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scentedpepper · 2 months

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Trajectories of Temptation

LIP GALLAGHER X MALE READER

●credit to rightful owner

Summary: An unspeakable incident takes place in your bathroom at 2:29 pm.

Content Warnings: Implied speech of masturbation, implied speech of genitalia, implied mention of pubic hair, implied speech of (having) sex (the actual act of sex never takes place), descriptions of injuries/blood, established relationship (platonic), descriptions of making out

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Takes place during s2, after the scene at the barbecue in which Lip gets into a fight with that random

Lips injuries from that fight are exaggerated for the purpose of this plot

Reader and Lip have history (as friends)

It's implied that reader had feelings for Lip at one point in time before this scene

Lip knows reader is gay long before this

Reader has moles

Implied that reader is of some Spanish descent

Reader has siblings

Edited-ish?? Idk yall I read over it once too tired to do it again brb

Reader has dark eyes

Reader is a knitter (as implied by lip)

That's all ?

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When you stare at the boy standing in the frame or your bathroom door through the mirror, you're not sure which fact is stupider. His swollen blue-bruised lips bleeding like he's been biting them all night or the cut across his eyebrow still dripping steadily and swelling with pink blood where it's already infected his skin.

Not to mention, the torn collar of his shirt dripping down his chest in its loosened state.

"What the fuck?" Your mouth shapes the words without any intention of letting them escape. But if the situation wasn't so stupid you suppose this might be the part in the horror movie where it all gets sped up because the monster has realized it's been detected by the prey, but he just looks pissed and exhausted.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare at me?" Lip sneers as his bloody hands peel themselves from the door frame where he's been leaning.

"What the fuck did you do?" You turn abruptly, your hair whipping cold drops in his general direction and across the blue walls as you spin with such an urgency one might consider Lip was suffocating rather than just standing there, dripping dark gems of ruby onto the cracked tiled floors.

He reaches down to close the door, shutting himself into your bathroom, he slams the flimsy piece of pressboard as if it might block out anything that's happened outside the thin walls. But in the present, you can still hear people storming over the soft floors ways away, mixes of Spanish and English contributing to whatever petty argument was occurring now.

The dark haired boy in front of you takes another staggering step forward until he's only an arms reach from the white countertop top of your sink.

You move aside, letting him take harbor on the toilet seat with only a squint and a glower. Which is more expression than you thought he could put up right now.

"I didn't think you'd be here. " He murmurs as he slides past the blood spots littering the floor. You stare down the old carpeted hall until the door, making an unpleasant squeak, shuts the sight out entirely.

"Why wouldn't I be here?" You stare at him quizzically, shifting the towel around your waist so it's more attuned to your figure.

"Well, after last week.." His words trail away like he's too embarrassed by some minor offense, like taking a sip of your grape soda. But it doesn't take a genius to know what he was referring to.

"It's normal. Don't got much of a choice anyway. " Your hands are on your hips as you shrug the conversation away, inhaling sharply before you're hovering in front of the boy, your fingers tracing the underside of each side of his jaw as you tilt him in ways that appease you. He lets you do it, even going as far as a low grunt when you press too hard against the spot above his bridge.

"What happened?" You question again, moving away so you can crouch underneath the sink and grab the first aid. The bright blue box rattles in your hands until Lip's harsh grasp steals it out from your palms.

"I can do it. "

Looking pointedly at him, you take the box right back, harsher. "No you can't. "

That's how you find yourself once again standing before Lip like this is the end. A small white bottle clutched tightly in your hand as you dig around with the rubbing alcohol.

Lip is quiet, only breaking the silence with small winces here and there or flinching when the sting of his eyebrow becomes too much.

That's why it's weird to hear him snickering under his breath as you lean close, eyebrows knit in deep concentration.

You don't bother looking up to see the half crooked smile attempting to form against his lips. You don't want to indulge him in the glory that is holding eye contact as you dab his wounds.

"What the hell are you laughing about, Gallagher?" You're paying close attention to the lines in his small, plump muscles, trying to get the blood out of all the creases but they bounce back at you, making it difficult.

With how close you are, you don't see it in full, but you can feel the smirk underneath your fingertips, his breath touches against your face delicately, deliberately.

It smells like cigarettes and potential, but mostly just alcohol.

You let go of his chin, because you know with the expression gracing the pink tinted parts of his face he has something he wants to say.

Your thumbs leave trails down the hilts of his collarbones on their way, your expression is blank, and he mirrors it with his usual self-centered cockiness.

"Where have you been?" It was weak, barely out of his mouth and he was leaning towards you. It felt like the space between you was sucked dry, there was this pull forcing your bodies together that not even gravity could fight.

"Home?" Your eyes are slits as you stare him down.

"Home. " He echoes with a scoff. It feels mocking. "Fuck, can you ever just give a straight answer?" His hair is a mop of unorganized curly strands falling over his features. You want to push it back and see the look in his eyes but the edge in his voice tells you the movement would make the mess worse.

You pull back. "Can you?"

You note the way his body lunges for yours, caught off guard when the distance between you two is so suddenly there once again. Almost like you hadn't even been dancing around the obvious a few minutes ago. The frustration bleeding from his eyes because you're right.

He seems to be fighting with himself as his eyes flick back and forth, across each of yours, his blue mixing, seeping and totaling your darker shade like poison.

And then, at some point, to some extent or another, he seems to falter the slightest. His body slumps, the pulsating in his veins doesn't feel like hot lava searing against his skin and branding him anymore, his eyes falter away from yours, ever so slightly, before returning.

"Sorry. " His teeth grind behind shut lips.

"It's fine. " You take the brush of his knuckles against your side more like a dismissal than the comforting touch it's meant to be, and almost miss it when the weight on your hip bone fades, your body already leaning forward into the boy's face to attend to his injuries. "Gonna tell me what happened?"

There's a crease along his jaw when he opens his mouth to answer, a bump too, maybe a cut with how split the lip is right where the dip of his chin is, right above his neck.

"Barbecue incident. " He concludes, turning so you can clean under his eye where a small line of dried blood is lying.

You ponder over the statement, over the lack of information he is giving you.

"Go out of your way to start something?"

He nods, a jerky movement with the way you have his head stiffened with a finger and a thumb so you can disinfect the gash on his eyebrow.

"Jesus, Lip. " You shook your head at him but found a part of you wasn't terribly surprised, if anything you were just disappointed. A little worried.

You turn and reach up inside the medicine cabinet to procure a small band-aid, sliding it over the shallow, yet deep cut across his bridge.

From your angle you can see the droplets of scarlet still dripping down his chin and his cheeks are colored a bright pink, burning from the sting of the rubbing alcohol and to top it off he has this strange glossy color taking hold in his eyes, blinking back like maybe you're not even really in front of him but somewhere else, looking back at him.

"Eyebrows gonna need stitches. " You said without looking into his eyes, unsure of why you were avoiding the action.

He sniffles. "Hope you're not about to stick one of those fancy sewing needles in my eye. "

Rolling your eyes playfully at the smirk you can't see, you move away from him, so quickly that when he realizes you've left he is forced to look at you and his eyes follow your figure once again until you're under the cabinet near the tub, grabbing the extra towels as your feet dance out of your sandals.

He has to turn away from you, his head towards the sink, away from the drying water on your skin.

When you lean up and cross the space between you two, putting the warm fabric right against the cut on his brow as if to suffocate the bleeding, you're only inches apart again.

It feels like forever that you're lost in this stasis, the slow ticking of the clock going with it's time, winding and unwinding the ball of string. And somehow, it feels right, like this is the time loop the world had been missing, to have everything still, trapped in just one perfect moment as the hours tick by.

"You should've went to, V. She's better at this stuff than me, you know-"

"Why wouldn't I come to you?" The way he asks so nonchalantly, flicking his tongue against the pearls of his teeth almost with the air that it was so obvious you would be the first person he'd run to, for anything, is so endearing that you feel something knocking against your ribcage in an eradicate pattern and your eyes are gracing over all his features.

It just so happens that their most intense focus was on the soft folds of his busted up lips.

Pulling away from the towel, but not really away. In the tiniest movements, hesitant to leave this delicate scenario, but also scared to delve back into the mess of everything else. If only for a moment longer.

You inhale until you feel your lungs straining the skin covering them, but manage to get a quick retort before a sense of control snaps back into your mind, forcing you away with distance and a new look about you.

"V's got more experience with stitches and stuff. "

He hums in acknowledgment, but his expression changes like he doesn't want to leave either. It's a stupid thought that tugs at your senses for a split second.

"You're doing fine. " It was whispered against your cheeks and the only feeling you've ever seen akin to whatever expression he wears is usually around your siblings. Sometimes even around Mandy.

You watch him sigh.

"It's bleeding again. " He feels the drop fall down his face, completely making a mess of what you'd just cleaned up.

You put the towel back to his brow and his hand joins yours, holding it there in a successful seal.

"Stop moving around so damn much. "

The space feels so small suddenly, the light in the mirror beside you is casting shadows and dim halos of illumination over both your faces like a spotlight, and so far the both of you are locked in each other's gazes, unwavering in the flicker of each other's defiance.

"I wasn't moving- "

"Yes. You are. Now don't talk. " You didn't give him the opportunity, pressing the towel harder against him so that he winces but does not pull back from your touch.

If Lip had any objections he didn't show them. His breathing was steady, controlled like he might've been attempting to focus too, or maybe he was nervous, you couldn't tell.

For a moment you're too caught up with just the rhythm of his chest, with the feel of your own heart hammering in time with his and the weight of the air around the two of you.

Eventually the heavy atmosphere turns normal, and soon you feel too relaxed around someone who isn't your family, the ease at which your guard drops is a scary thing. The possibility of him overstepping, or insulting you with no regard is there, but not high.

There's a twinge of saltiness in the air that you can faintly taste as you continue to breathe in his air and he yours. The smell almost hurts, it makes your nose twitch, the faint burn of steel hitting it raw in little intervals, the sting catching you by surprise and the blood rushes back to your face at the realization.

The heat from his body makes you sweat, the hair falling away from his forehead sticks to your wrist in little strands but you don't bother to care that your hand is a sweaty, gross mess in it's clammy hold.

Neither does he.

The muscles in his legs are clenched together and straining so his back doesn't creak against the edge of the toilet, his shirt catches against the shiny chrome of it, as the seat digs into the crevices of his upper thighs. You can tell how uncomfortable it must be, but he sits there with a small little wince because the air around you is too close to disrupt.

You swallow. But it isn't to apologize. He can see your body shudder at the awkwardness as it hangs heavily between the both of you, so deep that it seems even he wanted to back away from it for a split second.

His fingers twitch over your hand with want to delve under your navel and tickle. It's hard not to stare when the skin of your stomach illuminates, littered with dark little moles. He watches it go up and down as your breathing stays quick but even.

Every so often, his eyes would meet yours briefly, and they slide away so abruptly you doubt he even saw them in the first place.

His glances leave slimy hot trails on your skin and you feel like your flesh is sizzling beneath his non-touches.

No matter how warm he makes you, the cold reaches in sharp pins along the tips of your fingers, sending tiny shivers crawling along the rough skin of your back as he picks and chooses a place for him to study your body.

You're not sure where he's looking, what he's looking at but you don't miss the subtle ways his eyelashes flutter beneath the movement of his eyeballs and the way the skin of his lids crease and tighten.

Where his line of sight passes, where ever he finds you worthy, you swear it aches, it pounds and scorches. You don't know how he's doing it but your body lights up and you're wondering just where it ends and where this has all began, because your skin has never flamed in such a way. Never burned. Not around him and if it had, you'd suppressed it like your everlasting love for a boy with bruises in the colors of your father.

And all those feelings and words on the tip of your tongue that had died out forever ago became full of life in the air.

Again, sparking, igniting –in complete and utter envelopment.

And then your eyes are meeting, in full, meeting in the way that maybe just maybe he would like to look at you, or the idea he would actually see all of you. Like maybe that doesn't seem so bad.

And the words are dying out again.

Because you can't part your lips enough for a breath to come out before he's sucking up all your air. And now your lips are touching his and everything just stops, freezes still as the words sink into the recess of your stomach and disappear with all those bottled feelings. Everything was boiling away as he gives you back your breath with his.

But then, just as quickly, just as hot and searing and mangled and yet, all at once, freezing –your skin fills up the cooled empty space of the adjacent wall.

His hands are gripping each side of your face as if he might slip away, fall and shatter like a porcelain doll. His fingers dig indents into the softness of your cheeks and at first faintly, you taste blood.

He doesn't move away. Only falters back.

The weight of his mouth forces the smallest grunt out of your throat and to quell any objections you might've had in the wake of his fire.

His lips are chapped, unpleasant and sore and yet, he does not pull away.

Neither do you.

He pushes you harder against the wall when you, in defiance, grab a fistful of his hair and pull. It's the first time his hands leave your face to dig and grip at the flesh below the towel.

He looks torn between wanting to be close to you and straddling your neck until you take back the action but when his eyes close and you smile against his lips you expect him to let loose.

He doesn't though, instead his hands push you back into the plaster and this time it cracks a little with your weight and he lets out an unsteady groan. The muffled, rough grunt turning into a sly grin through gritted teeth.

You taste an overly generous amount of saliva swipe your bottom lip, moving against the crease of your mouth in hasty lazy strokes until it isn't even just him anymore.

His hands are going up your body again, back to your face but he seems hesitant to touch any other part of you besides the bones of your cheeks and hips.

He grabs onto each bone the way a small child would in appreciation of the structure as they hide behind their mother's knees on the first day of school. And the movement is shaky.

It doesn't stop him, the shaking, the wispy feeling of something crawling up his spine, something in semblance to the touch of a fairy or some otherworldly, small creature.

He doesn't stop.

Not even as your towel loosens, and slips, the only thing having pinned it any longer being his fingers, which are now back to your face. His hands stay trembling.

You feel them sliding against your cheeks until you cannot feel his palm at all. It's so hard not to giggle at the sensation.

When they make their way through your hair, your spine curls forward, pressing into his body and he seems to realize then, what the next course of action is.

And suddenly he isn't really trembling or freezing at all, he only seems to know that he has a duty now, like a robot realizing they've deviated and need to return to their task.

But the way he kisses you isn't at all like an empty headed bucket of bolts, it's like he's starving –except not hungry. His mouth like a gaping hole sucking in all of your air and he's always coming back for more.

More and more until his hand is slipping past your happy trail and you feel his fingers tangle with the hair right below.

Only then, when the second skin to skin contact is made, is when you seem to regain your footing and you pull back sharply, sucking in all the air around you and you thud against the wall again.

"Lip- " You croak as his eyes are burning into yours with a fierceness you aren't sure to be scared or awed by.

The way he starts fidgeting and reaching for you again, slowly, like a broken clock or a child being denied their treat, makes you want to succumb, to utterly divulge.

But you grab his hands nonetheless, away from you, away from what he's intended to do with them.

"Lip. " It's steadier this time, less breathless and there's a soft laugh at the end of it. "What are we doing? "

You're not quite sure who the 'we' is.

"Helping each other get through tonight. " His voice rumbles deeply in a whisper, his forehead presses against yours and his blood smears on your skin.

"Lip, " it sounds like the beginning of reasoning, some sort of pleading.

But you suck in a sharp breath, that's all. His fingers intertwine with yours on one end and on the other, he's trying again, lowering. Your heart is thudding so roughly you're sure he can hear it.

"Lip. " It's louder, more one edge and like it's supposed to be lighthearted but when you spring away from him, crouching to grab your towel, he can tell you mean to be serious despite your next words. "You don't even know what to do with it. "

He stares at you blankly for a moment, face steely, maybe embarrassed with a poor attempt of cockiness.

"How hard can it be?" He moves closer to your frame again as you wrap the towel back around your waist. "I do pretty well with my own, so. " The distance between you is getting small again.

"Lip. " You sigh out as his hands find the hem of the towel, his fingers delicate with urgency but your hands are right there again, stopping him.

"I can learn. " He almost pleads, looking down at your hands, his eyes are laced with the need to give you what he thinks you're asking for and if you had any doubts before, his following question breaks every barrier. "What do you want me to do? Teach me. " You feel his breath wafting against your face and it's enticing, hard to get past, hard to resist.

"Lip, come on. " It's breathless, quiet, your voice raspy but it's deeper than it was before when you pressed him against the toilet with your own body.

He doesn't like that he sees your eyes darkened as you pull away.

"Y/N, " Lip pulls his hands away from you, away from the warmth and feel of skin and it feels strange and wrong. His body is unbearably hot and his ears are ringing. So his hands reach out once again, reeling you in, pulling you closer to him.

"Teach me. Whatever you want. Teach me how to do it to you. " His words seem to please you, they catch the attention of your body and your breath comes out hot and heavy, fanning his face like a beautiful draft as your lips flutter past his on multiple occasions at the close proximity. But he can feel your resistance.

"I wanna learn. Let me- I'll be good at it. " His fingertips trace your temples and he repeats his question, "What do you want me to do?" His voice is in and out, and the tips of his hands slip down to the dark hairs atop your forehead.

Your fingers tighten around his ribs before promptly releasing until they're the faintest of graces he can't even feel through his clothes.

"It's not about that, Lip. " You speak back just as softly, but it's different from his in a way, and it draws his hand to grasp your hair.

He likes the feel of it against his fingers, moving softly as he shifts the muscles and tendons of his arm and grip on it lightly.

"This isn't a good idea. " You mumble and your voice doesn't sound like you believed it, it sounds like you want him, it sounds like you like this. It drives him forward and he steps in closer to you, breathing you in. But you push back, putting the slightest distance between you two so you can look him in the eyes.

"Think about it. " Your voice is clear this time and he snaps out of it, shaking his head before coming down hard in a rough exhale. "You need a good night's sleep, man, not...not this. "

"You think I don't know what I want? What I need?" He's aggressive, but in the way a child is when they don't get the toy they picked from an aisle in passing. Because despite his strong set jaw, and deep breaths, his eyes are flickering and they aren't malicious or daunting, they're just raw.

For whatever reason, he wants you and he doesn't know why, and that scares him because the feeling is alien and it won't go away.

"Lip, think about why you're here in the first place. "

But he can't seem to. He just stares back at you with wide, blinking, glossy eyes.

"You got yourself beat up. " You don't mean to spit the words but you think about the consequences of his impulsiveness and you won't stand for it. "Because of all the shit going on with Karen. " You emphasize the last word. The name.

"Everything you feel about that situation Lip, the feeling is real, but it's not rational and we can't- "

"Rational isn't even in the equation. Right now, I don't give a shit about anything else, or anyone else, except for you. " His hand returns to your face and he traces a faint scar on your jawline and stares at it in heavy ponderment and as an offering, you stay still beneath his hand, letting him have this victory. But then he's leaning in. His nose presses into your cheek, and he breathes you in once more before you're pushing him back.

"Like I said, not rational, Lip. " He looks betrayed at the statement and finally you meet his stare again, holding his gaze, his stare to your irises. "One of us has to be responsible, Lip. At least. "

You don't wait for an answer, slowly you tilt your head into his. Your lips feel rubbery against his forehead.

"Have V stitch you up. " He melts into your hold a little as he lays his head on your shoulder. "Get some sleep. " Your hands push him away gently.

"And some water. "

You leave him with nothing but a pointed look and a few bruises on his face.

You leave him.

His mind returns to the sting on his lower lip and the ache in his chest as you close the door.

#lip gallagher #lip gallagher x male reader #lip gallagher x you #shameless #lip gallagher x reader #lip gallagher x y/n

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drarrily-we-row-along · 1 year

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It had been literal years since Harry had seen him, it shouldn’t still feel like this.

Looking at Draco Malfoy while he swanned around the gala, not even noticing Harry’s existence, felt like he’d been hit with a bombarda to the chest. The grief, the rage, the fear, the brokenness, everything came back like it was yesterday. Like he was twenty one and desperately in love, like his entire life was oriented around another person. And the devastation of being left without a word; the empty, expansive void that filled his entire body.

He couldn’t stop watching him. Couldn’t take his eyes off his lithe form, so similar and yet different. He walked taller now, he was self assured in a way he hadn’t been. Open, smiling, like he actually knew he was worthy and it changed how he viewed other people. But he was still himself; clever and funny, still a little bashful when someone praised him.

Harry wondered what else was the same. Wondered if his mouth still tasted the same, if his hands could still make Harry’s body go pliant and his mind go blank. He wondered if he still got giggly after sex. Wondered if earl grey was still his favorite type of tea. If he still hated tequila. Wondered what Harry’d done wrong and how he could have messed up badly enough that Draco left after three years together without a word.

It was inevitable that he found himself following Draco when he went to the men's room, a moth to a flame that would incinerate it and leave its charred smoking remains in a pile of ash. Locking the door behind him, he waited, leaning against the row of sinks until Draco emerged from the stall. There was barely a hitch in his step, barely a flash of recognition in those silver eyes when he looked at Harry.

"Not even a hello?" he asked, suddenly incensed at Draco for ignoring him, at himself for setting himself up for this.

"Hello, Potter," he said evenly. "Enjoying yourself at this fine Ministry Gala?"

"Fuck you," he hissed.

Draco turned and raised an irritatingly perfect eyebrow at him, "Was a hello not what you wanted?"

And Harry saw it, the flicker in his eyes that meant he knew he'd asked the wrong question. "Not what I wanted," he repeated, throat tight and eyes stinging. "Not what I wanted?" He shook his head, "when have you ever cared about what I wanted?"

"Right," Draco said. "Terribly sorry that this Gala helps to fund my research and I had to be here tonight for my job." He said it calmly, devoid of any of the emotions that were racing under Harry's skin. "If you'll excuse me," he said, starting past Harry and moving toward the door, "I'll just get out of your way."

Harry's hands were on him before he even knew what he was doing, shoving him back against the door and pinning him there. "Seven years, Draco. Seven years and not a single word."

"Let me go," he said, voice still unerringly calm.

He shook his head, "No. Not until you-" he broke of, chest heaving as he fought for control, as he fought to get a breath.

"Until I what?" he asked.

"Not until you tell me why," Harry said, voice shaking. "Not until you give me the reason that you threw away three years together without a single. fucking. word."

He just stared at him, still not giving him a word.

"Tell me," he said, begged really, "just. Give me something. Give me some closure. Let me move on."

"Nothing is stopping you from moving on," he replied steadily.

He growled, "Fucking hell, Draco. Just tell me-"

"You're hurting me," the other man said, pressing a palm against Harry's chest.

Harry loosened his grip, "You hurt me," he whispered. "You tore out my entire heart when you fucked off and left. You left this giant, gaping sink hole of a wound in my chest that has never closed, never healed right. It always fucking hurts."

He shook his head, eyes suspiciously bright.

"Tell me," Harry demanded. "Tell me what I did. Tell me how you stopped loving me. Tell me why you left. I would have given you anything, I would have done anything, would hav-"

"I know!" Draco exploded, his voice sharp and furious, and Harry reveled in it, in his loss of composure. "I know that you would have and I didn't want you to."

"What?" he asked.

Draco shoved him off, "Let go of me." He tried to turn and get the door open but Harry grabbed him and spun him around again.

"What do you mean?"

"Let go!" he demanded, pushing roughly at him.

"No," he replied stubbornly. "You owe me this much, at least."

"I owe you nothing," Draco hissed, voice low.

Harry released his grip on the other man, body involuntarily taking a step back as he shrunk in on himself, curling away from him. "Fine," he whispered, wishing he could sink into the floor, wishing he could just disappear, wishing for anything that would take the pain away.

The other man sighed and Harry could hear him straightening his robes before he pulled open the door. "I owe you nothing because the cost of leaving was too high in the first place," he said.

And Harry's head filled with a thousand questions, he looked up but Draco had already left. Rushing out after him, Harry caught him just at the end of the hall. They were in plain sight of everyone at the Gala, if they cared to look their way, but Harry couldn't have cared less. "What?" he asked, maneuvering so that he was in front of the other man. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Everyone can see you," Draco said, voice low so no one would hear, his face impassively blank in a way that Harry detested; it made something go funny in his chest, the desire to break him from that shell, to muss him up, to kiss him until he was breathless and smiling, color high on his cheeks.

"I don't care." He shook his head, "For fuck's sake Draco. I don't care what any of them think. Please," he whispered. "Please just," he let out a rush of air that he'd been holding too tight in his lungs. "Please."

"Not here," he said, glancing around the room very clearly trying to clock who'd noticed them talking.

He nodded eagerly, "tell me where and when."

Draco looked at him, actually looked at him, his eyes moving over Harry's face like a caress. "Mac's, 9:00 pm."

He spun off and left Harry standing there, staring at the wall. He hadn't been to Mac's in seven years, not since Draco'd left.

The rest of the Gala couldn't go quickly enough and Harry found himself leaving before he really needed to but he couldn't help it; he couldn't stand and talk to one more person that he had no interest in talking to. Not to mention the torment of watching Draco swan about, wooing donors; Harry's heart couldn't take it.

Flooing home to change into a green jumper and a pair of jeans before heading to the diner seemed like the only reasonable course of action.

The neon clock behind the counter revealed he was only ten minutes early and he mentally congratulated himself on taking up as much time as he had.

"Well bless my soul," the waitress, Barb if Harry remembered right, said. "I haven't seen you in ages. Look how you've grown."

"And you look just the same, lovely as ever," Harry replied, smiling at her. It was true, she wore the same blue dress and apron, hair pulled back in a bun, still had the same blue eye shadow.

"Flatterer," she accused, but she looked pleased. "Where's your young man?" she asked, leading him back to the corner booth that they'd always preferred and for a moment Harry's heart twisted painfully in his chest.

"Coming, I hope," he said.

She nodded, eyes full of understanding, "Now, don't tell me," she said. "You're a strawberry shake and he's-" she broke off, brow furrowing in concentration.

"A chocolate malt," he said at the same time as another voice behind her.

Both he and Barb looked up to find Draco standing behind her, hands shoved into the pockets of his impeccably tailored trousers, top button on his black dress shirt unbuttoned. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a muggle magazine, hair just a little disheveled but devastatingly handsome. Harry could barely breathe around how fucking gorgeous he was, how badly he wanted him.

"But if I'm being honest," he said, "I haven't had that much sugar in ages. I should probably-"

"Nonsense," she said, shooing him into the booth across from Harry. "Reunions always require something of the old to mix with the new."

Before either of them could respond to that, she bustled off to the kitchen, leaving the two of them staring awkwardly at one another.

"Draco-" he started just as the other man began with "Look-"

Harry shook his head and gave a little chuckle, running his fingers through his curls and tucking them behind his ear, "Go ahead," he offered.

Squaring his shoulders, Draco began again, "Agreeing to come here with you was a moment of weakness."

"A moment of weakness?" Harry interrupted.

Draco glared at him, "Yes. I'm really not interested in having this conversation. I'm not interested in rehashing everything that happened."

He took a slow breath, "I deserved a good bye," he said eyes stinging.

"Excuse me?" he asked, sounding a bit taken aback.

Barb came over and deposited their shakes and a platter of nachos between them. "I'll just be tidying up," she said. "Over there," she added pointedly. "Don't be shy if you boys need anything."

Harry waited until she was a reasonable distance away from their table before he said, "Listen, I don't need to know why you left. You're right, you don't owe me that. So even though I'd like to know, even though it kills me not to know what happened, what I did wrong," he broke off, shaking his head. "You can have your own reasons and I don't have to know them. But I deserved a good bye."

Those grey eyes, the ones he'd spent countless hours staring into, the ones he'd dreamt of more times than he could count, stared at him like he couldn't comprehend what he was saying.

"I loved you, Draco," he said softly, the truth splitting the wounds in his heart open wide. "I loved you more than anything, I would have done anything, I would have given you anything. If you'd told me you needed to leave, I would have been heartbroken, but I would have let you." He took a deep shuddering breath, "but I deserved a good bye."

"I couldn't," Draco said simply. He started to slide toward the edge of his bench but Harry reached out.

"Damn it, Draco," he said. "Sit down. Please. If you ever loved me-"

"If I ever loved you?" he asked and finally his exterior cracked. "If I ever loved you?" he repeated incredulously. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" he repeated, blood pressure rising.

"Yes, you fucking idiot! What do you mean 'if I ever loved you'?" He shook his head, "How can you possibly imagine that my leaving wasn't out of love for you?"

"Because it wasn't!" he exclaimed.

"Yes it was."

He shook his head, "There's no way in hell," he said. "It wasn't for me because you leaving completely destroyed me. You leaving left me in a state of depression that made me wish I was dead. For fucking months. I went to therapy; I still go to therapy, you leaving still comes up. Regularly. There was nothing about that choice that was good for me.”

“How do you imagine that relationship would have ended?”

Harry shook his head, “I don’t know. I’ve been too preoccupied with dealing with the fall out of how it actually ended to wonder how it might have ended otherwise.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead in a gesture that Harry had seen enough to know that he was getting a tension headache. He wondered if scratching his fingers through the hair at the back of his head still helped, wondered if rubbing his neck still eased the pain. "That relationship would have ended with you hating me."

"Right," he said. "So glad we avoided that outcome."

"Do you hate me?" he asked, looking at Harry like the answer mattered to him.

He let out a breath, "I wanted to. It would have been easier if I could have."

Draco nodded, "And I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I didn't want to stick around for that." He sighed, "Look, we couldn't have kept living in the shadows. Coming out to muggle restaurants, sharing a bed, living on the edge of the world and hoping that we didn't get caught."

"Draco, I would have come out with you. If you'd wanted to tell people, I would have. Godric. How little can you possibly think of me that-?"

He shook his head, "That's my point. You would have come out, you would have told the world, and we would have lived under the proverbial shit storm that rained down on us. Constant harassment, we'd be the front page of every newspaper. I had to leave the country to get accepted into a training program that would accept me as it was."

"And?" Harry asked, "I'm not new to the media shit-show."

Draco looked at him, eyes sad like he could see something that Harry couldn't. "You're not, that's the point. Harry," he said, and the way that he said his name felt like Harry's heart was being ripped open, "you deserved time to heal. You deserved a shot at a normal life. You deserved to be happy. You deserved so much-"

"That wasn't your choice to make!" Harry exclaimed. "What I deserved, what would make me happy; it wasn't your decision. Not without me at least. Because it didn't make me happy. You made me happy."

"But I wouldn't have," he said. "It was the only way. For both of us. I needed to get my life together. I'm brilliant," he said, and somehow it didn't sound cocky, it was just a statement of fact. "Harry, I'm so good at my job. I'm so good at developing potions and magic that is helping people in ways we couldn't have imagined even five years ago."

"I know," Harry replied. "I've followed your career. I've read your articles."

The little smile that curved Draco's mouth shouldn't have felt like that still, it shouldn't have made him feel like his heart expanded four sizes. "And you needed to find your life outside of me. It felt like you hated everything, like you wanted to burn the entire world, everything outside of our bed. And I was never going to be enough to fill that need."

"You were," he said, throat burning. "Draco, I would have supported you. I would have given you anything-"

"I know. And I couldn't let you." He shook his head, "Leaving you," Draco looked down at his hands where they were clenched on the table. "Circe, Harry, it nearly killed me. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. I meant what I said about the cost of leaving being too high. I wanted to give you the life you deserved.”

“All I wanted was you,” he replied.

“I know. And don’t you see why that is a problem? Harry, if all you wanted was me, how could I ever be enough? When all of your dreams, or goals, or aspirations revolve around me,” he shook his head. “I wanted more for you.”

“I didn’t mean to put pressure on you-”

He nodded, “I know. But by the end, neither of us even knew how to be a complete person on our own.”

“Three years of shared life will do that to a person,” he replied blandly.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, and Harry couldn’t count the number of times that he’d wished to hear those words. “I am. But I would do it again.”

The dried, brittle remains of his heart crumbled in his chest. “Right.”

Draco’s hand reached across the table and covered Harry’s, and Harry stopped breathing. “You might be right,” he said. “You probably deserved a good bye. But if I’d given one to you, if I’d even tried, I never would have been able to leave you.”

He opened his mouth to reply but Draco continued.

“I’m not a brave man, I’ve never been well versed in denying myself what I wanted. But I had to give us a chance. I had to give us both the chance to grow into the men we needed to become. I had to give you the chance to be happy.”

“Is that what you think I am?” Harry asked. “Happy?”

Draco blinked, “Well, yes.” His eyebrows furrowed, “you run multiple successful charities that are doing immeasurable good. You’re always in the Prophet with some new witch or wizard gazing adoringly at you-”

“I haven’t slept with anyone since you,” he said bluntly. “Some events require a plus one, so,” he shrugged. “But I still sleep on the left side of the bed. I still unconsciously check to make sure the covers aren’t bunched under me when I roll over because my body got used to not wanting to take them from you.

“Yes, I run my charities,” he continued. “I attend ministry functions. I visit my godchildren and hang out with friends. Yes. I do the duties set before me in my life and I make time for people I love.” He shook his head, “but no one who knows me would say that I am happy.”

Draco stared at him uncertainly.

“It never made sense,” Harry continued. “I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong, how I’d fucked up so badly. I loved you so much, I wanted what was good for you, and I came to terms with that not being me. But for you to tell me it was for me,” he blew out a breath and shook his head. “Whatever you may think, that wasn’t what was good for me.”

No words came out of the other man’s mouth, and Harry decided he’d probably tortured him long enough.

He rapped his knuckles on the table and stood, dropping some money for the bill before murmuring, “good bye, Draco. I hope your life is everything that you wanted.”

Then he all but fled the diner, desperate to be anywhere that wasn’t there. His heart couldn’t take it. Maybe Draco has been right and a conversation only made things worse.

Before he could get to the alley down the street, the one he and Draco had stood in more times than Harry could count to snog until one of them got too horny and apparated them back to Harry’s bed, he heard the sound of footsteps chasing him down the sidewalk. And he would have recognized those footsteps anywhere, could have picked out Draco’s gait out of any line up. “What-” he began, turning toward him.

But he was interrupted by Draco cupping his face and kissing him, his body surging against Harry’s.

Harry didn’t waste this moment, he grabbed onto the other man and pulled him in, kissing him back with all of the heart ache, all of the desire and love that he hadn’t been able to give him when he’d left.

Draco pressed him back against the wall, caging Harry in and making him feel kept and held. “I’m sorry,” Draco managed into the kiss. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, trying to just draw him back into the kiss, he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want anything but this moment; Draco in his arms, bodies pressed together, not a space between them.

But he pulled back and Harry felt bereft. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. “I really believed I was doing the right thing-”

“Draco-”

He shook his head, pressing a trembling finger to Harry’s lips, “there hasn’t been anyone else for me but you either,” he confessed. “Harry,” he broke off, a tear sliding down his cheek, “you are the love of my life. I wanted you to be happy.” He broke, tears spilling down his face. “I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re brilliant,” Harry echoed back to him.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “If you meant it, when you said you weren’t happy here,” he started, “come with me. Salazar, I know it sounds crazy.” He shook his head, “but I’ve hated every single moment of not being with you. I love you.” He pressed his forehead to Harry’s, “I love you so much. Come back to France with me. We can start a new life there. I know it sounds crazy-”

“Yes,” he interrupted him. “Godric, yes. Let me come with you. Let me stay with you.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Draco cried, tears still pouring down his face. “You don’t know-”

“I know you,” he replied, holding Draco’s face in his hands to kiss him. “Yes, this is fast and sudden, and I’m sure we’ll have more than one fight about it. But I love you too. I have spent the last seven years wishing you’d walk back into my life, I’m not about to waste that opportunity now.”

“Come back to my hotel with me?”

He shook his head, “come back to our flat?” he whispered. “Come sleep in our bed?”

“You stayed?”

He nodded, “it was ours. I didn’t want to leave behind all I had left of you. And if you ever decided to come back,” he broke off. “Well, I wanted to be there.”

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, “take me home,” he whispered.

“Home is anywhere, as long as I’m with you.”

#drarry #love #reconciliation #break up and make up #light angst #happy ending #the author is not dead #just living life with its highs and lows #I’m working through a lot right now. writing is hard because it’s all coming out sideways.#I hope this isn’t as terrible as it feels 😅

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 6 months

Text

Sister, Sister: After the End

When Eliza invites the entire family to Midvale over Easter weekend, none of them offer a single squeak of protest. It's been a long few weeks of working on their own endeavors, with only infrequent, hectic teamups between them.

It's nice, Lena decides after dinner the first night. The warmth, the easy familiarity that sinks in as though it never left. But even so, she's grateful for a spare moment to snag a blanket and go out to the dunes, where waves crash steadily against the quiet of darkness.

She spreads the blanket out and lays back, folding her hands over her ribcage. Her magic fills her these days, and she can feel the power of the ocean tugging at her, as though inviting her to join its current. She can also feel the shifting energy of the sand beneath the blanket, and the sway of the reeds that obscure her from the view of the house.

She's not too difficult to find though, as footsteps whisper through the sand towards her. Lena closes her eyes, biting the smidge of irritation that creeps up on her unexpectedly.

"I'm fine," she issues pre-emptively. Kara settles down on the blanket next to her.

"Didn't think you weren't."

Lena's eyes snap open as her head whips towards Nia's voice. Not Kara.

She huffs a laugh. "Sorry," she offers readily. "Thought you were someone else."

"Mhmm," Nia returns. "Considering she's the only one able to get hold of you these days."

Lena grimaces. "I know, I'm sorry--"

"Me too," Nia assures her of no hard feelings. "I could have done more to make it happen. It's just been..."

"Busy."

"Yeah. It's a little crazy to think about, you know? I'm doing more as Dreamer for the foundation than I am as a crime fighter or whatever. And you're back to being on top--"

Lena scoffs a laugh that turns into a giggle as she turns her head to look at Nia. It takes a moment to click.

"Oh--! Lena! You know that's not what I meant!"

The light smack to Lena's ribcage only earns a throatier laugh. Nia joins in with a giggle of her own, and they laugh for a long moment before calming.

"I know what you mean," Lena concedes after a heavy sigh, returning to the moment. "The foundation is everything I hoped it would be, but--"

"It's different." Nia turns her head, and Lena echoes the movement to meet her gaze.

She nods. "Yeah. As much as I don't miss the entire world being in peril..."

"You miss how it was." Nia's voice is quiet. "Even if it's better now."

"Yeah."

They stare up at the stars for a long quiet moment. The sky is clear tonight, and the Milky Way spreads out before them in a wide, untouchable ribbon. A wave of nostalgia overwhelms Lena, and not just for the good old days. Sudden tears burn at her eyes.

"I miss my mom," she whispers.

Nia doesn't turn, but pats across Lena's hip until Lena reaches down to clasp the questing hand.

"Me too," Nia returns softly. Her next words curl with a gentle smile. "They'd be so proud of us though."

Lena chokes out a bit of a chuckle, which mostly sounds like she's being strangled. "Yeah." She squeezes Nia's hand. "She would have really liked you."

"Oh my gosh, are you kidding?!" Nia's voice lifts. "My mom would have gushed over you! Especially now with the whole earthy, witchy vibe you have going on these days. She'd love that."

Lena grins. "Could you imagine if they'd had the chance to meet?"

"Oh god." Nia covers her eyes with her free hand. "Inseparable. No embarassing childhood memory would be safe..."

Lena laughs, truly, as though she actually had memories with her mother to be embarassed by. In this fictional world they've created, she would.

"Hey." Lena catches Nia's gaze, and offers a wide smile. "I'm proud of you too."

Nia's lips pinch tight, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. All she can manage is a trembling nod, and a firm squeeze on Lena's fingers to reciprocate the sentiment.

Neither of them keeps track of how long they stay out there on the shallow dunes. They simply lay there, hands clasped, as the galaxy slowly swirls above them.

#sister sister au #lena nia brotp #dunno what part number this is #but we needed an update #post finale #a little sad #but also happy #bittersweet

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butterbabyflapjack · 2 years

Text

Brat chapter.2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

sexual content, sexual tension, dominant ghost, power dynamics, messy feelings, voice kink, mask kink, glove kink, dom/sub, indirect daddy kink, biting, rough sex, begging, brat breaking, voyeurism, just a dash of possessive choking, forced eye contact, oral fixation, tactical gear kink

Taglist: @ahoycaptainautumn @your-highnessmarvel @wolfgalsniper @confuseddipshit @prettynalilgay @merzkihstuff @alfie2401 @emberwolfgames @willowbrookesblog @meujias @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @magicgal @verios @flrwpwr @jewelsisurmom @imjusthereforghostsmutt @circuskatt

Chapterlist: chapter.1

You’ve been acting like a brat, and Ghost has had enough of it.

“You can consider this punishment. Can consider it me spoiling your bratty behavior. But you wanted my attention, and you’ve gotten it. So tell me now if you don’t want me to bend you over this desk and fuck you until it breaks, otherwise I’m taking what I want from you, and you’ll accept everything I give like the greedy fucking whore you’re pretending so hard not to be.”

He pauses, as if for your reply, though your tongue won’t move, your heart won’t beat; all of you tangled and drunken and warm; your stomach clenching almost painfully tight as you hear his hoarsened hum.

“I need an answer, love.”

“I…” you swallow, hard. Unable to deny that your panties are steadily soaking through for him, though still you somehow manage to stammer, “I’m not a whore you asshole…!”

You hear the smirk behind his mask. “You will be for me.”

Chapter 2

Authors Note: Guys, I don’t even know what to say, this is indulgent as fuck. Like, this is maybe the horniest shit I’ve ever written.

Thankyou to languidcryptid and tawus for betaing this! I really appreciate it! <3

Also, I used one quote from Ghost in here, because when he says it in-game my horny brain goes off – and if you know which line it is I’ll give you a flashy golden star~! *

ALSO also, be aware there’s elements of dub-con in this – not a lot imo, but just a heads up!

It takes a moment for you to actually obey him. Slowly closing the door behind you; barely removing your eyes from where he stands. Hearing its deafening click, and that sound alone speeds your heart. Feeling something in the air shift the very second you’re alone with him. And for all your unyielding obstinance, you’re still forced to swallow a sudden knot forming in your throat.

Seconds pass. Seconds that seem to last lifetimes, where the two of you merely watch each other. You, shifting nervously by the door, albeit with a stubbornly jutted chin. And he, behind his desk. Tall. Broad. Cut of wood. Watching you. Dark eyes running openly across your face, your throat, down your body. Before once again his gaze catches yours.

You wish he’d say something, anything. You can’t shake the way his eyes seem to sink hungry teeth in you, though you think you must be losing your mind, because he’s never looked at you quite like that, like he is right now – no matter how much you’ve longed for it. So you must be crazy right now, seeing things, making half-baked assumptions.

“You know why I brought you in here?” he asks at last. Voice thick.

It strikes an electrifying cord through you, his tone, the gruffness of it – vibrating down your spine and into the very tips of your fingers and toes.

You do know. Or, at least, you’re fairly fucking certain you do.

But of course you still lie about it.

“No.”

You hear a short, bearish breath; one that might accompany a clever smile.

“Ah. So you’re playing dumb, then,” he surmises, and his amusement at this fact has you bristling, resentful to be so easily read.

“No,” you reiterate, more forcefully, “I’m not playing anything.”

“You’ve been playing lots of things,” he counters. “That you’re fine, for one. That you haven’t been thinking about me a helluva lot more than you usually might, for another.”

Heat creeps up your face despite you fighting to stop it – and even though panic seizes your heart to hear him actually say that, and to say it so knowingly, you force your jaw to set rigidly. Because there’s no way he actually knows that you’ve been thinking about him… he’s just trying to get inside your head. This must be some intimidation technique he picked up during his time with the cartel or something.

Even as you tell yourself this, it sorta sounds like bullshit – but it’s easier to grasp than any other alternative.

“Of course I’m thinking about you,” you mutter, arms folding across your chest, “you’re standing right in front of me.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Drop the bullshit.”

There’s a steady calm about him, one that buries the storm beneath it, and it’s enough to still your tongue.

“I’ve let you get away with playing and pretending for far too long, apparently,” he says. “And with how your little act’s been falling apart recently, I think it’s time I finally stepped in.”

You don’t exactly know what he’s getting at, but it still manages to constrict your ribs. “Did you call me in here just to lecture me about shit you know nothing about?”

“I know enough,” he says. “I almost think you like making me act like your fuckin’ dad, dragging you in here for your lying ass to be spanked.”

The image of him bending you over his lap, spanking and kneading your ass, has you struggling just to blink for a few seconds before you somehow manage to shake yourself, arms folding tighter across your chest. And still a few flustered seconds more to muster up enough sarcasm to reform your defenses, willing yourself with every fiber of your being to both look and sound bored..

“So… are you going to spank me, then?” you ask dryly. “Is that it? Or can I go back to reading and the blissful ignorance it brings to your aggravating existence?”

His eyes glisten like shards of volcanic glass from behind his skull mask; penetrative, yet so difficult to read. “I wasn’t actually planning on spanking you, sweetheart – but that mouth of yours has its way of tempting me toward many things.”

The gravel in his voice has your stomach doing some sort of sticky-sweet summersault that has you swiftly changing the subject.

“Forgive my lack of foreplay,” you snap back at him, “but can you get to the fucking point?”

“I’m on point, love,” he returns, “regardless of how you keep trying to derail me.”

Slowly, he strides out from behind his desk. Dark eyes like arrows in you, piercing so deep you couldn’t hope to pluck them out even if you wanted to. And it takes everything in you not to jolt at the heavy sound of his approach. Not to run from his nearness as he carves through the distance between you. Forcing yourself to stand strong, instead, even whilst nervously eying him. Your arms faltering, unthinkingly, back down to your sides; fingernails scratching at the hemline of your jeans. Feeling very much like prey to a circling wolf, more and more hunted with each step he takes toward you.

His boots stop right before yours. Standing so close his shadow swallows yours. So close you’re forced to crane your neck even higher than you normally would just to meet his smoldering gaze.

“You’ve been acting like a spoiled brat.”

He’s as brusque as ever. A growl threaded through his low inflection, making his words feel dangerous.

You try to swallow against the dryness of your throat. To appear completely unaffected by how his mere proximity threatens to make your heart take a running leap out the nearest window.

“If this is going into some kind of infraction report, sir,” you reply tautly, staring directly up at him, refusing to look away, “I’m not so sure spoiled brat is really the appropriate term you’ll wanna file with.”

“Don’t act like you give a damn about what’s appropriate,” he coarses, cutting your cheeky antics short. “I’ll only tell you this one more time – I’m no longer interested in playing. You’re in here right now because you’ve been lashing out like a bloody fucking brat all week, looking to get a reaction from people.”

In his pause, you bite your lower lip harshly, only able to glower as you note the way his gaze trails heatedly over you. His voice a steady octave lower as he adds, “A reaction from me.”

If you felt like he was splintering his way inside your head before, it’s nothing compared to how you feel now. Panic freezing the soles of your shoes to the ground; eyes widening for just a fraction of a moment beneath how his own eyes slowly crease.

Eventually, after what feels like far too long, you force a scoff that lacks any of its desired weight. “You think I have an attitude problem just to get to you… ?” you wonder idly; wanting to tear your gaze from his, but finding yourself unable to. “My, that’s a cocky assumption, even for an ego as big as yours. I guess I decked Soap just to get to you, too?”

You hear his little smirk. “No. That was just an added bonus. And I know you’re playing dumb, but you seem to be forgetting that I’m not stupid either, love.”

You’re so caught in the intensity of his gaze that you nearly jump when his large hand is suddenly on your hip, strong fingers curling into one of your belt-loops; tugging you close before you can even think to object, jerking you into him, so close your navel bumps into his groin, such is the height of him. And even with his gloves, your shirt, his jeans – the contact is electric.

“You’ve been acting like fucking brat,” his growl reiterates, “because some part of you wants to be treated like one.”

You can’t move. Can’t respond. Heart throttling you, strangled in your throat. Your body stricken to stone as the tower of him looms over you, dark eyes dancing across your own. And when he leans down, masked face dipping low beside your own, you think you might actually suffer cardiac arrest as his voice pours thick and hot near your ear.

“You’re overworked,” he murmurs, and even with his mask his words warm your skin, prickling you with fevered goosebumps. “High-strung for a million different reasons, I’m sure.” You feel his fingers, coiling, tangling further in your belt loop. Feel his thumb slip under your shirt, trailing the naked ridge of your hip. “And it seems it’s made you needy.”

It almost sounds like an insult, though he purrs it like it’s not. He sounds almost wolfish. Hungry.

“I’m… I’m not needy–”

“You are,” he breathes. “For attention. For release. That’s why you’ve been lashing out like a rotten little princess, right…? You want the sort of attention I can give you. You need it.”

His fingers, curled around your belt-loop, slide instead along the front of your jeans, fingertips dipping down beneath your waistband, knuckles coarse along your skin.

And like this he jerks your body snug against his, so close you can feel how hard he’s getting; a hard, thick ridge trapped within his jeans – and though you’d sooner die than admit it, heat floods your insides to feel him so aroused.

So aroused just by this. By breathing in your ear. By feeling you against him, beneath him.

You feel his nose brush against your hair. Hear his thrum as he smells you, the ridges of his mask felt against your skin.

“I’ve seen you picturing this inside your head,” he says. His other hand smoothing up your side, thumb tracing the lowest curve of your breast. The fire of his touch threatening to ignite you, making all of you tense, and yet you can’t pull away, can’t even convince yourself to try. Needy, just like he says you are. “Me, taking care of you. Taking what I want from you. Teaching you how to behave.” His thumb rides up along the swell of your breast, squeezing it until you bite back a whimper, teasing your nipple into tightening for him even through all those layers of clothes that separate you. “Lie all you want to yourself,” he murmurs; the hard ridge of his erection twitching at those little sounds you fail to bite back on. “But you can’t lie to me.”

His voice is molten now. So dark, so ruggedly filthy that it clouds your every thought, slipping along your skin, pulling all of you toward him.

“I need an answer, love. And I need it now.”

“I…” you swallow, hard. Unable to deny that your panties are already soaked through for him, though still, through the grace of some stubborn god, you somehow manage to stammer, “I’m… I’m not a whore you asshole…!”

You hear the smirk behind his mask. “You will be for me.” He thumbs the front button of your jeans. “And that’s not an answer. So let’s try this again – and this time, I’d advise you listen. If you tell me to stop, if you tell me right now – I’ll stop. I’ll send you on your merry fuckin’ way.” His possessive hand, squeezing your breast, slides instead up your chest, up along your neck, coming to grasp your jaw, to tilt your face to his, his eyes like anchors over yours. “Say anything else – anything at all – and you’re not leaving here ‘til I’m fucking finished with you.”

Your lips barely part. The word stuck to your tongue. Stop. You should tell him to… right? If you don’t… Dammit, you can barely think anymore! Everything’s consumed by him, every inch of you aching, fingers itching to grab hold of him, anywhere, everywhere, as instead your fingernails dig angry crescents against your palms. But even then, even tongue-tied, even trembling, you can’t look away from him. A prisoner to those dark eyes and whatever their intentions.

You should say it. That one word, like a key that would set you free.

“Fuck you,” you hoarsely whisper instead. Words firm. Eyes wavering.

His eyes flicker over yours. Calculating. Assessing. Before all at once he’s releasing the front of your jeans, tattooed forearm slipping around your waist, lifting you effortlessly up and off the floor.

“Ah-Ghost–!”

He ignores you, though his eyes hold a little glint that could be amusement. Carrying you in one arm as he turns toward his desk, while impatiently brushing aside everything that sits atop it with the other.

Tactical gear, electronics, folders – a cacophony of valuable military equipment goes toppling to the floor, clattering noisily, the glass of some scope even sounding to break, but he doesn’t care, his eyes never leaving you. Chaos at his feet as he sits you on the edge of the desk, his giant hands encircling your knees, smoothing up your thighs as he spreads your legs for him, as he slots himself between them. Eyes like heated coals within his skeletal mask, so hot they feel to brand you.

“Ghost…” you barely tremble. Not sounding like you’re trying to stop him. Not even knowing what you’re saying, beyond his name, beyond that hush of desperation in it.

A few, firm fingers draw up your inner thigh, and you gasp as they trace the seam between your legs.

“Choices have consequences,” he purrs.

“Ghost–!”

You hear his heated smirk as he unbuttons your jeans. As he unzips them. As he teases the elastic waistband of your underwear. “I didn’t realize I’d have you crying my name so quickly,” he murmurs roughly. “Not that I’m objecting.” When his rough middle finger finds your clit, even with your panties you still moan aloud as he strokes it, as you hear his breath hitch. “Though now it seems you’re speechless… Odd, when you had so much to say before…”

You want to say something, anything, besides his name again, especially since every time you say it you sound more and more helpless – but you can’t exactly help yourself when he slips his giant hand out from the front of your opened pants, ripping his glove off, tossing it aside as his warm, calloused fingers slip down between your legs again. Down beneath your panty’s waistband, coaxing along your folds, middle finger slipping through how embarrassingly slick you are already.

It feels like you’ve been shocked, like you’ve been drowning until his touch made you gasp – every muscle in you seizing as you unthinkingly grab at his hulking biceps like your life depends on it, fingers twisting so tightly in his shirt it nearly hurts, winding just as tight as that coil in your stomach is, especially when you hear his voice again, so suddenly strained, his forearm between your legs flexing. His free hand taking hold of your waist in a grip that threatens to bruise, keeping your hips from moving as he strokes along your over-sensitive clit, fingers sinking, slipping up and down, teasing your aching entrance without actually dipping inside you.

“Fuuuucking hell…”

Even with his mask, you can see the way his jaw grits. Can hear the tension in his words, pulling every muscle lining his neck taut. “This wet for me already…? Fuck…”

You can’t exactly deny it, though embarrassment bids you try, even as you feel your thighs tremble, as arousal ties your eyebrows into an agonized knot.

“Ghost…!”

Fuck, it sounds like you’re begging. And he hums low, like a wolfish beast, like he knows this, like he loves it.

“Just the slightest little touch…” he breathes, circling the aching nub of your clit, and you whimper as your grip on his biceps tightens, “and already, you’re breaking. You really are so needy, aren’t you…”

“Y-you… just…” gods, you can scarcely string words together, “please, stop teasing me…!” you somehow manage to choke. Eyes stinging with the decided effort not to fall apart, this quickly, which you absolutely refuse to do with every fiber of your fucking being – he’s giving you enough shit as it is, and you can only imagine what he’d say, how he’d tease you, if you climaxed at barely a touch. But, fuck – fuck, you feel like you’re burning up already. Like every inch of you is fuel to him, tinder to his touch. Like even the smallest spark would set all of you ablaze.

“But I like teasing you…”

You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds. “You’re a- ahh… a fucking prick…!”

He shuts you up by drawing firm, slick pressure along your clit with his thumb. Fingers sliding lower, teasing your entrance, enjoying the way your body tenses each time he does.

“Had it with your fucking lip,” he says, his voice to rough it verges on a growl. Taking you by the throat, his thumb tilting your jaw up, his eyes catching yours. “I think we’re past the point of you pretending you don’t want this. So ask me nicely – behave – and I’ll make you cum so hard you can’t see straight.”

Your cheeks singe with flustered heat, not wanting to fold, to do as he says, to give him any sort of satisfaction in it. But as his talented thumb pulls a pinched moan from you, you can only resist for so long before you hear yourself giving in, hear yourself sounding perhaps more broken than you’ve ever sounded in your life.

“Please…”

You know he likes it; you sounding like that, you obeying. He doesn’t tell you this, but his eyes darken, his hold on your jaw growing tense. “Please what…?”

You hate him. Gods, you absolutely hate him. But your body, your traitorous mind – they no longer belong to you. They belong to him, and you both know it. You’re putty in his hands, too far gone to fight it.

You bite your lips closed as harshly and for as long as you’re able to, which pathetically isn’t very long, before you’re whining so quietly you almost can’t even hear yourself, pleading in a wavered string of breath, “Please make me cum…”

Desire smolders his gaze into something harsh, and he thrums his approval, the sound like thunder in his chest. “Good girl,” he breathes. Thumb tracing your jawline, your chin, your cheek, as he admires your pleasure-twisted expression. As he slips one thick finger inside your begging entrance; groaning as he feels your walls tighten around him in response.

“Ohh – fuck!”

“Just relax…” His finger slips fully inside you, dragging back out again. Stroking, thrusting, as he slips in a second finger. A groan caught deep in his throat as you cry out for him, as your spine arches for more even as some part of you still resists, clinging to him so fiercely you feel your fingers might snap.

“Gh-Ghost!”

“Stop fighting it. Stop fighting everything.” His voice is ragged as he pumps you full, thumb circling your swollen clit. “Let me in… let me take control… give me all of it, everything…” His pace quickens, his strokes more firm, pleasure squeezing your lower spine, sparking stars across your vision. Your legs falling slack for him as his hips nudge your thighs even further apart. His eyes like firebrands as he watches you crumbling. “I’ll make you feel good… I’ll take care of you…”

Not thinking, hardly even able to, driven only by need, your trembling fingers fumble toward the dark fabric of his mask; that portion which cowls his jaw and throat. And at once his body tenses, his instinct to react, the speed in which he does so uncanny – his hand on your throat snatching up both your wrists in a viperous grip, so swiftly you yelp in surprise.

His hand shackles yours. Eyes shining down at you like arrowheads. “Not happening, love,” he lowly says.

Apparently, he’s deciphered something you haven’t – whatever it was you were after in reaching for his mask. And it takes a few distorted seconds of you hazily blinking up at him before you realize what you were trying to do. That you were trying to drag it off of him.

Hesitation scalds your face upon realizing. Your hands falling completely limp in his grasp, surrendering.

Of course he wouldn’t let you take his mask, why did you even try it?

Yet… even as you inwardly scold yourself, telling yourself you’re mad, you’re not thinking straight… now that you realize you wanted to kiss him, you can think of nothing else.

“Please…” you whisper – not really meaning to be so quiet, but the words will barely come out. “I’ll do whatever you want…”

Even then, it appears he hears you clearly, because you see and feel the broad line of his shoulders tighten at the offer. Though, still, he doesn’t respond.

“Anything, just… I want to kiss you…” You bite your lower lip; stomach clenching as you notice the way his eyes track your mouth's movement. “I want to taste you…”

His lashes grow heavy, gaze half-lidded as he studies you. Dark, thick honey stirring in his gaze, though in every other facet of his being he appears completely unaffected. His hold on your wrists rigid, unyielding.

“Wretched little minx,” he concludes at last. Lust edging with caution, as if you can’t be trusted, as if a kiss alone might be his end.

You purse your lips at him. “Please?”

If you thought you could weaponize your pleading to get what you wanted, you’re soon to find he’ll play just as dirty – weaponizing his touch to silence you, and quite efficiently, too. Stroking his fingers slow and deep inside you again, robbing you of everything but his annihilating friction, your all encompassing need; replacing all your words with whimpers.

“Greedy,” he hoarsely breathes, pumping into you faster, curling his fingers with every stroke so that he drags against that spot which makes your toes curl, has you begging him for more.

He seems distracted by all those desperate sounds you’re making, by the feel of your slick heat swallowing him up. Distracted enough not to decently shackle your wrists, even though you know he could, he easily could. But his hold still slips, and the second it does you reach to peel up his mask again, and this time he doesn’t stop you. You just barely raise it high enough to show his muscled throat, his strong jaw, that smart mouth, and the second you do his lips slam into yours, so fiercely you don’t even have a chance to look at him, to see those lips you long to taste, but you feel them, oh how you fucking feel them.; their plushness, their heat, their urgency in parting yours so his tongue can slip inside you, warm and yearning and demanding.

He tastes like honeyed whiskey; like black forest air warmed by savage wildfire. He tastes like someone you could become lost in. Could grow intoxicated on. And already, in a kiss, you’re drowning.

It’s too much, and you want more. His forceful, thrusting fingers. His slowly stroking thumb. His lips as they claim you, make you his.

Euphoric waves crash so fiercely against you that every sticky coil in your belly snaps, leaving you nowhere to go but crashing down, falling apart on his thrusting fingers as your lips fall slack; mouth agape against his as you whine and moan helplessly, pussy clinging to his fingers in desperate waves as you grab his nape, as you pull him closer, hips bucking against his palm as if to take him deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, maintaining a steady, brutal pace; his tattooed forearm a well oiled machine that never slows, deliberate in its friction. Dragging out the length of your orgasm until your lungs feel fractured, until you can scarcely even breathe, with his own breath growing heavy just at the sound of you. Both your panting mouths tracing across one another’s, lips and tongues just barely touching in the interlude of a kiss. And the very second you’re able to rake down a breath without sobbing, he cards his free hand up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, dragging you into yet another unforgiving kiss.

His tongue ravishes you, claiming every inch of your mouth as his. And when he pulls away again, it’s only enough to grab your jaw, to speak gruffly against your lips. “We’re not done here yet. So be a good girl and bend over the desk for me. Face down.”

You whimper as his thick, wet fingers slide out of you, but you’re left with little time to object, to say anything even if you wanted to.

He takes your hips, lifting you off the desk, your tipped toes fighting for balance. His lips trailing to the corner of your mouth, back along your jaw, then down your nape as he slowly turns you into facing away from him. His large hands smoothing around your waist, before taking both your hands in his from behind, guiding them to the edge of the desk. His waist nudging into the curves of your ass, coaxing you into bending over it.

One giant palm smooths down your spine as he presses you down against the desk's surface. Thrums deep in his chest, enjoying the view of you like this. And though you can’t see him, not with your panting face pressed sideways against the wood, your stomach’s still caught in sticky little knots, all of you weak for him, all of you so vulnerable.

“I’ve imagined what you might look like bent over my desk like this,” he purrs, his resonance jagged. “Daydreams don’t do it justice.”

He takes the waistband of your jeans and underwear from behind; rough, impatient; tugging them down over the curve of your ass, jerking them gruffly down your thighs, the fabric scraping against your skin with his harshness as he leaves them tangled around your knees. A shiver running down the full length of your spine as cool air kisses your soaked and swollen lips, so utterly exposed – a shudder so obvious that it makes him chuckle, his amusement thick.

Your breath grows sharp as you hear the shuffled sounds of his belt unbuckling. Of his dark cargos tugged inch by inch from the firm ridges of his hips.

“You really have been a fucking brat,” he says. “And I have no intention of going easy on you.”

You can’t fight the temptation to try and glance back at him; attempting to pick yourself up just enough to turn around and look, though he takes a firm hold of the back of your neck before you’re able to, shoving your face back down against the wood as you choke back surprise.

“Still disobeying me,” he lowly observes, fingers tightening around you until you flinch; yet even then his dominion over you has your back arching, your hips squirming, has you fighting not to whine like a needy bitch in heat. “I said face down.”

You feel heat radiating off his thighs as they brush against the naked backs of yours, his hand keeping your face down. And you actually moan when you feel the swollen head of his cock nudge your lower lips, drawing a hot, slick line along their crease.

He groans as your velvet folds envelop him, the head of his cock just barely pushing through. Your body so warm, so wet, so inviting; your needy mewls tempting him to push in more, to fuck in deeper. “I love the way you sound like this… you sound so fucking good…”

You expect him to draw this out, to torment, to tease you, but it seems he’s robbed of restraint to.

He grabs your neck and waist roughly as his hips flex forward, both of you moaning as he sinks inside you, your walls spasming, straining around his size – and it’s a damn good you’re so wet you’re actually dripping because otherwise he might not’ve fit. His cock’s built like the rest of him – thick, hard, massive – and the way it stretches you is almost too much to take, pain and molten pleasure sinking their teeth in you.

Your moans grow ragged against the desk as, with a final ruthless thrust, he bottoms out; your eyebrows constricted in a knot, spine arching with the strain to adjust to him.

His hand round your neck relaxes, his other smoothing up the curve of your spine.

“You’re taking me so well,” he growls. Sliding out just a bit, only to shove his way back inside, making you bite back a haggard whine.

“You might wanna keep it down, love,” he says, thrusting hard and deep inside of you again, his groin wetly slapping your ass as you yelp in pain and pleasure. “Otherwise, everyone else locked in here with us might hear you… and after hearing you like this, they’ll likely want a taste. But you’re mine. I have no intention of sharing.”

He slides out again, slamming back in ruthlessly, like he wants you to sing for him, and you do, you weakly mewl like you’re wordlessly begging for it.

“Then again… there’s no way they’re not listening to this, already. Not with you sounding like that. Not with flimsy walls like these…”

His hips take on a slow, agonizing rhythm that leaves you clinging to the edge of the desk, gasping for breath as coils pull tight in your belly, so fierce they threaten to snap. Trying to contain every sound you make, even the sound of your erratic panting, though it requires so much effort you feel it might drive you mad.

“Should we give them a show, sweetheart…?”

Under any other circumstances, you might think he was kidding. But with the way his thrusts gradually mount in speed, hammering deeper as his fingers dig into your neck and the plushy give of your hip, bouncing your ass against his groin at a rising pace – you’re oh-so-swiftly reduced to nothing but a needy fucking mess, and you know he’s not fucking around with you.

“N-No! D-Don't!”

Your pleas fall on deaf ears. And even with him fucking you harder than you’ve ever been fucked in your life, flustered heat still manages to burn up your neck and cheeks at the thought of what everyone would say to you if they heard this, heard you so pathetically unhinged like this; if they knew how Ghost had you splayed over his desk right now, making you drunk on his dick.

But even with your begging, his pace doesn’t slow; the relentless creaking of his desk and the wet slap of skin filling up the room. And when you try to smother your own cries with a desperate palm flattened to your lips, he releases your neck to instead snatch both your wrists, wrenching them down behind you, pinning them to the small of your back as the desk rattles with his forceful thrusts.

“I think it might be a nice consolation for how you’ve been treating them all week,” he teases between heavy breaths.

“N-no, ple- ahh– Gh- don’t!” you gasp, words broken with his every thrust. “Ple-ease… don’t, don’t –!”

“You want me to stop?”

You don’t respond, you can’t; and you whine as you feel his heavy weight lean over you, your shoulders wrenched back tighter. His broad chest flush against your back back, pinning your shackled arms between you, as his other hand snakes around your stomach, guiding your hips up higher beneath him.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

His weight nearly crushing you, he ruts into you at a slower, deeper angle claws an elongated moan from your throat. His haggard breath drawing close behind your ear.

“You want more. You need it.”

Even strained as your every muscle is, any semblance of composure cracking, his words still pull a shiver from you, your ragged gasps fogging the wood of the desk.

“Tell me.”

You want to deny it. But with how delirious you are, how mind-numbingly desperate and near the point of breaking, there’s no way in hell you can.

“Y-yes,” you choke out brokenly. “I need it.”

You feel a rockslide in his chest as he groans; a noise teetering on the edges of self-control. Feel him nipping at your earlobe, lapping at the sting. His breath hitching at the end of every thrust, the momentum of his hips slipping, “You need me to break you in every way imaginable, to make you fall apart again, don’t you?”

Your climax is so close it’s almost painful; your eyebrows twisting. “Y-yes!”

He groans in your ear as his pace quickens; more forceful, hammering that aching place that makes you squeeze him. “Fuck – You make it sound so good.”

He doesn’t even have to tell you to keep going, you keep begging him anyway, you can’t help yourself.

“Please – fuck – Ghost–!” you nearly sob, “Don’t stop, please d-don’t stop, I’m so close–!”

When his tongue traces your ear, you can’t help yourself – crying out desperately, gasping out his name – knees buckling beneath you as your slick walls spasm around him, squeezing tight in wave after wave as pleasure consumes you, makes your lungs seize, makes your mind break.

His momentum shatters; cock surging hard as iron as he sucks your earlobe between his lips, before his forehead falls heavy against the back of your neck, his length throbbing deep inside you. Groaning like an uncaged beast as he pours himself inside you with every haggard thrust, filling you so completely that by the time his assault slows, both your cum already drips down the backs of your trembling thighs.

You can scarcely breathe as your vision slowly returns. He can scarcely breathe, as he balances his weight on one forearm so as not to crush you beneath the mountain of him. And when he finally slides his cock out of you, cum trails like sticky, melted pearls from your abused hole to his swollen tip. His mouth warm, his lips soft along your nape, trailing your skin with lazy kisses, before his mask is pulled back down in place again.

“You’re a pretty mess,” he softly breathes. Releasing your aching wrists as he lifts himself off of you. Taking your hips firmly, helping you to stand, to face him, though your knees buckle the second he releases you.

His eyes widen as he takes your hips again swiftly, steadies you on your feet, before he lets out a chuckled huff. “Easy there, sweetheart." His eyes crease with what you suspect must be a small smile. "I should help you into a bath.”

Despite how nice any form of bathing sounds, and despite that you definitely can’t take a shower with your bones transformed to jelly like this, you still tense your jaw at him. The reality of your situation, of what the two of you have just done, slowly sinking its claws into you, along with all those feelings you’ve apparently been running from.

You’re not sure you can run from them anymore, and the thought terrifies you.

This was probably just a quick fuck to him. But to you it's something different. Something much more tangled. Something that squeezes your heart into a glass-like, throbbing knot.

Fuck, what did you just get yourself into…? Why did you let this happen?

“I can get there myself,” you insist; not rudely, just… stiff. Uncertain.

Maybe he really has fucked the brattiness out of you.

As you shimmy up your pants and he buttons up his, you take a tentative step as if to brush past him, to escape this web of feelings you’ve tangled yourself in – only for your knees to wobble and give out again, with him catching your waist easily, pulling you into him.

“Alright,” he says, staring down at you. “But maybe you should wait ‘till your legs are working.”

Despite everything, you feel yourself blush at his nearness. At his teasing. At that way he’s hushly watching you.

“I can’t,” you murmur. More vulnerable than you’d like to. Your eyes passing beneath his own. “If we stay in here too long… people might suspect something.”

You can actually see his eyes crease with a slow and steady grin. “Love… I hate to break it to you… but unless you sobbing my name for the past ten minutes was because we were exorcising some sort of demon, there’s no way in fucking hell they don’t know exactly what we’ve been up to.”

chapter 3

Author Note: I might add another chapter to this next, where you’re forced into dealing with all the messy feelings you have following the famous ‘fucked on Ghost’s desk until you can’t walk straight’ incident ~ OR ~ I might write a Ghost/Soap/Reader threesome. If you have a preference lemme know! 😘~💕 thanks for reading

#cod ghost #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #fanfic #fanfiction #cod modern warfare #mw2 #cod mw #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #brat

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0nlythrowharrybeaux · 1 year

Note

7 Smut.

WARNINGS: Subbry, mommy!kink, fem dom, humiliation/degradation, binding, CBT, overstimulation, orgasm torture, ruined/forced orgasms, anal play, hand job

Harry was sure he couldn't handle this for another minute. His abs were tense as you stroked his cock quickly. His hands were tied behind his back and he was just squeezing his fists as he fought off the feeling of his orgasm. When he chanced a glance up at you, you were already smirking down at him and he started to shake his head, he knew something was coming...

"Please! Please I can't take any more!" he whined. He was saying a lot of things like this for the past 15 minutes, but he had a safe word he could use if he actually wanted you to stop. But sometimes he just needed to allow himself to believe that he was stuck and had no other option but to just take it. His eyes squeezed shut and his jaw dropped open as the prostate vibrator inside of him switched to a pulsing tempo. You watched in delight as his legs, also bound to the chair he was in, started to quake. He moaned helplessly as you started to stroke his cock in time with the pulses of the vibrator. "Fuck mommy, please! Please, please, please..." he whimpered. The cock ring he had on felt so incredibly tight now and the even the way you had bound up his balls had him losing his mind. So constricted and the longer he went without coming the more swollen and achey they felt. It hurt so good - he felt hot and tingly and absolutely tortured.

"Please what hmm?" you asked.

"I need to come. Please let me come, mommy."

"But you're playing along so well today, my handsome boy." you hummed as you suddenly released his cock from your slippery grip and his body relaxed after a few seconds with a pitiful sigh. You could see that he needed to come so fucking bad; his cock was so fucking hard and ruddy. It was standing straight up and shiny from the lube on your hand, but his tip was steadily oozing out pre-cum. You grinned as you started reaching down to take him into your hand again and it twitched dramatically all on its own. Harry pouted as you laughed softly at him.

"Mommy, please...it hurts." he moaned lowly.

"It hurts right here?" you asked him and tenderly squeezed his balls and he groaned and nodded. You could see him trying to close his legs, but each one was bound to a leg of the chair. You started to squeeze a bit harder and he whined out at the tenderness. He hadn't come in a week and well now that he was finally having the opportunity you were extending his edging challenge. He panted wen you finally released the strong grip over his balls. You ran your thumb along the top half of his erection to collect a stray drop of pre-come that was slowly dripping down the length of his cock and you smiled, "Love it when you get yourself this wet. Such a good boy for me." you praised him and he sighed breathily as you pulled your index finger from his shaft and he watched you sink it into your mouth and suck it clean of his arousal.

Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut because watching you clean your finger in your mouth was making him think about you sucking him off. And in the condition he was in, he swore he could feel the teasing and gentle laps of your tongue right against his slit, sucking and licking up his pre-come every time more bubbled up from the tip. And your mouth was always to hot and soft, you took his big cock all the way, every time. Fuck, it made him tense up as he imagined how it felt when you'd gag around him. He moaned lowly and started to grind down onto the vibrator inside of him and it slipped just a little deeper and it pulsed hard against a spot that had his eyes crossing and his entire body tingling, he let out the most pitiful moans you'd ever heard, just watching him do anything he could to get off.

"Oh my..." you hummed smugly as you watched the beads of his pre-come pooling right up against his tip become more and more milky. He was coming just like this without your help and it was incredible to watch. You looked into his eyes and reached forward and just before you wrapped your hand around his cock you smirked, "Never mind, clearly you've got this covered. No need for me." you said smugly and he looked at you with desperate eyes as he groaned in frustration and pouted.

"Mommy, please help me come. I need you." he sighed shakily as he pulled on his restraints. "Fuuuuuck!" he shouted as he tossed his head back in frustration and you watched on in amusement.

You reached over to your phone on the bed and instead just tapped at the screen in a rhythm a few times before the phone recorded that rhythm and seconds later Harry's back arched as the toy vibrated just how you wanted against his prostrate until his entire body was quaking. You then wrapped your hand around his cock and started to give it long and consistent strokes. "Thank you, mommy. Thank you so much, don't stop. Thank you so much!" he panted in exhaustion. You loved to hear him thanking you and moaning in pleasure over and over and over again.

"Oh fuck, I'm coming!" he mewled and as soon as you saw his sperm collecting at his messy little slit you pulled your hand away, but despite you pulling away his cock started to twitch and pulse wildly as his come spurted out of him in thick, milky ropes, making a mess of his sweaty chest and abs. He groaned in frustration as his orgasm continued without any friction, but he kept coming regardless. It was such an empty and dissatisfying feeling for him he literally felt tears forming at his waterline. He was trying to thrust his hips, seeing your hand just out of reach. He couldn't help it as he yelled in frustration and you just giggled as you watched him suffering from his ruined orgasm. When he started to calm and his head fell forward you reached over to your phone and put the vibrator on the lowest setting, just enough to keep him leaking and as hard as he was now for you. You still needed to make him come, he did this all on his own.

"Don't cry, pretty boy." you cooed as you lifted his face up to see yours and he was gone. His eyes tearful and glazed over, forehead sweaty with a couple strands of hair sticking to it and you brushed them back. "Got more for, mommy?" you asked him and he just whined and shook his head in exhaustion and you smiled and tutted, "Well that's too bad, because I still need to make you come, so you better get busy and make me some more of this." you said as your other hand collected his sperm from his chest.

"Mommy-"

"You didn't have permission to come, my sweet boy." you reminded and he pouted.

"I couldn't help it." he explained softly and you smiled.

"I know, but you disobeyed, baby."

"M'sorry, mommy."

"I know you are, but you still need to be punished." you said and he pouted and huffed but that soon faded when you wrapped your left hand around his cock, right under the head and then your right hand came over and you just started to rub over his tip in circles. Smearing his cum all over him using it as another form of lubricant.

"Oh fuck!" he cried out at the sensitivity of you just solely focusing on his tip like that. His body tensed up and he started inhaling sharply, groaning and straining against his restraints because it was just too much. He was too sensitive. Then your left hand started stroking him and his abs started to tighten up again and you smiled.

"Fuck, such a good boy with a beautiful, big cock. Gonna give mommy, more of your tasty come?" you asked and he nodded. "Good boy, whenever you're ready, OK?"

"Yes, mommy. Oh yes, yes, yes, fuuuuuck!" he whimpered and slurred curses together as his orgasm kept building forcibly. He was trying so, so hard to get there and after another minute or so he slightly raised his hips and the first stream of it started to trickle down your fist. He was moaning loudly and uncontrollably, his body trembling from how sensitive and tense he was. "Thank you, thank you thank you!" he slurred and moaned over and over as he came undone.

"Yes, you're so welcome, my pretty boy. You're so good for me, baby. Fuck, still got so much more for me. Mmmm, keep going." you encouraged him sweetly as you milked him gently of all of the sperm he had left for now. You kept going and he kept coming until it wasn't as milky anymore. So you gave him a few more languid strokes before you released him gently, "Open up for me." you hummed, "Good boy, clean your mess." you said and he eagerly licked his cum from your fist, "Good boy. Played so well today."

"Thank you, mommy." he hummed and you kissed his lips quickly.

"Of course. Gonna get you untied and in a nice bath, how's that sound?" you asked and he nodded. "Perfect. Did so good for me. I'm so proud of you." you praised him again and kissed his cheek, "So good, my pretty boy."

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles smutty blurb #harry styles smutty fic #sub!harry #sub!harry styles #subrry #harry x you #harry x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #sub!harry x dom!reader #harry styles reader insert #harry styles blurbs #harry styles blurb #picture prompts 2 #0nlythrowharrybeaux

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relia-robot-writes · 13 days

Text

Goo that has undergone carcinization

Erica rolled over as the morning sun hit her face. She expected to sink blissfully back into her goolfriend, but instead hit a hard, rubbery outer shell. She sleepily protested as she levered her eyes open to took at Gleria. "Baaaabe..."

"Sorry, Love," said Gleria, whose phone was currently floating inside her charcoal-tinted spherical mass and texting furiously. "Bad news from work, gotta respond." She stretched out of bed and extended a handful of pseudopods to skitter upstairs to her office, still writing the response of per my last email.

Erica blinked from the waterproof bed as her goolfriend vanished. "I'll make breakfast for us, okay?" she called.

---

A shower and some coffee later, Erica made her way up to Gleria's office with a plate full of delicious food and the second cup of coffee. "Breakfast, babe!" No response. "Babe?"

She rounded the corner to find Gleria frowning so much that it looked like she was growing armored plates. "Gleria, you look like you're going to explode. Take a break and eat something?"

"Can't." She rippled. "Somebody pushed an update that broke the whole system, like I told them it would, and now I have to fix it because the company is losing millions of dollars per minute. Just leave it there."

Erica frowned as she put down the plate. "Gleria, it's Saturday. This is supposed to be your day off."

"They got me on overtime. This'll be good for us, eventually." She extended a large pseudopod split down the middle and grabbed the food, the coffee, the plate, and the mug all at once and drew them into her core. Her computer beeped and she cursed at it. "I really can't talk right now. Sorry." The pseudopod lay there on the table, slowly hardening.

"Don't forget to drink some water, okay?" Erica tried to caress Gleria, but her membrane was so tough she couldn't get through at all. She gave her a kiss on her plating, then went back downstairs, a worried look on her face.

---

Erica leaned forward on the couch, tongue sticking out between her teeth as she guided her character stealthily along an outer ledge. Carefully... Carefully...

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

Erica jumped, and so did her character, thirty stories straight down. She scrambled at the controller for a moment before her character hit the ground and the game displayed "YOU DIED" at her. She sighed, put down the controller, and looked up at the ceiling, where softer but more creative cursing was emanating from. She filled up a water bottle and trekked upstairs.

Her goolfriend had formed another large split pseudopod for symmetry, and had clearly banged on the desk with it. She was steadily cursing so hard Erica thought she might actually boil. She put the water bottle down next to another water bottle, completely full. "More bad news?"

"Those idiots rebooted in the middle of my update and completely bricked their machines. I have to start all over." she banged one of her pseudopods on the table again for emphasis.

"Sounds like a them problem?"

"Yes, but I'm the only one that can fix it."

Erica checked her phone. "It's been six hours, babe. Can't you at least take a break?"

"Not without losing the company a bunch of money."

Erica leaned against the wall, in Gleria's line of sight. "So let it! It's not your fault, right? You even warned them! Its not like theyre gonna fire you if youre the only one that can fix it."

Gleria's core gyrated, still jostling with her phone and the plate and mug from breakfast. "I'm... I'm so close. I've almost got it. I can't stop now."

Erica frowned, the heaved a sigh. "Okay, but do actually drink some water, okay? You look dehydrated." She clicked the two full water bottles together for emphasis.

"Yeah, sure," said Gleria, already absorbed in her work again. "Thanks, love."

"You're gonna seize up," warned Erica, to deaf goo. She sighed again and made her way back downstairs.

---

Erica was partway through making pasta for dinner when she heard a thump from above. She eyed the timer, then hurried upstairs. "Babe? You okay?"

Erica flicked on the light to see her goolfriend, computer shut down, toppled over on what was now apparently her back. The two large pseudopods had hardened into claws and dragged her over backwards, leaving her tiny typing/foot pseudopods waving in the air, clacking against her hardened skin. "I don't want to say I told you so," grunted Erica as she heaved at the large goo, "but did you drink any of the water I got you?"

Gleria toppled over, back onto her hardened front. Erica stared at her for a moment before her phone buzzed. Gleria had texted her. "Sorry, you were totally right, can you please help get me to the tub so I can osmose a little?"

"You can't even talk?!" Erica goggled. "Babe, you've got to take better care of yourself!"

The crystallized goo in front of her clacked her claws in what was probably supposed to be chagrined agreement.

"Well, it's just like I said," said Erica, grinning as she helped Gleria navigate the stairs. "You really need to find a job that'll make you less... crabby."

Erica dodged the pinch and ran ahead to run the tub, laughing all the way.

#relia writes #slimetember

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ultram0th · 1 year

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31 Days of Derek Hale

Day 13: Clown

Info │ 01 │ 02 │ 03 │ 04 │ 05 │ 06 │ 07 │ 08 │ 09 │ 10 │ 11 │ 12 │ 13

Derek practically whimpered like a wolf pup as he watched his husband, Stiles, slowly slump to the couch. The usually vibrant and cheerful human had been going through some hardships at work, and it’d really affected his mood; thus, the normally smiley and singsongy Stiles was all gray and sulky. The alpha werewolf frowned as he saw Stiles’s thin shoulders rise and fall with a sigh.

On a normal day, Derek was the grumpy one, mad at the world and scowling at every living creature that dared to cross his path; and Stiles would be his anchor, calming him down with a simple kiss on the cheek or by placing a warm hand on his broad shoulder. Now that the roles were evidently reversed, Derek was struggling to find out the right things to do/say, empathy never really being one of his strong suits.

“Babe?” Derek asked as he walked over to the couch and placed a hand on his husband’s shoulder as he would’ve done had the roles been swapped. “Um… have you tried not thinking about it?”

Stiles’s frown deepened and he rubbed at his temples, making Derek feel guilty.

Derek flinched and quickly tried to make things better. “Got a headache?” he asked, already dashing to the bathroom. “I’ll grab you some Ibuprofen!”

As Derek leaned over the sink, images of his sad husband kept replaying in his mind, making him grimace. He felt guilty for not being able to cheer up Stiles like he would do for him whenever he was moody. He couldn’t help but feel a little helpless and, what was worse, was that whenever he felt like this, it was usually Stiles who convinced him of otherwise with a little corny joke.

Derek loved his husband with all of his heart, and it pained him to see Stiles sad. He missed his smile, he missed his laugh.

“Damn it,” Derek cursed under his breath, “I wish I could cheer him up.”

The second the words left his mouth, Derek felt a shudder ripple through him. The sensation morphed into an odd tingling that consumed his whole body before fading, but not before being reduced to a tickle that actually made Derek laugh.

“Hyuck! Hyuck!” Derek guffawed, his normal throaty chuckle sounding more like a cartoonish wail that was comically deep. The werewolf jerked back and cleared his throat, wondering why he’d just laughed like that.

He shook it away and opened up the mirror cabinet to grab some Ibuprofen for Stiles, gasping when he saw his reflection after closing it.

His normally jet-black hair was green! Derek dropped the small pills in shock as he ran a shaky hand through his green hair, his eyes wide at the vibrant color that would without a doubt, draw a lot of attention his way.

“What’s, *giggle, wrong with my hair— Hyuck! Hyuck!” Derek laughed again. This time, he finally realized that he’d been smiling the entire time. Although he was confused and slightly panicked over what was happening to him, his face looked alight with zeal. His pearly whites were on full display, which brought about something new to him. Derek had always had larger front teeth, Stiles sometimes referring to them as Bunny Teeth, but his eyes widened when he saw them grow in size until they protruded over his bottom lip, effectively giving him over-exaggerated buck teeth.

Derek barely had time to react to his large teeth before he witnessed his nose shudder. Its skin reddened drastically until it looked cherry red, even taking on a shimmery sheen. It then steadily inflated, rounding out until Derek had a red clown nose affixed to his face.

“I look ridiculous!” Derek giggled, still grinning widely despite his inner panic.

The altered werewolf’s first thought was to rush to Stiles, knowing that his husband would figure out what was happening to him. Derek quickly hurried out of the bathroom, stumbling over his feet as he moved. Derek’s eyes widened even further when he witnessed his feet elongating past their usual size thirteen, growing comically huge with large stumpy toes capping them.

With each step he took, Derek’s new feet slapped loudly against the hardwood floors and he struggled to maintain his balance. His gait resembled someone more clumsy, struggling to walk a straight line. He kept bouncing against the walls, knocking over pictures and causing a ruckus as he moved.

With a loud giggle, Derek waddled into the living room where Stiles moped. His husband took one look at him and scrunched up his eyebrows in confusion.

“Der?” he asked. “What are you doing?”

Instead of asking for help, Derek heard himself laugh, “Hyuck! Hyuck! I heard that there’s someone who’s a little down!” He cringed at how he was acting, this cheery clown attitude a direct contrast with his usual self.

Stiles just stared blankly ahead. “Huh?”

“Want a balloon?” Derek happily asked. “I got a real big one for you!”

With large, flailing motions, Derek searched all around his clothes. His busy show wouldn’t allow him to display his shock over the bright neon colors that his black clothes had been magically dyed to. Derek felt as if he were a passenger in his own body, hearing himself speak and feeling himself move, but he didn’t have any control. He was helpless as he behaved like some sugary sweet clown, unable to stop smiling and giggling the entire time.

When Derek couldn’t find a balloon, he frowned before perking up with an a-ha motion. Pursing his lips and whistling through his large buck teeth, he unzipped his now bright yellow pants and let them fall to the ground.

He exaggeratedly gasped as he looked down at his soft cock, grabbing at his green hair. “Oh no!” he chirped. “You don’t want that small balloon!”

He winced at calling himself small, but then flinched when he saw the corner of Stiles’s mouth slowly pull upward. Seeing Stiles doing so sent a fluttering feeling through Derek’s chest, and he started to feel a little excited, his panic steadily fading.

Derek felt himself stick his thumb in his mouth and take in a deep breath, puffing out his chest. He then puffed out his cheeks and acting like he was blowing air into himself, pausing every so often to take a deep breath.

Stiles let out a little chuckle.

Derek felt himself perk up, his cock instantly rocketing to attention. It swelled up and stood out in front of him. Derek dropped his thumb from his mouth and gestured towards his hard cock.

“Ta-da!” he cheered, puffing his chest back out and setting his hands onto his hips proudly as he pushed his hips forward so that his rock hard member was closer to his husband.

Finally, Stiles’s face broke out into a loud smile and he started to laugh.

At seeing his husband finally laughing and being able to see his beautiful smile again, Derek’s cock throbbed and began to leak precum. His own smile was back in full force.

“Oh, thank you, Der,” Stiles cooed as he sat up and gave his husband a big hug. “You always know how to cheer me up.”

“Hyuck! Hyuck!” Derek guffawed, his face blushing wildly as Stiles kissed his cheek lovingly. Seeing the love of his life smiling again, Derek figured that as long as it made his husband happy, he was fine with being a werewolf clown.

#31 days of derek hale #derek hale #tyler hoechlin #Clown #Clown TF #Hair change #voicechange #foot growth #loss of control #stiles stilinski #sterek

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crybaby-bkg · 10 months

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sᴄᴏʀɴᴇᴅ | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇʟᴠᴇ

Bakugou x f!reader Warnings/Tags: bit of PDA, beginnings of a panic attack, unresolved sexual tension, brief violence in the end. Word Count: 6.8k Minors/blank/ageless blogs DNI!

Main Masterlist AO3

“So, let me get this straight,” Vanity says around the food in her mouth before swallowing loudly, making you chuckle. “Number four hero, Dynamight, not only moved you into his apartment, asked you out to become your boyfriend, but he’s also making it public by taking you to the annual hero gala?”

The silence stretches on in the quietness of the warehouse, both of you looking at each other over the bowl of noodles you share. You pretend to be thinking, scratching your head a little before humming.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” You shrug faux nonchalantly, before a huge grin breaks your face. “This whole thing is…wild to me.” You whisper though, voice suddenly small as everything starts to sink in. Just about a year ago, you had made it your mission to take Dynamight down for some sexist comment he made. And now you’re comfy cozy with each other, sharing kisses and falling asleep together on the couch.

“Yeah, I would’ve never imagined this for you, but, I’m happy. You look happy.” Vanity tells you with a small smile, her eye casted low before she looks up to take all of you in. There seems to be some kind of glow on your skin, the air around you lighter and softer, something she doesn’t think she’s ever seen before.

“I’m jealous,” Vanity states plainly, before she swallows thickly again, looking around the room. You reach out to grab her hand, feel how it shakes in your grip before you squeeze her, a concerned look passing over your face.

“Really? What for?” You ask her, head tilted to the side. She places her chopsticks down, gathers both of your hands, and it breaks your heart the way her chin wobbles ever so slightly.

“Of the fact that you can trust men again.” She whispers, voice shaking with every syllable.

“It’s not all men,” you interject but she shakes her head quickly at you, her hair falling in front of her eyepatch.

“Yeah, I know, but its one. And its one that has so much status and power in the world, and yet he’s actually not a piece of shit.” You both laugh softly at that, you giving her an unsure face that says, ‘really?’ before you two laugh again. The room falls silent, sounds of distant bustling sliding up from the downstairs area of other vigilantes moving about.

“I’m jealous that you can work through your issues, that you can progress in a relationship, and that I just can’t seem to get it right.” Vanity says after a while, squeezing your hand tight in hers as her eye starts to water. You want to hold her close, like how she’s always held you whenever you struggled, but she keeps you at arms length for the time being.

“I want to build that trust again, but one of them took my fuckin’ eye, ‘Dusa.” Vanity snarls out, her mouth trembling, her teeth grit, her cheeks muddled with quick dropping tears. You feel your own jaw clench, get a flash of that scared and broken and bloody girl on your doorstep, crying for help, calling you her savior. It makes your chest tighten, as you shrug away a tear quickly when it falls.

“How can I work through my own shit when all of my resentment is built up, ready to explode straight from my fuckin’ empty socket?” She asks you, head bowing when a sob tremors through her body. You hang your head with her, tears steadily leaking into your lap, into the bowl shared between you. Ever since you met Vanity, she had never shown any interest in men, but that didn’t surprise you, given her past. But you would’ve never guessed that you finally finding a man that’s actually trustworthy and a better person than you believed them to be, would rake up these kind of feelings.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble out, feeling her pain course throughout your own body. You understand her, her troubles, her past, her trauma. You were captured, yes, but she was maimed. Mutilated beyond repair. What could you do in a moment like this? How could you even have a moment like this, knowing what she’s been through? How selfish could you be to share the happiness you’re experiencing, the growth, knowing that she is still trapped in this warehouse to escape the demons that lurk outside, ready to pluck out the other eye?

“Please don’t apologize.” She tells you through a hiccup, using your hand that she’s still holding to wipe away her tears. “You shouldn’t not share your joy with me because of my own issues. It just makes me wish I was as strong as you to work through them.” She finally looks up to give you a lopsided smile, squeezing your hand in hers. Your lip wobbles as you shake your head at her.

“I’m not strong though,” you whisper, clenching your eyes shut tight before you force them back open. “I kept my gun on me the first two months of staying there. I had a panic attack every time I had to leave my room because I thought he would attack me.

“I still fight with myself every time I want to further the relationship because I’m scared; I think I’m undeserving; because I think he might take advantage of me, even though my mind knows he won’t.” Your voice is shaky, tears escaping, as you hold onto Vanity so tight, afraid that if you let go, she might somehow float away.

“But my body is weak.” You admit, and she nods in understanding at that. “It remembers the pain that I’ve gone through, even though I’ve tried time and time to forget it.” You whisper. You think back to recently when Katsuki hugged you from behind and kissed your neck, and how it made you panic and push him away, the confused and hurt look on his face. You hadn’t meant to respond back like that, but your body holds onto all of the times your captor had done you the same way before he would drain you of your quirk.

“I’m not strong, but I am working through it day by day, and he helps me in any way that he can.” You murmur, head bowed as you bite at your lip until you taste copper. You think back on how Bakugou bounced back from the confusion, how he apologized, how he comforted you when you became frustrated with yourself, how he now makes a little noise before coming up behind you as to not startle you. You’ve started to accept back hugs a little easier, now.

“You just have to work through it.” You promise Vanity, giving her a pointed look before you pull her into you. She falls into your embrace, squeezing you tight as she inhales deeply. Her exhale is shaky, but her words are firm.

“I will.” She nods once, her hair tickling your chin. You two stay there for a while, ignoring the passersby in the hallway who duck away to give you two privacy. After a few moments, does an idea strike you, and you whisper into her hair,

“When you think you’re starting to get a little better, I know a certain redhead hero I could introduce you to.” You singsong, laughing loudly when Vanity pulls away quickly, holding you by your shoulders as she gives you a serious look.

“If it’s the hunky unbreakable one, I wouldn’t be entirely opposed.” She tells you with a nod, making you laugh even harder. She joins you, both of you holding onto each other before falling over onto the floor together, just barely avoiding the noodles.

You two lay there for a while, giggling, making your little inside jokes none are privy to, and you like it that way. You love the new life you’re starting for yourself, but you miss this more than anything. You just want Vanity to be there with you, to become better, to heal. It’s the only thing you’ll ever wish for in life.

…

The night of the gala comes up quicker than you had anticipated it. You had been working as a hero for about ten weeks now, still never giving the press your hero name since Katsuki and Deku had convinced you to wait to drop it at the gala.

It would be a big sort of thing, that you’re not only coming out officially as a hero, but as Dynamight’s girlfriend. You weren’t too big of a fan of the girlfriend thing being such a big deal since you were your own person first, but you could understand why it would be big news. Dynamight hasn’t been seen publicly with a partner in six years, so everyone would expectedly make a big hoopla about it.

So, with all this pressure falling onto your shoulders, nervous isn’t even the fucking word for how you’re feeling. You had taken the day off from hero training, driven by Katsuki to some hotel just a few blocks away from where the gala would be taking place. He had told you that you would be getting ready there, because they had an official hair and makeup artist to help you, specifically.

What you would be wearing was previously designed by Eddie a few weeks ago. Bakugou had already picked out his outfit; a silk ash gray button up paired with black slacks. But you wanted something a little flashier than that, just barely. Something to push you a little out of your comfort zone (just barely!) because you wanted your official first outing to be memorable. But—

“My chest is out.” You whisper as you sit in the makeup chair, hair already dolled up, as they bring your dress out to showcase it on a rolling coat rack. Your stomach sinks and cramps, your hands suddenly getting clammy, and you fight the urge to wipe the quickly beading sweat from your upper lip.

“Why is my chest out? This wasn’t the original design I agreed to. Where’s Eddie?” Your voice is going a mile a minute, shaking as you take in the dress that was almost—so close—to being perfect. You look over to Bakugou who’s buttoning up his shirt, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“He dropped the dress off and left right back out. This isn’t what you wanted?” He asks, head cocked in confusion as he rushes over to stand beside you. His eyebrows raise in surprise at the pretty sight but—but this isn’t what you wanted.

“No,” you snap at him, quickly standing from the makeup artist’s chair, flittering around the room in search of your phone. “No, I wanted this design but higher up on the neck. My chest is supposed to be covered.” You whisper frantically, feeling your skin get hot at the thought of what could happen—the media sees your tattoo, puts the pieces together, condemns you before your hero career can even take off from the ground. You’d be exposed to everyone, and all of those who were connected to you would go down with you.

How would the media react knowing that Dynamight is dating a former vigilante? One who so many people had deemed as a nuisance, as a villain, as someone who should slink back into the shadows of where they came from? You would ruin him and Yuu and Deku alike, knowing that they put their careers on the line for you, under the condition that you never reveal your past.

What the fuck are you gonna do? Will Katsuki kick you out if you fuck up his career? Will you become homeless, loveless? What the fuck?

“Don’t worry, I got you.” Katsuki says, suddenly standing in front of you. He holds your upper arms gently, his head ducked down so that you’ll finally look up at him. When you do, your eyes are frantic, full of tears, as the endless amount of possibilities of how you could screw up everyone around you comes crashing down onto you, the weight of your shoulders sagging.

You don’t get to utter a word before Katsuki flitters off, pulling the makeup artist with him into a conjoined room. He’s already on the phone by the time he closes the door, voice hushed as you go back to stand in front of the almost perfect dress.

Eddie, you think to yourself as you wrap your arms around your body tightly, what happened? What happened to the perfection you promised you would make me? How could you get so close and yet fall so far?

The dress is damn near everything you asked for. It’s a midnight black with blue tints when the lights hit it, covered from head to toe in sparking gems. There’s a slit up to your knee on either side, the back curving down just beneath your shoulder blades. The chest is supposed to be a halter top, similar to your hero outfit but instead, it dips down low so your cleavage can be exposed. How could something so close to perfection, wind up so short?

Everything else is right—the earrings, the necklace, the rings, the shawl, the shoes. You were so confident about tonight, so sure that you would finally feel comfortable in wearing what you wanted to wear without gross men leering at you and trying to touch you in public. But now, you’re not even sure if you can still attend. Disappointment gnaws at your flesh, as you sink back into the makeup chair, letting a few tears fall freely. No need to worry about fucking up your makeup since you’ll probably have to return home earlier than expected.

You’re about to stand to go to the bathroom, when the conjoining door suddenly opens. Bakugou emerges with the makeup artist, and you can see him tucking some papers into a nearby drawer before the makeup artist returns to her station. She starts picking around a few things, mumbling to herself all the while. You glance at her before looking back to Katsuki, hopping out of the chair as you walk over to him briskly.

“What did you do?” You whisper-shout to him, afraid of what answer you may receive. But he only twists his mouth a few times, looking down his nose at you before folding his arms over his chest.

“Made the makeup artist sign a NDA.” He answers after a few beats, gaze falling away from you before he looks up through his lashes. Your eyebrows downturn in confusion though, glancing back at the artist who now stands ready with a smile on her face.

“For what?” You ask, turning back to him. Katsuki places a gentle hand on your shoulder, covered by the baby blue robe the hotel had gifted you when you arrived. He watches your face as he slowly starts to pull the robe down your shoulder, your eyes widening in confusion, face burning at the thought of what he might be trying to do in front of the few people still in the room.

“So she can cover your chest and not spill what she saw to the media.” Katsuki whispers, eyes falling to your chest when the edge of crimson ink comes into sight. Your throat tightens at that, in surprise, mouth falling open although no words come tumbling out.

“Your identity is safe, okay? We’ll talk to Eddie about his fuck up tomorrow.” Katsuki promises you, pulling the shoulder of your robe back up. You blink up at him, unsure of what to say about what he’s done for you.

He…helped you, when he saw the panicked look on your face. Didn’t respond back in anger when you snapped at him, but instead found a solution that would calm your nerves. What could you say to him for something so small and yet so life changing?

“Thank you so much.” You whisper to him, pulling him down by the front of his shirt for a kiss, something soft and sweet and airy. You rest against his mouth, eyebrows scrunching up lightly, a confession dying to fall from your lips,

“I…” love you, you finish in your head, but your words die out when Bakugou’s assistant barges into the room.

“Twenty-five more minutes until we have to leave, guys!” He calls out, smiling at the two of you when you both take a step away from each other, shy. When he ducks back out, you and Bakugou share a look, one that says a thousand words, even though he can’t seem to form his lips around the right thing. When he seems to have swallowed down everything wrong, he opens his mouth, but the makeup artist is beside you, whisking you away.

“We’re gonna cover that tattoo, alright? It shouldn’t budge at all tonight.” She tells you with a grin, steering you back to the makeup chair to touch up what you messed up on your face first. She’s gentle in her ministrations, despite the many times she has to tell you to look up or down because you keep looking at Katsuki. He’s leaning against the wall, watching you get everything done since he finished getting dressed already himself.

“Could you remove this for me?” The makeup artist asks, her voice quiet as she stands in front of you. You look back over to her, confused, before you realize what she’s referring to.

“Uh, yeah,” you whisper, glancing back over to Katsuki, who’s suddenly so very interested in his phone, despite how his cheeks are a muddled red. It’s not like he hasn’t seen them before, you think to yourself.

But you shrug off your robe until it fall in your lap, your strapless bra being pushed down a little so the artist can have full access to your chest. She works quietly as she blends the makeup into your skin, the products cold and the brushes soft. She powders you down after what feels like hours of repetitive movements, fine tuning everything until she steps back with a smile on her face.

“Here,” she says as she hands you a mirror. The sight almost unnerves you, as you think back on—reminded so cruelly of—the person you used to be when your chest was still empty. On one hand; your identity is still hidden, you keep everyone around you safe, your chest a blank canvas, a sight you haven’t seen in so long. But, on the other hand; you feel naked, stripped of who you are, of what you became, of what made you you. You know its for the greater good, but at what cost?

“It looks great. Thank you.” You say robotically, nodding your head to the artist. She smiles at you before bowing her head, going to pack up her stuff as Bakugou’s assistant peeks back in.

“Ten more minutes!” He announces. That makes you spring into action though, waving goodbye to the artists’ that leave you to get changed, as you take your dress down from its hanger. It’s only you and Bakugou left in the hotel room, and the air becomes charged when the door closes for the final time.

“Need a hand?” He asks you, already plucking the dress from your hands as you fully undo your robe. You stand in front of him in only your undergarments, suddenly feeling just a bit too vulnerable in front of the handsome hero.

��Of course I do.” You tell him, gesturing for him to unzip the dress. He only smiles though, lending his bulky shoulders when you need some stability to step into the pretty dress, hiking it up your hips for you. When the thin spaghetti straps sit on your skin, does he stand back, but not too far, never. He’s chest to chest with you, and he smells better than you could have ever imagined; something soft like fresh sheets and folded laundry with a hint of icy mint. Your lids lower as you take him in, as he does the same to you.

“You want me to zip you up?” Katsuki asks softly, hands finding your hips. You nod to him once, gasping when he turns your body for you, his hips slotted against your backside. You say nothing to the poking at your lower back, looking over your shoulder at him as he ever so slowly zips your dress up, hands palming your hip all the while, his fingers gentle where they creep up your spine.

Without a word, Katsuki leans down to press the softest kiss to your neck, your jaw tilting to allow him more access. He presses you back against him, the feeling of his hardness making you gasp, knees suddenly getting weaker than you think they’ve ever been.

He holds you close to him, your breathing getting heavy when his hands start to inch around to the front of the dress, sliding down to hook inside the slit. His palm glides over the inside of your thighs, the other reaching around to cup you gently through the fabric, petting you with thick fingertips.

“When we get home.” You tell him in a sigh, taking everything in you to pull away from him. When you turn around, Katsuki is grinning, wiping a hand down his face as the other rests on his hip. You try to ignore the obvious bulge in his pants, face burning, as you turn to pick up your shoes.

“Help me with these, and don’t make it horny.” You tell him, trying to hold as much authority in your voice that you can, but its shaky at best. Bakugou outright laughs at that, shameless, and kneels down in front of you to buckle up your low heels. He can’t help but press a feather soft kiss to the outside of your knee when he finishes.

After that, everything goes smoothly. You’re rushed out to the car by his assistant, driven over to the museum where the gala is being hosted, and presented onto the red carpet. It’s all nerve wrecking, the way everyone turns to you all because of who you’re with. But you don’t let it deter you, holding your head as high as you can, smiling softly at the cameras and the people who call for your attention.

Bakugou holds you close to him the whole time, ignoring those who try to wave you off to get a picture of him alone. When they start to pester too much, he only snarls at them before directing you a little further down to get away from those shit heads. His hand is planted firmly around your hip, and it becomes an anchor when the bright flashes of light start to become too much.

When the pictures are over with, do you move into the pit of people doing interviews just off the red carpet. They keep trying to overlook you for Bakugou, but he has none of it, keeping you plastered to his side with a warm hand firmly holding onto your own. Finally, does an interviewer turn his attention to you, microphone shoved into your face as you duck back a little with a frown.

“May I say what a beautiful dress you’re wearing tonight!” The interviewer says, grinning at you. You nod your head back, barely able to get your thanks out before he’s cutting you off with a question.

“And who might you be, accompanying the awesome Dynamight tonight?” He asks before his eyes widen in recognition, his grin somehow getting even bigger. “Are you the unnamed hero that’s been on the field lately?”

Bakugou squeezes your hand tight in his, and you glance up to him. He sends you a wink of recognition, making you think back on the conversation you had with him and Mrs. Kubo before, on how to do this media shit. It was a little daunting, knowing that if you said the wrong thing during your first official impression, that the rest of your career could go to shit before you’re even named. So you look back to the interviewer with a sure smile, nodding once more.

“Yes, I am.” You say simply, not giving out any unasked for information. That garners the attention of other interviewers almost instantaneously, people suddenly flocking over in your direction with their mics pointed to your face. But you keep your eyes on the original interviewer with a calm gaze.

“And what is your name? The media has been dying to know!” He exclaims.

“I go by Firebird.” You state, smile brightening as more shouts for your attention start to trickle in. Bakugou shoulders some people away when they get too close, and you squeeze his hand in thanks. It’s overwhelming, a little, with so many people looking at you, trying to talk to you, get to know every single thing about you, all the while being so goddamn close. Bakugou must be able to sense it though, as he squeezes your hand once more before he starts pulling you away from everybody.

“Oi, leave my girlfriend the fuck alone now. Answered enough of ya shitty questions.” He announces, and that only makes the crowd go crazier. Questions of what your quirk is starts trickling in, how long have you two been together, is marriage in the near future. You can’t help the deep breath that you suck in, reaching over to pinch at his flank when he carves a path for the both of you to get through the hoard of interviewers and paparazzi.

You two keep walking until you finally enter where the actual gala is being held, the spacious room filled with paintings surprisingly a lot quieter than it was outside. You walk a few feet in, slowing down as you both look around for some familiar faces.

“You just had to announce that I was taken, you shit head.” You mumble lowly, only for the two of you to hear. Katsuki grins at that, pulling you away into a secluded corner, as he wraps you in his arms tightly until your back arches under his hold.

“Didn’t want those damn vultures or any other idiot to think that they ever had a chance with ya.” He mutters against your lips, kissing you and kissing you, your lipstick be damned. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling away only when you hear voices getting closer.

“Are you kidding me?!” Kirishima calls out, exasperated, garnering the looks from other heroes in the room. “I had to find out from the paps that you’re officially dating?”

Bakugou fixes him with a confused look, standing tall as he keeps you pressed against him. You laugh at Kiri’s antics though, the way he pulls at his hair, Bakugou’s other friends coming up to join the confusion party.

“Thought you knew we were together.” Bakugou grunts out with a roll of his eyes.

“I had a feeling, but you never told me personally! Bro, I’m feeling really betrayed right now. By you too!” Kirishima points an accusatory finger at you next, and you faux gasp with a hand to your chest.

“I figured he would tell you!” You say, nodding over to Bakugou who frowns at you both. When everyone looks to him for an explanation, his face burns, and he turns away from his friends with a huff.

“Gonna go find our damn seats.” He mutters, shrugging off the congratulatory pats he receives from everybody he passes. You all find the table you’re supposed to sitting at, chatting and waiting until the gala’s main portion begins.

As the night goes on, you find yourself more bored than you had anticipated. It felt like a mixture of a fashion show, a charity, and an award ceremony, a place for high status people to come together and mingle without the presence of fans needing their attention. You didn’t feel as though you belonged much, but you stayed near familiar faces, and found yourself enjoying their company.

“Is that makeup on your chest, to cover…?” Deku asks during one of the dull moments, leaning over beside you in his chair to whisper to you. You stiffen in your seat before you remember just how much he’s helped you, how he’s looked out for you since you were introduced to the idea of becoming a hero. So you nod, once, glancing down to your chest accentuated by the sparkly material of the dress.

“Yeah. The power of makeup is fuckin’ crazy.” You whisper back, to which Deku nods. He falls quiet before he leans in again.

“Are you thinking about getting it removed, perhaps? Or covered?” The question makes your head feel stuffy suddenly, body quickly becoming warm as you think about the severity, the weight of what he implies.

Do you want to always hide behind makeup? Or would you rather just erase a piece of yourself forever? Don’t you want to tear away your flesh from its bone, just so the space can be pure again? Don’t you want to be pure again? Don’t you want to kill the Red Medusa, leave her bloody and broken, just like those men had promised to do to you? Just like those men would have done to you if they were only a bit faster?

“Dynamight is our hero of the year with the most captures and saves this year!” The announcer says proudly on the mic, the bright light shining on them on the stage now moving over to Bakugou who sits beside you. The crowd cheers, the cameras flash, and you know you’re supposed to do something beside him but—but you feel numb. You’re thrown off by the question Deku dropped into your lap, the severity of your identity finally falling into place.

You’d never truly fit in their world. You’d never truly be a hero if you always kept a piece of your former self on you at all times. You could either stay the survivor that protected everyone who needed saving, or you become the hero that left everything that ever made you and rise from the ashes as someone new. You’re not sure if that sounds as appealing anymore.

The announcer gets on the mic once more to announce a brief intermission before they start serving some food and a few more annual statistics. Without a word, do you stand from your chair, squeezing Katsuki’s shoulder when he looks to you in confusion before heading off into the crowd. You can hear him angrily asking Deku a question, but you don’t stick around to hear it.

You weave your way through the crowd until you find yourself in an almost empty room, filled with statues and artwork alike. You forgot that this was held at a gallery, and it almost feels mocking when the first statue that you see is of the most famous, never forgotten hero.

“What am I to you?” You ask the statue quietly as you wrap your arms around yourself. The marble looks heavy, as does the world that All Might holds on his shoulders. He grins though, muscles and veins bulging, but the statue is sturdy, never buckles under any weight.

How could you be a hero with a past like yours? With a past that you’re still willing to fall back to if everything somehow comes crashing down? With a past that you’re forever tied to, and yet forced to pretend you’re ashamed of, forced to forget it all? How could you ever be a hero—ever believe that you could be a hero, when your heart only knows of the people you should be helping, rules be damned?

“You’re a traitor, for one.” A voice calls out from behind the statue. You wipe your eyes quickly, unaware of the tears that had gathered there, cursing when you realize that you messed up your makeup. You blink away your spotty vision, eyebrows screwing down when you’re faced with someone you haven’t seen in so long.

“The hell are you doing here?” You whisper, hurrying over to the vigilante that would sometimes stay with you and Vanity when she needed help. There were only a couple that would regularly stay, about four or five, and she was one of them. The last time you had seen her was a simple glimpse in the hallway the day you told Vanity that you were considering becoming a hero. She hadn’t said anything to you that day, but she was always quiet.

Her name was Mercy, and she never shared much about herself, besides the fact that she wanted to be apart of your cause and kick some misogynistic ass with you. You didn’t understand why she was here, especially if she knew you would be here under a new name.

“Did you sneak in here, or something? You could get caught.” You whisper-shout to her, grabbing onto her wrist to pull her away from the prying eyes that glance over at the two of you.

But she snatches away from you, makes you straighten your back in surprise, a sinking feeling settling deep into your gut. She doesn’t look happy to see you, and she always has a smile whenever you run into each other. Something’s not right—it wasn’t right that day she saw you in the warehouse, your appearances there getting slimmer and slimmer as the days go on, and its still not right now, either.

“Really?” She asks loud and dramatically, grin suddenly flipping onto her face like a switch, startles you. “I thought all of us vigilantes were now accepted in the hero world.” She shouts, arms spreading out around her form, and that for sure gathers everyones attention in the room. You freeze, your body suddenly feeling icy cold like you’ve been dipped into a half frozen lake. Your hands lock into fists at your sides, your chest trembling with every heavy breath as you try not to watch the heroes and paparazzi alike start to filter in the room.

“What are you doing, Mercy?” You whisper to her, eyes stuck on the almost manic look in her eye, but you can see something deeper, hiding in the depths that she never wanted to reveal to you all. She shrugs, walking around the statue, hands behind her back as she tilts her head to rest on her shoulders as the people watch on in confusion.

“Oh, nothing.” She singsongs, resting against the statue when she circles around to you again, only closer this time until she stands a few feet in front of you. “Just letting everyone know that their favorite new hero isn’t a hero at all. That she’s a fucking traitor who left all of us for fucking dead so that she can sit at the big boys’ table.”

Her smile falls with every word, her lips peeling back in a snarl, her jaws snapping, spit flying from her mouth. But you don’t move, body frozen in shock as everything unfolds in front of all the people who were finally starting to respect you, the people who were finally starting to learn who you were.

You can feel the tears pinpricking at your eyes in anger, in frustration, in hopelessness. If you physically stopped her, then that would only make everything worse, would make her words bring suspicion to the forefront. It would ruin Katsuki’s reputation and everyone around you who talked with you because they must’ve known, must’ve been hiding the secret that someone who doesn’t belong has been hiding amongst them all. But you can’t let her keep going—not only for your sake, but for the people you were starting to care about, too.

“Mercy, shut the fuck up.” You snap at her, voice low, gaze captured by Bakugou and his friends who suddenly run into the room. But they all still, confused on what’s going down, unknowingly entering the best part of the show for the night.

“Why shut up?” She asks, stepping closer to you until her shoes—dirty and torn and falling apart—touch yours—clean and new and sparkly, redeemed. “Don’t you want everyone to know who you are?” She smiles so wide that you can see the creases of her smile lines pinching, her eyes being swallowed by the apples of her cheeks. Her own tears start welling up as she pulls you into a hug, one that you don’t return, arms hanging limply at your sides.

“Oh, what is it—Firebird?” She whispers only for you to hear before she pulls back, holding you by the upper arms, shouting for all to hear, “Last time I checked, you were running rampant in the streets as the Red Medusa.”

The room instantly falls into murmurs, shocked gasps, and worried chatters. The camera lights are still flashing, people are starting to record, some heroes walk out in anger. You can see them turning to Bakugou with confused and hurt faces, questions being thrown at him and his friends alike for sitting and congregating with you. But you only have eyes for Mercy, whose tears now run steadily down her grinning cheeks, her arms thrown out as your fists ball up beside you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You ask her once more, bottom lip wobbling in anger, in hopelessness, in betrayal. “Who put you up to this?”

“Nobody.” She shrugs. “But I thought the people should know what kind of past you keep trying to hide. That you’re a fucking fake, and that you never cared about anyone but yourself. You’re only chasing dick hoping it’ll make you a different person, but it won’t, sweetheart.” Mercy laughs humorlessly at that, and the words make you cringe, make you entire body tremor in anger.

She knows how much you hate being called sweetheart due to past trauma, and yet here she is, poking the bear, picking and picking until you snap. But you don’t—stand there with your teeth clenched, heavy breaths making your entire body rattle, eyes pinpricking with tears. When she doesn’t get the response she wants, she steps to you closely, poking a finger in your chest.

“I’m just doing what you’re too fucking stupid and weak to do yourself!” She screams at you, her voice hoarse, the veins in her neck throbbing. You hadn’t seen it before, but she reaches back to pick up a glass of water that she had sat on the statue beforehand, throws the contents of it at you.

You gasp and shield you face, but most of it misses you and it instead lands below your neck. Before you can stop her, Mercy scratches you across the chest, digging up the makeup as she slides sharp nails across your skin. Not only to make you bleed, but enough to reveal the crimson hidden underneath.

The room falls silent as you stand there, pretty dress soaked and your vulnerabilities open like a gaping wound. Your stomach heaves at the realization, bile creeping up your throat as you finally take a look around the room. It feels like everything is spinning, as you take in the faces who look to your chest with disgust, with anger, with fury covering their faces. At the paps who smile and take picture after picture. At the statues who stare down their noses in disdain at you. At Katsuki who stands frozen in shock, mouth slightly hung open. At Mercy who smiles wobbly at you as she holds her arms open for another hug, looking for it to be receptive this time.

Without thinking, you reel your arm back and punch her square in the nose. She doesn’t expect it for some reason, and stumbles back into the statue, making it wobble in place. The room goes into an uproar at that, and when everyone dives in to save it from falling over, do you make your grand escape.

“You can’t keep running from the truth, Medusa! Your past will never let you! I’ll never let you!” Mercy’s voice is the only one you can pick out from the chaos, and it echoes as you run through the corridors of the museum.

You can hear Bakugou calling your name, but you ignore him, running and running until you finally meet the cold outside air. The interviewers and paparazzi are still out there, and they look to you in confusion before they focus on your chest. The frenzy starts again, everyone gasping when Bakugou comes busting out through the doors.

But you take off again, the tears burning your eyes as everything sets in. Your legs carry you quicker and quicker as you lose Bakugou in the streets who keeps calling after you, twisting and turning, until you find the path to make it back to the warehouse—to home.

This was never meant for you. You don’t know why you even tried to become something that you were never meant to be in the first place. You should’ve stayed hidden in the shadows, where you belong. Nobody like you should ever think that they’re more than their past, that they can change and control their own future. It’s all just bullshit. Always has been, and it always will be.

chapter thirteen

please do not repost or rec on tik tok!

tag list: @endlessfreaky @iamaconfusedpan @blueshome

#—new treat in the streets! 🍫#crybaby.bkg.scorned

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kradogsrats · 5 months

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kind of sad I deliberately didn't plan a lot of dark magic spells into NCNE because I actually really like writing them:

He unrolled the map provided by the scouts, weighing down its corners with stones, then laid out the implements for the spell on top of it—the jar of wisps, a closed folding knife set on top of a loosely rolled strip of thin cloth, and a small, well-worn mortar containing the inert stone they would rely on to lead them, along with its matching pestle. Lissa drew a sharp breath, startled, when he snapped open the knife and casually nicked the skin at the base of his wrist. He stretched his hand over the mortar, allowing several drops of blood to fall onto the stone inside. Ignoring the blood continuing to well from the cut, he picked up the pestle and struck a single downward blow to the stone that crumbled it with unnatural ease. A snap of his fingers sparked a flame among the resulting fine gravel, which wavered for a moment before flaring eerily violet as it caught and devoured the stone’s remains in a way no normal fire could. Kpp’Ar lifted the jar of wisps and held it above the mortar, his eyes flashing the same glow as the flames before clouding into the swallowing black of magic. He spoke, the sounds inhuman, guttural hisses that made Lissa's skin crawl. She glanced toward Sarai and saw her eyes tighten, and even King Harrow looked uncomfortable. Only Commander Amaya had no reaction. The wisps seemed to leech the violet light from the fire, taking on its color for themselves as the flames guttered and died. Kpp’Ar opened the jar and held it aloft, speaking another spell in a harsh, choking series of consonants. The wisps rose gracefully out of the jar and into the air above them, clustered tightly together. Then they burst apart like a soundless firework, trailing faint tails of light as they coiled off in all directions. Kpp’Ar’s eyes remained blank voids as he turned his attention to the map. He swept his thumb over the clotting blood from his wrist and pressed it to the paper, at the place that marked the location of the Breach. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a fan of thin red lines spread from beneath his thumb, trailing across the map in the same directions as the wisps. Most gradually faded as they went, reduced to creeping, hair-thin traces barely visible in their meandering. Several, however, angled and converged into a single thick trail and picked up speed. Lissa watched as it swept confidently across the paper, her heart sinking as it passed landmark after landmark, steadily increasing the distance. Finally it stopped, blossoming into a mark like a thumbprint—a perfect twin of the one left when Kpp’Ar lifted his hand away.

#i feel like there's a lot of ways the seeking spell can go like #depending on what you're looking for and what you have on hand to track it #like i refuse to believe that rock is a piece of the exact magma titan they find #so it's slower and less precise than claudia tracking rayla with her hair (though she does the map thing too)#(it just doesn't specify what makes the line so ofc i'm going to have kpp'ar do it in blood)#neither crows nor eagles au #kradogsfic

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laxmiree · 1 year

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[CN] MLQC Lucien's Arriving As Promised event translation (Prologue + Day 1)

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT ⚠️

This post contains a HEAVY SPOILER for the event that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

Arriving As Promised Free SR Event | Prologue+Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6-9 | Warm Fragrance Date

Translation under the cut!

[Note]: This is a FREE SR event, so it’ll take 9 days to get the karma. The event’s ‘name’ is actually longer but I decided to shorten it bc it’ll be long af if I wrote all of it 😂.

The event’s full name is 如约而至生如夏花 which translates to “Arriving as promised, life is like a summer flower”. “Life is like a summer flower” (生如夏花) symbolizes the ephemeral and transient nature of life, comparing it to the fleeting beauty of a flower that blooms during the summertime. This phrase might be a reference to one short poem in [Stray Birds] written by Tagore. The full phrase of the referenced short poem is “Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.”

[Prologue]

The golden desert stretches out flatly towards the distance, connecting undulating dunes. The wind freely brushes against this desert.

In front of me, Lucien crosses a gully filled with quicksand. He stands on a dune, turns around, and reaches out his hand towards me.

Lucien: Give me your hand.

He grabs my hand, and I follow his large strides, stepping steadily onto the sand dune.

MC: Walking here is even more difficult than climbing a mountain... The sun is so intense, and one wrong step could lead to sinking into quicksand.

Lucien: That’s why the residents here prefer to travel by camel for convenience and safety. Occasionally, they also take public off-road vehicles.

MC: Are you also going to ride a camel or take a public off-road vehicle to the research institute later?

Lucien: The research institute doesn’t allow external vehicles to get inside the enclosed experimental area, so they will come to pick me up at the waiting shelter later.

MC: It’s good that someone will come to pick you up~

Lucien was invited by the Great Western Neuroscience Research Association to come to this desert town and study the frequent occurrence of brain diseases among desert residents and its connection to the scarcity of vegetation.

I heard they also have a large experimental greenhouse. It sounded intriguing, so I took the opportunity during my vacation to come here with him.

I had initially thought that, like before, we could explore around after he finishes work. However, I didn’t expect it to be completely closed off and tightly managed.

MC: After your experiment is over, can we go around nearby?~

Lucien: Of course, there have been many local events recently that showcase the unique characteristics of the area. I think you will find them interesting.

Lucien: However, after the closed experiment is over, I still have a day of running the flower shop as part of the experiment.

Lucien: So, I will have to ask you to wait for me for one more day.

Lucien: However, if you’re interested, I would also be delighted to welcome MC to my “garden.”

MC: Can I go too?!

Lucien: By that time, the experiment should be in a phase where it is open to the public.

Actually, whether we go to the flower shop or not is not important. Being able to see him sooner is already enough for me.

However, just the thought of Lucien as a flower shop owner makes me can’t help but smile.

MC: Then I will have to buy the most beautiful flower from you when that time comes.

Lucien: Perhaps ‘Shop Owner Lucien’ will prepare some special gifts in advance for someone he likes.

As we cross the final gully of quicksand, the waiting shelter finally comes into view.

Lucien's phone starts ringing almost simultaneously.

Lucien: The research institute’s vehicle has already departed. They said it will arrive in about fifteen minutes.

Lucien: Don’t worry, my colleague’s car will come later to take you to the hotel.

MC: Oh...

Although I know that this is a normal part of Lucien's work and have prepared myself for it, I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed as we part ways.

I won't be able to see him for over ten days from now on.

I quietly pout my lips and step forward, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face deep in his embrace.

Lucien: There are still ten minutes left. Don't you want to talk to me a bit more?

MC: ...Remember to drink plenty of water. It's easy to get dehydrated in the desert.

MC: No staying up late secretly doing research, and no forgetting to eat because of meetings.

MC: If you go out, always remember to wear a hat. Don't get heatstroke.

Lucien: Then, MC, would you like to lift your head and listen to my answer?

A laughter-filled echo that comes from above reaches my ears. I pause for a moment and lift my head up.

And at the moment I lift my head, a sensation of intimate warmth lands on my lips.

Lucien: I don't remember any of the things you just said, what should I do?

MC: Liar.

Lucien: Because all I can think about right now is you, I can't remember any other unnecessary things.

A restrained sigh resonates in my ears, and as if unable to hold back, he lightly pecks me once again.

MC: Then I will make sure to write it down specifically so that you can't use the excuse of "thinking about me*" to avoid resting.

[T/N]: 想 is to think of/to miss someone/something.

I rummage through my backpack and earnestly start writing with pen and paper.

Seeing the words I wrote, Lucien strokes my head gently, his gaze softening.

Lucien: Then, I have one for you too.

[To Do List, From Lucien to MC]

Install a dust-proof bed curtain on the bed.

On the third day, go to the warehouse to collect a special package.

Visit the market to buy a windproof shawl for sand protection.

Visit the woodworking workshop to make a grand opening sign.

On the day the experiment ends, I will wait for you in the flower shop.

Lucien: Only one minute left, I want to use this last minute to hug MC again.

[Day 1 – A curtain of dreamy longing]

After the long journey through the desert, I finally arrived at the garden villa near the oasis.

MC: I didn't expect to find such beautiful accommodations in the desert!

MC: It’s a pity that such a spacious place is only for me to stay in alone.

MC: I wonder if Lucien has arrived yet...

I originally want to give him a call, but then I remember that he will have a meeting after arriving at the laboratory.

MC: I’ll call him later then.

I suddenly remember that Lucien also left me a note before he left.

MC: After putting away my luggage, I’ll go to the supermarket to see if they have any dust-proof bed curtains.

MC: It's a good idea to take out the desert map and study it while I have some time!

[Diary]

Day: June 25th

After installing the bed curtains, I sat on the bed and studied the small town map Lucien gave me. Surprisingly, the research institute’s plantation base is not far from where I am, just a half-hour drive away. I wonder if he would notice if I sneak a glimpse of him from afar?

#that any other unnecessary things is crucial for your life SIR #the longing and yearning :"#the way they stay clingy until the last minute until getting separated sob sob #mlqc lucien #mr love queen's choice #mlqc spoiler #mlqc translations #mlqc cn

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blackjackkent · 6 months

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We get a little cutscene of the city beginning to rebuild and a nice little speech from the narrator:

Narrator: It's over. And it's all because of you. You, who were destined to become a thrall. Thanks to you, there will be no Illithid Empire, no Death Gods' tyranny. You have earned your place amongst the legends of the Sword Coast. You are the saviors of Baldur's Gate.

Which is all very well, and quite as it should be, though Hector is not thrilled with his name going down in song and legend; he never really wanted stories told about him.

But all of this pales before the actual end of the game for Hector (minus the epilogue of course, which we will get to in a moment), because it is ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC ACTUALLY.

They crash through the portal out into the Hells and for a moment Hector is sure that they're too late after all; Karlach has barely been able to stand in the last few moments before they passed through, and she sinks to her knees, still wreathed in fire, as they arrive. And gods, what a terrible irony that would be, to have finally brought her back to where she would live, only to watch the flames consume her anyway.

But a minute passes, and then another, and her engine begins to settle, and he feels the fear that he has carried for so many months start to loosen its grip on his heart.

"Well, soldier..." she whispers. "Here we are."

Here we are indeed. Hector takes a moment, now that he is sure she is safe, to look around, to truly absorb what they have chosen to do.

He remembers that acrid brimstone scent all too well from that day aboard the nautiloid. The heat is tremendous; it is like standing in a sauna or within an active volcano. Sweat begins to pool at his hairline and lower back almost instantly. And in all directions is nothing but fiery wasteland broken by rivers of lava.

He has never been so happy to see such a place in all his life.

He pauses to examine his feelings for a moment. There will be no more monastery, no more days of quiet prayer and study. This is home and life now, this fiery place that smells of sulfur, because Karlach is here. And Wyll, his friend, at their sides-- truly the best of their little band; even though he and Hector were never tremendously close, Hector has admired him tremendously and is proud to choose to be brothers-in-arms with him now.

And one day, in this place, they will find Zariel, and he will exact Selune's vengeance on her for her cruelty.

It is a purpose he would never have imagined himself having before. But he is no longer the man he was when he began this journey, whose only aspiration was reverence and solitude. He has learned that to stand at the side of his friends in the service of something greater is its own kind of divine act.

And he will not have to learn to live without the woman he loves.

"It worked..." Karlach says, slowly pushing herself to her feet. The column of flame around her fades; her engine settles into its usual steady pulse. The agony fades from her eyes, replaced by a calm steadiness that he remembers from their visit to the House of Hope, the last time he saw her without that underthread of pain. "My engine's calmed down."

She turns to look at him; with the moment of intensity past, she too is seeing what they are committing to for the first time. "I shouldn't have let you come here," she says with a heavy breath out and a wry smile. "This isn't going to be easy, you know. Zariel's going to come at us with everything she's got."

He looks back at her steadily, reaches out to take her hand. Their fingers interlace - automatic, instinctive - and he presses his lips against her knuckles, his eyes not leaving hers. I know what I'm signing up for. Just as all of you have made your choices, I am making mine... he thinks. So long as you're with me...

He opens his mouth to speak, to tell her this, but they are interrupted by an unearthly scream in the distance.

A pack of imps are gathering on the horizon. Hector shoots a look at Wyll; both of them square their shoulders, ready for battle.

Karlach hisses out a laugh. "Gods. Like clockwork. They'll be on us soon - but there's just enough time."

To his surprise, she reaches into the pack at her hip and pulls out a set of small cylindrical items - cigars.

"Thought I was done with these," she says, and shoots him a playful grin.

He raises his eyebrows questioningly, a smile playing at his own lips. You didn't want to come back, he thinks. And I know why. But gods... the way you look when there's no pain pressing on you... gods, I could look at you forever...

She winks at him and tosses him one of the cigars, passes another to Wyll, lifts the third to her own lips. Hector looks at his in some puzzlement, then tucks it into his pack like a lover's keepsake.

With a snap of her fingers she flares a burst of fire up on her thumb, lights the end of the cigar. She takes a slow draw, puffs out a mouthful of smoke. "But then there was you lot," she finishes lightly.

"Imps are fast but careless," she goes on conversationally - and he sees a flash of the soldier she used to be, briefing the troops before battle. "Don't let 'em tire you out - just get rid of 'em."

She grins crookedly, flicks the still-burning cigar aside. "And don't forget -- you asked for this."

He can hear a sort of question under the words. Do you regret this choice? Do you regret coming with me, now that you see what lies ahead?

But he doesn't. And he won't. He made this choice long since, and the only surprise is that it is actually coming to fruition.

He reaches out to cup her cheek, pulls her to him, kisses her fiercely, letting his fingers curl into her hair. I'm with you, he says silently in the touch. No matter what comes. And he feels her relax into the contact, the certainty flowing between them, shared, steady.(*)

She draws back and grins, looking between him and Wyll. Hector gives her a slow nod; Wyll lifts an arm in his trademark salute, the Blade of Avernus ready to stand at her side.

She pulls the greataxe from her back with a sudden air of determination. "Better let these fuckers know I'm back," she says.

"And this time... I'm not alone."

She breaks into a run, her boots digging into the ashen ground, and Hector and Wyll spare only a moment to look at each other before darting out behind her, flanking her on both sides, ready for the battle ahead.

-----

(*) Mild artistic license. No kiss here Larian, for real? :P Also please know that this whole scene was playing out to the tune of a HEAVY METAL VERSION OF DOWN BY THE RIVER which was incredibly badass, and also Hector would have climbed Karlach like a tree right here if there weren't a band of imps coming.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #ok so i know there are mixed feelings about this ending from a lot of people but i'll be honest #i fucking love this for her and hector and wyll #and i am holding out hope for a dlc where we get to go BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ZARIEL PLEASE #also also i am thinking about adding another longfic to my plans about their adventures together in the hells #bc i want more of their story so much

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colorsunimaginable · 1 year

Text

the spare // chapter fifty-nine // death eater ! tom hiddleston x plus size ofc - voldemort wins au

story summary:

While on a mission to avenge the death of her best friend, Ilvermorny graduate Melisa Alder finds herself in the middle of the fight to defeat Voldemort. Upon capture after the Dark Lord's triumph, she's being sold at an auction with other muggle borns and blood traitors. Her only hope is also her only bidder - the tall, dark, and handsome Thomus Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's younger half-brother. Is he just another Death Eater or is he hiding more than just his face beneath the mask? Will she realize her true potential to be one of the resistance's greatest weapons?

*a Voldemort Wins AU with Tom Hiddleston cast as an OC x a plus size protagonist* *takes place in The Auction universe by Lovesbitca8*

words for this chapter: 3.2k warnings for this chapter: none

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

Chapter Fifty-Nine:

My eyes are open. That I know.

I can feel myself blinking – stupid rapid little flutters, but nothing changes. Had Rodolphus extinguished the torch while my eyes were closed? All I can see is black.

My scream had stopped mid-breath. I know my lungs expunged the air, but why couldn’t I hear my scream?

My breathing has gotten louder, echoing inside my head like I’m under water, and I’m strangely more aware of my heartbeat. It’s throbbing like crazy within my chest, pulse drumming steadily in my ears. My hands are still positioned beside my head so I snap my fingers, twisting my ear towards it, where the sound should be.

But there’s nothing.

What the fuck has Rodolphus done to me?

Rodolphus is still on top of me, straddling my hips and thighs. I say his name, my lips and tongue forming around the sounds, and I don’t hear it. He puts his finger to my mouth like he’s trying to shush me. There’s still blood on his finger and the metallic taste seeps between my lips.

Get off me, I growl through clenched teeth.

He relieves some of his weight by leaning forward on his knees, a hand braced on the floor next to my waist. He hovers over me, wine tinted breath blowing across my face. I turn away from the stench and he dives for my throat, his teeth sinking into a new spot under the corner of my jaw.

I scream some more, bucking my hips and shoulders in attempt to dislodge him, but that only makes him bite harder. His tongue swishes against the skin between his teeth and by the time he pulls away, the bite is soaked with his saliva. I feel it pulse and ache when I swallow.

I feel a rush of relief when his weight disappears off me. A moment later the floor trembles faintly with a strong and abrupt vibration.

Did he just… leave? Was that the door closing?

My hands are freed from the floor and I quickly sit up, only to pause when my head spins. I shake off the feeling and stand, needing to brace myself against the wall.

I glide my fingers along the stone wall, trying to get a sense of where I am in the room. Moving to my right, the wall falls back, revealing an edge, and when my fingers feel wood, I know I’ve found the door.

I try for the handle, but of course it’s locked.

My fingers curl into my palm and I bang my fists against the door. Maybe they’ll let me out if I make enough noise – if I’m actually making any noise at all. I can feel dull thumps and the door shaking a bit on its hinges, but that’s it.

Frustrated, I move on, continuing right. If I didn’t completely lose my mind, the cell barrier should be immediately next to the doorway, and I’m relieved when my fingers brush over the bars.

Okay, so if I’m right by the door, then across from me should be where the torch is. I shuffle towards it, my arm outstretched. My fingers come in contact with the wall again, and a sudden hot feeling next to my face has me jerking back. With my face away from the heat, I feel the base of the torch.

I blink again, staring right at what should be the flames. It’s extremely disorienting to see absolutely nothing but black when there’s light inches from my face.

I snap my fingers by both ears this time. When there’s no sound, I rub the side of my head near my temples, and scratch my hair line. I hear some kind of sound, but it’s as if my ears are clogged all the way to my ear drums.

Motherfucker turned me into fucking Hellen Keller.

I turn and move back, until I’m pressed against the wall and slide down. How the fuck am I gonna get out of here? I don’t have my magic and I’m missing two of the five basic senses. All I can do is sit here and wait for Rodolphus’ plan to unfold. I don’t hold much hope for Thomus rescuing me. He let Rodolphus take me in the first place.

But could he have just been playing along? Like he’d told me with Bellatrix?

A touch to my hand startles me from my thoughts and I yank my hand away, wondering briefly if Rodolphus has been in here this whole time. I quickly remember it’s just Ron.

I scoot closer to the barrier, leaning against it. Tentatively I put a hand through a gap in the bars. I feel his shirt, I think, his chest rising and falling beneath it. He takes my hand in his and I put my other hand through, closing around his. His hands are cold and boney, fingers slimmer than I remember them being.

Selfishly, I’m so grateful that he’s here. We hadn’t exactly talked much while we’d been on the run. When he did talk to me, it was mostly about his family, and I could tell how much he missed them. He’s someone familiar.

I’m sorry if I don’t respond to you, I can’t hear anything, I tell him.

A few moments pass and then I feel him move, his other arm brushing against mine as he pushes his hand through the bars. With the hand I’m holding he touches it to his face, my palm against his cheek. His fingers tentatively touch my lips and he shakes his head.

Am I being too loud? I ask, hopefully softer this time.

Another long moment passes before he shakes his head again. The fingers on my lips pull away and he pokes a single finger against my chest. Then his head shakes and I feel his fingers on my lips again.

My head tilts and my brows pinch together as I frown. He doesn’t want me to speak at all?

What? I ask.

He moves my hand to the side of his face until my fingers are touching his ear. He points to me again, then taps my lips and taps his fingers over mine on his ear, shaking his head.

Oh.

It’s not that I’m being too loud or that I shouldn’t talk. He can’t hear me.

I briefly consider the possibility that they’d taken his hearing as well, but remember he’d been listening and able to respond when Rabastan was bullying him earlier.

I pull the hand on his face back and touch my mouth. With my lips closed I attempt to hum, but there’s no vibration tickling the inside of my lips. My hand moves to my throat as I continue to hum and become further distressed when I can’t feel the vibrations where they’re supposed to be.

Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the bars, mouthing curses to myself.

Suddenly Ron yanks his hands away from mine, pushing at my shoulder. I flatten a hand on the ground and feel when there’s another strong vibration. He hears someone coming.

Ron pushes at my shoulder again and something drops into my lap. I grab it before I get to my feet, careful to avoid the torch’s heat. It’s a metal cup.

With two long, unconfident strides I’m across the room behind where the door will open. My back presses against the wall and I keep a hand over the edge of the doorway, fingertips touching the wood. As the door swings open, I raise the cup over my head.

Warm fingers encase the wrist of the hand on the door and the persons other arm goes around my waist as they pull me towards them. When my body’s against theirs, my arm comes barreling towards them. With their breath on my face I try to imagine where their head is so the cup can smash into it.

My forearm smacks against their shoulder and the cup flies out of my hand. The reason their head isn’t where I thought is because it’s much closer to mine than I’d realized.

If Rodolphus thinks that because he took away some vital senses, I’m just going to be docile, then he’s got another thing coming.

I tear my wrist out of his hold, shoving at his shoulder and chest. I kick at his legs with my knees before stomping my feet over top his. My other hand grabs a fistful of his hair and just before I yank on it, I stop entirely.

The hair – it’s curly and soft. Wonderfully familiar.

I breathe through my nose and the comforting scent of cedar and pine fills my nostrils.

Thomus.

I fling my arms around his shoulders and I immediately hate myself for forgetting how they feel, how he feels against me. He’s so strong and tall and firm against my body, perfectly balanced with his.

If I have any doubts its him, they evaporate the moment his other arm joins the one around my waist. His lips descend to mine, so wonderfully familiar, I know its him without a shadow of a doubt. Then he kisses down my cheek to my neck and I quickly guide him to where Rodolphus’ bite mark is.

Once he realizes what it is, his body pins mine against the wall before he reclaims the marking with one of his own. My lungs expel a moan that no one can hear as he sucks and pulls at my neck with a sharper force than he ever has. His tongue swipes over it repeatedly and my body squirms under the intense sensation.

Eventually his mouth unlocks from my neck and finds my ear. I feel his lips move and vibrate against my ear, but there’s no sound. Not even his warm breath. He’s saying something and I have no clue what it is.

I shake my head – the simplest form of communication I can think of that he would understand.

His hands grab either side of my face and guide me around the room, pulling me forward only to turn me around until my back is to another wall. Then he tilts my face up and the warmth I feel tells me he’s moved me by the torch. His hands leave my face and pat down my body. Checking me for injuries, I assume.

When he finds nothing, he cups my face again and then freezes for a few moments. Is he staring at the cut on my cheek? The blood dripping across my face? Maybe he’s trying to read the markings in blood Rodolphus left on me.

I bring my hands up to touch my chest, but as my fingertips graze my skin, I’m shocked that I don’t feel the dried blood on me. The shock quickly turns to panic as I have my full hand covering my chest, not feeling a dry speck anywhere. The markings were the key to figuring out what Rodolphus had done to me. Without them…

Thomus grabs my wrist and starts pulling me along. We leave the dungeon behind and go back upstairs to the main floor. I have my free hand up in front of me to prevent me from running into anything as I’m blindly – literally – being guided through the Rabastan’s place.

I stumble into Thomus when he stops and yanks me to the side. My hand brushes over a door frame as we pass it, but don’t seem to go far into the room because my hand hovers on it.

Sometime later I’m being backed out the way we came and it’s a miracle I don’t trip over my own feet. We don’t stop until Thomus pauses to grab my arm over the tattoo and the warmth of flames engulf us as we step through them.

I know we’re not at the cottage because of the floor. The cottage has carpeted living room. This is smooth and there’s a strange tap that I feel as I walk over it. Thomus leads me for awhile, pausing before the whoosh of air from a door flows over me. He pulls me again until he grabs my upper arms, backing me up until my legs hit a cold fabric. My hands feel around for me as he pushes me down, encouraging me to sit. It’s a leather couch.

I wave him off when he tries to help me further, but I can very well sit my ass on a couch on my own. I slip off my flats and curl my legs under me as I settle against the arm rest.

~*~

I sit there for a long while. My mind replays everything that happened, wishing I’d fought him off more than I had. Maybe I should’ve played hookie and pretended to be too sick to come tonight.

My legs get too stiff and so I uncurl them, letting my feet hit the cold… wooden floor. I think there were leather couches in the library. Why did Thomus bring me here?

My bare feet feel movement and vibrations from the floor like someone’s walking around. Based on the strength, maybe multiple someone’s. Fuck, I wish I knew what was going on.

I took three years of American Sign Language in high school, but I’d always been better at reading it instead of signing myself. Not to mention, British sign is completely different. Even though both countries speak English, the U.S. takes after France when it comes to sign language. I hesitate to even try to communicate with sign because of this. Who here would understand me? Would I just look like a fucking idiot? I only remember a few basic signs and how to fingerspell.

I yawn and realize how dry my mouth is. It gives me an idea, a place to start, at least.

Someone sits down next to me, the cushions of the couch shifting under their weight. A hand touches my own and I turn towards them. I expect it to be Thomus, but the hand feels feminine. If I remembered correctly, Narcissa had longer nails than Hermione. The nails are clipped and neat. Slowly, I run my hand up to her shoulder and when I feel her soft fluffy hair, I’m further convinced it’s Hermione.

Thank god, someone with brains who might understand me.

My first three fingers form a ‘W’ and I bring it up to my lips. They form around the ‘W’ sound as I repeatedly touch my pointer finger to it. I tilt my head to indicate it’s a question. Then I pretend I’m drinking from a cup by shaping my hand and tipping my head back.

I stop when I feel something sharp nudge my knee. My hand comes down and realize it’s an opened book propped in her lap.

The hand covering mine dips under it, her fingers forming letters against my palm. W – A – T – E – R

Grinning, I nod my head and make the sign again. Then I take my fist and lift it up and down by the wrist, seconds later followed by me finger spelling yes.

I assume they send for water because Hermione starts signing something else. F – L – U – E – N – T pause A – S – L

I quickly shake my head while spelling out remember. I make sure to do it slowly. Next I hold out my hand flat and tilt it up and down for somewhat or kind of.

Her fingers start to move and I cover it with both of my hands this time. R – O – D – O – L – P – H – O – U – S

I sigh heavily, knowing this was going to be a long night.

~*~

A couple painstaking hours later, I’ve somehow managed to communicate what happened. I can’t see or hear or speak because of something Rodolphus has written on my chest in blood.

She doesn’t really explain anything in return, just continues to ask questions with her fingers. I use signs that I remember and fingerspell the rest. This seems to be enough for now, even if it takes a few moments to find the sign I’m using in the book. I can feel the pages move as she quickly flips through it.

There comes a time when she doesn’t sign anything, seemingly being in decisive. Then she spells Goodnight. Morning Talk. Her fingers move confidently and I’m relieved she’s been able to pick it up so quickly.

I smile and wave in the direction I think she is once the couch shifts once more when she stands.

I wait for someone else to come up to me, hopefully Thomus, but only a tiny hand wraps around two of my fingers. I assume it’s an elf based on how strong their pull is as they encourage me to my feet. After I stand, my free arm moves about, searching for him. How else am I going to get back to the manor?

It’s strange how much relief and comfort his touch brings the moment his hand is on mine. It runs up my arm until both of his arms encase me in a hug. I hug him back while still attached to the elf. He pulls back slightly and cups my face, placing gentle kisses on my lips and tired eyes.

Thomus points a finger to my chest then puts his hand in the palm of my free one, his fingers forming letters. B – E – D

I nod, excited for bed because I’m exhausted.

I repeat the sign, asking if he’s coming with me. He puts my hand on his cheek and shakes his head.

Either he’s staying up or we’re just not sharing a bed. I want to protest, but I don’t have the energy. His reasons for sleeping separately aren’t known to me, and I think its wishful thinking to believe they have nothing to do with Bellatrix. Even if he says he didn’t sleep with her, years of self-doubt and insecurity come to that conclusion for me.

The moment he pulls away from me completely, I feel my face fall. I tell myself it’s from exhaustion and not disappointment.

The elf squeezes my fingers and the familiar sensation of Apparating overtakes my body. The lingering smell of Thomus still surrounds me and I’m trying to figure out where they’ve taken me when I reach out my hand. It comes into contact with a bed.

If Thomus himself didn’t take me home, then we must be staying at the Manor for the night. Or at least I am.

I give a small smile down in the direction that I think the elf is and sign thank you. Pulling my hand from their grasp, I feel along the bed until I come to the side I usually sleep. After I crawl in, I shimmy the dress over my head from under the covers. I want to assume the elf has left but this is just to be safe.

Once the only clothes I have left are my undies, I curl onto my side. An arm is stretched out to the other side, hoping that I’ll wake if Thomus slips in. That hug and goodnight kiss weren’t enough for me and I regret not asking him for more than that.

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