only thing he would allow himself to think, the only thing that still made him able to breathe oxygen into his lungs:

You're gonna be okay, sweetheart, he whispered, his words verging on prayer as he squeezed your hand and watched your beautiful face pale more and more You're gonna be just fine

__ __ __

And as it turns out, his prayers were answered.

"the surgery went well, she's gonna make a full recovery"

He had no words, all he could do was smile like a fucking idiot while he passed a hand through his hair.

She's ok

She's ok

She's ok

That's all his brain was able to muster up, and then for some reason he was hugging the doctor.

"thank you" he grinned "Thank you so much doctor-" he smiled, leaning away "Can I-can I see her?"

The woman cleared her throat, clearly taken aback a bit "Yes," she nodded "she's in the first room on the left, but just so you know the anesthesia is still wearing off so-"

"yes, yes, thank you so much doctor," he couldn't wait for her to finish as he was sprinting to the room already "thank you!" he said one last time, finally opening the door to your room.

He had to stop for a moment and look at you lying on the hospital bed, looking just as perfect as ever.

She's ok

"hey" he spoke softly, approaching your bed, and seeing a smile slowly part your mouth.

"hey"

"How are you feeling?" he asked, moving some hair out of your face and letting his hand linger on your cheek

"not great"

"I'm sorry" he cooed, taking your hand in his and feeling you squeeze it as your eyes watered "What's wrong?" he panicked "Does it hurt- do I call the doctor-?"

"no" you sniffled as a tear fled your eye "I just-"

"what is it, sweetheart?"

"I was just... I was s-so scared"

"oh baby" he murmured, bringing your hand to his mouth to leave a kiss on it "I'm so sorry" he cooed "I can't even begin to imagine how scary that must have been... but hey" he offered you a soft smile as he crouched down to be at your level "you're ok now, there's nothing to worry about anymore" he promised, gently kissing your forehead "you can relax now. I'm here for you, whatever you need you just ask, ok?"

"ok" you nodded, taking a breath "thank you... for everything" you murmured, looking into his kind eyes "for this, for calling the ambulance, for being here for me... just- thank you"

He didn't know what to say, so all he did was kiss you,

"I love you" he smiled "and sugar... don't you ever think about scaring me like that again"

You couldn't help but snort at that

"oh so this is about you then?" you joked

"damn right it is" he laughed in that way he could only do with you "they were about to have to assist two people in that ambulance," he said jokingly (although it was the truth) "and I think I was annoying one of the paramedics so much that I was about to get thrown out"

"oh no what did you do?"

"let's not think about that now," he said, the smile on his lips not able to go away from the first second he saw you

"Baby..." you tilted your head, scolding him silently

"I've brought you a kit-kat" he smiled that smile of his that made you forget what you were talking about every single time 

"You did?" it was as if your eyes sparkled

"Of course" he nodded, handing you the candy bar "I'm not sure you can eat it, we're gonna have to ask the doctor, but I wanted you to have something you liked when you woke up"

Your eyes watered again, but this time, for an entirely different reason

"I love you" you whispered

"I love you more, sweetheart"

[minnaci]

contents: neuvillette x gn!reader, dirty talk, reader is called neuvillette's mate, implied penetrative sex (reader receiving)

or, let neuvillette say fuck! let him say it!!!!

there's something about hearing someone as straight-laced as neuvillette say fuck... maybe it's the way he says it, all low and rumbly like thunder. maybe it's how the syllable drips from his lips— forbidden fruit, lush with promise. maybe it's the way he offers it like a prayer, a word of worship to your body.

he savors it, gasps it, groans it. archons, he'll moan, so good, my love, so perfect. it's like you were made for me to fuck you. and perhaps a little later, when pleasure has frayed his decorum like flames licking up a fine painting— fuck, take it, that's right, you love this, don't you? i should keep you like this always— well-loved and well-fucked, luxuriating in your own decadent satisfaction. i'd keep you spoiled rotten, fucked silly, a vessel for my pleasure and my seed... my beautiful mate...

there is a time and place for making love. but when he looms over you, eyes wild with barely restrained arousal, twitching and throbbing against your soft skin... a heavy, aching desperation hangs between his legs, dripping with desire... well, there's nothing he can do but fuck you, is there?

[comfortless]

God könig and his only worshipper who doesn't try to get him more followers cause she wants all of his attention on her

another strange vaguely Greek/Roman au?! ^^ (also to your other message: no worries!! being too nice would make me lazy!) this prompt is like a reversal of this and i am here for it!

content/warnings: suggestive, König may or may not have killed some guy no big deal..!

It isn’t as if he bestows great blessings upon you or grants your deepest, most guarded wishes…

It’s just that he’s lovely in all forms: the very apex of some marbelesque, masculine statue made flesh. Warm to the touch and so very real and alive that it was difficult to focus on worshiping him proper when your very being sang for him.

He’s probably only some great god of war, Ares, but without the long list of lovers and offspring - only you. There was nothing that he could do to benefit you much, just a humble citizen that had no need of taking up a weapon…

Yet he was so heart achingly beautiful with the docile look in his eyes, the contrast to his stature that bore the look of a proper hunter, you could not keep yourself from returning to him.

All of the other men in the city pale in comparison to the god you pray to, nestled up in the foothills where you make your trek day by day to speak… knowing that nightly he comes to you in dreams with little glimpses of futures or pasts: the things you can not comprehend yet those in Olympus could parse together with such ease.

As his only worshiper, you are never apart for long.

He descends that mountain each time to meet with you in green meadows with the gentlest look in his eyes.

He has no temple in which to pray to… but, you’ve made a temple of your own within yourself all for him. He knows it, knows well when you pray at your feet and he sheepishly orders you to stop that, stand, face him, and he would lend you his mighty weapon any day if you would just ask for him to use it.

Your god deserves and army of men to fight and scramble for his favor, a harem of women to tend to his needs… but the thought alone is enough to leave bitterness on your tongue.

You don’t want to share him, only savor the honeyed words and touches between the two of you, never muddy what is sacred with another’s prayers or offerings.

… Are yours not already enough?

You only find out that they most certainly are the day a suitor begins his arrogant courtship and… within that very hour he is no longer. A stray spear from the pit pierced right through him…? What a strange way to go out. You don’t even think to question it until you find yourself meandering through soft grass for your meeting with König.

He’s a warrior, too, he should know the intricacies of how a weapon that heavy might rise up on the wind just to strike some poor, silly man down before he could even take your hand and lie with you.

You tell him of this odd occurrence whilst you whittle away at a tiny carving of him with a paring knife, König sat just adjacent to you.

First, he tells you that a blade meant for herbs and vegetables is no good for wood. The dull blade is pried from your hands with ease and tossed aside into the foliage surrounding you both. No need for little idols when your god willingly comes down to grace you, anyhow…

Then, he tells you that… it isn’t fair for you to have eyes for any other. Is his presence not enough? Is he not stronger and more capable than any of your puny, mortal men? He could protect you, haul you up to Olympus and make you his bride, give you as many children as you want… Wouldn’t you like that more?

Your stare is so telling, hands shaking as you set the unfinished figure aside, and the words do not come, not when the look he gives you goes from adoring and sweet to near deadly in an instant. It’s the first time he’s offered to bless you with anything but bloodshed in your favor… a peculiar promise of love in return for your selfishness and gifts of milk and honey…

“I do not think I am worthy of that…” The words come tumbling, clumsy and weighty on your tongue. Could he detect the yearning there..? Surely he knew with the way he invaded your dreaming, and even now as his hand finds your shoulder to push you back down into the soft bed of the earth.

“You wish to make yourself worthy, little one..?”

You only nod, once, as your heart finds its way into your throat and your robe is torn away to flutter out with the wind.

[mylittlesecretwish]

The face I hate

Summary: [ Post-imposter AU ] When the hunting ceases and everyone beg for forgiveness the creador agree to take the place on the throne, but they cover all their body and face

××××

Based on this drabble

This is my first time properly writing so i hope I made it right!! I know a lot of people loved this idea so i hope I met their expectations with this!

Maybe in the future I will write more for post-imposter au!!

You don't remember how long it has been since the day you arrived on Tevyat, the initial happiness and curiosity you felt that day has long forgotten, but at this point it doesn't matter, what only matter is that you are finally able to rest because everyone had finally stoped chasing you, you don't know why but you don't care, you just don't know to whom God thank that they had finally stoped

However that peace and relief only lasted a couple of days before they followed you again, but this time instead of carrying weapons and threatens they carry an expression full of regret and sadness, instead of imediatly attacking you they immediatly kneel and beg for forgiveness, sometimes they even bring you offerings, promising to be only the best for you but that is what they say and you can't trust them

You wanted nothing more than get away from them, and you did so, you always wander away from the civilization and stay by the side of the only ones that had never tried to kill you, you stay with the kind slimes that used to shield you and cuddle you while you were trying to sleep, with the hilichurls that always make sure to gave you a messy plate of warm food, the abyssm creatures that used to wander with you and shield you everytime someone get close

You wanted to stay with them but the people of Tevyat were stubborn and annoying, they had been even more annoying that when they wanted you dead because now you can even heard them beg for forgiveness to the statues of you and in the temple, it was too much, even more difficult to handle than before and for your own sanity you decided to accept their prayers and go with them, hoping that they will just shut up already

You thought that now that you know how regretful they were you will be able to handle it, but you were wrong, you can't find peace when all their angry faces and bloodlust against you still hunt you down in your nightmares. Even when they kneel at your very least image and talks to you with a lot of respect you just don't feel safe around them, even if your body doesn't have the scars of what happened your soul and mind does, you feel vulnerable and threaten by their very presence and if anyone dares to approach to you, even just a little, you always instinctively step back, they understand and apologize everytime it happens, however they never expected for you to one day start covering yourself

You start to use clothes that cover all your body, that way you feel at least a little more safe, you even started to change your appearance, but it wasn't enough, it is never enough for you, not when everytime you see your reflection in the mirror the only thing you see is the reason why all the people you used to love started to hate you and chased you to death, at this point you don't want nothing more that destroy it too, so you started to cover your face with a mask, a mask that the hilichurls gifted you

Everyone was surprised but they don't say anything, not that they have the right to do so. It become painfuly for everyone to not being able to see you but they just accept their punishment

You weren't the only one suffering from this, everyone on Tevyat was suffering, every day they regret what they have done, and that suffering only increase with every day that pass without being able to get more than a few words from you, only the necesary. And that suffering only increase when they find out that when you go out of the temple you visit all the creatures that had helped you, the ones that protected you since the first day and that you allow them and only them to see your face, you feel comfortable enough with them to take out your mask and you even smile at them, they are allowed to heard your voice filled with happiness and love, they understand but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, the guilt they feel only increase and is eating them alive

The Archons are suffering the most, they are supoused to be the closest to you and yet they were easily fooled by and made suffer their true creator, they ordered their people to hunt you down and kill you without mercy, the person that gave them everything, the person they were supoused to love and protect. The regret and guilt is too much to handle even for them, it makes them wish death, but dying is too merciful of a fate for them and they know it

[padfootagain]

Only An Almost (V)

Chapter 5: Doubting

Hello!! Here comes a new chapter! There are mentions of sex in this chapter, so a little reminder that this series is not meant to be read by minors. Thank you!

I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!

*************************************

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU

Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!

Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.

Word Count : 2435

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Three weeks passed. You had spent twelve nights together.

Now, Andrew knew every detail of your face as you reached orgasm, the beauty spot on your back he loved kissing, the perfect place across your neck to kiss and nip that made you squirm in his arms, the way the most intimate parts of you tasted, how your legs shook when his fingers touched that spot, how you smelled when he held you close after you were both content and happily floating above the room. He knew you liked to hold his hand right after sex, that you loved when he stroked your back or your cheek to help you ease down into the mortal world, that you took your showers way too hot, that you didn’t like when his beard brushed that part of your ribs because it tickled too much. He had mapped every inch of your body with his eyes, his fingers, his lips, his tongue. He knew how to pleasure you precisely by now, how to read through your breathing what you needed him to do to feel as good as possible, how to worship your body the way you deserved.

And judging by your gestures, you had spotted too that he adored when you kissed his collarbone and his chest. That he had a weak spot at the base of his neck, that he was ticklish right behind his knee, that he melted whenever you dragged your fingertips across his spine, and you tugged on his hair the perfect way nor too harsh nor too soft but the ideal strength that turned him on to no end. You had touched and kissed all of him too by now.

Despite this new intimacy, despite the tenderness with which you held him in your arms as he struggled to find back his breathing, the way you whispered his name in pleasure as if in a prayer, the way you showered him in gentle touches and kisses… you still acted the same as always outside the bedroom.

You talked the same, stood next to him at a perfectly respectable distance, asked him about his day and his mom and his bees the way you had always done, as if… as if there was nothing abnormal. As if he had not heard you shout his name in pleasure the night before. As if you could truly spend nights making love to him and act like nothing had changed, when… everything had changed.

Perhaps he just needed to be patient. You would come around. You would love him, eventually. Besides, he was probably not even the problem at all! You had told him that you didn’t want a relationship, with anyone. The fact that you were still sleeping with him showed that you liked him enough to blur that boundary, despite your decision. Yeah, it was an encouraging sign. If he just… if he just waited, and if he made efforts to make you happy and…

“Andy? You’re alright?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re okay?”

He blinked back at you. You had put on an old t-shirt again to cover yourself, but he had nothing on. He felt naked, vulnerable, self-conscious. He drew the covers higher across his chest.

“You want some coffee before leaving? It’s pretty late,” you offered, and if there was kindness in the offer, it still broke his heart.

“I… I don’t know. I’m not sure I can drive,” he answered earnestly.

“You can sleep in the guest room, if you want.”

He looked away to hide the tears that gathered in his eyes.

He was inside you ten minutes ago, he had tasted you, touched you, made you unravel under him several times this evening… and all you could give him was the guest bedroom?

It wasn’t just heartbreak, he realized. It was more vicious than that. You made him feel terrible about himself. Did he not mean more to you than that? You could let him do all these things to you… but you couldn’t fall asleep in the same bed? Really?

“No, no, no… it’s okay, I can drive.”

“It’s late, stay the night. You’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s dangerous, Andy.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You frowned at the harshness of his tone.

“What’s wrong? Did I… Did I do something wrong while we were…”

You left your sentence suspended in mid-air, as if you couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say that you had just had sex with him. What the fuck was wrong with you?

“Sex was amazing, that’s not the problem.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

You seemed to truly have no clue. You seemed genuinely concerned, worried even. Like you cared. Like you cared so fucking much for him. And yet, he was worthy of a moment of pleasure, and the guest bedroom…

“Nothing, I’m sorry. I’m not tired enough to stay, don’t worry. I can drive home.”

“Can you text me, then, when you’re home?”

“Don’t worry…”

“It’s two in the morning, of course I worry.”

He didn’t argue, merely nodded.

He gathered his clothes, got dressed, left without trying to kiss you, he knew you wouldn’t let him.

No kissing without sex.

He was about to fall asleep after mere minutes behind the wheel, so he stopped on the first parking spot he saw. He waited for a plausible time, and texted you.

I’m home.

Your answer buzzed in his pocket right when he was about to fall asleep.

Good to hear. Sleep well, Andy. Xx

He couldn’t keep on doing this for long. Making love to you, and then feeling like shit about himself because you couldn’t bother letting him fall asleep in your bed. Or hold you close. Or kiss you before leaving.

He closed his eyes, unable to decide on what to do next. Should he just call it quits, already? Stop everything and save himself from suffering… but he would stop having you like this too…

His breathing deepened as he finally surrendered.

Sleep well, Andy…

Rugby night at the pub had turned into Sam freaking out about his wedding, and Andrew taking notes about things he needed to help planning.

Luckily, there was no touring planned, no album to be released before the wedding. He had some charity work to be done, Mavis had called for a concert and he couldn’t refuse the woman anything… all in all, there wasn’t to come. Workwise, Andrew was in a writing phase, shutting himself up into his house for hours was most of what would happen in the coming months. He could help to plan the wedding, he had time for it. And considering the level of stress Sam was under, Andrew’s help wouldn’t be too much…

“Daphne started to mention appetizers yesterday… there are like… so many of these… How am I supposed to choose that? I didn’t fucking know there could be so many appetizers?!”

“Sam, calm down, for Christ’s sake! You’re this far from having a stroke.”

“Easy for you to say, Andy! You’re not the one getting married!”

“You have five months, Sam… Five months. There is plenty of time for you to choose your appetizers.”

“Add it to the list. How many things do we have to plan?”

“Hmmm… I think I’m up to twenty…eight. Twenty-eight things.”

“God… why did I ask Daphne to marry me…”

Andrew opened his mouth to offer a joke, but Sam shushed him with a raised finger.

“Rhetorical question. Don’t.”

“Come on, relax, Sam. You’ll be perfectly fine. Everyone else manages to plan a wedding, you can too.”

“Not everyone else… don’t you remember the fiasco that my uncle’s wedding was?”

“I sang at that wedding!”

“That was the only decent part in the entire day.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“You were seventeen, don’t get ahead of yourself, you were still pretty shite.”

“Ha, there you go. I thought someone had replaced you with some weird doppelgänger stuff. Or a clone, even.”

“Android?”

“Or organic.”

“Did I grow in a tube?”

“Yeah… with the disgusting liquid.”

“Nice…”

The two friends exchanged a smile.

“Please, stop being so worried. Your wedding will be amazing. Besides… who cares about appetizers? The important part is you marrying the love of your life.”

“I know that this comes from a very romantic point of view, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You’ve met my mom. God, you’ve met Daphne’s mom… anything goes wrong, it’ll be the bloody apocalypse!”

“We’ll find your body somewhere in Wicklow…”

“In the bog.”

“Tragic. I can see the headlines already…”

“I’m sure you’ll have a lovely speech for my funerals, though.”

“Absolutely not. I’ll reveal my true feelings about you, gobshite.”

Sam couldn’t keep the act up any longer, and both him and Andrew exploded with laughter.

“I’m picturing your mother just… shouting at you about appetizers,” Andrew laughed, choking and tears pearling at the corners of his eyes as he doubled over.

Sam was barely breathing at this point, throwing his entire body backwards against the chair.

It took the two of them a moment to calm down. When he looked at his friend again, Sam’s gaze was full of fondness.

“I’m sorry to bother you about that while we could be watching rugby with the rest of the lads.”

“It’s alright. You’re stressed. Besides, I don’t have a real job, plenty of time on my hands to handle your nervous breakdowns.”

“True! You parasite.”

“Absolute junk of our society.”

“Nothing productive coming from you, that’s for sure.”

“I shout very loudly though, it ought to be worth something.”

“Well, apparently, it’s worth millions.”

“Do you want me to shout at your wedding?”

Sam’s lips curled into a smile.

“Aren’t you too expensive for a poor lad like me.”

“Undoubtedly. But if you promise to quit freaking out about appetizers, I might yield.”

“It would be amazing. Thank you, Andy. I’d love for you to sing. Actually, we’ve been talking about it with Daphne… could you do Work Song for our first dance?”

“It would be an honour. Of course, I can.”

“We were hesitating with Cherry Wine…”

“Don’t do this to me, Sam.”

They both exploded with laughter again.

“Don’t do this to me. I will never understand…”

“Don’t people just… listen to the lyrics?” nodded Sam.

“I don’t know, man…” Andrew heaved a sigh. “Sometimes they just kill me.”

His phone buzzed, and there was your name on it. Printed there in the pixels. He didn’t check your text, even though he wanted to.

“Andy?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s going on between you and Y/N?”

Andrew averted his gaze, drank some of his beer. On the screen at the back of the pub, Ireland was earning three points with penalty kick. People were shouting, and it was loud and merry.

“What do you mean? Nothing’s going on,” Andrew answered, a terrible liar.

“You’ve been weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“True, but not the usual weird. You’re not on the ‘I love her and I’m too much of a fool to tell her’ kind of weird, you’re on a ‘I feel like shite’ kind of weird.”

“Both miserable situations…”

“True. But then, you’re a moron, it doesn’t help.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

Andrew heaved a sigh.

“I can’t tell you about it. She asked me not to tell you about it.”

“So… something did happen between you and Y/N.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, Sam. I’m serious.”

“Of course, I promise.”

“Not even Daphne.”

“Don’t push it. There are no secrets between us.”

“Sam… please… it’s not your secret, it’s mine.”

He heaved a sigh, but Sam nodded anyway.

“What’s wrong then?”

Andrew struggled to swallow when he lifted his glass of Guiness up to his lips.

“Y/N and I, we… we’ve slept together.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“What?! But… that’s amazing!”

“Is it?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” retorted Sam, taken-aback.

Andrew heaved a painful sigh and rubbed his eyes.

“Because she doesn’t want to be in a relationship.”

“Oh.”

“So, we’ve agreed on some kind of… friends with benefits situation. And I… I’m starting to regret it.”

“You bet. Damn… why the fuck would you agree to something like that, though? You’re crazy about the woman!”

“I know, I know… I thought… I thought that she would… I don’t know what I thought. It was that or nothing, and I guess I imagined that having a part of her was better than not having her at all. I was wrong. This is fucking killing me.”

Andrew buried his head in his hands.

“What the fuck did I do, Sam? What did I do? And what the fuck do I do now?”

“Do you want this to go on?”

Andrew shook his head no, face still in his palms.

“Then, tell her you want it to stop.”

“I don’t want this to stop. I don’t want… not to have her. I want to date her.”

“Tell her that then.”

“She explicitly told me that she didn’t want to date anyone. If I say that, she’ll just… leave. She won’t say yes.”

“You need to speak to her. It won’t end well for you, Andy. What if she feels the same?”

“I’ll wait for her,” Andrew answered without a hesitation. “I’ll wait as long as she needs.”

“Then tell her that.”

But Andrew blinked back some tears as he painfully rubbed at his palms.

“What if she doesn’t feel the same?  What then?”

“Then… you’ll move on. It will only mean that she isn’t the one.”

Andrew slowly nodded, resting his chin in his palm and his elbow on the table, but he didn’t seem convinced, and indeed, he wasn’t. What if he lost you for good then? What if you never wanted to see him again? Was it worth it?

“You’re going to do something stupid, I can feel it,” Sam sighed with a shake of his head.

“No…”

“You’re going to ignore my advice.”

“No, I… I’m weighing the pros and the cons.”

“And?”

“And I agree that I can’t handle my relationship with Y/N being just about sex. But I am also terrified at the thought that she will reject me for good. Cause I… I don’t think I could still be her friend. Not after… knowing her that way.”

“Can I be brutally honest?”

“As if you aren’t always…”

“You’ve seriously fucked up accepting this situation with her…”

“Don’t I know it.”

Sam stared at his friend for a moment.

“You really do love her, don’t you?”

Andrew settled an empty stare on his beer.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m afraid I do.”

[rafeandonlyrafe]

crimson red part three

words: 900

warnings: 18+ only!!!, NON/DUBCON, STALKER!RAFE, PSYCHO!RAFE, male recieving oral, face/throat fucking, manipulation, violence, blood, knives, bruising, threats of murder, pregnancy

part one / part two / part three

rafe has no life outside of stalking you, nothing to do except for follow you at all times and fuck you whenever he feels like it. he has a house, paid for by his father, but he barely steps foot inside. he sleeps most nights at your house now, but not in the bedroom with you. he likes you tied up and secured, usually bleeding, with him resting peacefully in the next room.

his constant presence has gone from unnerving to reassuring as you've gotten more used to it. you expect to see rafe at every turn, to have his steady hand guiding yours.

“good morning baby.” rafe knocks on the door to your bathroom where you're hunched over your toilet, spilling your dinner from last night before you can even consume breakfast.

“get out here!” he shouts, expecting that you're doing your makeup or hair, nothing more important than seeing him.

you stand quickly so he doesn't get suspicious, swigging some water in your mouth before spitting it in the sink before opening the door, a demure smile on your face.

“wanna give you a blowie, rafe.” you offer before he can even say what he came looking for.

“is that so, good girl?” he smirks, watching you sink to your knees, right there in the doorway. you tug at his pants and underwear until his cock is revealed. you smile when you notice he's still soft. you know he's watching you as you lean forward, tongue and lips tracing along his slowly hardening length.

“you want it bad, don't you?” rafe questions, a smile on his face, hoping he finally broke you of your streak of bad attitude. hoping he's gone from having to force you every night to you coming willingly to him.

“love your cock.” you hum against his length, sucking the head into your mouth now that he's fully hardened. you bob your head as rafe moans, eventually having to stop moving to just slacken your jaw and allow rafe to thrust inside of you, fucking your throat with as much furocity as he does your cunt. he spills down your throat with a satisfied sigh.

“you can take a shower in my bathroom if you want.” you stand up quickly. rafe has made the guest bedroom his own, including your hallway bathroom, always using it instead of your en suite. you’ve adapted to it, just as you’ve adapted to him being your shadow. “i love it when it smells like you.”

rafe gives you a wide grin, and you know he’s falling for your act.

--

you listen closely, eyes moving to the clock as soon as the water starts. two minutes. you’ll wait two minutes before fleeing. the second hand seems to take hours to tick, but eventually the two minutes hit and you’re creeping through the house, praying the water has warmed up enough for rafe to get in, the spray of the shower masking your sounds.

you glance at your phone, letting out a sigh of relief when it says your uber is closeby. you know you can’t take your care, there’s no way rafe doesn’t have it tracked.

“hello, uber for y/n.” the driver is a kind looking older woman. you send a silent prayer that rafe doesn’t blame her and lets her live as you climb into the backseat.

--

“where the fuck were you?” rafe yells the second you're inside, the door shut behind you. you can see the rage in his eyes, the pure fury.

“you tricked me? you sucked me off just so you could sneak out you fucking whore?” rafe pushes you into the wall of the foyer, not even waiting to get further into the house to chew you out.

“you're a fucking stalker rafe, don't act surprised i try to get away!” you tell back, own anger bubbling over, unable to bite your tongue any longer.

“you told me you were mine! ive been getting better!” rafe shakes your shoulders. he's been getting marginally better, being slightly carefuler when fucking you, mainly not cutting into you or bruising you too badly.

“rafe, you're fucking crazy!”

“no, i fucking love you!” he shouts back, his hands squeezing even tighter on your arms. he can't stand to be so close to you anymore, shoving you into the wall and backing up.

“this isn't how you treat someone you love rafe!” you yell.

“how about this?” rafe pulls his long knife out of his sheath, sticking it out towards you, the hallway suddenly feeling half the size.

“rafe.” you say softly. either you're going to convince him in this moment to stop this behavior or you're going to accept your death and let him kill you. “this has to stop. i can't keep doing this. you're killing me.”

“i am going to kill you!” he takes a step closer, the knife aimed at your chest. “tell me where you went!”

you keep your mouth closed for a second too long, rafe exploding in anger again. he raises the knife but pushes into the drywall to the side of your body. “tell me! where you cheating on me?”

“of course i wasn't!” because as much as you know it's wrong, you are just as crazy about rafe as he is about you.

“then tell me where you were!” rafes booming voice is bound to cause attention as he pulls the knife out, pointing it at your stomach. “im going to kill you if you don't tell me right now.”

“if you kill me, you'll be killing your son too.” 

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[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Little Words

gif link

So on my good playthrough, the party scene with the "my little treat" happened but the teasing was so sad cuz Astarion looked so sad puppy then my tav looked like a sad puppy and now here we are with this fic

Rated: M

Warnings: angst but i swear it soft at end i swear

"I love you." The false face of sincerity hurts, the way his voice becomes sweet hurts, the way his eyes take in your surprised expression. You didn't expect him to say it, to say it like that, to leave you aching in a way both familiar and terrible.

"Isn't it… A little too soon?" Why does your heart ache? You know he would not feel the same as you, you fall too easily… Sure he was the one who took your virginity, allowed you to feed from him, and vice-versa, but you needed to be guarded over your heart not counting the ways you loved him— Could love him.

"Well, it can be true, only for tonight." His voice was so soft, matching the way he soothed you as he guided you through your few bliss with his fingers. Your hand grips the fabric at the end of your shirt, you feel hurt. "Now, as much as I relish standing around and saying all of my favorite lines at you," Back to his usual self, "I'd rather we got to experience each others' full portfolio talents once again." As if nothing matters.

"That… That isn't funny, Astarion." Your trembling voice is not something he thought to hear, to see your gaze lower and to the side. He has teased you before! Where is the shy giggle, flustered expression, or even gasp followed by a nudge for him to stop embarrassing you?

Astarion blinks twice then slightly laughs, "Come now, it's just a bit of fun between friends." Because you both are friends, you told him that. He is your friend, a confidante like Shadowheart. "My sweet?"

"No, sorry, never mind." You aren't feeling so good, "You enjoy your evening." It should not hurt this much, technically you knew what you were getting yourself involved with that charlatan… Yet, this hurts.

You try not to think about your Sire, about the man whose honeyed words landed you an eternity in darkness and blood. But he slips into your thoughts, into your nightmares, and the trauma of being not only his victim but his personal pet vampire project lingers.

Maybe later you will apologize to Astarion later for being so pitiful; you know his bed will find another to warm it… You have no right to feel envious either because you are just a dear traveling companion, a favorite one, nothing more.

Which shouldn't upset you, it actually is nice to know he thinks highly of you despite you both being on two different moral compasses.

You are a good person, too good for this world in Astarion's eyes. A do-gooder with your heart on your sleeve, a light many of your companions are drawn to.

Astarion would snuff it out so you felt his misery, to share the pain you haven't endured in your short years as a vampire.

You don't sleep. The party is fun, you enjoy it very much. Committing the smiling faces, the drunken laughter, and the way your heart swells seeing that even with your curse you can still do some good to memory.

Dawn slips into the darkness banishing the shadows, and you do your silent prayer to Lathander.

"There you are!"

You finish then look up at Astarion who sits beside you, close to you, "Good morning." A sweet smile you offer him.

"I missed you." He leans in close, "Leaving me all alone last night. You made me worried." You lean in the rest of the way to share the warmth of the sun you had soaked in.

"I'm sorry." Soft, gentle, sweet. Your eyes don't match your smile that wades.

"Was it something I said?" Usually, his flirtatious lines have you in the palm of his hand, yet last night you looked so heartbroken.

His eyes follow your hands that rest on his then trace his nimbled fingers, "You say the most beautiful words and it leaves me," You frown as you lace your fingers between his, "Wishing we met sooner." The heartbreak in your voice is enough to have Astarion bury his face in your hair to hide the surprise on his face. You expose your heart to him so easily, painfully at times.

He has been as ginger with your fragile heart, a tortured creature who is hanging on by a thread of their humanity. The fellow spawn envies you at times, to have such hope inside an un-beating heart.

"I will only take what you give me. It was selfish of me to expect more without asking." You take the blame for your behavior last night, "I am a hopeless romantic, loving you comes as easy as writing a poem about it."

"Darling," You smile at him with ease, eyes he can see himself in, and heart on your sleeve once more, "You are… Sweet." Too good for him. Your confession is adorable while also laying out for him a clear boundary he can fall back on.

How strange. To not be pressed for more than what he is willing to give. It leaves him flabbergasted, confused at the way he pulls you closer to him, in control.

Too good for him and this whole camp.

[ivesambrose]

⚜️ 𝐉𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐈𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 ⚜️

December 31st,2023 - May 1st, 2024

These are based on Sidereal transits 💛

If you'd like an even more personalized reading in regards to this or anything else from my list of services DM or email me with your query at Ivesambrose@gmail.com

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Picture 1

You'll feel more decisive about your goals and your life and actively move forward in regards to it whether you have a plan or not you are aware that even if you take one step in regards to your desires every single day, even if it's a change of lifestyle, habit or mindset, they will all up.

You may have felt rejected or feared rejection in the past that has made you question your self worth immensely, it has made you shut down that tender part of you, it only comes out when you're by yourself or the few people you know and trust. You'll be slowly letting go of that wound of feeling rejected, unseen and unheard. You may be drawn more towards your faith at this time but it won't be a surface level thing, you might want to learn more, pray more or do more devotional acts as you'll realize that a lot of your prayers are being answered.

You're no longer the damsel in distress or someone who can be easily taken advantage of either. You'll likely attract a few people who are a bit obsessively drawn to you, some may have good intentions but others would want to control you or have ulterior motives, so please use your best judgement and listen to your gut.

You'll likely become more social, recognised for your words or the way you express yourself or teach things which make others feel comforted and heard. You might also begin expressing yourself in the form of writing, singing, photography, vlogging etc

You'll want to indulge in the luxuries life has to offer even more. There is also possibility of travel within the country for starters and a lot of back and forth.

Be more protective of your energy as well otherwise you'll feel moody and depleted.

Picture 2

You might feel like you're in the spotlight or you'll be fixating on the bigger picture of something and nothing else. A path you had chosen months back has led you to where you are right now, good or bad, you'll make peace with it once you realize that it's on you to change your direction or do what's need to be done to steer your life in the right direction. There's a sense of enlightenment that will feel very personal and spiritual to you, it will lead you to drop the act you had been partaking in for long.

You may have rejected help and guidance in the past that may have come to bite you and kept you in the same cycle, you'll feel inclined to revisit the guidance and break free from this chain.

Some of you might find a home, change homes, start working from home or finally feel at home where you can drop your mask and finally be yourself.

You'll stop being double minded and finally see yourself blooming in different areas of your life be it studies or career or both. Like minded people will come to you. You might find love but some of you might let go of it as it could feel suffocating or restricting, you will feel sorrow but I also see you being held by someone either a friend or a new lover when this happens. Your needs will be mer regardless.

You'll be aggresive in your pursuits and some of you might finally step into the shoes of being a leader instead of following orders. You'll find your people and may also go to different festivals, fairs, exhibitions etc

Avoid overly physically exherting yourself and spicy food, Avoid lashing out at people. Stay hydrated aswell.

Picture 3

Too many choices in love, studies, career direction, hobbies etc you might feel a bit overwhelmed at first since the energy might feel scattered, so you'll proceed to expressing yourself more creatively and openly because of your new found confidence in your body and enthusiasm towards life. A lot of your creativity will come via your dreams, or engaging in fantasy literature and media or meditating or simply day dreaming.

Your creativity as well as beauty will draw in more career opportunities as well networking with people. You will also be actively addressing the ways you engage in self sabotage and it will be your responsibility to work through the same.

You'll be blessed with a wish or a couple of them being granted, you'll be in your receptive state. You might just accept the "delulu is the solulu" (I can't believe I typed that) saying or to put in better words, you'll simply allow your desires and dreams to manifest without you attaching conditions to it or thinking of the what ifs and how's etc

There will be deep transformation for you, big ones. Be it the way you look, dress, are living your life, your existing relationships, your job etc

You'll find unlikely resources or finances from unknown/hidden means or in form of inheritances.

You can look forward to a sense of peace you've been lacking. You might be prone to astral travel, intense dreams etc avoid or at least be mindful of recreational drug use or drinking, as well as water bodies.

Some of you might be traveling abroad for cultural exchange or studies or even for love. Do embrace the love that comes your way.

Picture 4

The courage and resources to get up and leave. Simply rising above something successfully no matter how weighed down you feel or have felt till now. You might also be juggling multiple things at this time (jobs, work and studies, hobbies, ideas, investments, applications etc) you'll find more balance somehow you'll also find clarity in your next steps.

You'll also be more assertive and stand up for yourself against someone who has held some form of power over you. You'll also realize that projecting omeone else's anger, mindset or bullying, towards yourself or others is not going to break the cycle. There is a theme of walking out, away and relocating heavily for you. But there is inevitable triumph in the path you're taking. Maybe in the past you've been procrastinating on it but that phase has come to an end.

A select few of you might also be going through your saturn return at this time so you might feel tested but you're simply having a period of shedding old skin and rising from the ashes of what was barren all along. You'll bring in more structure and discipline into your life in the process which in turn will reward you with joy and being content with your achievements instead of looking at your to do list for the next big thing.

Try engaging or creating things that make you feel light-hearted or entertained or it was something that was taught to you as a child, I feel you'll find the 'lost art' to something and recreate it.

Let yourself have fun and feel joy for what seems like the first time in your life. You'll realize life wasn't just unrewarded labour, that was an old way of being and you're stepping into a reality that feels a lot more comforting and compassionate than the one you're leaving behind.

[argisthebulwark]

"Are You Two Together?"

summary: Short pieces of how I think various Skyrim men would react to this question (they're all definitely together) gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Brynjolf, Vilkas, Farkas, Arnbjorn, Cicero, Erandur, Balimund, Mercer warnings: slightly suggestive (Brynjolf, Erandur)

You can feel Brynjolf’s confidence skyrocket at the question. One hand sneaks to your lower back to draw you even closer. It’s absolutely the last thing you need - if anyone in the Guild knew about you two it would ruin their opinion of you. Barely getting your footing and already sleeping with your mentor? Ignoring Brynjolf’s cocky grin you clear your throat, trying to banish the heat in your cheeks.  “Of course not.” Your words aren’t exactly convincing when you consider the messy state of your armor and the clear bite marks on his exposed skin. Mercer’s eyes dart between the obvious clues, offering nothing but an unimpressed grunt before turning away.  “Right. That would be unprofessional.”

“Absolutely not.” Vilkas answers despite the hand clasped in yours. You fight to stifle a laugh at his staunch refusal to share his personal life with others. “We’re clearly coworkers. Why would you ask such a question?”  “Well, you’re -” the poor recruit stammers into silence when Vilkas' glare turns to them. You’ll chastise him after the lad returns to his group of whelps across the hall but you know how much he delights in someone thinking he’s frightening.  “The Harbinger’s relationship status is none of your business.” His tone is curt, a contrast to the delicate way his thumb traces over the back of your hand. “Now leave us.”

“Yeah, I’m courting them.” Farkas snorts at the question. He thought it was fairly obvious - the two of you were practically joined at the hip. On the rare occasion one of you left Jorrvaskr without the other he swept you into his arms upon returning. He sat dutifully at your side while you sorted through the mess of being a Harbinger, planning out training routines or sharpening his sword.  “Hear that, love? I’m courting you.” Turning that dazzling grin on you, Farkas places an exaggerated kiss on your hand. “Many apologies for skipping a few steps.”

“Why?” Neither confirming nor denying Arnbjorn continues with his work, fully ignoring the conversation. As you’ve spent many days before you’re perched on his workbench, parchments spread around you entirely in his way. He’s grumbled about the mess a few times but hushes when you retort that he is far more interesting.  “Why would you think Arnbjorn and I are together?” Sharpening your tone, you needle the young trainee with the question. You see uncertainty in the way he glances between you and Arnbjorn’s tense back.  “Well, some of the others were talking.”  “What do you think about that?” Arnbjorn pauses at your teasing tone, a gruff hand on your thigh as he reaches for the correct tool. The poor recruit looks ready to bolt. “Sounds like a ridiculous rumor.”

Cicero is absolutely overjoyed at the question. The mere thought of others knowing he is with his Listener, of being associated with the one he loves! He’s practically bouncing at your side, hand grasping yours to his chest while you await whatever he’s got to say.  “Is it so obvious?” He sighs dramatically, a softness in his voice usually reserved just for you. “Oh, truly Cicero is quite the lovesick fool. It appears everyone has learned that the Listener owns his silly heart.” 

“As a Priest of Mara, I love all of her lady’s subjects.” Erandur’s practiced words do nothing to hide the telltale marks you’d left on his throat. The skin’s a tender reminder of the night before - you sneaking through the temple into his chambers, his words like prayers promising whatever you wish as long as you keep touching him. Clearing his throat Erandur forces himself to refocus on the acolyte standing before him. “I would never allow them special privileges due to any personal feelings.” 

“Never would’ve thought to put a label on it.” Balimund would surely get a kick out of the question. You don’t mind the interest - after the amount of time you’ve dedicated to him during your increasing visits to Riften it’s hardly a secret. You never intended on sharing your relationship with strangers but Balimund’s reliable hand on your shoulder or the way you lean into his chest in the market must’ve drawn some eyes. You’d never discussed your relationship, simply aware of shared feelings.  “I guess we are.” He answers and that soft smile is enough to warm your heart. 

“No,” Mercer lies through his teeth. You’d likely act no different if asked such a question - there’s too much at stake. If one lie unravels the others will surely follow. If anyone begins to speculate about your romantic entanglement with the Guild Master there’s no telling what else they could uncover. Ignoring the little twinge of hurt in your chest you return to your practice dummy, sure that you’ll say the same if they aren’t convinced.  “I hardly know their name.” He scoffs, kicking a foot up on his desk. “No special treatment around here.” 

[formulapai]

LIVING WITH ENDO (AND OSCAR)

an Oscar Piastri fluff/angst scenario

scenario: what it’s like living with endometriosis, with your boyfriend’s support. (might do a second part.)

warning: mention of surgeries, blood, vomit, eating disorders, depression, bruises.

pai’s words: THIS IS BASED ON MY EXPERIENCE!! as much as endo is the same for anyone suffering with it, the impact it has on the body and mind, the pain, the treatments, and a lot of it is purely personal !! as someone who has been living with it for more than ten years and has tried everything the French Healthcare has to offer, even going into alternative medicine and such, this is my experience that I’m writing and it can be a little different than some people.

to anyone having questions about it, having doubts or just curious, my dms and requests are always open, I’ll be honored to make this illness a little more known. :)

to anyone fighting against it everyday, I’m so sorry. you’re not alone, i 100% stand with you as a fellow endowarrior (this term is always making me wheeze but I love it!!). we’ll get through this eventually !

THE NIGHT

You’re laying awake on your shared bed, not even able to move an inch because of the sharp flash of pain coming and going, not letting you take a real breathe as the movement of your diaphragm creates waves after waves of pain. Despite your pain medication, it’s a common occurrence and you’ve yet to find a solution to it, just waiting for it to pass, tear-stained face staring at the ceiling in a silent prayer that you’ll be soon free of it all.

You feel Oscar move next to you, his calm breathing picking up as he slowly wakes up, first grumbling about the early hours but then noticing your state. He doesn’t know what you need, doesn’t dare to place his hand in your lower belly to try and massage the pain away. It’s an “all or nothing” situation as his body warmth and his soft touch can either calm you and your body down or create another episode of agony, and not even you can predict it. He knows you’re aware he’s up, your face completely still as to not stress your body even more, and he press closer to you, close enough to comfort you as much as he can, far away enough to not touch you.

He can see your diaphragm broaden its movement slowly, your breathing finally beginning to get deeper as you feel the episode fade away lazily, not at all in a hurry to leave you alone. Even from under your sleep shirt, he sees your muscles flexing and relaxing as waves of pain appear, your body reacting naturally despite your tries to stop it, the flexing of your abdominal muscles making it worse. It’s a normal response, really, just like your arm will flinch automatically when you hurt it, a mean to get away from whatever hurt you. But when the only thing hurting you is your own body, it doesn’t work.

It takes a few more minutes until you take your boyfriend’s hand, guiding it to your lower belly and letting it stay here, feeling it starting to massage your body as soon as it touches it. It’s not miraculous, the pain still present, but it helps both mentally and physically as your shoulders relax ever so slightly. You always complain about him being way too warm on a regular basis, but how happy you are for his warmth right now. With your lover pressed to you, his soft praises in your ears and your body finally letting you rest, you fall into a deep slumber, thanking whoever has put Oscar in your life.

THE DAY

It started great, you woke up early and in pretty much no pain, motivated enough to make breakfast as the Australian sleeps soundly in the bed. You should’ve seen it coming when waves of nausea were starting to make themselves known the more you cooked, preparing your favorite French food, some Pain Perdu. It’s really not in Oscar’s food plan and his trainer will hate you for it, but you certainly don’t care.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when you finally throw up, your whole body spasming as it tries to get whatever was the problem out of it. It’s mostly bile as you haven’t had the chance to eat yet, the liquid burning your throat as it comes up, sweat marring your forehead at the sheer effort of standing despite your muscles begging for a rest. It hasn’t happened in a few days and you were enjoying it, able to eat and drink whatever you wanted without being overly stressed about how your body would react. Guess the fun is now over.

The doctor told you that it’s quite normal to have GI issues when you have endometriosis, even when it’s not commonly talked about. But, like every other symptoms, no real remedy exists apart from antiemetic medicine but you’ve found out quite early that it doesn’t really make it better so you’ve decided to not take it anymore, opting to just wait and deal with it. Oscar didn’t know about all this when you two started talking, barely knowing endometriosis and just thinking it was bad period pain. It always comes as a shock when he sees how much deeper it runs, how hard it makes your daily life.

This nausea thing made you develop an eating disorder, or so your therapist is saying. As you’re scared of vomiting, you try to escape food as much as possible, waiting for your body to feel better so you can eat in large quantities to make up for the lack of food. Your boyfriend knows it, your friends too, truly everyone sees how you avoid food like it’s the plague, but no one can say anything against it, knowing the reason behind it and having no solution. It’s hard, it’s painful, for both you and them, as you’d rather not do this to yourself, but it’s the only way you can live a somewhat normal life regarding this issue.

As you feel better, mere minutes later, you wash yourself before continuing breakfast, knowing well it’s now only for Oscar and not for you. You settle for hot hibiscus tea, crossing out coffee for today as it fuels the inflammation caused by your illness, something you really don’t need at the moment. Your collection of tea is impressive, your close ones all searching which tea is good and which tea is bad for you, gifting it every occasion they get, hibiscus and Nettle being your favorite ones as you feel their effects on your body.

THE STAINS

Ever since your surgeries and thanks to your special birth control, you’re not supposed to have periods anymore. Sadly, it still happens like your doctors told you it could, just not as regularly and serious as before. Your hemorrhagic periods, lasting without ever being stopped as your cycle was pretty much nonexistent, is replaced by a blood flow still heavy but not as much, making itself known only a few days a month. It still comes with all the complications of it, the searing pain making you pass out, the muscle aches, the nausea and diarrhea. You can’t complain, you’ve lived way worse.

Of course, it decided to happen today out of all day, as you’re standing in the McLaren garage, watching your boyfriend overtake another one of his colleague and securing P3. It’s probably the stress of it all, strong emotions tend to trigger episodes and you curse them as you feel the change in both your body and mind, your periods always hitting you bad mentally. You quickly excuse yourself to Oscar’s driver’s room, abandoning the race watching right in the middle of it, knowing that he’ll understand but still feeling bummed out. Apart from the obvious toll on your body, the grasp it has on your mental state is insane, leaving you battling with depression, something you’ve learned is one of the most common outcome with endo.

You take your time changing clothes, cleaning yourself in the toilets and putting a pad you’ve thankfully put in you bag before going, knowing you’ll have to change it in less than an hour with how heavy your flow can be. You slowly make your way to the massage table, laying on it as you pray it’s only going to be blood and not everything usually accompanying it, especially not the pain. It’s a vicious circle, you know it well, as you’re scared of the pain so you become tense, so tense that it creates pain, the condition feeding off of your stress and the movement of your muscles, most importantly your abdominal ones. So you try to distract yourself, you go on social medias, you read online, you watch videos. You busy yourself until you realize you really need to change your pad, scurrying towards Oscar’s bag and hoping he has some as he usually does when you two go out, always so thoughtful.

People are cheering outside, the race probably ending in a positive way and your heart swell at the sheer joy emanating from the garage. Still, you don’t seem to find anything in the bag, your hands shaking as small sniffles echo in the room, feeling absolutely stupid for not predicting your period. You can’t even hear the door opening behind you, feet stilling for a few seconds before they make their way to you, arms wrapped around your shoulders.

“- Hey, what’s wrong darling?

- I’m dumb, that’s what’s wrong.

- What happened ?

- I’m having my period and I didn’t even bring anything and now I’m going to bleed out everywhere and ruin my clothes.”

Oscar presses a kiss to your head and gets up, walking towards a drawer and taking out some pads, bringing them to you. You stare at him, as you accept them, still sniffling as you let yourself fall into his arms, thanking him quietly. You don’t know where you’ll be without him, probably bleeding out everywhere like you just said.

“- You’re not dumb, it happens to forget things. And you have me, right ? You know I always bring way too much of these with us.

- I know, thank you. Really, thank you Oscar.

- It’s alright, dearest. Go get changed, I have to get back there but I’ll be quick, I promise. We’ll go back to the hotel after that.”

You nod, pressing sweet kisses to his neck where you face is buried before letting him go, thanking him once again.

THE SURGERY

After yet another scan, you’re finally allowed the surgery, a long and draining battle you’ve won. Endometriosis is still not taken seriously by most of the doctors you’ve met, mostly overlooked as pain every person with an uterus has to live with and nothing more, so it’s a relief when you meet a specialist willing to help you. It’s a simple surgery, called laparoscopy, leaving only a few incision scares on your abdomen and promising an almost pain-free life, or well, years. It’s rare that only one surgery is enough to annihilate the problem in its all, it happens, thankfully, but it’s still quite uncommon or so the surgeon said. It’s pretty logical, as the tissues will appear again eventually, growing back where they’re not supposed to, creating new inflammation nests.

It’s stressful, as every surgery is, but you like to think of it as a good stress, completely opposite to the fear Oscar is feeling as the hours tick by, getting you closer to the surgery. Theoretically, he knows it’s a safe surgery, a small one, one the surgeon has done many times. Still, the love of his life is going to be put under anesthesia and under a scalpel and he can’t help but feel terrified by it. It’s not going to be lengthy, less than two hours, which is not that long for this kind of surgery, but he already knows he’s going to bite his fingernails off while waiting.

He’s updating your close friends and family members as the door opens, your bed being rolled inside the room as you slowly wake up, still loopy and giggly because of the anesthesia. The two nurses tell him that the surgeon will come later to check and talk with them, assuring Oscar that the surgery went very well before leaving the couple alone. You’re still quietly giggling to yourself, lifting your arms in front of your face and making random shapes with your hands, almost snatching the IV a few times so he interrupts you, sitting next to you and making sure your hands stay away from the crook of your elbow. You look at him with a wide, toothy smile and start to play with his hair, tugging at it as you try to give him some horns, the hair not sticking up no matter how much you try.

You spend the next hour drifting in and out of sleep, the anesthesia wearing off and pain slowly creeping in. The doctor makes his way in the room, giving you the ok to go home as long as you’re not alone, prescribing pain medication and planning a meeting with him a month from now. The two of you listen to his advices, Oscar noting everything he needs to buy such as ice packs, and you’re soon discharged, your boyfriend leading your wheelchair towards his car. He takes it back to the nurse when you’re settled in your car seat, thanking her for lending it even when it’s the official protocol. What can he say, he’s too polite.

The healing process is tiring but worth it, your belly adorned with scars and bruises slowly fading away, swollen and tender. You’re thankful for the break as Oscar is able to stay with you through it all, his family and yours visiting you and allowing you to have a pleasant distraction. Your close friends come too, deciding that a gossip session in the middle of the living room as you eat pasta is the only remedy you need, to Oscar’s despair. He likes them, he truly does, he doesn’t like to be chased from his own living room though. He snickers as he leaves the couch, leaving you with a lingering kiss before he goes in another room, logging in his computer. In the end, the healing process is fine, you were glad for anyone helping you through it, you were even more thankful for your boyfriend. And if you have to get a second, a third, even a fourth surgery, you’ll be ok as long as you have him.

[venus-haze]

No Other Gods Before Me (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: Love is everything. Love is God. Homelander is love. Maybe you are, too. 

Note: Gender neutral supe reader, and no descriptors are used. Takes place in season 1 during the Believe Expo. Inspired by Starlight’s comment that she didn’t have a crush on Homelander growing up because “he was like Jesus or something.” I'm sorry it took me so long to write another Homelander fic! Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Extremely unhealthy relationship, power imbalance (unclear as to who, as the reader has unspecified psychic powers), warped elements of Christianity. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander saw them clear as day. The tears welling up in your eyes as you walked down to the baptismal pool. He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. For all of his pandering, he was never fond of religious types–especially religious supes. You should know better than to buy into this bullshit, a cheap substitute for simple minds that couldn’t comprehend the modern gods that put the miracles of every religious text to shame.

Still, he held out his gloved hand for you to take, and you did, gingerly, as if his physical presence would be too much to bear. 

Homelander had his fair share of admirers, but the reverent gleam in your eyes was nothing short of disarming. His name came from your lips in a soft, pious prayer before you hit the water.

You emerged from the chlorinated depths reborn, staring at him in a moment of blissful awe. “You are love,” you whispered, only loud enough so he could hear. And it stunned him. So much so that he couldn’t protest when you were ushered out of the pool, wet clothes clinging indecently to your skin. You disappeared with your fresh towel, and he resisted the urge to drown the rest of the devout in line to find you.

There was still time. Believe Expo wasn’t quite over yet. Surely you’d still be milling about, in some ridiculous prayer circle or buying one of the cheap trinkets the numerous grifters shilled. He’d never read the Bible, not all of it. Bits and pieces to understand what people were talking about, and a few feel-good verses up his sleeve for speeches and interviews. None of it made him understand what all of the fuss was about, anyway. Why his birthday wasn’t a months-long celebration, a cultural phenomenon. All Vought gave him was a TV special and a cake. It wasn’t the spectacular frenzy that people anticipated all year.

His fists clenched. 

He found a volunteer who didn’t look all that busy, and offered a selfie with them before asking a favor. People would do just about anything for him, regardless, but posing his demands as if they were helping him out tended to get things done faster. As soon as the words left his mouth, the volunteer set off to find you. He retreated to his dressing room, waiting impatiently for your arrival.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” you asked, your distant voice growing louder as you approached.

“Homelander’s the best,” the volunteer agreed.

“Don’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“That warmth when you’re in his presence, something divine.”

“Well, he was chosen by God.”

“You don’t get it at all, do you,” you said, disappointment evident in your voice, just on the other side of his dressing room door.

He tried not to appear too eager when you entered, though you were in different clothes than before. Couldn’t expect you to spend the rest of the day walking around in soaking wet clothes, though part of him hoped you would.

“I knew we’d see each other again,” you said, not at all surprised by him summoning you.

He tilted his head, regarding you with suspicion. You didn’t seem like you were fucking with him, but he couldn’t be sure. “In the baptismal pool, you said I was love.”

You nodded. “Love is eternal. Love can conquer anything.”

“Love is God,” he said.

“I prayed to you, because I knew you could hear me,” you confessed quietly. “You’re the one.”

Your sincerity was genuine, the way your heart beat in time for him, tearful eyes glistening with an unprecedented devotion. Without an outstretched, gloved hand, he cupped your cheek, caressing it in his first act of blessing. Anointing you first. A ragged breath emerged from his parted lips. His dove, his lamb, his to guide and nurture the way these abstract figments couldn’t. You would be his Mary Magdalene, his Saint Paul, unceasingly devoted in your worship of him, proselytizing the good word to the masses. 

And why shouldn’t they worship him? Look at him with the same admiration and awe that you did? Power in the blood, his blood, to save and damn as he saw fit. After all, he didn’t need to die to offer salvation. No great sacrifices on his part to provide for those who were worthy. The sky had been empty when he explored it, all the way up past the atmosphere, farther than anyone could possibly go until he reached the vast emptiness of space itself and found himself alone. Homelander wasn’t an unknowable god. He walked among the masses, pandered to their sensitivities because he knew just how small and insignificant they were.

He’d read about the more extreme acts of devotion to gods in the past. Self-flagellation. Human sacrifice. Vows of poverty. Pathetic and desperate attempts to appease a supposedly powerful higher being who did nothing to help his people when they cried out for him. But Homelander was there. And just like you’d said, he could hear everything. He required so much less of people yet offered so much more. 

“You’re the only one who sees me for what I am,” he murmured. 

You nodded gently, your cheek rubbing against his glove. 

He leaned in to kiss you, and you reciprocated without hesitation, pressing your lips to his, allowing yourself unprecedented closeness with the divine. Consume and be healed, forgiven, saved. Kissing you felt purposeful, made his heart race and his brain feel fuzzy.

Warmth washed over him, and for a moment the suspicious part of him wondered if this divine haze was related to your powers. Something about being able to get into people’s heads, mess with their emotions. He wasn’t sure. There was no reason for you to be on his radar before the spiritual encounter.

When you whispered his name against his lips like a prayer, he nearly choked. Devout. Unconditional. He held onto you tightly, lips attached to yours in his own act of worship.

Love was everything. Love was God. Homelander was love. Maybe you were, too. 

[ceridescent]

leviathan of light: martini shot

➛ actress!wanda maximoff x female!reader

summary: wrapping up the film shooting on a heart's day wouldn’t be your ideal course of action if you have plans with your loved ones. and so is a bullet vibrator in you when you're the star of the show. but as long as it's inconspicuous, it's no problem.

tags: bottom!wanda, top!reader, use of sex toy, semi-public, mommy kink, cunninglingus, hair pulling, & brief thigh riding.

word count: 2, 218

author’s note: here it goes!! first part of the series! i hope it's not hot enough you'd burn. :-)

part i of lush ministrations | series masterlist | main masterlist

the paintings adorning the vaulted ceiling, proof of faith and wars, encapsulating the sacrosanct space. the divinity of the cosmic beings, the galvanic echo of every worshiper who ever knelt before the cross, a prayer for every miracle. 

the whole crew of leviathan of light have gathered for the final shooting, excited spirits witnesses of the flamboyant setting, and none other than the two main stars — two goddesses molded into human forms, brazening each other accompanied by swords belted at their hips, prepared to swing with one mistake — fulfilling their roles as the camera rolls. 

you know a mistake occurs when the director scratches the front of his neck, a blush forming there. 

“do you really want me? or is this your way of getting back at my brother..?”

“CUT!”

no one notices the curl of your lip when the director yells the magic word, each and everyone filling the cathedral fixated over the two actors who are now having a small talk — one who provides encouragement, whilst the other spurting genuine apologies. “maximoff! what was that all about…”

“i’m so sorry, william. too much going in my head at-right now. can i take a 10? 15?” 

you intently listen to the hollywood star who simultaneously stammers and sighs, bringing her best doe-eyed face; the one that brings her everywhere. you try your best to mask a smirk. 

“of course, wanda.” an exchange of an understanding nod with a squeezed shoulder and you’re gritting your teeth, unable to take your sight off wanda’s exhale. pressing the circled button, you hear her faint yelp at the crawling pressure in her, each passing second sending her to hell. no one is supposed to touch her like that. 

wanda shuts her eyes tight whilst biting her lower lip, crouching as she grips her sides, causing the clingy man to help her stand, putting his hold around her hips to support her, touching her in places only you could. 

an uneasy groan erupts from your throat as you approach both co-workers, veiling your fume with a faux smile. “you okay?” placing your hands above where the director’s are, you tighten your grip around wanda’s waist to pull her over to your side. there’s nothing subtle with how you pushed his body away from her to stray, finalizing the interaction with, “i got her, thanks, william.”

“do you want to rest for a moment?”

miss hollywood nods her head, “yes but, maybe in the dressing room instead? i need-“

“say less, wanda. i’ll take care of you,” mumbling the last part is essential, shielding the exchange to the public eye. you escort wanda into the designated room, your arm possessively clutching her waist as she makes an effort to walk as normally as she does, declining the possible speculation that it’s like there’s something in between her thighs. 

“please baby!” wanda maximoff moans the moment you lock the door, pushing you against the nearest wall and latching her lips onto yours. she opens your mouth wide with her fingers, snatching them open, aiming to suck at your upper lip and catching your tongue with hers. 

it is rushing and sloppy, wanda pulling everything out of you because she needs you, because you’re the only one who could offer it to her. you’re smug about that, the provocation of wanda’s desperation to have you. with muffling moans and ragged breathing, you wrap your arms around wanda’s neck caressing the back of her hair as she grabs your sides, pulling your body towards her to grind on. 

a wanton whine escapes her throat, nipping at your lower lip, “please,” shock overwhelming her she bites your lip hard it bleeds. she licks it clean, and then swirls her tongue with yours, tasting the copper-metal of your blood. “plea-mmm!” a vibrating hum replaces wanda’s begging, her body quaking at the stimulation, falling over you. her grip tightens as another pulls at your hair. “let mommy come, baby-“

“hush, stay quiet. come here,” you prod sharply as you guide her face with your free hand and lock her lips with yours, an encompassing tender kiss. you allow wanda to hump her clothed pussy against your thigh, the firm grip on your sides never ending. a squeak escapes her when you flip places, pinning her against the wall. 

the actress shakes her head and pulls her face towards yours to capture the taste of your swelling lips but you are quick to pull away. you chuckle, “easy tiger,” pushing her shoulder blades to rest against the brick wall. wanda nods her head in defeat, “please, princess…” batting her doe-eyes. you chuckle, shaking your head. “that’s not gonna work with me.”

you breath hotly against her left cheek, “we have to be quick,” licking a stripe of her slender neck as you descend down towards the floor. “yes, baby. please me. please mommy,” wanda whimpers and tilts her head upwards, unbelievably enjoying how you handle her. she shivers as the shift of your hands deals with the buckle of the belt, undoing the zipper of her sponsored leather pants, the constricting clothes liberating her. 

you let out a teasing noise, “hmmm,” rubbing your thumb on her clitoris, grinning up at her as it sloshes. “you hear that?” you husk and lick your lips, imitating her desperate nods, batting your eyes innocently. “yeah?”

the actress clamps her teeth to her lower lip to suppress a loud moan threatening to spill your dirty little secret as you insert two fingers in her occupied pussy hole to release the bullet wedged in her ever since 7 in the morning. it’s half past 3 in the afternoon now, and there’s nothing more sensual than a domineering woman having all the patience in the world. 

you gasp, fake surprise coating your vicious, addicting face. “look what you were hiding in there, mommy!”

certainly drenched with wanda’s hot cum.

your frolic concludes as the hollywood star pushes your face against her pussy, your reflexes kicking in to lick her clean with your tongue. 

“yes!” wanda hisses, grinding herself over to you. forcing her hips to plant themselves against the brick wall, “impatient twat,” you mumble, the vibration reminding the hollywood actress who’s barely keeping it together — hand against her mouth — of the toy nestled inside her warmth on set the whole time. you pocket the toy, bringing both of your hands to focus holding her thighs in place. 

you refuse to tease wanda any longer, aware of her sensitive body caused by your amusement. watching the renowned wonder actress (derived from wonder woman) struggle reciting the most basic lines, and then enacting them in awe-striking emotions whilst you play with the remote control’s buttons, purposely pressing the highest setting when she was to do something elaborate. thus why miss hollywood deserves her awaiting release before the whole crew comes knocking down the dressing room. 

“all the things i want to do to you…” she heaves as she alternates between caresses on your crown and pulling at your mane. you could only hum, lapping at her juices, drinking her in for your own pleasure. wanda’s hot cum drips straight through your welcoming mouth, the scent of butter and almond filling your nostrils. 

flicking the tip of your tongue against the actress’ sensitive nub, you press your thumbs on her fleshy inner thigh, digging your nails into it to form red crescent marks. wanda’s legs quiver at the pain, a loud moan echoing inside the dressing room. 

“mommy can’t take it anymore, prin-!” a high-pitched keen comes out and no matter how still she makes herself to be you know she can’t prolong it any longer. “do it for me then.”

being stared at by someone above you — beneath you — is a privilege so thrilling you’d be nailed at the cross for it. notably by the most gorgeous actress of the nation, wanda maximoff desperate to rut into your mouth. a moan can’t be helped, the brief cherished moment of having the biggest star — revered by many, applauded by the entirety of the land — her sweet and tangy, her slick and leaking cum. 

your scalp burns from wanda’s fingernails scraping you as you fulfill your duty of satiating her, the warmth of her pussy slipping off your lips. you protest with a cry, latching your mouth back in her pussy, throbbing she is, sucking her clitoris getting to the pulse, quicker and quicker coming undone. 

“mommy, mmm”

“come on, come on princess,” wanda encourages you, sucking her hard and wanton, the thought of her coming in your mouth is so intense the need becomes primal. “fuck, mommy, fuckkk,” your muffled curses sends wanda over the edge—

she’s riding your face now, your head bobbing up and down at the movement, every sip and slurp messing your face. incoherent promises and assurances coaxes out of her awful, dirty mouth, coming apart onto you. 

wanda maximoff, professional as she is, typically an expert in keeping herself hushed in public spaces, especially on set in the middle of the day, howls blatantly like a wolf; hitting her head against the brick wall when she lolled it back, the clutch on your head so airtight you had to pull away from her pussy and bite her thigh. “what the fuck!”

you keep your hands holding her legs because sooner or later she’ll collapse, and you don’t want to be trapped under her. 

“we’re never doing this again.”

a breathless chuckle flows out of you, catching your breath as you laid on the floor on your back. you glance across the actress and find her ass sitting on the floor with her back slumped against the naughty brick wall, her pants untucked. 

“agreed,” you start now that you’re recovering your breath. “i would’ve teased you more if this wasn’t a quickie.” you stand up with your supporting palms, copying wanda’s position although without the wall. 

“you’re dead when i get you home,” she barks, giving you the eye. you tilt your head and give her an eye smile, amused at her habits. 

so you do what you know best. 

you get on all fours, crawling onto the space in between her spread legs. you get close enough to feel the hitch of her stuttering breath, “i’m not coming into your humble abode then,” biting your lip as you stare at her blown out green obs, down to her lipstick-smudged lips, and back again at her siren eyes. 

giggling as you get on your feet by wanda’s desperation to capture your lips again, “how long it’s been?” you leave her hanging, pacing around the dressing room until you find your half-empty apple juice box. you take a long sip, replenishing your system, lounging on the leather chair’s arm closest to the star. “seven.”

“good,” wanda lolls her neck to the side, momentarily closing her eyes. “then i have eight minutes left to ‘take a break’ before i get back on set, empty-handed.”

“that’s funny,” sarcastically, you reply, “i thought it was your pussy that was full.”

“y/n…don’t get started,” she warns, exhaustion and titillation coating her sweet face. 

you huff and surrender, putting your arms in the air for great measure, “okay, alright, i’ll stop,” hopping off the leather chair and going over to the vanity mirror. “then we should get you touched up so they wouldn’t notice-“

“y/n?” wanda coughs, the sounds of shifting movement indicate she’s fixing her costume. 

“yeah, wanda?” you pick the bobbi brown full coverage face brush and look at her from the far end of the dressing room. 

“do you have a date tonight?”

“what,” you chuckle, “you asking me out?”

“o-of course not, cocksure. i was just curious,” her voice drifts and for a moment there’s silence, until wanda rises up from the floor. 

“well i’m-“

“never mind i asked. could you send that blue-haired girl here? i have to ask her about the method she uses when she does her foundation trick…”

“let’s get you a touch up first, yeah? there’s no rush.”

“i- of course, just that the time-“

“don’t worry about it, miss hollywood,” you reassure with a tease, squeezing her stiff shoulders as she sits down in front of the vanity mirror. “you’re so flushed, they’d think you’ve ran a marathon,” you chuckle, dabbing the brush onto the finishing powder. 

wanda grins, her lust-filled gaze focused on you. “it’s scientifically proven that you burn as many calories when you go to the gym.”

“you dork,” you shake your head, reapplying makeup to return to her fresh, doll-like appearance. “it’s alright,” she whispers, “i’ll just tell them i’ve done 100 push-ups.”

“vouch for me?”

a thick pause allows you to stare at wanda’s still green eyes, her pupils far from dwindling any time soon. it was always like that, anyway. you don’t miss the slight tilt of her head, a signal for her curiosity. 

you grin, subtly sultry, mostly taunting. “of course, miss maximoff. you were doing a hundred push ups, while i watched sipping my apple juice, fantasizing on slurping you up instead.”

she slaps your shoulder playfully, “you’re coming home with me! whether you like it or not!” 

you wonder whether she’s playing or not by the smile on her face. after sex glow has never looked good on her. 

[senualothbrok]

Prayer

Summary: The God of Ambition has returned to Elysium, and you did not follow him. You grieve for Gale, and you struggle to move on with your life.

Featuring Tara the Tressym and Morena Dekarios.

Word count: 3.8k

Non-18+. Gale x Tav. God!Gale. Heavy angst. Grief/mourning.

AO3 link

You let yourself into his tower. Morena had given you the keys, after your first few visits. She had welcomed you like the family you had always yearned for. The family that he had been to you, before he left.

You had moved to Waterdeep after the reunion party. You had not known what else to do. For six months, you had stayed in Baldur’s Gate, helping rebuild the city after the threat of the Netherbrain had passed. You were waiting for him to return. For a sign from him, from anyone, that he still lived.

But he did not. And after you had seen Him, and He had returned to Elysium without you, you had no idea what to do. Where to go. Your parents and brother had died of consumption when you were a child. Your companions had scattered. The man you loved, who you had given yourself to, was no more. Tara and Morena were all that was left of him. So when they asked you to stay in Waterdeep, you accepted. There was no other choice.

Dust swirls in the dimness of the hallway as you walk, your bags swaying around you as you call out.

“Tara?”

You meander into the library. After all this time, it still winds you – how much it smells of him. You blink away the memories that come to you. His hair brushing against your face. The musky warmth of his skin. The softness of his embrace. You set your package on the table, anchoring yourself.

Tara lifts her head lazily from the plush armchair which is the centre of her universe.

“Good morning, Tav,” she yawns, her wings fluttering.

“I’ve brought you a present.”

She patters over to you, heavy-lidded and languid. “You are a dear.”

With a flourish of claws she tears open the wrapped pigeon that you have offered her. Her razor teeth glint in a grin.

“You are so kind to me.”

You dip your head with a smile.

Tara takes her breakfast with you on the balcony. Mrs Dekarios is seeing her sister, she tells you, and will likely not be back until the evening. Your eyes roam over the bustling docks, the stillness of the sea. You cannot help but remember the first night, when he had brought your spirits here, while your bodies remained far away. The moment when you had become one. Another life. Gone forever.

You wonder if He is watching. You are almost certain He is not.

Tara licks at her paw with satisfied laps. You are grateful that you can sit in silence with her. That no words are needed to express the tumult of your memories. The cracks that open and re-open in your heart. You take a sip of your tea.

“You don't have to keep coming, dear. I'm perfectly capable of finding myself sustenance. And  watching over Morena, if that’s your concern. Not that we don't appreciate your visits and marvellous company."

“I know.” You set your cup down. “But it's nice to see you all the same."

Tara regards you, her bright eyes wide. She misses nothing.

"Don't take this the wrong way, dear.” She stares, appraising you from head to toe. “But when was the last time you had a change of clothes, or went to the hairdresser's? You are looking slightly..."

You tilt your head.

"Dishevelled. Not at your best.”

It is something you already know, but you do not care. You have little energy for these things now. Your energy is consumed with getting through the motions of your days. That is effort enough.

"It's not a look I'm unfamiliar with.” Tara grimaces. “And I wouldn't wish for you to embark on the same trajectory…"

You shift, waving a hand. It is too much, to speak of him. Of the man he was. Even indirectly.

"I'm fine, Tara. I don't know what you're worrying about."

She frowns. She draws herself up, commanding your attention with her gaze.

"It has been two years, my dear. You are allowed to move on with your life. To move on from Waterdeep." Her voice softens. "From Gale."

You stand. Your cup and saucer rattle on the table. You hold them down, so nothing spills over. So nothing breaks.

"My apologies, Tara,” you hear yourself say. “But I must go. I need to pick some medicines up on the way back, to drop off at the hospice. And it's getting late."

Tara narrows her eyes. Her wings twitch.

"You are stubborn to a fault.” She sighs loudly, then slumps. “But I suppose, that's part of why he loved you.”

You look down, so she cannot see your face tremble.

“Take care of yourself, my dear."

You give her cheek a gentle scratch before you turn away.

"Until next time, my friend."

--------------

You walk along the sea front, as you do every evening. You rent a husk of a room within the hospice that you can never call home. You spend as little time there as you can.

The orange sky is bruised with purple streaks of encroaching night. He had conjured the smell of the sea so truly and vividly, a lifetime ago. He had wished, then, that he could have stood here with you. He had missed this view with an anguish that you felt in your bones. He had wanted nothing more than to take you home. But he is not here anymore, and you are alone.

Sometimes, you pray. You were never religious, even before you awoke on the nautiloid. You have seen so many travesties committed in the name of the gods, to people you love and care for. And from you, the gods have only ever taken away.  They ignored your childish prayers for your parents’ healing, your cries as you watched them waste away. You could never praise or worship any god, after all that.

And now, you have seen this god that wears the likeness of the man you love, who speaks with his voice, but not with his heart.

And yet. Sometimes you still pray to Him.

You have never been ambitious. Your parents’ death taught you early on that everything could be ripped away from you without warning. You took nothing for granted – not the clothes on your back, the food in your belly, the people you held in your heart. It was enough for you to cling to them tightly, while you had them. No lofty ambition could tear you away from cherishing the things you held dear.

Now, you do not desire anything. You do not hope for anything. You are empty and numb, as though all hope and life in you died the moment you realised he was gone. Now, you try and fill your time by being useful. By serving. You work at the hospice, mending wounds, cooking and cleaning, giving comfort to the dying. You feel you are dying too, and this is all you can give.

You know he would have approved of these acts of kindness. Of these efforts to remedy what the gods do not, including the god who wears his face. Part of you does it for him, even though you will never again see his smiling eyes that radiate with the pride of love.

You do not pray to Him for ambitions. To Him, you know your prayers will be futile. Meaningless. You know He will not hear them. Within His domain, He will not deem them worthy.

But the tears come as they will. The sorrow is like the darkness he had shown you long ago, when he clasped your hand against his chest and you felt the orb eating away at everything within him that was good and pure and true. You do not think time will ever staunch its hunger. You break apart in secret, consumed by the shadows of all you have loved and lost. You are powerless to fight it.

“Come back to me.”

You pray it, more fervently than anything you have ever wished for. You weep and whisper the prayer again and again. It is a rending inside you that you think will never heal. You would trade your life for it, what little remains of it, if it could restore him as the man he was. The man whose eyes twinkled in passion at the most trivial morsel of knowledge, as though he could never get enough of this world. The righteous anger that reached out from his heart to defend those around him. The earnestness of his hands, the sincerity of his questions. The kindness in him which burned bright, even when despair threatened to snuff it out. The spark of humour that lingered, even in his irritation.  

You thought you had shown him how much you loved him, but it was not enough. You had failed to convince him that you loved him not for his magic, not for a grand destiny he could seize among the stars. In loving him fully and without conditions, you had thought that you should stand with him in loving his dreams. His ambitions, even though they were so far from your own.

But you failed to show him that you loved him, just as he was. That he was all you ever wanted, and more than you ever dreamed.

The god that claims his name does not answer your prayers. And you know He will not. The man who would have listened has gone forever.

But you still pray, hoping that he has not.

--------------

People whispered about it in the hospice, when you first arrived in Waterdeep. You could not help but overhear them. ‘The hero who saved Baldur’s Gate,’ they gossiped. ‘The lover of the god of ambition. The foolish woman who turned down the offer to become a god.’

You tried to ignore their disbelief, to avoid their derision. But some of them cornered you. They demanded to know why. Why did you refuse His offer, when you could have had eternity? Why did you not become His Chosen? How could you turn down such glory? Such power?

You could not answer their questions. Nor could you make them understand. You could not show them how it felt to see Him after six months of silence, fearing he was dead, paralysed by not knowing. How it was to watch Him descend on you - an immortal stranger, draped in an imitation of the man who was the other half of your soul. A poor likeness, a travesty of memory. A garish monument to his hubris, to the darkest parts of him which he had battled against and lost. All his tenderness swallowed up by arrogance, the fire of his warmth extinguished by the indifference of silver.

When you refused his offer, you could barely see Him through the mist of your tears. You did not wish to become a god. You always knew what godhood would cost. Knowing the death of your greatest love confirmed it.

But there was something that remained in the steel of His voice and eyes. The faintest shadow of what you dared to hope was love. It made you ask, even when you knew what His answer would be.

“Is there no way we could still be together?”

Your voice sounded so frail, so desperate. The man you loved would never judge you for your vulnerability, nor shy away from it. He would have embraced it, drawing ever closer to you. But under His eyes of silver ice, you felt nervous. Exposed.

“I'm sorry, but no. I know what comes of love between the gods and mortals. I would never expose you to such risk.”

Even in this calculation, there was a semblance of tenderness. He would not make you his Chosen. In that decision, there was respect for the man that once was. The suffering that he endured. His wisdom, his kindness. And that tore you apart.

When He kissed you for the last time, a shock ripped through you that scarred your soul. It was dark as the mark of the orb that he carried and could never shed. His blazing face twisted for a moment in an approximation of pain.

“You may not wish to enter the heavens, but you do a fine job conjuring them here.”

They sounded like words that he would have said. Embers of his poetry. Ashes of his love.

He ascended in a haze of lightning, and was gone forever.

--------------

No one understands it. For how can you grieve for a man who died by becoming a god? It is folly, they think, to mourn an ascension to greatness, much less refuse to embrace it.

So you do not speak of him. You try not to think of him. But much as you try, you cannot forget. You cannot forget how it felt to see and love him so entirely, and to be seen and loved by him in return. To have everything in the boundlessness of his embrace, and be left with nothing on its withdrawal. You cannot let go of half of your soul, and the traces of his love that might remain.

Perhaps this is why you are drawn back to Tara and Morena again and again. An invisible cord joins you in your loss, stronger and more enduring than what is spoken or unspoken. You mourn together, yet you remain alone.

The next time you let yourself into his tower, you can hear them bickering. You make your way towards their voices.

“Frankly,” Tara drawls. “I don’t think those drawings are for our eyes, Mrs Dekarios.”

Morena chortles. “Indeed, Tara. I confess, I didn’t expect-”

As you enter the library, she spins to face you. Grey curls spill from the messy bun at the nape of her neck. You glance around in confusion at the boxes and crates that now clutter the room.

“Why, hello, Tav,” she exclaims, hobbling over to you through the chaos. “You’re just the person we need. Do you recognise this?”

She thrusts a worn leaf of parchment under your nose. It is peppered with elaborate diagrams, lined with arrows, arrayed with his neat cursive.

“No,” you say immediately, busying yourself with the flowers you have brought.

You do actually recognise it. There was an evening when he had decided to show you, in great detail, a technique he had memorised from ‘The Art of the Night’. One which you had both enjoyed at length in his tent, more than a few times.

Even that memory hurts beyond bearing.

Tara flutters onto the chair next to you, nodding at you in greeting.

“I think we should move on, Mrs Dekarios. To preserve our dignity, at the very least.”

Morena smiles wryly. “You’re quite right, Tara. I won’t push at a closed door, Tav, don’t worry.” She peers at the parchment again before burying it under a pile of books. “Still, it’s fascinating the things that you can learn, even when you’re as old and senile as I am.”

She squeezes you lightly on the arm, and you reciprocate.

Tara ushers you towards her armchair. You lower yourself into it, while Tara nestles herself into your lap. It took you months to earn this position of honour. You scratch the side of Tara’s ear as she starts kneading with her paws.

“You missed a great kerfuffle, my dear,” Morena remarks.

“Is that the source of this…?” You gesture around you.

“It is indeed. We were honoured with a visit from His Chosen.” She spits the word out like it is a curse. “That insufferable upstart from Thay. That loathsome boy has come to me three times, and it’s three times too many.”

Tara hisses.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Tara,” Morena mutters.

You do not point out the twist of the knife - that He never comes himself. Not to Morena or Tara. Not to you. The idea of Him having a Chosen, after your final conversation, is devastating enough.

You are almost afraid to ask. “What did he want?”

Morena’s scowl tightens the wrinkles on her thin face. “Apparently, there was a range of ‘personal effects’ that Gale neglected to pass onto us when he ascended. Now, two years later, His Chosen says his god is remedying this oversight, with apologies.”

“The man did not look apologetic,” Tara seethes.

“No, he did not.” Morena flicks a piece of lint off her sleeve with unbridled fury. “He looked offended to have been tasked with something so beneath him. When I asked him why it took him so long, he had the gall to tell me that the gods have more important matters to concern themselves with, and that time passes differently in Elysium. ”

You flinch. He had said the same to you, when you asked why He had been silent for six months. The man you loved was not capable of such casual callousness.

You need not to remember. You reach for the nearest box and pull out a book of recipes from Amn. You imagine him standing in the kitchen, tracing his slender fingers across its pages, his eyes intense and narrowed in focus, brown as fresh earth.

“My son was hopeless about many things. He was forever cluttering this place with a mess of trinkets and potions. Well, he did before his…affliction.”

“That certainly helped with the clutter,” Tara observes.

“That it did.” Morena sniffs. “But he was always meticulous about his books, his shelves. His correspondence. His affairs. He would never have left these things in this…state.”

She throws her hands around her in disgust.

“This Chosen. This god.” Her jaw clenches. “He makes a mockery of everything my dear boy stood for.”

She looks out the window, her chest heaving. Tara and I wait. We all have such moments, when his absence is suffocating, and it takes time to find our breaths.

“Well. I shan't bore you with the same ramblings that you’ve heard so many times before.” She laughs bitterly.  “A god’s shit is a mother’s treasure, I suppose.”

You lay a hand on hers. She pats it briskly. She clears her throat.

“Speaking of treasure.”

She scuttles away. From a nearby shelf she retrieves a small envelope, creased and stained with brown marks. She holds it out to you.

“This is marked for you. There were a few others, crossed out and scrambled up. I take it that this was the letter he would have given you, but decided not to.”

Your breath catches. You try to hide the shaking of your hand as you take the letter from her. You stare at his cursive, more jagged than usual, bearing your name. Again and again, you run your eyes over it, over the places which his lithe fingers would have touched. The letter is unopened. None of you know what it contains.

“Go on,” Tara urges. “Open it.”

“Or do you want some privacy, dear?” Morena’s hazel eyes quiver.

You shake your head. You are not sure if you are ready. But then again, you are not sure you will ever be. And you are desperate, frantic, to cling to whatever trace of him that remains.

You open it and start to read.

--------------

The tears come and come, and they do not stop. The pain surges out of you like an endless flood, and the agony is so sharp that you think you will die. You curl into yourself, keening, wailing. And still, the grief gnaws at you like a bottomless hole which you do not think you will ever escape.

But Tara shelters you with her wings. Morena holds you in her arms, sobbing silently as you weep. And when it is finally, mercifully over, you clasp his letter to your chest. You close your eyes, soaking up the smell of him that lingers all around you, in every page and book, in every rug and armchair that bore witness to the miracle of him. You reverberate with the warm tenor of his voice, speaking his last words to you from the blue-green skies of another life, a light which washes over all the shadows within you.

You open your eyes, and you begin anew.

--------------

You are standing on the docks, clasping a bag in each hand. Morena and Tara had insisted on helping you pack for the journey back to Baldur’s Gate, but there had been little for you to gather. You had sold most of your possessions, except for your daggers, your surgical implements, a couple of books. A change of clothing. The carved duck from Halsin. A teddy bear from Karlach.

You have nothing left of him except his letter. You had not thought to gather mementos when you were with him. You had given yourselves to each other so completely, you had thought you would have time enough to build a life together.

Now you must rebuild your life alone.

“Gale.”

You let yourself speak his name now. It is not a prayer, but you hope he hears you, though he is no more.

In the distance, the faintest lightning bolt dances across the yellowing sky. It is gone in the blink of an eye. You are not sure if you have imagined it.

Then the air in front of you flashes and flickers. You step back, squinting as blurred streaks of violet and brown and grey form a misty image before you. A shadow in his shape. His soft face in a hazy whirl, his chest bare and unmarked beneath a familiar and well-worn robe. You are gasping, choking. You reach towards him, grasping for his hands. But they slip through your fingers like star dust.

“I love you.” You are smiling and crying all at once. “I’ll always love you.”

It is an illusion. A vision. A figment of your imagination. It does not matter, either way.

“Goodbye, my love,” you whisper.

His smile blazes, bright as the northern lights. He dissolves into you as he fades away. Through the space he leaves behind, you gaze at his tower for the last time.

Your heart is broken and bleeding, but it still beats. You are alive.

You turn and board the ship to Baldur’s Gate.

--------------

My love,

Firstly – please forgive me the scrawled nature of this note. My handwriting is no match for the Netherbrain’s tremors. Or perhaps my hands shake of their own accord. At this juncture, it is difficult to tell.

Do not misunderstand me – I am not afraid to die. But I am afraid of what I might leave behind me. That my sacrifice might hurt you so that your life becomes an echo of my own, your chest corrupted by heartache as mine once was by the orb.

I hope and pray this is not the case – that in the time since I left you, you have lived a life full of beauty, happiness, and wonder. That is what I will picture when the time comes. Only you. You were all I ever needed.

You are calling to me – I have truly run out of time. But you will not – that I promise. When this is over, your life begins anew. Treasure it, as I treasured you. That is all I ask.

Yours forever,

Gale

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The sequel/counterpart to this fic is Absolution.

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