#if you have eyes you can see that they’re close

[pucksandpower]

Hydrate or Diedrate

Charles Leclerc x wife!Reader

Summary: after an issue with his car leaves Charles racing without water for the entire Miami Grand Prix, he wants to hydrate with something only you can give him

Warnings: 18+ content and lactation

The Miami sun beats down relentlessly as you make your way through the paddock after the race. Charles had an eventful day, managing to bring his Ferrari home in P3 despite having no water in his car for the entire Grand Prix.

You spot him being interviewed by the broadcast team, sweat still glistening on his face and his hair matted to his forehead. Though he seems coherent, you can tell he’s feeling the effects of the dehydration.

As soon as the interview wraps, you rush over and take his arm. “Come on, let’s get you out of this heat.”

Charles gives you a grateful smile. “I’m fine, I promise.”

You shake your head sternly. “Don’t give me that. You’re clearly dehydrated.” You glance around and wave over Charles’ best friend. “Can you take Jules for a bit?”

Joris nods and gladly takes your four-month-old son from your arms, expertly cradling the bundled infant. “Of course, go take care of him.”

You guide Charles into the air-conditioned Ferrari motorhome and down the hall to his driver’s room, closing and locking the door behind you. Charles immediately faceplants onto the couch with a groan.

“It was so hot out there. I could barely see straight those last few laps,” he mumbles into the cushion.

You settle onto the couch next to him, rubbing his back soothingly. “I know, I could see it on the screens. You did amazing to hang on for that P3.”

Charles rolls over onto his back, squinting up at you. “Do we have any water in here?”

“Of course.” You grab a bottle from the mini-fridge and hand it to him.

He wastes no time downing half of it in one long gulp. “Ahh, that’s better.” His eyes drift down to your chest, where your nursing bra peeks out from under your shirt. “Actually … I have an even more effective idea for rehydrating.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh? And what might that be?”

Charles sits up, a playful glint in his eyes as he sets the water bottle aside. He reaches for you, bunching the fabric of your shirt in his fists. “This.”

With one deft tug, he frees your breasts from the confines of your top. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he takes in the sight.

“You know that’s not really what they’re for, right?” You tease, trying not to get too flustered.

Charles scoots closer until your bodies are flush together. His hands roam over your chest reverentially. “I think this is the perfect use for them.”

You shiver at his touch, arousal already beginning to pool in your core. “I don’t know, they’re usually just for feeding Jules ...”

“Well, think of this as multi-purpose.” Charles leans in to press kisses along the swell of your breasts.

Despite your banter, you’re already melting under his touch. “I … ah … I suppose you could use some rehydrating.”

With a low hum of approval, Charles takes one rigid peak into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it firmly, coaxing out the first few drops of your milk.

A soft gasp escapes your lips at the wet heat of his mouth. You tangle your fingers in his sweat-damp curls to hold him close. “Charlie ...”

He only responds by increasing the suction, hungrily drawing more of your sweet essence. You bite your lip to stifle a moan as he switches to your other breast, lavishing it with the same rapt attention.

All too soon, Charles pulls back with a satisfied smack of his lips, chin and mouth glistening. “Delicious ...”

“You have no idea how hot that was,” you pant, completely transfixed by the erotic image he makes.

A cocky grin tugs at the corner of Charles’ mouth. “Oh, I think I do.” He presses his palm to the front of his race suit, making it obvious just how aroused he is. “Want to help me with this?”

“Absolutely,” you purr, pushing him back against the arm of the couch to straddle his lap.

Charles groans as you grind down against the hard bulge in his suit. “You’re a tease, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one.” You lean in to capture his lips in a heated kiss, all tongue and teeth.

One of Charles’ hands threads into your hair to angle your mouth more firmly against his. The other drifts down to grope your ass, pulling your hips flush with his.

You rock against him shamelessly, addicted to the delicious friction. He meets each grind with a roll of his own hips, quickly reducing you both to panting, needy messes.

“I want you,” Charles rasps against your lips. “Need to be inside you ...”

“Yes ...” You fumble for the zipper of his suit, desperate to free him. “God, yes, take me ...”

He surges up to kiss you again, all heat and urgency and unbridled want. You can taste the tang of your own milk on his tongue and it’s so dirty, so sinfully hot that it makes your head spin.

Finally, you manage to tug the fire-retardant fabric down far enough to free Charles’ straining erection. He hisses at the friction of your hand on his bare length.

“Hurry, mon amour,” he pleads, deft fingers already working to divest you of your underwear. “Need to be inside you ...”

No sooner is the scrap of lace pushed aside than Charles is guiding himself to your entrance. You sink down in one endless slide, stretching deliciously around his girth to take him to the hilt.

“Fuck ...” He bucks up into you with a choked groan.

You whimper at the exquisite fullness, rolling your hips to take him even deeper. Already you can feel the tight heat beginning to gather low in your belly.

Charles grips your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding your movements as you start to bounce on his length. His head falls back against the couch with a thump, mouth falling open in ecstasy.

“You feel so incredible,” he pants, meeting your thrusts with shallow rolls of his own hips. “So hot, so tight ...”

“Only for you,” you gasp out between moans, bracing your hands on his heaving chest.

He slides one calloused palm up to toy with your neglected breast, rolling the stiff peak between his fingertips. You cry out at the new stimulation, walls fluttering around him.

“Going to come just like this,” Charles grunts, increasing the pace. “Make such a mess of you.”

The thought of him painting you with his release has you clenching down hard. You ride him with wild abandon now, chase that electric high.

Charles leans up to suckle at your other breast, drinking you down greedily even as his hips snap up to meet yours. “Yes, just like that, fuck!”

With a broken shout, your orgasm slams into you like a freight train. Every muscle locked rigid, toes curled, as molten bliss washes over you in waves. Charles follows a beat later, still thrusting fitfully as he spills deep inside you with a guttural growl.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your harsh pants mingling together as you float down from your highs. Charles peppers sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and neck, gradually gentling the movement of your joined bodies.

“Incredible,” he murmurs against your salty skin. “Absolutely incredible.”

You hum in satiated agreement, nosing at his hairline. Eventually you pull back far enough to take in his thoroughly debauched state — hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red.

So beautifully wrecked because of you.

“Feeling rehydrated now?” You can’t resist teasing.

Charles lets out a breathless chuckle, warm palms sliding up and down your back. “More than I could have ever imagined.”

But the sound of the door opening makes you both freeze.

“Oh mon dieu!” Joris exclaims with a bark of laughter, looking thoroughly amused as he stands in the doorway cradling Jules. “I was just coming to return your son, but it looks like you two are already hard at work on the next one!”

You yelp and scramble to cover yourself as Charles groans in embarrassment, burying his rapidly reddening face against your chest.

Joris is already backing out of the room, Jules blissfully unaware as he continues chuckling to himself. “Never mind, never mind! I’ll just leave you lovebirds to it ...”

The door clicks shut and you can’t help but dissolve into nervous giggles against Charles’ shoulder. He joins in, the rumble of his laughter vibrating between your bodies.

“Well, that was mortifying,” he says once you’ve both calmed down some.

“At least Jules is too young to understand.” You press your smile to Charles’ hair. “Though Joris is never going to let us live that down.”

Charles groans again, but you can see the beginnings of a sheepish grin. “I don’t even care. That was more than worth the embarrassment.”

He tightens his embrace around you, settling in to simply enjoy the closeness for a while longer. You’re inclined to agree — a little teasing is a small price to pay for such blissful rehydration.

[reiderwriter]

So obviously Spencer is iconic for his wide range of haircuts over the show, and I have this vision of a Spencer x hairdresser fic where he goes to the same hairdresser all the time because he likes the routine and it’s what he’s used to. So like they’re low-key friends bc he’s been her client so long, but then she notices he can’t come as usual and he tells her it’s because he’s always away or working late. So because they’re close she gives him private late appointments after she closes bc they’re more accessible for him, and then they’re always together late at night, and eventually they fall for each other!! And like she loves his curls and cringed when he wanted it cut short but loves it regardless AHH I JUST LOVE IT. Bonus points if Spencer gets to recommend his hairdresser girlfriend to his teammates just to brag about the fact he has a hot girlfriend lmao. I get it’s kinda long lol, if it’s too long a premise then no worries, just sharing it is nice :)

A/N: Hi! I love the idea of hair stylist reader, so I had a lot of fun writing this~♡ Thank you for your request, I hope you enjoy it!

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: implied Autistic Reid, brief mentions of sensory issues, writer does not care for the shows Canon hair continuity and does basically whatever she wants.

Masterlist

The first time you'd met Spencer Reid, you hadn't been able to cut his hair. Which was a damn shame because it really did need cutting. 

Sweeping up the floors of the hair salon you worked at, you had noticed the man lingering outside, wringing his hands together and pushing them awkwardly through his hair, approaching and retreating every few seconds. 

You watched him through the mirrors, and let him dance around like that for five minutes before deciding that the evening breeze would be a boon during the hot summer night that was about to set in on you. 

Opening the salon door, you stepped outside and soaked in the fresh air before turning to the now frozen, slightly awkward man. 

“Can I help you?” You tried to put a welcoming smile on your face, but the salon was past closing and empty beside you. You should've been heading home by now, but something in the man's posture had you dawdling.

“The barber shop down the road closed down,” he said quickly, as if the words were practised on his to guess moments before. 

“Yes, that's true. It's been six months now.”

“Six months?” he squeaked out, running a hand through his hair as he turned inwards. 

“Do you… need a haircut?” 

“Yes. Yes, are there any other barber shops in the area?” 

You rolled your eyes and walked back into the salon, picking up a robe and a shoulder cover and spinning around the closest chair to welcome him. 

“Well, are you coming in?” 

“But you're closed. Your sign says you're closed.” 

“And I'm still here, aren't I?” 

He didn't argue any further and hesitantly stepped into the salon. 

You helped him out of his bag and put it away before helping him into the robe and shoulder pad. 

He awkwardly stood around as you prepared your scissors and station again, switching on the mirror light so you could fully see his face and hair. 

And damn was he attractive. As you smoothed his hair out of his face, you were met with warm brown eyes, open and anxious, like a deer caught in headlights. Or, more accurately, a dear caught in a hair salon. 

You had to blink and look away as you remembered what you were about, standing up and leading him over to the sink. 

“I'm… I'm a little bit sensitive about my hair,” he admitted quite meekly as you tested the temperature of the water. 

“Okay. Is there anything specific?” 

He sat himself in the chair but didn't lower his head to the bowl, so you waited. 

After a minute or two, he gently lowered his head to the bowl, and you helped his progress, making sure he was comfortably settled. He didn't speak, just let his shoulders relax and closed his eyes as you turned the water on his locks. 

You enjoyed the simple repetitions of your job. Everyone's hair was different, that was true, but there were really only so many ways to wash hair. 

You rinsed his hair thoroughly, keeping the water away from his face and ears with a face guard before beginning to lather it up. 

For a man who hadn't seen the inside of a salon in six months and likely a hairbrush in the same length of time, his hair was healthy. 

De-tangling as you went, you ran your hands through the lengths of his hair, taking note of how it fell, which parts were healthy, and which had developed split ends. Then you began massaging his head, working the shampoo into his roots, making sure his scalp was free from any possible dirt or dry skin. 

This was the best part of the haircut for you, and you knew your regular clients enjoyed it greatly as well. Which is why you probably shouldn't have been too surprised when the man fell asleep. 

It took you a few minutes to realize that was what happened, the face guard obscuring his face from your vision. When you squeezed the water from his hair, patted it dry, and twisted it into a towel so the water wouldn't run down his back, you had no clue that he was away with the fairies. 

It wasn't until you asked him to stand, and he didn't even move that you moved around the sink and lifted the face guard. 

If he seemed anxious awake, it had melted away now. He looked younger asleep, more calm and confident somehow. His eyelashes were long, a fact you only noticed when you leaned in to get a better look at him. 

It was your hand unconsciously tracing a hand along his jaw that woke him back up, and for a second, you just stared at each other, faces inches apart. 

“I'm.. I'm so sorry, I should go. Thank you for… I should go,” he said hurriedly, pulling the robes and towels off and snatching his bag up, running out the door. 

“Wait, your hair,” you called after him, but he was gone. 

And he hadn't paid. 

It took a week for you to collect the payment, though you couldn't care less about the money anyway. 

But a week thinking about the man's delicate features, his shy smile and stutter, and you were very distracted. 

Thinking about him had become your full-time job, as much as cutting hair had, and you'd had a few close encounters with the scissors when you were lost in thought. 

You'd been thinking up back stories for the man ranging from the romantic to the obscure to the downright realistic. So, a week later, you found yourself behind on work and needing to stay late, just as he stepped into the shop a second time. 

“Hello?” You shouted from the backroom, hearing the doorbell jingle as it opened. “We're actually closed right now, so- oh.” 

He stood awkwardly in the door, his face already flushed slightly. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi,” you said, trying to stop the grin spreading across your face. You didn't want to scare him off a second time. 

“Last time, I… kinda ran away. I was… I'm not the best with-” 

“With haircuts?” 

“With change.” You both nodded at that, awkwardly staring at each other. 

“So…?” You lead, trying to encourage him to introduce himself, hoping he would reveal something you didn't already know. 

“You're closed again, but could you cut my hair?” He asked, pushing the long locks back on his head as he stood a little taller. 

“It would be my pleasure…” you trailed off as a question, needing to know his name. 

“Spencer. Spencer Reid. Doctor… just Spencer is fine if you'd prefer.” 

“I'm Y/N. Come and take a seat.” 

You slid him into the robes once again and got through a hair wash without any accidental naps this time. Though you did notice that he seemed to be enjoying it just as much. 

His sighs left you feeling hot, your heart beating as you focused on his hair to draw your gaze from his lips. 

When he was back I'm front of the mirror, he again looked like a scared cat that had been backed into the corner. 

“So, what'll it be, Spencer?” You asked cheerily, combing your hand through his locks to detangle them. 

“Hmm? Oh, a water would be nice.” 

“For your hair, Spencer. What haircut do you want?” 

“Oh! Oh, um, just a…just a haircut.” 

Your face scrunched up in confusion as he doubled down. 

“But what kind of haircut?” 

“What kind?” 

You pulled away from his chair for a minute and went to grab a cut reference book. 

“Okay, so we've got undercuts, or trims, I can do pompadour or bowl cut or-” 

You looked at Spencer's face again and saw that he looked more than confused. 

“How about I just cut your hair and after you tell me if you like it or not?” 

He nodded and gave you a weak smile as you grabbed your scissors. 

Twenty minutes of silence later, and you felt Spencer exhale in relief as you dusted off the back of his neck and pulled the robes off of his clothes. 

You'd gone for a shorter cut, but his curly hair had such a nice natural texture that you left it a bit longer on top. Without his hair in his face, his jawline was sharper, his eyes brighter, and you were somehow more infatuated. 

He stood up shyly and you smiled at how good he looked. 

“Okay, perfect! Let me just-” You lifted your hand and smoothed out some of his hair, picking up some strands and pushing them back and forth until it was just right. 

He caught your hand just as you were about to pull away, and you suddenly realized how close he was. Or more accurately how close you had gotten. It was like you were breathing the same air. 

“D-Do you like it?” You asked, voice small and high as it battled your heartbeat to be heard. 

“Yeah. I like it. It looks… it looks like a haircut.” 

You giggled as his grip became gentler, and your hand fell down to your side, brushing his chest gently as it descended. 

“How much do I owe you?” He asked, and you led him over to the register to complete the payment. 

“Thank you,” he said as he grabbed his bags to head out the door. 

“Just doing my job. I'll see you in six weeks,” you said, waving him off. 

“What for?” He asked, voice confused but bright. He sounded almost hopeful. 

“For your next haircut, Spencer.” 

He smiled and waved back as he walked back into the dark and disappeared down the street. 

No one could ever accuse Spencer Reid of being forgetful, and six weeks later, he was back in your chair. 

Except he didn't arrive at 11pm this time, but instead 11am. 

The other customers and stylists gawked at the man as he walked in, and you thanked the gods that your seat was free as he met your eyes. 

“Hi.” 

“Spencer! You're back.” 

He nodded shyly, head hanging a little as he ignored the many looks from the women in the room and the eruption of whispers and loud glances in his direction. 

“It's been six weeks. You said that's when I'd need another haircut.” 

You laughed a little as you pulled the robe around him. 

“You know, I say that every time, but most people ignore me. I love a man who can follow directions.” 

The eruption of red on his cheeks left you feeling suddenly tongue tied, and you carefully redirected the conversation back to the task at hand. 

“Same again, Doc?” You asked, readying your spray bottle and supplies. 

“Actually, could we, ah, go shorter this time?” Hesmiled sheepishly and watched as you ran your fingers through his tangled hair. 

“My boss, last time, said I looked like I joined a boyband, so…” 

“Your boss at the hospital?” You asked, clinging to every detail you could get from him. 

“The hospital?” 

“You said you were a Doctor, do you work in a lab instead or-”

“Oh. No, I work at the FBI. I'm not a medical doctor, I have a PhD. I have three, Chemistry, Engineering, and Mathematics.” 

You whistled. “Impressive. You can't be older than 30.” 

“I'm 29.” He said, smiling at you in the mirror, and you smiled back, hands still running through his hair. 

“So, no boy band haircuts, okay. For what it's worth, though, you look totally hot.” 

The words cut the conversation short, and you tried your best to take the words back as you went off to the sides to grab your sheers. 

Half an hour later, and you could swear that half the salon had given up pretending to be doing their jobs and were just awkwardly ogling the man. If the shorter “boyband” hair was good, the undercut you'd done for him was even better. 

You turned him around to get a closer look, using the excuse of making sure his hair was symmetrical enough to stare at him some more as you got closer to finishing. 

“Okay,” you said with a sad sigh. “You're all finished, Spencer. Let's get you rung up.” 

He nodded and followed you quickly, pulling out his wallet as he paid quietly. 

“Okay. And I'll see you tomorrow,” you said, as he picked up his bags to leave. 

“Tomorrow? I thought you said it was six weeks between haircuts.” 

“It is. But it's also my day off tomorrow, so I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner. With me.” 

He blinked at you once. Then twice, and another time before smiling and looking away. 

“Okay. See you tomorrow, Y/N.” 

He ran a hand through his hair and nearly walked into the door he was trying to walk through, but your heart still fluttered as you waved him out. 

[karinasbaby]

enha hyung line — 𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐒? (17+)

P. fem!reader x hyung line ┆ㅤW. making out, unprotected sex, spanking, praising, dacryphilia, jay is a teeny tiny bit rough, boob play, lots of ass appreciation, they’re all horny. ┆ㅤWC. 1.3k ┆ㅤA,N. this was very entertaining & fun to make so enjoy :] !!

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ | feedback & reblogs r greatly appreciated :D ! enjoy & have a wonderful day / night <3

— ass for days baby.

⌇JAY 𓅓 | ASS SIMP ! i’ve yet to see a video of this man where he isn’t slapping someone’s ass randomly. don’t get me wrong he would love your tits but he genuinely can’t keep his hands off your ass. one of his favourite positions is doggy style for a reason ofc !!

۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ ᳝ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ

jay’s hand landed against your sensitive for the third time just this night, his thrusts becoming irregular as his movements began to turn sloppy, a clear indication of how close he was.

he had one hand pushing your neck further into the pillows, the soft fabric collecting all of your pleasured tears along with your moans while jay pounded into you from behind, his other hand gripping onto your hips tightly when they weren’t slapping against your skin.

“i’m so close, baby” he moaned from behind you, his nails gradually digging into your skin while his voice barely reached your ears as they started ringing the second you felt your fourth release right around the corner, the feeling of his tip brushing against all of your sweet spots along with his tight hold on your body had you seeing stars.

you couldn’t answer him, voice gone from your previous rounds with him as his stamina unexpectedly improved day by day with him fucking you dumb against the bed, but who was to blame him when he was seconds away from losing his mind at the sight of your ass meeting his thrusts. the sight of your skin jiggling with each harsh thrust sent him over the edge easily.

and with his hand landing against your skin and his tip pressed against your cervix one last time, he groaned out your name as he filled you up completely, eyes rolling to the back of his skull while his hips involuntarily kept moving against yours, unraveling yourself for him again when he kept fucking his cum deeper inside of you.

⌇HEESEUNG 𐂂 | both? BOAF. he falls into a grey area for me when it comes to whether he’ll choose ass or tits bcs this man is in love. don’t make him question what he loves more because he’s obsessed & in love with both very equally. can’t go a day without his hands on your ass or his face smothered in your tits, he’s a weak man ! what can i say.

۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ ᳝ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ

heeseung had you on his lap, his back pushed against the headboard of your shared bed with your legs spread besides his own, your mixed arousal with his dripped down from between your inner thighs, undoubtedly forming a small puddle on the sheets but that for sure wasn’t your concern at that moment.

not when heeseung had one hand on your lower back, softly pushing you against his chest and deepening the arch of it as his other hand was kneading your ass while also guiding your hips in riding him, and of course his hot, wet mouth was latched onto your breast, gently sucking and biting every now and then.

he continued pressing his body against yours, hot skin to skin while he edged both of you further into your release, your soft whimpers and moans of his name right next to his ear matched with his own groans against your chest, he always favoured this position not only because it gave him perfect access to his favourite parts about you, it also gave him easy access to control the pace of his thrusting from under you, just like how he suddenly began to pound into you from beneath.

your legs twitched besides his as your hands grabbed onto his shoulders for support, your orgasm mere seconds away from washing over your body with the way heeseung was fucking you.

both of you were getting drunk on the feeling of eachother, heeseung was gone. senses overtaken with the feeling and taste of you everywhere on him and he loved it. especially with the way your gummy, wet walls were sucking him in entirely, and before he could warn you about it he was filling you up completely, nails digging into your skin while his sucking on your nipple slowly softened before he finally lifted his flushed face towards you and smiled.

⌇SUNGHOON ❆ | ass & boobs loser… but mainly boobs. (sometimes) i’m a firm believer that hoon is very experimental, so he’s always open to trying different things out which always end up with him discovering a new kink, but he’ll always favour your boobs & ass over everything else ! (ur neck & thighs & chest all tie in the second place but that’s a convo for a diff day)

۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ ᳝ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ

one thing sunghoon absolutely adored about your body was how perfect and warm it felt against his. feeling the curve of your ass against his hips while he slowly thrusted into you was amazing. but holding you so close to him with his chest pressed against your back, arms wrapped around your waist with his fingers toying with your nipples while both of you laid sideways? was divine.

and the cherry on top for him? was the moment when you softly whimpered his name sleepily followed by your walls squeezing his large length in between them. he was leaking inside of you, his neediness and desperation to feel you in every way possible was evident in the way he was practically holding himself back from clawing at your skin.

“fuck baby.. just like that” your whispered praises always fuelled him on and you knew the effect they had on him. he picked up the pace, his skin softly slapping against yours while he fucked you deeply and fully into an orgasm, his head spinning the louder your moans of his name got, each syllable going straight to his dick that was pulsing and twitching with your walls sucking him in further.

he pushed his teeth into your shoulder, the pain of his fangs sinking slightly into your skin was long forgotten when your climax finally washed over your body, your grip on the sheets under you tightened when sunghoon also came undone with the way your walls were milking him, the broken whispers of his name and praises pushing him further into his hazy mindset when he began to fuck you both into overstimulation.

⌇JAKE 𓃦 | ur boobs r magical to him. he gets drunk on the taste of you on his tongue, doesn’t matter if it’s in a sexual or non-sexual context, his oral fixation goes crazy whenever he sees you in a tight shirt that accentuates your tits perfectly or when you don’t wear a bra, his pupils literally turn into small hearts. he’s so puppy coded :(

۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ ᳝ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ

“can you give me another one, baby? pretty please?” jaeyun whimpered on top of you, lifting himself off from your chest just to beg you to give him another orgasm, both of you were beyond exhausted at this point but neither of you could just stop. “just one last time, angel i promise.” he whispered, his lips quickly finding your swollen nipple again while his hips continued to piston into you.

he had your twitching legs atop his shoulders, his body pressed as close as possible against yours as he had to feel every inch of your skin against his, his mind felt like it was melting down when he still couldn’t bring himself to get off of you even after he made both of you climax three times just in the past hour.

“i c-cant-“ you whined, fresh streams of tears running down your skin when jaeyun pushed you into another round of overstimulation, your walls were gushing around him as he moulded you to his shape while he kept leaking inside of you, your moans gradually turned into sobs that were quietened by jaeyun’s soft kisses and praises against your chest before his lips latched onto your other nipple, nibbling and sucking gently while his tip practically made out with your cervix.

he had a few visible bite marks around your breasts, especially on the underside of them when he couldn’t help himself with his intense releases, not when your supple and soft skin was basically calling for him to mark, bite and suck. jaeyun’s glossy eyes rolled to the back of his skull when he felt another release approaching.

his length thrusting impossibly deeper while he kept brushing against all of your sweet spots with every movement, jaeyun lifted his head and kissed all of your tears away once his orgasm washed over him, his kisses turning more feverish with whines and praises spilling past his lips as he filled you up, hands tenderly massaging your breast while he continued to fuck his cum into you, slowly pushing you into another climax with his deep and steady strokes.

— later that day:

yn: why do u like my boobs sm :/?

jake: i’m glad you asked baby

jake: ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊၊||၊|။||||||။၊|• 1:47:39

a,note 2. reading this a month later after it sat away in my drafts… i might need to write a revamped version of this ngl 😞

[moonstruckme]

For have a bonfire 🌺

James Potter + angst (comfort at the end) + reader who keeps up this perfectionist persona but James accidentally sees them break down :(

(I'm in dire need of comfort angst it's actually not even funny anymore)

Thanks for requesting!

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

James doesn’t know what he’s doing, following you like this. It’s creepy, probably, but there’s just something about your demeanor today that’s not sitting right with him. 

Your party’s great. You’ve made fun drinks and more snacking foods than anyone can eat, been migrating from group to group to make sure everyone is introduced and comfortable, struck that delicate balance in temperature so that Remus isn’t too warm but Sirius isn’t too cold, you’re the perfect hostess. But there’s something about you, in you, that feels off to him. 

You pass the bathroom, going into your room and shutting the door behind you. You want to be alone, clearly. James should respect that. 

He knocks softly so as not to startle you. Waits a few moments, then says your name. 

“Yeah?” There it is again, that wrongness. It’s your voice, and yet it doesn’t sound entirely like you. “Is everything okay?” 

Is it? he wonders. “Yeah,” he says, “can I come in?” 

“Do you need something?” You sound embarrassed to be asking. It’s not really in your nature to deny anyone anything. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

James should go. He should, but his blood is thrumming in his fingertips. He asks, “Are you okay?” 

Silence from the other side of the door. 

He tries the handle. It moves. “Hey, I’m coming in, alright? Shout if you’re naked or something.” 

When the quiet persists, he opens the door. You’re slumped on your bed, fingertips pressing harshly into your face and your eyes pinched shut. The air in James’ lungs goes stale. 

You open your eyes to look at him, and they’re wet, not quite red but getting there. You say in a hushed voice, “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” James says automatically, closing the door softly behind him. Then, “What do you have to be sorry for? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” You give him a watery smile, waving a hand like this state he’s found you in is irrelevant. Laughable. “I don’t mean to take you away from things.” 

“You’re not, angel.” James crosses the distance to you slowly, giving you time to signal for him to stop. When you don’t he eases onto the bed beside you. The mattress dips, making his hip slide until it’s touching yours. “I wanted to come see you. What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” You try to laugh, but twin tears escape from the corners of your eyes, undermining the effort. You catch them before they can get far. “Do you think everyone is having a good time?” 

Your voice nearly cracks on the last word, and James’ heart completes the act. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. You squeeze your eyes shut as if his caring stings. “Can I hug you?” 

Your nod is mute and stiff enough that James doesn’t fully trust you mean it. He wraps his arms around you tentatively, only pulling you to his chest when you turn into him, letting your face wet his neck. 

“Everyone’s having a great time,” he answers honestly, thumb sweeping over your shoulder. “If you’re not, though, we can go home. You don’t have to do all this if you’re not feeling up to it.” 

“No,” you say thickly, worming a hand between you to rub cruelly at your eyes. “No, I don’t want to be a nuisance.” 

“You wouldn’t be.” James holds you closer, his body obeying some futile wish to protect you from whatever makes you think things like that. Your face is warm against his shoulder, the slow dampness seeping into his collar evidence that your upset hasn’t dissipated. “It’s your party, you shouldn’t need to cater to everyone when you’re not even getting to enjoy it yourself. We’re being nuisances to you, really.” 

“No you’re not.” Your rebuttal comes quick and ardent, a knee-jerk reaction. You ease away from James’ chest, wiping under your nose. He lets his arms fall to your waist but keeps you in their circle. “You’re my friends, you could never be nuisances to me.” 

He smiles. “You seem to be catching on.” 

Your expression remains solemn. Guilty. “I just feel like…” Your gaze flees downward. James doesn’t give chase, letting you have what space you can. “I think that if I’m not being useful, I’d probably be more trouble than I’m worth. Maybe more of a nuisance than people think.” 

For a second, James can only look at you, any placations or assurances drying up on his tongue. Despite your best efforts, your upset has left little pools of makeup underneath your eyes, and your shoulders are hunched inward like you want to hide this part of yourself. Which you do, obviously. If James hadn’t pried his way in here you would have had your cry in private, probably rejoined the party with a pasted-on smile, back in your role as the perfect hostess and ready to please everyone again. He wonders how many times it’s happened. 

All day James has been thinking you’re not yourself, but maybe he was putting that pressure on you too, to be the self that made things easy for everyone. Put-together, palatable. Perfect. 

“You think we care how useful you are?” he asks, smoothing a hand up your side to cup your neck. He doesn’t force you to turn your face up to his, but you’re amenable to it, following the motion of his thumb on your jaw. “You’re our friend, too. We care about you, not what you can do for us.” 

Your face pinches and then crumples, and James pulls you into his chest again, making half-desperate shushing sounds while he pats your back. 

“Sorry,” you squeak. “I’m trying not to—” 

“Hey, don’t be sorry, angel, okay?” James turns his face into your hair, kissing the side of your head and not letting himself think about what that might mean to either one of you. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ve got you.” The tension seems to slip from your shoulders, and then they’re shaking properly. You wrap your arms around his middle. “It’s okay,” he promises, gathering you closer. “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

[irndad]

kiss me (under the milky twilight)- s.r.

a/n: this took so long and i'm so sorry! based on this post- reader has an ex that she keeps running back to, and spencer just wants her to see him. fake dating and hijinks ensue. VERY long. 4.6k words!! thanks to @fadingplaidtrashpatrol for ur thoughts and ideas!! masterlist // ask

The unraveling begins on a Friday. 

This is one of the rare Fridays where a full weekend is staring back at them, and Spencer is immeasurably pleased at his plans. He’s rented a Russian old movie, and his best friend had agreed to sit next to him on his shitty old couch while he whispers translations in real-time.

He loves spending time with her, a little hedonistically. She’s so kind, warm in both spirit and disposition, and Spencer treasures the time he gets to spend with her. Her desk adjoins his, and so one might assume that he could tire of her presence, but there’s something a little addicting about her, something he tries to have as often as he can. 

On this fine evening, she’s wearing an oversized sweater tucked into jeans- her position is mainly out of the field, and so she takes full advantage of the dress-code flexibility. Lovely earrings hang around her face, adorning her lovely features like a frame. 

Spencer’s more than a little in love with her. 

This has never really been a convenient fact, but Spencer’s used to wanting things he can’t have. And it was never really feasible not to want her- anyone who’s ever been in her presence would know this. It’s a foreign feeling, looking over at someone he’s lucky enough to know, and wanting them enough for that desire to turn into fantasy. 

“Spencer!” She greets him warmly, standing up to do so- if this wasn’t a workplace, if she was meeting him at the cafe like they do on Wednesdays, or his home, like she often finds herself in whenever he invites her, Spencer is certain she would wrap her arms around him in an incredibly warm hug. 

Because they are in the BAU, she believes it is inappropriate to embrace this way (which Spencer would argue isn’t true, given the way Morgan and Penelope are with each other, but if he told her that, it might be a little too obvious how desperate he is for her to touch him.)

The way she beams at him almost makes up for the fact that he doesn’t get to hug her. 

“I got you something,” he says in lieu of a response, clutching the bag of muffins in one hand. He’d woken up early to get her to stop by her favorite bakery, and it was worth it to see that look on her face. No one’s in the office now, the day long finished, and they’re getting ready to walk to his place. He lives so close by, and he’s grateful for this fact when they walk together back to his place. 

She grabs the bag, and he’s just so endeared by her, the giddy expression written over her lovely face.

“Have I mentioned that I love you? Because I do. You need to marry me, immediately.” She says to him, eyes closed in bliss, and even though she’s clearly joking, Spencer finds himself preening at her praise- wouldn’t it be incredible if she meant that? It sounds so pretty in her voice. I love you. 

He beams back at her, in a way he hopes doesn’t betray how much he wants. 

“I’m glad you like them,” he says back, his heart in his throat. 

“I have some news that you are going to be incredibly mad at me about.” She says, and a crumb is on her painted lip, and fantasy of kisses that he cannot have enters Spencer’s mind before he can shake it away.

“I could never be mad at you.”

“I think I have to raincheck tonight,” she says almost sadly, her voice apologetic, as though she has no choice in the matter.

“Is everything okay?”

He had picked up her favorite snacks yesterday night, tidied up his apartment top to bottom. 

“Josh texted me- he’s going through something and he needs me to come over-“

“He doesn’t need you to come over.” 

He rarely interrupts her, and he usually isn’t capable of being upset with her. He’s not really even upset with her now, but this is so exhausting, watching her deal with this asshole. 

It is a continuous surprise to Spencer that someone like her can be in a position like this.

Through Spencer’s eyes, the idea that anyone can not be in love with her is almost an impossibility. It’s not even his bias alone that makes him think this- it’s the truth of her. 

Josh is an asshole finance bro who works in the city center, and Spencer hates him more than most serial killers. 

He’s fucking careless with the thing Spencer wants the most in the world. Josh knows what it’s like to be with her, to be the person to falls asleep with her in his arms.  

Sometimes when Spencer can’t sleep, which is quite often, he pictures her soft cheek on her chest, pictures what she would feel like entwined with his own body, legs tangled with his and her fingers in his hair. It’s a sacred thing, this image- even though it isn’t real, Spencer knows he values the imagination of her presence more than Josh gives his attention to the real thing. 

They’ve “gotten together” and “broken up” and “started talking again” about 12 times respectively.

Spencer could kill him.

“Spence,” she sighs, shaking him out of his angry stupor, “please don’t be mad at me. He’s really going through something right now- he needs someone to be around. Besides,” she breathes out, “I can’t dump him. 

“Why is that?” He tries to temper his tone, but the memory of her mascara running down her cheeks as she sobs in his arms shoots through his mind, and manifests as a physical sharp pain in his chest. 

“That wedding is coming up,” she murmurs, looking down at her shoes. They’re scuffed, and Spencer thinks she might be embarrassed. Why should she be? He’s the asshole. “I told people I was going to have a date. Do you know how many people are going to be there, Spence? How many people are expecting me to bring my boyfriend?”

Her best friend is getting married. Spencer knows this because she’s told him, and told him gleefully when Josh had agreed to go with her. Spencer remembers thinking that he’d like to punch a wall.

Anyway. 

She’s the last of her friend group that’s not in a long term relationship, and in some twisted way, he kind of gets how Josh would be better than nothing, if you didn’t want to be seen as alone. 

“You don’t want to go alone.”

“Yeah, Spence.”

“I could go with you.”

It escapes his mouth without his permission, and he regrets it almost instantly. Because there’s no fucking way she’d go with him. He’s lanky and awkward and his blazers never fit and his ties are always tied wrong, and she’s beautiful and wonderful in ways he finds new ways to see everyday. He’s not a solution to her being worried about how she’s seen, he’d only make it worse-

“You would do that for me?” Her voice is small as she asks, and it shakes him out of his thoughts. He looks down at her, eyes softening at her lovely face. She looks touched, and he has to wonder, doesn’t she know?

He’d do anything for her. 

“Of course,” he breathes out, a nervous hand playing with the strap of his bag, “If it gets you to stop giving that asshole the time of day, I’d do it a million times.”

Her face shifts in a way he can’t read, and she swallows. 

“I can’t let you do that.”

“I want to,” he says, “Please. It would be fun, C’mon. You’re always saying I need to get out there and do things.”

“Being my fake boyfriend at my friend’s wedding is not getting out there and doing things,” she pouts, and his heart nearly jumps. It’s pathetic, but hearing her refer to him as her any kind of boyfriend is intoxicating. He wants to hear it, over and over. 

“It’ll be fun,” he says, touching her hand as it rests on the table, making intentional eye contact. She has been prettiest eyes. “C’mon, let me do this for you. I’m sick of this guy.”

She gulps again, an endearingly confusing gesture, and he finds the feeling a little desperate. Pick me, choose to be with me, even if it’s just pretend. 

“He’s going to be there anyway,” she breathes out biting her lip in a nervous gesture, “I- I’d owe you so much, Spence. It would make him jealous, I think.”

It’s a little hedonistic, how much he would enjoy that, he thinks. Someone would see her as his girl. He knows she might be doing this to get Josh’s attention, but still- the evening together seems like too lovely of a thing to turn down- too wonderful of a chance to not offer. He’d take a night of pretend over never getting to be with her at all. 

It’s enough to make him ignore that making Josh jealous is probably the reason she’s saying yes. 

“Okay, okay! Spencer, will you do me the honor of taking me to Julie’s wedding?”

“I would be honored. 

The weeks approaching the wedding are a bit of sweet torture. She’d had the idea that they could practice, whatever that meant, and the memory of it lives in his mind rent free. They’d been watching the movie, already touchier than most would allow of best friends. (She’s his best, Spencer’s just the tiniest bit resentful of Julie). 

She’d been sitting next to him on his worn out couch, her legs thrown across his, and true to his word, he was whispering the translation along to the movie. She smiled at him, watching his mouth move instead of the movie, and he felt tingly under her stare. How wonderful and bright it is, to be under her gaze. He kept speaking even though she wasn’t watching, because he imagines that if he stops, she might look away. 

Then, she had held his hand. 

Grabbed it really, fingers lacing with his own, and Spencer’s brain had short circuited. She has soft hands, he had thought to himself, and it was about the only thing he could manage to think. 

“We should practice,” she had whispered, even though it was just the two of them in the lowlight of his home, “Y’know, so people believe us.”

He didn’t say that he’s pretty sure no one needed to be convinced he’s in love with her. 

“Sure,” he had nodded, and squeezed her hand, “I think that’s a great idea.”

So they’ve been practicing. 

This has been in equal measures wonderful and torturous. She walks with him to work on half the days, with her fingers twined with his own, and Spencer finds it intoxicating that any passerby would assume he belongs to her. 

More than he already does, anyway. 

Her affection is her own, just turned up to 11. She’s gorgeous- this is a fact that was not instrumental in his love of her, but ornamental- still, this is hard to ignore when she touches him as much as she does now. When she’s out with the team at the bar, she rests her hand on the small of his back- he preens every time at this. This is simple, her domesticity, her claiming his presence as her own- it’s more than nice, Spencer realizes. It’s wonderful, to be wanted by her. Even if it’s not real.

On this night, they’re celebrating. They caught the unsub before he’d been able to kill his first victim. This is a rarity in their field, and she’d given the interview that had gotten the confession. It’s the closest to field work she’d gotten, and they’re all celebrating their win. Her win. 

She looks like a figment of imagination, lovely in a way he literally cannot believe he didn’t conjure up in fantasy. Her favorite song is playing out of pure serendipity, and Spencer likes that word for her. She is serendipitous as a whole. 

“Do you want something to drink, honey?” The endearment feels warm and natural as it comes out of his mouth. His hand is resting on the small of her waist, and he knows he’s being egregious with the practice thing. But this is so nice, her leaning into him, one drink deep and touchier than she is tipsy, and he loves this. He loves that under this pretense, he gets to know what she feels like in his arms. 

He hands her the water before she gets to answer, and she happily sips it. 

“Are you proud of me, Spence?” Her voice is immeasurably fond and he drinks it in like a man starved. 

“Of course,” he smiles at her. I’m always proud of you, he thinks. “You did so well, love.”

He’s not used to endearments, but she showers him in them. Before their little pretending, too. Called him dove, honey, darling. Packed an emergency lunch in his go bag in case he forgot his. She’s such a good friend, and he wants to be her lover more with each breath. 

He tries to return them, now. 

“Good,” she says serenely, looking at him in a way that kills him, because he will never, ever kiss her. She can hold him, and look at him like that, and he will never get to be with her, “I think my cider is too sour,” she scrunches her nose, and his heart swoops. 

“I’ll get you something sweeter, baby.”

“Yeah you will!” He hears Morgan laugh, and he flushes bright red. No one seems surprised, by how touchy they’d been. Even Hotch- he’d expected a talk, but then got a stern nod of understanding in its stead. 

She sips the sweet drink he got her, a little cherry on the step, and he thinks he’d do anything to keep looking at her. 

Five weeks to the wedding. 

He can do this. 

“Could you do me a favor, Garcia? I come bearing gifts.” 

Spencer’s snuck into her office- there’s not much to do today, but she hadn’t wanted to take PTO for no reason, so here she is, in her feathered and pink glory. 

“Is that a hot chocolate? From Dominicks? Ooh, you play dirty, Dr. Reid.” Penelope almost squeals, and despite his nefarious purposes, he finds himself joyful- it’s alwaysgood to talk to her. 

After a joyful, eyes closed and serene sip, she asks, “Alright, my sweet furry friend, what can I do for you?”

“Could you check on a Josh Collins for me?”

“Isn’t that your girl’s ex?”

“No,” Heat rises to his cheeks, before he can help it. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Oh, and my favorite color is black.” Penelope scoffs back, but begins typing furiously anyway. 

He needs to know what is so fascinating about this guy. Because lately he can’t figure it out. He’s always fucking hated the guy, even though he’s never met him. He never had to- she’d shown up enough times at Spencer’s door crying, been broken up with and brought back enough to know that this guy is awful. Doesn’t even come close to deserving the woman that she is. 

“He’s a financial analyst at a Marketing firm, went to state school for his Bachelor’s, says here that he played football in college, but I don’t think they met until after,” she says, “Oh, he has a scuba license. And skydiving! Looks like he’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie.”

It’s an evil thought. Is that what she likes? He finds it hard to imagine, picturing the moments where she’s wrapped up in his arms on a movie night- that always seemed to be her preference. In, not out. 

“Is that him?”

There’s a picture of him on Penelope’s screen. Josh is chiseled and strong, smiling brightly in a polo on a jet ski- this is a photo posted on his social media, and Spencer has met a million of this guy. They bullied him in school. Spencer as genius and he’s a lot of things, but that will never be one of them. It’ll never, ever be him. 

Good to know, anyway. Better not to fantasize about what he knows he can’t have. 

On the day of the wedding, it’s actually a 6 hour drive. She’d offered to get them plane tickets, but he enjoyed his time with her. He was also desperate to extend the time until the wedding was over, and she’s probably the only person he wants to be trapped in a car with. 

They’re sharing a hotel room. She’s booked two beds, which he’s honestly grateful for- if they’d shared a bed, he might’ve combusted. 

Still, there is so much intimacy. She sings in the shower. He imagines a world where he’d know that in domesticity, where after a night spent in laughter and something like love, she showered in his home. But that’s not how he knows it. He knows it because he’s at her best friend’s wedding, pretending to be her boyfriend. 

When she comes out of her bedroom, she’s gorgeous. 

She’s got a green and purple dress on, a cinched waist and a sweetheart neck, a dash of plum lipstick on her lovely pout, and he’d like to kiss that smile very, very much. She’s a delicate kind of lovely, saturated in sweetness, and it’s sweet torture to have her this close.

“You look...” He struggles to find words, an uncommon occurrence in his life, “Like a vision.”

It’s sentimental and warmer than he wished he sounded, but god- she’s stunning. She looks like she’s made of old film, beautiful in that way that’s just a bit too good to be true. He adores her more with each breath.

“You think it’s okay?” She speaks to him with her doe eyes adorned with a concerned expression. He wants to kiss it away.

“You look lovely,” he says, a vast underselling.

The ceremony is a lovely affair, and Spencer learns that she cries at weddings. The bride and groom have lovely, saccharine vows, and Spencer tries not to picture a wedding that he will never get to have. 

It’s a little bit impossible with her at his side. 

She’s touchier now, even mores then when they were ‘practicing’. Her hands are warm laced with his own, her head leaning on his shoulder, and he feels lucky to have even a piece of getting to be with her. 

At the reception, she is tackled by her friends, and he performs dutifully as the caring boyfriend. It’s not hard.

It’s a lovely night. His arms glued to the small of her waist, and he’s been introduced as her “genius FBI agent boyfriend” many times tonight. He turns bright red every time. 

“This is my boyfriend, he’s the smartest ever,” she brags when she’s half a drink deep, and he cherishes the ability to draw circles on the small of her back in this moment- his words fail him in moments of praise, and touch is an avenue that he is rarely allowed to use.

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified-“

“Which is a thing that humble geniuses say.” 

So he’s having a great tine. 

Her lipstick is transfer-free, and his cheek is proof. She’s so affectionate his heart keeps doing somersaults. There’s a signature cocktail with some pun in the couples name.

“I’m fucking obsessed with these, Spence,” she says, a light airiness to her voice that he recognizes as her tipsy voice, “Can you get me another, my love?”

“Yes, honey.” He smiles at her, and kisses the crown of her hair before leaving her in the company of her friends. He’s indulging a bit too much, he’s aware. He’s going to have to give up this up when the sun rises, like some fucked up fairytale where Cinderella never gets the guy because she’s not worthy of it without the pretense.

“Could I get the house cocktail?” Spencer asks the bartender, flashing a smile at her with the giddiness of knowing he will return to her.

Spencer had nearly forgotten that part of the reason he was here was because of Josh. 

Who is at the bar.

“Hey man- you’re the dude she brought, right?” 

Josh is actually about 2 inches shorter than Spencer, and Spencer makes the most of this difference. He’s a broad chested muscle man, but he looks woefully underwhelming. 

“Yeah, I’m the lucky guy.” Spencer replies in a deadpan tone, turning to face him with a stony expression. 

“Careful, man,” Josh says, and it’s a little pathetic how he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care, “She’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

“Really? Because it seems like you’d leave a bad taste in anyone’s mouth.”

“Whatever, dude. It’s clear that she just brought someone to make me jealous.”

“Actually, while I can’t read her mind, I imagine you’ve slipped hers entirely. Clearly your entire energy is based in whatever ego-driven shell your youth has shaped you into- and maybe one day someone will care enough about whatever tragedy made you the way you are, but I am deeply uninterested, and I’d wager she is too.”

He’s not sure if this is true, but Spencer’s noticed that in the time since their ruse has begun she hasn’t mentioned Josh. Not once. She might not love Spencer,  but she might not see Josh anymore. 

“Also, if you ever speak disrespectfully of my girlfriend again I promise you it will not end well for you.”

His voice is even and has an underlaying of quiet rage. It’s wonderful to call her that, even more so as she enters into his eye line.

“You looked mad,” she says in lieu of a greeting, her nimble arms wrapping around his waist with fluid ease, “Is everything okay?” 

It’s only then she sees Josh, and there’s something wonderful about knowing that she came here to check on him. Josh is about to say something, he can tell even though he’s only visible in the corner of his vision. 

It’s a calculated risk but he chooses to do it anyway. 

When he kisses her, he doesn’t know what to expect. It falls into line like puzzles into place, one of her hands falling to his waist and the other cradling his jaw with a delicate softness. She leans into him totally and this is an intoxicating feeling- her lips are so, so soft and it’s what he’s been fantasizing about since she first smiled at him and asked him to keep going when he was rambling about Russian literature. 

It’s actually better. 

When she pulls back, she scans the space. Josh is gone.

“Well that had the intended effect,” he says- it seems better than anything else, like confessing that the only reason he did it was that he could. He kissed her. 

She nods, clearly a bit frazzled, and fuck-

“I should have asked, fuck, I’m sorry-“

“No, no, you’re okay, um-thanks for getting rid of him.”

Her voice is hollow. 

Despite the awkwardness of the kiss, which Spencer cannot stop thinking about.

Did he imagine it, or did she lean in? Did she sigh into it? How is he going to ever get over the fact that he’s never going to do that again?

Her lipstick is grape flavored. Now they both know that. 

They get back to the hotel at half past midnight, and she’d been a little distanced- not so much they still didn’t look like a couple, but enough that Spencer knows. They’re winding down the artificial love affair, and all of the things he’s become kind of addicted to are going to go away. Her fingers running through the tendrils of his hair, her delicate fingers rubbing tiger balm on his temples when he’s got his migraines. Her cheek kisses, the honeys, my loves, sweethearts. 

Kissing her. 

When she drops her bag on the hotel bed and sits on the edge of it, he sits next to her. She’s been quieter, since the kiss. 

“Hey.”

“Hey back,” she replies, bumping her knee with his in fondness. 

“I’m sorry I surprised you with, you know.”

“Kissing me?”

“I should have asked- I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset that you kissed me,” she says, looking down at her shoes, “I’m upset that you only did it because you wanted to spite Josh.”

“What?”

“I know that this is my problem, Spence,” she says, “You never… led me on, you know? I know that this was always my thing to deal with. Being in love with you was never something that I thought would be a problem. But when you offered to go with me- to pretend to be my boyfriend, how could I pass that up?”

This makes no sense.

“I know,” she runs her fingers through her hair in a frustrated motion, “I know that it was never a good idea. But the idea of getting to be with you was just too much to turn down, even it it wasn’t the real thing. And now we’re going back to normal and I promise that I will go back to being your friend. It might take me a second, though-I might need some space.”

She needs space from him? Because she can’t transition away from being his fake girlfriend?

“You don’t need space from me.”

He’s so fucking bad at talking. 

“Spencer-“

“No, no,” because now he has a shot- now  there’s a reality where the pit in his chest doesn’t have to live there forever. He can be with her. Because for some crazy, insane reason, she wants him. “You don’t need space from because I don’t want space from you, okay?”

He sits next to her on the bed, eyes a little crazed with want with nowhere to go. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Her voice is tempered, and he thinks he hears hope. 

“I love you. I am in love with you. I’ve been in love with you as long as I’ve known you,” he grabs her hand-it feels desperate to say and he sure he sounds it, “I didn’t kiss you because I wanted to spite him. I did it because I couldn’t live with the idea that I would spend the rest of my life never have kissed you.”

He probably would say more- so many things are coming to mind, most of which are pleading. She’s the only thing he’s ever wanted this much. Before he gets to, though, she kisses him. 

It’s sudden, as all things of this nature are, but he pulls her close on instinct. She ends up on his lap, her hands around his neck, and it is so rare that fantasy lives up to reality. But this is better, the feeling of the weight of her pressed against him and the taste of her grape lipstick. 

It’s a minute when she pulls back, and it takes everything to not chase the contact.

“I love you too,” she says, the sweetness of it dripping from the sound of it. He wants to hear it again, and again, and again.

“For real?”

“For real.” 

When the run rises in the morning that follows, he’s wrapped around the length of her like a vice, right and close to him, Her head rests on his chest, and while there is another bed there, it’s clearly not seeing any use.

He’s never slept better in his life. 

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Hero and Hope

Based off a world where everyone gets a Destiny they must fulfill. Bakers and Demon Kings (x) and Villagers (X). You? You are a Hero.

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

You are a Hero.

Nobody at the orphanage knows. The mark sets during the worst winter in three decades, when the windows have to be barred to prevent snow spirits from ripping them to shreds and the Director takes half the reserves and runs in the middle of the night.

Sarah, the only caregiver left in the rickety building, holds as many of the kids as she can while the snow spirits scream outside. You’d love to be in the circle of her arms, but you’re holding the door shut with as much strength as your eight-year-old arms allow.

She doesn’t tell you to get away from the door.

“It’s alright,” she says, voice trembling. Her brown hair, matted from the months indoors, hides her eyes. She croons to the younger kids like a bird, so softly and gently that you have to strain to hear it over the howling demons and roaring winds. “We’ll be okay. Our land’s Lord will send a Hero, you’ll see. We’ll be okay then.”

Your arms burn as intensely as your eyes. A Hero. Your stomach aches from hunger and your fingers sting from the cold. You aren’t sure how much good you’re doing keeping the door closed, but there’s something deep inside of you that tells you you must do something. The blows from the snow spirits outside vibrate up your arms, nearly throwing you back.

Heroes, you think, only matter if they show up.

Hope is traumatic. Eight-years-old and you’ve been returned from potential families twice. Three days ago, you found the beginnings of greenery in the woods behind the orphanage. When you excitedly raced back to tell the others that winter was ending, it was only to find the Director and most of the caregivers gone with a significant portion of the rations.

Then the storm clouds rolled in.

So that long, dangerous night, you don’t hope. You shut your ears to Sarah’s gentle comforts and the snow spirits’ shrieks. You focus on the burning in your arms, the blisters forming on your heels, the cold nipping at your fingers.

Hope is traumatic but trying is something you can do. You put your small body between all of the horrors outside the door and the other kids. You try to stand firm.

You don’t notice when the burning in your arms hides the arrival of a telling mark on your left bicep.

---------------------.

You are fourteen years old, one year shy of coming into your power, when a couple visits the orphanage intending to adopt.

Sarah is now the Director of the orphanage, awarded the position by the land’s Lord after that terrible winter six years ago. She’s different than she was then. You lost three kids to hunger before spring finally came and she held each one in their last moments.

You and Sarah never develop the close relationship she has with the other kids. But she always makes sure you have more meat in your meals than most and, when you hunt in the woods, you always let her decide how the food will be divided between dinner and winter stores.

“We’re Knights,” the potential adopters tell the Director. They’re a couple, a man and a woman with dark hair and muscular bodies. “Retired. We’re settling just north of here for good and are looking for a suitable child who can follow in our footsteps.”

Director Sarah looks at them coldly, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands over her stomach. If she notices you and two of the younger kids peeking through the crack in the door, she doesn’t say anything. “I apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Bahr, but it seems there’s a misunderstanding. We do not pair children with families based on their Destiny.”

“We’re not saying you do,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her gaze is cutting though her shoulders are relaxed. “Our Lord explained before we came. However, there is no rule against asking the children their Destiny, is there?”

Loophole. You pull away from the crack in the door, letting Hera and Josiah take your spot. You lean against the wall with your eyes closed. Orphanages aren’t allowed to disclose Destinies, but that’s where the protection ends. If someone sees a child’s Destiny or learns of it through some other means, that’s alright.

These people aren’t here to adopt because they want a child. They’re here to adopt for a guarantee. A guarantee of what remains to be seen. An heir like they claim? A prodigy for status? Or a weapon for them to control?

You listen for any other clues behind their motives, but the Bahrs don’t push the issue of Destiny again. They accept Director Sarah’s schedule for meeting the kids, even offering to host a picnic day at their estate as a treat. The couple wants to gain trust, you can tell, and by the end of the meeting it’s working.

Director Sarah sees them off to the door herself.

“We’ll wait for the invitation,” she says. She’s older now, her thin brown hair showing the beginning signs of going grey. But her handshake looks strong when she shakes Mrs. Bahr’s in farewell. “I’m sure the children will be thrilled.”

“I hope so,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her husband nods to the Director gravely, but Mrs. Bahr lingers. “I’m sorry if we came off a little…forward when we mentioned Destinies. Please believe me when I say that my husband and I aren’t so shallow. We are looking for a child – one we can call our own.”

“I see,” Director Sarah says. There’s a hint of warmth in her voice. “As I said, we look forward to your invitation.”

Mrs. Bahr nods and joins her husband in their carriage. They set off down the road without once having asked to meet one of the children on the first day of their introduction.

You can tell Sarah likes them.

“What do you think?” Sarah asks. She doesn’t turn from the road, even though the Bahr’s carriage is out of sight. “Isla?”

You don’t ask how she knows it’s you lurking in the shadows of the orphanage. Director Sarah is a Guardian. Her senses are elevated when it comes to those under her charge.

“I don’t think anything,” you say. You step out from around the corner with a sigh. No use hiding now. “They’re influential people if they were recommended here by the Lord himself. We’re fortunate.”

“You’re the right age for a Knight’s apprenticeship,” Sarah says.

“Hera hasn’t shown me her Destiny, but it’s probably something suitable,” you say. Hera is ten, one of the older kids at the orphanage. Last summer she lifted Josiah, only a year younger than her and already a head taller, out of the well before he could drown. “You should talk to her about what being part of a Knight family could mean.”

Sarah looks at you over her shoulder. The setting sun catches in her eyes, turning the warm brown into an unearthly amber. “I hope you can accept the possibility they might choose you.”

They won’t. “Aren’t I needed here?” you ask.

Sarah’s expression softens. “You are, Isla,” she says. She weighs her next words carefully. “But I am the one who’s responsible for all of you. I can take care of everyone. If the Bahr family is a good fit…”

“Sure,” you say flippantly. You shove your hands in your pockets and slink back into the orphanage. You don’t dare hope. “I’m going to help Josiah.” He’s on dinner duty tonight. He always cuts the onions too roughly. “See you later.”

You feel Sarah’s eyes on your back like a physical warmth.

-----------.

Being a Hero doesn’t change anything about you. You expected it to when you first noticed the mark but, even six years later, nothing’s different.

You aren’t kinder. When Josiah asks for your dessert, you steal a bit of his as punishment for even asking. When Hera asks for a bedtime story, you tell her one so scary that she has to sleep with one of the other girls. When Sarah asks you to fix the fence around the chickens, you whine and complain that you’re the only one who does anything around the orphanage.

“The curse of being the oldest,” Sarah says dryly. She hands you a hammer and a bucketful of nails. “Some posts were dropped off at the end of the lane. Make sure you’re back by sunset.”

Maybe you’re a little stronger than others. You can drag three posts at once and could probably drag more if you wanted. But another curse of being a Hero is that you’re very aware.

It’s not until you’re nailing a third rail to the fence that Mr. Bahr makes his presence known. You don’t turn even when he makes his steps purposefully heavy to avoid scaring you.

“You’re very strong,” Mr. Bahr says.

His shadow is long and thin, just like him. You observe it from your peripherals, unable to speak with the two nails you’re holding between your lips. You take your time pounding them into the wood. He’s arms, a sword at his hip, but his hands are loose at his sides.

“Good thing I am,” you say at last. You stand and turn in the same motion. He waited for you to finish without chastising you for not speaking right away. You perch the hammer on your shoulder. “Otherwise, the chickens would take over.”

Mr. Bahr laughs. Unlike when he was meeting Director Sarah, his face is relaxed and open. His blue eyes sparkle. “We couldn’t have that now, could we? I suppose we all owe you our thanks for preventing the coop’s coup.”

You want to laugh. You don’t. “Director Sarah won’t like you being here uninvited.”

“I just came to drop off an invitation,” Mr. Bahr says. He studies you for a moment and then smiles. “I hope you’ll accept, Isla.”

A chill races down your spine. How does he know your name? You wipe the sweat from your brow with a scowl. “Maybe I don’t want to be adopted.”

To your surprise, Mr. Bahr nods. “I can understand that,” he says. He looks up at the sky. The light is sliding from the sky, catching on the clouds and turning them a brilliant orange. When he looks back at you, he almost looks…sad. “Think of our invitation as a party, hm? No strings attached.”

For some reason your tongue feels heavy. It takes two tries before you can say, “I need to fix this part of the fence before dark.”

“Want some help?” Mr. Bahr asks.

“I couldn’t ask��”

“You didn’t ask, I offered,” Mr. Bahr says. He rolls up his sleeves and nimbly plucks the hammer from your grip. “I may be a Knight, but I’ve done my fair share of carpentry. Let me show you a few tricks.”

You listen quietly as Mr. Bahr shows you how to twist the nails to avoid splitting the wood. What would have taken you an hour to finish, he accomplishes in a quarter of one, talking to you the entire time.

It’s…odd to have an adult’s attention on you for such a long time. He’s careful not to get too close, always offering you the hammer to practice by setting it on the grass between you rather than handing it to you directly. When you manage to replicate his technique on your second try, Mr. Bahr is more excited than you are.

“Wonderful,” he compliments. He glances up at the sky. The first stars are twinkling. “I’ll be going now and you should too. Have a good night, Isla.”

Unlike the first time he said your name, it feels pleasant now. You mutter a goodbye and leave before he does, scurrying towards the orphanage with your bucket of nails clutched to your chest.

He’s gone when you think to check the road for his carriage. Did he walk here? Ride a horse?

You close and lock the orphanage’s doors behind you.

----------------.

The picnic isn’t scheduled until the middle of summer and it’s spring now. Still, it’s all anyone can talk about.

“We have plenty of time to get ready,” Director Sarah tells them. “The Bahrs will be dropping in from time to time until then. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior when they’re here.”

Josiah raises his hand. “I hear they live in a castle!”

“A manor,” Sarah corrects. “Given to them by our Lord for their years of service.”

“The Guard in town says they worked for the King once!” Hera says, wiggling in her seat. “Is that true?”

“You can ask them yourself,” Sarah says. She claps her hands together and starts urging the kids up. “It’s time for chores. Your assignment is posted by the kitchen…”

You stay seated at the breakfast table. You haven’t eaten your third egg or your last slice of toast. Your stomach feels queasy. You keep thinking about Mr. Bahr saying wonderful when you worked on the fence together.

You aren’t supposed to want to be adopted. You’ve had your chance and you ruined it both times. It’s not fair of you to imagine what it would be like learning swordsmanship from Mr. Bahr and what it’d be like to hear him praise you when you got the next move right. One of the other kids deserve that chance.

You can only do what you can do.

---------------.

Mrs. Bahr is alone the next visit.

No one recognizes her at first. She’s wearing a gown like a noble and her hair is gently flowing down her back rather than tightly pinned behind her head.

“I’ve received the Director’s permission to hold a lesson on writing,” she tells the children. She gestures to the bag she’s set on the table. “Come get a slate and a piece of chalk. We will work all together.”

The kids have never had slate and chalk before, not the real ones anyway. Sometimes you find a nice, flat rock they can draw on with charcoal, but it’s not as entertaining as what Mrs. Bahr brings. She watches everyone in amusement as they immediately start drawing instead of starting the lesson, flower and trees and swords.

“Look, Isla,” Hera says, tugging at your sleeve. You’re seated on the spare chair by the wall, away from the table. She twists from her spot to show you she’s drawn a shaky stick figure. “It’s you!”

Your eyes flick up to Mrs. Bahr. She’s not irritated by the distractions yet. You point with your bit of chalk at the drawing. “Which part of it is me?”

Hera points at a blob in the stick figure’s hand. “That’s the horned rabbit you brought home yesterday!”

You snort. The horned rabbit you’d killed yesterday wasn’t half the size of your body. “Are you sure that’s a horned rabbit? Looks like a turtle to me.”

Hera points to the stick figure’s face. “You can also tell it’s you ‘cause you’re frowning.”

“Hey!”

Mrs. Bahr claps her hands together. Instantly, she has the room’s attention. “I’m glad you all like my present. However, it’s time to get started.”

“Present?” Josiah asks.

“If you work hard today, you will be allowed to keep the slate and chalk as a present,” Mrs. Bahr says. She takes care to make eye contact with every kid. “Only those who work hard.”

It’s generous. You watch Mrs. Bahr from under your lashes as she talks everyone through writing the alphabet. It’s too generous not to be genuine. Try as you might, you can’t figure out any ulterior motive to spending so much on the kids. To look good? For who? For Director Sarah?

Director Sarah won’t be swayed by gifts like this even if the kids could be.

Mrs. Bahr stops well away from you, observing your slate from afar. “Very good, Isla. Do you know how to write?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Read?”

“Only a little.”

Mrs. Bahr hums. She doesn’t look disgusted by your stupidity or put off by your clipped tone. Your first family returned you when you told them. Mrs. Bahr’s lips curve. “Your letters are wonderfully steady. I can tell you will be a very good student.”

She turns before she can see you flush.

---------.

Over the next few months, there isn’t a week that goes by without at least one of the Bahrs visiting. They become a regularity around the orphanage to the point that even Director Sarah stops worrying about the state of their rooms with every visit.

“Kids will be kids,” Mrs. Bahr says when you ask her to wait while you tidy the toys in the parlor. “It’s alright, Isla.”

Your head spins. Sometimes, when one of them says something particularly bizarre, you feel like you’re outside your body. There was a time when they didn’t have toys to leave out in the visiting area. Thanks to the Bahrs, every child has a doll, a slate, a new set of shoes, and an abacus. You are still waiting for the strings that come with these presents.

There haven’t been any yet.

The kids love the Bahrs. Hera insists on baking fresh strawberry tarts for them after a day of gathering. Josiah carefully sounds out passages from their new books to show them that he’s still practicing his letters. Annie and a group of the younger kids spend all day weaving a flower crown for Mrs. Bahr that you have to confiscate before they can put it on her head.

“Go wash your hands,” you scold. Despite your tone, your hands are gentle as you push Annie to the schoolhouse. “Don’t touch your eyes.”

Annie blinks rapidly, trying to hold back tears. “I didn’t know it was poison, lady, I swear.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Bahr says, hand fluttering over her heart. She steps towards Annie. “Dear one—”

You give full body flinch when Mrs. Bahr stoops to hug Annie, but you don’t get between them. The Bahrs have won your trust in this. They won’t hurt the kids.

You sigh to hide your flinch when Mrs. Bahr stands. “Now Mrs. Bahr needs to wash. Poison ivy is no joke.”

“It is not,” Mrs. Bahr agrees. She ruffles Annie’s hair. “Go on, do as Isla says. Wash up.”

“We can go together,” Annie says with her big, blue eyes. She reaches for Mrs. Bahr’s hand and then thinks better of it. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks at the ground. “If you want.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Mrs. Bahr says, smiling.

Annie nods and races to follow her friends.

“I’m sorry,” you say as soon as Annie is out of ear shot. You busy yourself picking up the fallen flower crown and the various trimmings of poison ivy they’d used for foliage throughout it. You feel flustered. “They really didn’t know any better—”

“I know,” Mrs. Bahr says so gently that you have to look up at her. She’s frowning at your hands. “I’m more concerned about you. Should you be holding onto it like that?’

“I’m immune,” you say. You’re not worried that she’ll guess your Destiny from that. Lots of Villagers are immune to poison ivy, particularly the ones in this region who rely on gathering and hunting. “Since I’m in the woods so much.”

“Knights are immune too,” Mrs. Bahr says. She follows you away from the orphanage and to the tree line. “You’re quite the hunter, aren’t you? I remember Hera saying you slayed a horned rabbit.”

Heat comes to your face. You stomp ahead of her to deposit the flower crown in some denser foliage where the kids won’t be able to get it. “I get lucky.”

“I’d consider it unlucky to run across a horned rabbit,” Mrs. Bahr says. She examines the forest with interest. “A demon is a demon. Even adults have difficulty with horned rabbits.”

It hadn’t been difficult. You’d been armed with a sharpened branch and, when the rabbit leapt for you, you knew right when to stab. You clear your throat. “It was difficult.” Then when Mrs. Bahr doesn’t say anything, you add, “It was frightening.”

She believes you. She lays a gentle hand on your shoulder to get you to look her in the face. “The orphanage budget is enough that you don’t need to hunt, Isla,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I know I don’t like the idea of a fourteen-year-old out here alone and unarmed.”

“Almost fifteen,” you say, “and I had a sharp stick.”

“A sharp sti—” Mrs. Bahr cuts herself off with a deep breath. “Regardless of your…aptitude, Isla, it’s dangerous. I’ve spoken to the Director and she agrees with me. You aren’t to go hunting anymore.”

The forest suddenly feels too hot. The leaves overhead rustle, but you can barely hear it over the roaring of your blood. “Excuse me?”

Mrs. Bahr steps closer. “You’re a very strong girl, Isla, but it’s dangerous. If you want to go out with me or Mr. Bahr—”

You shake off her hand. “The Director agreed with you? She said I’m not allowed to go hunting anymore?”

“Out of concern for your safety.” Mrs. Bahr looks like she regrets saying anything. “Once Mr. Bahr and I explained to her what a risk a horned rabbit poses—”

You run away. Mrs. Bahr calls out after you, but you don’t stop. Beyond the sting of Mr. and Mrs. Bahr not thinking you strong enough to hunt, there’s a deeper hurt. The Director agrees. Really? Really?

“Isla? What’s wrong? I thought you were with Mrs. Bahr,” Director Sarah says when you burst into her office. She sets the papers she’d been reading down and frowns. “You look—”

“I’m not supposed to go hunting anymore?” you ask.

Sarah’s face blooms in understanding. “After what Mr. and Mrs. Bahr said about the increase in demons in the area, I agreed—”

“It’s summer,” you interrupt. You stalk up to her desk, your fists balled at your side. “It’s time to hunt.”

“The Bahrs have agreed to accompany you—”

“They only come once a week,” you say. You’re being so incredibly rude to the Director, but you don’t care. “I need to hunt three times that at least. The game has been moving deeper into the forest—”

“Where you are not allowed to go,” Director Sarah says, this time interrupting you. She steeples her hands in front of her. “I should have curtailed this activity long before this point, but I thought you needed it.”

“We need it,” you say. You can’t believe what you are hearing. “We need to store up rations, you know that.”

“Our budget allows us to purchase rations in town.”

“But what if that’s not enough? It’s better to have our own supply—”

“It will be enough.”

“It still doesn’t hurt to have some extra jerky—”

“The store we have will be enough.”

“But what if it’s not?!” You’ve raised your voice without realizing it, fists shaking at your sides. “The other kids are too young to remember o-or too new, but you and I do. That winter, we didn’t have enough. Why are you trying to stop me?” To your horror, your voice cracks. “I thought you understood.”

There’s silence in the room except for your panting breath.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah finally says. The sudden apology is enough to close your mouth against what you might have said. She meets your eyes. “You’ve always been so strong that I…Isla, you were a child. I will always be grateful for what you did that winter and for every winter since. I relied on you, a child, because I didn’t have any other option. We didn’t have another option. But now we do. We’re okay now, Isla. You don’t have to work so hard to protect us.”

“Yes, I do, I’m—” the Hero “—I can do it.” There is something inside of you telling you that that is what you must do. You think that it’s part of being a Hero.

((You’re worried that it’s because you’re scared.))

“My decision is final,” Sarah says. She picks up her documents and straightens them. “You are only to go hunting with an adult from now on. If I find out you went to the woods without one, there will be consequences.”

She’s using the same tone she uses on the other kids when they’re misbehaving. I mean business. You stare at her for a long, breathless moment. You jerkily turn to go.

Mrs. Bahr is hovering in the doorway. She looks guiltily between you and Director Sarah. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…”

You shove past her and run to your room.

-------------.

Somewhat counterintuitively, as an orphan you’re never alone. You throw yourself face down on your bed.

A shocked silence swallows the occupants on the other bed.

“Is she okay?” Josiah asks Hera.

“It’s Isla,” Hera answers. There’s the rustling of bedsheets as Hera climbs out of bed and then the soft sound of socks on hardwood as she comes over. “You okay?”

You are not okay. There’s an intense war of emotions in your chest. Anger that none of the adults seem to think you’re capable. Betrayal that Sarah isn’t on your side. A sick fear at the thought of being unprepared for winter. And, now that you’ve run away so spectacularly, shame. They probably think you’re overreacting, but they’re wrong. They’re the ones who are being naïve. They’re the ones who—

A gentle hand on the back of your head freezes the thought. Hera pets your short, black hairs in an attempt at comfort. “It’s okay, Isla. You can just sleep. Sleep makes everything better.”

That’s what you tell the younger kids. The difference between you and Hera saying it? When Hera falls asleep, you work to fix the problem. If you fall asleep, no one is going to fix the problem for you.

You flip over, dislodging Hera’s hand. You look up at her as if seeing her for the first time. She’s ten, two years older than you were when the winter happened. She was four then. You want to ask her if she remembers, but instead you ask, “Do you think Sarah hates me?”

“What?” Hera’s eyes are wide. “No! What makes you think that?”

“Nothing,” you say. “It’s stupid. Forget I asked.” You turn on your side, your back to them.

“I know she’s worried about you,” Josiah says. He offers the information tentatively. “I overheard her and the Bahrs talking. Did they ban you from the woods?”

You don’t move. “What else did they say?” You’re afraid that he’s going to say they called you weak. Or, worse, a nuisance. “Did they say anything else about me?”

“Not really.”

Nobody hears anything useful around here. You close your eyes. “I just want to be alone for a little while. I—”

There’s a knock on the door. “Isla? It’s me, Marie. Can I come in?”

Marie? Too late you remember that that’s Mrs. Bahr’s name. She’s been trying to get the kids to call her be her first name. So far no one’s taken her up on it and she hasn’t pushed.

Hera opens the door. “Hi, Mrs. Bahr. Isla is being moody.”

You sit up with a squawk. “I am not!”

“If it’s alright, I’d like to talk to Isla for a moment,” Mrs. Bahr says to Josiah and Hera. “Alone.”

“Don’t let her yell at you,” Hera says as she passes Mrs. Bahr. “She never means it.”

You are going to strangle her. “I don’t yell!”

“That’s not an inside voice,” Josiah says. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, pulling the door closed behind him and Hera.

You are suddenly alone in the room with Mrs. Bahr.

You sit up further, pressing your back against the headboard. Mrs. Bahr doesn’t look mad. Her hands are clasped in front of her and she’s looking down at the floor. It almost looks like she’s the nervous one. You hug your pillow to your chest. “You can sit down if you’d like.”

Mrs. Bahr looks up at you. Her lips twitch. “Thank you, Isla.” She sits down on Hera’s bed gingerly as if afraid it wouldn’t be able to take her wait. When she’s settled, she says, “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Your arms tighten around your pillow. “Why?”

“Not for saying you shouldn’t hunt alone,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s not a mind reader but sometimes it seems like she is. “For not understanding what hunting means to you. I would have approached things differently if I’d known.”

“Known what?”

“About what you’ve been through.”

The winter. That’s the only thing Mrs. Bahr could be talking about. She must have heard more of your conversation (argument) with the Director than you thought. “It was a long time ago,” you say. You really don’t want to talk about this with Mrs. Bahr. Not when you can still feel that winter’s desperation in your molars like a memory. “I’m fine.”

Mrs. Bahr is quiet for a moment. She studies you much like Mr. Bahr did all those weeks ago mending the fence. “I was a knight for 30 years, you know. I supposed it’s not weird that a Knight worked as a knight for so long. As soon as I came into my power at 15, I was compelled to hold a sword. To seek out evils and defeat them. To follow my Lord into battle no matter the cause.” She looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve had a lot of adventures and helped many, many people. But there was a time when I wanted to quit.”

You start. “You did?”

“I wanted to work in a flower shop,” Mrs. Bahr says. She leans back on her hands. “What a life it could have been! Waking up before the sun and hiking to the flower fields…I had my new house all picked out. It’d have a koi pond and a row of red rocks from the Harrow River. That’s where I met Ivan.”

Mr. Bahr. He’s been trying to get you to call him by his first name too. Unlike Mrs. Bahr, he’s much pushier about it. “What made you want to quit?”

“Exhaustion,” Mrs. Bahr says. She closes her eyes. “It seemed that there was a new threat to my Lord every day. An assassination attempt from a branch family. A territorial dispute. A new influx of demon beasts. It got to the point that I hardly left my Lord’s side for fear of returning to find him dead. He was the first Lord I swore my loyalty to. I always felt like I was failing those days. So I wanted to quit.”

You’ve felt like that before. Sometimes it seems like you never catch enough while hunting, that you’re never kind enough, that you’re never strong enough. You’ve never thought about working in a flower shop though. “Why didn’t you?”

“I did.” Mrs. Bahr laughs at your shocked expression. “I was in my twenties. They tell you things calm down after your teen years, but that’s not true. I handed in my resignation and fled for the nearest town.” Her smile softens. “Ivan followed me.”

“He was there?”

Mrs. Bahr nods. “We were sworn to the same Lord. He came galloping up with my resignation clutched in his hand. His face was so red!” She laughs. “’What does this mean, Marie? He was crying! You can’t quit! I haven’t beaten you yet!’”

“And that’s what convinced you to stay a knight?” you ask. That doesn’t help you. You don’t have a significant other to come racing after you.

“No,” Mrs. Bahr said. “Ivan didn’t know why I wanted to quit. I can’t do it, I said. I can’t keep the Lord safe. I’m not enough. You know what he said?”

You shake your head.

“He said, Of course, you’re not enough,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s lowering her voice in imitation of Ivan’s. “You were never going to be enough.” You’re gaping at his harsh words, but Mrs. Bahr looks amused. “That’s why we have a squadron. The job is too big for one person. All you need to do is your part.”

You stare at her, not understanding.

“The world isn’t carried by one person,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I was so convinced that everything was up to me – the Lord’s safety, the next campaign’s success, or defense from monsters – that I buckled under the pressure. What I didn’t see that it wasn’t all my responsibility. I was part of a team. All I had to do was one part.”

You think of the winter night and holding the door shut. There hadn’t been anyone to help you then. Someone needed to comfort the younger kids. Someone needed to try and protect them. “What if there isn’t anyone else?”

“Then we do our best,” Mrs. Bahr says immediately. She meets your eyes. “But are you by yourself now, Isla?”

Yes. You open your mouth to tell her that, but the word won’t come out. Are you? Director Sarah looked so defeated when you accused her of not understanding. But didn’t she understand better than anyone else. You swallow. “No. There’s Director Sarah.”

“What does she do?”

“She takes care of us,” you say. “She makes sure the money we get goes to the right things.”

Mrs. Bahr smiles warmly. “That’s right. Who else?”

“…Hera,” you say. You remember she pulled Josiah from the well before Annie even had the chance to tell you what had happened. “She watches the younger kids.”

“She’s very good with them,” Mrs. Bahr says. “Who else?”

Your mind blanks. Who else? “Josiah. He helps us study.”

“And?”

And? “T-the Lord. He makes sure we have the funds for what we need.”

“Including winter provisions,” Mrs. Bahr agrees.

You frown. You suddenly see where this is going. “The amount of winter provisions he thinks we need.”

Mrs. Bahr hums. “What happens if he’s wrong?”

“That’s why I hunt,” you say. Maybe now she’ll understand. “So that we’ll be okay if he’s wrong.”

“What if you don’t hunt enough?” Mrs. Bahr asks.

Your chest is tight. You rub at your sternum and try to breathe deeply. “We starve,” you say. You wheeze and then clear your throat. “We’d starve, but that’s not going to happen. Because I always hunt enough.” I have to.

“This year,” Mrs. Bahr says, voice gentle and soothing, “say you don’t hunt anymore. The winter is harsher than expected and the orphanage’s stores are depleted. What do you think will happen?”

You laugh and gasp at the same time. “They’d all starve,” you say again. What doesn’t she get about that? “First the little ones then—”

Mrs. Bahr is shaking her head. “No, Isla, that’s not what would happen.”

Your temper flares. “That’s what always—”

“What would happen,” Mrs. Bahr says in her even tone, “is that Mr. Bahr and I would come deliver extra provisions to you.”

All the air is chased from your lungs. You feel eight again, small and vulnerable and cold. You’re shivering as you stare at her. “You would?”

“We would.” Gently, as if afraid she might scare you, Mrs. Bahr moves from Hera’s bed to yours. She puts a warm hand on your knee. “We’re a fortress. The Lord gives us part of the emergency fund in order to keep our stores and grounds ready for refugees. Mr. Bahr keeps fifteen percent more than the most generous estimate out of an abundance of caution. We would come and make sure nobody starved.”

For some reason, that makes you want to cry. You blink against the sudden heat behind your eyes. “Oh.”

“That’s why we don’t want you to go hunting,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her thumb rubs over your knee. “It was worth the risk before. You worked hard to keep everyone here alive. You are incredible, for that, Isla. I can’t tell you how much I admire your strength and your bravery. But things are different now. You don’t need to do as much as you did before. There are other people on your squad.”

But I’m the Hero, you want to say. Heroes are supposed to save the day, aren’t they?

Knights help save the day too.

You let Mrs. Bahr pat your knee for a long time. She seems content to let you think, her energy a pleasant hum next to you. A knot is untying in your chest. If you don’t hunt, it’s not the end of everyone. There will still be the funds from the Lord. Sarah’s always been excellent at stretching those as far as they need to go. And, if they aren’t enough, there’s something different this year. The Bahrs are here.

“You’d help us even if you’re only going to adopt one of us?” you ask.

Mrs. Bahr’s lips thin. She looks sad, but hides it quickly. “We’re Knights,” she says. “Even if we are retired. We’ll be here the moment you need us.”

You don’t hope. Hope is traumatic. But…

You believe her.

--------

Thanks for reading! There will be a new part of Hope and the Hero every Friday!

If you'd like to read the whole story now, please consider supporting me on Patreon (X)!

There's also a new story up there, a sequel to my Dandelion villain story (X)

Summary: You are free of mind control for the first time in a year. The only things standing between you and your revenge are the heroes.

[rainylana]

“Takin’ care of my best girl.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: reader has a panic attack during the night.

warnings: panic attack, anxiety, tears and descriptions of anxiety symptoms, hurt/comfort, fear of allergic reaction/throat swelling.

You’re sitting on the porch. The air is cool and breezy against your face, the moon shines a calming light on the grass in from of you, making it shimmer. There’s cats roaming in trash cans. Maybe they’re raccoons, actually. It was a beautiful night, but you weren’t really able to enjoy it.

Your heart was pounding, head aching and body trembling with fear, a fear you didn’t know what it exactly was. Your stomach was so twisted with knots and nerves you thought you’d surely pass out. It hurt to breath. You couldn’t breath. Your hands were cradling your head, holding your body tight and hoping it would pass.

It always passed. It always went away and you were always okay. They didn’t normally get this bad. You were getting so much better at handling them. For some reason tonight wasn’t the case. You debated waking Eddie up, but you hated keeping him up with you when you got this way. It wasn’t fair to him.

You had tried all the things to help you. You squeezed an ice cub in your palm, took a cold shower, tried watching to tv to distract yourself. You couldn’t stop swallowing, testing to see if your throat was closing up, which was now raw and irritated from your constant swallowing. You tried taking deep breaths, hands shaking as you placed a hand over your chest, grasping at your shirt.

Once you thought you were getting better, it would start up again. The sudden racing of your heart that made you breathless. After a few minutes, you began to pace, gripping at your chest and willing it to go away. What if there was something wrong with you? Were your lungs actually closing? Were you having an allergic reaction?

That’s what got you every time. You always thought you were dying, and you never were.

You needed to go to the hospital. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You’d been to the er many times for panic attacks, but what if it was serious this time? With trembling legs you walked back inside to your bedroom, rounding the bed and shaking Eddie urgently.

“Eddie?” Your still holding your chest. “Eddie?”

His eyes flutter open, squinting in the dark. “Hmm?”

“I’m scared.” You say, bringing up a nail to bite. “I think something might be wrong.”

Those key words had him sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He leans over and switches on the light, looking up to take you in. He knows what’s wrong immediately, lifting the blanket so he can get out of bed. “What’s going on?” His voice is tired and gruff. “You anxious about something?”

You shake your head yes, grasping at your throat. “I- I uh, I think my throat might be swelling up. Maybe I ate something.”

He nods slowly, bringing his hands up to ghost at your arms. “What brought this on? Did it just start?”

“No, I’ve been up awhile.” You say, trying to swallow again. You do, but harshly, pushing out a choked breath that has you pacing around the room. “Eddie, I’m scared.”

“You’re alright, baby.” He’s following you, grabbing your hand. “Come on, let’s go out to the living room.” He guides you out there, sitting you on the kitchen chair by the stove. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Your eyes start to well up and you shake your head. “No, I- I think we should go to the hospital, Eddie.” Your voice came out desperate.

He’d done this with you so many times, yet the urgency and fear in your voice always made him nervous, even though he knew you were completely fine. He puts the tea in the microwave, setting it for two minutes before he’s crouching in front of you. “Hey,” He’s grasping your face. “You’re alright. You know that. We just have to work through it okay? Like we always do.”

You let out a sob that makes his heart ache, a tear dropping town to his wrist. “But I’m scared.”

“I know you are.” He coos, petting your hair. “If you really want to go I’ll take you, but you’re strong enough to fight this, baby. I’m right here with you, right? We can get through this.” He leans up and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, going back to the microwave to let you think.

Your knee is bouncing quickly, your knuckles tapping at the table like you’re trying to communicate through morse code. Your breathing gets heavier and heavier, your head getting harder to keep up. You gasp, groaning loudly as you lean over.

He’s bringing the cup of tea over to you quickly, sitting it on the table to hold your back. “Just breath, sweetheart.” He’s rubbing your back, crouching beside you. “You’re alright.”

You start to sob, head between your knees as you fight to be sick. You hiccup, shoulders shaking with your cries. You reach to grip his arm. “My stomach hurts so bad.”

It wasn’t rare for you to throw up when you got worked up. He quickly brought the kitchen trashcan over to you, sitting it in front of you so you could have it at the ready.

“Keep breathing.” He instructs you, bringing the tea over to you. “Here, try and drink some of this.” He wasn’t ever sure if the tea helped, but it made him feel useful when you got to feeling poorly.

When your tea is gone, after practically gulping down the hot liquid, he’s rubbing your shaking shoulders, trying to get the knots out of muscles. He switches on the tv to gilligans island, the episode where the professor is trying to make a phone out of a coconut and a banana peel.

You keep crying through half of the episode, coiling over here and there. When you did, he rubbed the back of your neck and kissed your shoulder, telling you to breath and that you were going to get through it.

When you’re three episodes in, your tears have stopped and you’re left with nothing but embarrassment and humiliation, your face beat red as you begin to mutter an apology. “I’m sorry.” Your voice is shaky and hoarse. He’s sitting beside you now, his arm tossed around your shoulders.

“Don’t be.” He smiles, tapping your nose. “Just doing my job.”

“Your job?” You sniffle.

“Takin’ care of my best girl.” He kissed you, a quick peck on the lips as he leans over and turns off the living room light, snuggling back into the couch and pulling you into his chest.

[clusterbuck]

yo no puedo saber

7x07 coda

Buck is halfway through getting thoroughly trounced in Mario Kart for approximately the seventy-third time when his phone, resting on the coffee table, lights up with a text. He hits pause on the game, and Christopher turns to frown at him.

“Afraid you’re going to lose again?” he asks, and Buck laughs. 

“No, I just need to check my phone real quick,” he says. “You can finish destroying me in a second.” 

“Ooh,” Christopher says, a mocking edge to his voice. “Did you get a Tinder match?” 

Buck rolls his eyes. “I have a—”

Boyfriend, he was about to say, but the word can’t seem to make it out of his mouth. He can’t quite tell whether it’s because it feels unfamiliar, like he’s not sure it really belongs to him, or just because he and Tommy haven’t actually discussed it. 

But this doesn’t really feel like the time for that particular existential crisis.

“I’m not on Tinder,” he says instead, reaching for his phone. He would just ignore it, wait until Christopher finally agrees to go to bed before scrolling mindlessly through his phone, but the preview that flashed on the screen looked long. Like it might be serious. 

Several possibilities race through his mind, but none even come close to what he sees when the screen lights up again. 

Hiii, Marisol has texted, and he can practically hear the nervous laughter in those repeated letters. Sorry if this is weird, I know we haven’t really talked! But Eddie gave me your number in case of emergency, and I’m kind of having one. Not a real emergency! Don’t want to trigger any first responder panic, ha ha. But Eddie’s birthday is coming up soon, and I can’t decide what to get him! You know him well, so I thought maybe you could help me…?

Buck stares at the screen. 

He’s not always great on dates, but he’s pretty sure texting someone else about your date is generally frowned upon. Texting in general, really, unless—maybe Eddie’s in the bathroom?

Still, it doesn’t seem like a good—

“Buck,” Christopher says, forcefully, like it’s not the first time he’s tried to get his attention. “Can we play?” 

Buck blinks. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, setting his phone back on the coffee table. “Yeah, sorry.” He restarts the game, and immediately falls far behind Christopher’s Yoshi.

“Who was it?” Christopher asks, and Buck laughs.

“You’re not going to distract me that easily,” he says and gains some ground, only to immediately get hit with ink to the face and lose it all again.

“I don’t need to distract you,” Christopher says just as he crosses the finish line. Buck makes a mental note to ask Eddie where the hell the kid got his comedic timing, because it wasn’t from either of his parents.

“Yeah, yeah,” Buck says. “New round?” They pick a course, and as they’re waiting for the countdown to start, Buck’s phone lights up again with what looks like a link, presumably to something Marisol wants his opinion on. Another one comes through when they’re one lap into the course, then another, and another. Almost like Marisol is sending them to him as she finds them.

Which… really doesn’t sound like date behaviour.

so how was your date? Buck texts Eddie when Christopher goes to the bathroom an hour later.

anything you want to tell me? he types, then hits the back button and watches the words disappear letter by letter. There could be a reason. There could be all kinds of reasons. 

But later, when Christopher goes to bed and Buck checks his phone again, Eddie hasn’t even opened the message. 

[ireneaesthetic]

Pointing out little moments and details of scenes that need to be remembered.

library scene • episode 1

their expressions softening and smiles growing bigger as soon as their eyes meet. oh the effect of each other’s presence!!!

wille's staring contest and the lip bite while approaching give off so much confidence. he leans in for the kiss like it's all he's been waiting for - everyone is watching and yet he sees and cares about anyone anything but simon.

simon dives into the kiss just as quickly. it starts out as shyyy but you can see the tension easing through his body language.

it’s a second first kiss for them in a way bc it's their first public one: the thrill, the excitement, the butterflies - it's all there. for this huge step to come from wille makes it even more special.

it’s a super tender kiss, with simon’s hand ending up on wille’s chest. background noises fading away to enhance the sound of their lips is so on point: none of that truly matters bc in this moment it's - them.

first they kiss and then greet with a proper hej *giggling*.

lip biting is serious business in this scene. simon's shows a lot of embarrassment tho - he comes out of their own bubble and suddenly becomes very aware of people's chatter.

shoutout to felice and maddie in the background not giving a damn about it ahsjsj.

wille pulling simon by the hand in such a hurry is funny and so him. he literally says 'ok folks you've seen enough, i want him just for myself now'.

ugh i love parallels in this show sooo much. they alone tell the whole story!

same spot but different point in their relationship: so distant in s2 - both physically/emotionally - and couldn't be seen or heard so they were hyper attentive; deeply connected on all levels in s3 instead, the focus is solely on each other, reaching for comfort by holding hands. the coloring tells the same plot too: cold and dull tones first but much warmer ones in s3.

simon side eyeing the hallway but turning to wille is enough to reassure him and ease the discomfort.

hands intertwined with the key chain in such a ‘fuck 'em, this is about us’ way is a genius move.

wille’s whole posture is extremely relaxed - one arm behind his back, the other hand holding simon’s, his legs crossed. it’s a breath of fresh air to finally see him acting this loose and unbothered around people. he's also the one who helps simon feeling much more comfortable here too.

not much to point out, i just needed to gif simon’s bambi eyes and wilhelm being mesmerized by his face.

hela terminen's line delivery is honestly *chef’s kiss*. they care to keep their voices low throughout the scene and then -

i have a thing for height difference so this shot is everything to me. it's peak head over heels boyfriends behavior!

wilhelm is stronger than me bc i would've kissed simon right on the spot if he tilted his head up like that.

shhh they’re cuddling.

the forehead touch with closed eyes and content smiles. this is basically what i've always loved the most about them - the state of pure bliss they're in only when with each other.

simon's eyes on him while wille is still keeping his eyes closed, slowly pulling away, to enjoy the moment a little longer.

simon's attention directed towards wille and the linked hands. it must feel the best kind of weird to experience the freedom of doing couple-things publicly - people's scrutiny no longer being something they have to hide from.

[angel5ofp0rn]

Are the kids parent trapping john and the reader? 😭💞

Oh, they absolutely are 🙂‍↕️

(u totally cured my writers block i’m gonna give u a lil kiss)

PT 1 / PT 2 / PT 3 / PT 4 😋

ExHusband!Price x f!reader

*one of my biggest icks when i read stuff like this is when the writer names the kids and the names are ugly but i did that here and im so sorry. a thousand apologies. 😔

You and John stood in the mudroom, playing a divorced couple who had no lingering feelings.

Acting as if you didn’t spend all weekend weak in the knees at the sight of him walking around the house shirtless in his grey sweatpants like he never left.

Pretending that John didn’t ask you to take him back.

Like you didn’t fuck. Like you didn’t even kiss.

“I’ll bring the kids by next weekend, then.” You say casually, arms crossed as you lean against the archway.

John just nods as he pulls on his boots.

“Gabriel has a… a parent-teacher meeting on Wednesday.” You mention, trying to sound nonchalant. “They’re usually just an in-and-out kind of thing, we look at his artwork and whatever. It’s nothing serious… but if you wanted to go-”

“What time?” John asks as he stands up from the bench.

“5pm.”

John nods again. “I’ll be there.”

You chew your lower lip as you look at him. Why is him wanting to be a good dad so…

“Gabriel, Linnie! Come say bye to dad!” You call over to the playroom where the children were.

The little ones race around the corner in no time, crashing into their dad and clinging their little arms and legs around his legs, sitting on his boots.

“We don’t want daddy to go!” The youngest pouts.

“Why can’t dad have another sleepover?” The oldest whines.

“Right, you two. Stop giving mummy a hard time.” John puts on the stern dad voice for a moment.

The kids whine and moan but eventually listen to their dad and un-cling themselves from his legs.

“Since daddy had a sleepover with us this weekend, you two can have a sleepover with him next weekend. Deal?”

“Will you come to daddy’s sleepover too, mummy?” The youngest asks innocently.

You blush.

John grins, his eyebrows raising.

“No… I…”

“Please come to daddy’s sleepover!” The youngest begs, puppy dog pout and all.

“You and daddy can have kissies and we won’t even look this time.” The oldest offers earnestly.

You hear John stifle a laugh.

You shoot him a glare.

“We’ll talk about it later.” Is all you can offer. “Give your dad a big hug so he can get going.”

They listen, for once. They each give John and big bear hug and in return receive a kiss on the head.

Then they both stood to the side and watched John and you, as if they were waiting for something.

“See you Wednesday, mummy.” John grins as he opens the door.

“Goodbye, daddy.” You roll your eyes, a dumb smile on your lips as you close it after him.

“No kissies?” The youngest child frowns, looking to her big brother in confusion, her little hands up in a shrug.

The older child shrugs as well, as if he’s just as confused by this.

•••

When Wednesday night rolls around you start to regret inviting John to Gabe’s school.

You just went two whole days without him. Things were finally going back to normal.

You walk in to the school with your oldest holding one of your hands, you other hand supporting the youngest on your hip.

The three of you wait around by the front doors for a while.

5:00

5:05

5:23

“Maybe daddy got busy with work.” You force a smile as you try to reassure your five year old. “Let’s just get in there, I wanna see your classroom!”

“I wanna wait for dad.” Your oldest crosses his arms.

“Yeah!” The youngest follows suit, crossing her little arms as she stands next to the oldest.

Why did you even tell them that he was coming? You glance down at your phone, still not seeing any notifications from John.

“Look, let’s just go in. Your dad is-”

“Daddy!” The two children squeal and giggle when they see John walk through the doors. They go running, being scooped up into his arms.

“You’re late.” You cross your arms.

“Showed up, though, didn’t I?” He smiles, though you have a feeling there’s something hiding behind it.

He sets the oldest to his feet and the rest of you follow him to the classroom. The youngest squirms out of John’s hold so she can run around and touch… well, everything.

“Mrs. Price!” Your oldest’s teacher greets you cheerily. “Good to see you again!”

John quirks an eyebrow at you.

Mrs. Price?

You kept his last name?

Of course you pretend not to see his reaction to the news.

It’s not that big of a deal, really. You just didn’t want to do the extra paperwork.

“Mr. Price, I don’t believe we’ve met.” The young, pretty teacher smiles as he extends her hand to John.

The comment, though true, hurt John. It really made him realize how much he’s been missing out on since the divorce.

“John.” He corrects her as he shakes her hand, grinning.

“John.” She repeats softly, as if trying to remember it.

You swear you see her cheeks turn pink.

If it wasn’t for the kids being here, you’d fucking-

“Mum!” Gabe tugs on your pant leg.

You turn to see what he was pointing at.

Behind you was a wall full of artwork, mostly of little stick people or random scribbles. Above all the art were the words “Our Families”.

“Aww, which one is yours, monkey?” You smile, lifting your oldest so he can point to his artwork for you.

You follow his little finger to a white paper with a house shape containing four figures.

Above their heads are written mum, dad, me, sissy.

“John,” you call over your shoulder. “Come look at what Gabe drew.”

John is by your side in a second, your youngest in his arms.

“You know, he used to draw two houses.” You glance at John.

“Huh…” John nods, taking in the artwork. “How ‘bout that…”

•••

“Thank you for coming with. It meant a lot to Gabriel.” You tell John as the two of you stand between your cars in the parking lot.

“Not a problem, lovie.” He smiles softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You look down at the snow under your boots before looking back up.

“Miss Halle has the hots for you, huh?” You ask with slightly bitter tone.

“Does she now?” John grins, his head tilted to the side. “Didn’t notice.”

“Like hell you didn’t notice. She was all, ‘Ooh, John.’” You mimic. John laughs.

“Jealous, are you?”

“No.” You frown, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “It was just… unprofessional, you know?”

John just grins.

There it is.

Fuck, he missed that. Missed knowing you cared.

“Drive home safely, lovie.” John says finally.

You nod, turning to get into your car, but you’re stopped by a hand on your arm.

John turns you around and plants a kiss to your lips.

You just let him, knees weak, his hands cupping your face.

He has you. You’re his…

The two children in the backseat of your car, watching through the window from their car seats, turn to each other and smile triumphantly.

[honeyshiddendesire]

Virgin! Doflamingo Headcanon

Pairing: YANDERE VIRGIN! Doflamingo x Female Reader

Warnings: YANDERE DOFFY! loss of virginity! Vaginal penetration! Fingering! Dirty talk/teasing! Pussy drunk Doffy! mating press! Oral sex (male and female receiving)! Public sex! Misuse of d.f. Powers! Doffy with a Praise kink (fight me on this lol!) 

*Author's Note: An idea that popped in my head while chatting with my friends on discord that I finallllyyy got around to posting lol*

*banner*

VirginDoffy! Who was so focused on murder and overtaking the whole world that he completely forgot about sex all together…well forgot is a strong word more like it just never interested him. Sex wasn’t something that was in the forefront of his brain, murder and destruction, power, things like that. 

VirginDoffy! Who enjoyed stringing women up and fingering them till his heart was content, using them more like puppets to hear their cries but finishing the job never interested him. Well not with the women in Dressrosa or other kingdoms yet. 

VirginDoffy! Who was sitting on his throne one day when it suddenly dawned on him that he’s never actually sunk his cock into a woman before. Usually getting bored rather quickly before he ever actually fucked them. That all changed when he saw you one day strolling along in the streets of Dressrosa. 

VirginDoffy! Who you can’t tell me wouldn’t be a total yandere following you around the city, not talking to you yet but silently observing your every move. Having a woman peg his interest in this way was new afterall so he’d literally become a stalker. You wouldn’t notice him at all but everyone else around you would. 

VirginDoffy! Who would pay attention to your everyday routine and how you always get a morning tea or coffee with your favorite muffin. Going early to pay your tab in full for the next month leaving you in total shock but he was left more stunned when you still went out of your way to leave a tip. WHICH! Made him go back and tip for the next month as well hoping you’d get the hint to save your money.

Paying attention to how you eyeballed all the fancy dress shops and shoe stores with longing in your eye before sighing and going to the bargain shop on the far side of town. 

VirginDoffy! Who literally follows you home and goes back when you’re not there to rummage through your things finding out who you are and what size you are instead of just holding a conversation with you. 

VirginDoffy! Who goes back to all the stores you stop at and buys you all the prettiest dresses and shoes that you tend to stare at from the window. Leaving them at your door with flowers and a card that tells you to meet him at one of the best restaurants in the entire kingdom.

You think it’s a secret admirer and smile as you pick up the beautiful dress and twirl in your room with excitement. Getting all dolled up wearing the gifts you head out toward the meeting spot with a big smile on your face, glossy lips dropping in shock when you finally step inside the extravagant place. “Right this way your table is waiting for you.” The host says with a bow as he takes your shawl and leads you to the far back with a reserved sign, close to the stage where a live orchestra was playing Sad Romance by Thao Nguyen Xanh. It was one of your favorites and you sat down in your seat totally mesmerized barely noticing when Doflamingo came up behind you. 

“Is it all to your liking?” He asks, catching you off guard with a little gasp that makes him smirks. “Oops~” Doflamingo chuckles as he circles the table taking his seat. Your glossy lips catch his attention as they’re parted slightly in shock at seeing none other than Doflamingo himself. “Y-yes it’s all amazing. I just…” 

Raising a brow as he takes a sip of his wine that the waiter quickly poured upon his arrival, “Wasn’t expecting me?” He questions and you simply nod, making him grin. “What can I say…you’ve caught the eye of a King.” 

VirginDoffy! Who asks you tons of questions while wining and dining you, noticing how nervous you are and tending to ramble because of it. A trait he found oddly endearing. Simply giving you little hums and nods of acknowledgment as you ate. 

VirginDoffy! Who asks you to dance as the violin and pianist continue to play. His hands and eyes roaming all over your body in the tight fitting dress, his actions making your breath hitch and body heat up. Doflamingo’s hands are already holding you with a possessive touch that makes you practically melt in his grasp, eyes staring in awe up at him. 

VirginDoffy! Who despite never having sex he can tell by the look in your eye that he has you completely trapped in his sinister web, one that you’ll never escape from once he’s had you. 

VirginDoffy! Who’s hands slowly trail down your back to your ass as he leans down to whisper in your ear, “Would you like to accompany a King back to his chambers?” The question makes you shiver as you whisper back a shaky ‘yes’. Quickly leading you out of the restaurant after that and into his limo where he wastes no time crashing his lips to yours. 

Your hands wrapping around him to scratch at his scalp, tongue swirling around his in a clumsy kiss. You thought it was all the wine but little did you know the true reason behind his bewildered state. Doflamingo was groaning into your mouth as he pulled you into his lap, the smell of the perfume he purchased you was loud in the close proximity and it made his head spin. The strong floral, sweet scent smelled so enchanting on your skin that he couldn’t help but groan as he trailed sloppy kisses down your neck making you whimper. 

“Um…sir…we’re here.” The driver nervously interrupts and gets a glare of Doflamingo and a loud ‘out’ that makes him scurry away leaving the both of you alone. “Ah~” You moaned out as you felt Doflamingo grind into your hips, feeling his rather huge bulge through both of your clothes. 

VirginDoffy! Who’s so enraptured by pleasure and your scent that you literally have to tap his shoulder to get his attention. “D-Doflamingo~ Can…can we go to your room?” You whine as he continues making your head spring with each kiss that travels lower towers the valley of your breast, his large hands gripping your ass. Hearing your request and seeing the look of lust on your face only has him grin as he kisses at your jaw. 

VirginDoffy! Who can’t help but warn you of what was to come. “You know once I have you in my room I can’t ensure that you’ll be leaving anytime soon.” His grin only grows as you tell him you understand, greedy lips finding your own at the sound of your equal eagerness. “Oh my poor dove~ you don’t even realize the cage that you’ve flown yourself into.”

VirginDoffy! Who leads your heaving form to his room, your hair and gloss already a mess just from an intense makeout session. 

VirginDoffy! Who once in his luxurious room wastes not even a second to literally rip your dress off you. Pushing you down on his large plush bed making you squeal in shock at how quickly he spreads your legs. Kissing up from your legs, long fingers running along the sparkly heels that adorned your feet as he spread your legs more into a vulnerable position. 

“Already soaking this pathetic lace you’re wearing.” Doflamingo chuckles against your thighs, nipping the skin before sucking marks into your plush thighs. Trailing up slowly before using one of his hands to push your panties to the side before diving in to take a long lick at your cunt. 

VirginDoffy! Who has zero skills at eating your cunt but wasn’t stupid and knew to listen to every little reaction that you made. Any hitch in your breath, moan or whimper you let out only fueled the large man’s ego to dive further into your cunt. Long tongue working wonders to fuck into your sopping wet hole, circling around making your back arch as he sloppily kisses your aching clit. “AH~ Dof~Holy shit!” You cry out barely able to moan out his name as he sucks on the sensitive bud harder. 

VirginDoffy! Who’s hands literally can’t keep still. Running up and down all over your body, squeezing and groping your tits to run down your waist to pinch and claw at your thighs before moving back up with hunger. His tongue never gets enough of your taste and only eats your pussy with more fire in his chest. Never understanding how he hasn’t done this before when you sounded so sweet in his strong grasp. 

VirginDoffy! Who was starstruck when he finally started to sink his long fingers deep in your dripping pussy, tongue never letting up on your clit even as you pulled at his blonde hair. “Do~ah~Dof-fuck~!” His name dragged into a curse from your lips that had him grin wickedly, tongue flicking your bundle of nerves to drive you insane.

 “Oh fuckfuckfuck I’m gonna cum~ Doffy shit! How are you so good at this?” Your moaned out question has him pulling back with a sinister laugh as he also wonders the same thing considering he’s never done this before. Doflamingo’s greedy eyes looking down to where your wet pussy is swallowing two long fingers of his, your hands gripping the sheets beside your head. Your legs were trembling, heels digging into the plush blankets as you thrashed around. Screams only turning to a loud shriek as he curled them into that spot that made you gush, his brow raising at the magnificent sight. 

VirginDoffy! Who can’t help but lean back down, licking you completely clean with a luscious moan at the taste of you. Pulling down his pants to hungrily crawl up your body kissing your skin up along the way making you breathe heavier. 

VirginDoffy! Who is way too big for his own good and once he's dipping his long cock inside you needs you to literally beg him to stop or he'll keep going. Drunk on the feel of you wrapping around him until your nails are drawing blood from scratching at his chest so hard. 

“Shitshitshit too much too~ fucking much! Dammit just wait!” You cry out not even aware of how much blood you drew from the man, eyes blurry from tears. His body shivering at the pleasure wrapped around his cock and the stinging pain of your nails. Doflamingo’s breath is coming out in huffs as he leans down to suck marks on your neck, his fingers clawing at the sheets for some type of self control to stay still but it only lasts so long. “I’m not a man with much patience.” He’ll tell you, making you whimper as you feel him grind into you. 

Sucker punching the air out of you as he rocks into you with unskilled hips, is cock so big it did all the work for him. Doflamingo went on pure instincts and pleasure, kissing your body and stringing your legs up to stay wide open for him. Long cock pounding into you until you scream out his name for the whole kingdom to hear.

VirginDoffy! Who immediately grows addicted when you cum around his cock, needing to feel it over and over again. Your pussy gushing around his cock as he pumps you over and over full of his seed. 

VirginDoffy! Who mentally wishes he traps you forever with his child so you never leave the man. Your slumped form lay on his bed alongside with him both breathing heavy as his mind raced with thoughts of what to do with you the next round when he has gathered the energy again. Now that he’s had you don’t think you’ll be able to run. Like a bird you’ll be forever caged to quench his ever growing lust.

“Don’t think you’ll be able to leave me now my dear. It seems I’ve grown quite obsessed.”

[aforestescape]

thinking about older bf simon x younger reader

content includes: fat simon yummy, afab!reader, short reader, fat/chubby reader, cunnilingus, completely self indulgent

yeah i also wrote this at like 3 am:) enjoy

you meet at the grocery store you frequent. somewhere in between aisles as you’re on the phone with your cousin. talking over plans for the weekend, meeting up for drinks at her place and ordering in dinner and cheesecake. a little ways down the aisle is a tall, broad figure. you'd spotted him a minute or so previously, eyes stuck to him for a few seconds too long. eyeing the way his arms and stomach filled out the material. the barley noticeable flex as he moved to grab his item.

letting your eyes trail up from his stomach, chest, neck, and then finally his face only to realize with a start that he was looking right at you. honeyed eyes trained directly on you. watching you watch him with an intense stare that had you immediately turning out the lane. embarrassment flushing your body a few degrees hotter than normal for being caught checking this man out.

as you end your phone call and enter a new aisle you pass through it, grabbing a snack that’s no where on your grocery list but you deserve a treat. as you reach the end you find what you’re looking for. only three items left and they’re stuffed back against the shell. you roll your eyes in annoyance, rocking up onto your toes as you stretch for it. your fingers grazing over the baggy but not close enough to pinch between your fingers.

you plant back down on the ground, letting out a huff of air. pressing your body into the shelf as you attempt to grab it once again. you’re a little closer to grabbing it now. almost managing before a black clothed arm reaches past you to pluck the item.

simons hulk directly behind you, standing in a black hoodie and his normal mask covering the bottom half of his face. it doesn't hide the scars that liter the rest of it though or the ones on his hands as he reaches past you to grab the bag of granola you'd been trying to get. he steps back slightly and gives the bag to you.

you offer him a smile and thank him, voice quiet as you take in his face up close. you can only see from the bridge of his nose and up. a long scar peeking out from the half skull mask. he lets out a grunt in acknowledgment, turning to walk away before you stop him. you take a small breath, deciding to be brave because how bad could it be to ask?

“er- i hope this isn’t weird to ask, but are you single?”

he’s not expecting the question, staring you down for a few unnerving seconds before telling you that, yes he is single. and after exchanging numbers you spend the rest of the week messaging. his answers are sparse through the day but he tells you it’s because he works security during that time. he asks you about your days at night when you’re heading to bed, enjoying your mundane rambles and work tea over the phone.

you send him a picture before and some videos after you getting drunk at your cousins flat. loud music playing in the background as you down a shot, nose scrunched slightly before grinning at the camera. another of you dancing with a friend? he assumes, both of you with cups in your hand and giggling while you twirl around in her kitchen.

you haven’t known each other long at all in the grand scheme but he’s sure he can get used to this. hearing your drunken laugh and slurred speech as you head to your front door from your uber. still living at home and in your last year of university but he doesn’t care. it appeals to him honestly, your brain and that you’re studious enough to have seeked out higher education of your own wanting. he didn’t, knew it wasn’t something he’d be able to do in place of getting away from his awful home life.

leaving his mother and brother behind, doomed to their fate in order to escape the father who raised him. he praises you for it as the weeks go by and you stress to him about mid terms. over in his flat after classes, sat on the floor of his living room with books spread out. every so often he’ll reach his hand down from his spot on the couch, large fingers smoothing over your head like you’re a pet. petting your head and soothing you in his own way.

he’ll take you out on dates on his days off or pick you up to come over to his. he prefers being inside and smaller places. something he’s glad you accommodate to though really you also prefer to be indoors. date nights consisting of standing in his kitchen, prepping for dinner and talking with low music in the background. smiling and reaching on your toes to give his cheek a soft peck as he loops his thick arm round your waist.

you still hadn’t seen his entire face yet but well, you didn’t care much. it couldn’t be that different and the half you could see was attractive enough. and so was his body. you’d always been attracted to thicker frames. hairy chests and abdomens that cover up fatter tummies and delicious pecs. it both made you go absolutely feral and also made you feel more comfortable with your own thicker body.

having grown into a curvier and chubby body came with the occasional feeling of unattractiveness. it wasn’t true at all, your weight and curves only adding to your beauty, something simon said to you whenever he’d catch the way you’d stare at yourself in the mirror sometimes. leaning down and wrapping his bulk around you from behind. big, freckled and scarred arms holding you flush against him so you could feel the swell of his cock.

he’d kiss up and down your neck through his mask. low and thick accented voice singing your praises while his hands would search and grope the rolls on your body. holding the weight of your breast in his hands and squeezing as you’d moan in his arms. simon letting out a chuckle before kissing you again and keeping on with exploring you. coaxing you into bed where he could spread your plush thighs apart and worship you for hours.

keeping them apart with his forearms as he lapped up your arousal. a pillow under your lower back and your hands caught in the sheets, tugging on his hair, covering your face as you moaned in bliss. simons warm tongue spreading your lips as he flicked the muscle up and down them. letting his saliva pool and add to the obscene noises filling the air of his bedroom while he dined on you.

devouring your cunt, one hand on your stomach. caressing and squeezing and pushing down gently on it. roaming upwards to pluck and tug on your sensitive nipples. making your back arch as you cried out from the stinging pleasure. moaning into your slick cunt as he sucked on your clit. sucking and licking back down to stick his tongue inside your hole.

he’d go on for hours, holding your trembling body and praising you through every orgasm. even as you cried and shook from exertion, plush body covered in a layer of sweat. vision blurred and mind fuzzy around the edges. moans of how good you tasted, how pretty you were, how perfect your body is. all just for him, “just for me, right doll? only i get to eat this pretty pussy of yours. all mine, hm.”

and when he was finally done he’d clean you up. hold you in his arms under the blankets while you thanked him softly. pressing kisses to his chest in your sleepy and fucked out state. the telly on some random cartoon as you both drifted off in each others arms.

in a funnier world simon doesn’t actually help you at the grocers. he reaches past you and just as you’re going to turn and thank him for the hand he places the last of the granola in his own cart buggy and goes about his day. never mind the cutie who was staring at him for some reason?

anyways there will be another part cause i didn’t even get to the scene that made me want to write this🤭prepare for angst in the future hehe

[empressdede]

Me, U & Jealousy - Chapter 1

Chapter One

“We’ll have Kayla give you the run around with how everything should be set up and she’ll help you get things going. Congratulations on your first day, good luck.” Eddie, a backstage producer had told me before walking off.

I was just hired on as an interviewer for WWE and I couldn’t really say I was that excited. Although this is a big opportunity for me, there was a couple people from my past who were here that I wish I could’ve left in the past.

But when my best friend, Jada, told me about the opportunity, I couldn’t let it slip through my fingers.

“I know it may seem scary but once you get acquainted with everyone, it’ll be easier for you.” Kayla starts as she takes over the tour. “Everyone here is very nice, so don’t be intimidated so easily.”

I let out a laugh, shaking my head at her. “Kayla I don’t think there’s a person here who can intimidate me. I don’t frighten easy.” It was true though. No matter how big, tall or muscular someone could be, it didn’t phase me at all. Not even a little bit.

Kayla laughed right back, “Okay, Good. I know most people come in and they’re so afraid to mess up because they work for such a big company; but I think you have enough confidence to do a great job.”

“Thank you Kayla, that really means a lot coming from you.”

“No problem girl. We’ll go around and introduce you to everyone backstage so that you can-“

“I know that ain’t who I think it is!” A voice called out from afar, and I had to keep myself from rolling my eyes. So much for keeping them in the past.

Kayla and I turned around to watched the entire bloodline walk up to us. Unfortunately I grew up with these fools, our parents were close and they always had us hanging out together. The Uso brothers and Roman were older so they didn’t hang out with me as much as their little brother did.

“We heard you was coming, but we thought Ma was just talking just to talk. Damn, look at lil Sorai.” Jonathon teased as he pulled me into a hug.

I gave him the hug in return but kept it short, pulling away from him. “I’m not lil Sorai, I’m grown now Jon.”

Joshua threw his arm around my neck to pull me into a hug as well. “She think cause she gain a lil weight she grown.” Josh laughed and I rolled my eyes.

“I’m a grown women, thank you.” I stated, pulling back from that hug as well. “I pay big girl bills now just like the rest of em.”

“Don’t think just cause you ‘grown’ you think you can walk around doing whatever. Joe on a mission to keep that whole locker room away from you.” Josh stated, throwing quotations around the word ‘grown’ as if it meant nothing to him.

And in reality, it probably didn’t. Seeing these boys did nothing but push those big brother instincts that they had over me back in high school.

They would run everyone away from me if they could. No boy stood a chance against these boys, and I wasn’t about to let them repeat my high school life all over again.

“Guys, Its been a couple of year. Don’t you think it’s time to drop this big brother act already? I mean We’re all grown now.”

It was Joe who spoke up this time. “Grown? You think she look grown Josh?”

“Nah not even a little bit, what about you Uce?” Josh asked, turning to his twin.

“Still look like the same lil Sorai from the playground. Ain’t that right Solo?” Jon asked his little brother.

Solo stared at me with the most intense look in his eyes before answering his brother. “Yeah, same lil Sorai from the playground.” He agreed, a small smirk on his face.

Solo fucking Sikoa. Damn I couldn’t stand him. Ever since we were kids, he would always teased me about every little thing and made sure to irritate my last nerve just to get a laugh. But it wouldn’t be like that this time around, I’m gonna make sure of that.

“I see you still can’t stand up for yourself Sefa. Guess some things never change.”

“It’s Solo.” He tried to correct but I shrugged him off turning to Kayla who looked amused from the whole interaction.

“Kayla, these fools are my wanna be brothers who tried to scare everyone away from me back in high school.” I stated, giving her the history of how I knew them.

“We don’t try to do nothing. We’ve successfully ran every lame away from lil Sorai because she don’t got time for heart break.” Jon bragged which caused me to roll my eyes.

“It’s a little too late for that. Listen as much as I would love to play catch up, Me and Kayla got things to do and I won’t be caught slacking on my first day. “ I turned around and started walking in the opposite direction of the group of boys to follow Kayla to wherever she had to take me.

“Aye Kayla, when y’all finish up bring her to our locker room so she can know where its at. That way we can play catch up!” Jonathan called out. Kayla let out a shout of agreement with a playful smirk on her face as we continued down the hall.

“So,” Kayla started as soon as we were out of earshot. “Wanna tell me the history behind that?” She asked teasingly.

Oh Lord.

_____________________________________________

Let me know watchu guys think so far. Gimme some love though😭🫶🏾 like, comment and repost

[danibee33]

Don't mind me, just thinking about Johnny keeping a secret...

(render cr: @ave661)

word count: 1k

—> heads up: smut warning, unprotected p in v, gently edited, *parts in italics are flashbacks*

— Thinking about how it’s nearly sunset when the team finally lands back at base. The mission had been easy comparatively speaking, as always, recon took the longest- and, like always, it was Johnny’s least favorite part. See, he hated the waiting, hated the twiddling his thumbs, hated the boredom of it all. Johnny liked to be moving, always, in whatever way he could be. 

Idle hands lead to evil thoughts, or however the saying goes-

Sure, he had Ghost there, but he could only do so much with the dry humor and witty banter, not that the Lieutenant wasn’t good at it- in fact, Johnny really didn’t mind working with the broody man one bit.

Slowly, but surely, and certainly never to be admitted by Ghost, Johnny thinks he’s managed to break him down a bit. He was good like that though-

Never one to back down from a challenge.. Never.

"What can I get for you?”

Johnny had noticed the cute little bartender right away.

The bar itself was always the same when they were home, a local place overwhelmingly patronized by military folk due to its proximity to base, but she was an undoubtedly new face.

And he would know, but that’s neither here, nor there.

She was a sweet thing, with long, dark chocolatey hair that hung in perfect waves down her back, and the biggest brown eyes he thinks he’s ever seen- 

“Scotch.” He says, a lopsided grin on his lips, “and bourbon, for the big guy.”

Without missing a beat, she huffs out a laugh, meeting Ghost’s eye for only a moment before returning her gaze to Johnny, “What? Big Guy can’t order his own drink?” 

Oh, isn’t she trouble..

“Actually, I believe he prefers to be called-”

“That’ll do.” Simon barks out, rolling his eyes at the way the bartender giggles, her hands moving at the same time to pour to perfectly measured drinks-

“Would you like to open a tab?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost speaks again, the crystal glass comically small in his hand, “Lover boy here will cover it, won’t ya, Johnny?”

He walks away before the Scot can give an answer, leaving the two behind to continue on with whatever this was. But, Johnny doesn’t have a problem with that- he’s almost grateful, as he digs in his back pocket, eyes never leaving hers. And even though he could blatantly see other people patiently waiting to have their orders, she doesn’t move, 

“What’s your name?” Sweet Thing takes the card from between his fingers, and he doesn’t miss how her fingertips linger over his for just a moment longer than what would be necessary-

Such fucking trouble..

But, to his surprise, as soon as she has the card in the system, he watches her give almost the same exact treatment to the man standing to his left, and then the man next to him- though, her little giggle wasn’t nearly as warm with them. Or maybe that’s just his own hubris coming out. Either way, he turns on his heel, heading to the table where Simon and Gaz are already sat, chatting idly and sipping on drinks, 

“Surprised you’re back already.” Ghost deadpans, casting Johnny a lazy side-eye.

And he hates to think that he’s a bit surprised, too, but- it’s not the first time he’s been knocked down a notch or two, and it won’t be the last, 

“Ach- You’re real funny, LT. Y’know that?”

“Drinks, tonight?” Gaz asks with a cheery lilt, looking between the other three.

Ghost gives a noncommittal grunt, maybe a yes or maybe a no, maybe a something in between- they never know with him anyway. And Johnny isn’t sure how to answer, he doesn't exactly want to give away who he has waiting for him- doesn't want say what has his leg bouncing with anticipation, or a barely held back grin every time he looks at his phone now that they’re close enough to the ground to get a signal.

He's spoken of his bonnie lass as sparingly as possible, something deep down in him just needing to keep her to himself for as long as he can. Keep her away from this part of his life-

It’s their Captain that speaks up first, 

“Not tonight, boys. Havin' dinner at home.”

"Say that again, Bonnie..”

It’s hard to form a coherent sentence, but she manages to moan out his name again, “Oh, fuck, Johnny.. Right there, baby.”

The back seat of Johnny’s truck had to be good enough tonight, he couldn’t wait a second fucking longer- which is how they ended up here, him stretched out on the seat as far as he could get, watching her bounce and grind on his cock, riding him like it’s the last thing she might ever do, 

“That’s it.. ” Johnny groans, his fingers digging into the fatty flesh of her hips, hard enough he’s sure there might be bruises left behind for him to kiss tomorrow, “Y’re so fuckin’ perfect- y’know that?”

God, her smile could be enough to send him over the edge right then, her pretty pink lips pulling up, just for him, teeth biting into the plump of her bottom lip, just for him, before parting in the most mouth watering moan- all of it, just for him.

He was hooked, addicted, hopelessly, and irrevocably- he wanted her in every way, and it had only been a handful of months since she finally gave him the time of day.

So, when she buries her face in his neck, letting him thrust into her deeply, wildly, letting him all but throw her headfirst into the blinding pleasure of an orgasm- her silky walls clench around him so tightly he can’t help but to let go, painting her insides white with a low, guttural growl- his voice deep as he guides them both through the high, 

“That’s my girl.. My good fuckin’ girl, huh? God, ya feel just divine.. Can never get enough-” He coos, over and over, lavishing her neck and jaw with kisses, wanting to taste the sheen of sweat on her skin. 

And every time, he wonders how he could’ve gotten so lucky- to have a woman like her want anything to do with a guy like him.

“There’s my sweet girl, how are ya, honey?” Price greets his only daughter with a kiss to the cheek and a warm hug, the type of hug he always and only ever saved for his little girl. He can’t help it, she just seemed too grown now, too tall, too mature with her mother’s calming brown eyes and her dad’s cheeky smile, 

“Hi, daddy-” She says, a beaming smile on her lips, “I’m glad you’re home.”

a/n: i’ve had this one in my drafts for a while 😬 & for the request I recently got for the zombie!au, i promise i’m working on it!!

*whole inspo was this song, because johnny fucking would*

[putting-it-into-parc]

snickerdoodles, chapter 1: best friend butterflies, and a daunting assignment turns into quite the baking adventure (3.6k words)

warnings: bit of pining, the slowest burn, ✨friend tension✨

chapter 1: tim tams and meringues

The kitchen is chaos. Bowls and spatulas are strewn all over the messy counter, a timer shaped like a cow chirps angrily for your attention, and you’re pretty sure there’s flour on your chin. You open the oven door, grimacing at the heat—once upon a time, you never had to be the one to do that—precariously move a tray of cookies from a sheet pan to a wire rack, and top them off with a dusting of cinnamon and sugar. Another tray beside it boasts row after row of perfectly piped meringues.

Three slight taps on the door, and your heart leaps. Your taste tester has arrived, just in time.

Abandoning the still-hot cookies on the counter, you saunter your way to the door. Not too quickly—too eagerly—but not too slowly, keeping your guest waiting. Deep breath in, deep breath out. You turn the handle.

As soon as you see each other, Oscar’s stoic face breaks out into a cheeky grin. You meet his outstretched arms halfway, bury your face in his soft hoodie.

“Long time, no see,” you murmur into his chest.

“I could say the same for you.” He rests his chin on top of your head. Then he sniffs your hair. “Let me guess,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Snickerdoodles?”

You break apart, and finally you can take all of Oscar in, his normally cropped hair starting to curl over his ears, the Lando Norris hoodie he has on—supportive teammate, huh—the little mole under his left ear, a constant presence for as long as you can remember.

“That’s cheating,” you say. “I always make snickerdoodles.”

Snickerdoodles are Oscar’s favorite.

Oscar steps into the living room, takes his shoes off without you having to ask. “Hmmm...can’t you give me a hint?”

“Fine.” You get up on your tippy toes and cup his eyes with your hands. “I’ll let you smell them. And no cheating!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, taking your wrists gently and lowering them to your sides. He closes his eyes obediently.

You take the opportunity to run into the kitchen, scoop a small pile of meringues into your hands, and return to the living room. You hold your cupped hands up to Oscar’s nose.

He inhales deeply. Thoughtful twin dimples appear above his eyebrows. “Are you even giving me anything to smell?”

You stifle a giggle, because in fact, you were just the tiniest bit cruel with your hint. As far as cookies go, meringues don’t smell like much at all, given that they’re mostly egg whites and sugar.

“Maybe you need a taste test,” you tease.

Oscar opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, just far enough for it to look comical. You don’t try to fight the laughter anymore as you place a single meringue on his tongue.

“What the?” Oscar says as the cookie starts to dissolve in his mouth. His eyes fly open. “Are these—are these?—these taste like the world’s most boring pavlova.”

“Hey!” you say indignantly. “The meringue is the best part of the pavlova.”

“Hard disagree. Hard. It’s the whipped cream and the fruit that carry it.” The comment earns him an eye roll.

“Well,” you huff, feigning irritation, “then you won’t mind helping me finish it up.”

Oscar’s eyes light up. “You’re not done yet?”

“No, dummy. If I’d put the fruit and the cream on top it'd just melt the cookie underneath. And I wasn’t sure exactly when you were gonna get here.” You turn and head back into the kitchen, Oscar trailing close behind.

Neat rows of small meringues are arranged on one baking sheet, a larger one piped in a sort of flat nest on the other. “I already sliced up the fruit, if you want to get it out of the fridge,” you nudge, and Oscar retrieves the cold metal bowl, draped loosely in plastic wrap. When he thinks you’re not looking, he swipes a snickerdoodle from the wire cooling rack and stuffs it in his mouth whole.

“I saw that,” you say, loading a dollop of freshly whipped cream into a piping bag.

“Saw what?” Oscar asks innocently, mouth full of crumbs.

You drag your pointer finger through what’s left of the whipped cream in the bowl. You turn to him slowly, and in a flash, dot a tiny bit of it on the tip of Oscar’s nose.

Oscar lunges for the bowl, arms his own finger, and drags a streak of fluffy white cream down your cheek.

“Hey!”

He giggles, pointing at your face. “You look like a kid wearing face paint.”

You attempt to retaliate, but then Oscar grabs your wrist. You become acutely aware of a little lurch your stomach does as he looks you directly in the eye. He raises his other hand, slowly wipes the whipped cream off your face with his thumb. He’s still holding your wrist. Your cheeks burn.

“No playing with your food,” he lilts, and then his hands are gone, as quickly as they came.

You roll your eyes, if only to disguise the fact that your face is probably the color of the raspberries in the fruit bowl. “You’ve lost whipped cream privileges.” You pipe a layer down onto the bed of meringue, and step aside for Oscar to crown the whole affair with the fruit.

He furrows his eyebrows in concentration as he carefully arranges the slices of kiwi, spears of strawberry, raspberries, and blueberries one by one within the crevices of the whipped cream.

Watching him, you feel a rush of nostalgia. It’s just like old times.

Almost.

~

You and Oscar met in Year 9, when you were assigned to sit next to each other in Home Ec. You wouldn’t have been caught dead in the Textiles section of the class—needles, even the sewing kind, made your head start to spin—but you reasoned that you did like food. Even though your scatterbrained self probably shouldn’t have been trusted around stoves or ovens either.

Oscar looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. After exchanging a perfunctory hello at the beginning of each class, he seemed to mentally launch himself into outer space. You had no idea a pair of eyes could go that blank.

One day, the teacher tells you to pair up for a group project. The assignment? Make a homemade version of a common processed snack.

You glance over at your seatmate, and for better or worse, he looks just as much at a loss as you feel.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, clears his throat. “Um,” he says quietly. “Any ideas?”

You just shake your head.

He sighs. “I’ll think about it some when I go home.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “If you give me your number we can text about ideas.”

You oblige, tapping your name and cell phone number into his contacts.

But judging by the radio silence that night, neither of you experience any bursts of creative inspiration.

The next class period, Oscar’s eyelids droop halfway closed and you’re absentmindedly filling in every other square on your gridded paper like a checkerboard, when the teacher’s voice jerks you both awake.

“Ryan,” she admonishes your classmate. “Put those Tim Tams away. No eating during class.”

Almost telepathically, your heads whip around to face each other, and your eyes lock in agreement. Tim Tams it is.

You invite Oscar to your house for your endeavor to replicate the Tim Tams from the comfort of your own kitchen. Your younger brother had grinned evilly at you when you’d warned him to stay out of the way.

“Oooooooh,” he singsonged. “You’re having a boy over?”

“No, shut up,” you snapped. “It’s for a group project. And besides,” you said wryly, conjuring up in your mind Oscar’s skinny legs, unkempt hair, eternally languid expression and distinct lack of willingness to talk during class, “he’s not even cute.”

And really, he wasn’t.

Oscar knocks timidly on the door, and when you open it, you’re greeted by the sight of him cradling an enormous bag of sugar. It must have weighed at least ten kilos.

“Oscar—” you gasp. “Why on earth, do we need that much sugar?”

Clearly, Oscar hadn’t thought too much about portion sizes when you’d asked him to pick up a bag of sugar on his way to your place. Poor kid. These were the people who needed Home Ec, you supposed.

He turns beet red. “Um,” he stumbles.

You will yourself not to laugh at him; you have a feeling that if you did, he might just never speak to you—or anyone else—ever again.

“Never mind,” you say, waving him through the door. “It’s a lot better to have extra than not enough.”

To your relief, some of the tension leaves Oscar’s shoulders, and he lets the heavy sack of sugar drop to the floor next to your counter.

“So...you know how to bake?” Oscar asks, his eyes roaming curiously over the sheet trays and measuring cups lined up on the counter, the large bag of baking chocolate you’d bought for the project, the gleaming white KitchenAid you’d sweet-talked your mom into letting you use.

“No,” you admit. “My mom’s fantastic, though. I dunno what I’m gonna do when I go to uni and I won’t have a constant supply of her banana bread anymore...”

“We should just have her do the project, then.”

Surprised at his brazen comment, you turn to face Oscar, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. Huh. Oscar Piastri has a sense of humor, you think. “I wish,” you chuckle.

You pull up an online recipe for homemade Tim Tams on your laptop. “It doesn’t look too bad. Tim Tams are basically two biscuits with icing between them.”

“Dipped in chocolate,” Oscar finishes.

“Yep, dipped in chocolate. Should be simple,” you say, and Oscar nods in assent.

Alas, it was not simple at all.

The first batch of biscuits comes out looking, well, a lot like charcoal. Your eyes sting with the veritable cloud of smoke that billows out of the oven. You and Oscar fan at it frantically, trying to disperse it before it sets off the fire alarm.

On the second attempt, the biscuits look edible enough, but something goes horribly wrong with the chocolate coating. Instead of a smooth, homogenous mixture of chocolate and oil, great dark lumps settle below a thick layer of clear liquid.

“Shit,” you say, staring at the bowl. Oscar peers over your shoulder.

“Oh. Oh no.”

“Yeah, oh no. What did we do this time?”

Oscar pulls out his phone. “Troubleshooting...polar...emulsion,” he mutters as he taps away on the keyboard.

“Emulsion?” you say. “That’s the nerdiest thing someone could possibly say.”

Silence.

When you look up from the sad bowl of chocolate, Oscar’s face is flushed. “Oh—Oscar,” you say, embarrassed. “You know—I was just joking, right?”

Oscar’s lips disappear, leaving only a thin line where his mouth was. “Yeah,” he says, tightly.

“No, seriously,” you fumble, a little desperately. “I wouldn’t have made fun of you if I didn’t think it was actually cool. I swear.” Your words sound hollow to you, and you feel like a top tier ass.

He just shrugs. “I’m used to it. I’ve always been the nerd.”

“Please. Until about two seconds ago I thought you were the literal opposite.” You pause, then press forward recklessly. What’s there to lose? “Don’t think I haven’t seen you go practically unconscious every day in Home Ec.”

Oscar stares at you mutely, and you’re sure you’ve now permanently fucked up any chance of you getting along for the foreseeable future, but then—Oscar laughs. His face changes entirely when he does—tiny lines appear at the corners of his eyes, as does a dimple by the crease of his right lip. Like the Australian sun peeking out from behind a passing cloud. It makes you think...something. You’re unsure how to put it into words. But it makes you feel buoyant.

You work much more companionably than before from that point on, and finally, emerge with a batch of chocolate-covered biscuits that to be honest, you’re pretty proud of. Dusk has started to fall outside.

“Will you do the honors?” You hold the plate of cookies out to Oscar.

He grins, and again you’re struck by how sunny his face is, and how reluctant he seemed to hand that smile out. He pinches a Tim Tam between his thumb and index finger and brings it up to his mouth in an exaggerated fashion. You watch his face as he chews thoughtfully.

“Honestly,” he says, “not bad.”

“Not bad?” you pout, slightly miffed. “We worked for hours on this! And all you give me is not bad?”

He chuckles at your annoyance. “Well, look at it this way. We worked on it for a day. The makers of this bad boy—” he fingers the plastic packaging of the original fondly—“have been optimizing the recipe for years.”

“Touché.”

“But really,” he says, suddenly serious, “I think we did great. You did great. I would’ve been totally sunk without you.”

You feel a little bashful at his words. “You too. Thanks for...well, doing this with me.” As if he hadn’t been assigned to.

“I had fun,” Oscar replies simply. And you believe him.

In Home Ec the next morning, as your classmates crowd around your homemade Tim Tams, Oscar meets your eyes, and you both smile.

~

You sit on the couch, ensconced in an unnecessarily fluffy blanket with Oscar beside you, but you’re freezing. Anyone But You plays on the TV—Oscar, of course, missed it while it was in theaters.

Every so often when he leans forward to grab another handful of crisps, his sleeve brushes your bare forearm, and you shiver. The air feels so tense, you feel like it could snap like a rubber band at any time. But Oscar seems blissfully unaware of your rigidness the entire movie, chuckling at the comical moments between Bea and Ben, poking you excitedly in the side at the dramatic shot of the Opera House.

“Can I stay over?” he asks when the end credits play, even though his duffel, complete with a change of clothes, sits ready in the hall. Even though he knows as well as you do that there’s only one answer.

You pretend to consider his question, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm…”

Oscar rolls his eyes and gives you a playful shove. Tingles spread through your body; you grit your teeth against them.

“Okay, fine,” you pretend to relent. “But I’m making you sleep on the couch. I’ve gotten zero sleep this week, and you snore like a lawnmower.”

“What?!” Oscar yelps.

“Kidding,” you smirk, and Oscar shoves you again, sending you toppling into the cushions.

In the bathroom, you’re fully preoccupied brushing your teeth while you replay over and over the scene from earlier in the afternoon, when Oscar grabbed your wrist as you decorated the pavlova. The way he said, No playing with your food, in a way you would have sworn was nothing but filthy—if you didn’t know any better.

“Boo,” someone says in your ear.

You almost jump onto the counter.

“Oscar!” you say, the name coming out muffled through a mouthful of toothpaste. You spit into the sink, turn to face him indignantly. “Jesus, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Oscar nonchalantly squeezes toothpaste onto his own toothbrush, and the two of you continue the evening ministrations side by side, the silence having long since become familiar. He watches you wash your face twice, pat all manner of potions and lotions on your skin. He’s one of the few people who’s ever seen you go through your entire skincare routine, and probably the only one who didn’t immediately get bored, or make some kind of snide comment about it being extra.

“I tried the sunscreen you sent me,” he informs you, and the tinge of pride in his voice warms your heart.

“Oh? It’s about time,” you tease. “Skin’s never looked better.”

“Wait, are you being serious?”

You were mostly joking. But how could you say no to those eyes, suddenly filled with genuine hope? “Yep,” you quickly nod.

“Hey, guess what,” Oscar says suddenly.

“What?”

“Last one to the bed sleeps on the floor!” he says as he sprints out of the bathroom.

You fall for this every time.

“HEY!” You race after him, but Oscar’s already dive-bombed into your duvet. “Ahhhhhh,” he says, stretching out all four limbs luxuriously. “I’ve definitely told you this before, but you have great taste in mattresses.”

You just stand at the foot of the bed, arms crossed in mock anger, doing your best to affix a glare onto your face.

“Okay, okay,” Oscar holds his palms up, but makes no move to arise. Then he extends an arm across the other—empty—side of the bed.

It takes you a full thirty seconds to realize what he’s suggesting. Your jaw drops.

“What—we can’t just sleep in the same bed!” you sputter, feeling what has to be misplaced panic rise in your chest.

“Why not?” Oscar asks.

Then his eyes narrow.

“Oh.”

You tilt your head quizzically.

“Is…is there someone who might be upset that you did?” Oscar asks flatly, his voice no longer blithe.

“No!” you blurt out, even more flustered at the misunderstanding. “No. I’m not seeing anyone or anything. It’s just—”

If you weren’t so frazzled by the entire situation, maybe you would’ve noticed the twinkle return to his eyes at the rather emphatic denial. “Just what?”

“Just—I mean, isn’t it a little bit weird?”

Oscar shrugs. “Not like we’re going to do anything.”

The thought of doing things with Oscar—nope, nope, bad. Begone, thoughts.

“Um.” You chew on your lower lip. “So you’re serious?”

“If you’re not gonna be weird about it, yeah. What’s the point of sleeping on the floor when there’s literally room for both of us here?”

The point is, Oscar, that even you brushing up against me makes me feel weird. So how do you think my brain’s gonna take sleeping in the same bed together? And how are you so freaking calm about it?

But now you know that if you say no, it’s as good as admitting that you are, in fact, being weird about it. You shake your head. “Using my words against me, huh? Fine. You’re right, there’s plenty of room for both of us.”

And to prove it to Oscar, but actually mostly to yourself, that you see him as nothing more than your best friend, you climb into the empty half of the bed, silently willing your heart to stop pounding in your chest.

~

The day of the glorious Tim Tam show-and-tell, you come home only to realize that Oscar had left his massive bag of sugar in your kitchen.

“That’s some pretty nice sugar, too,” your mom had observed. “Might want to ask him if he wants that back.”

Too bad you gave him your number instead of the other way around. You figure you’ll tell him in Home Ec tomorrow. Hopefully he’ll be awake.

But your phone buzzes with a text as you’re doing the dishes after dinner.

Unknown  Hey, it’s Oscar I think I left my sugar at your house, lol

You remember him staggering under the weight of the bag, and grin as you add him to your contacts.

Me  Haha yeah you did, I can bring it to Home Ec tomorrow?

Oscar  Well actually Wait are you busy rn?

Me  I’m doing the dishes lol but should be done in 5

Oscar  Okay sounds good

Just as you stick the last of the silverware into the drying rack, your phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Oscar says. He sounds a little hesitant. “Uh yeah, so, basically I let my sisters try the Tim Tams, and they’re obsessed.”

“Really?” you can’t help but squeal.

“Yeah. So uh, if you didn’t hate baking too much, they would like us to make another batch of them.”

You giggle. “Damn, we could start a business.”

Oscar chuckles on the other end, and you picture his shoulders relaxing, just like they did that first day. “I can come get the sugar,” he says. “We don’t have to use your house this time, I feel bad.”

Your mom’s sitting on the couch in the living room, watching TV next to your dad. She raises an eyebrow at you as you stroll out of the kitchen with your phone pressed to your ear.

“Wait just a sec,” you tell Oscar, and cover the mic with a palm. “Mom. Do you mind us using the kitchen to bake?”

“I heard that!” Oscar’s voice sounds faintly through the speakers.

“Not at all,” your mom says. “Honestly, that KitchenAid hasn’t seen enough of the light for a while now.”

“We’ve got her blessing,” you announce to Oscar triumphantly. “That stand mixer is our oyster.”

When Oscar comes over the next week, you do indeed replicate the Tim Tams, but you also decide to make chocolate chip cookies since you’ve already got everything you need for them. You get into a spirited argument over your preferred consistency—you’ll die on the hill of crispy edges, Oscar refusing to budge an inch on his stance that cookies so underbaked they’re practically liquid are superior.

The perfume emanating from the oven is almost intoxicating. Oscar prematurely yanks the sheet tray out of the oven despite your protests, and proceeds to immediately scald the roof of his mouth on the flaming hot cookies.

“Gooey!” he manages to say in delight, despite the tears forming in his eyes.

You laugh until your sides hurt.

Thus began the odyssey that you two eventually dubbed Piastry of the Week.

~

taglist: @sideboobrry11

[moodymisty]

Hey.

Totally understand if you don’t want to make a part two, but something that’s been living rent free in my head since I read the Lion’el painting fic you wrote is what would happen if his lover potentially retuned somehow? Maybe she’d been on a ship that experienced warp shenanigans so it’s only been a few years since she disappeared from her pov, how he’d react to her return and how she’d handle the RADICAL changes to the imperium.

Preferred sfw but I don’t really mind

Totally fine if you don’t want to do a part two but I did want to express how much I loved the fic and make the request now that they’re open.

PS I love all your stuff so much

- 🍀

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙| 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Sequel to this request. You will probably need to read that to understand most of what happens here.

Author's note: Hey friend! Here's a little continuation of that fic, I hope you enjoy it <3

Relationships: Lion'el Jonson/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None really

Lion'el is disturbed from his what can only be described as meditation with the harsh slamming of ceramite boots on flooring, up until the door behind him is thrown open. LIon'el doesn't move as they force their way into the small room, his hands still on his thighs.

"Father!" They even forgo the proper respects, though he ignores it. He doesn't however, ignore their next words.

"She is awake!"

Lion'el's eyes snap open, and he's up to his feet in moments, pushing past his men with little regard. He knows they're following, though he couldn't care less if they did.

He only cares about one thing now.

Lion'el had been hesitant to tell any of his these Dark Angels about you, since waking. They had never even known he had a wife, only that singular relic had even clued them into the fact that he had anyone, besides his legion. The entire time they'd never known that mysterious woman had been beneath their feet; Much like himself, in a way.

It seemed whatever had cast him into an endless slumber had did to you much the same, not many years later. You'd commanded his men briefly in his stead, but one day, you fell the same as him. He'd never known you were so close until recently. He'd thought you dead and gone since he'd awoken.

He hasn't seen you awake since those days just after the Heresy, and only recently when you were still asleep; Now here you are, groggy and eyes wet, trying to pull your arm away from a concerned medicae. You stop however, once you catch sight of him.

"Lion?"

Your voice is hoarse, like a gravely whisper, you look at him like you have trouble thinking he's real. Perhaps he looks too different for you to instantly recognize him. He knows his beard is rougher, face is harsher. But his armor is almost the exact same.

He walks closer. Past his sons who have maintained a cautious barrier; They know little about you. He pushes through them despite complaints and reaches your side, where your legs dangle off the edge of a stone slab his sons had put you on ten thousand years ago.

His hands reach to cup your face, and your own grasp his armor, desperately trying to pull him into a hug. He allows it, feeling your tears on the skin of his neck.

He can see the look of confusion in his geneson's eyes. How they all look at him displaying such weakness. He knows how far gone down the path they've gone, how his words have been twisted and warped beyond even what he thought was reasonable.

You pull away from his neck but he still feels your small hands against the nape of his neck, weaving into his hair.

"Lion, what's happened? The last I remember, Horus and Lorgar had-" He quiets you quickly.

"I will explain everything to you." He turns to the medicae who is still hovering close by, but hasn't been able to continue his duty since being interrupted.

"How is she," Lion'el speaks bluntly. It takes the man a moment to regain movement of his tongue.

"She appears normal on every scan, considering all that has happened."

With that reassurance Lion'el goes to pick you up, carrying you as close to bridal style as he can given your difference in size. When he turns to take you away however, Azrael comes into view with his squad shortly behind him.

"Father!"

Lion'el had confessed to your existance once he'd visited you and noticed you shift in your sleep. He'd sent guards to watch you as you- at the time he had thought hopefully- began to wake, and Azrael had to then be let in on the secret that had been lost for ten thousand years. Azrael as he expected acted with suspicion, though had held back his thoughts at the time. Now he seems to decide not to.

He doesn't need to say a single word, the way the astartes' hand flinches tells Lion'el everything he needs to know about what him and his squad are thinking.

Lion'el looks towards his geneson with nothing but coldness.

"If your hand moves closer to the pommel of your chainsword I will not hesitate to kill you where you stand."

Azrael gawks at him like he's offended.

"Father, we should be cautious, you don't know what kind of warp trickery has-" Lion'el stands straighter, still holding you in your arms. You're drowsy, but still well aware of the standoff that is happening as you grasp his armor for stability.

"She is my wife. She is the legion mother of Dark Angels from before and after the Heresy, and she commanded your ancestors when I fell. I do not need you to tell me what I see."

Lion'el walks forward and his men give way to him, allowing their genefather to pass. He can feel Azrael's displeasure, but he doesn't care.

He walks away from them all, and they wisely choose not to follow.

"Lion, How long have I been asleep? All of your men, you..." You look around the halls as he walks. "Everything look so different."

Lion'el is silent for a moment, until he returns to his quarters and gently sits you down on his own bed. One of his gauntlets comes to rest on the nook between your shoulder and neck, awkward as he always was but reassuring.

"The same illness that took me, it took you as well." You look exactly how he remembers you, it's like not a day has passed. Since waking he's blocked out those detailed memories of you; The feeling of your skin and gentle look in your eyes. They hurt to remember, but now that he has them back he doesn't know if he could do that again.

"You've been asleep for ten thousand years. Same as I."

Your face is frozen in a confused shock, your breath quickens, though at some point you simply accept it. Or perhaps stow the feelings away to eventually explode when your brain isn’t so and confused.

Your hand pulls to try and bring him closer, and he puts a gauntlet in your lap for you to grip as a compromise. Your small hands wrap around his fingers, squeezing to reassure yourself as you talk.

"I missed you. Being with your legion alone, I don't know how to describe how it felt." You weren't meant to do such a thing, lead an army, and Lion'el laments having to put it on you. He's sure you did well in your time, what short amount of it there was.

"Are you tired?" He asks, and you uncharacteristically let out a laugh.

"Not to be rude, but I think I've had quite enough of that for a few lifetimes, apparently." Lion'el doesn't smile, but his face does soften.

Finally alone, he also leans in to take a gentle kiss from you, your soft lips on his own as his beard scratches your skin. It feels just the same as he remembered.

"Then come with me. I'll show you what else you have missed."