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serpentface · 1 month ago

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DOMESTICATED/TAMED POULTRY IN THE WARDI SPHERE

Left to right: Tanne pheasants (hen and cock), kukuriku cuyba rooster, ibis (pink coastal population), and ansiba bwe duck.

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Tanne pheasants are the only animals that were domesticated within this region (barring some tame captive-bred species that could be Debated as domesticated), though they have largely been displaced by the hardier, faster-growing and prolifically laying chickens within the Wardi sphere. The etymology of tanne is uncertain, being a probable adaptation of the Chenahyeigi 'tarrne' for the same species (which is mildly difficult to pronounce in Wardi; a trilled r followed by a consonant is awkward), which itself is probably an adaptation of a now lost word in a proto-Wardi language.

They are kept at higher frequencies in highland conditions, as they are more cold tolerant than the chickens (and the highest densities of wild tanne are located here, where they have fewer competitors and predators). Their cold tolerance does give them unique value in the lowlands, as they tend to bear rare but devastating tlat piladne winters (unusually cold + snowy winters causing mass livestock deaths, or singular cold snaps + blizzards with similar effects) substantially better than chickens or ducks.

Cocks are white with red bare skin, a fringe around their face, and iridescent black tail feathers. Other less common color morphs are white with black spots + iridescent black wings, and some populations are all black. Hens are better camouflaged with speckled brown bodies, with color morphs ranging from a light tan color to a deep red-brown, or occasionally black.

It is difficult to distinguish domestic and wild male tanne (except for rarer color morphs), as they tend to be identical save for the tail trains of wild tanne being much longer on average. Hens are much more distinct, as their color is more variable and most of the domesticated stock have red faces like the males (while wild hens usually have gray faces).

The males are regarded as notably beautiful and are sometimes kept as purely ornamental birds (their territorial calls are also generally considered quite lovely, being a melodic warbling hoot). Their iridescent tail feathers are used for ornamentation and dancing shoes. They are also sometimes used in cockfighting, though their duels are usually briefer, less deadly, and less physically impressive than those of roosters.

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The kuriku cuyba is the landrace chicken type common in Wardi lands. Kuriku is the word for 'chicken' and derived from onomatopoeia (the rooster says "ku-ku-ku-ri-ku!"), cuyba refers to the black tail.

They are fairly small with a tall stature and muscular legs. Cocks have a large comb, thick curved spurs, and trailing tail feathers. Hens have similar builds with reduced combs and shorter tails. This landrace comes in two main color morphs- a tan-brown type shown here, and a similarly patterned white variant. All are characterized by a black lower back and tail.

They are the most common form of poultry here, being hardy, adaptable to a wide variety of environmental conditions, and capable of mostly fending for themselves. They are used for both meat and eggs but show greater selection for egg production, being relatively prolific layers for a landrace type. Hens are kept to be continuous sources of food via their eggs, and are infrequently slaughtered. A hen is a standard gift from a prospective groom to a woman's family to formally initiate courtship (though female ducks/pheasants are sometimes used instead), being of near-ubiquitous value- they can be raised basically anywhere, will continually provide eggs, and can just be eaten if you don't really need a live chicken around. This is a first indication that the groom has adequate resources to be a good potential husband (if you can give away even cheap livestock as a mere show of interest without any guarantee of a return on your investment, it demonstrates you warrant serious marriage negotiations), though is purely ceremonial for wealthier families in which a gift of a chicken isn't even slightly a big deal.

The roosters aren't usually actively selected for aggression, but are notably aggro all the same and are known to pick fights with animals larger than themselves, making them Okayish guardians against small, ground-based threats, and also liable to be kicked to death when they decide to face up against a khait. This also makes them notably valuable for cockfighting. This is a common spectator sport and opportunity for gambling, and has at least slightly ceremonial functions in some summer holidays, especially the solstice and various harvest festivals. Roosters that aren't intended for breeding and/or fighting will usually be castrated and subsequently eaten once they reach full weight. The majority of chicken in the Wardi diet comes from these capons, in part because they are more disposable than good cockerels or valuable egg-laying hens and in part because their meat is regarded as the all-around best.

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Ibis are not domesticated, but they are markedly easy to tame and can be kept captive or otherwise easily harvested for meat and eggs. This species is naturally all-white with black wing tips, but those with diets rich in crustaceans (primarily coastal populations) develop a distinctive pink hue. Populations occurring deeper inland along rivers have few carotenoid sources in their diets and are usually white. There are typically cultural distinctions made between pink and white ibis, though the two are the same species. (Irl there would be argument over whether they should be classed as separate subspecies, as pink and white populations have some genetic distinction and hue has Some impact on mate selection among the pink ibis, though mate fitness mostly seems to be determined by other means.) (This species is almost exclusively found along coasts + very pink in the rest of its range, and the development of white inland ibis is likely a result of them expanding into habitats held by a now regionally extinct river specialist ibis).

They accommodate very well to urban settings, where they feed on refuse and are considered somewhat of a pest via shitting on everything. Some flocks remain in sufficiently large towns and cities year-round. Coastal ibis breed on shorelines, salt marshes, and estuaries in the spring. Many migrate short distances in the dry summer and autumn- some flocks move into cities to feed on refuse, some take advantage of prey availability in drying rivers (with lower water levels making prey more accessible), but most remain in close proximity to the coasts (particularly in areas with large salt marshes). Inland ibis cluster around seasonal wetlands and shallow waterways for breeding in the spring, and similarly disperse elsewhere in the summer to take advantage of drying waterways. Inland ibis populations more commonly migrate to/form fixed populations in towns and cities than coastal ibis do, so city ibis tend to be white.

There are a few different strategies for rearing tame ibis. Some flocks who maintain a consistent roost are merely accommodated to human presence so that they can easily be harvested for meat and eggs, and are often compelled to stick around by regular feedings of food waste. Some wild chicks are captured and their wings are clipped, where they will be subsequently raised along with ducks (as they can generally thrive in the same places ideal for duck husbandry without competing for food). They can be raised very effectively in rice paddies, though areas suitable for rice farming are limited. They almost never breed if their wings are clipped to the point of complete inability to fly (they will only build nests in trees), and getting them to breed/nest is still a crapshoot even if they're clipped in ways allowing for short flight. Fully captive flocks usually have to be replenished by the capture of wild birds, rendering their care a costly investment for little reward compared to just hunting wild ibis.

There is a strong cultural preference for eating pink ibis in the Wardi sphere, in large part due to the annoying, garbage-eating urban pests being mostly white. There's some pragmatic elements to this, as pink ibis do tend to be more palatable than white ones (as their coloration is the result of a crustacean-based diet, making their meat sweeter and milder than their often Strongly fishy white counterparts).

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The ansiba bwe duck is a landrace that developed in contemporary Erubinnos, probably the oldest poultry breed here, and the most common domestic duck type in the region. The name just means 'good duck', and is sometimes just used as a descriptor for domestic ducks in general rather than this specific type. They stem from one of three separate domestication events of ducks in this setting (none of which are mallards, for fun). The ancestors of the ansiba bwe were domesticated fairly close by in the wet subtropical Lowlands region east of the Blackmane mountains.

The landrace here has three common color morphs- one that is tan-brown (shown here), one that is a rich red-brown, and one that is white. Drakes almost always have an iridescent black head with a white neck ring, hens are usually uniform in color. The small crest on the head is present regardless of sex.

They are the most valued for meat of any captive poultry here, producing a large carcass with good fat content, especially rich if finished on grain-based feed. They do not lay eggs as anywhere near as prolifically as the chickens, though still produce enough to be valuable as a continuous food source. They also sustain themselves very readily if granted access to water, and need little supplementation to their diet outside of the winter.

Their range in captivity is limited due to their reliance on water sources- they Can potentially forage enough to sustain themselves without access to a permanent body of water, but can't be bred at any useful scale this way. They are also reliant on fleeing to water to escape land-based predators, being both slow walkers and somewhat poor fliers (they will typically only fly short distances). As such, they're mainly kept in villages alongside permanent bodies of water or manmade reservoirs. As with Ducks In General, they can be reared very effectively in rice paddies, and as such have the largest populations in Erubinnos (with its substantial permanent wetlands and singularly high density of rice farming).

#creatures

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anto-pops · 24 days ago

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Would you consider making a headcanon post about Sebastian? It could be random, or it could be smutty as hell. But just... what goes on in Anto's brilliant mind when she's writing thid version of Sebastian in her stories? I'm very, very intrigued with how exactly you see him. I know we already have a general picture of who he is through your stories. But are there any more headcanons you have that might not be that obvious? I just love your version of him in your mind. ❤️‍🔥

YEEESSS I WOULD LOVE TO !! I have some written down in my notes app already that I reference from time to time but I'll add more here LMAO

↓↓ SEBASTIAN SALLOW HEADCANONS ↓↓

SFW

Sebastian's main love languages are quality time and physical touch. He loves any excuse to be around you, offering to study with you or to accompany you to Hogsmeade for whatever the occasion calls for.

As for physical touch, this man would make you wear him as a backpack if it wouldn't crush you. Any means of touching you has his name written all over it. Hand holding ? Check. Playing with your hair ? Check. Steering you places by putting his hand on your lower back and gently urging you along ? Hell yeah (he might even cop a feel while he's that low)

He loves seeing you in his clothes. Like, an unhealthy amount. You're cold ? Suddenly you're being smothered by his coat. You're studying together in his dorm and you start to doze off ? Smack– his Quidditch jersey or some other large shirt hits you in the face.

If you tell him to turn around while you're changing, he'll do it, but he may or may not sneak a peak 👀

This one is obvious if you've read my fics, but Sebastian is possessive. BIG TIME user of the "dibs" system, and he's calling dibs on you.

He glares down any other men that think to talk to you (though always from over your shoulder so you don't catch him), but if he's not close enough to do that, he'll manipulate the situation to better suit his preferences.

E.g.: using magic to tip something over so it spills on the offensive male's lap, or jinxing their textbook so it jumps off their desk and smacks them in the face.

In rarer instances where he has the ability to exercise patience, Sebastian will wait for the chatty admirer to stand up and leave, then use his magic to yank their pants down. Embarrassment is a good teacher, right ?

If the two of you aren't already dating, Sebastian goes out of his way to secretly memorize your schedule so he can 'coincidentally' run into you more often. He thinks it increases his chances of wooing you, but Ominis just thinks he's acting like a buffoon.

He always buys an extra treat to offer to you later on. He'll claim that he's so full that he doesn't have room for it, but it's all calculated so he can watch your expression light up when you take the morsel from him (Pavloving your crush... smooth, Sebastian)

This man falls asleep reading like he's an 80 year old man. Upright in bed, light still on, book halfway covering his face or open in his lap. He also 100% isn't above writing in the margins or dog-earing the corners of pages.

If the two of you ever get into an argument that isn't immediately resolved, he BROODS. He'll haunt the Undercroft like a ghost, stare unblinkingly at the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, and glare at anyone that tries to check on him.

Eventually you'll have no choice but to go seek him out because A) you're convinced he might be dead and B) everyone is begging you to. They can't take it anymore– he's terrifying when he's upset.

Sebastian is stubborn as hell but will almost always defer to your judgement. It's 1am and he's still up reading ? "Come to bed," you order. He listens. He gets injured after a particularly difficult fight in the Forbidden Forest ? "It's just a scratch," he waves you off. "Sit down," you demand, pointing at the ground in front of you. He scrambles over like an obedient puppy, though not without pouting.

He might argue against the claim, but he's sentimental. He always saves letters from you, Ominis, and his sister. He has a box of trinkets full of items that belonged to his parents hidden away in his trunk.

He also becomes extremely quiet and reserved when the anniversary of his parents' deaths comes along and will shamelessly melt into you for comfort as though you're the only thing that can keep him from crumbling.

The man can eat. Like Ron throughout the entire movie series, Sebastian's love for food knows no bounds. Maybe it has to do with playing Quidditch or just being gifted with a fast metabolism, but he gorges himself on sausages, pastries, candies, roasts, and whatever else he can get his hands on with reckless abandon.

He also never seems to gain weight from it (which irritates you to no end).

He was never big into romantic literature until he met you. Then all of a sudden, his excursions into the Restricted Section were focused wholly on locating more and more books centered around female anatomy and love stories.

Even if he vowed to never dabble in the Dark Arts again, there's still a tiny part of him that yearns to try his hand at it again. The allure of power like that is too tempting for him to completely ignore.

His eye sight isn't exactly perfect, but he refuses to wear his reading glasses because he doesn't want to tarnish his public image. He'll wear them around you, though (especially once you tell him that they make him look charming and dashing).

NSFW

Relating to his love of physical touch, Sebastian HAS to have his hands on you the entire time you're fucking

E.g.: running them up your legs, tracing the grooves of your abdomen, squeezing your breasts, or (his favorite) intertwining his fingers with yours and pinning your hands beside your head.

It depends on his mood, but Sebastian's kisses alternate between slow and soft to desperate and needy.

He often buries his hands in your hair to pull you in and hold you where he wants you, secretly obsessed with how malleable you are with him.

Sebastian is messy, passionate, emotional, and almost impulsive with how he loves. It can be overwhelming at times, but you grow to accept it fairly quickly.

He loves dominating you in bed, but he's remarkably quick to hand the reins over to you in the event you're feeling bold. He loves that just as much– watching you ride him like your life depends on it, shamelessly turning into the neediest, whiniest bloke in existence.

He's a LOUD masturbator. Sebastian totally lacks the ability to keep his voice down when he's jerking off– brazenly moaning and panting while his fist pumps wetly up and down his cock. For those reasons, he tries to hold off on pleasuring himself until he's alone in his dorm or in the showers, because it only took Ominis commenting on it once for him to learn his lesson.

Sebastian isn't an exhibitionist by any means, but in the event he's worked up enough that he can't stop himself, well... he'll fuck you anywhere. In the Quidditch locker rooms, in an empty classroom, in the bathroom. You usually try to lead him someplace more private in those instances, but you don't always succeed.

He's so willing to try new things with you that one might think he doesn't have a favorite position, but 9 times out of 10, he's finishing with his eyes glued to yours. Sebastian loves watching you crumble beneath him, adores watching your lips part around stammered moans of his name, so missionary tends to be his go to position towards the end.

The guy is grossly obsessed with watching you stretch around his cock. I'm talking stars in his eyes, a big stupid grin on his face, and airy groans of your name pouring from his throat. He was addicted from day one and will never stop studying the way you swallow him up.

Sex with Sebastian is as versatile as his kisses; sometimes it's tender and languid, not at all rushed as the two of you take your time touching and grinding and sighing into one another's mouths.

Other times, it's rushed and desperate. He'll dig his nails into your skin and bully your legs apart so he can get to his target quicker, then tease you and edge you so aggressively that the overstimulation bring you to tears.

Always whispers praises directly into your ear while he thrusts into you, relishing in the way you tighten around his cock and flush with embarrassment when he compliments how good you feel, or how perfectly you take him.

Sebastian is so, so shamelessly flirty when he drinks. It's a rarity when the two of you are still students, but getting your hands on Firewhiskey or other alcohol is far from difficult. After his third drink, he's ridiculously clingy and even more touchy than usual, unapologetically murmuring sweet nothings in your ear regardless of whether or not there's an audience to bear witness to the scene.

Loves loves loves burying his face between your breasts. Either to suck on your nipples or to press his ear against your chest to hear your heartbeat, it doesn't matter. Just trust that his head will eventually end up against your sternum.

Sebastian 100% has a breeding kink. He might not reveal it in its entirety in the beginning, but once you're both free from the confines of Hogwarts and living with one another, it shows itself dramatically.

(See this post for more clarity on why that is)

He can never decide what he likes more: watching his cum drip out of you, or seeing you covered in it. Usually he just opts to go another round so he can see both and sate his curiosity.

Will absolutely do everything in his power to leave lasting marks on your body. Be it on your neck, your thighs, or your waist– he loves seeing evidence of himself all over you. It makes him bloom with male pride knowing that anyone that sees them will know they were left there by him.

Not-so-secretly loves when his banter with you segues into a steamy, passionate make-out session. It could be over something completely irrelevant, but he'll keep pushing your buttons just to get you riled up enough that you decide to shut him up with your lips.

#asks #witchy-main #this got out of hand but it was so much fun to type up #I'm considering this my warm up for writing cause now I'm diving into TSP #I DON'T WANT TO POSTPONE THE UPDATE TOMORROW #wish me luck lads and lassies #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow headcanons #hogwarts legacy headcanons #a.txt

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tiannasfanfic · 2 months ago

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Busker

Astarion x Reader (Fluff)

| Astarion Masterlist | AO3 Link |

Summary: When the party discovers they don’t have enough gold to rent the room at the Elfsong Tavern, you come through for your friends by channeling your Bardic talents into an unforgettable performance.

Rating: General Audiences

Author Note: Gender neutral Reader/Tav, they/them pronouns (if any). No physical description given of Reader, race neutral and body type neutral. Reader wears a Bard’s outfit, but no description is given of the outfit, just a mention of what the outfit consists of (blazer, shirt, trousers, boots).

CW: None.

Word Count: 3,916

“We’ve only been in Baldur’s Gate for five minutes, how are we already out of gold???”

That was a little bit of an exaggeration on your part. It had been a couple hours since you all had passed through the archway into Baulder’s Gate proper, but your companions understood the sentiment.

Despite the exasperated look on your face, the question was mostly rhetorical. Everyone knew why the gold reserves had dwindled so quickly. It was due to a combination of upgrading equipment and restocking camp supplies. Both of these had been desperately needed as battles had gotten increasingly difficult as you made your way to the city and Gale could only make potato’s so many ways before you were all sick of them.

Which was saying a lot since you all normally loved potatoes.

But the idea of a balanced meal wasn’t that comforting when you’d finally found an inn that not only could accommodate you all, but could also accommodate you all for as long as you needed for a single flat fee when you discovered you couldn’t even afford that.

Everyone was looking forward to being out of the elements, to sleeping in real beds again and to having access to a hot bath. Eating potatoes for a few more days would’ve been a small price to pay for those luxuries.

“I could part with some of my books,” Gale said, hesitation in his voice. “Sorcerous Sundries pays well for magical tomes. A few of my rarer ones should be able to get us the room.”

“Absolutely not,” Karlach said, shaking her head. “You’ve worked your ass off on that collection.” Gale looked visibly relieved. “Ya know, back before I started working for Gortash, I used to fight at the arena. It was always a good way to make some quick coin.”

“No,” you said, sighing. “Your heart could go out at any moment. We’re better off with you saving your strength for the fighting we still have ahead of us.”

Karlach thought about this then nodded with a sigh.

“Good point, Solder,” she said, looking visibly disappointed.

“Perhaps I could -“ Astarion started saying as he wiggled the fingers of one hand in the air.

“No!” everyone said at the same time, shooting him looks of disapproval.

Astarion scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at them.

“You don’t even know what I was about to suggest!” he said, an indignant tone in his voice.

“You’re not picking pockets again,” Wyll said, also crossing his arms over his chest and glaring right back at him.

“Tchk, you think we forgot what happened the last time?” Lae’zel scoffed.

Astarion threw his arms up in exasperation.

“That was not my fault!” he exclaimed. “How was I supposed to know that guard was going to round the corner right as I was lifting a wallet?”

“Regardless, we lost more gold bribing the guard to keep you out of jail than we would’ve gained from the theft,” Jaheira said.

“And you shouldn’t have wasted the gold!” Astarion protested loudly. “Honestly, I could’ve broken myself out!”

The argument quickly grew heated, as it always did whenever this topic got mentioned, so much so that no one noticed when you slipped away from the group and to your tent.

However, they did notice when you strode past them towards the road that lead back into Rivington. It would’ve been hard not to notice you since you were now decked out in your most colorful Bard finery and stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Darling, where are you off to?” Astarion called towards your retreating back.

“To make us some money!” you called back over your shoulder, not breaking your stride.

The companions all looked at each other incredulously, shrugged at each other and began following you, the argument forgotten for the time being.

By the time you stopped at a particularly busy corner near the Circus of Last days, Karlach had put two and two together and was nearly buzzing with excitement.

“Are we finally getting to hear you play?” Karlach asked as you rummaged in your pack.

“Looks like it,” you said, pulling a tin cup from the bag and depositing it on the ground in front of you.

The Tiefling squeed in excitement and clapped her hands.

Outside of combat, the only times they’d ever heard you play was while tuning your lyre, which didn’t really amount to much, just some casual strumming. Whenever they asked if you’d treat them to a song, you always declined, saying you weren’t particularly inspired for real music at that moment.

But, like most people, you were highly motivated by small luxuries and, when faced with the choice of sleeping outside versus in a nice room, you had found a burst of inspiration.

Once you’d gotten yourself situated, you made shooing motions with your hands to your companions. The party retreated a short distance away to a short wall where they could relax and watch the show.

If you were nervous, there was no indication on your face. Astarion watched as you readied your lyre, closed your eyes, took a couple of deep breaths to center yourself and then strummed your fingers over the chords of the instrument.

But rather than a beautiful melody, the most god awful sound he’d ever heard was produced. Everyone within earshot cringed and a few people passing by stopped to stare.

Your eyes flew open and you glared down at the lyre.

“Now now, we talked about this,” you said to it.

You flashed an apologetic smile to the people nearby who had stopped, then turn back to the lyre with a serious look on your face.

With fluid motions, your fingers glided between the tuning pins and the strings, getting the sound in order. More people had stopped to watch, looks of apprehension on some of their faces. Bards in Baldur’s Gate were a gold a dozen and were either fantastically amazing or astonishingly terrible. There was no in between. But even the terrible ones were usually somewhat entertaining and, with the threat of an invasion looming, people seemed to welcome this brief distraction, even if it cost them their eardrums.

Once the tuning was complete, you smiled triumphantly to the gathering crowd, raised your arm theatrically and then strummed the strings with a flourish.

But all was still not well with the instrument. While some of the strings elicited a beautiful melody, the others sounded somewhere between nails on a blackboard and a dying cow.

The small crowd gasped, a few people made curses of shock. Some covered their ears, including Karlach.

A look of horror came over your face at the sound, which you quickly turned into another apologetic smile for the crowd before turning to your instrument with an almost comical glare.

Astarion narrowed his eyes at you. The lyre shouldn’t have still been out of tune. You had adjusted every pin, plucked every string one by on. It’d taken you a bit longer than it would’ve at camp, he’d watched you do it many times, but the result was the same. It sounded perfect even to his ears and he knew instruments just don’t go out of tune on their own. He leaned forward where he sat, watching your hands carefully as you began tuning it again.

As your fingers began to make adjustments to the pins, he was able to catch onto what was happening. While you turned one pin to tune its corresponding string, you managed to knock the next pin out of tune with your pinky and ring finger. At first, he thought it might be an accident, but then it happened two more times and he began to suspect it was on purpose. You did have some skill in Sleight of Hand, though you rarely used it.

His suspicions were confirmed when you turned back to the crowd with a triumphant look on your face, once again raised your hand with a flourish and confidently rang your fingers over the strings.

This time, the lyre made a sound reminiscent of metal grinding on metal, making your entire body stiffen up in a cringe and illiciting cries of pain from the growing crowd. Some shook their heads as if to clear them, while others stuck a finger in one ear as if working something out, and the kids all covered their ears. Everyone in the crowd had an expression of regret on their faces, ruing the fact that they’d stopped. Yet, none of them left, curiosity now winning out over self preservation.

“I guess we can look forward to another night sleeping in the dirt,” Shadowheart said with a deep sigh.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Astarion said, still watching you closely.

The others all looked at him quizzically and he tilted his head towards you, indicating they should keep watching.

Once again, you hit the crowd with an apologetic smile and laughed nervously, but Astarion could see now how exaggerated it was.

“My apologies everyone,” you said, your voice ringing out loud and clear to the gathered people, then slightly shook your instrument. “Thing’s got a mind of its own sometimes.”

Then you turned towards the lyre with a glare and then pointed an admonishing finger at it.

“Behave,” you said to it, a tone of warning in your voice, earning a few weary chuckles from the crowd.

Once again, you began to tune the instrument, this time turning the pins but not plucking the strings to test them. Your fingers darted back and forth along the pins, working out of sequence but adjusting each one to a slight degree. Once that was done, you flashed a nervous smile to the crowd, then readied yourself to play.

Just as you were about to start playing, your fingers mere inches from the strings, you froze in place, glanced at the audience, then made two more adjustments to pins.

You stood there for a moment afterwards, looking at your lyre with a worried expression, then turned another of the pins, but then you shook your head rapidly, as if in disagreement with yourself, and turned the same pin back to its original position.

After a couple of more worried looks towards the audience and a couple more pin adjustments, you gave a small nod of satisfaction. With one last nervous smile to the crowd, you took up a playing stance that looked more like you were bracing yourself for an explosion rather than playing a lyre, which earned a few apprehensive chuckles from the crowd. You took a few deep breaths, crossed the air with your free hand as you offered up a prayer to the gods, closed your eyes in a tight squint and cringed as you began to play.

This time, instead of some god awful noise no one knew a lyre was capable of producing, a beautiful melody floated off of the strings. Everyone recognized the opening tones of “The Queen’s High Seas” and Astarion could see the crowd visibly relax.

As the temperature of the crowd changed, you opened one eye to look down at your lyre and watched yourself playing for a second before looking up at the crowd in shock. You shook your head as if to clear it and a bright confident smile overtook your face as your posture relaxed. The crowd, now having caught onto your game, laughed appreciatively and a few people clapped.

“Well I’ll be,” Gale said, laughing and clapping his hands along with the crowd. “We might just get that room after all.”

Astarion couldn’t help but chuckle himself. You’d had played the crowd just as skillfully as you were now playing the lyre.

Once the first song was over, you easily transitioned into the more lively tune of “The Bard’s Dance.” Now that you were playing something more upbeat, your swaying turned into dancing and soon your audience was clapping along with the rhythm.

After two more songs, the impromptu performance was broken up by the city guards. There wasn’t anything in the laws of Rivington that prohibited busking, but the crowd had grown large enough it was spilling out into the street and blocking traffic.

You took your bows as the crowd began to disperse, dropping gold coins into the tin cup as they left.

The companions made their way back over to you as you were counting your earnings.

“That was incredible!” Karlach exclaimed, clapping you on the back and nearly knocking you over. “You’re really good, Solider!”

“Indeed!” Wyll said, beaming at you. “That was as fine as any performance I’ve ever seen!”

“With talent like that I’m surprised you don’t play more often,” Shadowheart said.

“I reserve it for special occasions,” you said with a shrug, then shook your coin purse. “Good news though. We’re a quarter of the way there. Shouldn’t take much longer and the room will be ours.”

That news brightened everyone’s spirits considerably.

A few hours, and a few street corners, later, you were all sitting round a table in the tavern at the Elfsong. Not only had you made enough gold to pay for the room upstairs but also a veritable feast for the party and several rounds of drinks. Since no one could decide what they wanted, the wooden surface was laden down with one of everything that was on the menu.

While Astarion didn’t partake in the food portion of the evening, he could tell it was good by how none of you really spoke as you dug in. There was the occasional yummy sound or one of you would tell the others to try a particular dish, but apart from that, talking was kept to a minimum.

As everyone’s bellies began filling up, regular conversation resumed and soon turned towards planning the next steps of their journey. Now that you all had made it Baldur’s Gate, it was time to decide where to go from here. Since the day had waned into the evening, everyone agreed to an early night and to set out for Sorcerous Sundries in the morning.

But planning an early night and actually getting an early night were two completely different things. Once the tavern bard took to the stage and the drinks continued to flow, this plan was quickly forgotten. Several hours passed in the blink of an eye.

As the bard was leaving the stage for a break after his second set, Astarion realized you’d been quiet for a bit and turned towards you only to find your chair empty. That took him a bit by surprise. It wasn’t like you to slip off without saying anything. Concerned, he excused himself from the table and went looking for you. It took a few minutes, but he finally located you when he checked the room upstairs. You were face down on your claimed bed, arms down by your sides with your still booted feet hanging off the edge.

“Darling, are you alright?” he said, voice laden with concern as he came over to sit next to you.

“Mmhmm,” came your response, muffled by the pillow you had your face in.

“Are you sure?” he said, placing one hand on your back to start rubbing it in a circular motion.

“Yeah, I am,” you said, and then moved your arms under your body so you could prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him. “I just always forget how exhausting performing is.”

Now that your face was visible, it was very apparent how tired you were. You looked even more worn down than you had after fighting through Moonrise Towers with the Harpers, which was surprising considering how prolonged that battle had been.

Having never been a stage performer himself, Astarion couldn’t relate to your current predicament, but he tried his best to be understanding.

“With all that dancing it’s no wonder,” he said, a soothing tone in his voice as he continued to rub your back. “I’d be more surprised if you weren’t tired.”

“It wasn’t just the dancing,” you said, moving your arms so they were folded on top of your pillow and then laid your head down on them. “Engaging with the crowd, keeping the energy going to keep their attention, making eye contact, talking with people at the end…I’m just as drained mentally as I am physically.”

Now that was something Astarion could understand. Back when he was still under Cazador’s thumb, he had to work the parties that regularly got thrown at the estates. Mingling with the nobles, engaging with guests, working with the servants to fix any problems that arose so the night would go off without a hitch…it was all incredibly exhausting.

“Is that why you don’t play at camp?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Once I get started, I can’t help but go into a full performance like that, even for a small audience. It’s against my nature as a performer to do anything simple.”

Astarion couldn’t help but chuckle. He could see that considering how theatrical you get when casting spells during combat.

“Would you like for me to get a bath ready for you?” he asked, now running his hand up and down your back.

You thought about it for a moment then shook your head.

“I’m too tired for that,” you said, your eyes closing. “Could you keep rubbing my back though? It feels really nice.”

“Of course,” he said.

It didn’t take long before your breathing began to take on a slower rhythm indicating you’d soon be asleep. Astarion took a hold of your shoulder and gently shook you.

“Can you roll over for me, darling?” he asked, his tone soft and gentle. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”

You grumbled, but did as he asked, turning over to lay on your back, eyes still closed. Now that he had better access, he rose from the bed and started taking your boots off. Once that was done, he helped you sit up to remove your blazer.

“Do you want to change into your night clothes?”

You shook your head again, so Astarion unbuttoned the collar and cuffs of your shirt, as well as the first few buttons down the front, and helped you untuck it from your trousers. While it wasn’t as loose as the shirt you normally slept in, that gave you more room to move around.

Once he’d helped you squirm under the covers, you immediately curled up underneath them into your normal sleeping position. He sat back down then, leaning over to kiss you on the forehead.

“Stay with me for a bit?” you asked, your voice quiet and on the verge of sleep.

While he knew how you felt about him and you never made any secret about how much you cared, sometimes he had his doubts. It was hard to believe sometimes that he could be so lucky. But in moments like these, moments when your thoughts slipped out as you teetered on the verge of wakefulness and sleep, his inner doubts quieted. It made him feel what he could only assume was the feeling of butterflies.

“Of course, my love,” he said, his voice soft as to not disturb your relaxation.

While he wasn’t quite tired enough to go to sleep himself, he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to hold you while you slept. It had become one of his favorite things.

Forgoing his normal sleeping clothes in order to quickly lay down with you, he made himself more comfortable in much the same way he had helped you. His boots were removed, the collar and cuffs of his shirt unbuttoned, and he untucked his shirt from his pants.

As he climbed under the covers, he noticed you were fighting to keep your eyes open to wait on him. Once he was situated, you scooted over to curl up against him, resting your head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around you.

“Goodnight, my love,” he said softly, kissing the top of your head.

You muttered something that sounded like goodnight and it wasn’t long after that you fell asleep.

As the sound of your breathing slowed into the low rhythm of sleep, Astarion couldn’t help but think of the future. Now that you all had reached Baldur’s Gate, he imagined things would begin to escalate quickly, but there was still so much to do. There were quite a few people the party needed to meet up with, you had a lead on where to find Shadowheart’s parents, plus your new friend at the circus had asked you to find Dribbles the Clown. Or, rather, what was left of him, at any rate. And then there was the small matter of killing Cazador.

Astarion’s arms unconsciously tightened around you as his thoughts turned towards his former master.

Despite all of the confidence and bravado he displayed whenever he talked to you about it, the prospect of returning to the Crimson Palace unsettled him. He was terrified, but he knew if you knew that you’d try to talk him out of going, to let you and the others handle it while he stayed behind at camp. You’d already floated the idea to him once, but there was absolutely no way he was going to miss out on Cazador’s bloody and, hopefully agonizingly painful, last moments. After two hundred years of torture, he’d more than earned that right.

And then there was the matter of the Rite of Profane Ascension. Was he really going to take Cazador’s place and ascend in his stead?

He still had no idea. Despite the determination he showed you whenever the topic came up, he was deeply unsure if it was the right thing to do. He didn’t want to lose what little humanity he had left, become a hard and cruel monster as his master was. But what choice did he have if he wanted to keep you safe, to keep himself safe? Once the tadpoles were gone, he’d be nocturnal once again, relegated back to the shadows and unable to protect you in the daytime hours. He shuddered at the thought of something happening to you just because he couldn’t go outside half the time.

All of these thoughts combined into a loop of despair in his mind, only broken when the sound of your drunken companions finally coming upstairs to retire for the night. The noise startled him from his thoughts, and you stirred in his arms.

While you didn’t fully wake from your slumber, your sleep was disturbed just enough that you moved around into a different position. You turned onto you other side within the circle of his arms, facing away from him. Astarion moved his body with yours, turning with you so he was curled up behind you, the front of his body pressed against the back of yours. In this new position, he was able to bury his face against the side of your neck and breathe in your scent. Your smell was comforting to him and felt himself relax.

Now that the spiral of his thoughts were broken, he took this as a sign to stop thinking for the night get some rest. It took a little while, but between the lullaby of your soft snores and the steady beat of your heart, his worries about the coming days fades and he eventually drifted off into a meditative state.

#Astarion #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion fluff #astarion fanfiction #astarion imagine #astarion oneshot #astarion headcanons #astarion romance #bard tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 x reader #baldur’s gate 3 x reader

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wingsofmud · 5 months ago

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The canonically rapid evolution of the dragons in WoF is really interesting to me, so I added some aspects of that to my rewrite.

The rankings system is also interesting, so I made that a nation-wide thing, instead of something just for the nobility. Circle 1 and the palace are located in the upper most part of the territory, with the other circles going in a line south of it.

I shifted the Great Ice Cliff to separate the 1-3 Circle from the 4-7 Circle and the rest of Pyrrhia.

Info Below (For present day Icewings):

Lower Circle Icewings

Lower Circle/Southern Icewings are vaguely based off of polar bears. They're shorter and brawnier than upper circle ones. While they do give off that signature Icewing chill, their scales are not as frigid as their northern counterparts. Their tails are like a spiked club.

They can come in white, but often come in light browns, grays, reds, and oranges. The closer the dragon is to the Great Ice Wall, the more whites, blues, and purples show up in their scales.

Southern Icewings are also more likely to have spots and/or stripes on their scales, all to blend in better in the ranging subarctic to temperate to desert climate they live in. They are more omnivorous, and many herd caribou as an occupation.

They make up the majority of the Icewing population and the backbone of the military. They wear clothing more often, which usually consists of fur, bone, or fish scales. Better off Icewings can also obtain cloth and jewelry from passing Sandwing nomads.

While all Icewings have a reputation for being frigid, pun intended, lower circle Icewings tend to be friendlier.

Upper Circle Icewings

Upper Circle/Northern Icewings are inspired off of arctic wolves. They often have small, pale irises and their scales feel like ice to the touch. Their tails are like spiked whips. They mostly come in white with some light blue or purple accents on them. Some dragons like Snowfall have red accents. Spots and stripes are rarer and usually much paler when they are present. They are much less tolerant of the heat.

Northern Icewings don't usually wear much jewelry. It's seen as garish to make such obvious displays of wealth, unless you're the Queen. They usually only dress up during special occasions and celebrations, and even then that's usually reserved for the one being celebrated.

The upper circle consists of all Icewing nobility along with the richest dragons. Most work in or around the palace grounds. Most of their diet consists of fish and seals which they eat raw.

History

I changed the Gift of Order to the Gift of Equality. In ancient Icewing society, the caste was absolute. You were born into and died in your circle. The Gift of Equality came with a system to introduce fairness by basing what circle a dragon ended up in on their merit rather than birth.

Of course the Queen at that time did not account for the fact that Upper Circle Icewings have far more resources at their disposal to ensure their dragonets remain in the upper circles than lower circle Icewings. A few dragons manage to climb a circle once in a while, which the upper circle dragons love to use to shut up complaints from the lower circles. It is incredibly difficult to end up in the top three circles if you were not born into them.

Lynx is an outlier. So much so that her family has been investigated several times by Icewing nobles for fraudulent scoring. Considering the punishment for that is death, it is not a light accusation. Nothing was ever found. Of course her problems aren't over, especially since Icewing nobles aren't exactly known for being accepting.

Lower circle Icewings are usually disregarded when it comes to decisions like war and lawmaking by the upper circles. In fact, the upper circles dragons very rarely directly interact with the lower circle ones, often giving news to the fourth circle for them to spread it to the rest themselves. Though each circle and town is different, there is a massive culture shock between the 4th and 3rd circle. Not to mention the literal wall between them.

Lower circle Icewings are vying for independence, a movement that grew rapidly during the War of SandWing Succession. A movement Queen Snowfall is now expected to do something about now that the war is over and Darkstalker has been dealt with.

#wings of fire #wof #wof rewrite #wof worldbuilding #wof headcanon #icewing #myart

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osamucide · 1 year ago

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gladly

gladly i’ll burn up for you if you burn up for me

NSFW—MINORS DNI

wc: 1.2k

cw: dazai x gn!reader, explicit sexual content, no plot just horny and fluffy, established relationship, somno(?)(sleepy, anyway), handjob, grinding, nipple play, use of “baby,” “darling,” pillow princess dazai my most beloved

reid: this position bruh i’m going to go so feral that i eat my own hand. not the smut i intended to publish next but apparently the smut i needed to publish next. a little something short while i put off a longer dazai smut. i <3 soft lazy dazai enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

You know mornings like this should be rarer than they are.

His charming insistence, however muted by his sleep-addled laziness, hardly ever fails on you. In fact, it all might make him more tempting—that, the warmth of newly recharged bodies, the honey behind his drooping eyelids, the wandering of his hands and rolling of his hips against yours that feels so sweetly and foreignly unmapped and confused, yes, it’s equal parts all those things and you’re sure some others that you can’t conjure up into words through your early-hour fog. Yes, very few things Osamu ever does without meticulous planning, but he does let a certain vulnerability crack through on mornings like this, a vulnerability that’s evident in between his parting lips and the soft, unpracticed whines that live and die there. And yes, you’re one of the primary reasons—if not the primary reason—Osamu’s so often late to show up to work, but it’s difficult for you to feel guilty when your senses find their way back to the waking realm amongst his pretty sounds rumbling from his chest into your ear, his back arching back against your touch, and his soft brown hair splayed around his head like a halo.

The rational side of you should be dragging your dear boyfriend up and out of bed but it appears to still be asleep as you let your fingertips creep beneath his waistband. You shut the morning light out in favor of pressing your eyes beneath his collarbone; your thumb finds his tip, and if you weren't on the threshold of consciousness you would let out a giggle at the way his breath catches. You can feel Osamu's fingers curling tenderly around your wrist—a silent plea for you to keep going, touch him more, and you'll oblige, but you have to kiss the triangle of his shoulder first, so you do; your tongue deftly finds his nipple, and he's so pliant half-beneath you that you can slot his thigh between both of your own—it’s all you'll need, you can tell, as his head dips to the side on the pillow to catch a half-lidded glimpse of you working him into a mess so early and so easily. He'll return the favor without even trying, just by laying there and letting you move the way you do; he's so gorgeous all bleary from slumber, palming your lower back to guide you against him. You move. You move, looking up at him like he’s an angel, and his vision melts to warm darkness again. It's all he'll need, too.

You’d think he was falling back asleep if it wasn’t for the slow and steady bucking of his hips up into your hand. Winding your fingers around his base elicits a whine from his diaphragm—one you can hear against him as your own eyes roll shut and your tongue continues to idle. It’s all so natural, the way you stroke him, lick him, grind on him, that you feel yourself slipping back into unconsciousness. It’s his noises that you hang on for.

He’s far from alert, but words tumble out in whispers.

“Baby, it feels so good, don’t stop…”

You hum, more in response to his mumblings and less from the friction you create against his thigh; nonetheless, you’re sensitive, and as you keep rhythm along his cock he flexes against you and the way that you feel, splitting the line of slumber and wakefulness and writhing hotly against your lover, is divine.

You wish you could live in this kind of moment for the rest of your life. Too often you find yourself overwhelmed; regrettably and even more often you find Osamu overwhelmed. It’s never so obvious to anyone as it is to you, so he doesn’t tend to let on to anyone but you, and maybe that’s why you keep things like this sacred, because for once he doesn’t seem to be thinking, analyzing, inquiring, even how he does when you regularly have sex—forever the pleaser, he’s always looking to you with eyes asking questions like is it enough? Even outside of sex, god, in every aspect—you know he never stops wondering the same thing about himself: is it enough? Does it feel good? Am I enough? And the answer you give him is always a resounding yes, and you want so badly for him to believe you because he’s just as much your angel as you are his. You hope that mornings like this communicate it louder than your reassurances can. Your pleasure—in everything, in life—is so vividly amplified by his wellness, his peace, his own pleasure. You love him so deeply. He loves you like a stray cat finally living in comfort. You’ll never let a morning like this slip.

“Right there, right there,” he encourages as you squeeze just below his tip; his head lolls from side to side almost as if he’s dreaming (sometimes he thinks he is with you) and you track his movements through your own bliss, dragging your hips back and forth desperately as you double down on the spot that forces full-bodied moans from his pretty mouth. He’s close, he begs you; you’re frantic on his thigh, feeling yourself cum in a haze that has him tensing—you grind harder, harder, harder, sighing out his name until you’re spent so you can prop yourself up on your elbow to watch his face in the thickly-curtained sunlight.

“Oh, fuck, fuck— fuhhh— ah, uh-huh, ah—”

His eyes flicker open to catch your tired smile and he’s cumming—his grip on your ass is the only thing grounding him as his jaw falls slack, your lashes flutter in pure satisfaction, and he twitches, sent to the clouds by his beloved who looks at him with such adoration that he catches himself believing for a second that he must be beautiful; you work incredible magic on him. His brain and his body, both so used to neglect and abuse, finally feel like fruitful grounds for love. He finally feels whole as his cum drips down your fingers.

It is then that you do giggle and lean down to place a quick kiss to his nipple; he’s breathless, pink in the face, and you know you couldn’t love him more, and yet you will as each second passes.

Osamu brings his hand up to your hair, and your next kiss lands on his lips as he wills you down. It’s tender and lasts much longer than expected—you almost start your hips against him again, but the snoozed alarm at your bedside rings for the fourth time. You glance over. He was supposed to be out the door five minutes ago.

“Oh, shut it off,” he groans resentfully.

“As if.” You press one more kiss to his cheek before you unpeel yourself from him and punch the ringer into silence. “I’ll put coffee on.”

“Shower with me before I go, please.” He rubs his eyes and sits up. You strip out of your sticky shorts.

“Of course, darling.”

You pad to the kitchen. He watches you go with a warmth he didn’t know himself to be capable of.

And a smirk.

Maybe he can talk you into one more round in the bathroom.

#with love—reid #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bsd smut #dazai smut #nnnsfw.ᐟ

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mediumgayitalian · 3 months ago

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———

Step One: A Question

———

The thing about vitakinesis is that it is intensely difficult, if not impossible, to perform on oneself.

There is a kind of separation between the conscious and unconscious mind, you see. The body, constantly sending signals, communicates mostly with the unconscious brain. The unconscious brain could even, honestly, be argued to perform the vast majority in function to keep the body alive. Very rarely are you aware that your heart is beating. Rarer still do you know your stomach acid boils food down to molecules. And never, do you notice, the split and pull of your cells.

The body is a very busy thing. And the unconscious mind is very good at taking that information, processing it, and storing it in the appropriate filing cabinets. A pinnacle of administrative excellence. The conscious mind is really only barely aware of what’s going on; not unlike most straight men, it certainly thinks it is in charge, but really can only handle so much before it cracks and rages and spirals down into a hole of despair fixed mainly by binge drinking and stress-induced amnesia.

All this to say that when Will places his hand gently on the strongest pulse point of his patients, he takes that grand, endless flow of informative signals from the body of another and interprets them in his own conscious mind. While certainly an overwhelming process to learn, it has become over time something like reading — unbelievably difficult in nuance to learn in infancy, but second nature in constant practice. His unconscious mind works merrily away on his own body, filling up those filing cabinets. His conscious mind flicks over someone else’s files before they’re tucked away. Simple.

The difficultly comes in when trying to decipher his own files. For all the ease in reading someone else’s, his own are tucked away — since his body, conscious mind, and unconscious mind are all connected, he cannot simply dip into a stream of information and filter out what he needs. He has to detangle all that shit. And anyone who has ever taken a brush to a pile of curly hair can tell you — that shit is hard. Honestly, impossible. He has no idea what’s going on in his own body other than it’s probably not bad.

Thank the gods for Gracie, or else he never would have gotten the chance to find out.

“It’s like grabbing fish from a moving river,” he tries, having never fished even one time in his life. Lee fished, though. Gracie looks at him with wide, nervous eyes. “A little noisy. A little scary. A little maybe-you-fall-in-and-drown-y. But mostly, you just gotta chill out and grab the first little fish that pops out at you.”

“I don’t want to drown,” worries Gracie, hunching even farther into herself, and wow, in hindsight, Will needs to work on his brain to mouth filter. Any word choice would have been better.

He pats her on the head. “Nah, kiddo, you’ll be fine. You healed that little bunny yesterday, remember?”

Instantly, the fear melts off her face, replaced with her narrowed eyes and scrunched up little nine-year-old nose. Gods, Will wants to squish her. She’s so godsdamn cute. Who authorized that? She certainly didn’t get it from their father.

“Damien should not have kicked it, even if it chewed up his underwear.”

“Yes. And then you did a great job healing the bruise you left on his nose. See? You can do this. You’re just all in your head.”

HA. There. Will can be normal. He just needs a second try.

Finally, she agrees, hesitantly reaching out her hand and wrapping it around Will’s elbow. He squeezes her free hand encouragingly, breathing through the little twinge in his chest as his body remembers the last time he did this, hand over Lee’s elbow, searching for his nod of approval.

“You got this, squirt. Close your eyes. Breathe out. Listen to the rush of the water, and when it’s not so loud, grab the first fish you see.”

Gracie closes her eyes, breathing slowly and leaning ever so slightly forward as a rush of information buzzes through her softly glowing hands. She scrunches her forehead, hands tightening — for her sake, Will tries to make his own vitals easier to read, but remembers quickly he has no way of doing that and abandons the idea — and twists her mouth the way she does when someone says something stupid at dinner and everything gets a little chaotic. Sweat beads on her forehead.

Will holds his breath.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Her eyes fly open.

“Your heart rate went from 60 BPM to 90! I felt it!”

“Awesome!” he exclaims, holding up his hand for a high-five. “You got that fish right from the tail!”

Lord, he needs a new metaphor.

Regardless, the fear has completely fallen off Gracie’s frame. She bounces on the tips of her sparkly light-up sneakers, braids flopping all over the place.

“Again! Again! I wanna see if I can get your glucose levels!”

He snorts. “Knock yourself out, kid.” He blinks. “Or, well, maybe stop one step before that. Here. Have a Kit-Kat bar.”

She takes it, likely more because it’s chocolate and she’s nine than for its restoration abilities, but regardless. He sits back in his chair, reaching over for his clipboard and lazily running through some paperwork as she digs her nails into the crook of his elbow, cheering every time she gets a new reading.

“Your glucose reading is average!”

“Dope.”

“Your respiratory rate is within the expected range!”

“Love to hear it.”

“Your blood pressure has an abnormally high reading at 140 over 90!”

“That would be your older sister’s fault.”

So on and so forth. He keeps an eye on the time — from his own experience he knows that she can do fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of this before she hits the ground, and he would like to learn from Lee’s mistakes and stop her at fourteen — but mostly lets himself space out and his sister go ham. Absentmindedly, he watches her wide, missing-teeth grin, her fluttering hands, her bright green eyes. He can’t hold back a smile and wouldn’t anyway. He’s so freaking pumped to have another nerd in the house.

At the ten minute mark, he starts tuning back in, tapping her shoulder.

“Two more minutes,” he warns.

She pouts. “Aw. I wanted to see if I could find out what you had for lunch based on your blood sugar levels.”

“Girl, you were there.”

“Still!”

“Just — fill out this chart. Height, weight, resting heart rate, things like that. Practice.”

She does, scrawling it out in print worse than his — a little doctor in the making, he is going to melt — and more, flipping the page over to record every bit of information she gleaned from checking it over. He finds himself peeking over her shoulder, tilting his head in curiosity. Huh. His red blood cell count is a little high. He didn’t know that.

He never gets to know any of his stats. Chiron always says something about his obsessive anxiety disorder and some of the worst ADHD impulse decisions he has ever seen, blah blah blah. As if. He’s pretty much almost kind of sixteen years old. Geriatric, as far as demigods go. So it’s fine. He can find out. Plus, Chiron is a big fat exaggerator. So.

The timer on his watch beeps.

“One more minute,” Gracie begs. “I want to know how much water you have in you.”

The gears in Will’s brain don’t even turn. They spin like a test tube in a centrifuge.

“Not sure that’s entirely medically relevant,” Will says absentmindedly, and the faintest itch starts tickling the back of his throat, as if his infernal and nonsensical allergy is calculating the percent truth level in his words. The brain gears spin faster.

Now.

He’s not taking his own vitals. So. Technically, he is not breaking any rules. He’s not trying to steal his medical file from the Big House again. He’s not following Kayla around stretching out pleeeeeeeaaaaasse until she snaps, loses her shit, and shoots him in the shoulders. In all honesty, he didn’t even ask for all this. It just happened, really, it’s fate, and who is he to tempt Fate?

(Now. Is it unethical to maybe kinda sorta lightly manipulate his baby sister into letting him make questionable (but interesting!) medical experiments.

Perhaps.

But, honestly, so is training her in the medical arts at nine years old, so. Penny, pound, et cetera.)

He checks his watch. Time is up.

“Okay,” he says, gently peeling his sister’s hand off his elbow and holding it, steadying her as she sways a little (he checks. She is fine. All is well and mostly ethical). Her whining makes the corners of his mouth twitch. “Write down what you learned, okay? We can practice again another day.”

Gracie pouts. “Fine.”

She scribbles down everything she can remember, far out-writing the chart’s answer boxes, then dashes off (after several Kit-Kats and also an apple, ‘cus Will’s healthy like that) to play. Will waits a heroic seven seconds before snatching the paper up and reading it with more care and interest than he’s ever read anything in his life.

“Oh ho ho ho,” he mutters to himself, well aware he sounds like a villain in an eighties cartoon and choosing to ignore it, “oh, the things I can do…”

Not all of it is new information. Height. Weight. Vibe (which is not part of the chart, but he appreciates Gracie’s rating of ‘pretty solid’ regardless). Resting heart rate (average). Blood pressure (bad).

But GCI. Red blood cell count. Total water content, gods above.

The gears finally slow to a stop. A question floats to the very forefront of his mind, in Times New Roman, 12 point, stark black. The Mrs. Rightman in his head cheers.

He carefully folds the paper. He sticks it in his lab coat pocket. He grins.

And he runs to find the one person in camp who can help him with phase two.

———

#see look another chapter #any further chapters will be kater tho i rly wanna post the beach one #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #jason will be in this one 👀#will solace #autistic will solace #absolute garbage impulse control will solace #big brother will solace #will solace & gracie #my writing #fic #longpost #the scientific method

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avis-writeshq · 2 years ago

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05 — enchanted

summary: “please don’t be in love with someone else”/“please don’t have somebody waiting on you.” pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn, no use of (Y/N) warnings: alcohol (reader gets drunk lmfao), jealousy, slight miscommunication, austin (aka: bartender girl from s4), special mention to special people wc: 4.9k a/n: everyone say thank you @astrophileous for beta-reading MWAH ilyvm zara <33 SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

Although you haven’t been a part of the BAU for more than one year, it didn’t stop you from maintaining the connections that you had in all your years of working there. Sure, the scheduling times could be better, but that didn’t stop the team from spending their rare day off to spend time with you. After all, the adjustment of seeing you every day to once in a blue moon was a difficult one to make.

O’Keefe’s has been the main victim of the team’s shenanigans, its doors open for the seven members of law enforcement, all eager to get their hands on some well earned rest and relaxation. Drinks are passed around the booth and you can’t help but laugh as you watch Derek get his ‘groove thang on’ with a few girls in the bar. Today is one of the rare occasions when the team didn’t have a case, an even rarer day when the team didn’t have to take on any new or incoming cases.

“How’s life treating you?” Emily asks cheerfully, sipping at her strawberry daiquiri. You gather that tonight is one of those nights.

You smile, sipping at your own beverage of choice. “Good! Way less stressful than working at the BAU, that’s for sure. And the hours are good, too.”

JJ snorts from beside you. “Yeah, well, can’t say I’m not jealous. How’re the kids?”

“I can’t say much because of confidentiality and all that, but they’re doing well. A lot better, thank goodness but it just goes to show the aftermath of the things that you guys deal with. I mean, I still think about all the victims we’ve helped and it sucks that we can’t do anything to help them further.” You finish your tangent with a long sip of your drink before leaning back against the booth. “Anyway, how are you guys?”

Penelope comes shuffling past carrying a series of cocktails, her absolutely monstrous platform heels not aiding her in her slightly tipsy task. “Do not even get me started on work. No work! None! We’re having a fun day. Ergo, no work talk.”

You laugh in response, moving to the side to allow her room to sit in the booth. “No, Penny, you’re right. No work talk.”

The drinks are dispersed and your gaze shifts to where Spencer is standing, laughing awkwardly as he tries to follow along to Derek’s dancing and socialising. He looks incredibly out of place in his brown argyle sweater vest, navy tie and freshly pressed slacks, and he pulls at the collar of his shirt.

“Nah, Spencer could definitely be a ladies’ man if he plays his cards right. And I mean that literally,” Emily says, bringing you out of your daydream.

Your head snaps in her direction, trying to calm your facial features and microexpressions. Regardless of your attempts, after a year of not practising, you don’t do as well as you hope. “What?”

JJ grins at you, her eyes lighting up knowingly. “We’re just talking about who’s the biggest hotshot in the BAU.”

“Wouldn’t that be David?” You ask meekly, your finger swirling along the edge of your glass. You had met David Rossi on occasion, once by accident when you were having a night out with the girls and the other during a proper introduction two weeks later. “Didn’t he have, like, five wives?”

“I had three thank you very much,” Rossi intervenes swiftly, holding his glass of whisky on ice.

“Sorry, my bad,” you respond jokingly, snickering as he shakes his head and stalks over to where Hotch is sitting and drinking his rum.

Penelope lets out a loud laugh. “I think we’re forgetting the obvious: our very own Chocolate Thunder.”

“Well, fine,” Emily drawls, waving a hand dismissively, “but Spencer has that innocent vibe to him, y’know? The kind of guy women go crazy over.”

JJ clicks her fingers in remembrance. “Didn’t a bunch of prostitutes try to pick him up in that one case?”

“What?” You ask again, albeit a little shrilly as you try to dismiss the surprise in your tone.

“He didn’t take them,” Emily says quickly in an attempt to ease your discomfort. “But he did pick up a girl a few months ago. Austin?”

Penelope nods at that, putting down her cup. “Oooh, yes! I remember her. He showed me a picture. She’s pretty.”

“I mean, he did pick up Lila too.” JJ reminds the team, shooting you a sly smile. “You remember her, don’t you?”

You force out a laugh and bite the inside of your cheek in the process. “Yeah. Who’s Austin?”

“I think I still have a picture!” Penelope says, brandishing her phone from her coat pocket. She types something in before sliding it in your direction. “Pretty, right?”

Austin is certainly pretty, even in the uncoordinated selfie Penelope shows you of her and Spencer. He’s slightly out of frame, his lips set into a sweet smile while Austin practically glows. Her brilliant green eyes flash in the camera and her dark hair frames her face perfectly. She and Spencer are close in the photo, with him holding the phone clumsily and she has a hand on his arm.

“Uh huh,” you murmur distractedly, averting your gaze from the photo as an ugly feeling creeps into your chest. “Really pretty.”

Emily looks at you curiously. “You didn’t know about her?”

You shrug in response, the smile on your face insincere. “There are a lot of things I don’t know about Spencer.”

The group exchange a couple glances at your tell-tale body language, watching as you scoot past Penelope and out of the booth, making your way to the bar. You’re all too grateful for a reprieve from the teasing as you order another drink and take a seat, resting your chin on the palm of your hand. Your mind goes through all the interactions you’ve had with Spencer over the years. Were you really that foolish to think that he would feel that way for you? Maybe you were reading too much into it, you try to reason, running your fingers through your once styled hair. Maybe, in some stupid and twisted way, all of Spencer’s interactions were platonic.

You scoff inwardly to yourself. Right. Because picking someone up at two o’clock in the morning is entirely platonic. Sleeping in the same bed as someone because of nightmares is totally normal between friends. In any case, you could have sworn that he–

“Trouble in paradise?”

An unfamiliar voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin, and you turn to the man who takes a seat beside you. “Uh… something like that.”

The man hums, a smile on his handsome features. His dark brown hair is fluffy and, in its own charming little way, suits him. He reminds you a lot of Spencer, with the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles along with the timbre of his voice. He’s also very different to Spencer, especially with his sweater that has a bright orange pumpkin on it, paired with a matching orange scarf. A pair of red tinted sunglasses hang on the neckline of his sweater, and you doubt that it would do much good to block the sun.

“I’m Matthias,” he says good naturedly, beaming. “I’m with my sister, Laura,” he explains, gesturing to a lady sporting dyed auburn coloured hair, and she waves with a matching smile.

You introduce yourself, pointing to the booth. “My friends are over there.”

Matthias nods, undeterred by your company on the other side of the bar. “Let me buy you a drink.”

***

After what felt like hours of dancing (it was really only fifteen minutes), Spencer and Derek make their way to rejoin the group. The feeling of sweat matting his skin is one of many reasons as to why Spencer hates dancing. That, and the fact that there were far too many people on the dancefloor. What’s worse is the fact that he’s sure that none of them have ever heard of the word ‘deodorant’. He cringes at the thought of all the germs that could be festering on his skin as he sits at the booth, his eyes shifting to wear your bag lays haphazardly on the red cushions.

“Where is she?” He asks instantly, turning to Emily and placing your bag so that it’s in a safer and less hazardous position.

She hums, pointing in the bar’s direction. “Getting a drink. She’s just cooling off.”

“Cooling off?” Spencer echoes, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean she’s ‘cooling off’?”

Penelope offers an apologetic smile, fiddling with the buttons on her coat. “We… might have told her about Austin?”

“You what?” Spencer can barely believe his ears as he looks at the group incredulously. “Why would you do that?”

“We didn’t mean anything bad by it,” JJ says hastily. “We didn’t think she’d react like that.”

“React like what?” Spencer’s voice is strangely stern, his eyes narrowing as he turns to the rest of the team. “I don’t like Austin. She’s nice but I don’t like her.”

Derek’s brows lift in surprise and confusion. “Did you go out with her after the case?”

Spencer’s ears burn in embarrassment and he turns to his friend in offence. “I asked her for help. I don’t like Austin like that. I needed advice.”

“Advice,” Emily repeats, turning in the direction of the bar. “You mean about…?”

Spencer doesn’t stay long enough to head the rest of Emily’s sentence or to answer it, making his way over to you are. Part of him wishes that he stayed put, especially when he sees what you’re doing. In an instant, his nose is scrunched up in distaste as he spies the random stranger chatting you up. His eyes lock with yours and he relishes in the way they light up as you wave him over.

“Hi,” he breathes, standing beside you.

“Hi!” You gush, beaming at him. “Saw you on the dancefloor.”

“You’ll never see it again,” he says honestly, stealing a sip of your drink. It tastes like vodka and the strawberry lipgloss you use (he only know what it tastes like because of its very on the nose packaging: a giant strawberry. He wishes he knew for other reasons).

You laugh, bright and loud, before you gasp excitedly. “Oh, Spencer, this is Matthias! He’s been keeping me company.” Then, you lean closer to him, your voice a very exaggerated whisper as if the person you’re talking about isn’t in the seat next to you as you tell Spencer, “he’s a director.”

Matthias waves off the statement, chuckling along. “Nothing famous though.”

“He’s a liar,” you tell Spencer enthusiastically. “Did you know he went to New York University? Crazy, right? Like, the school of arts or something. Oh! And he’s also from Vegas! You two are so alike.”

Spencer nods half-heartedly as he tells you, “you know, I went to MIT and CalTech.”

“Well I know that, silly!” You say with a drunken laugh, poking at his cheek. You turn to Matthias with a proud grin before reaching for a shot. “Spencer’s a genius. He’s a super smart genius.”

“That’s what ‘genius’ means, angel,” Spencer reminds gently, prying the little cup away from you. “No more. You’re drunk and we don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Your face falls and your lips curl into a frown. “But Spencer I’m thirsty!”

“You have water in your bag,” he prompts, squeezing your shoulder and helping you off the barstool, not paying this Matthias person any mind. “Okay? Let’s go back to the others.”

You nod eagerly, stumbling a little as you wave goodbye. “Bye, Matthias!”

“Uh huh,” Spencer dismisses, leading you back to the table by the small of your back. He leans a little closer to murmur in your ear, “why did you leave the others?”

You shrug dismissively, leaning into his side. “Doesn’t matter.”

“No, angel, it does,” he says carefully, “tell me?”

You huff in your own clumsy drunken way. “You should ask Austin. Or go pick someone else up. Emily says you’re turning into a ‘ladies’ man’.”

Spencer resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. “I don’t like Austin,” he tells you in earnest, holding you close to his side as you stumble back to the booth. “I mean it, angel.”

“Bet you call everyone angel,” you grumble under your breath. “Bet you let everyone call you ‘Walter’ too.”

“No,” Spencer says immediately, a hand on your waist. “I only call you that. Besides, why would I let someone call me by my middle name if it isn’t you?”

You huff again, slumping in the booth as Penelope shuffles inward to give you more room. Your arms cross over your chest in annoyance and frustration and you turn away from Spencer’s direction. He doesn’t need to be a profiler to know that you’re pissed off at him. Somewhere in your hazy drunk mind, you’ve made it out as him being the bad guy.

Spencer shoots the other girls a pointed glare, gesturing at you as if to say ‘This is your fault’ because, in reality, it is. If they didn’t mention Austin, you wouldn’t be mad at him. If they didn’t mention Austin, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself drunk with some random guy who went to New York University. Spencer mocks Matthias in his head. Stupid Matthias and his stupidly good hair. Spencer runs a hand through his own growing locks, grimacing when he realises that it reaches his shoulders now. Maybe he should get a haircut later.

“Angel,” Spencer tries again, kneeling down next to your chair. “Let’s get you home, alright? Please don’t be mad at me?”

You mutter something incoherent, not bothering to look in his direction.

“I’m not in love with Austin,” he tells you, his tone a mix of firmness and gentleness. “Really, I’m not. We’re just friends, angel, I promise.”

“Liar,” you mutter under your breath as you get out of the booth. JJ guiltily passes you your bag and you take it out of her hands as Spencer grips your arm with one hand, the other on the small of your back.

“Not a lie,” Spencer says, walking you to his car. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Not after Lila.”

“Lie-la,” you say bitterly as you get into the passenger seat. “Stupid actress.”

He laughs at that, getting behind the wheel. “Yeah, angel. Stupid actress.”

“You kissed her in a pool,” you continue as you fumble drunkenly with the buckle of the seatbelt. “You don’t kiss me in the pool.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn at your words as he puts your seatbelt on, his fingers grazing yours. “It never came up. Besides, I hate pools, you know that.”

“Germ-y,” you respond knowingly, a silly giddy smile on your face. “I know you the best.”

“Exactly,” he hums as starts the car, his words flowing smoothly as he considers how drunk you are. There’s no way you’d remember this, right? “Why would I find another girl when I have you who knows me best?”

Your cheeks glow with pride at his words and you laugh. “Exactly.”

***

It’s late. Far too late and you toss and turn in bed. Your eyes are heavy but your brain won’t shut up, swirling with the memories of the previous night. You’re not really sure what happened after you got to the bar, only remembering snippets of the night. The entire time was a blur: you remember getting upset at the girls (or rather, at the information they were feeding you), meeting someone– Mason? Matthew? You can’t even remember– and then downing three shots. It’s awfully stupid of you, yes but then somehow you got home safe and sound with a note on your kitchen counter from Spencer.

You felt a little silly upon the finding of the note. Of course Spencer would take you home; it’s not like the girls were particularly sober by the time you wanted to leave. Regardless, reading the note made you feel incredibly stupid, more stupid than usual, and you wanted nothing more than to bury yourself six feet underground.

‘Hi angel,’ it read in Spencer’s messy scrawl with chaotic lettering and swirly g’s. ‘You’re probably really hungover right now so there’s a Tylenol on the counter and a sandwich in the fridge. Please drink water; I’m sure you’re also severely dehydrated from the alcohol. I know you’re upset at me but please just forget about what the others said about Austin. I don’t like her like that. Be safe and call me when you wake up.’

The note was fine, nothing out of the ordinary, just Spencer being his usual ridiculously lovely self. You didn’t mind that he took care of you, either. It’s more-so the fact that you genuinely could barely remember what you said that him. You’re betting on it being something exceedingly dumb (you’re making a habit of it, much to your own chagrin), especially considering how much you had to drink that night. Maybe you should start abstaining from drinking from now on, especially if Spencer was in the vicinity.

The note is now pinned securely to your cork board, a pretty lavender thumb tack holding it in place. Your gaze drifts to it for a moment then to your clock and you groan into your pillow. This is dumb. Sleep is dumb. Your clock blinks with the numbers ‘02:01’ in red mocking letters and you resist the urge to scream. After blindly searching for your phone, you step out of bed while rubbing your eyes.

The lingering question keeps you up as you pace back and forth beside you bed. If Spencer doesn’t like Austin, who does he like? It can’t be Lila. You would have known if they kept in contact. Then again, you had no idea who Austin was so who knows what secrets Spencer is keeping? What if there was another girl? What if your entire friendship with Spencer was exactly that– friendship. You slap the palm of your hand to your forehead. Were you really that stupid?

It’s in that moment when your phone begins to ring. The tune plays through the room and you know it all too well; the Doctor Who theme song that you spent a whopping two dollars and thirty-seven cents on to add it as the custom ringtone for Spencer.

“Hello…?” You answer quietly, your voice choking. “Walter?”

“Angel,” he murmurs, and you can hear shuffling in the background. “Why are you still awake?”

You hum, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I could ask you the same question.”

He laughs quietly on the other side of the line, scratchy from the lack of sleep. “Can I come over?”

“Always.”

He hangs up after that and you press the pads of your fingers into the corners of your eyes again. You’re exhausted, far too exhausted to be hosting guests, but this is Spencer. How can you ever say no to him? So, instead of sulking around and spending far too long doing nothing, you fashion yourself a cup of tea and flick the lights on. The book you were reading is thrown haphazardly onto the cushions of your couch but you can’t bring yourself to pick it up.

The jiggling of the door handle brings you out of your little mood, and Spencer lets himself in with the key you gave him, locking it securely and taking his shoes off to reveal his sock choice of the day: one bright green and the other in fuchsia with buttercup yellow spots. He’s wearing a crinkly white t-shirt that hangs over his gangly frame and grey sweatpants. For something so basic, he looks absolutely criminal in it. You pinch yourself as punishment for thinking such a thing.

“Hey,” he breathes, sitting next to you. He runs his fingers through his hair, frowning a little. “Do you think I should get it cut?”

You laugh, almost spilling your tea. “You came to my apartment at two in the morning to ask what I think about your hair?”

“Yes,” he agrees before laughing, “no! Of course not. I just thought of it.”

A hum leaves your lips as you curl a strand of his hair around your finger. “I like long hair on you. Besides, you’d look good in any hair cut.”

Spencer preens at your words, enjoying the feel of your touch in his hair. “You’re a liar. I know what I looked like four years ago. Don’t lie.”

“I’m not!” You insist, beaming at him as you poke his cheek. “You were really cute back then. Like a baby.”

He flushes again at both the compliment and the contact, his mind committing the way you say ‘baby’ to memory. He thinks it again and again; baby, baby, baby.

“I was not a baby,” He tells you, half in jest. “I’m older than you!”

“By a year,” you quip, the sleep deprivation making your head go loopy. “Barely. Doesn’t matter, you’re still baby.”

Spencer scoffs lightly, poking your side. “If I’m a baby, what does that make you? A foetus? A zygote?”

You let out a quiet scream in protest, whacking him over the head with a throw pillow. “Ew, Spencer what the hell?”

He snickers in response, shielding his face with his forearm. “If I’m a baby and you’re younger than me, you must be at an earlier stage of development. So? Which is it, are you a foetus or a zygote? C’mon, angel, you passed eighth grade biology.”

“You’re an ass,” you chastise jokingly, rolling your eyes as you look up at him. Sometime amidst the commotion he must have gotten closer to you. Your noses are almost touching and your breath hitches in your throat.

He smiles sweetly, his own cheeks warm and flushed with embarrassment as he maintains eye contact. “I thought I was ‘baby’.”

What the hell? Is this really Spencer Reid? Silly, awkward, nerdy little Spencer Reid? This must be a very convincing body suit and an even more convincing voice altering machine because this is not Spencer Reid. You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks and ears so quickly that it’s enough to make you go dizzy. Maybe you’re a lot more sleep deprived than you thought.

“Are you drunk?” You croak out meekly as he cages you in, his forearms on either side of your head as he leans you against the couch.

He laughs– he has the actual audacity to laugh– and he shakes his head. “No, angel, I’m not drunk. You know I don’t drink enough to actually get drunk. Besides, I drove here.”

“You drove here,” you repeat, a little dazed from how close he is. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Almost three now but yes,” Spencer agrees, smiling.

“You hate driving,” you remind him, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Especially at night.”

He hums in agreement. “I do. But I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.”

You kick yourself internally. ‘Oh’? Who the hell says ‘Oh’? This is it. Your life is over. Maybe you should move to another state. Change your name, shave your head, and get a different degree because you’re almost certain that it’s the end of the line for you.

Spencer lets out a soft chuckle. “I missed you.”

“You saw me two days ago?” You say it like a question and you suddenly feel yourself sweating. It definitely got hotter in here.

He murmurs your name, his fingers grazing the skin of your jaw gently. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“I ran into you four years ago and almost gave myself a concussion,” you say, averting your gaze as you tried to calm yourself down.

“I’m so glad I met you,” he repeats softly, his nose brushing against your cheek. “Look at me, angel.”

You wet your bottom lip nervously as you look at him, his hazel eyes a little greener in the low light of your apartment. His legs are on either side of your hips and he brushes his thumb against your chin.

“I want to kiss you,” Spencer says lowly, albeit a little breathlessly, and you can hear hoarseness in his words. “Can I?”

You’re dead. You’re either dead or asleep, that is the only explanation you have for this entire situation. You’re either dead and in heaven or asleep and dreaming. It is that plain and simple.

“What?” You croak out, your nails digging into the skin of your thighs.

“I know you wanted to do it in a pool but I’m pretty sure your apartment gym is closed now, angel,” Spencer says, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “Can I kiss you?”

The only thing you can manage to do is nod, your eyes flickering to his lips for a split second, watching as the corners of his mouth tug upwards. Your brain barely has any time to comprehend the words he said (since when did you say that you wanted to kiss him in the pool?) because in a rush of confidence, Spencer cups your face and presses his lips to yours in a tantalisingly slow kiss. His eyes are closed and his hands are eerily soft, the gentleness in which he holds you reminiscent of one holding porcelain.

He pulls away after a moment, his cheeks burning and a smile on his face. You can’t even breathe as you just stare at him, lips parted in surprise. What do you even say to that?

“Thank you?” You manage to stutter out, heat creeping up your neck.

He laughs again, breathless and beautiful, as he kisses the side of your face. “You’re welcome.”

Spencer brushes an eyelash from your cheek, beaming at you as he does. “It’s late,” he tells you, getting up from the couch and freeing your limbs. “You should get some rest.”

“Uh huh,” you respond, your head spinning. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he says back, trying to hold in a laugh. “I’m free next Friday. Do you want to go out?”

“Go out?” You echo, “we always go out.”

“I know.” He smiles at you again as he makes his way to the door. “I meant– you know. We can go out.”

A beat passes and your head is awfully slow, whether from the kiss or from the sleep deprivation, you’re not entirely sure. “We can go out.”

“Great.” He pauses, taking a step towards you before kissing your cheek. “I’ll text you.”

“You’ll–” you gape at him again as he opens your door to leave. “You hate texting.”

He nods, slipping on his shoes. “I also hate driving at night. Your point?”

“Right,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything. “Text me when you get home?”

“Of course I will, angel,” he promises, “get some rest.”

Get some rest? How the hell are you supposed to get some rest after all that? With one last wave, Spencer leaves your apartment, leaving you hoping that this wasn’t just some thing. Maybe this was the very first page of your story– a very embarrassing start to your story. There is one thing for certain though: Spencer is not in love with someone else.

***

It’s a Tuesday when Penelope calls you. You had just finished up with a client when your phone begins to ring.

“Penny!” You gush, unable to stop the smile from stretching onto your face. “I am stupid, I said ‘thank you’? Who the hell says thank you after someone kisses you?”

“Who kissed you?” Penelope asks, and if you weren’t so caught up in your own tangent you would have noticed that she sounded tearful.

“Spencer did!” You exclaim, slapping a hand to your forehead. “He’s sitting there and he looks amazing and he smells really good and I am stupid.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Penelope says quickly, and you can imagine her waving her fluffy pen around. “He kissed you and you said thank you?”

“Yes.”

“Well that was very polite of you,” she says, trying to sound happy before her voice cracks.

You frown immediately, taking a seat in the wheelie chair in your office. “Penny? Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

“It’s about Spencer,” she says woefully, sniffling. “He wanted me to tell you something. It’s not looking good, honey, but– but he wanted me to give you a message.”

“Penny–” You stop short when you hear Spencer’s voice. It’s a recording from his phone, and you can only really tell because of the crackling audio on the other side of the line.

“Is it on?” Spencer asks before clearing his throat. He sounds breathless, his words breaking off at some parts and you know that it’s not from the bad audio quality. “Hey, angel, it’s me, Spenc– Walter. It’s your Walter. If you’re getting this then something happened and I just wanted you to know that– that I love you. I didn’t get the chance to tell you that before but I do. I love you and I wish it didn’t turn out like this but I am– I am so glad that we had that moment.”

Through the recording you can hear a shuffle, like the sound of a sliding door being opened, along with a quiet, “Prep the victim for transfer,” before the recording cuts out, leaving you with Penelope on the line.

She calls your name quietly, choking on her words. “Are you okay?”

You hang up.

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greyyson-but-no · 7 months ago

Text

yellow is the colour of his eyes

they weren't, though. they were blue, but somehow he radiated yellow. just his brightness, his ability to light up a room. he was the colour yellow. and he was currently halfway across the world from you. it didn't make any sense. you thought he was supposed to be the person you would end up with and yet, he was in a different continent and you were stuck at a desk in england working a job you hated.

why you had taken the job, you didn't know.

currently, you were sat at home, on the phone late at night because of a stupid time difference that meant you were never able to even talk to him. you thought living in a different apartment block was different, you never would have believed you would be trying to continue dating him when living in different countries. but the two of you were trying, and that's what was important. the act of trying.

his voice came through soft. "sweetheart? you still with me?"

bringing you out of your head, you grumbled and nodded even though he couldn't see you. "yeah. just about."

"what's the matter?" and he immediately knew something was wrong, just as he always did when you were just a five minute walk from his apartment. "you can tell me."

"i miss you? I think." you coughed away from the phone, nervous for what this conversation would lead to, what it might not lead to and the incorrect implications he may take from it. "I don't know. this is so difficult and I'm struggling so much. and yeah. it's nice to hear from you but it's getting rarer and rarer and I don't know how much longer I can do this for."

chandler hummed on the other end, noises of him shuffling around on his bed echoing through. "i understand."

slowly, that lump was starting to form in the back of your throat, voice going all wobbly like it had been doing a bit too much recently. "it's just... im stuck in this dead end job that I feel like I'm never going to get out of, and at the same time my boyfriend that I love with my whole heart is in another country and I barely see him anymore that it doesn't even feel like we're together anymore."

"honey... I don't know what to say."

you sighed, fiddling with the chord of the telephone. "yeah i know. me neither. it's too difficult."

"it's christmas soon, maybe I could come and visit over the holidays?" he offered. "I'd have to take some time off work but that's something I'm willing to do for you."

"your work hate you taking days off though. didn't they say it's a risk of demotion?"

chandler laughed lowly, shaking his head. "anything for you."

"chan, I couldn't ask you to do that." you told him, biting your top lip as you weigh up the price of seeing him again with the price of him risking his recent promotion. as much as you would kill to see him again, to hold him, his job was just too important to him. joey and him needed the money in new york with joe losing his place on days of our lives. you couldn't ask him to risk that. "im saying no, chandler, I'm sorry."

he hummed again, clearly put down by your words. "yeah I know, it's too risky."

"maybe..." but you faded your words, not wanting to even think of what your brain was telling you. the thought was making you distraught. and you'd just had a whole thing about its the act of trying that matters most. the two of you couldn't just give up.

but chandler caught it, eyebrows furrowing in manhatten, monica and joey looking over at him from where they were sat in the living room. "what? maybe what?"

you shook your head, even though again he couldn't see. "nothing. just..."

"go on."

"maybe this is too difficult. maybe we shouldn't..."

"darling, what are you saying?"

you sighed, falling backwards onto your bed, letting the duvet surround you. "maybe we should stop trying."

chandler didn't speak for a bit. on the other end, he had fallen against the wall, not being able to believe what you had just said to him. his shoulders dropped and his voice did too, not understanding what was happening. "are you..." he coughed. "is that it then? are you breaking up with me?"

"I'm sorry. I wish this was easier."

"yeah. mhm." was all he mumbled, before pulling his ear away from the phone and ending the call, disrupted, slamming it against the stand on the side of the wall.

a week later, you were groggy, tired, and every bone in your body felt like someone had smacked each of them with a hammer individually until they shattered. but this would be worth it. the plane journey was terrible, with several babies crying throughout and some guy next to you that hogged the arm rest. but once you had your notebook out, planning what to say to him, all of that zoned out.

the cab was okay. you spoke with the driver bit and used his conversational skills to text what your plan was. he thought it was a good idea, even when you had explained what happened.

when the cab stopped outside the apartment block, you thanked him, paid him and continued to run straight upstairs, your bag knocking against any wall and any stair possible with the speed you were running at.

quitting your job wasn't difficult for you. the night after the break up you didn't sleep, contemplating what you could possibly do to change the decision you had made. the only one that made sense was quitting the job you had only just taken and move back to new york to be with him again. the company had been sad to see you go, and your boss specifically kicked up a fuss but you had made your decision.

chandler was who you needed.

this was definitely the right decision. it didn't matter that your parents didn't like him, or that they wanted you in a steady job in a country you knew. but new york was your home. the guys and the girls were your home. the apartment with ross was. chandler was your home.

that was the final thought that occurred to you as you opened the purple door to the apartment you had missed so much. chandler would either be here, his own apartment or central perk. this was the first and best bet.

"chandler?" he turned on the sofa, the rest of the group turning too but you didn't even notice them, even though they were all there, you were too occupied. "chandler."

he stood up abruptly. clearly, he didn't know what to do.

because after very possibly the worst break up of his life, you were standing right there. eight hours of plane on you, hair tied in two plaits and eyes drooping like you hadn't slept all week, but standing there in front of him, actually there.

"what?" he stepped around the settee, following you as you moved closer, nearer the table in the kitchen. "there's no way you're actually here."

you tilted your head. "I'm moving back."

"what?" his eyebrows furrowed.

"I quit my job." you explained, stepping closer to him yet again, not being able to figure out what he was thinking. "I never should have broken up with you. I never should have taken that job from my mum. I love you, and if you'll have me back, I'd like to move back to new york and be with you."

"are you sure?" his voice went low like it had over the phone last week. "you're not going to leave again?"

you shook your head. "never, I promise. I swear, pinkie swear."

chandler's expression softened, the blue in his eyes warming to that look that you knew so well. "honey, you are the only person I've ever wanted to commit to."

for the first time in two weeks, you grinned up at him, happier than ever to be in his arms again. his hands snaked around your waist, pulling you closer as your arms naturally fell around his neck, letting his nose nudge against your neck in a hug for the ages.

"thank god!" joey cried from where he sat on the ottoman. "cause even I was getting sick of him moping about."

the whole group laughed as you let your head fall onto his chest, gripping his sweater as your shoulders shook. chandler swiftly moved his head downwards so his lips were at your ear. his voice breathing against your skin as he spoke. god, you'd missed him.

"i missed you, wanna go celebrate?"

"if celebrating is implying what I think it is... then yes." you murmured back with a grin, hands against his chest and making sure you weren't loud enough for the rest of the group to hear.

chandler pulled back and grinned, taking your hand in his as he turned to the rest of the group. "we're gonna call it a night guys, jet lag is crazy and you know... we've got catching up to do."

"they're gonna go have sex, right?" joey asked, just as the two left, earning a laugh from the rest of the group.

you knew the answer to his question, very easily.

#friends #chandler bing #chandler bing x reader #chandler bing fluff #chandler bing fanfic #chandler bing imagine #angst

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604to647 · 11 months ago

Text

Hold On

1.3K / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: You wear Detective Tim Rockford's leather holster.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Established relationship, nicknames as usual (Shutterbug, baby), breast worship, wee bit of thigh riding.

A/N: Inspired by @mrsmando's Tiddy Talk™️ yesterday, this is my case submission for Tim being a boob guy🫡 Kindly let me know if you're convinced 😂😂 This is, of course, our The Rockford Portfolio couple, but can be read as standalone.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always / Series Masterlist / If you're interested in more Adventures of Tim Rockford's Holster, may I suggest @ghotifishreads' drabble?

It had actually been somewhat difficult to pull off your little surprise for Tim. First, you had to wait for him to be off work; it was a rarer occurrence than it should be, with Tim often working late and sometimes going on weekend stakeouts, thereby taking that leather gun holster of his with him.

Then, when Tim was at home, the two of you were hardly ever apart – not wishing to do anything other than enjoy each other’s company, either quietly or voraciously. Sure, you could have asked him to give you some time alone to set-up, but then he would have known that he had something coming. And you wanted this to be a surprise, surprise.

The opportunity finally came in the form of an invite to Officer Chu’s bachelor party; Tim had hummed and hawed about going, but you encouraged it enthusiastically. Not wanting to give away your hidden agenda, you simply reminded Tim of that time when Officer Chu sat in a hot patrol car with him for eight hours so they could get photographic proof of Grandma Ursula’s lab and he had agreed he should go for a few drinks.

When you receive Tim’s text that he’s heading home, you make your way to the bedroom to get ready; giddy at the imagined look of awe that you hope to see on Tim’s face soon.

Taking Tim’s gun holster off the bedpost on his side of the bed, you run the thick, firm straps through your fingers and visualize them framing your boyfriend’s equally thick chest. As you warm the supple leather under your thumb, you think about how it stretches across Tim’s broad back, and the image blossoms a different type of warmth in your core.

Tim wearing this leather holster is like a siren call to you; just seeing it wrapped taut around his tight frame at the end of a long work day makes your mouth dry. You never fail to compliment the way he looks in it or tell him how much it turns you on. Once, when you had slipped your soft hands under the straps to provide some relief where they had started digging into his weary shoulders, cooing the usual sentiments about how hot his holster looked on him, Tim had whispered back that he bet it would look even better on you.

It was there for just a second, but you had filed the dark, hungry look that flashed in Tim’s eyes when he let this confession slip, away in the back of your mind - waiting for just the right moment to test out his theory.

Stripping down to nothing but the black lace panties chosen specifically to match the dark hue of Tim’s gun holster, you slip your arms through the shoulder straps and adjust it so that the small back harness sits comfortably between your shoulder blades. Pulling the arm straps on both sides over your naked breasts so that they touch in the valley of your chest, you give the various clips and loops a few adjustments, including moving the empty firearm sleeve so that it sits snug under your left breast, before completing the look by using a silk scarf to securely fasten the two sides of the holster together in front.

Tying the fabric so that it looks like a big bow, you pull the knot so it sits securely on the leather that snugly hugs your plush curves. Giggling to yourself as you climb onto the bed, you sit back on your heels and wait.

It’s not long before you hear the familiar dropping of keys in the key bowl, accompanied by the soft call of hello from your unsuspecting man.

“In the bedroom, Detective!”

“Tonight was fun, Shutterbug. Thanks for making me go. Chu’s fiancé was wondering if y-” Jaw dropped and words stuck in his throat, Tim marvels at the sight before him: you and your soft curves bare and trussed up for him in his department regulated gun holster, the very one he wears to work everyday and trusts to keep his firearm close and handy, offered up on the bed like a naughty present. As he stalks towards you, his eyes rake over your tits sitting on display for him, bordered by the bold leather in a way that’s reminiscent of art hung in a museum. Tim lays down on his stomach and army crawls his way to you at the top of the bed; when you rise on your knees to meet him, he sits and holds you firmly by the waist so he can behold all of you before him.

“Surprise,” you whisper.

Tim looks at you with disbelieving reverence and asks a question he knows will never be answered to his satisfaction, “What did I do to ever deserve you, baby?”

You want to tell Tim that he deserves the world. That he dedicates himself so selflessly to the protection of this city that he’s earned the right to have all of his dreams fulfilled, and that you’d happily give him anything and everything so long as he never stops looking at you the way he’s doing so right now. But you don’t tell him anything because your mind goes completely blank when Tim dives forward and takes one of your breasts in his mouth.

He kisses and nips, taking as much of your soft skin into his mouth as he can and sucks so hard he knows he’s leaving marks; Tim comes up only for air and to lave his tongue soothingly over the already reddening spot before opening wide to devour and decorate you again. The other side of your chest is hardly safe from Tim’s worship. His meaty hand kneads and gropes your supple breast, pulling and pushing the pillowy flesh every which way that the constricting leather you wear allows. You welcome every bruising caress and cry out for more, more, more with your wanton moans. Eyes closed and mouth full, Tim’s own feral noises are muffled and smothered by your chest; you feel rather than hear the evidence of his pleasure vibrate throughout your entire body.

Even without the benefit of sight, Tim ravishes and wrecks you, expertly guided by his intimate familiarity of your most delicious parts.

His hand finds your hard nipple and he teases it with his thumb before pinching and rolling the aching peak between his fingers.

His tongue twirls and flicks your nipple until it’s swollen and shiny, only to nibble it between his ever so gentle teeth.

Time loses all meaning as Tim repeats and alternates these mind-numbing patterns on both of your heaving breasts over and over until you’re positively howling above him.

Pulling you closer so that he can bury his face even deeper in the most gorgeous pair of tits he’s ever laid eyes on, Tim feels you start to grind yourself down onto his leg; smiling against your skin when your arousal leaks through your panties and onto his pants. He places his hands on your waist to help guide you to the pleasure you seek and pulls back to watch your tits bounce in his face. You cry and moan, whining his name as you chase that perfect friction on his thigh, all while Tim is hypnotized by the show your luscious curves and his leather holster put on for him.

You come with a wail of his name and a hard yank to his soft brown curls, shuddering as you press Tim’s face to your chest so he can lick and mouth you through it.

“So?” you coo breathily, chest still rising and falling as you come down from your high.

Tim peeks out from between your tits and cocks an eyebrow at your mischievous grin.

“Do I look better in your holster than you, Detective?”

Lust blown eyes twinkling with his own mischief, Tim lifts his head with a smirk, “Gotta see it and you in a couple more positions first, Shutterbug.” Giggling, you watch as he takes your hands and places them on the holster straps where they lay right below your collar bone; the last thing you hear before Tim tugs your legs out from under you and you’re knocked onto your back is a low baritone command practically growled: “Hold on.”

#Tiddy Talk™️#Tim 'Boob Guy' Rockford #Tim Rockford #tim rockford fic #tim rockford fanfiction #tim rockford x you #tim rockford x f!reader #tim rockford x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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ofeliaxoxo · 5 days ago

Note

i know we sometimes talk about how carlos does Charles Management but the premiere content and all this discussion about how charles knows carlos likes physical touch so charles makes himself open/available to receiving and engaging in it has made me think about how yes carlos is usually good at Charles Management but charles also does do Carlos Management and perhaps we don't talk about that enough.

like i'm sure charles knows how much carlos hatessss stuff like the premiere yesterday (especially considering rebecca wasn't there so my guy was all by his lonesome fr) so charles engaged they had a little moment carlos got a mini reprieve from The Horrors (media obligations at a red carpet). even when carlos joined the charles-alex-pierre-kika conversation clearly already singularly locked in on charles charles was immediately receptive/attentive back like Hi Yes Carlos I'm Listening.

and this is not to say that charles was only engaging for carlos's sake obviously he also straight up enjoys talking to/being around/etc. carlos but i guess i just mean that i think charles was kind of sweet yesterday and it was a good example of how he can also be quite adept at Carlos Management. at the end of the day they just know each other well enough to know what they both need!! which we all already knew but always nice to see it in action!! not entirely satisfied with how i articulated my thoughts here haha but hopefully enough of the point came across

wait omg Carlos Management is SO fucking special to me. like yes!! you may not be satisfied with how you articulated yourself but i absolutely am i love this take. like Carlos truly was locked in on Charles lol and I think Charles in general was more comfortable at that event and better able for it. at the end of the day he IS simply more famous than Carlos and more of a media darling and he doesn't really flounder in those situations at all so i feel like when it comes to the premiere videos he's probably kind of a comforting beacon for Carlos in this moment. like oh here's the guy everyone here adores and he knows EXACTLY how to work this horrendous event AND. hes my buddy:)

which is kind of ironic too when Charles is the one who is self diagnosed as shy, but I absolutely think you're on to something here. Carlos is clearly someone who clings onto familiar people as hard as he can and gains a sense of stability and peace from sticking with the people he knows well throughout the whirlwind of f1 life. and this is an extension of that where he's at this big press event that he is evidently not super into, sans girlfriend, and he's able to be like. oh thank fuck it's Charles the designated Guy Who Helps Me With Media.

and as you said Charles plays along completely he's like YES carlos you may grab me:D waow you're over here again YAY:D let me pat you on the tummy:D just very smiley and receptive to Carlos the entire time. Carlos Management....the new topic we must analyse. my new fascination du jour. thank you anon for pointing it out. it IS rarer than Charles Management this is true but if we have love and positivity in our hearts we will find it

finally may i interest you in a sequel snippet which is near and dear to my heart as it contains some rare Carlos Management

“And then we will meet my parents at - oh, dios, no puedo,” his hands come up to cover his face as he spins away from Charles, back turned to breathe shallowly into his palms.

“Sh, Carlos, oh là,” he pulls him around and in, face against his shoulder. Gets a hand on the back of his head and pets him, keeps his own breath steady hoping Carlos will follow his lead.

“It’s too much,” he’s working himself up, “it’s not a good idea.”

“I know it is difficult. It will be ok. Estás bien.”

He throws the Spanish in as a distraction, trying to get Carlos to laugh at him but it doesn’t work. A spike of real worry in Charles’s stomach.

“Baby, come on. You have to breathe properly.”

“I’m dying.”

“No, you are not.”

He doesn’t answer, crossing his arms around himself. Charles keeps him close. The main thing is not to seem bothered when this happens because if he lets it show it seeps into Carlos and makes him worse. The first time he was there for it, Charles felt his pulse and asked if he wanted a doctor. He’d been shaking, voice rising, I don’t know why do you think I need a doctor, unable to calm down until they went out and sat on the balcony for half an hour.

It’s unsettling but rare, only got that bad the one time, when Charles didn’t know how to handle it. He thought he knew Carlos inside out before they got together, hadn’t realised how much had remained hidden from him.

On the balcony in the purple evening Charles held his hand and made him keep his head between his knees, counted out his breaths for him. In-one-two-three-out-one-two-three. It was the first time he ever felt the full force of Carlos needing and wanting him to make it better and then trusting him to do it. He realised that’s what it was because afterwards something shifted. A veil was lifted. Some transparent protective layer was removed, one Charles hadn’t known was there but felt the lack of.

“No one is dying, we are fine. Do you want me to count?”

Carlos pulls away with one last exhale, rolls his eyes at himself.

“No, don’t count.”

#ask #charlos

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fridgemissionmaster · 3 months ago

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Diavolo x Reader: March Prompt/Day 24 Flower Crown

Prompt list/available prompt requests here, making a fic everyday of march

Another day, another ball, another party to throw to keep the more powerful demons entertained so Diavolo can work on what he believes he should and not that they think he should. Though he was used to it that didn’t make it any less exhausting, he’d gladly do it for the rest of his life if he had to though. Barbatos was a great help but there were some details he still had to take care of himself.

The brothers didn’t come to every party, but when they did it always made the event much more lively, even more so if you were around.

Everything was ready it was just a matter of waiting.

There was always a quiet he was not used too before these gallas. The rarer moments where he didn’t a have a thing to do. Technically he was to be getting ready, yet he was a prince, all that was required of him was to be in his more demonic form, and even then on it’s own it was imposing enough, no gussying up required.

Not a thing to do.

He enjoyed strolling the gardens. There was so much variety, he could never grow bored. The plants were also much more interesting than the stone walls and floors of the castle.

… You would be joining in the festivities this time.

You are the highlight of any event, no matter what it’s for. Even outside of you being you, you also happen to be human, you have no other forms, always your most bare authentic self. He could never truly know how you’d look unless it was the rarer occasions where he got to help you choose.

Like last time.

… He had to admit, his feelings for you were rather complicated. After all, you got everything he wanted AND were all he wanted, a family, someone who loved him willingly on their own without him forcing his hand. It’s more… stable to make a deal and know the other party would never break it, yet there was something so romantic, so alluring about someone just giving themselves to you. To be accepted, to be wanted, not needed a stable cage he made for himself. Sure he had come to be cared for now, but all those relationship started with an agreement. Some worked out like Barbatos, others…what was he expecting really, to become the brother of fallen angels?

But then there was you who in the matter of, what? A month? Not even that and you got the place he longed for.

Then you started going to him, indulging him in his mischief going out of your way to find him without his prompting. It was… so new. Every last interaction had to be planned out down to the last moment and then there was you who returned his energy in kind and forced your way in just as he had for others.

And now the little prince dreams of whisking you away and to keep you all for himself, away from others, even to be hidden away from the ones he wished to call brothers. Just the two of you in your own little world.

Something else he had complicated feelings on. He loved his people and home more than anything else. He’d do anything for them, but that got in the way of any other wants. Like spending time with you.

However, ultimately, Diavolo was an exceedingly selfish person so he’d as himself, why couldn’t he have it all?

He found himself strolling along that vast greenery, the most gorgeous view of the Devildom beside him, letting his mind wander as he picked at some flowers to keep for his own. It was difficult for him to truly do nothing, especially when he believed something needed to be done, to be rectified.

…

“Barbatos?”

“Yes?”

“Would you deliver this to MC and ask them to wear this to the ball?”

The butler tenderly held the gift before bowing and taking his leave.

He knew it was rather last minuet, and he didn’t actually know if it’d match anything you were wearing but maybe it’d be the final thing that felt missing last time. Or maybe he just wanted to indulge in knowing he had some sway over how others perceive you.

Although, perhaps, this was a terrible idea, because now he could not wait for the party to start already, finding himself pacing around.

Then you arrived.

A crown really suited you didn’t it, even if made of flowers and not precious metals.

Who was to say he couldn’t have it all anyway?

#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #obey me diavolo #obey me diavolo x reader #obey me diavolo x mc #obey me fanfic #obey me fic #obey me ficlet #obey me imagines #obey me prompts #march prompts

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iamthemain-character · 7 months ago

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To Fall

xaden riorson x fem!reader

CW: Canonical violence, brief suggestive language

A/N: I'm currently reading Iron Flame so this is just based off Fourth Wing knowledge! Don't come for me lol

Song: I, Carrion (Icarian) by Hozier

I feel lighter than I have in so much time

I've crossed the border line of weightless

One deep breath out from the sky

I've reached a rarer height now that I can confirm

All our weight is just a burden offered to us by the world

The first sensation you notice when you stir from your rest is the weight of your lover’s arm around your waist. You can feel the way his hand rests just under your breast, gentle compared to its touch just a few hours ago. You keep your eyes closed, savoring the peaceful intimacy of this moment. Your hand lifts from the mattress, trailing your fingers over the lines of his forearms, not needing sight to trace the familiar scars. You’ve gazed at these arms long enough, felt their strength, that you know each muscle as if it is your own.

“Good morning, beautiful.” The husky morning voice of Xaden curls around your ear, the sound traveling straight down to your heart. You feel his hard chest press against your shoulder blades as he pulls you in closer, his warmth permeating your skin, heating you up from the inside out. You could feel the bridge of his nose as he pressed his face into your hair, lips finding the bits of skin through the curtain of hair that fell over your shoulders. His hand pressed a little firmer against your ribs, as if he could meld you into his body through sheer strength. Not that you would have minded; you never felt as complete as you did when you were right against Xaden.

It was difficult to say what moments with Xaden were your favorite. He was an all consuming sort of lover, always giving his most in every second he spent in your presence. Yet the soft mornings, when the sun had not yet dared to cast her gaze over the earth, you perhaps cherished most. Xaden was entirely yours in those moments; not a Wingleader, not the leader of a rebellion, but just the man who loved you. And the man you loved fiercely in return. The bond between the two of you felt as fierce as dragons’, a desperate need to be near one another, to share in every part of your being.

Unlike dragons, however, the world tore the two of you apart. Your assignment to the front lines brought a chill into your bed, one that not even all of Xaden’s affection could brush away. You longed to give into his touches, the kisses that made you feel as if you were high above the world, but the knowledge that every minute brought you closer to your departure forced you to be sensible.

“You’re thinking.” Xaden murmurs, the plush of his lips ghosting over the curve of your ear.

“Always.” You sigh in return, turning your head to look into his eyes. There’s a shine in his Onyx irises, a light that you proudly note you bring to his life. You reach up your hand, trailing it over the path of stubble that covers his jawline. He makes a sound of contentment, one that you feel rumble in his chest, and he presses his head further into your touch.

“You’re going to need to write down all of those pretty thoughts for me.” He murmurs, brushing his lips against your palm, following the map of its creases.

“Most of them are going to be about you anyways.” You give a soft breath of laughter, knowing you would willingly write down every word for him if he asked.

“Even better.” He insists, moving his kisses to the pulsepoint at your wrist, as if he could kiss your very heart. “That means they’ll match mine.”

Your chest swells, and suddenly it's like your ribs have been cinched in, making your throat close in on itself. Your eyes prick with tears, and you blink rapidly, trying to push them away. You slip your hand to the back of his neck, intertwining your fingers with the messy curls, savoring the silky sensation. “I’m going to miss you.” You whisper, the words only audible for Xaden, as if the walls themselves will hear you and shame your vulnerability. But here, in the bed, with only his ears listening in, you know you can allow yourself the emotions too often denied in the life of a rider.

“As will I.” Xaden replies, his tone low and gentle. “But you will be back soon.” He says the words so easily, voice as calm as the morning itself. But his arms tighten their hold on you, his hands pressing flat against your hip and your stomach, pulling your body as tightly against his as possible without crushing you. There's a desperation in his hold, and you think that he may be clinging to you rather than holding. Every time you leave, there's the unspoken knowledge between the two of you that you may not return. The uncertainty of life comes with the job, and with the warlike state on the front lines, mercy has turned her gaze away from the world.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.” Your words are soft, but your tone is underlined with a plea. You know all too well how Xaden pushes himself when you are not there, pushing himself beyond his limit in his efforts to fulfill all the roles that fall on his–alebit perfect–shoulders.

“You’re the one we should be worrying about.” Xaden murmurs, his hands turning your body over so you’re facing him. His hand leaves your hip, coming up to stroke back your messy hair. “I hate knowing that I won’t be there to protect you.”

“I can protect myself.” You reassure him, your words truthful. You have more than enough skills to fend for yourself, and years of experience have trained you to be a dangerous opponent.

Xaden’s thick brows furrow, drawing together between his dark eyes. “You shouldn’t have to.” He growls, his fingers on your waist digging in a little, most likely adding a few more bruises to his marks littering your body. “I should be there to protect you, to make sure that you’re safe. I don’t want anyone laying a hand on you.”

The fire in his words burns straight to your heart, making your skin tingle with the warmth. Even though it's not possible to let Xaden defend you at all times, the very knowledge that he would so passionately protect you from all harm makes you fall in love a little more. “You’re needed here. The cadets have so much to learn, and they really can’t protect themselves.” You pause, your voice softening. “Especially yours.”

He nods, and you watch his shoulders tense as he is reminded of all the people he is responsible for. You’ve traced those 107 scars more times than you could count, kissed everyone as a silent promise to help him. So much rode on keeping those boys and girls safe.

“Just promise you’ll come back to me.” He says, his dark voice tinted with need.

“Always.”

And though I burn how could I fall?

When I am lifted by every word you say to me

If anything could fall at all, it's the world

That falls away from me

The hands of smoke are curled around your esophagus, choking out every last clean breath from your lungs. Your entire body ached, encrusted in your flight leathers from the amount of blood that you had been bathed in. Furthermore, it was unclear how much was yours versus the enemy’s, but you kept pushing yourself, knowing there would be no peace until every one of the Poromish fighters backed off, or more tragically, were dead. Your heart hurt even more than your wounded body when you thought of the innocent people who were dying, wondering how Nevarre would twist this battle to be blamed on the Gryphon riders and not the true enemy.

You climbed back onto your dragon, the two of you taking to the skies to evaluate the battlefield. The landscape was a nightmare painted by the cruelest of artists, the dirt turned to reddish mud from the sheer amount of blood spilt. It was a small relief to see the battle finally winding down, though it may only be because there was no one left to fight. You and your dragon flew out to the edge of the wards, continuing to look for anywhere that your aide might be needed.

Suddenly, your stomach turned into a sinkhole, swallowing up any seed of relief that might have been planted. The edge of the wards had moved, evidently from further weakening of the stones, and suddenly you and your dragon were exposed. Your dragon quickly banked left to dive back into the safety of Nevarre, but just a second too late. You felt metal hit your neck, right at the junction of your shoulder, pain shooting out like lightning from the point of impact. Your functionality disappeared with the jolt of pain, as suddenly you felt nothing at all. Except, the world was tilting, and rather than seeing the neck of your dragon, you were looking up at it, watching as it grew smaller and smaller. In the haze that surrounded your brain, you wondered if you were falling.

You wondered if Xaden had eaten that morning.

And then you thought nothing at all as darkness consumed you.

You have me floatin' like a feather on the sea

While you're as heavy as the world

That you hold your hands beneath

Once I had wondered what was holdin' up the ground

But I can see that all along, love, it was you all the way down

You were warm. Your entire body seemed to protest against its existence, but you were warm. And surrounded by softness. You opened your eyes–the action taking more effort than it should–and had to blink away the blearyness that blurred your vision. As you looked at the ceiling, noting the beams of dark wood that arched the ceiling, you couldn’t help but think that this looks like Xaden’s bedroom in Aretia.

Your eyes confirmed your suspicions as they slowly moved over the room, spotting the familiar wardrobe, dresser, and desk. All of which were places that you were familiar for far less than innocent reasons, but knew nonetheless. Hope slipped out of its cocoon, fluttering her new wings in your heart as you looked towards the door, looking for the owner of both the room and your heart. And your hope took flight, soaring through your body as you saw Xaden’s head resting atop his arm, his tall body slumped over the edge of the bed. His other hand grasped yours, a desperate need in his grip even as he slept.

You had seen the way his hands could wield daggers, swords, clubs even–not to mention the dark and powerful shadows that he could conjure with barely any movement at all. But to you, those hands held up your entire world. You knew that his calloused palms could hold you in a way that took away any fear, could convince you of his deepest affections, and could bestow a love within yourself so deep that you forgot to be insecure.

Softly, you ran your thumb over the curve of his knuckles, smiling to yourself as you gazed at your beloved. Despite your stiff muscles, you pushed through the ache to shift downward on the bed, curling up beside his head. At the sensation of the mattress dipping, Xaden’s head shot up, his hand constricting around yours. For a moment, his eyes are dark and wild, as if he’s ready to manifest that darkness around whoever threatens him. But then he focuses on you, and immediately they soften into the gentle depths that you’ve lost yourself in countless times.

“My love…” Xaden’s voice is hoarse, the usual strength gone as water wells in his eyes. His fingers flex as he resists gripping you so tightly, afraid he’ll break you.

“Hi.” Your own voice is soft, scratchy as it begs for water. But what’s more important is having the love of your life closer, and so you open your arms, wanting to feel Xaden fill them. He immediately responds, up from his seat in a flash and letting the mattress take his weight. His own arms envelope you, barely restrained from simply crushing your body to his chest. Your arms feel weak from lack of use, but you grip onto the man as tightly as you can, your fingers finding root in his dark curls.

You press your nose into the little gap between his neck and his uniform, inhaling deeply. An ocean of scent fills your mind, washing your body over with comfort and ease. He smells like the tall pines that surround Aretia, of the dark leather that was molded to his form, and the warm skin that laid underneath. It was the scent of home.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” Xaden’s voice is a growl, but you know him well enough to hear the worry and care in the rough words.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” You whisper softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his stubbled jaw.

Xaden lets out a shaky breath, hands tightening on your nightdress, seemingly unconvinced that you’re not going to suddenly disappear. “I should have been there.”

“There was no way you could have been.” You counter, trying to soothe him.

“I should have been there to protect you.” Xadens voice comes out dangerously low, frustration dripping off his words.

“You have a duty-”

“My duty is to you, dammit.” He takes a deep breath, trying to control his voice. “There is nothing I would prioritize over you. Let them strip my rank from me, let this whole rebellion fall apart again, I will not lose you.” Xaden murmurs the words like they’re an oath, like he needs you to let him dedicate his life to you. “If I need to live and die at your hand, then so be it. You are the only thing that matters. Nothing else.”

For a long moment, your words fail you, Xaden’s passionate vow stealing any protest or promise from your mind. “I love you” simply wasn’t enough to convey the depth of emotion and connection the two of you shared.

You leaned back a little, fingers brushing the curls at the nape of his neck as you gazed into his gleaming onyx eyes. “Then live at my hand.” You softly request, your own voice as insistent. “I don’t want your sacrifice. I want you, here, with me, until we both draw our final breaths.”

Now, it was Xaden’s turn to lack a response, the words weighing heavily on his heart. His whole adult life, he had been prepared to die for his cause, for what he believed in. But to live for something? To live for you? It was something he never considered; but if it was all you wanted, then by the gods he would do it.

“I’ll live for you, my love.” He murmurs, and he brings your empty hand to his lips, lightly kissing the tips of your fingers, then down to the palm, and finally kissing your pulse point. Your wrist throbbed steadily, reminding him of just how precious living was.

Leave it now, I am sky-bound

If you need to, darling, lean your weight to me

We'll float away, but if we fall

I only pray, don't fall away from me

Xaden meant it literally when he said he would live and die at your hand. He did not leave your side unless absolutely necessary, and even then he’d always drag one of his friends in to watch over you, despite your protests that you were fine. Still, it was a little endearing, seeing how much he cared for you.

The healing process was slow, the poison from the arrow having done a lot of damage to your body. But you made steady recovery, taking the medicine you needed to, getting rest as well, though the latter often had to be enforced by Xaden himself. It worked both ways, however, as you would often convince the man of shadows to rest as well by welcoming him into the warm bed.

Walking proved to be the most difficult task during your healing period. Your body had been so violently ill with the poison, as well as the wounds you took during the actual battle, that you had been greatly weakened. That, in addition to you being bed ridden for some time, only added to the issue. When you started to literally get back on your feet, however, Xaden’s arms held you, preventing you from collapsing, encouraging every step. In the moments when you would grow too fatigued, he’d scoop you into those same arms to return to his room.

At first, you were frustrated with your inability to do such a basic thing, feeling like a dead weight on Xaden’s shoulders. But as each day passed, you came to cherish those walks through the halls of his home, his arm around your waist, warm and sure. Xaden himself relaxed more during those times, allowing himself to speak freely and enjoy the borrowed time you two shared.

It was during one of these outings that the two of you wandered down a hallway you had previously not explored. It was quiet, with a few pieces of art or items that had been salvaged from the original house. And then your eyes landed on a portrait; it was vast, spreading across the majority of the wall, showing off the smallest of details the artist put in. There was a man, strong and proud, and a woman beside him, looking gentle and wise. But what drew your eye the most was the depiction of the young boy between them, head held high, dark onyx eyes staring directly at the viewer.

The same onyx eyes that stared at you.

“Thats Mom and Dad.” Xaden’s voice is soft, sounding more vulnerable and childlike than you have ever heard before. You glance at him, seeing the bittersweet smile that ghosts over his features. His strong hand grips at your waist a little tighter, as if he needs a reminder that you’re still here, that he didn’t lose you too.

“You look just like your father.” You remark, your voice as tender as your beating heart for Xaden and his family that you’ll never get to meet. “But your smile is like your mother’s.”

Xaden’s smile grows more real, his eyes looking over you, full of gratitude and hope from your words. “She would have liked you. Both of them, I think.”

“I would hope so.” You muse, studying the people in the portrait. You wonder what it would have been like to actually know them, to be able to note what traits your beloved shared with his parents. Seeing the portrait of his father seemed so different from the traitorous man depicted in all of the history books. “What was he really like?”

Xaden tensed beside you, as if the thought of what you must “know” about his father made him defensive. Yet he just squeezed your waist, perhaps a reminder to himself that you weren’t there to burn his memories too. “He was a good man. Not perfect, but a good man. The kind I wish I could be.”

For a moment you let the weight of his words sink onto the two of you, the air thick with the hopes and fears that formed your very lives. You both knew that you and Xaden would carry the blood on your hands for the rest of your lives; even if you won the war, there would never be a moment you could truly say that you were good. But perhaps Xaden’s father felt the same.

“We’re going to finish what he started.” You say quietly, placing your hand over Xaden’s heart. The motion draws his gaze to you, his eyes seeming to come back from whatever far off place his mind sailed to. “We’re going to make this world the kind he would have wanted.”

Xaden doesn’t say anything, just placing his calloused hand on top of yours, his thumb stroking your cool skin. “He wanted things to be better for me.” He whispers, his voice raspy with choked emotion. “I want things to be better for our kids. I want them to be able to choose who they are.”

The idea of “our kids” doesn’t go unnoticed, making your heart flutter as you are reminded just how much Xaden truly wants a future with you. “We’re making things better for all of us. For our friends, our future kids…” You pause, smiling a little, “For us. And we’ll be able to share the story of just how wonderful your father truly was.’

You could have been an angel from above, the way Xaden gazed at you as you spoke; his eyes were reverent, full of devotion, holy and unholy. “For us.” He echoes, like it's another vow to strengthen his heart. A vow that he seals with a kiss to your lips.

I do not have wings, love, I never will

Soarin' over a world you are carryin'

If these heights should bring my fall

Let me be your own

Icarian carrion

Once you fully recovered, Xaden still wanted to keep you in Aretia. The very idea of you returning to Baisgaith just to possibly be sent away again didn’t settle well with his protective heart. Still, you were determined, and just as stubborn as he was, so he begrudgingly agreed that you would return with him.

Despite your lover’s disgruntled attitude towards your decision, the flight back was gratifying for both of you. Side by side, your dragons never strayed from one another, and neither did the two of you. During the few stops that were made, Xaden was quick to encase you in his arms, often allowing himself to indulge in some kisses that increased the time of your journey. If Xaden had been doting before, the near loss of you had only made him even more devoted to claiming every moment he could.

This only became more apparent once the two of you returned to Baisgaith, reciting your perfected story of your terrible injury and how Xaden had managed to nurse you back to health. Leadership, of course, wanted to take you away so they could get the full report;you could have sworn Xaden was a dragon himself from his barely contained irritation at being forced to leave your side.

It wasn’t until the sun had set that you were finally allowed to return to your quarters, having had the details of your experience laid out and rehashed time and time again. Leadership could not find a flaw in your story, however, and eventually let you go with a welcome back to the citadel. You were a little tired, pent up with frustration at your lying authorities, and ready to be back in Xaden’s arms.

Your feet barely had time to step through the door, however, before shadows consumed you, slamming the door shut, nearly splintering it off the hinges. Immediately, heat rose in your body, Xaden’s desire palpable through the little control he had over his powers.

“Finally.” His voice whispers, low and husky with lust against your neck, his nose pressing into the soft skin. “I was beginning to think I’d have to come get you myself.”

You inhale deeply, the distinctive smell that you know and adore filling your senses as you lean back against his strong body. He’s already shirtless, his heated skin making you wonder how long he was waiting for you, like a predator ready to pounce and claim. “You know how long these things go. Trying to make sure I’m not a traitor.”

“Of course.” He darkly chuckles, pressing warm, open mouth kisses up the curve of your neck, biting softly behind your ear. “Don’t you know I’m filling your head with all kinds of nasty plans?”

��You certainly fill my head with filthy thoughts, my love, but I don’t think it's the kind the government cares about.” You hum in reply, smiling to yourself as you feel his hands wander down your body.

His long fingers find the buckles of your flight leathers, popping them open with practiced ease. “Well well, perhaps it should be my turn to interrogate that pretty little mind of yours.” His voice curls into a coil in your stomach, stirring up your desire. “I would love to know just what I can make you imagine.” His hands continue their work on your pants, continuing the progressive removal of your layers.

Once you’re undressed, he spins you around, his hands ghosting over the shape of your body before settling on your hips. His thumbs press into the hollow below the bone, his fingers splaying over the curve of your ass. It’s not unlike watching your dragons lay claim to their possessions, the way he grips onto you, but his possessive nature only stokes the fire in your belly.

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, dipping his head down to kiss over your collarbone, his warm breath fanning over your skin. “Gods, I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You murmur your honest reply, your skin tingling with the sensation of his touch.

“I mean it.” He murmurs, biting at your collarbone before lifting his gaze to meet yours. “My whole heart, it belongs to you. I am completely, madly, and truly in love with you.”

Xaden is always such a man of action that you’ve never really had to doubt if he loved you. But as the words melt over your body, casting warmth like the early morning sun, you are taken by just how truly loved you are. “I feel the same.” Your words hardly seem equal, but Xaden’s smile reassures you that he is pleased.

“I want you to always be mine.” His voice has dropped, as if he wants only you to hear his words. His dark eyes glimmer in the little light of the room, making your stomach turn with anticipation. “I want to be able to love you for the rest of our lives. I want to have a life with you by my side.”

You watch as Xaden takes your left hand into his, his calloused palms comforting against your own smaller hands. His thumb brushes over your ring finger, sending a thrill through your heart.

“I can’t make you any promises right now.” Xaden murmurs, love radiating off of every single syllable that leaves his lips. “And I want to do this properly when the time comes, with a ring, and a beautiful setting. I want to get down on one knee so you know that I’m serious when I say I want to worship you for the rest of my life.” He looks up, finding your eyes, giving a small, tender smile. “But for now, all I can ask is that you’ll be mine. In whatever comes our way, whether we have one minute together or one hundred years, I want to know that I get to give my time to you. If you’ll have me.”

You blink, your eyes filling with water as you listen to his words. “Xaden…”You whisper, your voice choked with emotion. You swallow your heart, unable to contain the smile on your lips as you cup his jaw, thumbs stroking the stubble there. “No matter how far we go, no matter what we do…I am yours. Truly and irrevocably. Even if we fall, I won’t fall away from you.”

Xaden feels his own eyes smart with unshed tears, and so he gathers you into his arms, burying his face into your neck. You can hear him murmur soft “thank you”s and “I love you”s against your skin, his hands running down your back. You smile at his reaction, and you slip your hand into his hair, lifting his face enough so you can press your lips against his, pouring out your heart to him through your touch. Xaden immediately reciprocates, his heart always hungry for you, and his lips move demandingly, pulling you in deeper.

He lets out a needy huff, and his hands find your thighs, lifting you up and wrapping your legs around his hips. “Let me show you how much I love you.” He requests against your lips, sounding like a man desperate for water.

“I’m all yours.”

Xaden holds nothing back as he kisses you again, his tongue demanding its way between your lips, savoring your taste on his lips. He swiftly moves across the room, his bed becoming his altar as he lays you down onto it. He takes a moment, eyes moving over your body, as if he could commit every mark and line to memory. He takes your hands, his own strong and capable, but gentle as they hold you, and he presses kisses over the ridges of your knuckles. “And I, my love..I am all yours.”

If the wind turns, if I hit a squall

Allow the ground to find its brutal way to me

If I should fall, on that day

I only pray, don't fall away from me

“Fen Xander Riorson, be nice to your sister!”

Xaden smiled to himself, hearing your voice carry over the springtime air. The sun was setting over the mountains of Aretia, the new grass soft under his body. As far as his eye could see, he saw the prosperous new settlements, the homes and businesses of his friends and family thriving within the new age. It was a sight he thought would only ever be fantasy at one point.

As he feels your familiar hands smooth over his shoulders, your soft lips pressing against his temple, he is reminded just how real his life is.

“That is your son.” You murmur in his ear, coming to sit beside him on the flowering hill.

Xaden chuckles softly, reaching out to snake an arm around your waist. “Our son.” He reminds you, nuzzling into your hair, inhaling your scent. Even after all these years and two kids, he still feels the intense need to just have you. “He gets his stubbornness from you.”

You huff, feigning indignation, but your wide smile gives away your true feelings. You lean against Xaden’s side, watching as your son ignores any reprimands and continues to chase his squealing little sister through the field. “He gets his rebellious side from you.”

Xaden lets out a small snort of laughter, his arm tightening around your waist. He doesn’t deny it, knowing that the two children both take after their parents. It was his greatest joy, being able to watch the very humans the two of you had created grow up and discover themselves. You had fulfilled your promise, after all; the world they knew was much kinder to them than it had been to him. His marks and his scars would always remind him of that.

Xaden’s gaze looks over you, the form of his beloved wife, and it only makes his smile grow. Gray hairs are beginning to intermix with your natural color, denoting the time that has passed within your body. You moan and complain about them, but he sees them as a mark that you two not only survived, but lived. Truly lived. And now, the fruits of your labor only grew in abundance every day.

“I love you.” He softly murmurs in your ear,, his hand brushing away the hair so he can press a kiss to your neck.

You smile up at him, a little surprised at the sudden words, but delighted by them nonetheless. “And I love you.” You reply, your words full of truth and affection.

The two of you return to watching the children play, and the sun continues to disappear with the last few moments of day. But now, you and Xaden simply note it as a passing thought, your love no longer on borrowed time. The night will only bring another day, with the promise of letting you cherish every moment, never to be parted again

#xaden riorson #xaden riroson x reader #xaden riorson x you #xaden x reader #xaden x you #xaden riorson fourth wing #fourth wing xaden

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woooshworldtwo · 4 months ago

Text

AT A LOSS

TAGS: WIFE!READER [Originally just mentioned once in dialogue but otherwise just spouse is used when describing said relationship between characters], Husband!Caracalla x Reader x Unrequited!Geta, Mentions of sex, Brief mentions of slavery [gladiators in the Colosseum], Brief mentions of animal cruelty [animals participating in the Colosseum], Historical inaccuracies, I'm not sure what else.

FIRST NOTE: I think I wanted to try accentuating the care he wants to give reader and therefore ends up treating those around him as what he sees them as- disposable and like shit. Geta is a TERRIBLE man so I guess I just wanted him to be pining for someone he knows is out of reach. I was gonna make it a series to like Caracalla x partner reader x unrequited Geta. if this is the first chapter, ngl idk where to trail off from there. i kind of write while im smoking just to fuck around so maybe i could write at least five-ish chapters if i think of a good enough plot. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE THINK?? who knows i could even do the same with Caracalla, it could make sense cause he literally kills his brother in the movie

SECOND NOTE: pov ur me, high off like five tokes and u watch Gladiator 2 the day it comes out on Paramount+. BOOM, obsessed, love it, don't even care about the historical inaccuracies. For some reason, as someone as not all there like Caracalla is, having that deep relationship with his brother, once he notices that lil interest Geta has, or even just the doubts of others finally becoming to a point where my guy has to LOCK IN to keep his partner w him. not cause they don't love them, I think it would be cause he loves THEM too much. I'm talking bristling at the notion whenever he thinks of them together. JUST UNSPOKEN TENSION. do u guys enjoy that?

THIRD NOTE: unfortunately, i have more to talk about but no one to say it to so ur my audience. yelling into the mic i ask, do you guys think I should write porn of Caracalla and reader FUCKING?? idk if it would even include Geta- IT COULD, WHATEVER YOU GUYS WANT. I sort of just wanted to explore writing intimacy as an actual action instead described as thoughts. leave ur thoughts on what u guys think on that too bc im literally so curious.

PLEASE DON'T COPY MY WORK, I BET YOU

Summer in your lungs, and alcohol swimming in your stomach; Caracalla wonders if he's seen beauty such as yours. Never alone in the hours of the night, the lovers he takes soon notice how harder he is to satisfy, to sedate into a warm puddle wrapped in expensive sheets- instead becoming unflinching to the pleasures that usually melt his tortured mind.

Intense with his emotions, he swears this affection was there from first glance. Taken sight of you at in your hazy glory; the clothes accentuating the shade of your skin, the warmth of your eyes, it only takes months before you two wed.

From there, days are blissful. Misery always follows, but he finds with your company at his side, falling into the episodes of madness are rarer and rarer.

Perhaps it's the sweetness of your soul mending what his lacks, or having the closeness of your body distances the pestering thoughts appearing out of thin air. No matter what is it, with his claws dug into your being- he refuses to let go.

Dimmed by what other's consider insanity, it's difficult not to see Caracalla's growing lucidness. Coming face to face with it, Geta realizes any foes and enemies of Rome has never been as close as his brother has to the inner workings of his mind.

Divided by grace, the affection for you has been its limit. As the eldest, Caracalla bears the pitying glances from other's in the palace; to have the responsibilities laid on Geta is blasphemy, but who else can handle its weight when his mind is in two?

Who else to lessen its everlasting ache if not you? For that reason, such as many others, is why he cannot risk this becoming what he has grown familiar with- sharing with his brother.

Holding the same curiosity he did in the faint moments of childhood, his Adam's Apple bobs faintly- and when you look to follow its movements before returning your gaze to him: a faint shiver is felt and repressed in that same breath. "Caracalla?"

Asking in a murmur, he knows what you're referring to. Living with you these past handful of months, he can recall the number of times you've cut each conversation he's thought out into nothing more than small talk. In one worded questions, he cannot help but admire the relaxed sight of you.

So much so, he allows you to each time. Tossing the unspoken plans of connection for small talk, he nods. A hint of a smile is seen, and alone from that, you beam back at him.

Genuine like the sun, to continue seeing it, it makes it easy for him to keep spew out half thought words in hopes something he says would land. "He will arrive shortly, do not worry.", it ends with your name, echoing from his mouth, and although the God's have given him the same glory they themselves hold at their fingertips; nothing has sounded as holy.

Bounded by faith, the prayers he spills are ingrained in the folds of his brain, but once consumed in these times of power, he wonders if he should dare step closer to the soul he swears should beat for him.

"... Geta?", Unknowing for how much time has past, the beaming smile you once held is melted into a small frown. Quietly urging him to the present like he's seen you do with his brother, there's a warmth blooming in the hallow part of his chest.

Cherishing the brief concern, it only seems to remind him what Caracalla has naturally and what he takes the scraps of.

Still leaned back into the expensive marble, the wall itself is a pale enough color to forget about, instead focusing on the features he, too, fantasizes of in passing moments alone.

"Where did you go?", Too familiar with speaking to the other emperor, the question is thoughtless when spoken, yet its weight is felt nonetheless. "Nowhere. Just here.. Are you enjoying yourself?", Taking a pause, he eventually speaks again. It's done when walking to the the throne nearing Caracalla's; the one you sit in.

"Quite the spectacle.", Your eyes peer down at the sight below; bloodshed in the Colosseum's sand doesn't make your stomach twist like it once did, however when watching captured men swing weapons- and seeing another one fall, you look to him again.

Sitting at his own throne, you find his eyes already on you; a quirk upturning on his lips to show the pleased buzz your words give him. Gladiators from conquered lands, their purpose in Rome is to win their survival and amuse any passing visitors. Yet in the past year or so, since your arrival, he's found a deeper sense of pride at their display.

Growing passed the Senator's praise, passed continuing his parents past teachings, he has found serenity in the amazement you hold so clearly.

Seeing your wonder at the captured animals; their stature towering over the sand's flat ground, using its strength to trample over any competitors- he finds himself chasing the occasional bursts of attention he manages to keep with in your magenta sunlight.

Never promising loyalty to anyone; he chases it when you're unable to give it, the mess of concubines and courtesans who he cannot remember the names nor the faces of, only remembering their similarities to you- their purpose has been asked for more as of late, and neglected all the same soon after.

No matter if it was seeing a person with hair similar to yours, a familiar sounding voice, even just dressed in clothing resembling your own; they were sought out after in hopes of finding you in them.

He finds it only lasts briefly.

Of course sex is endless, at the call of his voice and at the stop of a groan; services are there to satisfy whatever craving he has. But after each round of breathlessness, he finds that hunger for what is missing growing into something insatiable.

Hours spent, feeling their bodies, picturing what your own must look like underneath the white moonlight casting into his bedchambers. Each thrust is heavy with yearning he cannot mend, moaning for warmth he cannot have; he damns Caracalla in those times for finding you first before he did.

Perhaps then would you be his spouse. To bed you the same way his brother does would be true nirvana, to hear those same whimpers he knows you're able to make, to feel you shiver and tighten around him the same way those people do; it's what he longs for.

He's certain then he'd be more than just rough, chasing whatever high is made in a blurry of orgasms- it becomes difficult to differentiate who is with him and who is imagined; not when his eyes are shut and your image is all he sees in its darkness. Tenderness is taught, and if his brother was able to learn to extend that same to you; there is no doubt he'd do the same.

"Are you enjoying it?", Turning your focus back onto Geta, his answer is a hum. The sound is husky from passing thoughts, and strain for what should be hidden; he takes a moment to gather his words.

"I always favor your company, the spectacle is merely entertainment.", Repeating what you said only minutes ago, the unexpressed emotions behind it is registered in your mind- and although brushed off originally, that denial you have becomes harder to not believe Geta's feelings becoming more noticeable in the time spent at his brother's side.

"The ambience of cheering Roman's, animals in pain, and dying men; no wonder we have such lively conversations in these times.", Another quality of yours he finds endearing is your dryness. The harshness soaked into your veins from being raised by your family has not changed you the way it has him he notices; viewing the cruelties of Rome in whatever light you could shed, he once again almost smiles, a quirk of his lips turning upwards showing.

"Complaining to the emperor for the privileges he's given you? What an ungrateful wife you are.", Breaking out into a smile, what is said is anything but malicious. Leaving Caracalla unmentioned; unsaid, his mind is soothed from its ache, mending itself when remembering it's just you and him- hidden away.

Alone in a place where he can pretend you two are more than in-laws, there's a warm stirring at the sound of your laughter. Filled with humor you express so freely, it reminds him of conversations with your father throughout the years; his stories of your youth.

Defiant in ways he wishes he'd seen, and mischievous in ways he knows you still are; the only changes is now you're not tangible. Yet, lost in affections like he never got to be as a boy, he doesn't mind who he's face to face with now. Not in the slightest.

"Forgive my insolence, emperor; I plead for it.", Clearly you speak to Caracalla too much because the shiver trailing up his spine goes directly into that heated feeling in his abdomen. Aware you're unknowing to the effect you have, it only worsens at the hint of playfulness heard.

"Oh, you're forgiven. The God's have extended their mercy onto you today, but be wry, they could change their mind.", Unwilling to give into the arousal brewing, the tension he's created in his body, he replies with a smile- one that lingers too long.

Mischief isn't needed to be noticed in the palace, not with the two emperor's having their souls intertwining themselves with your own- no longer being unheard by those around you, that streak remains. It brings an amusement greater than bloodshed to Geta, and even more so to Caracalla. Smoothness of your words he swears is coated with the sweetest of wines; it disarms what would be seen as scrutiny as nothing more than a jest.

With humor being forgotten in such trying times; outside of what the Colosseum offers, and outside of the different celebrations of another conquered land- Geta finds your spirit is lightening to what is constantly dampening in his.

Shouts of Roman's are heard, like you predicted, and another man falls. However, with neither of you truly paying attention to the sight; their deaths were not offered the same graciousness you're given so carelessly, so frivolously: and when one of the last remaining takes their bow to surrender- only then do you look away.

To see your eyes of amusement grow into something unreadable, his own smile dims into a frown.

Standing from the throne, his hands rest on the Bisellium's railing, he grips onto it tightly when seeing below. Blood stains the sand as always; the deceased laid out over it in the afternoon heat, and the two lone man kneel. Meters away from one another, your eyes flicker between them, and soon Geta speaks up again.

Mercy is yelled in the air, and when he asks you, his voice is quieter than intended, "Shall we show mercy?"

Sparking what was lost, you nod, and another smile is seen, "Mercy."

Prayers do not solve what is inevitable, he finds, not when the God's blood soars through his body. The threat of rebellion, and the stings of betrayal, that mask that hides it all becomes wavering whenever he's with you; wishing to you like he did as a child to the God's for power, to worship you in ways he only should deities- it almost feels blasphemous.

Even more so now, when you don't understand the importance behind what he says; the grace he offers, the laughs he lets slip out- it is only the beginning of what he could promise you.

FOURTH NOTE: Now that you've made it this far, I wanna like drift away from what I was writing on my old account. it was just small paragraphs, but writing on a laptop just HITS DIFFERNT- literal hours spent doing this shit. I don't rlly wanna take requests bc i feel like my time is just too hectic for that, BUT I WOULD LOVE to hear your guys thoughts!! Okay, small series on these characters- Quinn Mossbacher, Simon Kalivoda, Ethan Russell, DIMITRI KRAVIOFF, DANIEL MARKOWITZ, JASON HOCHBERG, and finally our beloved; Caracalla. bad part is I haven't most of the movies they're in, so i don't want it to be inaccurate.

FIFTH NOTE: currently i'm writing a Johnny Storm fic series inspired by the new Fantastic Four trailer (writing the third chapter of what could be a five or even eight part series if I get to understand that franchise better), an Eddie Muson fic mainly just to fuck around and post that old one I never got a chance to. also an Adrian Chase fic i found on my laptop, another one for Koby from the one piece live action (I was inspired when the show first came out), and joe goldberg

FINAL NOTE: I've wanted to get into watching Yellowjackets. LOVE THE SHOW. Another thing I wanted to ask bc when I write for women characters, i like to write them as WLW. SO would you guys like it if i also wrote for Iris (Companion), SISTER BARNES (Heretic), Jinx (Arcane), Lucy Maclean (Fallout), Rhiannon Lewis (Sweetpea)?? one day if i sell out and get a membership to Prime or those silly addons; I WILL.

#caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla x reader #geta x reader #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta fanfic #emperor caracalla fic #i hate tagging shit bc i never know what to put i just dont wanna ruin peoples scrolling w like fanfiction HA #PLS LET THIS FIND THE RIGHT PEPOPLE

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