#it's different and he's usually less weary

[cryptidcasanova]

Lover Boy

Mob!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: It's the Bridgerton carriage scene, but make it mob!Bucky.

Warnings: Angst, light Smut, Language, Possessive Bucky.

3.5k

The poll results are in, and I couldn't help but think this might be a good way to remedy both sides.

You were mortified.

One hand fisted against quivering lips, and the other gripped at your clutch. As if anything else could go wrong tonight. Shaky steps guided you down the carpeted stairs.

There was another gala, another meeting of the power players in town. And it was another night wasted at the hands of James Barnes.

You hated how much you cared for him. You still cared for him even after all the stunts he pulled to pull you away from the Maximoff heir. Always had.

Ever since you were kids, you remembered having that love-sick look in your eyes. You grew up with inner-circle families and were friends with Rebecca, Sarah, and their brothers. And Bucky? Well, shit, he was always there with his dark hair and curious eyes. It was hard not to fall for him.

Even as you grew up, numbing yourself to the reality of the business and the choices that came with it, you couldn't ignore him forever. You knew that Bucky was raised to be powerful, honorable, and frightening. You knew the stories – of all the beautiful women who couldn't tie him down longer than a night or two. You knew how he flaunted some new girl at every event. It was hard not to overhear them whispering among the men.

'What about her?' and the laugh on his hips saying, 'She's just a family friend. Don't worry about her; I'd never be with her like that.'

You knew he would break your heart, and still. You loved him.

Again, mortified.

He was your first kiss on some lonely night when you couldn't help but ask him. But that had been ages ago. He was grown now, the head of the family and the king of his empire.

But there was something different about tonight, something predestined that started long before you stepped outside your door. It started out as Sam's idea weeks before, in the same bar where you ended up every weekend.

He wanted to try and get you to mingle among the local 'rabble-rousers' as if he pretended not to be one of them. Your laugh at his suggestion pulled Steve and Bucky's attention from across the bar.

"You want me to do what, exactly?" You teased. "Throw myself in the way of wealthy investors and scout out the competition? That's much more up Nat's alley; there's a reason why they call her the Black Widow, you know –"

"No, nothing like that," he shook his head, that charming grin on his lips. Once Sam got an idea, it took a lot of work to dissuade him. "Look, there's more to this life than watching shipments and making small talk with the hens in town." He paused, knowing all the time you spent logging backorders and saving face with the mercs' wives. "I want you to be happy. We all do."

You leaned against the bar, pressing your palms against the hardwood.

"So you think it's time for me to settle down?" You challenged with a smirk. "Get married to some silver-spoon jerk upstate?" Sam's smile turned close-lipped as he noticed the other's approach.

"We could help you find a good one." At least he sounded hopeful.

"In this town?" Steve overheard, tapping his beer on the hardtop. "You're gonna need all the help you can get."

Your sneaking suspicion grew as they hounded like vultures. You looked from Sam to Steve with weary eyes. The only one with less enthusiasm was Bucky. Bucky, who usually was primmed with pressed shirts, was tired. His hair fell into his face, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie long discarded at one of the tables.

"You want to help me find a man?"

Bucky looked to his friends with a hooded expression, letting his hand reach out before him. With the click of his tongue, he softly smirked.

"We'll help you find a man. Have we got a deal, doll?"

It was a business handshake, one full of promise. And as soon as you grasped Bucky's hand, one you'd come to regret.

You didn't expect their advice to work so well…or so quickly.  

At the gala, Bucky strolled over with that sly walk and pressed navy suit, conveniently carrying your favorite drink in hand after Pietro ordered you both dirty martinis. You never cared for the drink, but you weren't about to tell him that. But trouble started when Bucky slid between you with that close-lipped smirk.

"They must have made a mistake at the bar," He explained with a shrug. "I remember you liked these. Here, doll." Bucky said, swapping out the drink in your hand before sliding away. No one could fault you for your eyes lingering on him as he walked back to Sam and Steve.

Later in the night, when you were dancing along and finally falling into a rhythm with Pietro, Bucky interrupted again. It was the turn of the tides, the slow pace of the music building, until it felt like one of the underground clubs.

All the weeks spent flirting and learning more about the Maximoff family were crumbling before you. You were a fool to think it would last.

The music built to the familiar strum of old songs you used to listen to, and before you knew it, Sam, Natasha, and half the crew surrounded you on the dancefloor, pulling you away from your date. And it was all orchestrated by Bucky, leading them like a pack of wolves. You knew that look, the suave pull of his hand through slicked-back hair. And then, before you knew it, you were dragged away from the dancefloor.

"Hey," Pietro called over the music, pulling you to the side. "I like you. I do, but this isn't working."

"Wait –" You tried, reaching for his arm. But he was quick to deflect, and embarrassment warmed your cheeks.

"Whatever you're looking for," his eyes moved from Bucky and dropped when you noticed. He looked down with a sad smile. "Whoever you're looking for, I hope you find it."

It felt like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Please don't go."

But it was too late. Your plea was lost as he pushed himself away. Everyone saw it. All your friends' efforts and your attempts to find the one were wasted. Your feet carried you away too fast to notice the somber look Steve gave Bucky.

"You're running out of time, punk."

The city lights passed in a blur as a taxi drove you farther from the gala. The searing ache in your chest left you confused.

For years, you dreamed of Bucky Barnes, hope a dangerous feeling companion of yours. But you knew how he felt. You were nothing more than a friend; he had made that abundantly clear. But you couldn't cut the tether, even while someone else caught your interest. Pietro Maximoff was handsome and kind and loved his sister more than the world. But with Bucky's interruptions, it was no wonder why he didn't want to get involved.

But it still hurt.

A sob was swallowed back, but you couldn't stop the tears from rising. You were pitiful. It was the last time you'd ever ask the guys for help.

But the thought was gone with the sudden screeching of brakes. It made you hold on to the headrest in front of you. Trying to peer around at the commotion, you didn't expect to be cut off by two black SUVs. A moment later, a ringed hand banged on the taxi's hood.

"Get out of the car."

You knew that voice. And as you looked through the windshield, you could see Bucky Barnes peering back.

He was as poised as he was at the party, and the sharp look had you bracing the seat. The bitter spark of rejection caught the light, burning into brutal frustration. You didn't want to talk to him. You didn't want to see him. Not now.

"No."

He tilted his head to the side at the challenge.

"Get out of the fucking car." Bucky gritted. "I need to talk to you."

His voice was teetering dangerously into territory you had only heard about. It was his back rooms, no nonsense voice that snapped you back into the moment. Like hell it would work on you. So it was to be a standoff, one that that you weren't ready to back down from.

Once Bucky realized your position, he took a new approach. You could hear his intentional steps against the pavement as he reached the driver. He didn't say anything but dug into his pants pocket, his fingers flicking through his wallet smoothly.

"Unlock the car," Bucky ordered, pressing cash bills against the window.

The immediate click of the locks didn't help your bellyache, nor did the split second of peace you had before Bucky forced the door open and pulled you out of the cab.

"Are you crazy?" You barked, forcing him to release you as the cab sped off in the other direction.

But you were left in the middle of the road in Barnes territory, the sweep of their dark SUVs cutting off any chance to get out of this conversation.

"What's gotten into you?"

"I didn't want you to leave the party." He explained, his words softer now. "Not like that."

You couldn't believe him. You followed their advice to try and bag a good guy, but to what end?

"What?" You dared to challenge. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm not in the mood, James."

The curl of his name lingered, making your intentions clear. You never called him by his first name. And Bucky didn't like it one bit.

"Let me take you home."

As if you had a choice.

You choked on a frustrated snarl, wanting to hide and cry away your worries and wanting to claw at him like a villain. You hated it. You hated the pressure of his eyes, blue and dark against the night, to get in the car.

So you lifted your head high, took a steeling breath, and walked ahead of him. You were separated from the rest of the world in the backseat of his company car. The divider was a saving grace. You didn't want one of the drivers to see you like this.

But Bucky followed behind so quickly, getting in and closing the door before you could protest for space. You chose to stare out the window instead of looking back at him. The car lurched forward, and you took a moment to find balance.

"You're unhappy."

"No shit."

"Please," He started, turning his shoulders in toward you. Even out of the corner of your eye, you knew he wouldn't let this go. "Please talk to me. Don't close me out. I hated seeing you leave like that. Whatever Maximoff did, I'll fix it."

"You can't fix it!" You finally said, turning to him and gripping his shoulder in frustration. "You say you want me to be happy, to find someone, and then manage to scare off anyone that has the potential to do it." As your voice raised, heat radiated from your cheeks down your neck. His eyes were wide, listening to your grief. "He left because of you. It's not like you have feelings for me. What's the matter with you?"

You couldn't stand to look at him, not when he was so close. His cologne burned your nose, and you desperately needed him to get out of your system.

"Doll," Bucky breathed. He inched his way closer, not letting the anger of your words settle over him. "What if I did have feelings for you?" You would almost call his stare desperate. And then you confirmed it as his shoulders dropped, turning toward you. "It's all that I've wanted to tell you. And I can't see you with him." He admitted.

He moved with purpose all night, not intending to ruin your time with Pietro but to show you that he was the one who needed you. He should have been the one to hold you between dances and order you fine drinks. He should have picked you up so that you would never dare to get in a yellow cab.

But you weren't some wilting flower. You knew the risks of your following words.

"We're friends, Buck."

You held yourself together. You were strong and brave and gripping your heartstrings.

"Yes," He agreed. "But we…"

And for once, he was at a loss of words. The years wasted pining after him would finally be out in the open. You could finally be free of his torment. His eye contact was overwhelming; if he looked away, you would disappear.

"Look, We've been friends for a long time." And with an ounce more of bravery, you sighed. "But I'd like to be more than friends." You admitted. "I want to be so much more than that."

You were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Bucky leaned closer in earnest, over the seat and bringing his face close. There was no teasing, no torment in his expression.

And with the tip of his chin, you were lost, pulled tight into a kiss and letting it blossom as cold metal snaked around your waist. You dreamed of his touch, and it burned down your throat like honey whiskey.

When you opened your eyes, Bucky had moved. He was no longer in the seat, now chest to chest with you. He was kneeling in the cramped space, the divider shielding you from the driver and the outside world.

"Do you know why Sam offered to help in the first place?" His words were slow as he pulled away, loud enough to hear. "Do you know why Steve jumped on board and corralled us to join? It's because he is tired of me dragging my fucking feet."  

"Bucky-"

But he closed the space for another set of slow kisses, deep and intentional.

"I've been an idiot." He admitted. "The guys know how I feel about you. I think they've always known." Another kiss as you pulled back, gripping the shoulders of his jacket. Expensive fabric under your fingertips, hot breath against yours. You were dizzy.

"And you agreed to help with this idea." You noted.

It wasn't a question, no challenge in your words. He agreed to help find you a man. Bucky took a hefty exhale.

"You know the business. It's not safe –" but you raised your hand with a groan, not buying his excuse.

Your fingers brushed over the curve of his chin, the sharp line of his beard a welcome sensation. God, you only ever dreamed of this. You savored the feel of him, your hand moving up his ear and combing your fingers through his air. Buck's eyes were darker than you've ever seen, his open mouth curving up in awe.

"'s not safe." He whispered. "I'm not gonna put you through that."

It was a weak defense. You knew the coterie of mercs, the warehouses, the shipments. You knew all of it and were aware of the danger. But it wasn't like you could cut ties and leave your life behind. You weren't sure you even wanted to.

"You wanted me to find someone else?" You dared to ask. The whisper died as he shook his head.

"All this deal did was make me jealous." He affirmed. "And tonight," His eyes raked down your frame. He never did finish his thought as lust washed over him. A breath passed between you two. "I never meant for you to hurt over it."

The limited space lets you mimic his actions, noting his heaving chest, blue eyes, and the pout of his kissed lips. How he kneeled down in front of you, crowding your space, made you dizzy. While your mouth curved up into a wanton grin, you couldn't help but chase another kiss.

Each touch melted the last of your anguish. The night was long forgotten as soon as he pressed forward, flattening you against the back of the seat. While you pulled up for air, his other hand moved to cup your chin. And then, with your eyes locked on his, he tilted your chin, eyes staring into the roof of the sedan as you felt lips against your jaw.

Hot, languid kisses burned against your pulse. The scrape of his teeth and burn of his beard drove you wild. And as he pulled back, his hand released your chin, following a mesmerized pattern down your skin.

The palm of his hand cupped your neck, down your shoulder, pulling down the thin strap of your dress. Your soft skin was on display, and Bucky's expression was wonderous. But his hand continued mapping, cupping the curve of your breast. A tactful squeeze left your head falling against the seat, a soft gasp on your lips, and your hand blindly reaching up to cover his. With a sharp breath, you found his eyes again. His pink lips were parted, eyes pleading with you.

You knew Bucky was a man of action, but this was uncharted territory. Your nod and an affectionate squeeze of his hand pulled him from his reverie.

He needed more, craving your skin. And as his hand fell from your chest to a solid grip on your ankle, you craved his exploration.

Shallow breaths were traded for deep, hungry kisses. Years of longing, of yearning for his touch and affection, finally were coming to a head. The brush of his tongue left your mind reeling, and regardless of the heat, a trail of goosebumps followed the path of his hand. Under your dress, he lingered over the smooth skin of your calf, over your knee, up your thigh, and to the meat of your hip. Rough, dexterous fingers carved prints into your skin hot enough to burn.

You refuse to miss a moment, eyes fixed on Bucky's as his palm covers the top of your thigh, the intention sitting heavy in your stomach. A live wire of nerves, you can feel him from the heat of your cheeks buzzing down to your toes.

And then, palming where you needed him most, your mouth dropped open with the softest of moans.

Bucky's eyes are wide, but it doesn't last as he finally lets himself get lost. As his eyes close, you admire the curve of his nose and his soft, dark eyelashes. But Buck is greedy, and as he peels his way under the cloth of your panties, you, too, close your eyes. Fingers are nimble, caressing your dripping seam under the dress.

You're a vision.

Convulsing under his touch, rogue pulls off his fingers drip honey down your thighs. Your breath is heaving, and your chest is dangerously close to falling out of the dress. Bucky finds refuge by rubbing slow, devastating circles against your clit. Every hitch of your breath and moan spur him on until you are staring at him with such reverence he thinks he'll collapse.

There's a magnetism, the long-lasting chemistry drawing you nearer to him. He swallows your moan as he slides a finger inside. You're in a desperate frenzy, pulling him close and arching into his body. He spurs on a need you've never had, demanding his smoldering kiss as you shake in his arms.

He's all you've ever wanted. You're crazy to think it could have ever been anyone else.

And then the car jerked to a stop.

There's a breathless laugh as he pulls away, Bucky's forehead resting on yours. You kept a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing his chin. Maybe, if you just ignored it, the outside world would go away.

That is, until you see a porch light turn on from your periphery. You try not to let embarrassment flood your system as you realize your situation, with one of your closest friends knuckle deep in the back seat.

Bucky doesn't share your distress.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, finally pulling his head back. Bucky smiled. His fingers lingered longer before pulling away, leaving you empty and wanting.

You must have looked as desperate as him, finally looking down at the brutal strain in his pants. But you had no time to overthink as his fingers carefully plucked at your dress strap. He was putting you back together, smoothing out the burn of his touch as he sat up.

If you begged, you were sure that he'd ravage you right there in the seat. But you tilted your head to look outside. You needed a distraction, anything to regain your good sense.

As you focused on the brownstone, you knew where he took you. You were in front of his house – the Barnes family house. He said he was taking you home.

"This isn't my place."

His smirk reached his eyes, and as he pulled open the door and jumped out, his gaze was fixed on you.

"For fucks sake, doll," Bucky's eyes were soft, still blown out. He held a hand out. "We've known each other our whole lives. I'm crazy about you. Are you gonna come up with me or not?"

And with an ardent stare, as if he hung the stars himself, you reached for his hand.

[lymtw]

hi! omg I just have to tell you that you literally write Toji so well. If you’re taking requests, (if not then so sorry disregard!) may I request something where Toji accidentally hurts reader during sex and how he reacts? Or maybe pushes a boundary or something? Thank you so much! If this doesn’t interest you sorry!

A/N: Hello, hello 😊 Thank you for reading my works! I'm so glad to hear that enjoy the way I write this hunk of a man 🥰🫶🏼

Thank you for sending in this request 💙

It was one of those nights where things were calm and quiet, until Toji got home from a job that took up most of his day. His footsteps were heavy on the floor, his adrenaline was still high, and all he wanted was you, after a day that seemed never ending.

He greeted you like he usually does on days like this, with a weary, 'hey, doll' and a kiss that doesn't last too long, because he's aware of how he reeks of sweat and he feels filthy. He vented a little bit about his day, finally getting to verbalize his frustrations about the client's unprofessionalism and the snarky attitude that he had to deal with all day. The not so subtle sigh he let out afterwards, told you everything. You would have to give him a little extra love once he got out of the shower, to remind him that there will never be ruthlessness in any way, shape or form, similar to what he sees outside, when he comes home. You'll always be his solace, there to take care of him, even before things get too heavy for him to bear on his own.

Toji had different plans for the night. He came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still gliding down his chest and rolling down his abdomen. You thought maybe he forgot to grab clothes, but that theory was immediately shut down when he unwrapped the towel and started running it up his body to dry himself a little more.

You flipped onto your stomach on the bed, your attention going to your phone as you wait for him to finish getting ready for bed.

"Since when are you shy about ogling me?" Toji asks, after a few seconds, a smirk decorating his face as he rakes his eyes over your backside.

You craned your neck to look at him, and he still wasn't dressed. "I'm not. Just thought it'd be a quick swoop of you getting your clothes on, so I naturally turned around."

He hums. "And if I decide to sleep like this, tonight?"

You shrug. "By all means. If you're comfortable, i'm not gonna stop you."

You never thought you'd have to go back on your word. He was comfortable. Very much so, but you weren't, anymore. It started out as something similar to what you had planned. You were affectionate with him, planting sweet kisses onto his face and lips, which he returned. It really was a loving moment, even when his hands started roaming, grabbing at your chest and teasing you through your underwear. It was still loving when he bared you, pulling off your shirt and kissing your exposed skin, your shorts and underwear being tugged off in the process.

What started out as a gentle lovemaking session, with quiet gasps and hums of pleasure, transitioned into something less delicate. His hips picked up a feral pace that ripped orgasms from both of you, sensitivity being the only thing he slowed down for. Heavy, audible breathing, gasps that sounded like you had the wind knocked out of you and cries, took the place of noises that were once light and controllable—volume-wise.

You felt like you were being used—like he saw you as something insentient, in that moment. Rough sex with him wasn't new, but this was something else, entirely. Everything was starting to hurt in an unpleasant manner. Your abdomen felt sore from how much it tensed each time you came, your thighs burned from being pinned to your chest for so long, and the actual movement of his cock drilling into your abused cunt was starting to bring on some tenderness.

"T-Toji," you call, through a huff. He couldn't hear you over the lewd sounds of skin on skin and his own sounds of pleasure. "Toji," you try again, your voice still coming out meekly. "Please, can we..." you whimper. "Can we pause?"

"Pause?" He grunts, not stilling. "You want me to stop? I'm close, again, baby. Just a little more."

You wanted to last for him. You wanted to let him have this last one, but you couldn't do it. It was too much to endure, and though it was terrifying to say the word, again, for the first time in a while, you had to put an end to it. It was for the best.

"Safe, Toji! Safe! Safe!" You used as much strength as you could to get your legs down, accidentally kicking him in the process. Toji got off of you immediately, his heartbeat doubling its pace— a mixture of his exertion and the sound of your very rarely used safe word, being shouted out. "S-Sorry, i'm sorry!" You choke out, apologizing for the accidental strike. There was guilt in there as well, for killing his pleasure.

He catches his breath before responding to you, not wanting to sound like a panting dog as he communicates the matter with you.

"What are you saying 'sorry' for?" He asks, eyes darting over your frame, watching as you scramble to cover yourself up with the blanket. "No, baby. Don't do that." He leans down to pick up the towel he let fall to the floor, before climbing into bed with you, and drapes it over his lap.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears. You felt vulnerable, unable to look at Toji, even when you could feel his gaze on you.

"You okay?" He asks, looking at your twinkling eyes and the stifled quiver of your lips.

"It's okay," you say, your voice wavering. "It's fine." You glance at him, crossing your arms over your chest beneath the blanket.

"I asked if you're okay. Answer that first."

The room went quiet as you tried to compose yourself. The lump in your throat got more uncomfortable by the second. Your stomach ached from the soreness of your abdominal muscles and from holding in your emotions, for the sake of putting up a strong front that Toji never asked for. He was being genuine and his eyes wouldn't leave your face. He could see you holding it together, poorly.

"It was just a lot... and it was starting to hurt. I just- I needed a break." You swipe the knuckle of your index finger beneath your eye, frustrated by the cool dampness left behind on your skin.

"Okay, and what was that 'sorry' for?" He asks. He wants to hold onto some part of you, to hopefully soothe you a little bit, but he's not sure if you want to be touched by him, right now.

"You didn't get to finish and I kicked you. It was an accident, I swear. I didn't mean to do that. You know I would never hit you, Toji." Your eyes welled up, again. You thought about how you want to make him feel as safe as he makes you feel.

"It didn't hurt me one bit, ma. You barely even touched me, so drop the guilt on that. Also, do you not feel and see the mess we made?"

It's impossible not to. You're both sweaty, the sheets are damp with the juices that flowed out of you and his cum still resides in you—warm and slowly drooling out.

"I'm more than satisfied. I was getting greedy with you, huh?"

You nod your head, giving him a small, weary smile.

He sighs, no trace of disappointment or being let down. If there's anything to be upset over, it's the fact that you apologized for something you were faultless about. He can't bring himself to be firm with you about it, right now. You still did exactly what you were supposed to by using the safe word. As for the guilt that lingered around having to use it, that's a long conversation reserved for a more appropriate time.

"Are you okay?" He asks, again. "Be honest."

"A little sore, but i'm okay," you respond, lifting the blanket up over your chest, again.

"Mm, okay. Stay here." He wraps the towel that rests on him, around his waist. "Don't go anywhere, alright?" The corners of his lips lifted, earning another smile from you before he's off to the bathroom. He grabs a towel and uses hot water to dampen it, knowing that by the time he gets back to you, it'll be warm.

He ran the towel all over you, a simple wipe down, for now, so that you would feel a little cleaner and wait to shower until morning.

His gaze is soft as it trails behind the movement of his hand. This is an act of love for the one who cares about him more than anyone else, meaning his touch is as gentle as can be, like he's mending deeper wounds.

When he got to the most sensitive part, he was especially careful. He was very attentive, dabbing the towel against you, his eyes flitting between what his hands were doing and your face to make sure he wasn't hurting you. You winced a few times, and each time he pressed a kiss to your thigh—a silent apology.

Afterwards, the sheets were pulled off the bed and tossed aside to be washed, along with the blanket. Only the comforter stayed so that you wouldn't have to sleep on the bare mattress. You both got dressed, staying light in clothes for comfort. Even without a blanket, you wouldn't be cold for a second through the night, because Toji clung onto you. He held you tight and murmured sweet nothings into your ear, until all you could do was hum tiredly in response, eventually falling asleep.

[luveline]

spoilers for spider-man: across the spider-verse below

please don’t read any further if you are avoiding spoilers

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel hops dimensions expecting a new family, and a new life. he’s not expecting you —featuring a tired miguel and his confused but adoring wife. or, miguel gets the comfort he so desperately needs. requested here. fem!reader, 2.5k

tw. gun mention/no graphic scenes

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel seems different when he comes home that night. You've loved him for years, you know his face. He looks slightly younger and older at the same time, impossibly so. He looks like he has bad news and he doesn't want to tell you. Something harrowing. How else can you explain his expression? 

You stand up from the dinner table. "Hey," you say gently. "Is there something wrong?" 

He isn't convincing when he answers, "What? Uh, no. Nothing's wrong." 

"Something looks wrong." 

You step in front of him and lift your chin. Usually, he'd look down with a smirk, or at the very least a smile, but he seems weary. You lift your hand to his cheek, pinching it between your fingers without malice. 

"Smile, handsome. You have a lovely smile." 

He smiles. His lips part just slightly. "You… you really love me. You're happy." 

"We're happy," you correct. "Me, you, and Gabs forever, right?" 

"Gabs?" he asks. 

"Don't start with me. Gabriella's a mouthful. A beautiful mouthful," you concede. "I still think we should've named her Sofia. And yeah, Miguel. I love you. Really really. Don't forget it." 

You make him sit at the kitchen table. It's a selfish manoeuvre; you want him to sit so you can actually reach his hair. Your husband is the tallest man you've ever met. 

"Did you get a haircut?" you ask, running your fingers through his hair slowly. He shivers at your touch, and tilts his head back in question. "You did. That's such a betrayal, my love. I've been cutting your hair for going on six years now, I'm suddenly not good enough?" 

"You're good enough," he says. He really sounds so strange. 

"I'm joking. Miguel, if there's something wrong, you really need to tell me. I can make it better. Well, I can try." You bite your lip, unnerved by his quiet, solemn air. 

"Am I being weird?" he asks.

"No," you say, worried he thinks you're judging him. You never would. (He's being really weird.) "Of course not, you're just quiet tonight, that's all. Did you have a bad day at work?" 

"I– I got mugged. On the way home from work. I forgot the– the milk." 

"You what?" you ask, eyes widening in shock. Miguel's kind of gigantic. You've always said that you pity the fool who tries it, but apparently he's less hardy than you thought. A mugging explains his weird behaviour these last five minutes, at least. "What happened? Sweetheart, are you okay?" 

You take his face into both hands. He has dark circles under his eyes and a scratch along his jaw, but he seems unhurt. You suppose being attacked would age you instantaneously too. 

"Miguel, are you in shock? Should I take you to the hospital?" 

"I'm okay. I just feel strange." 

"Are you sure?” He nods hurriedly. You purse your lips. “I'll make you something warm to drink, that'll help. As long as you're not hurt, right? Did he take your wallet? We'll have to cancel your credit card." 

Miguel catches your shirt before you can go too far. 

"Hm?" you hum in question. 

Miguel visibly deliberates. His eyebrows lift ever so slightly. "Could I hug you?" 

The hurting and worry you have for him intensify before falling on the back-burner. You can shove your own feelings aside easily if he needs comforting. 

"I don't think you have to ask me," you say, offering your arms. 

Miguel is usually a short but meaningful hugger. You've hugged so many times and in what feels like every place on earth, and he's such a tall man that even if he doesn't mean for them to be, his arms are all encompassing.

It surprises you that this hug is different. He's tentative. When his hand falls to the small of your back it slots into place, and you can feel his relief like a palpable thing. 

"You’re okay," you say, your lips at his crown, your legs between his.

He's keeping space between you, and you don't like it. You press yourself as close to him as possible, your arms behind his shoulders, cupping the back of his head. Soft hair tickles your palm.

"Was it scary?" 

"Was what scary?" he asks. You don't mention his little sniff. He's smelling your hair. 

"Being mugged? Did he have a gun?" 

"Yeah, he did." 

"Oh, I see. There's no shame in being scared, you know that?" 

"I'm not scared. I wasn't scared when it happened. I just wanted to come home to you." 

You frown. His admission is like a barb in your chest, aimed true for your heart. "I'm so glad you did," you confess against his forehead, a murmur of sound. "So, so glad. I don't know what I'd do without you." 

You kiss his head three times in a row. The last kiss lingers, his arms slackening around you. 

You pull away, not wanting to smother him. Whoever's watching knows he's had enough of you these last few years. 

"Where–" Miguel clears his throat. "Where's Gabriella?" 

"She's in her room. Call her." 

You're hoping time with her will bring him back into focus. He's clearly more affected by this than he's willing to say. You don't know how you feel about it. Terrified, because you could've lost him. Euphoric that you didn't. You'd had this funny feeling all day long, and it's weird, you’d felt that something bad happened, a moment at the sink with Gabriella singing in her room, the clock ticking on the wall. Miguel late, but promising to bring the groceries you needed home with him before dinner. 

"Gabriella?" he calls up the stairs. You watch from the stove. 

You'll grab the pan and make him some hot cocoa. Just as soon as he stops looking scared. 

"Daddy?" Gabriella asks back. She's audibly ecstatic, and her footsteps are a stampede from her bedroom. You can see her from the kitchen when she gets to the bottom of the stairs. "Dad, pick me up!" 

"Oh, right," Miguel says, leaning down to hold her. 

He pulls her with all the grace of an elephant to his chest, and she nearly chins him. 

"Woah, careful." 

"Dad, you're super late. Mom said I can yell at you for being late." 

"You can yell at me, if you want to." He gives her a curious look. "I'm sorry for taking so long." 

Gabriella tilts her head to the side, dark hair shifting. She's a gorgeous little girl and her dad can't withstand it, melting as you hoped he would, the taut string of his back finally cut in two.  

"I don't want to yell at you," she whispers. 

"Good, because I don't want you to yell," he whispers back. 

Gabriella leans back in his arms and giggles thickly. He almost drops her, and has to readjust his hold on her back. 

"I'm so happy you're home!" she cheers, bringing her little hands up together from her chest and thrusting them out like fireworks. "You work too much! I thought doctors was s'posed to make everyone better and go home." 

"I'm not that kind of doctor," he says. 

You turn from where you've brought cocoa powder and milk to an emulsified simmer on the stovetop and beam at him. It's your favourite thing in the whole world when she mixes it up. Ever since she found his ID card with DR. written clear as day before his name, she's been under the impression that he works at the general hospital. Alchemex might break medical thresholds, but it is far from a hospital. 

"Are you having hot cocoa with your dad?" you ask Gabriella. 

She gasp in excitement and lists toward you. Miguel almost drops her for a second time. "Yes, oh my gosh!" 

"Well, come and sit. What mug?" 

Gabriella can't decide on what mug she wants; there's the orange cat with too many whiskers, there's the black one with bright white stars. After some deliberation, she decides on her and Miguel's matching daddy-daughter mugs.

"You're having some too, right?" he asks you. 

"Don't I always?" you ask. "Though I do want to protest the mugs. Where's my mug? Don't I deserve number one mom?" You kiss the top of Gabriella's head where she languishes in Miguel's lap, before placing their hot cocoa down far from her arm's reach. "It's hot." 

Miguel doesn't touch his. You blow cold air at Gabriella's and dip your fingertip into it periodically, content to spend some time with them both in amicable quiet. Gabriella just loves him to pieces, and she leans back in his arms with her eyes closed, basking in his closeness. 

She squints at you with one eye. "Dad?" 

Miguel doesn't answer. You nudge his foot. 

"What?" he asks.

"You're not doing the thing." 

"The thing?" 

You frown. 

"Yeah, dad." She huffs and curls his arm manually across her front. "Please, I want the kisses." 

He looks at you, completely lost. You're feeling similarly confused. "She wants you to kiss her hair," you say, wondering if perhaps he's suffering from stress related amnesia. 

He leans down carefully and kisses her hair. It's not the usual enthusiastic kiss, and he doesn't bother blowing in her ear after. 

Gabriella glares at him. "My ear!" 

"Blow in her ear," you mouth. 

He blows gently into her ear. She shivers, shudders, and laughs up a storm. 

When the cocoa's been drunk and the mugs washed and put away, Gabriella races upstairs, promising to return with a storybook and the drawing she made earlier in the day once she’s changed into her pyjamas. Miguel looks less lost than he had. In fact, he looks normal. The warm drink has put colour in his cheeks, and his daughter's cuddles have done their job. He's relaxed. He's forgotten the fear of the mugging, you're almost sure of it. 

You waver beside him. "Can I sit with you, or am I too heavy?" 

"Why would you be too heavy?" he asks. 

"You always say I'm too heavy," you say, sitting down on his thighs. They feel solid, a little different from usual. Miguel works out, but this is strange. He must be more tense than you thought. "It's your worst joke." 

"I'm sorry. I won't say it if it upsets you," he says, his voice rough and low. 

"Who said anything about that?" He's never called you heavy to be cruel. 

"Sorry," he apologises again. "I think all the excitement today messed me up." 

You spread your fingers wide across his chest, his heart beating a surface below. "It's okay. You don't have to react any one way…" You rub the tip of your nose against his jaw lightly. "I'm so glad you're okay. I had this weird feeling like something bad happened to you, you know?" 

Miguel laughs and coughs at the same time. It borders on being distressed. He's really worrying you. "You did?" he asks. 

"Mm-hm. But you're okay." You work hard to sound sure. 

His hand slides between your legs, fingertips digging into the soft inside of your upper thigh, though it doesn't stay there. He pulls away, looking flustered. "Sorry." 

"For what?" You blink. 

"I don't know." 

You laugh and press a kiss to the column of his throat, your nose squished against him. "I was thinking we'd watch that new movie tonight, with Harry Woodson, but it has guns and stuff. Would that still be okay?" 

He puts his hand behind your ear and guides your head back to look you in the eye. It's a familiar touch. He looks like himself again, though you truly are offended by his haircut. Maybe something happened at work and fried it off. 

"You're really something special," he says quietly. 

"How so?" 

His face softens with your flirting tone. "You're kind. You're so kind. I've never met someone like you." 

"What are you talking about?" you mumble. It's your turn to feel flustered, jellified by the earnestness lining his features. 

"You're sweet, and soft, and so pretty," he says, matching your tone. He's looking at you like he's seeing you for the first time. 

You understand the feeling. Sometimes you look at him and can't believe he's your love. 

"Soft," you repeat. "Are you trying to say something?" 

"Like that. That joke. You don't even sound mad." 

"You don't have to be so amazed. I've been like this since we met, haven't I? I'm hardly ever angry with you." You follow down from his eye to his jaw with your knuckle, tracing a tear he hasn't shed. He's spun you into thoughtfulness, and more than that —reverential fondness for him aches in the very centre of your stomach.  

"I must have some good luck," he says. 

His near death experience has inspired a wave of sappiness. 

You lean in until your forehead touches his, giving him time to close his eyes or lean away if he wants to. 

"I love you," you say simply. "You're not lucky, you're amazing, and all this good you see in me? I see it in you, O'Hara." You huff a laugh, breath fanning over his top lip as you steal a wonky kiss. You pull back. "You're sure–" 

Miguel kisses you. His hand flies to the back of your neck and his lips are eager, his head tilted to one side to accommodate your nose. He deepens the kiss and it's a mess, really, nothing like his usual kisses, no practised ease, nor confident touches. His fingertips push at the hairs lining the nape of your neck as though he's not sure what to do with his hand. It's like kissing him for the very first time. 

It's not a bad kiss. 

You kiss back slowly. You're the steadying constant to his hotheadedness, in kissing and in everything else, pulling time into an endless stretch of his mouth under yours, his body heat seeping into your skin. 

The sharp point of a tooth catches your bottom lip. You gasp into his mouth and flinch away from him. 

"Um, ouch? What was that, handsome, did you get your teeth filed to spikes?" you ask, probing your lip, a flood of giggles slipping between your fingers. 

He looks at you like you've lit the sky one star at a time. 

"Sorry," he says. "I'll be more careful, I swear." 

"Sure," you laugh. "Well, you'll have to be more careful later. You promised Gabriella you'd read her the Wishing Tree, and she's expecting a performance. Voices included." 

He adjusts you in his lap with more strength than you knew he had. "Will you help?" 

You'll always help him. He doesn't even need to ask. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!

[bananami]

STFUATTDLAGG

character/s: choso kamo x afab!reader

SYNOPSIS: meangirl!reader x loser!choso is a pairing that lives in my head rent free so when you all voted for choso to be the next hot man i wrote for i knew this was what would come out of it so let’s get into it whores

WARNINGS: this is college based bc u know why. 18+, nsfw, mdni, the whole shebang, kiddos avert ur eyes IT'S ALL SMUT / also just be aware i did use fem language for reader. as always, i did not proof read xxx

A/N: delusion is like drugs for simps, and i am the crackhead

Choso isn't like a nerdy loser, more like he’s just an emo boy, he’s got that alternative look going on and in a school full of preppy rich kids he stands out like a sore thumb. Of course this leads to some not so nice kids being not so nice to him, to which like he literally could not care less. He pays no mind to what anyone thinks of him beyond of course what his brothers think of him.

And as much as people aren’t nice to him, they do not fuck with him directly, lowkey scared of his reactions. Especially following a specfic incident in which someone tried to pick a fight with him. At first he was going to just let it slide but then they said something rude about Yuuji and this man laid them out. People were sent to urgent care and everything. Choso was put on suspension and almost kicked out, but their family friend is a lawyer and threatened to sue the school and anyways (if you know who you know who) so he was allowed back at school and everyone’s a little weary of him. This doesn’t stop the mean comments from coming.

And you. You’re no exception. You made fun of him every chance you got. The way he always did his hair in that weird double bun updo, or how he had his nails painted black, his various piercings and tattoos, the way he dressed so much different, was so much different, than any of the other guys you knew at school.

And you were so disgustingly attracted to him. While everyone would sneer and make fun of him and you played along, in reality you were internally berating yourself.

Choso did his best to ignore you but to be honest in the end you were just too fun to mess with. He thought it was cute how you thought you could hurt his feelings, how you really tried, and didn’t realize that he had a thing for brats and that’s just what you were. Everyone else was too afraid to say it straight to his face ever since the fight except for you.

One time he caught you staring at him and he couldn’t help himself, leaning over with a careless smirk. "If you spent less time staring at me and more time paying attention to the lecture maybe you wouldn’t be failing the class."

"Fuck you, Choso.”

"You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You hoped he’d mistake your embarrassment for anger. He didn’t. You snapped back, as usual. "Maybe if you didn’t dress like such a freak, you’d actually have some friends.”

"Maybe if you weren’t such a bitch your boyfriends would actually stick around for longer than a few months."

The one stung, and you tried not to let it show. Thrown off your game, all you could bring yourself to reply back was: “don’t call me a bitch.”

He shrugged, as though he were bored with the conversation already. "I never said it was a bad thing, just that you keep dating dudes who can’t handle you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn't answer though, and you spend way too much time thinking about what he could've meant. Was he implying that he could handle you? Was that why he constantly found ways to poke at you? Did he like when you were a brat? Did it matter if he liked it? It led your fantasies down a deep and dark rabbit hole that you spent weeks harping on.

Things get even worse after you realize that Choso might’ve been right about your grades slipping and staring at him in class and whatnot. And (for plot reasons of course) that would mean your professor paired you up with him for the final project so that you��d stand a better chance at passing the class.

Which is how you find yourself standing outside of his apartment door, debating how much you need to actually pass the course for your degree. You kept coming to the same conclusion. You definitely needed to.

"You just gonna stand at my door like a creep or can you move so i can let you inside?” He stood at the top of the staircase up to his apartment, watching you with another bored expression.

You're reaction is second nature. "I’m the creep? How long were you just standing there watching me? Maybe I’d already knocked and you didn’t answer so I was waiting. Let’s get on with it, I don’t need anyone seeing me hanging around-”

"Alright relax, princess. No one’s around to hear you act like you hate me. Come inside and I’ll grab us something to drink.” He opened the door to let you both inside, holding it open for you to enter first.

"First off, I do hate you. And second, how do I know you’re not going to poison me?”

"Don’t worry, I wouldn’t poison you. The plan was going more in the direction of choking.”

"Choked to death? Good to know.”

"You implied killing. All i said was choking.”

"Oh, gross.” You groaned. You pushed away the images that were brought to your mind. Choso's hand around your throat, fingers in your mouth, his breathy whispers telling you what else he'd have you choking on by the end of the night.

It's not too bad for the first few hours. You start out working on the project in the living room, but Choso’s neighbors are loud as all hell and you eventually ask if you guys can move into a room away from that shared wall. And (of course for plot purposes) that would be his bedroom.

"Your bedroom is exactly as I pictured it would be."

"This is the part where I make fun of you for picturing what my bedroom looks like."

"Yeah weird and creepy, just like you.”

"Your insults are getting less and less creative.”

"Yeah well….shut up.”

He’s surprised at that, usually you’d come back at him with something witty and clever and he actually enjoyed it.

It’s quiet and he’s sitting at his desk while you lay casually on his bed when he decides now’s as good a time as ever, and he might never actually get you alone again to say it.

"You ever gonna admit that you find me attractive or keep lying to the both of us?"

You wince. "I don't find you attractive. Stop flattering yourself."

"You flatter me enough with all the staring and drooling you do over me in class."

"You're obsessive," you snap at him.

"At least i can admit it."

You're caught off guard, stuck between wanting to ask what he means and not wanting to give in to the obvious baiting he's doing. When he throws the study material down on to his desk and plops down in front of you on his bed, it seems like he's resigned to not giving you that choice.

"Tell you what, I'll tell you all of the dirty and depraved things I think about on a daily basis, and you can decide after whether you'd like to share those same thoughts of yours with me or not."

"Why would I want to hear any of the thoughts in your head?"

"Because a lot of them revolve directly around you." He's leaned so close you're almost touching one another. Your silence is enough to spur him on. "I think you've never been fucked properly before."

You can't contain the look that falls on your face. "Seriously? This what you think about? My sex life is none of your business, but I'm doing just fine in that department, thank you very much."

He ignores you. "I don't think you've ever been told to shut the fuck up and take it like the good girl I know you can be." That shut you up real quick. Choso is on his knees in front of you, hands cupping around your neck, his thumbs running across your cheeks. "You're whiney little fucking attitude not do it for your boyfriends?" He teased. "They not know how to deal with you when you're being a brat, huh?"

You're head moves without conscious effort, nodding to agree with him.

"You just want some attention, don't you?"

Another nod.

"You want my attention, don't you?"

Hesitation. But you can't help yourself, his presence looming heavy over you, pushing you to admit what you'd kept in the dark for so long.

One of his hands slithers from your throat, down your chest, under the sweats you threw on in a rush to get to his apartment. You're so distracted by his fingers that you don't notice his face moving closer until his mouth is prying yours open. That's all it takes from him to have you stroking your fingers through his hair, pulling it out of the buns they typically are held in.

"Such a little brat." He's hovering over you, pushing your hips into the soft cushion of his bed with his. "Feel how hard it makes me?" He teases as he grinds his hips down, his clothed cock sliding against your center. Your eyes flutter and he grips onto your face with one hand, squeezing firmly. "You're gonna fuck me tonight. Nod if you understand."

You can't believe how quick your head moves up and down. "You're gonna take off those pretty little panties you wore hoping I'd get to see and slide up and down my dick until I tell you to stop. I don't want you cumming until I feel you've begged enough."

It takes no time at all for him to flip the two of you and prop himself up on his forearms. His pants are shimmied off and thrown to his bedroom floor alongside yours.

Your hands are desperate to line him up, anticipation building to have him deep inside of you, but his shoot out to pull them up and place them against his chest. "No, no, no. You don't get me inside you yet, not until you prove to me you deserve it." He urges you along his shaft, flat against his stomach. "That's right, be a good little slut for me and let me feel that pussy slide against my dick."

You watch him from above, his face contorting from concentration to pleasure to near desperation. You've never felt as powerful as you did riding him. Not a single one of your boyfriends ever turning you on as much as Choso was right now. He made you work for it, praising you when you did what he asked, and you chased that praise.

"Shit, look at that baby," he grabbed your hair and yanked your face down to watch yourself slide against him. "Need to feel you squeeze that pussy around me. Fuck, slide me in, slide me in-" his loud groans matched your high pitched sound of relief at having him seated inside you. "Fuck this."

He flipped the two of you back over, gripping each of your legs and forcing them up. "Hold right under your knees for me. Good girl, keep yourself open for me, let me just use you." He fell to his forearms as he plowed into you, giving you no time to get used to any sort of pace.

You tried your best to hold your legs, but you wanted so badly to touch him. One of your hands wandered back up into his lose hair.

He could barely keep his eyes open, mumbling all kinds of truths you were sure he would've kept locked inside had he not been so drunk on the feel of being inside you. "So fucking pretty," he kissed you sloppily, "such a stupid fucking brat, just needed my cock inside you. Feel like heaven, baby. Gonna let me cum inside your little cunt, right? Made me wait so fucking long to have you, I deserve it. Don't I deserve it?"

You can barely form any coherent words, setting for nodding and breathy uh huhs.

"So fucking mean to me, and look how good I'm being to you, huh?" You feel the light slap of his head against your cheek. "Say your sorry, beg me to cum inside your pussy."

You do beg, your apology comes out in between the stuttering and slurring of your words, but you beg and plead with him until he concedes. It his own orgasm that pushes you over, his groans and relentlessness that follow, pushing himself passed the point of no return. You can see the beginning of what looks like tears in his eyes, and he has to force himself to stop, his hips jerking from the overstimulation.

He kisses you ruthlessly, letting his tongue claim your mouth in a manner more harsh than it is anything else. And when he pulls away and his eyes settle back on yours they're equally as harsh.

"No more shitty little boyfriends that can't handle you. I'll handle you. You want my cock, you ask nicely. Understand?"

"Yes," you let your lips peck his, surprising him, "what if I don't wanna be nice about it?"

He smirks, "try it and find out. Now get on your knees and suck my cock like the good girl I know you can be."

[elronds-meleth-nin]

I Could Love You With My Eyes Closed

I heard a song and one of the lines got stuck in my head, so here's a fic. (If you're curious, it was "Figure You Out" by VOILÀ.) No idea why, but Thranduil just felt perfect for this.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Thranduil x Reader

[A/N: This is mostly just fluff, but there's some innuendo, so... 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: Fluff, angst, Elf x Human romance, mutual pining, idiots in love, Thranduil being dramatic, fake betrothal speedrun, Thranduil being soft for one (1) person only, protective Thranduil, Human!Reader has been adopted by elf who had no idea what he was getting into and Thranduil thinks he's an idiot, mild innuendo.

~*~

My mind wandered during my guard shift. Given that nothing ever penetrated this deep into the realm without the king's consent, the risk of allowing my focus to roam among my busy thoughts was minimal. The night air was brisk as I sat on one corner of the king's balcony with my bow laid across my lap.

Normally, the night air was soothing, but at that moment, all I could think about was how different everything would be soon. There would be no more extravagant views of the stars framed by elaborately gilded windows, no more training with my bow, no more front row seats to royal audiences, and - the worst of all - no more late night conversations when King Thranduil grew weary of his work.

I'd taken those things for granted. Oh, I hadn't squandered my time once I'd become one of his guards, by any means, but now that I might be forced to give up that position sooner than I'd anticipated, a list of regrets seemed to be cycling endlessly in my mind's eye. One that caused me the most pain was that I would very soon no longer be the recipient of his majesty's secret smirks when something we'd discussed privately occurred in his court.

The sound of a quill scratching away on parchment within the king's study ceased abruptly, but not even the anticipation of a quiet, intimate talk with him could lift my spirits. Not after the news I'd had that morning.

The swish of a cloak being removed was followed by unhurried footsteps toward the balcony, and then he was there beside me. The King of the Woodland Realm stood less than a few feet from me in all his finery, save the little circlet that usually rested upon his brow. He tended not to wear it when he retired to his chambers for the evening, choosing instead to lay it atop a book of poetry which resided permanently on his desk.

"On a lovely, cloudless night such as this, what cause would a newly-engaged lady have to look so forlorn?" The smooth, regal voice of my liege met my ears, and under any other circumstances, I might have scrambled to my feet to bow before him, as was his due. All I could muster, however, was a quiet, sincere apology over my shoulder as I remained seated on the balcony. I could feel his keen, pale blue eyes on me as I set my bow aside and let out a heavy sigh. "Oh, dear. Is he that repulsive?"

"Not physically, but...all he seems to see is himself. I am perfectly aware that the betrothal wasn't either of our choices, but he could at least pretend that he's interested when our parents are nowhere to be seen." I was aware that I sounded ungrateful, but just because I was a mortal woman in a realm of Elves didn't mean that I had to like it when I was constantly looked down upon by others.

One of the few people who never gave me the impression that he thought less of me took a seat beside me in robes much too elegant for anything less than a perfectly padded chair to touch.

"Have you spoken with your guardian - apologies, your father - about your fears?" Instead of sounding judgmental, Thranduil's voice held only softness - a rarity, to be sure, but such a tone was more common when he conversed with me than with anyone else. I nodded my head as I recalled the cold aloofness in my adoptive father's voice as he'd dismissed both me and my protests.

"He seemed more concerned with maintaining the status associated with his name than with some silly little mortal's concerns." I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice, I really did, but the sharp edge that crept in made me cringe a bit. "After all, who am I to complain when he took me in? My life could have been over before it had even truly begun. He could just as easily have left me to die in the ruins of our burning village and adopted an Elfling instead. I...owe him for all that he has done."

One of Thranduil's hands rested lightly on my shoulder, coaxing me to face him. My eyes met his, and his free hand laid over my wrist. The warm weight of his palm covering my pulse made my heart flutter in my chest.

"Is that what he told you?" When I stammered about it being nothing more than the truth, he shook his head while stormclouds gathered in his expression. "What foul words of comfort from one who claims to care for you."

To that, I had no response. Naturally, several statements sprung to the tip of my tongue - defenses for my father's actions - but I swallowed them all down when my king's gaze warned me that he would tolerate no such excuses.

"Remind me, mellon-nin, how long have you served in my guard?"

"Twelve years and a few months, sire."

"And in all of our many conversations, have I ever given you any reason to doubt that I value you as highly as any other in my kingdom? After that first fortnight, when you were terrified of making a mistake, have you ever felt out of place because of your mortality?"

The memory of that fateful night drew a smile to my lips.

"No, mellon-nin. That rather thorough tongue-lashing you meted out made your stance quite clear to all in the palace," I murmured allowing myself the small liberty of turning my hand beneath his and threading our fingers together.

The guards he'd berated for their rudeness and bigotry had practically fled the throne room when he was finished with them. After that night, he'd ordered that whenever I was on duty, I would be assigned to his personal detail.

"Then, what cause have you to believe that I would tolerate anyone treating you so poorly anywhere else in my domain?"

"This is different–"

"How? Enlighten me," the king ordered giving my fingers a gentle squeeze.

"Father has the right to demand that I repay him for the time he has spent on me," I hedged, but Thranduil shook his head.

"Just because he raised you, that does not mean that he was unaware of what he was choosing. He may not have known the full extent of the demands made of a parent, but that was not the fault of the innocent babe he rescued." He sounded so calm, so casual about his assertions that I could do no more than blink as he spoke. "I do not expect Legolas to sacrifice his happiness to satisfy some imagined debt incurred at his birth, nor should your guardian make such ludicrous demands of you."

We sat quietly for a moment, side-by-side and hand-in-hand beneath the moonlight before words began flowing from my mouth almost without my consent.

"He's an ass, you know, the man to whom I have been promised. Nothing brings him greater pleasure than a mirror, and nothing strains him more than remembering a preference held by someone other than himself," I murmured feeling as though this confession of my unkind thoughts about the Ellon would give me some measure of comfort beyond another's commiseration. "Six different times he has insisted that he knows my favorite flower, and six times have I received something completely different. He claims that I keep changing my answer, but, truly, I have given the same response every time."

"He chooses not to listen," Thranduil muttered almost to himself.

"Quite correct, aran-nin. He is dismissive...practically ignores me when we are in the same room..."

"Had he been listening, he undoubtedly would have heard your scathingly pointed sighs, not unlike those which you direct toward any who insult your king in the throne room," he teased, and a huff of laughter bubbled out of me. "I shall have you know that I enjoy those little sighs. They convey a great deal about the receiver's lack of intelligence and manners, whilst simultaneously broadcasting that you would like nothing more than to drag them from the gates by the scruff of their neck. Quite effective, do you not agree?"

"Oh, yes, mellon. As I recall, you've allowed me to do just that on several occasions," I said glancing over at him. The answering sparkle in his eyes coupled with the wicked little smirk adorning his lips made my heart thud faster in my chest.

"And I reveled in every second of their humiliation at your beautiful hands," Thranduil practically purred in satisfaction at the memories, but I sobered rather quickly as I recalled the reason I was so down in the first place. He must've seen my smile slip. "Forgive me, I was certain that you enjoyed dragging witless rats from my sight...?"

"I do...rather, I did." The correction was small, but he pounced upon it immediately. The hand that had been on my shoulder grasped my chin and forced me to look back up at him. He didn't need to say a word. The question floated between us unasked, yet requiring an answer. "My betrothed made it clear that he believed a guard was no proper wife. He has demanded that I resign my position here."

More seriously than he had all night, Thranduil gazed into my eyes.

"Is that what you want? Do you wish to give up the station you fought so hard to attain for a man who cannot remember even the simplest of things about you?" I shook my head as hot, desperate tears filled my eyes. "Then tell me, what do you want? What desires fill your mind when you allow yourself to dream under cover of darkness?"

I most certainly could not give him the whole truth. I couldn't tell him that over the course of our acquaintance and friendship I had fallen in love with him. Nothing could ever come of my pathetic heartache. I was only a guard. A peasant. Peasants might fall in love with royalty, but they did not end up with them. That was not the way of the world.

"Love," I breathed instead. "I want to be loved for myself, not my father's position. I wish to be cared for and to care for another. I wish to remain a guard, a warrior for the Woodland Realm, and to be accepted as I am, not swept aside. Obviously, I am not without fault, but while I attempt to grow wiser and gain experience, I do not wish to be impeded or judged by someone who could never remember even the most basic facts about me. I...What I want is impossible."

A small, gentle smile crossed the king's lips, and an intense, burning desire to kiss him fought a war within me against my common sense. Thranduil could forgive much, but a lapse in judgment as severe as throwing myself at him? Never.

"Your presence here is proof that nothing is impossible. You are much easier to love than you have allowed yourself to believe." His deep, rumbling voice sounded at once comforting and sensual, which proved quite effective at helping me blink back my tears before they could even begin to fall. "When are you next due to meet with this unworthy cad?"

"Tomorrow. My father has invited both he and his parents to our home for the evening meal as it is my day without a shift." I was surprised at how steady my voice sounded after how vulnerable I'd just been. Strangely, though, I felt no shame in having allowed my friend to see my pain.

King Thranduil nodded his head pensively, brushing his thumb over my chin as he did so - why had he not yet released his grip? Not that I was going to complain, of course. Being this close to him, touching him, speaking with him in confidence...that was as close as I was ever going to get to him, and even that might soon be pulled from my grasp, so I savored every moment that I was afforded.

Neither of us had much more to say. Instead, the Elvenking slipped an arm around my waist and tugged me close enough to his side for me to lay my head on his shoulder. We sat in companionable silence until the time came for the guard change. Bidding me sweet dreams and a safe trip home, Thranduil dropped a soft kiss onto my hand and retreated back inside his rooms.

As usual, the guard who was to replace me gave me a raised eyebrow at my familiarity with someone so far above my station, and, as usual, I ignored him.

Sneaking to the stables on my way out, I plucked an apple from my coat pocket and headed to the gilded gates of the stall holding the king's mount. Slicing the fruit quickly in half with my dagger to delay my return home by a few extra seconds, I cooed gently to the large elk, stroking the soft fur on his muzzle as I offered him the treat.

"Who's a good boy? Hm? You are! Yes, you are," I praised as he gingerly bit into the first half of the bright red fruit, then the second. He was a gentle giant, in truth. Much of the kingdom supposed that he would be as prickly as his rider, but nothing could be further from reality. Firstly, the king was only short with those who deserved his ire. Secondly, the admittedly imposing elk upon which he rode hadn't a mean bone in his very large body. "Aww, you're never grumpy with me, are you, mellon-nin?"

He chuffed and snuffled, nuzzling gratefully into my caressing fingers as a 'thank you' for his treat. Even he would be a far superior companion for life than the idiot with whom I'd be forced to spend yet another pointless evening the next day...and perhaps the rest of my life.

"Don't worry, mellon, even if he makes me resign, I'll still find a way to sneak in and bring you extra apples." The pleased little snort he gave me drew a giggle from my lips, but I knew that soon the guard patrolling this section of the grounds would be here. I bid goodnight to my tall, fur-covered friend and set off on the path toward home with our secret intact.

Had I so much as bothered to glance back, I would've seen a familiar head of bright blond hair watching as I tugged the hood of my cloak over my head.

--

When I awoke the next day, it was still early morning. The lateness of my shift usually tired me out well enough that I slept for at least another hour or two, but after a few bleary blinks, I realized that I'd been awakened by voices.

Odd. My adoptive father did not usually entertain guests at this hour. Either something had happened, or today was destined to turn out rather strangely. As he hadn't bothered to come wake me, I gathered that there was no urgency in whatever had transpired. What was not in question, however, was the way my stomach growled as I tried to roll over and go back to sleep.

With a sigh of defeat, I climbed out of bed and dressed, even going so far as to tie my hair back in a quick braid since it looked as though it might rain. Thus, clothed and presentable, I cleaned my teeth and ventured from my bedroom in search of food.

The voices seemed to be coming from my destination, so it seemed as though I would get both sustenance and an answer to my curiosity all at the same time. A fortuitous turn for such a gray morning.

"...ere she is now." I was able to make out my father's voice as I intentionally stepped on the creaky board in the hallway. I wasn't as quiet as an Elf when I walked, but I still didn't like to appear as though I was eavesdropping or sneaking where I shouldn't be. When I stepped into the kitchen, I froze.

There in all his regal, perfectly-groomed glory was King Thranduil, sitting at our tiny wooden table.

What in the name of the Valar was the king doing in our kitchen?

"Aran-nin," I greeted him, bowing slightly less steadily than I might have if I'd been awake for more than a few minutes. A low, velvety chuckle floated around the space.

"Come now, meleth, you know there is no need for such formality," Thranduil crooned giving me a charming, mischievous smile as I straightened again, but that statement alone nearly shattered my poor tired mind.

He'd said 'meleth,' but...that meant 'love.' He'd never called me that before. And I still didn't know why he was in our kitchen.

Glancing between my king and my father, I tried silently to piece together what the hell was going on here. Thranduil must have seen my lack of progress in my eyes, because he continued as if this was all completely normal.

"Come, break your fast. Your guardian has been kind enough to make tea and lay out some provisions for us," he said standing and pulling out the chair directly beside him.

Almost without thinking, I did as he asked, and my heart thudded rapidly in my chest when he seated me as if we were at some lavish feast instead of around our small, wooden table. He acknowledged my hastily-murmured gratitude, then resumed his own seat with his usual flourish. The three of us ate quietly for a few moments, staunchly ignoring the fact that the king was in our tiny kitchen eating with us as casually as if he had always done so.

It was...pleasant. Strange, obviously, but much more enjoyable than my usual solitary morning meal.

"So, meleth-nin, would you like to tell him the good news, or should I?" Thranduil asked, and I looked up at him. Slightly more cognizant than before, I recognized the glint in his eyes that usually accompanied a desire for me to play along with whatever he said next. I could do that.

"I'm quite certain that it would be much more eloquent coming from you," I demurred, and I very pointedly avoided looking across the table at my father's reaction to whatever bit of theater my king had orchestrated. Less than a heartbeat later, I found my free hand firmly in Thranduil's grasp as he looked at my father.

"The betrothal you arranged for your ward is hereby declared invalid by order of the king," he said, and the stunned expression on my father's face was worth every moment of confusion I'd experienced that morning. He took a moment to gather himself before clearing his throat and looking between us in askance.

"If it is not too presumptuous, sire, may I ask why you have done this? Her betrothal to–"

"That engagement was no more than a farce. We meant to announce it earlier, but with how busy I've been attending to my royal duties, I fear I have been remiss." The king cut him off, and the indignation in my father's eyes gave me a sick sort of pleasure. "You see, your ward is not available for the suitor you preferred, because she has already accepted my own marriage proposal."

Oh. So, that was what he had in mind. A faux betrothal. Somehow, that was both intensely flattering and a knife to my chest.

The announcement worked to perfection, though. My father looked as though he'd been punched soundly in the face.

"You...?" He blinked and made a second attempt at speech. "Why would a king want her?"

Thranduil's head tilted in a manner I recognized as indicative of the imminent rise of his temper.

"Why does a king desire anything? Tell me, why should a king not desire a worthy queen for his realm?" He asked, and my father caught up rather rapidly with the realization that he'd said the wrong thing. Thranduil looked back over at me as he lifted my hand to his lips. "Why should an Ellon not marry the one whom he loves?"

Ow. Those were the exact words I'd longed to hear from him for so many years, but to hear them now knowing that they were all an act...

"And why should I not wish to marry the Elf with whom I have grown so close over my many years of guard duty?" How far he intended to carry this fiction, I didn't know, but I could play along for now. I could hide the pain.

"I...Congratulations," my father stammered hesitantly, but he was no longer relevant. Not now.

"Thank you," the king said without taking his eyes off of me. "Meleth, I believe it is time for you to live in the palace. It will be your home once we are married, and if you are prepared, I can take you back with me. My mount is outside."

"Of course, but I shall need a few moments to pack–"

"Nonsense. You needn't do such menial work. You are to be my queen. I have already arranged for your belongings to be brought to you this evening. For now, you need only bring yourself and a riding cloak," he insisted with a warm smile.

"Might it not be simpler, my king, if I were to save you the trouble of taking her with you? I could escort her to the palace myself this evening so that you needn't be burdened by sharing your mount," my father said, and the blush that sent my cheeks burning at the thought of the pair of us riding together atop his elk was automatic. No acting required.

I prayed that Thranduil was unaware of how drastically he affected me, even within my own imagination.

"Bringing my queen to the palace is my responsibility and privilege. And, if you shall forgive me for saying so aloud outside of the solitude of our marital chambers, meleth-nin, I view the opportunity to feel you in my arms with great anticipation," the king said turning my hand over gently and placing a slow, sensual kiss right over my racing pulse. My breath caught in my throat at the hunger in his eyes. His lips lingered a few beats longer than I expected, only pulling away when my father cleared his throat pointedly. "My apologies. In the presence of such beauty, I find that I am transported into the realm of fantasy."

Thranduil's words did not match his expression. He was an Ellon who found vast satisfaction in playing those around him like an orchestra. He wasn't sorry at all.

"As much as I adore seeing you like this, my darling king, I do hope you will be more discreet while holding court," I teased, but his smirk only grew.

"When my queen is so breathtaking? Never." If it wasn't for the disgustingly sexy wink he tossed me, I'd have thought he was laying his act on a bit thick. As it was, though, he seemed to be staying in character quite effortlessly. For my part, I was one shaky breath away from giggling like a brainless idiot, or bursting out in tears because of the simple fact that this was all an act.

Ducking my head in what I hoped was a passable semblance of bashfulness, I tried to steady my breathing.

"I...trust that you still plan to give up your position in the guard?" My eyes flicked up and met my father's. There was something in his expression - disbelief, confusion, suspicion - that I couldn't quite place.

His obvious lack of trust after all these years angered me.

With the sweetest smile that I could muster, I tilted my head curiously.

"Not at all. A queen must be willing to fight for - and alongside - her people if she expects them to fight for her in return. Loyalty must be earned; it is not a gift to which one is entitled." Thranduil gave my fingers a gentle, supportive squeeze. "Surely, after your many years as a warrior, you of all people understand how crucial it is to inspire loyalty in those whom you command?"

He couldn't protest. When Thranduil said nothing, giving him neither a change of subject nor an opportunity to dodge the question, my father stammered about his question being a foolish one and about the change in suitors being so sudden.

Almost as soon as we stepped outside, the king's elk snuffled happily. He walked over to us, but to my surprise, instead of vying for Thranduil's attention, he made a beeline for me. Without thought, I patted his muzzle and ran my fingers down his neck. Snuffling lower, as if he knew I usually kept his apples in my pockets, he looked at me expectantly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, mellon, I don't hav–" I was silenced by a large, gentle hand landing on my shoulder.

In my king's grasp was a bright, ripe, red apple. The same kind I usually smuggled out of the larder as a treat for my furry friend. He'd already sliced it in half - when had he even found the time?

"Thank you, but how did you...?"

"Nothing happens in my realm but I know of it," he whispered, the warmth of his breath ghosting over my scalp.

Choosing to temporarily ignore the implications of his statement, I accepted the apple and fed it to his elk. After a moment, Thranduil moved nearly soundlessly back toward my father.

"Ah, before I forget, this is for your ward's former suitor," he said pulling an envelope with the royal seal from his pocket. "Please convey to him that if the contents raise more questions than answers, he is most welcome to see the palace healers about his obviously failing memory."

With his cloak swishing behind him, Thranduil swept back over to me and helped me onto his mount's back. Once he was seated behind me with an arm wrapped firmly around my middle, it all sank in.

This might be an act for my father, but this was happening. I was really riding toward the palace with my king's chest pressing against my back. The guards who manned the gate would see us. Any who encountered us would bear witness to the king's act. How far did he mean to take this?

Surely, he wouldn't actually marry me just to get me away from one unsuitable Ellon? And when he did eventually end this ruse, what then? Would I be forced to go home with my tail tucked between my legs?

When we were around the halfway point in our journey - far enough from both my home and the palace that I was certain we wouldn't be observed - I asked if we could stop for a moment. Despite his confusion, Thranduil gave the command, and his elk trotted to a graceful stop. Without waiting for assistance, I slid off the saddle and landed rather hard on my feet.

Ignoring the new pain in my ankles and the ache that the loss of Thranduil's steadying grip left in my chest, I took a few steps and tried to slow my breathing. The sound of my traveling companion landing infinitely more gently than I had met my ears along with a concerned call of my name, but I just shook my head.

"Are you hurt, meleth?" He asked, and I swallowed heavily.

"No, but...my king–"

"You are perfectly allowed to call me by my name. After all, we are betrothed. It would not do for our subjects to see us behaving as if no love exists between us," he said as he patted his elk's neck, and a pang of hurt wound through my heart. Thranduil was saying all the right words, but it was an act. There were no longer any witnesses. There was no longer anyone to watch as my heart broke.

"Why are you doing this?" At the pain in my voice, confusion and concern washed over his features.

"Whatever do you mean?" The Elvenking asked stepping away from his elk's side. His cloak billowed around him, and it was all I could do not to drop to my knees at the sheer majesty of the figure he presented. All it did, though, was reinforce what I already knew: Thranduil was not for me.

"Please, do not misunderstand, I am grateful that you have saved me from such an unfortunate match. However, you needn't spare my feelings by pretending to love me. There is no need to waste your precious time playacting, mellon-nin."

"'Pretending'?" The word escaped him as a harsh, dangerous whisper. Oh dear. I'd seen the king's rage before, but never had his icy fury been turned upon me. Despite the outrage in his tone, his next words were at the same hushed volume as before. "'Playacting'? What do you take me for?"

I could see why Prince Legolas had insisted that raised voices were preferable to the fear that his father's cool, piercing anger inspired. I wasn't afraid, but I was acutely aware of the severity of his emotions. I wasn't intentionally trying to anger him, but I needed him to know how close he'd come to breaking me beyond repair. Before I could answer, he advanced another step and continued.

"And, pray tell, what am I, in your estimation? Cruel? Unforgiving? Demanding? Judgmental?" His eyes flashed with something akin to pain. "Perhaps your censure is not based upon personality, but upon appearance."

The glamour he kept constantly in place over his scar melted away.

"Is this the source of your misgivings? Am I too ugly for you to accept, even as a king?"

"You know that's not true," I snapped, with an edge of warning in my voice, recalling the first time I'd seen him without the glamour.

A few months after my appointment to the king's guard, I was given a jar of pain-dulling ointment by one of the healers to pass on to the king. I'd delivered it, of course, but when I'd been hesitant to leave him, going so far as to ask if he was injured, he'd locked the door and showed me what the great serpents of the north had done to him. Thranduil admitted later that he'd intended to frighten me that night, but all I'd done was ask if he needed help applying the medicine. Once he realized I thought no less of him for his injury, he'd let me.

Yet he had the gall to stand before me and accuse me of being shallow? Had he learned nothing about me over the years?

"Then answer the question," Thranduil bit out quietly. "What exactly do you take me for?"

"A king," I breathed looking up into his eyes. Confusion mingled with his anger. "Peasants may fall in love with royalty, but they are not offered the luxury of marrying them. Kings do not give lowly guards a second thought, even if they afford them the title of 'friend,' so I will ask you again, sire: Why are you doing this? Why are you acting as though hope abounds for my doomed heart where none has ever existed?"

His brow smoothed, his lips parted a fraction, and his glamour slipped silently back into place as he processed what I'd said. Oh, Valar, what I'd said! I'd confessed to loving the king!

Comprehension melted his anger away into nothingness. Instead, he moved within a single step of me, lifting one of his large, graceful hands to caress my cheek.

"You truly do not know?" I couldn't even bring myself to answer as I leaned into Thranduil's touch. This might be the last chance to do so after what I'd just admitted. He'd dismissed guards in the past for much less severe transgressions. "When we spoke last night, you told me that you desired to be loved - not by the whole of the Woodland Realm as I believe you deserve, but by one person. The Ellon your father chose for you certainly could not do that when remembering something as small as your favorite flower caused him such strain."

Low and gentle, his voice trickled over my ears as smoothly as honey. He...He didn't sound angry, anymore. Why wasn't he enraged that someone like me had dared to cross the more-than-generous boundary of friendship that he'd allowed me?

"My king–"

"Thandruil," he corrected, but there was no real bite to his words despite having to repeat himself again. He never repeated himself, yet this morning alone he'd done so twice. "You adore the blue wildflowers that grow along our western borders, but if you smell them for too long, they make you sneeze. During the summer, you set them on the sill in your room and keep the window open so that you might enjoy them without discomfort."

I blinked in surprise. I could vaguely remember a conversation years ago where I'd mentioned the flowers, but it was such a trivial thing that I was quite certain it would've been forgotten by morning. After all, what I did with flowers had no bearing on the fate of the kingdom.

"You prefer your tea sweet but not overly so. When you believe it might rain, you take the precaution of braiding your hair so that the humidity will not render it impossible to untangle when you return home."

The Elvenking began slowly, allowing each small fact that he'd observed about me to sink in along with the realization that he'd favored me with his attention frequently enough to accrue them.

"Your confidence with daggers is low, but with a bow, you are as bold and graceful as any skilled Elleth warrior. When I express my anger at some wretched fool in my court, you often struggle to suppress your laughter at how close they come to wetting themselves in the throne room - do not deny it. Your body gives you away each and every time."

Had he truly seen so much of me during my service to him?

"When your temper is tested, there is a small line that appears just here," he touched a spot between my brows, "that brings me great consternation. On the one hand, I wish to give you my sword so that you may more easily remove the head of whomever has dared incur your wrath, but on the other, I wish to soothe your frustrations with my words, my lips, my body, whatever you will allow–"

"Thranduil–" His name fell from me as no more than a whisper. The leaves on the trees surrounding the path rustled in the breeze, but the Elvenking could not be stopped.

"Your free time is often spent reading. Once a week before you return home, you sneak out to the stables and feed my elk an extra apple, because you find him sweet-tempered. When you laugh, your eyes sparkle brighter than any star ever could, and you steal the breath from my chest each time you look at me."

My vision blurred, and only when my king's thumbs brushed tears from my cheeks did I realize that I was crying. I'd loved him for so long that this felt as surreal as a dream.

"You said that you wish to be loved, meleth-nin. To answer your question, I am doing this because I can give you exactly what you desire. I could love you with my eyes closed, because I have done so with them open since the day you were assigned to my guard."

Thranduil leaned closer, freezing but a hair's breadth from my lips.

"If you do not feel the same, we can remain friends, but if there is the slightest chance that you could find happiness by my side, then marry me. Be my queen. I am yours." His whispered promise was filled with so much tenderness and hope that my restraint snapped, and I closed the distance between our mouths.

My fingers gripped his robes in an attempt to ground myself, but this heady feeling of being wanted - being loved - robbed me of all coherent thought. There was only the feeling of gentle hands drawing me close by my waist and the nape of my neck. Only soft lips kissing me with the skill of thousands of years' worth of experience. Only a king claiming his queen's heart.

There was only love.

~*~

mellon-nin = my friend

aran-nin = my king

meleth-nin = my love

[zoeykallus]

Hi, Zoey! Are your requests open? I had an idea after watching Kenobi.

There’s a scene in Kenobi where the Inquisitors show up to a market place in search of Jedi. They throw a knife at the shop owner knowing that the Jedi hiding among the patrons will stop the knife from harming him. It would be interesting to see that with Hunter.

Maybe Hunter and Cid’s bartender have a relationship. Bartender was weary of the clones at first but warmed up to them and liked Hunter. They just started dating when Inquisitors show up. They use the knife trick on someone (maybe even Omega) and bartender is forced to expose themselves as a former Jedi.

I’d love to see how Hunter would react to that.

oh oh oh oh... I got something in my head!

*Running in circles*

I actually had a scene like this in my head for a while now, I put the whole batch in there but focus on Hunter as a love interest.

Hunter x Jedi/Reader - One-Shot - The Things We Do For Love

Warnings: Angst/Canon Typical Violence/Blood/Fluff

No one knows about your past with the Jedi order. You are forced to drop your cover, when you try to save Hunter's life.

_______

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

_______

It's strange, life after Order 66 - hiding, pretending to be someone else. And it doesn't get any easier every day as you'd hoped, at least not at first. Cid's Bar, that's where you ended up at some point. You work behind the counter. You serve all kinds of strange clientele. Cid's Bar is like a meeting place for all kinds of scum in the Galaxy. Life has changed, a lot. Priorities change. The code after you've lived so long is nowhere near as important as surviving and belonging somewhere so you're not completely alone in this universe. But you can't open up to anyone, not exactly the most decent people come and go here. So you keep a low profile. You even flirt here and there to keep up appearances, but at the same time, you keep everyone at a distance. And then, to make matters worse, these clones turn up. Automatically, every alarm sounds inside you. Order 66 flares up in your memory, sharp and painful. It takes so much willpower to stay calm, to not let anything get to you, so much trauma hangs in every thought of clones. No one knows who you are, no one even suspects that you were part of the Jedi Order.

And yet these men surprise you, especially one of them who leads the group. He is so thoughtful, so serious. Hunter always seems to be lost in thought, trying to keep everything under control, to ensure safety. He rarely leans back and really takes a breath. He's almost always worried and tense, you can feel it in the Force. But eventually, he thaws out, you somehow strike up a conversation, and you quickly learn how much depth and kindness lie beneath that brooding, skeptical exterior. Hunter can even be funny, very observant and above all else, he's decent, probably one of the most decent people to ever come and go in this bar. You catch yourself admiring him. Your eyes meet more and more often, you talk to each other more often, even flirt. But this flirting is different, it's not fake, it feels real, exciting and for you, with your past, completely new and almost reckless. You are both obviously interested in each other, just as you are both shy and cautious in a certain way. Weeks, even months go by before your hands touch for the first time, and he asks you out.

You can see it in his face, he can hardly believe it himself, hidden behind his smile is a nervous boy who is incredibly afraid of being rejected by you. The big, brooding leader has a great weakness, you. Of course, you say yes, you can hardly resist this special man, clone soldier or not, Hunter has so much good in him, he attracts you like a magnet, not to mention his good, bold looks do the rest.

It starts like any other evening. More or less. After your first date, Hunter usually comes into the bar smiling, automatically seeking your gaze as soon as he walks through the door. You can't help it, you smile back every time, accompanied by a warm tingling in your stomach, warmth rising in your cheeks and ears.

But something is different today. There is a presence in the room, dark, determined, hard as stone, surrounded by sharp edges. You sense this presence in the Force, its intransigence. You look around in alarm. The bar is a little busier today, your gaze wanders more or less inconspicuously around the room. Then you see him. You meet cold eyes, eyes as blue as sapphires, their gaze steely and sharp, so intense that you automatically lower your own gaze and distractedly clean a glass. But you know this person has already noticed you. Right now you're feverishly thinking about your next steps and how to get out of here alive without putting anyone in danger. Hunter frowns worriedly, watching you. He can tell something is wrong. Tech is talking to him, but he is focused on you right now. He leaves the table where he was sitting with his brothers and is about to come over to you when he hears a voice say clearly and distinctly, not shouting but loud enough, "CT 9901"

You feel hot and cold, a shiver runs down your spine, you're sure Hunter feels the same way, you can see it on his face. All the heads at the Bad Batch table look up in surprise, shock and alarm. Hunter turns to the voice that seems to be coming from one of the other tables a few meters away. A man suddenly stands up, slowly, unhurriedly, confidently. Like a predator who is sure of his prey, who has no reason to be afraid, no need to hurry. Neither you nor Hunter like the body language. What surprises you, however, is that this man, in his strange, dark uniform, is not looking for you as you expected, but obviously for Hunter and presumably his brothers. "All 99ers in one room, this must be my lucky day. And not only that, I feel like I'm getting a little something extra on top of that," the somber stranger says, his voice deep and clear, almost melodic.

The room falls silent, as if the presence of this man demands it. With a confident little smile, the man pulls a knife from his belt, the first movement is slow, almost sluggish, but the throw comes so suddenly that you barely have time to react. It has become so quiet in the bar that you could hear a pin drop. But when the blade suddenly seems to stop in mid-air barely a centimeter from Hunter's eye, a murmur goes through the room. You're sure you can hear someone whispering the word Jedi.

Hunter only lets out a quiet, "What the hell", he can't help but stare at the blade for a moment. He should be dead, he realizes, that vibro blade should have drilled into his skull, but there it is, hovering right in front of his face. Out of the corner of his eye he sees your outstretched hand, your concentrated gaze, and he begins to understand. You stopped the blade from killing him, you stopped it in its tracks. The stranger's cool voice draws you both back to him. "I knew I sensed a Jedi in the room, and I knew you couldn't resist to show yourself" In the next moment everything happens very quickly, there is no time to think, to process, to make plans. The man reaches out his hand, and you feel his grip on you in the force. You are swept over the bar counter, with a pull on your body, trough the force, knocking over two tables on your way to the floor. Everything around you happens in a haze, you hear Hunter cursing angrily, blaster shots, the distinctive buzz of an awakening lightsaber, screams from the other patrons. A red glow fills the room. The smell of burned flesh.

Your left side hurts. You landed hard on the tables when the Sith Force-wrenched you over the counter, maybe you cracked a few ribs. There are shards on the surrounding floor from the glasses that went down. As you try to pick yourself up, you accidentally reach in and cut your right palm. The pain is sharp, clear and distinct, bringing you back to reality from your surprise. You jump to your feet, skillfully, supported by the force that flows through and envelops you. It's been a long time since you've used the Force and your abilities in this way, but it's as if you've never let it out of your fingers, the lightsaber sliding into your hand, its blade glowing blue with its characteristic hum. Blood runs down the hilt of your weapon from the open cut on your hand, it burns, but you ignore the pain. You feel Hunter's gaze, he is still confused. He knows what you are now, but he certainly hasn't processed the news yet. At the moment, you all have other things to worry about. Did the Sith come alone? Are there Stormtroopers waiting for you outside the bar?

You concentrate on the force, on the intentions of your opponent. Everything you feel emanating from him is sharp, dark, glowing hot. He is driven by rage, and the moment your lightsabers cross, you feel all the hatred in his attacks, which are admittedly much stronger than you expected. You've never fought a real Sith before. The first touch of your lightsabers is like an electric shock, an incredibly hard impact, a wave of fury that seems to roll over you from your opponent. The hilt of your weapon is slippery with your own blood, you have to grab it hastily with both hands so that the sword doesn't slip from your grasp or your opponent will decapitate you. For a moment, Hunter's concern penetrates your perception, but you shut him out and have to concentrate. A quick exchange of blows follows, attack, parry, retreat, attack, parry... The handle of your weapon becomes increasingly slippery with your own blood. Then it happens, another hard blow, you parry, the impact of the blades causes your weapon to slip away.

You hear Hunter yell out, hear the shock in his voice, the terror in that simple word, "No!" His blaster lies on the ground, sliced in half by the Sith's blade. Hunter has pulled his knife from his belt in a split second, lunging in the Sith's direction. The blade of your attacker hovers just in front of your neck, you hold the Sith and his weapon in this position with all the strength you can muster with body and force. Your heart races, adrenaline flows through your body. There are only millimeters between your life and death. Millimeters before the red lightsaber could sever your head from your shoulders. Hunter reaches an arm around the Sith's neck and jabs his knife into his side. The sergeant's voice is dark and smoky as he rasps, "Not on my watch"

The red lightsaber goes out and falls to the ground. Hunter kicks it aside, away from the Sith's hands, and lets the mortally wounded attacker slide to the ground. You see Hunter's chest rise and fall, still electrified, while your adrenaline suddenly subsides and your hands begin to tremble a little. You concentrate on the force, your center, and banish the trembling from your limbs. With a sigh, you look at the man on the ground, who is taking his last breaths, his cold, sapphire eyes still looking up at you with hatred, but there is also reluctance in them, surprise, defiance. Echo kneels down next to him, feels his pulse. "Quite dead," he says dryly, and with a glance at your extinguished lightsaber, he asks, "Care to explain?" "Take it easy, Echo. I guess it's obvious why we're only finding out now, it would have been dangerous to reveal the truth," Hunter says calmly and steps closer, carefully grabbing your hand and looking at the cut.

"That needs stitching," Tech says with a sideways glance and adds, "I can do it when we get to the Marauder, we should get out of here, more will come" The others lead the way, Hunter and you follow at a slight distance. You can't quite believe it yet. CF99 accepts you into their midst, no ifs, no questions, yet. Admittedly, Echo is still a little skeptical, but he always is. But you're part of it now, you're no longer alone. The thought spikes a feeling of euphoria in you. "Looks like Clone Force 99 has its own Jedi now," Hunter says with a wry smile. You crack a smile, liking the idea, forgetting for a moment your bleeding hand and the drops of blood that fall to the ground and on your tunic. Crosshair, who is walking ahead of you, casts a jaunty glance over his shoulder and says dryly, "Just don't expect me to follow your orders, General." He says it with a wink, even if his words sound a little hostile, he is friendly to you, you sense his intentions in the Force.

You say quietly, "I wasn't going to give you orders, you have a working system as a group, I wouldn't dream of changing it" The Sniper laughs softly, "Clever Jedi" Hunter drops back a little, and you do the same, sensing that he has something to say to you. After a little while, on your way to the Marauder, he says seriously, "You gave up your cover to save my life, thank you" You chuckle and say softly, "The things we do for love" Hunter listens in surprise and asks, "So our dates aren't part of your cover?" You've opened up to him in the force, feeling his pulse, the tingling under his skin as if it were your own. "I would never play with your feelings, not even as a cover," you say seriously. Hunter breathes a sigh of relief and asks, "So nothing will change between us?" "I'd like us to continue our relationship and see where it takes us," you reply with a warm smile. You feel his relief, his affection, and you breathe a sigh of relief as well.

"That's what I want too," he says, carefully grabbing your hand and taking another look at the wound. "That looks really bad," he says, frowning. Wrecker comes rushing up and murmurs, "Now hurry up, or our Jedi will bleed to death!" Impatiently, he grabs you and lifts you off your feet to carry you to the Marauder. You make a small, startled noise. "Wrecker," Hunter says softly, admonishing. "What? The little Jedi got hurt!" Wrecker returns unperturbed and carries you to the Marauder. "It's just a cut on my hand," you say, waving it off. "It's bleeding a lot," Tech comments as Wrecker sets you down next to him and points at your stained tunic. Tech already has medical supplies ready, including a needle and thread, but first Echo cleans the wound. You grit your teeth, because the cleaning stings a lot. Echo says knowingly, "Don't worry, it'll be done in a minute"

Wrecker asks curiously, "Is the Jedi officially with us now?" Hunter sits down opposite you and watches as your wound is taken care of, he says, "I think so" "But I'm not really a Jedi anymore. There is no longer a Jedi order and I haven't been following the code for a while now, at least not to the letter," Hunter's eyes meet yours at the last words. Your heart beats faster as a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "We're not really regular clones either, we're not really soldiers anymore," Tech says lightly. Crosshair sticks a toothpick in his mouth and mutters, "Welcome to the defect squad, I have a feeling you'll fit in perfectly here"

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

________

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

@thebahdbitch

@nahoney22 @ladykatakuri

@darkangel4121

@ttzamara

@arctrooper69

@padawancat97

@agenteliix

@allsystemsblue

@palliateclaw

@either-madness-or-brilliance

@ortizshinkaroff

@andy-solo1

@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

@hated-by-me

@hunterxcrosshair

@malicemercy

@bebopsworld

@echos-girlfriend

@cpnt616

@dangraccoon

@jediknightjana

@pb-jellybeans

@antishadow2021

@sleepycreativewriter

@projectdreamwalker

@1vlouds

@clonelovr

@bandnerdlevel43

[uniquexusposts]

I love you - L. Sergeant

Summary: Y/n when she finds out about the dismissal of Logan.

Y/n stepped out of the office building, the evening air brushing against her skin as she slipped her hand into her purse to pull out her phone. The screen flickered to life, exposing a photo that never failed to warm her heart—a snapshot of Logan, captured in a moment of pure, unguarded joy. He was laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, staring straight at her through the camera with that infectious smile that made everything else in the world seem distant and insignificant. Her own smile crept across her lips, soft and instinctive.

With a small sigh of contentment, she placed her AirPods in her ears, the familiar opening chords of her favourite song easing her out of the moment and back into the present. The city around her was alive with its usual chaos—cars honking, people chattering, the distant roar of a plane overhead—but the music created a barrier, a comforting bubble that made the world feel a little less hectic, a little more bearable.

She put her phone back into her coat purse as she set off towards the tube station. The streets, though bustling with the typical rush-hour crowd, had become second nature to her; she moved through them with a kind of unconscious grace, weaving in and out of the throng with ease. The cobblestones beneath her feet were wet from a recent drizzle, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights as dusk slowly folded into night.

Her thoughts began to drift, as they often did on these solitary walks, from the mundane details of the day’s work to the warmth waiting for her at home. The stark contrast between the bustling heart of the city, with its relentless pace and constant noise, and the quiet sanctuary they had carved out for themselves in their little corner of London, always brought her a sense of relief. It was the difference between holding her breath and finally exhaling, a sigh of contentment at the thought of their peaceful neighbourhood.

The tube station loomed ahead, its entrance a yawning mouth that swallowed the constant stream of commuters. Y/n descended the stairs, the music in her ears blending with the rhythmic clatter of trains and the murmur of voices. The train arrived with a gust of wind, the doors sliding open to reveal the usual mix of strangers packed inside. She squeezed in, finding a spot to stand near the door, one hand gripping the pole for balance as the train jolted forward. Her thoughts drifted back to Logan, to the look in his eyes when he’d kissed her goodbye that morning—a look that had seemed almost distant, like something was weighing on him, something he hadn’t quite found the words to share. 

This F1 season had been extremely difficult for Logan. The pressure, the endless travel, the scrutiny from fans and media alike—it was all beginning to take its toll on him, and she could see it in the way he carried himself, in the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking. He had always been passionate about racing, had always thrived on the adrenaline and the challenge, but this season was different. With each race, it seemed like the weight of it all was pushing him closer to the edge.

She had seen him at his best—confident, focused, driven—but lately, those moments had been few and far between. Instead, there was a weariness in his eyes, a sense of doubt that had crept in and taken root. She had tried to be there for him, to support him in every way she could, but she knew that some battles had to be fought alone. Still, it pained her to see him struggle, to see the sport he loved so much slowly drain the life out of him.

Her stop came quicker than expected. She quickly exited the tube and the station and made a quick stop at a local store, to pick up a parcel. When at the shop, her eyes spotted Kinder Bueno. Without hesitation, she bought one. Kinder Bueno was a thing in Logan and Y/n’s life. They always shared one. And Y/n felt like sharing a Kinder Bueno. The parcel safely tucked under her arm and the Kinder Bueno in her purse, she left the shop and began the walk home. The streets were quiet, the orange glow of the streetlights casting long shadows that danced across the pavement. She found herself appreciating the stillness, the way the city seemed to pause here, allowing her a moment of peace before she reached their flat.

The front door creaked slightly as she pushed it open, stepping into the dark hallway. The hallway was always dimly lit when someone was home, so it made her wonder if Logan was home. She closed the door behind her, took off her shoes and walked to the living area. 

“Hey,” she said slightly surprised when she saw Logan sitting in one of the chairs of the dining table. He was facing the windows, looking outside. Y/n put her purse, bag and parcel on the table and took out her AirPods. She got no answer from her boyfriend. 

There was something off in the way he sat, a stiffness in his posture that sent a ripple of unease through her. 

“Hey,” she said again, trying to get in contact with Logan. 

He looked over his shoulder, surprised to see Y/n standing at the other side of the table. “Hey,” he murmured, forcing a smile that barely touched his lips and never reached his eyes.

The smile was wrong—flat, almost hollow. It lacked the warmth she was used to, the easy way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he saw her, as if just her presence was enough to make everything right in the world. But tonight, that spark was missing, replaced by something cold and distant.

What a welcome after a week apart from each other, Y/n thought, a pang of sadness settling in her chest. She had been looking forward to this moment all day, to seeing him, to feeling his arms around her after what felt like an eternity of being apart. But now, standing there with him just a few feet away, she felt a chasm between them that hadn’t been there before.

“Are you okay?” Y/n asked and stepped towards him. “What is wrong?” 

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of the world was pulling him down. Then, slowly, he shook his head, a tremor running through him. He took a deep breath that seemed to shudder through his entire body, he looked back at her, his expression crumbling into one of raw vulnerability.

“I’m gone,” he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips in a single, desperate breath. His voice cracked, the bravado he would tried to maintain splintering into pieces as the reality of his situation overwhelmed him. And just like that, he burst into tears, the sobs tearing through him with a force that startled them both. His body shook with the intensity of it, the weight of all he had been holding back crashing down on him at once. He tried to speak, to say something, anything that could make sense of what he was feeling, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was cry, releasing the anguish that had been building inside him for far too long.

He broke. 

“Fuck,” was Y/n’s first reaction. She stepped to him, closing the distance between them in an instant. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t think twice—she just wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could, trying to offer him some semblance of comfort, of safety. He buried his face in her shoulder, his tears soaking through her shirt as he clung to her, as if she were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling with her own emotions as she stroked his back, her hand moving in slow, soothing circles. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here. I’m right here.”

But she knew that right now, those words might feel empty to him. Nothing she said could change what he was going through, could make the pain disappear. All she could do was be there, hold him, and let him know that he wasn’t alone in this, no matter how lost he felt.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Y/n whispered. 

It broke her heart to see him like this. Racing was his everything. It was the fire that fuelled him, the passion that had driven him for as long as she had known him. It was more than just a job—it was his identity, his purpose. And now, that part of him had been ripped away so brutally, that he was left floundering in its absence, lost in a darkness that seemed impenetrable.

She had never seen him like this before. Even in the worst of times, he had always managed to find some glimmer of hope, some reason to keep pushing forward. But now, that strength, that resilience, seemed to have deserted him, leaving only the raw, unfiltered agony of his loss.

He couldn’t stop crying, the sobs tearing through him with a force that made her heart ache. It was as if every tear carried with it a piece of his shattered dream, a fragment of the life he had built around his love for racing. She held him tighter, her own tears falling silently as she pressed her lips to his temple, trying to convey through touch what words could not. She ignored the tension in her muscles as she sat in an uncomfortable way. It didn’t matter now. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible over the sound of his weeping. She wished she could take his pain away, bear the burden for him, if only for a moment. But all she could do was be there, anchoring him in the storm that raged within him, holding him as he cried out the grief that had taken root in his soul.

Minutes passed, though they felt like hours, and slowly, painfully, his sobs began to subside, his body gradually relaxing in her arms. But the tears didn’t stop, and she knew that this was just the beginning—that the road ahead would be long and difficult, filled with moments like this one where the weight of his loss would threaten to crush him.

Logan shifted slightly, his head moving away from her shoulder, creating a small distance between them. His eyes, red and swollen, searched hers, a silent plea lingering in the depths of his gaze. As their eyes met, the vulnerability there was almost unbearable to witness. He blinked, and a few quiet tears slipped free, tracing slow paths down his cheeks. The sight of them, so small yet so heavy with meaning, sent a fresh wave of sorrow through Y/n’s chest.

Without thinking, she raised her hand and gently ran her fingers through his hair, the familiar motion meant to soothe, to comfort. Logan closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it ever so slightly, as if that simple act could shield him from the harsh reality they were facing.

For a moment, they just sat there, the world outside their little bubble distant and irrelevant. The warmth of her hand in his hair, the soft rise and fall of their breaths, the silent exchange of emotions that words could never quite capture—it all felt like a fragile lifeline, something to hold onto as the storm continued to rage around them.

When Logan finally opened his eyes again, the tears still lingered, but there was something else there too—a glimmer of gratitude, of understanding. It was as if, in that small gesture, Y/n had reminded him that he wasn’t alone in this, that no matter how lost he felt, she would be there, steadfast and unwavering, ready to catch him whenever he stumbled.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken, each word carrying the weight of his fear, his uncertainty.

“That’s okay,” she whispered. “You will figure it out.”

Logan’s gaze softened, and though the sadness in his eyes didn’t disappear, it seemed just a little less overwhelming, as if the burden had lightened, if only by a fraction. He nodded slowly, as if trying to absorb the truth of her words, to let them sink in deep enough to hold onto when the darkness returned.

Y/n leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting her lips linger there for a moment, a silent promise that she would be his anchor, his strength, whatever he needed her to be.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice tender, carrying the weight of everything she felt for him, everything she couldn’t put into words.

Logan’s eyes became blurry again, the tears welling up as the depth of her love, her unwavering support, threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel her lips press softly against his cheekbone, a gentle reminder of her presence, of her unwavering commitment to stand by him no matter how dark the days ahead might be.

He closed his eyes, letting the tears fall freely, but this time there was something different in them—something less rooted in despair and more in the profound sense of being loved, of not having to carry this burden alone. The sensation of her lips against his skin, her breath warm and steady, was an anchor in the storm, grounding him in the here and now, pulling him back from the abyss.

“I love you too,” he managed to whisper, his voice thick with emotion, his heart aching with both the pain of his loss and the overwhelming gratitude he felt for her. He turned his head slightly, just enough to press his own lips to her temple, a quiet gesture of thanks, of love, of everything he couldn’t find the words to express.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos@crashingwavesofeuphoria@maryvibess @chocolatefartstrawberry @snzleclerc @ironmaiden1313@blodwyn4u

[ohmerricat]

using the above tweet, i.e. proof that he’s a fan, to begin an Assad Zaman For The Sixteenth Doctor agenda. (not that i want Ncuti gone, god forbid — i hope he stays on for the usual three seasons or more!) now back to Assad: just look at him, for heaven’s sake

you’ve heard the man on interview. you’ve seen him perform fiery theatrical speeches in fits of rage and quiet judgemental contemplation and irresistible charm. he’s got matt smith’s talent of portraying an incredibly old, world-weary immortal while being a young man

you can just envision him. stepping out of that big blue box. a calmer, less brash-and-bold, less ostentatiously optimistic doctor than fifteen — the twelve or eight type, a brooding romantic, distant and wistful, yet with that edge of emotional manipulation like eleven possessed

i am aware that plot + character dynamics + personality + costume design + set design + mood and atmosphere etc. are all up to the writers, directors and rest of the crew, not the actors at all, but they are created to fit around the doctor’s actor’s vibe to an extent — at least i know that capaldi influenced a lot during his tenure, from the fashion choices to the intensity of twelve’s relationship with clara.

basically, we all know how assad is. he understands armand on an intimate level. he’s got a grasp on the psychosexual multi-layered tension of it all. so, provided he gives input, this could be a renaissance for all us twelveclara eightcharley elevenamyrory ninejackrose (etc. etc.) freaks — imagine another unstable “TARDIS trio”, all at odds with each other, challenging each other, with the episodic sci-fi stuff as a reflective background to different aspects of their complex relationship. series 5-10 were peak for a reason. we need that type of Who back, no offense to ruby “perfect companion with 0 tension” sunday. not like kids won’t get it: kids actually love the moffat era plenty + there’s always fun scary monsters for the kids to enjoy

well, i’m getting ahead of myself. # assad zaman for sixteenth doctor 2028 . look at his sad, deep eyes. there’s a billion years in them

[ginkgo-phyta]

heyy do you write for hotch? If yes can I request a fic with hotch falling asleep on reader's shoulder on the jet. like there are so many fics with reader sleeping on his shoulder and he's all soft about it and lets her. how would the bau react to see their tough boss just cuddle up with his girlfriend after a long case (it can be established relationship or before that too). thanku!

A/N: im screaming HAHA i LOVE THIS! i made this an established relationship hehe i hope you enjoy, my love! 

tagged spencer reid x reader because i want more people to see this teehee pls dont hate me i have spencer fics yall should read if you havent already but also you should still read this too

fluff, BAU!reader, gender-neutral reader, mention of cannon type violence/hostage situation/nothing explicit or detailed, 1.8k words

“Hey, you okay?” Your tired eyes peered up at Aaron as he neared your seat on the jet, tie loosened and top button of his shirt undone. He had just gotten off the phone with the section chief, who, undoubtedly, scolded him as if he were a wayward adolescent. Although the smile he offered you in response was tight lipped and less-than-giving, his eyes told a different tale. They softened as they met yours, shedding their cold and hard façade to reveal a weary truth, littered with hints of desperation. 

This case had been long and grueling, tensions insurmountably higher than usual with Erin Strauss breathing down Hotch’s neck, scrutinizing every decision he and the rest of the team made. You barely got a chance to talk to Aaron about how he was doing, always being waved off by the older man with “We can talk later,” or “It doesn’t matter right now, let’s focus on the case,”. Begrudgingly, you obliged, understanding there was no point in pushing him. It would only add to his stress. Although the case was solved, the end was arduous. The unsub had taken a hostage and, with the rest of the BAU’s input, the negotiation tactics went a different way than what Erin deemed appropriate. 

A heavy sigh parted Aaron’s lips as he slumped into his seat, you could practically see steam of stress billowing off of him. “It’s fine, everything’s fine.” He spoke quietly, eyes closed, but you could tell he didn’t believe it to be true. 

“Strauss tear you a new one?” Rossi piqued from across the table. 

The unit chief huffed out a short laugh. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Rossi just nodded at this, turning his attention back to his notepad. Hotch looked to the rest of his team as they settled into their desired spots, “Let’s all get some rest, alright?” 

Everyone wordlessly nodded, not having to be told twice. 

Aaron lazily turned his head to you with a book in your lap, “You, too, Agent.” He gave you a playfully pointed look.

You breathed out a quiet chuckle, “I will, don’t worry.” You shut the book and turned to give your beloved undivided attention, gazing into his suddenly undecipherable, deep hickory eyes. “You wanna talk about it?” 

He gently shook his head, eyelids feeling heavy as his blinks became slower and slower, “At home,” he whispered, your stomach doing a somersault at the notion. Aaron tried to fight sleep for just a few seconds longer, wanting to just stare at you for a bit.

You faced him, head leaned against the headrest, smile so warm and endearing. The way you chuckled at him was like getting a glimpse of heaven. He couldn’t wait to go home and have you all to yourself. The feeling of your arms wrapped around him was his life raft in the tumultuous storm of his emotions. It was hard for him to express what he was feeling all the time, but with you around his walls of reinforced concrete tumbled. Aaron gave you a small, sleepy smile.

Before he could say anything else, you spoke up. “Sleep,” it was a simple command, and the usually stubborn man melted into his seat at your word. 

You took a couple minutes longer to watch him immediately fall into a deep slumber, his breaths becoming deeper and longer, lips parted ever-so-slightly, eyebrows twitching here and there. With a breathy laugh, you fought the urge to reach up and caress his face and move the little stray strands of hair off of his forehead, still aware that your coworkers could witness such an intimate moment. The two of you had begun dating five months ago, but it wasn’t until three months later that you broke the news to the team. 

It had been a long time coming; for quite a while everyone knew about the feelings you harbored for your boss- even Hotch himself knew. You didn’t do a very good job of hiding it, taking every opportunity you could to blithely flirt with him. Some might just assume you did so in a similar way to how Penelope and Derek toy with each other, but the profilers knew in the back of their minds it wasn’t the case. Aaron fought you at first, pleading with you to stop calling him “handsome”, “big man”, or even “honey” in one case. You never gave in, though, buckling down on your efforts upon seeing the way he would chuckle caught off guard and almost blush in many instances. Slowly yet surely, he gave in to your teases. You burrowed your way into the stoic man’s heart, creating a place you would die before giving up. Aaron didn’t even realize it was happening until his world came crashing down on him one fateful evening. 

A routine questioning of a suspect had led to you getting held hostage, the man whose house you went to turning out to be the unsub. This had happened many times before in the history of the BAU, but for some reason Aaron was more on edge. There was no covert entrance into the home and the unsub refused to open up a line of communication with the agents, leaving everyone in the dark wondering what the state of your wellbeing was. Aaron had begun pacing back and forth in the tent they had set up outside the house you were being held in, hands held to his head. 

“Hotch, it’s going to be okay.” Derek stepped forward, trying to calm his superior’s nerves. 

“He’s right, Aaron.” Rossi piped in. “We’ve dealt with this before, we can fix this.”   

“No,” Hotch murmured back, “This isn’t the same. It’s not the same.” His pacing didn’t let up. “This is my fault, I should have told someone to go, too. I could have prevented this.”

The others held unspoken conversations within the glances they shared. 

“Hotch-” Emily tried to speak up, to convince him that wasn’t the case.

“NO!” He yelled suddenly, stopping in his tracks. “You don’t understand, I can’t lose them!” His voice was heavy with despair, eyes wide in anguish.

All eyes were trained on him, his coworkers at loss for words at the confession. 

“I can’t lose them…” Aaron mumbled this himself before roughly pushing out of the tent.

You smiled to yourself as you took a last glance towards the sleeping man next to you before turning back to your book. Safe to say, you were incredibly shocked when Aaron showed up on your doorstep in the dark of the night all those months ago, soaked in the rain, kissing you with a sense of urgency before you could even ask him what he was doing there. You bit your lip at the memory, but shook it out of your head to try and focus in on the jumbled words swimming in your lap. From the get-go, the two of you decided you would remain extremely professional around your coworkers, and you did just that. You stopped your teasing, for the most part at least, and made sure to never initiate physical contact on the job. Anyone that didn’t already know you were in a relationship would never have guessed. The most you allowed yourselves was sitting next to one another on the jet, just like you were doing now. 

An unintelligible murmur and huff sounding from your side drew your short-lived attention away from the delicate pages in front of you. Just as you were about to look over to Aaron and make sure he was okay, a heavy weight thumped onto your shoulder. His head. You were taken aback, a giggle slipping through your lips before you could help it. Your fingers flew up to your mouth, trying to keep yourself quiet as you noticed him shift a bit, making himself more comfortable. Sure, you’d accidentally fallen against Hotch’s shoulder in your sleep a couple times before the two of you entered a relationship, but never in a million years did you expect him to do the same to you. On the jet. In front of everyone. Of course, he couldn’t control his actions in his sleep, you reasoned. And maybe you should gently shrug him off to help retain his authority around the teasing profilers. But, this time, you fought off that thinking and gave in to your instinct. He had been so tense and strung out this entire case, you knew he needed this.

To hell with professionalism. You thought with a devilish grin, happy in your resolution. And so, you gently closed your book and slid it onto the table in front of you, trying your best to move as little as possible before leaning your head against his own and closing your eyes. With the gentle hum of the jet engines and the comforting sounds of Aaron’s breathing, you were lulled into a wonderful slumber in no time.

“Oh my God,” Emily breathed out, garnering the attention of Spencer who rested in the same group of seats as her. He looked up at her with one eye from where he was slumped over in his window seat, trying to get some shut-eye. 

“Huh?” the sleepy doctor grumbled, pushing himself a bit more upright when he noticed Emily looking at something on the other side of the jet, her face a mixture of shock and glee. 

The raven-haired agent began slapping Derek’s shoulder, who sat peacefully next to her with his eyes closed and headphones over his ears. His eyes flew open, looking over to Emily with annoyance as he took off his headphones, “What! What!”    

Immediately Emily shushed him, “Look!” she whispered, hand flying wildly in the air, eyes still unmoving. 

Derek followed her line of sight the scene before him pulling a laugh of disbelief from his lungs. “Well, well, well…” 

Emily’s hands covered her mouth in astonishment. “JJ!” she whispered over to the blonde who lay curled up on the sofa next to them. “Ugh,” she groaned quietly, unable to wake her coworker. 

“I can’t believe this,” she whispered mostly to herself, settling back in her seat, garnering a shake of Morgan’s head.

The view of their hard-headed unit chief sleeping peacefully on the shoulder of his subordinate, the latter’s head resting sweetly back on his was suddenly blacked by the side of Rossi’s body as he stuck his arm out, trying to get the best angle to immortalize this moment on camera.

“Good for them,” Morgan grinned, his voice proudly announcing his amusement as he put his headphones back over his head.

“Rossi, you better send me that!” Emily spoke up just a little bit louder, the old man looking back and motioning his phone towards her in acknowledgement.

“What? What!?” Spencer whisper-yelled, unsuccessfully craning his head above and between the seats to get a glimpse of what all the hubbub was about, “What are you guys looking at!?”    

“Penelope’s gonna flip,” Emily mumbled to herself, a teasing smile playing on her face as she looked down at the picture Rossi sent her. Without a second thought, she saved the photo onto her phone. They’re never gonna live this down.     

A/N: i hope you liked this!! i had a fun time writing it ehehe hotch is such a dilf, like an ACTUAL dilf im not even attracted to fathers but hotch?? all day, every day, baby!

[ivystoryweaver]

Based on a combined request from @babyprofessorsharkpalace and @dowbastan. The requests were so similar that I wrote this one shot and I hope you both like it!

Summary: You're the childhood love of Duke Leto Atreides. Years have passed and your paths took you different directions. You have one final night before he leaves Caladan for Arrakis.

Pairing: Duke Leto Atreides from Dune x f!reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Content: NSFW, mdni, language, fingering, oral - m. rec., p in v, unprotected sex, size kink, nipple play, spitting, not beta'd

✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧

An invitation to Caladan to celebrate House Atreides' appointment to Arrakis was a coveted opportunity, and an honor.

You belonged to a noble family on a neighboring planet, and your family had a history with House Atreides. In fact, you were once pledged to a young Leto Atreides.

✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧

Then...

Long before silver sprinkled his inky curls - before his father passed on the title of Duke - the handsome first son of Caladan was your intended.

This resulted in multiple visits to Caladan during your childhood, in which you actually befriended young Leto. The two of you remained unaware of your families' intentions for years. You played along the wet, craggy rocks and numerous caves of Caladan, and the sprawling gardens of your homeworld.

When you came of age, plans were made to announce your engagement officially. This was the first you'd ever heard of it. You visited Caladan once again with your parents, eager to see your dear friend Leto.

You were both still so young - you even more so than he. You and Leto stole away to your usual childhood spots, laughing and catching up, but this time, once you reached your favorite cave, he gathered you into his arms.

"We're to be married," he whispered, gazing adoringly into your eyes. "Does this please you?"

"Leto," you whispered, with a breathless laugh. "Who else could it ever be but you?"

His strong hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against his body as he lowered his lips to yours.

This was the last happiness you would know with your childhood love.

The Bene Gesserit installed Lady Jessica as a concubine for young Leto.

You understood that many nobles had concubines for companionship, while remaining open to strategic, political marriages. But you assumed you would be Leto's companion, as well as his wife.

Despite your protestations, you might have been forced into the arrangement anyway, except that your parents would have you nowhere near the influence of the Bene Gesserit, if they could help it.

So you didn't see Leto again for years - not until you were married to another powerful man, and Leto had a son and heir, thanks to Lady Jessica.

You had the opportunity to meet them once - young Paul Atreides and his mom. Truthfully, they were lovely and you found yourself wondering why fate had brought a man like Leto to your heart only to yank him away and give him to someone else.

Then your husband passed away. You received a note of condolence from Leto, in his own hand, no less.

'I will always cherish our fond childhood,' it read. 'Please know my sympathy and warm affection are with you always.'

✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧

Now...

So, here you are, these years later, in the home - the castle - of your once intended. A farewell party, to honor House Atreides before they set off to oversee spice production on Arrakis.

Your invitation is nothing special. Hundreds were invited from all over. The chance of you seeing, let alone speaking with the Duke is minuscule. He likely has more important things to do than worry about widowed childhood friends.

The opulence of the occasion enchants even you for a time, but you eventually grow weary of the fake smiles and never-ending condolences. Bored with the evening, and damn near everything in your life, you wander away from the bustle and celebration, through once familiar corridors of Castle Caladan.

Hardly a thing has changed. Few things ever do in these ancient royal dwellings. You find yourself meandering along, just as you did as a child, darting from one lavish room to the next, avoiding the elder duke's stern glare.

Speaking of which...

"If I look at you at just the right angle, it almost seems like we're teenagers again."

The unmistakable voice of Duke Leto Atreides sounds over the faded swirl of orchestra music, drifting from the great hall.

"In complete darkness, maybe," you lightly return, keeping your back turned. "Seeing how I have not walked these halls since the birth of your son."

"A young man nearly grown," Leto evenly responds. "It's been far too long."

The thump of his heavy boots alerts you to his approach. You stiffen as he draws near. You suppose it's time to acknowledge your host in his own home. Before you can, however, he moves in beside you.

Just the scent of him throws you into inner turmoil. The years have been kind to Leto. He wears middle age very well. Distinguished and brutally handsome, he commands respect, despite his shorter stature.

"Too long indeed," you finally respond, longing to turn and gaze into his eyes - to see if any trace of the boy you loved still lingers.

"Let me look at you," he softly commands, boldly cupping your shoulder with his palm.

"Nothing to see." You shrug him off, or attempt to anyway. "Just a lonely widow."

He crowds into your personal space demandingly, grasping both shoulders now. "Am I such a stranger to you that you won't greet me in my own home - or even look at me? Why did you even make the journey?"

Your eyes meet his unflinchingly - a perfect match for his stubbornness. "I came to congratulate you and your family on your appointment to Arrakis. Now that I've done so, I'll take my leave."

He holds you firmly, the heat of his fingers seeping through your sleeve. "Why so soon? I've only just laid eyes on you for the first time in years and you can't even spare me a glance? You might as well condemn me to walk the sands of Arrakis alone."

"Don't be so dramatic, Leto," you mock, attempting to wrench free of his grip. "Everything you need or want is going with you to that desert rock."

"Not everything," he firmly protests, dark eyes boring into yours. His fingers, so insistently gripping your arms, relax and began to trace soothing circles on the soft fabric of your dress.

You huff, rolling your eyes, but your body automatically eases closer to the duke, as if responding to him instinctually.

"Don't pretend I mean anything to you now," you scold him, melting into his embrace, with only your words left to cut him.

"No one in this world means more to me except for my own son," he breathes on your cheek, his hands gripping your hips as he pulls you flush against his pristinely uniformed chest.

Your heart stops for a moment as you struggle to breathe. "I think you forgot Lady Jessica," you finally manage. "The Bene Gesserit's strategic installation."

He groans. "She's the mother of my heir."

"All the more reason to leave me be! I've paid my respects. I'm done here. We're done." Your chest heaves dramatically as Leto runs his hands possessively up your back, pulling you desperately close.

"I'll never be done with you," he breathes against your mouth, covering your lips with his own. You want to fight him but the heat of his tongue lures you in, your body wilting into his powerful embrace. His soft beard tickles your face as you liquify in his arms.

Taking advantage of your compliance, he kisses you endlessly, working the elegant skirt of your dress up your legs until it bunches around your waist, giving him access to caress your thighs.

His tongue thrusts hungrily but his fingers touch you softly, tracing your inner thigh, on a determined path to the core of you.

He doesn't ask - he feels your hips shift toward his caress as he strokes you through the flimsy fabric covering your folds.

He wastes no time brushing the material aside to push his knuckles against your wet heat, already slick for him. He surprises you with the brazenness of his touch. His fingers stretch out, separating your slick folds. The pad of his thumb drags demandingly down over your needy bundle of nerves as his fingers work their way into you possessively.

He groans into your mouth as you squelch and clench around him - your hole tight and unused.

You shamelessly moan against his parted, panting mouth, fucking your hips down onto his thick digits, the stretch of even two fingers stuffing you fuller than you've felt in years. His rhythm in and out is the most incredible sensation you've ever experienced in your life.

"This is all for you," he rumbles on your ear, curling his fingertips against the spongy softness inside you, making you shudder with desperate want. "Invited half the galaxy here just so I could be inside you again."

"Leto," you keen, your back arching as a wave of euphoria rolls through you, drenching his fingers with your desire.

You're instantly yanking at the belt of his uniform trousers, panting, somewhat satisfied, but not truly sated. You remember the beautiful, soft, strong body of your first lover. Your husband had no hope of comparing.

As you work him free of his pants, which drop to his knees, you gasp out an eager whine as his cock springs free, stiff and thick and already dripping for you. Without another thought, you're sinking to your knees to swipe your tongue over the proud length of him.

He sucks in a breath and growls out a swear. You can tell you've managed to truly surprise him.

You can't fit him in your mouth - there's no way, so your hands grip his shaft twisting possessively as you open wide and try take him to the back of your throat.

"F-fuck," he hisses, stumbling forward slightly and you gag, drool trickling from the corners of your mouth. Once you get your bearings, you chuckle around him because this man never loses control of any situation.

He's so thick your eyes start to water, but it feels good to have him in your hands again - to have someone want you, crave you, even.

His body is tense and impatient and he grips your chin forcefully, although not painfully, easing his stiff cock out of your mouth. You wonder what's going on, but he doesn't keep you guessing.

"Turn around," he orders, bringing your skirts back up to where they started, around your waist. "Hold this," he commands.

His hands grip your hips underneath your dress and you feel his cock rubbing against your ass as he leans over you the nearest table, his breath falling hot on your ear. He doesn't speak yet, just breathes in and out. You manage to hold your skirt with one hand while bracing yourself with the other.

Unsatisfied with your position, he grumbles out a curse, pushing you so far over that your backside is higher than your head, your body halfway sprawled across the table’s end. Leaning down, he separates your pussy lips with his fingers and spits on your cunt. You let out a whine - your own voice sounding foreign to you. Then you feel the tip of his cock drag through your wet folds, back and forth, before he finally eases in, halting as he feels how impossibly tight you are.

You whimper at the intrusion, your body thrumming with lust. This elegant duke - controlled and noble in every interaction - is grunting, his hips stuttering as he tries to fit his impossibly huge cock into your unused cunt. Your whines and his groans are shamefully loud, echoing off the ancient walls of this corridor, where anyone could find you.

"You'll take all of me before you leave here," he hisses, his fingers finding your clit, circling languidly, while his other hand wraps around your abdomen, holding you in position. He palms your breast through the fabric of your dress and you wish you could feel his skin against yours again.

You almost say as much - beg him, even, but you know these are stolen moments. Hundreds are waiting for him, probably looking for him.

But he's here, inside you. Or half inside, anyway.

"That's it, dove, let me in," he huffs, pushing in more, and more.

Tears prick your eyes because it stings but you need it so badly. "You're so big," you gasp out, "I can't, Leto. Please."

He jerks out of you so fast, you almost topple over, but the strong arm wrapped around you holds you steady. Pulling you up to your feet, he drags you by the hand to the nearest sleeping quarters down the corridor - essentially, the closest room with a door.

Securing the door, he all but rips the bodice of your dress, pawing at you until your breasts spring free. Catching your nipple between his teeth, he tugs, making you hiss out a whine, the pain and pleasure making you weak.

His tongue soothes your sore skin, coaxing your nipple to hardness. Then he suckles you while yanking at your laces and bindings.

You chant his name like a prayer, pushing your fingers into his perfectly kempt curls, twirling them into a mess as he sucks your tits, one at a time. It feels so good you could come again just from this.

But you need to feel him, to have him. This will be your only chance - you're sure of it. Barely managing to give up the sensation of having this perfect man suck your nipples, you push him back and work on the buttons of his uniform jacket. He's way ahead of you, having rid himself of everything from the waist down.

Finally, finally you feel all of him, all these years later.

He pulls you against him, kissing you deeply, gripping your thighs before hoisting them around his waist. Backing up to the bed, he eases down, sitting on the edge with you on top of him.

"Need you to take all of me," he repeats the directive, clutching your hip with one hand, while gripping his cock in the other.

Nodding, you push up onto your knees, letting him drag his tip through your folds, collecting your wetness.

"Fuck me," he commands, squeezing your hip and pushing you downward, fingertips digging into your flesh.

Bracing yourself on his broad, muscular shoulders, you sink onto his tip, breathlessly moaning at how swiftly and easily you feel full.

"More than that. Need more." His jaw is locked in unbearable tension and you feel his cock twitch as he slips deeper inside.

"Kept this cunt tight for me," he rasps, pushing again. "No one can stretch you out like I can."

"Yes," you unabashedly whine, your legs trembling as you try to hold your body up just a little longer, feeling as if he will spear you in half if you sink all the way down.

He leans back a little and uses his fingers to push your pussy lips apart. He wants to watch your squelching cunt split open over his thick cock.

"Look at how you take me," he marvels, licking his lips, using one fingertip to toy with your clit. Your back arches in ecstasy, but you still, you don't sink all the way down.

"Let me in," he snarls, rubbing you rapidly but so featherlight, you teeter on the edge of orgasm. Desperate to come, to please him, to feel all of him, you give in, letting your legs give out as you sink down - the heavy length of him searing you inside.

"Leto, fuck...fuck," you cry - wincing at the sting but reveling in the stretch.

He groans out appreciatively, but his arms quickly wind around you to support your weight and he stills the movement of his hips as you adjust to the full length of him.

"So good for me," he rasps, kissing you again. You melt into the taste of him, threading your fingers through his curls. Your breasts press against the warmth of his chest. He kisses you on and on, his legs twitching with the need to move, to push up, to thrust into your cunt, stuffed full of him.

He almost comes just from the first rock of your hips, finally feeling the friction he needs. He wants to grip your hips and force you down on his cock, over and over, but he's patient, just a little longer. Your hunger for this - for him, is almost as intoxicating as the way you begin to slowly grind your pelvis in a tantalizing, delicious rhythm.

Wanting you to feel as good as he does - needing to feel the clench of your cunt around his cock when you come - prompts him to reach between your bodies again and strum at your oversensitive clit. He meets your rocking with slow, sensual thrusts upward, sucking a mark into your throat as he coaxes you to another delicious climax.

You forget to mind the fact that this spontaneous reunion could technically result in a child. But Leto hasn't forgotten.

"Want to fill you up," he pants, desperation creeping into his thrusts. The initial sting has worn off after two orgasms, and the slick heat between your bodies creates a pleasurable friction for you both.

"Dance with me tonight," he carries on, pulling you against his chest as his thrusts grow more demanding. "You'll feel the ache of me inside you. I want you to feel me leaking out of you. You're mine."

"I belong to no man," you protest, even as your cunt flutters in agreement with him.

Just a few more thrusts and he comes with a groan, spilling deep inside you, his breath heavy on your throat.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you hold him close, keeping him inside you, reveling in these stolen moments before he disappears from your life. 

Most likely for forever.

✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧

500 Follower Celebration Masterlist

Miscellaneous Characters Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Follow @ivystoryupdates and turn on notifications to never miss an update

Join my tag list - for chaptered fics and short stories only (3500+ words)

[siythn]

Aftercare

LEVIXREADER! Coming back to headquarters after a challenging expedition pained you. After all; the grime combined with the tightness of your muscles wasn’t a good pair. But, Levi's hands in your hair, with a cozy hot bath running, was a perfect one. _________ ♫ IT'S NICE TO HAVE A FRIEND - taylor swift ❝ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʟᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ʏᴇᴀʜ, ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ. ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ❞

The walls of Trost loomed overhead, but the weight on your shoulders felt heavier as you walked through the gate. The journey you'd just completed had been long and brutal, soldiers' bodies and souls pushed to their limits.

After yet another grueling mission with the Survey Corps, your body ached in ways you didn't know were possible. Every bone felt heavy, every muscle screamed for rest, and all you wanted was a moment of peace.

As soon as your feet hit the headquarters’ courtyard, every step grew heavier, every breath more labored. Putting your horse away to rest at the stables made you weary. All you craved was a sanctuary, a moment of peace far from the chaos and the carnage that surrounded your body and mind.

Your body ached at joints you hadn’t noticed before. Arms tight by your side, legs begging to give out while dragging yourself. You bypassed the bustle of the other soldiers returning and made your way directly to a place you knew would be quiet, secluded, and safe— Levi’s quarters.

You can’t recall when going to Levi’s room was a place for comfort after a mission. It just had been a silent agreement between the both of you. Maybe it was his unwavering strength or the craving to have someone there to lean on, but his space always seemed to offer the tranquility you so desperately needed.

Which is why you found yourself walking in a familiar path.

Levi’s quarters were quiet and meticulously organized, nothing different from his nonchalant personality. You didn’t bother knocking, knowing he wouldn’t mind your intrusion.

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, and you peered inside to find Levi at his desk, paperwork scattered in front of him, yet he looked up the moment you entered. It always amazed you how he looked so put together after such a reckless expedition. But this was the Levi Ackerman, nothing was expected less.

He must’ve arrived a few moments before you have; and is already shoving himself into paperwork. You’ve tried countless times to try and pull him away from his (what you like to call it) workaholic behavior, but he never budges. 

“What are you doing here?” Levi’s voice was stern, but his eyes softened when you saw the state you were in. You must have looked as bad as you felt, worn out and on your last threat. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about your dirty state in the front of a higher-up.

“I just need somewhere,” you pause, breaking the eye contact you both held to look at the cozy, neatly made bed in the corner. “Peaceful to rest,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper as you slowly shuffled towards his bed.

Without a word, he stood up, his chair scraping lightly against the floor. With a long stride, he approached you, gaze scrutinizing as he took in the full extent of your fatigue. You picked up the tiniest scrunch of his nose as he did so. 

“You look like hell,” he commented, taking in your body one final time as he looked back up to meet your eyes. You knew he didn’t mean anything to come off as rude, his tone carried more concern than insult.

“Thanks,” you managed a weak smile, too tired to come up with a witty response.

Instead of his usual reprimand, for your state, Levi guided you gently by the hand. With being drained you still managed to hold his, following him to wherever he took you.

“Come on, you need a bath before you crash.” Despite your initial protest at first; wanting to sleep the ache of your muscles off, the thought of a warm bath was too comforting to resist.

Guiding you to the bathroom, Levi turned on the faucet, adjusting the temperature until steam rose in gentle curls from the water’s surface. He added a measure of soap that filled the room with a clean, soothing scent. “Get in,” he instructed, stepping out to give you privacy.

As you stripped down, the steam-filled bathroom was a stark contrast to the cold, harsh world outside. You sat in the warm bath, tendrils of steam curling around you, creating an intimate cocoon. 

Your muscles relaxed involuntarily, a sigh escaping your lips as you submerged yourself up to your shoulders. Moving your fingers to touch the top layer of soap across the water, you sink into its warmth. 

You’ve been in this position more times than you can remember, but you love it more than the last time before. Levi always needs to care for you, even when it’s not reciprocated.

Hearing the door creek open, Levi steps in. With a curt nod of consent given from both of you, he arranges everything needed for washing your hair with his usual quiet efficiency. His movements were precise, a trait that bled into every aspect of his life, but his eyes held a softness reserved just for moments like these.

“Alright, lean back,” Levi instructed, his voice faint in the confines of the small room. He waits patiently as you adjust yourself, finding a comfortable position with your head tilted back to the rest against the rim of the tub.

As he poured a dollop of shampoo into his palm, the familiar scent of lavender filled the air, mixing with the steam and creating a calming atmosphere. He began to work the lather into your hair, his fingers skilled and gentle. 

“Tell me if I’m too rough,” he murmured, though you knew he wouldn’t be; he’d never had. Levi’s hands might be capable of deadly precision in battle, but here, they were nothing but tender.

"It's perfect," you sighed, closing your eyes to better savor the sensation of his fingers massaging your scalp. The stress of the mission began to melt away under his careful ministrations. "Where did you learn to do this?"

Levi paused for a fraction of a second, his hands continuing their motion. "Old memories," he replied quietly. "Used to help someone, long ago."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken depth of his words. Silence fell between you again, comfortable and easy. His hands rinsed your hair with water warmed to just the right temperature, washing away the suds along with the remnants of the day’s grime and worries.

"How does that feel?" Levi asked after a moment, tuning out the quietness that enveloped the both of you.

"Like I could fall asleep right here," you responded with a laugh. You were half-joking, but you were truly relaxed under his touch, ready to drift to sleep.

"You wouldn't be the first," he admitted with a rare, small chuckle. "But try to stay awake for just a little longer. I'm not done pampering you yet."

The word 'pampering' coming from Levi might have felt odd to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt right—special even. His hands worked through your hair once more, giving you the second round of shampoo.

"Keeping my hair in good shape for the next mission?" you teased, eyes still closed as you enjoyed the sensation.

"Something like that," Levi agreed, dismissing your banter. "Can't have you going out there with anything less than perfect."

"It's more than just being clean," you commented, tilting your head to the left slightly to give him better access. You reminisce on when he said he was pampering you. "It's like you're—taking care of me." 

"That's exactly what I'm doing," Levi confirmed, voice distancing out as if he was grabbing something. "You take care of everyone else. Who takes care of you?"

You smiled, eyes still closed. "You."

Levi's hands stilled once more in your hair, and you opened your eyes to look at him. There was a softness there, rarely shown to others. "I always will, if you let me."

"Then I will," you said, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the bathwater. "Let you."

With a smile, you lean back, exposing your neck and shoulders as he begins to wash your hair. His fingers were more tentative than his usual brisk touch, exploring the texture before massaging your scalp deeply. You couldn’t suppress a hum, relaxing under the surprisingly sensual touch of his strong, careful fingers.

“You should take it easy,” Levi spoke up after a moment, his voice low. “You push yourself too hard.”

You briefly nodded in response, too relaxed to form words. His concern made your heart swell a bit—Levi was not one to coddle, at least not to others, so his attentiveness spoke volumes.

Levi, Humanity’s Strongest, most vulnerable in your presence. It was laughable to others, to you, it was adoration.

“You should take your advice,” you say, peering up to see his face. “No seriously, you work yourself out. Maybe I’ll give you a hair treatment with how stressed you always look.”

His grin was small at your words. Almost imperceptible, but it was there, and it warmed you more than the bath ever could. He grasps onto your shoulder, moving you to be back in place.

He continues to wash your hair without complaint, his touches now filled with an unspoken promise, each stroke and rinse carrying a tenderness that spoke more than words.

As he finished and began to rinse your hair, his actions were deliberate, ensuring not a trace of shampoo was left behind. “But, I’ll always be here whenever.” He muttered as he gently raised your head back to rinse thoroughly. 

"Thank you, Levi," you whisper, hearing the water flow as your knees come closer to your chest.

"There's no need to thank me," he replied, rinsing your hair and ensuring no suds remained. "Just promise to take better care of yourself."

"I promise," you said, knowing well that your promise was as much for him as it was for you.

The assurance in his words wrapped around you just as comfortably as the water did.

When he finished, he rinsed the last of the conditioner from your hair, then helped you stand to get out of the tub.

“You can sleep in my room tonight,” he commented as he handed you a towel with an averted gaze, modest despite the many times you’d fought and bled together.

Now wrapped up, you followed him back to his room, too drained to converse. Pulling a shirt from his closet, he hands you a baggy black pullover, then steps out to the bathroom; probably going to tidy up the place. 

Back in his room, you felt a thousand times lighter. Levi watched you as you crawled into his bed, his sheets cool and crisp against your clean skin. He didn’t say anything, just watched you with an unreadable expression.

As you drifted towards sleep, you felt the bed dip beside you. Expecting to be alone, you murmured a confused protest, going to rise but it died on your lips and body as Levi settled behind you. His body was a solid line against your back, an arm carefully laid over your waist, not confining but reassuring.

“Rest now,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your ear. It was the most delicate of invasions, and you found yourself relaxing into his embrace.

As sleep began to pull you deeper, Levi shifted slightly behind you. His movement was careful, calculated not to disturb, but purposeful. You felt him lean over you, his presence enveloping. Then, a gentle pressure—a soft, fleeting kiss—touched your forehead.

It was a simple act, yet it carried the weight of all the unspoken things between you: protection, care, and maybe something even deeper. Levi’s kiss was a silent vow in the stillness, a moment of tenderness offered with the solemnity of a confession.

Comforted by the gesture, you sank further into sleep, a content smile curving your lips. In a world that demanded so much from you both, this small, quiet act spoke volumes of your shared sanctuary.

@siythn all rights reserved!

[zoropookie]

HOW HATERS ARE BORN (HHAB)

♡ chapter twenty-nine — bittersweet (💋)

Reading the text didn’t bring tears to his eyes, but for some reason, it still stung badly.

It wasn’t the words themselves, but a twinge of disappointment that he felt shortly afterward. It ruminated in his thoughts the minute that the car ride started, and all he was left with was his own disappointment, and a lack of fight left.

And as he sat in that passengers seat, the words seemed to be knocked out of him yet again. The world blurred into a haze of colors and shapes. He clenched at his own palms until his knuckles turned white and his mind spiraled.

It suffocated him, but he knew a lot about that to endure it anyway.

"You know," A female's voice rippled through his chaos to grasp his attention. "It's not that bad."

He blinked, slowly refocusing his gaze and turning his head manually towards Furina. "What is."

"The (Y/N) stuff." She said, glancing every now and then from the road towards him.

His expression was of weary resignation. "You think so?" He sighed out, the words feeling heavy on his tongue every time he even spoke.

"They may be mad at you right now, but you have a plan." She said, her gaze steady. "It may not be fool proof, but you'll come out of it with a clearer conscience than that Tartaglia ever will. I promise."

But even with her promises, it didn't feel right to be comparing his peace of mind to another's. Maybe his conclusion would be completely different after all. Her words rushed over him like a soothing balm, the turmoil that he usually felt being nudged away.

For the first time in forever, he felt somewhat of a spark of determination. "Thanks." He murmured audibly, a small gasp coming from the former as he cringed, "For...all this, I guess. It's not often people are this nice to me."

"I didn't think you were capable of being grateful! I should gloat in this." She grinned, "You've grown used to people treating you like a liability. Whether you like it or not, it's not normal. Wean yourself off of that as soon as possible."

The rest of the car trip was silent. He couldn't entirely take his mind off of the events, and even the meeting he's taking himself to, but the passing scenery outside the car window put his mind elsewhere until the car slowed to a stop.

He put his back cap and mask on with less resolve than what he started with, unable to shake the feeling of discomfort her felt now that the gravity of the situation weighed down on him. He looked again out the window at the exact seat he wanted before exhaling. "If I don't come back, just abort mission."

"Don't be dramatic." Furina's eyes dulled, also knowing this situation was wary. "But...I'll be near, okay? Just in case this goes south and it actually is someone trying to kill you."

"Yeah, it's really fun being shark bait, thank you." He shook his head to himself, opening the car door to approach the cafe.

The building was more certain than he was in that moment, a warm glow beckoning the area. He never realized how little he went out these days, this same coffee shop was entirely different than the last time he came. The familiar sight and sounds of the city he used to know was suddenly unfamiliar to him.

Muted voices to him inside the little shop, all rambling vicariously. It was funny, the main reason he stopped even coming here was because things started getting busier and busier. Ei would apply pressure to him once he agreed to the streaming stuff. Did he ever really lose his identity if he never got to have one in the first place?

He squared his shoulders once the espresso he ordered was ready, quickly nodding in acknowledgement to the barista and sitting outside for a breath of fresh air. Everything around him was suffocating, and he never thought he'd be like one of those guys who are scared of having an actual life outside of their computer.

Maybe that was her plan, now that he was thinking about it.

He let the cool breeze wash over him, despite almost his whole face being covered except his eyes. He felt skittish, and uneasy, fingers lightly tapping at the to go cup of espresso in his hands. "What am I even looking for..." He murmured irritably, annoyance plaguing his thoughts.

It was a long, and arduous three minutes he sat there thinking about who Twitchpatch may possibly be now that he knew about Childe. How the fuck did he even know who it was? A familiar of his, maybe? But not that many people know about Narukami coffee shop unless someone who did told someone else.

And if they did...then there's also a limited amount of people. He didn't know what to think...until it hit him. Why would Twitchpatch, a news source, know about an indie coffee shop if they weren't also from Inazuma..?

And once he came to that conclusion as the cup was near his lips ponderingly, a feminine voice called, "I didn't think you'd be early."

His heart dropped to his stomach in an instant, his eyes slowly lifting up to meet the woman's voice. There, standing before him, was a sight that he never thought he'd be able to see again in his entire lifetime. Time stopped for him, and he slowly began to look mortified once he realized...

"What the fuck, Makoto." Scaramouche's voice cut through the air, sharp and accusatory. He almost lost it, if it weren't for her softer expression evening out.

"Hey, Kuzu." Makoto said with a softer tone, sitting down in front of him hesitantly. "I thought I wouldn't feel anything out of this, but...it's different when it's you."

"Fuck you." He snapped, his eye almost twitching from how many emotions were going through him in the moment. "Ei said you left us. You made that decision on your own."

"You're missing a lot of the story."

"And even with that in mind, I didn't do shit to you for you to play fake fucking journalist." He pointed. "Yeah, forgot about that little detail? The lie you capitalized off in humor of both of our downfalls? They're scattering to find a way for me to clear the controversy right now because of you."

"Is that not what Ei wanted? Controversy all of the time?" Makoto raised an eyebrow, sitting back in the chair. "It wasn't my desired effect, trust me."

"Yeah? That wasn't what you wanted to happen? I thought you were the one to always think about what you do before you do it. I guess. Fucking. Wrong." He seethed, his teeth grinding into each other. "I should narc on you right now."

Makoto's expression softened, and she reached out tentatively, her hand hovering in the air. "Please, just listen to me for a second."

"Why should I?" He recoiled. "I'm not even mad about what you did to me. But you had no place bringing other people into this. You don't get to waltz back in to my life after doing all of this and act like what you did was some sort of poetic justice. That's not how this works."

"I had no intention on it." Makoto sighed, her shoulders slumped as her eyes narrowed away from him. "Listen...Ei and I had a bad argument before I left. I felt like she was starting to change after all of this and she denied all of it and threatened me. I can't save a dying group if its leader isn't open to criticism."

He scoffed, bitterness tainting his tone. "And you only decided to tell me about this after you left me clueless? About where you were after you fucked off and went off the radar without a word? Are you not essentially just doing what she did?"

"I never said that what I did was okay!" Makoto frowned. "This meeting is harder than I thought it'd be...I wanted to figure out a way I could get you out of there as quick as possible, but I didn't have a way at that time. I was reckless...and it lead to this. If I had the ability to rally up more capable people for the job, I would. But this is all I've got. And you shouldn't be okay with how you're being treated there just because of what I did."

He knew that he wanted to clap back at her again, but he knew she was right in that accord. He chewed at the inners of his mouth, staring at her with an intense gaze.

"You lost the spark in your eyes, Kuzu." She said, "I've seen your streams. You're not even happy doing it, it's like there's nothing there. Why do you do them, in that case?"

"I didn't lose it." He corrected.

"Every time your stream, it feels like you're not passing time. You don't want to be there, and not many people can see it, but you used to look different...more lively." Makoto observed, "It feels like I'm looking at a carcass of what that used to be. You don't eat much, you don't sleep with what I've seen. You always seem like you're worried about something. It's disheartening. Excuse me for thinking of a way out for you."

He sighed fiercely at her, "What do you want from me? What do you want me to do about it?" He had trouble looking into her eyes. "You really...really fucked with me, Makoto."

Makoto sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared history hanging heavy in the air. But amidst her own regrets, she stood up after a second and gave a small smile. "You should stop, this isn't good for you. You're...like, deep frying your own brain at this point."

"How do you know what's good for me?" He bit back one last time before feeling his confidence weaken. "You don't even know a thing about me these days."

Her smile didn't waver at his words anymore, she gave him a light pat on his head in mild comfort before stepping back. "Stop streaming, Kuzu." She said, "And if it makes you feel better, air everything out. It's the least you could do for all that she made you do, right? I'm sorry I won't be there beside you to see it."

That light pat was something that he hated, but at the same time, haven't gotten the chance to be granted in ages. He never gave people the chance to get too close to him after all of this, nor even give them the reason to in the first place. It was bittersweet, his heart swelled with the same confusion and kindness Makoto gave him back them.

He wanted to prove her wrong, but he knew it was beyond his pride to keep her by his side. Even with how aware she was that she was right about him. Looking at her after a while, she could tell from his eyes that he was hurt. "I'll see you again sometime, okay? Reconcile with that (Y/N) if you ever get the chance; you seem to like them anyway beyond all the fake news."

She left as quick as she came, and with Scaramouche's previous arrogance and general disposition. He didn't know what to do anymore.

previous ♡ masterlist ♡ next

YOU ARE on your way to being one of the hottest streamer in your nation at the moment, racking a monthly average of 10 million viewers, but something specific bothers you about it. you know that a lot of people hate you, but there's this one account. one account that's been following you since the early days of your career. they leave a flood of rude comments in your stream, your moderators banned each account they made, but they keep making more. you are at the end of your tether. but you are yet to find out that this persistent cockroach is none other than your friend's friend (and the only other streamer that's bigger than you), scaramouche.

taglist ♡ @thystarsshine @veekoko @gumickajolli @simonisferal @kamiboo

@justpeachyteastea @feiherp @pinkismyfavcolor @aether-darling @kunisnaomi

@keiiqq @mine-lu @featuredtofu @danhenglovebot @k4zushi

@kyon-cherri @b4tm4nn @iiinaurate @quacking-simp @auroratumbles

@kookiibun @ulquiorraswife @amvpk01 @simplysm1le @h3xi2g0n3

@alatusorrow @scaranthropy @mellowberrie @magica-ren @vernith

@kabukipookie @bananasquash @suqarlaced @dellalyra @lightyagamifan

@yourfavoritefreakyhan @heartsforseo @yomishen @pwushizz @swivy123

@strxwberryfetish @ibyobi @ashfrommars4 @chemiru @ainnofinway

@agaygothicmushroom @levianamor @dragontammerz @wth121 @lylovw

@morgyyyyyyy @lovemari @suniika @littlesliceofcheese @yumejo89 @liuaneee

@franaby @tiddieshakeshownu @mimi3lover (bold users means i'm having trouble tagging you)

[eff4freddie]

Touch | Part Six

Words: 5.8k

Just as you approach something resembling contentment, this broken world will exact its toll.

Warnings: smutty smut, trauma, grief, Joel hasn't come to terms with what happened in Salt Lake, Joel is bad at feelings, but pretty good with his hands. Minors DNI.

Part Five | Series Masterlist | Part Seven

You were busy again, the new table earning its keep almost immediately, and the ease that you moved around your treatment room, the way that you could bend without reaching over, push with your weight rather than your wrists, meant that you could concentrate more, heal more effectively. You hadn’t realised how much the clumsiness of the old dining table had been holding you back. Every day that you used it, you wanted to find a new way to thank Joel. Maybe even sometimes, with all of your clothes on.

Except that the idea also terrified you, in a way that you were struggling to really understand. The idea of him, of being naked with him, not that you really fully had been, of kissing him even, no that you had, was enough to send an absolute riot of butterflies careening through your guts and down into your legs, into your knees. The idea of him scared you, his reputation proceeded him, and you kept thinking of how wary Maria was, how protective Ellie seemed to be, how sweetly oblivious Tommy was most of the time which you were beginning to suspect was actually a choice. You wanted to pull them all into a room and forensically map out who the fuck Joel Miller actually was. You were aware you were thinking like a crazy person. You didn’t care.

Because then when he was with you, when you fell into his orbit, looked into his eyes, there was something heavier and realer and more tangible than your stupid, flighty, squawking fears. It worried you, that he made you into a different person when he was around you. You weren’t sure what that person was capable of getting up to, left to her own devices, but you had an inkling.

You knew that you were pushing him away, pushing it all away, because it scared you, but also it felt like the only sane thing to do, had kept you alive for years and years, had meant that when you lost people it hurt less, maybe. Being busy again, and fairly invested in maintaining your denial for as long as you could manage it, you got back to your usual routine of seeing the broken and weary people of Jackson early, before the work hours, and then steadily throughout the day. It afforded you the illusion of being sociable, of contributing to the community, without having to actually be in it. Without Ray and Marla, with Maria and Tommy wrapped up in the baby, with Joel being…Joel, you had collected a long list of clients and a dwindling list of friends. It could have made you sad if you thought about it, so you didn’t, and you were too busy anyway, and how could you be lonely with all these people in your house?

Besides which, in the quiet moments you could feel the tension in people, the uneasiness woven tight into the musculature of most of the residents you now saw. Not everyone knew Marla or Jacob or the others personally, not everyone even necessarily liked them, especially not fucking Jacob, but everyone had an investment in their safe and hopefully bountiful return.

To escape it, you went for long walks along the foreshore of Jackon’s lake at the bottom of the township, until the dying light forced you back. You were there, hands in the freezing water feeling out for flat stones you could warm in hot water and press into particularly assertive muscle knots, when you heard the yelling. You were up and sprinting, the twisty and icy path underneath you occasionally threatening to boot you into the snow, and if you’d had time to think about it you have marvelled at the difference in your reaction from Joel and Ellie’s homecoming to this one. The elation you felt at their return, the relief of it, not just for you and Marla and Ray, but for Jackon. For what it meant for this community. For your community.

Trying not to knock yourself out on the way to the gate meant that you didn’t initially notice the quiet. There was a smattering of people still out despite the cold, the encroaching darkness, but they weren’t rushing forward, weren’t really helping the returned residents, were in fact milling around, some just standing in quiet observance, and it occurred to you for a second that they were like onlookers at a funeral. You pushed forward into the crowd, trying to see past unmoving shoulders, past still bodies, moving towards the sounds of horses, of panting breaths you weren’t sure belonged to whom.

And then you arrived at the front, and you had a clear view. And you realised the panting breaths were your own.

There were only two horses, and only three riders. Marla at the reigns of one, Jacob slung over the back of her saddle, slumping over at an odd angle, his head rolled back in a way that you thought would really strain his cervical spine, until you realised he was tied to the horse, had been roped around Marla’s midsection, that he was nearly as pale as the snow around you, that he was very dead. The other rider stared, unblinking, into the distance and was eventually helped down and led to the infirmary, not ever having said a word.

Marla had seen you, had watched you fight your way to the front of the crowd, had searched you out. She was shivering, a splatter of blood across her chest and under her neck, and you couldn’t tell if it was hers or if it was Jacob’s or someone else’s entirely, and in that moment staring into her eyes you knew that it didn’t matter, that it would never matter, that whatever damage it was it had already been calculated, tallied, on a ledger somewhere none of you would ever be able to balance.

You motioned to a few of the men around you, gesturing to the ropes around Marla’s middle. ‘Cut him loose,’ you said, in a voice you didn’t recognise, and reached your arms up to hold Marla’s hand. You held it, limp and contrite in yours, while Jacob’s body was freed from hers. When he was lifted away she slumped forward, her back having held his weight for god knows how long, and you caught her, pulled her down from the horse on wobbling legs, let her crumple underneath you and set her down onto the pavement. Someone pulled a blanket over her shoulders and you held her in it, gripped her hard and tight and let her shake in your arms. You looked up into the eyes of Ray, who looked like he might throw up or pass out or both, and you pulled him down with you, wrapped him around her while he cried into her hairline, and you watched as the horses were led away.

‘Did you bring anything?’ someone asked from the crowd, quiet but hopeful, and you wanted to reach up and slap them for every moronic word they had dared speak into existence, had thought to utter in this sacred space of abject loss.

Marla never answered, and you squeezed her. She twisted in your arms to look up at you, an angry purple and yellow bruise forming having formed under her eye. You turned to Ray. ‘Help me get her to mine,’ you said.

--

You had the fire going, and you pushed your old armchair right up to it, folding Marla into it under a sea of blankets. Ray went to get something to bring her from the mess hall, something warming but easy to chew, and you perched beside her, slid down until her knees were in your lap and she was resting her head against the wing of the chair, and you stared, together, into the fire.

‘We barely made it back,’ she whispered, her voice dry, her lips chapped and windburned. You stayed still, not wanting to shake her, not wanting to do anything that might stop her from talking. ‘Rode through, all night. I wanted to bring him back, bring them all but I could only get him.’

‘Was it raiders?’ you asked, and she shook her head.

‘Both,’ she said, and you didn’t understand. ‘Raiders that had…kept a few clickers, had them locked up, had them uhhh…weaponised.’

You shuddered. ‘Like pets?’ you asked.

‘Like torture devices,’ she simply replied. You contemplated this for a second, couldn’t imagine it, the terror of being faced with that choice: raider or runner.

‘We got within a few hours of where we thought the pharmacy was,’ she went on, her voice catching. She continued to shake, her hands tremoring underneath the blanket, and you tried to tuck her in tighter, tried to warm her up. ‘We’d gone through a valley, ended up on the other side of a glade, it would have been so beautiful in the before times. We found a farmhouse, looked abandoned. Wasn’t.’

She was jiggling her foot and you put your hand out to hold it, feeling that her socks were wet. ‘By the time we realised they were already on us, were ready, had seen us coming.’

She looked at you, tears forming in her eyes. ‘They tried to lock us in the cage with them,’ she swallowed. ‘Jacob was really brave, fought them hard, stopped them from putting us in.’

If cold had gotten into her boots she must have been freezing, was risking losing a toe. You lifted the blankets to pull at her sock, putting your hand on her bare skin to warm it.

‘But one of them, two of them maybe, they got out,’ she continued. You held the ball of her foot in your hand, rubbing your thumb over the top of her foot in what you hoped were comforting little circles.

‘I just wanted to get him back here,’ she said, just as you felt it, a raised, rough ridge on her ankle, tendrils of heat snaking up her shin. You threw the blankets back, saw the bite there, the way the ropes of twisting fungus had already started their march up to her heart. You froze, your terrified eyes snapping to her wet, sorry, scared ones.

‘Don’t let Ray do it,’ she said.

--

It didn’t matter that you hadn’t been there before, you knew where it was. You wrapped on the door so hard you would later discover the skin on your knuckles had split. All you could hear was the ringing in your ears, your vision narrowed down to a pinprick, the look on Marla’s face so drawn, so scared, so resolute, imprinted on the inside of your eyelids. You kept wrapping, hopping from side to side, your tears mingling with the frigid air. You called for him on his front porch, your voice high and choking on the fear, on the grief in it.

He'd wrenched the door open, having pulled his boots on but not yet done up the laces, the furrow in his brow deep, his eyes wild when he clocked you, when he checked your six.

‘Jesus, are you? What is it?’ he spluttered, and you couldn’t let him finish, had to get the words out in case they poisoned you.

‘She’s bit, Joel,’ you spat out, watching his face fall.

‘Who, Ellie?’ he asked, panic rising in his voice, and you choked out a sob, shaking your head fiercely. He grabbed you by both shoulders, bending down to look you in the eye. You shook underneath him, wanted to launch yourself into his chest and bury yourself in it.

‘Marla,’ you said, shivering so hard your jaw was barely cooperating. ‘She came back bit.’

‘Where is she?’ he asked, and you told him. You’d locked her in your treatment room. She hadn’t turned yet, and you figured there was still an hour or two, maybe. The tremors you’d thought were the cold, shock.

‘Please, Joel,’ you said, and he was already heading back into the house to grab his rifle. Tears were streaming down your face now, your knees threatening to give. ‘Please be kind about it.’

He pulled you in, off his porch and into his living room. Set you down on the rug beside the fire.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘You stay here, you stay warm. You wait for me. You don’t come lookin’, you hear me?’

You nodded, and he shook his head at you. ‘Repeat it,’ he said.

‘I won’t come looking,’ you said, quiet and desperate like a child. He nodded, then, his rifle slung over his shoulder. You took a long breath in, felt the burn of it down your chest and into your lungs. Felt the electricity crackle between the two of you, arcing from his chest to yours through the air, let it fuel you for the next part.

--

The three of you had just left Chicago, two or so days into your trek towards Wyoming, to maybe find something better, to maybe find more of the same. Ray and Marla were ahead of you by about four paces, you deciding to hang back to let them chat. You could hear their murmurs, Ray’s giggle high and giddy when Marla made him laugh. You could imagine the two of them strolling down a sidewalk together, one hand holding their coffees with the other hand holding each other’s. You could see the golden light of the late afternoon in the trees, backlighting them as they chatted about their work, about their friends, about what movie they wanted to see on the weekend. You could imagine them going out for dinner of an evening, Marla resting her head on Ray’s shoulder as the sun set over the water, the two of them intertwined and suburban and blissfully, delightfully bored.

You were so lost in this reverie that you hadn’t realised they were talking to you until you nearly rammed into them, and you stopped to see them smiling, warmly at you.

‘You were a million miles away,’ Marla observed, and she reached out to pinch your arm.

‘Years,’ you said. ‘I was a million years away.’

--

 You sat with your legs folded underneath you on Joel’s floor, the fire warming your skin enough to remind you that you were alive. Your stomach ached, your chest burned, you rocked backwards and forwards and tucked your chin into your chest and sobbed, alternating between wiping your tears with the top of your shirt and just letting them fall onto the carpet.

You saw yourself as if you were floating outside your body, observed yourself get up on all fours and keen into the carpet, unleashing a wail unlike anything you’d ever heard. You thought, for a second, that this woman on the floor was unrecognisable, was barely human, scratching at the rug and trying to breathe through the sobs.

The night grew darker. The fire died down. You collapsed in on yourself, felt the last guide rope tethering you to the ground fail, and you slipped under, crouched on the floor with your forehead resting on your arms, your knees numb from the weight of pressing into the rug, your mind empty, time having stopped, the world having fallen off its axis. A small part of you observed in wonder at how much grief you could carry. A larger part, a wiser part, a part that had taken a back seat to let the banshee take the wheel for a while, knew that this was so much more than Marla. Knew that it was all of them, a ledger steeped in red.

In the darkness you became vaguely aware of footsteps, the sound of the fire being stoked, logs being added. Felt a blanket thrown over your shoulders, then warm hands on the small of your back guiding you, pulling you up and over to sit astride a warm body, a strong pair of legs. You wrapped your arms around him, clung to him like a koala to a Eucalypt, snuffled your tear-streaked face into his neck, into his shirt. He held you to him, a hand buried in your hair and cradling your skull in his palm, the other wrapped around your back, easing the fabric away and tucking under, to touch you, skin to skin. You heard whispers of words, mixed with your own sobs, your own gasps. He held you through all of it, on aching bones on the hard floor, until the crashing waves settled, until you finally washed ashore.

‘You don’t have a couch,’ you said, after a while, pulling your head up to observe the oddly sparse furniture arrangement. He snickered, leaning you back to brush the hair out of your eyes, away from your wet face.

You realised, after a moment, heat on your cheeks. ‘Oh,’ you said, simply. He gazed at you, watched you put two and two together, stood unshaken in all that he had sacrificed for you.

‘But where do you sit?’ you asked, and he nodded towards the old rocking chair he’d pulled in from the porch outside. You nodded your head, because it was perfect really, and because it made sense, and because you needed it to.

‘Is she gone?’ you asked, shifting on his lap to watch his face. He blinked slowly, nodded. You felt your face crumple, felt him tighten his hold on you. ‘Was it bad?’ you choked out, and he shook his head.

‘She was so brave,’ he said, gravelly voice just above a whisper. He reached out and cupped your face, wiped a tear away, held your gaze to him. ‘She was ready. She said when it was time.’

‘She didn’t…turn?’ you asked, clinging to his forearms now, letting him anchor you. He shook his head once more.

‘No, baby,’ he said, and you wanted to wrap yourself up in the sound of it, let it blanket you in warmth and quiet, burrow down into it and hibernate for the winter.

‘Thank you,’ you said, simply. He hummed in response, collecting a tear on his thumb and raising it to his lips, licking it clean. You gasped at the sight of it, his eyes never leaving yours, squirming on his lap, the sudden heat in your cunt catching you off guard. ‘Joel?’ you whispered, and he raised his eyebrows at you. ‘Are your legs numb?’ and he laughed then, because you had managed to surprise him, and after he caught his breath he sheepishly nodded. ‘Take me to bed, then,’ you said, climbing off him and extending a hand. You hauled him up, his knees creaking. For a moment the both of you stood, staring at each other in the light of the fire. You felt breathless with need for him, your head swimming, the sadness shifting just enough to let the heat in, the want. ‘Up the stairs,’ he told you. You slipped your hand into his paw.

--

Joel’s bedroom was sparse, the walnut oak bed pressed up against the wall, a stack of books on the floor beneath a bare lamp, a guitar in the corner. His scent was all over the sheets, all over the clothes strewn around the floor. You pressed yourself against him in the hope that you would absorb some of it into your cotton.

The moment you crossed the threshold his hands were on you, pulling your clothes from you like they had personally insulted him, shucking your jeans off your hips and pulling your panties down with them until you were bare, standing before him at the foot of his bed. He took a step back and you watched his face as his gaze devoured you, the heat of it so scorching that you could swear you could feel his fingers on you even standing three feet away. You trembled from the cold air and the intensity of it, and he saw in your face, read in you that you wanted to turn away from it, from the intimacy of it.

‘Don’t,’ he all but whispered, coming towards you and running his hands up on the outside of your arms. ‘Don’t be shy, not now,’ he said. He slipped a hand behind your back and his knees between yours, pushing you gently onto the bed behind you, laid his body over you and nipped at the skin behind your ear. You pulled at his flannel, trying to claw it from him without even unbuttoning it, groaning in frustration when the garment held fast. He snickered, his little lopsided grin, as he pulled it away.

You lifted yourself up on one arm, bringing the other to cradle him to you, licks and nibbles to his collar bone, to the patches of hair on his chin. His brought his hands to your breasts, pebbled the nipple with his fingers while he pushed and rolled them, squeezed them together just to watch them bounce. He was hard and heavy between your legs, still covered in his jeans, and you lifted shaking fingers to his belt buckle. He froze, a sharp intake of breath between his teeth, as he watched you. You faltered, worried for a second you had read it all wrong, that he was going to push you from him, that he had seen something in you, that you had revealed something wrong and gnarled.

‘Do you…should I?’ you stuttered, and he came to his senses again, his brow creasing when he saw you were floundering.

‘Oh, my sweet girl,’ he said, and you thought it would be kinder if he just set you on fire at that point, ‘darlin’ I was just awed for a second, that somethin’ as gorgeous as you would want a man like me. An old man like me.’

You felt the relief wash over you, your pulse quickening now but not from fear. ‘Seasoned,’ you grinned, bringing him back down to you, pulling him on top of you as his hands helped yours to free him, push his jeans over his hips. ‘Worn in,’ you went on, and he grinned at your little game. ‘Fine wine,’ you finished, and he snickered again.

‘Vinegar,’ he said, and you pushed his head down to your chest, fed him your breast, let him lave at your nipple while you gasped and clutched at his hair.

‘Experienced,’ you whimpered, and he huffed out a warm laugh into your breastbone. You wanted to unlock your ribs, swing them open like an ancient garden gate, and capture it there for safe keeping.

Free, now, the two of you naked and lying together on top of his blanket, the sheets rumpling underneath you as you rutted against each other. He reached a hand down to cup your sex, groaning when he felt how wet he had made you, how you were dripping for him. You gasped as he ran his fingers up and over your slit, gently teasing your lips apart, testing you, teasing you. You rolled your hips, trying to snare him, trying to slide him inside, but he worked against you, zigged when you zagged, and your frustrated little gasps delighted him.

‘Joel,’ you groaned, your voice tight across your chest, not enough air in your lungs to properly scold him. He ignored you, instead lifting his lips to his fingers and sampling a little taste. You watched him, eyes wide as his fell shut at the taste of you.

‘So sweet,’ he said, almost to himself, before he opened his eyes as if he just remembered you were there. ‘Here, baby,’ he said, and he fed yourself to you, his fingers sliding over your tongue as you suckled at them, his hot breath on your face as he watched you, pupils dark in the half-light of his lamp, sweat forming on his brow.

When you had sucked them clean he lowered them again, slipped them inside you, bending down to rest his ear on your mouth when you began to pant, to whimper.

‘Show me,’ he said, pulling your hand to your cunt and watching as you began slow, lazy circles around your clit. He furrowed his brow, pushed off you and down to watch properly, lifted a leg to prop you open, planting your foot on the mattress beneath you to open you wide and obscene in front of him. You blushed, moved to cover your face with your hands, but he stopped and caught you, brought your fingers back to your core before he slipped inside again. You raised your head to look at him beneath you and you realised he was learning you, studying your movements to replicate them later, letting you teach him how to touch you so that you’d never have to do it alone again.

Your first orgasm hit you hard. Under his careful, studious gaze you felt yourself unravel, your legs shaking where he held you open, his hand grasping at your ankle to keep you from slamming shut. So lost in the feeling of it, of the blooming heat expanding out and into your belly, of the undulations of your cunt around his fingers, that you barely noticed him slip his fingers from you and slide to the ground beside the bed, pushing your legs into your chest and holding them there, pressing you in half all the better to ease his tongue into your cunt and lick up your spend, kitten licks at your sensitive clit before plunging his tongue into your hole, breathing hard through his nose and groaning, uttering filth in the base of his throat as he devoured you, wrung your second orgasm from you in a matter of minutes, rolling from side to side and head thrown back, hands tangled in his hair as his mouth rode you, as he stayed with you up to your peak and then over it, savouring and lapping at your come, rutting into the side of the bed as he let your thighs down to rest on his shoulders, your breath ragged and rippling with pleasure, hands clutching to the blanket to steady himself, to catch his breath.

He gazed at you in repose, ran his eyes over your sopping cunt up to your heaving belly, to the curve of the underside of your breast, the nipples straining into the cold air, and then up to your face, your head thrown back as you came down, as you squirmed from the overstimulation still coursing through you, as you let your hands drop beside you, sated and glorious in his worship of you.

You swallowed, your mouth, lips, throat dry. With shaky hands you reached for him, grabbed at the air above his shoulders, felt him shift and rise up to meet you, felt his weight blanketing you as you came back to yourself. With one hand in your hair and the other tracing your cheek, your jaw, you opened your eyes to stare into his, the desire carved hard and deep into his features.

‘Take it,’ you whispered, watching as his bottom lip quivered with need. ‘Please, Joel.’

He shifted his weight to one arm, reached down between you as you lifted your legs to bracket his hips, crossing your feet at the ankles behind his back. You felt him guide his cock to the weeping maw of your cunt.

‘Please,’ you whispered again, as you felt him slip inside you, the burn and the stretch and the force of him, so hard and pulsing as he parted you. He dropped his head, sighing, and you planted your lips to his brow, whimpered at the weight of his cock inside you, at the weight of the two of you finally, finally joined.

‘She’s tight, baby,’ he said, his brow creasing. He moved his hips, shoving further into you in one shot, and you gasped, grabbed at his shoulders, brought his eyes back to yours. He paused, gazing into your eyes, read the trepidation in them. ‘S’ok baby,’ he cooed, leaning down to place a kiss on your cheekbone. ‘You can do it,’ he encouraged, and you felt the warmth of his reassurance radiate down your thighs. ‘We can take our time,’ he said, languidly pulling back from you before gently, achingly, taking his place again. ‘Got all night for ya,’ he said, and you realised he had started to ramble, and that under his hot breath, on top of his blanket in his sparse bedroom lit only by his bedside lamp, in the cold Jackson night where the snow dampened all the noise, all the loss, all the sharp edges down, you never wanted him to stop whispering his filthy encouragement to you, never wanted him to stop easing his way into you, to the core of you, marking you where only he belonged.

‘Doin’ so good for me,’ he went on, his eyes closing on their own, lost in the grip of your cunt around him, in the heat of you. Finally he was fully seated, the warmth of his belly coming to rest upon yours. He settled there, reluctant to move, until you squirmed underneath him, caged whimpers escaping your throat. He opened his eyes, his lopsided grin appearing above you, as he planted a kiss on your hairline, gazed down at you as you stretched around him. He brought his hand down to cup your jaw again, held you there under his stare, as he withdrew his hips and eased back in again, pushing deeper into you that you gasped when he bottomed out, his eyes never leaving yours as your mouth dropped open in surprise at the feeling he was pulling from you, at the need and the ache of your cunt spread so open and wanting for him, at the way he was so effortlessly taking you apart, so calmly and so warmly unravelling you.

‘Too good,’ you complained, your brow saddling and jaw clenching, as you felt your cunt grip and release, grip and release. He cooed at you, revelling in your whimpers, gasped as you did, shared in your breath, made you submit to the divinity he was pushing you towards. This was how your third orgasm found you.

Locked in his gaze you could only lie beneath him, holding him to you by the shoulders and groaning as he pistoned in and out, watching his eyes slam shut as he was dragged under, submitted to the pull, his come washing the fear and the stress and the grief out of you, replacing it only with scorching heat, with a kind of pleasure indistinguishable from a greedy, pernicious want, with something that, in another life, you could have shaped into love. 

--

You lay, entwined together, under his blanket. Your head on his chest, ear to his heartbeat, you felt your body rise and fall as he breathed underneath you. You hadn’t wanted the night to end, hadn’t wanted to close your eyes and wake to the aftermath. Together you lay and watched the sunrise. Occasionally Joel ran his fingers up and down your arm to let you know he was still there.

‘Joel?’ you whispered, and he hummed in response. You kept your head down, listening to his pulse quicken as you spoke. ‘Canna ask you something?’ you said, jaw resting on his ribs.

‘Uhhuh,’ he said, but his fingers were stopped now, frozen in place on your shoulder.

‘Before, when we were…’ you trailed off, because even though hours before he had been eyelevel with your swollen, puffy cunt, now suddenly talking about it felt too intimate. ‘Before,’ you started again, ‘you said you didn’t think I’d want a man like you.’

‘An old man,’ he corrected, and you smiled.

‘Seasoned,’ you corrected, and he groaned, theatrically. ‘But you said a man like you, then an old man like you,’ you reminded him. He wasn’t laughing anymore, and you could feel the temperature in the room drop. ‘What did you mean?’ you ploughed on, because you were in it now.

He thought for a moment, swallowing hard. You shifted in his arms, looked up at him, saw the flicker of panic there, before he reset his features in stone. You pulled away from him in surprise, not having seen that look directed at you in weeks, not since the first time he had appeared reticent and sore at your door. Your stomach dropped.

‘I gotta check on the horses,’ he said, rolling you out of the way and moving to get up. You sat up with him, grabbing at his arm.

‘Joel,’ you said, trying to pull him back towards you, but so easily overpowered. He rolled his shoulder, shaking you off.

‘The two that came back, they need to be checked over. Waited for first light.’

‘Joel, I don’t understand what’s happening.’ He was standing, pacing around the room pulling his clothes back together, gathering yours and dropping them on the end of the bed. He stared at you, expectant, but you refused to move.

‘What kind of man did you mean, Joel?’ you pressed him, and he scoffed, pulling his jeans on and hastily doing up his shirt. He missed a few buttons, and in that moment you didn’t feel like helping him.

‘You know exactly what kind of man,’ he said.

You saw Maria’s tense shoulders when he came into her kitchen, bleeding. You saw her sitting in your kitchen as you held her feet to your chest, explaining how Tommy was different, how he had only wanted to impress his big brother.

Sort of dressed, he was now pacing, the morning light turning his skin a ghostly pale, and you thought for a moment he was haunting you. ‘You know exactly,’ he repeated. ‘Same reason you came running to me the second your friend needed killin’.’

You flinched like he’d slapped you, would have preferred if he had.

‘What kind of man, Joel?’ you asked, and he looked at you, then, tortured for a second before he wiped it away with his hand on his face.

‘A fuckin killer,’ he said, quiet and deathly in the chill of the morning.

You stared at him, heart racing. You were surprised and you also weren’t. You knew what this world demanded of people, the toll you had all paid for survival.

‘Infected?’ you asked, and he sighed, frustrated.

‘Don’t be so fuckin’ naïve,’ he said.

You remembered you were naked, but this was the first time he had really made you feel it, and you held the blanket to your chest, tight.

He wouldn’t look at you, staring instead out the window as Jackson woke.

‘I ain’t a good man,’ he said, quietly, and you shook your head.

‘I don’t believe that,’ you said, and he sneered at you then, picked up your clothes and threw them at you.

‘You don’t know shit about me,’ he said, and then he was gone. You listened as his heavy footsteps stomped down the stairs, the pause as he pulled his boots on, the slam of the door.

Taglist:

@orcasoul

@archofimagine

@hiroikegawa

@ilovejoel-andjavi

@giggly-otter

@harrysrosetatto

@Hjzghi-blog

@daddy-dins-girl

@kathaaaaaaa

[riotlain]

General Descendants Dating Headcannons

making my descendants debut

Your parents aren't specified in this

i find specifying it when its unnecessary lame👎👎

THIS IS A NWLNW BLOG!! WOMEN DNI

Ben Florian

True gentleman!!

Regularly gives you gifts (usually to make up for his absence if taking place in the 2-3 movies)

Tight hugger. Like fr tight

Bad at explaining his negative emotions. Like he'd work himself into the ground and deny it so try to keep him in check

Enjoys going on dates at night or just staying in

He doesnt mind either

Spoils you regularly. Like you could fr give him a shiny rock and he'll give you a gold necklace💀

If youre from the Isle he'll help you settle into Auradon and try to make it less overwhelming

Carlos Devile

Silly guy (real)

More of an acts of service guy

On the isle yall would spend time running around together or just hanging out (probably at your house. He slept in a dressing room so😭😭)

He wasn't really mean or anything so like he whenever you guys run into trouble hes more of the flight kinda guy

In Auradon though it is different!!

If youre someone from Auradon he'll be more anxious when yall first started dating. He's not used to the Auradon customs (hes the best at getting used to them tbh)

If youre from the isle then he's a but more relaxed (though hes still scared he'll mess up since yall are dating now)

Dates are usually staying in and playing video games/watching movies or study dates

Jay

Physical affection typa guy (And also verbal i suppose)

Like he always has his arm around you or just his hands on you in general

Likes kissing your neck (usually more romantic way than anything)

If you are both from the isle yall spent most dates running around and stealing shit for his dad's shop

If youre from Auradon he def flirted when yall first met (or a bit later)

Your guys' dates in Auradon is usually just hanging out in one of yalls dorms

Alot if his time on the Isle is running around so he probably enjoys relaxing for a bit

You best wear his Jersey to his tourney games

Talks about you to others alot bc he just cant shut up about you for more than an hour🙄🙄

Harry Hook

Flirty man

Physical and acts of service kinda guy

also gift giving

Like you have atleast 2 necklaces (that he stole)

If yall are from the Isle then you are probably in Uma's crew

If you arent you still gotta get her blessing. If she dont like you, you gotta go

Live, laugh, love Uma

Yall spent most of yalls time probably workin in the restaurant or just causin a ruckus on the isle

If youre from Auradon tho he probably talked to Uma and Gil about you for a bit along with some lil flirting here and there

When yalls official he may try to change up your wardrobe (unless you already enjoy your current one) You have leather gloves tho. From him🫶🫶

You 2 spend time either around the crew, in one of yalls dorms cuddling, or around Auradon causin some mischief

He def steals nice shit for you

Gil

Absolute sweetheart

Physical affection and acts of service kinda guy

And verbal affection🫶🫶

If yall 2 met on the isle then you've probably met Uma and Harry and hang around them

They def tease Gil a bit

If from Auradon he fell for you but wasn't too confident with talking to you

Like he tried to do the whole thing Gaston does but it didnt work too well for him😭😭

Yalls dates are usually by the waters, shopping, or just hanging out inside

Study dates too i guess (he will not be paying attention)

Chad Charming

Literal shmuck (loving)

Gift giving and physical affection

Like literally let him spoil you

If youre from the Isle he will be a bit weary of you

Maybe try to flirt and be all charming

But when yall actually dating hes a softy idc

If youre from Auradon yall def date alot sooner

He'd probably ask you out like whenever youre free tbh😭😭 in a smooth way tho

Yalls dates are like picnics, staying in and cuddlin, and study dates

Please come to his Tourney games and wear his joursey🫶🫶

[kusanagihaku]

maybe, in other life, it goes like this.

⭢ haku x mc, 1.7k

Maybe, in another life, between the firm interlace of your fingers will rest not a curse, but a happy ever after. or: a short drabble of pining, yearning, and what it means to long for someone who wants you too.

—

“There’s a shrine nearby.”

You look up from where your CATSMO map is open on your phone. “How near?”

Haku scratches his ear. “About two minutes? If the Galaxy Express isn’t coming in the next twenty minutes I think we can spare a trip there.”

You look down at the map again. You’re sure it won’t take more than twenty minutes for the Express to arrive, given whatever physically impossible warp speed it travels at, but there must be a reason Haku brought up the shrine. “Missing home?”

Haku laughs. There is an undercurrent of exhaustion, which frankly isn’t surprising given the mission you just wrapped up. “In a way.”

A detour less than half an hour after the end of your mission should be easy enough to fudge on the inspection report, you figure, especially since it’s so near dinner time. And since it’s Haku requesting… You stuff your phone back in your pocket. “Let’s go.”

It’s always hard to say no when it comes to Haku.

The shrine isn’t difficult to find, parked in a small patch of land between two office buildings. There are a few people lingering about in the last rays of evening, heads bowed in quiet conversation as they wander around the honden.

Haku leads you around, however, to a smaller sub-shrine tucked under a large tree. The further you walk into the compound, the more relaxed he seems, shoulders slumping slightly and his breathing a little deeper. The gold chains of his uniform glitter as you pass under a patch of dying sun, then dull completely as you come to a standstill in the shadow of a hollow wooden shrine.

Haku takes a deep breath. His eyes flutter closed, long green brushing against the pallor of his cheeks, almost as if he is basking in the aura exuding from the structure. He has done a good job of hiding his weariness – where you are usually distracted by a charming smile you see now grey-purple bags bruising the hollow of his eyes.

Your hands itch to brush his hair away, to let him lean into your palm, to let him close his eyes and rest as you… you hold back a sigh.

Almost as if he hears you, Haku’s eyes crack open. He glances at you, impish grin hanging itself on the corner of his lips. “Staring at me again?”

You flush, but before you can form a retort something white flashes at the corner of your eye.

Perhaps it is by grace of the fact that you’ve been working on this solo mission with Haku for the past week, or perhaps it is due to the trickle of life-and-death situations you have been in since last October, but you react almost immediately, spinning on your heel and reaching out for Haku.

Haku’s hand finds yours, blindly thrown out in your direction as he steps forward slightly to shield you, but his fingers lace with yours instantly like a magnet finding home. His other hand rests on his hip, uniform jacket pushed aside in favour of easy access to his flute.

It looks almost casual to anyone else, this rehearsed defence looking like a startled step forward on Haku’s part, but you know different. You suck in a breath at the hum of power that surges from your ring to where your fingers interlock with Haku’s.

But it is only an old lady, stepping out from behind the wooden structure. She is dressed in simple priest robes, paper fan slung around her wrist, and her eyes round at your alarmed reaction.

She is not a threat, you decide, and you feel Haku’s body relax next to you as he comes to the same conclusion. There is no need to use either of your stigmas, and yet…

He doesn’t let go either, fingers firm in your own.

The priest apologises for startling you, thick Kansai accent warm with welcome. She peers at you kindly. “A lot of couples get married at the main shrine. Have you come to ask around?”

“That would be nice,” Haku smiles. There is a wistfulness in there that sounds age-old. “In another life.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised, but he has struck up a conversation with the priest about tonight’s weather and how a little rainfall might do the wisteria by the entrance some good in the April heat.

In another life. The words lick flames up from where your hands are joined, a thrum of want and hope that settles in your chest and paints the wreath of your ribs the colour of sunrise.

You know Haku’s interested — he makes no effort to hide it. He cracks jokes about taking you out on dates at least twice a week, as if hearing it enough will negate the fact that what is left of you will be dead come the crest of October, and both of you will be left with a pain time can never erase.

You make no effort to hide your blushes either — he knows how much it flusters you when he tucks your hair behind your ear, how fast your heart beats when he leans in a little too close. He knows how much you want to acquiesce, and yet…

The priest takes her leave, and the two of you are left in the grey wash of an already set sun.

“In another life.” The words sound strange coming from you, standing out against the hum of the cicadas.

“In this life, too, if you’d have me,” Haku says. His tone is light, but you don’t have to look at him to taste how bitter his smile is. You both know it will not be possible.

The chasm between you is larger than what six months can bridge.

All too soon he is pulling his hand away to hand you a coin, warm from where it has been sitting in his pocket.

“Thank you,” you murmur, and then the only sounds left are the dull clink of the coins falling into the wooden offering box, and the clatter of the bells as Haku steps forward to tug on the straw rope hanging from the rafters.

You both bow twice, and clap.

You don’t remember what you wish for – you pretend you do not wish for him – before your mind wanders off to the phantom press of Haku’s palm against yours.

Maybe… Maybe, in another life, it looks like this:

Your hand in his, standing not on the edge of an inky galaxy but on the infinite edge of forever.

No responsibilities, no curses, no anomalies, just two dust motes floating in a shared beam of sunlight, spinning together again and again like atoms dancing their way home.

Haku does not let you go in this one, no — his fingers will be wound between yours not with the intention of fighting or saving or protecting, but just holding.

The jokes he cracks about taking you on dates will not dissipate into longing, the brush of his breath against your ear will not burn. His eyes on yours, his touch on your hair, his hand on the small of your back — they will not linger late into the night long after you return home.

Instead of giving you his umbrella, he will share it.

His hands will be a warmth, a weight. An anchor under the brightness of rainy moonlight, holding you steady in the sea of ordinary life, like you both are nothing but two river stones finding yourselves in the middle of a shared stream.

You will drink in the whiskey gold of his eyes without fear of setting your lungs ablaze, and taste the laze of his smile without fear of forgetting.

You will meet him in the middle this time, languorous and lingering, and you will love him, like the moon orbiting the earth orbiting the sun, leisurely and without any intention to stop.

Maybe, in another life, between the firm interlace of your fingers will rest not a curse, but a happy ever after.

Or maybe, in another life, it goes like this:

Maybe, in another life, you are sitting next to him on beige-grey tatami, laughter in the air and afternoon sun tangling its fingers in his hair in the best kind of halo. He is looking at you, all bright eyes and soft adoration. It will send your heart bubbling like soda in the back of your throat.

Over and under and under again, he will repeat, then laugh when the red string of your ume-musubi slips through your fingers for the sixth time. Perhaps we can just buy ready-made ones in time for the wedding.

No, you will say, fiercely, not because this is Haku and the deftness of his fingers have already weaved three ume-musubis in the time it has taken you to struggle through one, but because the idea of being wedded wearing plum blossom knots weaved by the other, breathed to life in the curve of your thigh some time between sunset and sleep last night, sings a sweet promise of forever. I can do it.

It will take you two more tries, but you will do it, red tassels slotting into place like Haku has slotted himself into the space between your heartbeats, undeniable and sure.

Well done.

His congratulatory kiss will send the sun down your spine; the reach of his hands for yours will send gold through your veins.

Maybe, in another life, the moor of his fingers as they curl into yours, warm against your ring and the ume-musubi you will pin to his lapel, will mean the same thing two toothbrushes lined up on a bathroom counter does. It will feel like shoebox Nakameguro apartment does, like dancing in your socks by the light of the moon, like my-Hotarubi-hoodie-on-your-side-of-the-closet, like train station warabi-mochi bought because-I-know-you-like-it.

Maybe, in another life, you will be as much each others’ as you are the universe’s.

But in this life, you open your eyes, and you bow, and you turn away from the shrine, and you do not say anything when Haku’s hand brushes the back of yours as the both of you walk away.

[juniperxyz]

How Windbreaker men would be if they dated women like them

Context: A refresher from the generic trope of grumpy guy x sunshine girl where their lovers share the same traits and personalities as them, causing to bring out something besides their usual behaviour

Pairing: WB men x f!reader

Jay Jo x Reader

Wc: 1,067 words

Note: Uploading Jay's first because I started it before the poll finished

M A S T E R L I S T

“You'll pass out at this rate.”

“As a valedictorian? I hope so.”

Maybe it's believable that the school's most diligent boy would set his heart upon an equally diligent girl; both excelling in studies, ranking first in sports, and exceeding the charts in the looks department.

But the difference most didn't expect would be in their passions.

Jay leant against the wall, his shoulders drooping as exhaustion weighed him down. Call him arrogant, but he never thought he'll want to hit the bed faster than her.

“11 in the night….”,he sighed, straining to keep his vision focused. It was three weeks into the new semester, and the books still held his girlfriend hostage. The schedule for the exams hasn't even been created, and yet she was already skimming through every past paper.

“Sleep is for the weak.”,she slurred, rubbing her throbbing temples. For all the organization habits she so tediously lived by, they seem to have taken a break as plates, notepads, pen holders and stained mugs congested around her laptop and weary hands. Contrary to the psychotic degree of perfection others held them to, the two were more prone to slip up than anyone else. They were skillful enough to ensure no one hears a whisper about them, but exempted each other from hiding their vulnerabilities.

But with the helplessness he felt, Jay wished she too hid this from him, lest he's forced to keep seeing her in misery.

His other vulnerability was also his dramaticness, which is why he shoved his worries, shoved himself off the wall, and approached the woman from behind. Y/N already rolled her eyes as his shadow grew larger, until she straightened her spine and swiveled to level him with a glare, “If you're gonna lecture me ag-”

But no lecture sprouted from his mouth, instead his arms extended around her head, colliding it against his chest, oddly close enough to feel his racing heartbeat. She sputtered in confusion, a hindrance that lack of sleep teased her with, before she gave in to his whims reluctantly.

“You're an amazing woman.”,she blinked slowly as he pressed a soft kiss on her crown, “A truly outstanding person, I'm glad I get to be with you.”

An awkward silence rolled by the couple, having the woman rack her brains for a possible reason, “Did Dom spike your drink again.”

True, emotionless was his primary attitude to most of his relationships. That didn't however include the most cherished one he possessed.

“You…worry me.”,he wasn't good with words, but it didn't stop him from speaking his heart, “I see you and I get scared.”

Her shoulders slumped as if on cue, forehead leaned against his shirt as a deep sigh left her chest. “It's just I'm worried‐”

“I'm willing to score less if it will make you content.”,after a moment of hesitation, his hand smoothed her hair, ignorant to her astonished scowl, “It will be one less competition to worry about. Maybe you can rest.”

“Are you insane?”,she smacked his arms away, dismissing her neck cramps as she craned up with an incredulous look, “Don't disregard your studies over something stupid.”

His brows furrowed, irritation bypassing his unemotional facade with ease, “But you're stressing too much on grades, I can help by-”

“Do you think I only do this to get validation?”,she guffawed, pushing herself backwards, “That I only work hard for people's approval or something?”

An irritated huff escaped his lips. He was too tired to argue, “Y/N, you gotta see it from my‐”

“I do it so I can compete with you.”

His eyebrows rose, surprise etched into his face as he inspected her vexed scowl.

“There's no joy in fighting so hard when my main opponent wants to back out. I get inspired and motivated by you, I wanna beat you.”,she stated in a low voice, “It doesn't matter if I hold your hand in victory or defeat when it means I competed beside you…”

Though Jay spoke nothing, the air was heavy with emotions as each simply gazed into each other's eyes, suppressing the urge to spill their hearts and feelings before the other.

“No one's as stubborn as you…”,he sighed, though his lips quirked up in a grin.

Her eyes peeled off him, a light blush tinting her cheeks, “There's you.”

The man shrugged his shoulders in mock defeat, “Sadly, I found my first opponent.”

She shot back a glare that failed miserably, and a strong tug dragged her off the chair and tumbled her into her sheets, with a variety of pillows being chucked off as straightened herself, “What's up with you?”

“Not up, down.”,he stated plainly, flapping the blanket before it fluttered over their bodies, “We're laying down, going to bed.”

“You're gonna write papers for me?”,she snorted, scowling as he draped an inescapable arm around her torso.

“Plenty. Expect many professing my love for you.”

Her frown deepened as her blush brightened, prompting the man to smirk as she swiveled around, before he brought her closer with his arm-cage.

“You can't compete with me if you're not in good health.”,he whispered, face sinking into her long hair, “It's no use fighting for grades if you're fighting against your body.”

She opened her mouth to bark another retort, when his next words left hers hanging.

“And I hate to see my own motivation and inspiration wither away before we can even compete.”,he placed a chin on her shoulder, lips trailing along her jawline, “It's a lonely road to the top.”

Knowing her reservedness prevented all responses, the man nuzzled his chin into the crook of her neck, and purred in satisfaction, “And that's why, I need you beside me.”

Need. She always categorized all her wants as needs. Need for academic excellence, Need for astounding athleticism, need for a one prim and proper reputation of herself.

But it was the first time she heard of her as a need. Not for the expectations imposed by her parents, nor the plethora of notes and advice sought by her teachers, but just….her?

People around prophesied something grandiose and impactful, like their graduation ceremony or her college acceptance, could succeed in revealing a sliver of emotion. But the measly half muffled words of her boyfriend were the ones that glazed her eyes with tears. Joyful tears.