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merakiui · 2 months

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タコの花嫁。

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, arranged marriage, oviposition, breeding, royalty au note - in an effort to bring peace to two warring sides, you are engaged to the sea queen’s son.

If anyone is to blame for the abysmal diplomacy between the Land and the Sea, it would be your ancestors. Pompous and foolhardy, they thought they could rule the grand seas stretching out from the harbor, beyond weather-worn docks with their rotted, seaweed-strewn planks and briny fetor. The ocean was vast, unexplored territory—a dangerous, deceptive beauty harboring life far beneath unruly waves.

And your ancestors intended to claim it.

Sailors would recount tales of fishfolk—uncanny creatures who looked more marine than the two-legged mammals of the land. They’d raise mugs, each overflowing with ale, in drunken merriment, terrifying themselves with the mysteries of the deep, dark sea.

“It ought to give ya a proper scare straight to Davy Jones himself!” they’d say, voices lowered conspiratorially. “Soon as yer candle goes out and all ya’ve got’s the moon to guide ya… You’ll hear ’em slip through the water if yer listenin’ well enough.”

“You ever go and spy one up close?”

“I’d sooner see the Devil himself and let him keelhaul me before facin’ those cursed beasts!”

“The cut of their jib ain’t so pretty. Enough to give men like us a fright and we’ve seen all sorts of somethin’.”

“Monsters, I say! Monsters!”

Festivals were held to keep these beasts at bay—to prevent them from gathering the courage to creep up onto the land. Every year, during the summer solstice, pits were hollowed on the shore and bordered with stones. Flames licked towards the sky, red-orange fingers clawing for purchase amidst the stars above. Townsfolk would sing and dance late into the eve, bellowing songs passed through the generations. Children would skip up and down the beach, torches in hand, and cry out an old chant: “Fish for you and me are meant to stay in the sea! Should you see one on land, may the Heavens strike it down with a gentle, loving hand!”

Their excitement did well to ward off the fishfolk. Sometimes the lone child would spot one in the distance, peeking out from between the rocks before diving back under in a splash.

On land, humans were safe. On land, the fishfolk couldn’t catch them.

It was different in the sea.

Ships were destroyed in terrible tempests. The waves tossed them around as if they were nothing. Many sailors would find their demise at the bottom of the ocean, torn to shreds with shattered skeletons. Viscerally brutalized, they died with secrets on their tongues—secrets of the strange fishfolk who’d drag them down, down, down to a watery grave.

On one cold February afternoon, the octopus prince was brought into the world. In shadowed fathoms, a grand celebration was held. After so much time—misfortune after misfortune—one fry survived out of the entire clutch. He was round and soft and small, colored blue from exertion and fighting through the tug of the current to reach home. The Sea Queen met him halfway and embraced him, ecstatic tears in her eyes, for a mother’s love is stronger than any political power.

“My little Azul,” she said, stroking a hand along his cheek, “how precious you are.”

No ships were sunk; no lives were lost. It was a peaceful day for both the Land and the Sea. And it would continue to be so in the future. Every year on that same February, it was made a day of peace to honor the little prince.

A day of life, not death.

It was on that same February eleven years later when you were tossed into the frigid depths like a hatchling cast out of its nest. Similarly, your birth had been a wondrous occasion. Your parents brought five boys into the world, each just as adored as the last, but they had been hoping for a daughter. It was a miracle when their fervent wishes were finally granted. You were spoiled as all daughters often are, pampered and doted on by your family and the palace staff.

Your brothers, though protective and caring, were a troublesome and rowdy bunch. Kyffin was the eldest. Two years younger was Emyr, and another two years behind him was Owin. A year younger than him were twins Morcan and Martyn. They picked on you as all immature boys often do when caught up in sibling rivalries, aiming to be the only one their parents see. To prove themselves as the best, the strongest, the wisest.

So it was with a half-cruel heart that Emyr tossed you into the waves from where he stood in the rowboat.

“Only way to learn is with exposure!” he called down to you, watching as you struggled against the push and pull of the sea.

“C-Can’t!” you shouted back, choking on salt and flailing about. “E-Emyr, I can’t—can’t swim!”

“Don’t be silly,” Owin added with a sweet smile. “It’s how we learned. That old sod threw us right in. You’re lucky it’s us and not him. He was awfully mean with it, wasn’t he?”

“Terribly so.” Emyr watched your struggling a moment longer and clicked his tongue. He held the oar out just before you could slip under, and you clung to it with shaky hands. “Come on—let’s get you up here. You’re not gonna get it today.”

“Fin got it on his first try.”

“Fin gets everything on his first bloody try.”

Relieved, your heart pounding like a drum, you peered up at your brothers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get it…”

“Nothing to apologize for. You’ll get it one day.”

“We’ll keep trying until then. And once you do, we’ll throw you a big party.”

“Really? Will you really do that?” Your expression brightened, but your brothers’ faces darkened. They saw the shadow before you did. Saw the webbed hands reaching out, the serrated teeth glinting in a sinister smile.

And then—

Owin leaned over, his arm outstretched. So fluid was his motion that it took you by surprise. “(Name), grab on! Hurry! Before—”

The rest of his warning was muffled by the water. You hardly had any time to brace yourself when you were yanked under, your nails raking across the wood of the oar as you went with the force of the pull. Salt stung your eyes when you cracked them open, peering frantically at blurry surroundings. Teal-green specks slid silently through the shadows, mismatched eyes flicking over your form. And then there was a high, raucous sort of chittering. Like a dolphin’s cry, loud and piercing. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your palms against your ears.

It only lasted a few mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity trapped in the coils of a creature you couldn’t comprehend. One moment you were holding your breath and the next arms were hooked around your torso, and you were pulled up and into the belly of the rowboat. Your hands flew to your throat, and you coughed up seawater while Owin patted you.

“It’s fine. It’s…okay,” Emyr muttered, his voice shot through with fear. It was the most shaken he’d ever sounded.

Blood fogged in the water, staining the tip of his harpoon. He gazed down at his hand. A deep, jagged gash ran angrily from palm to wrist. He hissed and closed his fingers in a tight fist.

“We gotta get back,” Owin was saying, still rubbing soothing circles into your back. “I’ll row. You rest.”

“Not good,” Emyr said instead, shaking his head in dismay as he watched your attackers retreat.

“We’re still in our waters, right? We didn’t go past the boundary, did we?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“We didn’t, right?”

“Let’s hope—” Emyr paused, collecting his words. “Let’s hope those monsters were in the wrong.”

“Father’s gonna kill us.”

“If not us, the monsters.”

Both brothers looked towards you. Your tunic was torn, stained through with saltwater and blood. You shivered all the way to shore.

Following that mishap, an official meeting was called between the Land and the Sea. The King—your father—met the Sea Queen at the border. He stood proud on his ship, peering down at her with fire in his old eyes.

“Your Majesty.”

The Sea Queen was just as formidable as those who came before her. Her tentacles unfurled as one, and if you looked at them long enough they almost seemed to take on the shape of an obsidian-colored crinoline.

“I believe my mother and your father made the terms quite clear all those years ago,” she said, a wave lifting her to meet the King at the deck of his ship. “So then, with that in mind, there should be no reason for us to meet under these circumstances.”

Emyr and Owin stood just behind their father. You peered through their legs at the Sea Queen, silently amazed. You’d never seen anyone quite like her before. At least, not a real person. You’d seen her in storybooks, depicted as a fearsome beast with devilish features, and though there was something intimidating about her gaze and build she appeared understanding enough. Her grey skin was sleek in the morning sun, her long, silvery strands tied up and pinned with an ornate hair ornament. She looked beautiful in a magical, enigmatic way.

“I couldn’t agree more,” came the clipped response of your father. “Alas, misfortune has brought us here.” He stepped aside to allow her to behold Emyr’s bandaged hand. “Harm has befallen my son and daughter. I suppose you might have an inkling as to why they find themselves in their current state?”

She frowned, but you couldn’t tell if it was out of sympathy or some other emotion. “Perhaps one of them can give reason to the wound now marring one of my subject’s sons.”

Your father glanced overboard at the snake-like merman cradled in the arms of another merman. They looked near-identical, their features unmistakable. He glanced back at Emyr, his gaze hard. “Go on then. Explain yourself.”

Emyr stepped forward. “With wholehearted respect, Your Majesty, it was out of self-defense. Your kind—they attacked us first.”

“You were in our waters!” one of the mers exclaimed, pointing a clawed finger towards Emyr. “It’s all your fault Jade got hurt!”

Owin hurried ahead, his hands gripping the taffrail. “He’s playing it up! It was a graze!”

“He could’ve died! You almost killed him!”

“That is enough,” the Sea Queen said, jutting an arm out to silence both sides. “I understand everyone is hurt here. Our feud lies in misunderstanding.” She gazed at you next. “Little one, we have yet to hear your story. Do share.”

You glanced at the guards, at Owin and Emyr, and then at father. He nodded encouragingly. “U-Um!” Shyly, you approached the Sea Queen. “My brothers were teaching me how to swim. I don’t know anything about whose water is whose. I just wanted to learn how to swim.” You met the fierce scowl of the mer holding his twin brother and quickly looked elsewhere. “He grabbed me before my brothers could pull me up.”

“Because you were trespassing. Anyone who tresspasses ought to—”

“Floyd.”

At the not-so-subtle warning in his father’s voice, he shut his mouth and snarled. His brother—Jade—was handed off to their father, who assessed his state with a frown.

“He will live, but it will take time for him to recover. My son is right. Your son could have killed him.”

“Just as your sons could have killed my sister!” Owin shouted, glaring.

Floyd stuck his tongue out, remorseless.

“It is impossible to know which side is in the wrong,” your father began, turning towards the Sea Queen. “Seeing as both have been injured, I am willing to apologize on behalf of my sons.”

“What?!” Owin’s head turned towards his father. “You’re bloody mad! Have you not seen—”

“Father,” Emyr interjected evenly. “We have nothing to apologize for. We were within our waters. We had no ill will towards the others. It was completely innocent.”

The Sea Queen hummed her contemplation. “The boundary was drawn for a reason, decided upon by those who came before us, and yet it does more harm than good. It is not for safety’s sake. It is to keep us divided—to ensure that neither side will ever know peace.”

“And you’re implying that we get rid of it?”

She nodded, quite serious. Everyone looked on in equal parts shock and disbelief. “Why do we continue to fight? It does nothing but open old wounds, rendering them incurable. Innocent lives are lost in petty squabbling. And for what?”

To that, no one could offer a smart reply.

“Therefore I propose peace. A union to welcome a new era—one in which we embrace one another as allies without animosity.”

“A union?” Your father raised a brow, suspicious but willing to listen. “I suppose it would be beneficial. My people would be free to travel the seas at their leisure.” “And mine would no longer have to live in fear of being thoughtlessly slaughtered and taken as trophies.”

“Unbelievable,” Orwin muttered.

Emyr elbowed him. “Knock it off.”

“We’ll collaborate on a contract. One that dissolves the invisible boundary that has been the cause for so much suffering. In order to attain true peace, I shall offer you my only son.” She glanced at you and then back at your father. “Your daughter shall marry him when they are of age.”

“What?! No way! Ew! Gross!” Your voice came out shrill and you shook your head in protest. “I don’t wanna marry an octopus! No, I won’t do it!”

Your father stood in front of you. “She’s my only daughter. If something were to happen—”

“Which is precisely why I bring up this engagement. Should they be betrothed, we as their parents will promise to uphold peace to give them bright futures and they will act as the first example of a human-mer alliance. Unions between humans and merfolk are unheard of, but is this not the best way to foster harmony between the Land and Sea?”

“I won’t do it! No! Don’t make me marry a gross—” Emyr gathered you in his arms, holding his uninjured hand over your mouth.

“Let the grown-ups talk.”

Owin frowned. “I still don’t agree with this…”

Your father mulled it over, his eyes glazed in thought. “Very well. We will create a contract—an official peace treaty.”

Both leaders shook hands and planned to convene at the end of the week to discuss further.

You watched the mers depart, each one slipping under the sea. Floyd was the last to go, staring at you with a mean sort of vitriol. And then he, too, dove under.

“He didn’t mean it, right?” you whispered to Emyr after your father gave the order to turn the ship around and head for land. “I won’t have to marry an octopus, right?”

Emyr could only offer a commiserate frown.

“She’s a brat,” Floyd spits. “Stupid, evil Two Legs.”

Jade chuckles and runs his fingers over the scar. “I consider it an honor.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s messed up. She’s the reason you can’t ever swim naturally again. While she’s up there in her pretty, little tower, safe and sound, you’re still hurting.”

“It’s not as much of a hindrance as you may think. I’m not weak, mind you.”

Floyd grumbles. “Still. She’s mean.”

Azul gazes up at the palace, sighing dreamily. “She’ll be my wife someday. That’s what humans call it, yes? Husband and wife… What wonderful words.”

It’s been one year since the peace treaty. Since then, humans and merfolk have made an effort to get along. This is the second time Azul will be meeting with you. He’s nervous. The first time you went out to sea to greet him, and he’d gotten so anxious that he inked right then and there. His mother entertained you from where you sat in the boat with your personal guard. It was a mortifying experience—one that had taken him months to recover from.

Now he’s going to try to meet you in the shallows. Try is the key word here. He’s scared, all three hearts beating as one. Is it too late to reschedule?

“I can’t believe you’re actually okay with this. You that lonely?”

Azul turns to scowl at both twins, but it’s mostly directed at Floyd. “I never asked you to tag along. Leave me alone.”

Jade smiles. “And let the Queen’s little prince swim to his death?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can. But what about when Two Legs gets ya? What then?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

Floyd rolls his eyes. “You saw what her brothers did to Jade.”

“Because you tried to kill her.”

“Because she was in our territory!”

Azul huffs and pushes him away with a tentacle. “Regardless, we’re supposed to be on good terms now. You’ll break the contract if you try anything dangerous.”

“He’s right, Floyd.”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Floyd turns away, stubborn. “This is lame. I’m not stickin’ around.”

Jade lingers long enough to observe the way Azul lights up when he spots you on the stone steps. And then he disappears beneath the water.

Barefoot, holding your dress up and out of the way, you pad across the beach.

“Why are you here? I’m busy. My brothers are taking me into town.”

The smile that had been fighting to break out on his face frosts over. “Oh. I… Um…” Azul fumbles with the conch shell he’d collected on the way here. A gift for you. He made sure to study human speech patterns in the months leading up to this meeting. He’s fully prepared! And yet you look so displeased. “F-For you! I found it…”

You stare at the shell clutched in a dark tentacle. Tentatively, you reach for it. “Why?”

“Ah. W-Well, my mother says gifts are an important part of any bond. In the sea, we give gifts to the ones we care about. To friends and family and o-other halves…”

You turn the shell over in your hands. “We’re not friends.”

“Not yet,” he tries, but you shake your head.

“You ran away from me the last time we met. That’s not very friendly.”

His face flushes blue and he opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. It wasn’t on purpose.

You’re already turning on your heel. “I don’t have time for this.” You toss the shell over your shoulder. Azul watches it land in the sand, just out of his grasp.

“W-Wait! I… I want to talk to you. Please don’t go. You’re going to be my other half one day, so I’d like to—”

But you’re already dashing across the beach to get to the stairs.

Azul deflates against the rock. Tears overflow in floods. Is it because of him? Is he to blame? Why don’t you want to be his friend? Is it because of the peace treaty? Why?

Why? Why? Why?

Azul doesn’t want to think negatively of you. Humans are sensitive creatures. He reads up on them in the palace library, poring over literature and textbooks in an effort to better understand you. But as the months pass and you seem to simply tolerate him for the sake of the alliance, he begins to suspect something.

It’s made apparent the next time he sees you, where you walk right past the beach to catch up with your brothers. He hides behind the rocks, two blue eyes following your figure until you’re out of sight.

Floyd was right. You are a brat.

And yet he can’t hate you.

On the eve of your eighteenth birthday, Azul meets you in the shallows.

Nowadays you send letters, preferring strained long distance over the personal intimacy of face-to-face relations. These exchanges are purely diplomatic. But now that he’s asked to meet with you, a rare occurrence, you’ve deigned to greet him in person. It’s the least you can do after he’s gone through the trouble to travel here. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him that he’s almost unrecognizable. You remember the round, baby-faced octo-mer from your childhood. The one who lounges against the rocks is leaner now—his features defined, jawline as sharp as his eyes. They cut through the gloom to find you.

“You wished to see me?” You’re in your nightwear, a silky gown with an even softer robe. A cool breeze blows across the beach, and you wrap your arms around yourself for extra warmth. “Azul?”

He hesitates, his gaze trailing up your legs. You’ve also changed a lot in the time you’ve been apart. You’ve grown taller, filling out in places he didn’t know humans could fill. What he’d give to hold you… His mother says he needs to be patient. Fickle thing that you are, you’re the reason he’s spent six years trying to appease you through letters—to win you over and be anything more than that “annoying octopus” you’re doomed to marry. Perhaps it would have been easier to act just as you do if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been elated at the premise of having someone to love. When his mother broached the idea in the days following her meeting with the Land King, he’d stared at her with wide, excited eyes.

“There’s a human girl who wants to be my friend?” he asked, to which his mother smiled and nodded.

More than a friend, actually, but then all he was focused on was finally getting to experience the one thing he’d never known or had: friendship.

Sighing, he foregoes formality and holds out a necklace. It dangles from the tip of his tentacle. Strung on a dainty, silver strand, pearls wink back at you under the moonlight. Azul averts his eyes, his cheeks a pleasant periwinkle.

“Happy birthday…”

“Oh.” You move in closer, taking the necklace from him. His tentacle pursues you, twining delicately around your wrist. “Um… What is it? Do you need—whoa!”

Azul tugs you closer. The sea laps at your ankles. Beneath a tapestry of stars, you meet his azure stare. His features are set with a determination you’ve never seen before.

“I want to start over.”

“Start over?”

“I’d like to be on friendly terms with you. We’re so cold. Distant…” Azul frowns, seeming unsure of what to say or do next. The tentacle laced around your wrist like a bracelet tightens its hold. “We’re to be wed one day. I want to make this work.”

You blink at him. He thinks he may have gotten through to you, having finally broken through layers of stone and ice, but then your nose scrunches and odium shimmers in your gaze.

“That’s impossible. I’m a human. How am I supposed to live with an octopus?” You shake him off with a huff. “I’m not sure what our parents think this will accomplish. I don’t want to be a pawn to be moved around for the sake of peace. I’m my own person.”

Azul’s expression sours. His lip curls up into a sneer. “Well, I don’t find it very enjoyable either. You’re not the only victim in this scenario.”

You exhale an exhausted breath. “Azul, I appreciate the gift, but it doesn’t mean anything if you’re only giving it to me to curry favor.”

I wasn’t, he thinks, but he doesn’t say that. Admitting it would be a weakness. Admitting it would mean coming to terms with an unrequited opinion.

“At least one of us is making a conscious effort.”

“At least one of us isn’t trying so hard. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re not obligated to accept my goodwill.” He smiles, smug. “Yet you do every time. I’d wager you enjoy my materialistic affections.”

“As if.” Despite this, you hold the necklace out of his reach when a tentacle flexes towards it. “It’s mine now.”

“So you are fond of my ‘pathetic’ ways!”

“I’m not!”

You jerk away with a vicious scowl, but your foot catches in the sand and you quickly find yourself tipping backwards. If not for the tentacles that coil around your waist to steady you, you would have fallen on your rear. Your chest heaves with adrenaline. Stunned, you stare at Azul.

“You…caught me,” you breathe, lips parted in awe.

“Did you think I’d let you fall?” He cocks his head at you, grinning playfully. “Why, I’d never! Unless it’s me you’re falling for, in which case I gladly welcome the—”

“You’re such a pest.” Untangling yourself from his grasp, which he allows without scrimmage, you step away from the water’s edge. He watches you secure the pearls around your neck, and his hearts stumble in his chest when you point an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t delude yourself with foolish nonsense. I have no interest in you.”

With an indignant harrumph, you start towards the palace.

“May we meet here tomorrow?” Azul calls out after you, testing his luck with what little chance he has.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Good. Keep waiting, dummy!” You break into a sprint, hurrying off into the shadows.

Azul smiles at the empty beach. Whether or not you like him, it doesn’t matter. You’re to be his one day. You’ve always been, ever since he was eleven.

He’ll wait, even if you won’t show.

Ostensibly, twenty-one years wise, you’re getting married today.

Your gown is just as exquisite as your hair and makeup. Pearls cling to your throat and arms—classic wedding attire for merfolk. A thin veil shields the scheme in your stare.

This was an inevitability, but you’re determined to fight it until the end. No matter how quickly time seems to pass, you’ll do everything you can to stall and slow it.

Gripping a sharpened dagger in a resolute fist, you drag it through the long, sprawling train of your gown.

“As if I’d marry an octopus,” you grumble, cutting fine fabric until you’re permitted smoother movement. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you scowl. “I’m no one’s bride.”

By the time the maids arrive to check on you, you’ve already stolen out the window.

The rowboat sways on choppy water. You’ve watched your brothers do this enough times to have the technique engraved in your memory. Your arms strain with the oars, every muscle screaming in protest, but you fight through the pain. The palace looks smaller and smaller with every passing minute. Eventually, you’re so far out that the land is but a mere speck.

It’s going well. You’re escaping towards a better future—a future without the octopus prince.

You glance towards the horizon. Your boat undulates with the waves.

You’ll miss your brothers, your maids, your personal guard…

Water slops over the edge. You yelp, startled. Have the seas always been so rough?

Despite everything, you’ll miss your father.

Just as you think this, your boat rocks to the side. You grab onto the edge to steady yourself, but it’s already too late. It tips over and you go with it, careening into the sea with a noisy splash. Twin shadows cut seamlessly through the murky water. You catch sight of a yellow eye before you propel yourself towards the sky, coughing and heaving once you break the surface. You grab onto the overturned rowboat, your dagger clutched in one hand.

You search the surface for them, eyes flicking to and fro in a frantic panic.

Somewhere… Anywhere… Where are you?

And then you find them, peering at you from the other side of the boat.

“Go on then,” you spit, glaring. “Kill me.”

Floyd bares his teeth at you. “This time I ain’t gonna leave a scar.”

“You know we mustn’t. That’s not why we’re here.” Jade smiles at you, but there’s something in his eyes that unnerves you. “Your Highness, you should know it’s poor manners to leave the groom on his special day.”

Floyd circles you restlessly. “S’not fair we gotta be nice when you’re so mean.”

“I’m not going to marry him.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in that matter.”

“What’d Azul ever do to you?”

You attempt to answer that before realizing the truth. Nothing. He’s done absolutely nothing but be kind and understanding and patient. And I took that, chewed it up, and spat in his face.

“If you used that brain of yours, you wouldn’t have thrown yourself to the sharks. We can’t get to you on land.” “But it’s fair game in the sea,” Floyd finishes, every syllable dripping with pride. “Stupid Two Legs.”

“I’m inclined to agree. You’re not the brightest human. A pity.”

“My brother should’ve gutted you when he had the chance. Maybe then—”

You see the whites of Floyd’s eyes when he strikes, launching himself at you with a clawed hand, sharp, pointed teeth aiming for your jugular.

This is it. You’re dead.

…or not.

The searing pain never comes, nor does the impending laceration. You cling to the boat and watch dark tentacles rise from the depths to close around Floyd, ensnaring him in a firm hold. He thrashes, snapping his jaws like a deranged beast.

“Let go of me, Azul! Lemme at her! She’s a bitch! I’ll kill her!”

“There will be none of that.” Azul tuts. “I don’t intend to marry a corpse.”

Jade swims over to you. “My feelings aren’t hurt in the slightest, Your Highness. If it weren’t for your status and connection to Azul, I’d have disemboweled you ages ago. Quite a relief for you, yes?”

You swallow your horror, allowing him to detach you from the boat so that Azul can turn it over. A tentacle curls around your waist, lifts you from the water, and places you back in the boat. You stare at your hands. They’re trembling. You can hardly hold the dagger properly.

It takes some convincing and a lukewarm apology from you, but Floyd promises to be good. He doesn’t do anything as you’re pulled back to shore, but he does stare at you for the duration of the trip, his eyes tracking your every movement. You press yourself into the belly of the boat, defeated and riddled with anxiety.

Your father isn’t pleased. When you see his enraged expression, the debate dies on your tongue. “You are to marry the prince,” he seethes, pulling you aside, “or else you jeopardize the peace of our kingdom.”

You’re washed and fitted in a new dress. Guards are stationed at all possible routes to prevent another escape.

When you walk down the beach to meet Azul in the shallows, your veil shields the sadness in your stare.

The ceremony carries on without incident. Floyd watches from the water, lurking like Death. You speak rehearsed vows in robotic monotone, mindlessly floating through the rigmarole like it’s second nature. Azul smiles at you through it all, sweetly smitten.

It’s a nightmare lived in real time.

Humans and mers alike congratulate you, cheering for this momentous occasion. Your tongue is numb by the end of it all. You’ve expressed faux gratitude so many times that it hurts to even force the words. And now, as night descends and the party kicks into full swing, you’re left reflecting on the day.

Freedom feels so far away. You’ll never know it again, will you?

Azul guides you away from the crowd. Firelight grows dim with the distance. Eventually, you find yourself taking refuge in a tiny inlet cut into the beach. A rocky outcrop hides you from the moon’s spotlight.

“I’m not upset,” Azul murmurs, curling a tentacle up your leg. “But Floyd is.”

“His brother’s the one who hurt me all those years ago.”

“That was before the union.”

“I’m not letting it go.”

“Perhaps not now, but you will. One day.”

You don’t believe him.

“Our people are at peace. Aren’t you pleased, my love?”

You shove him away, gathering heaps of your dress to walk in calf-deep water. “I’m not your love.”

“Legally, you are.”

“That means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing.”

Azul sighs. “Even now, after everything, you’re still trying to flee.”

“For good reason. I don’t want to be tied down.”

Azul inches closer. Another tentacle wraps slyly around your ankle.

“You’re so beautiful. I feel like the luckiest mer in the sea. To be able to call you my own… My beautiful bride.” He pulls you closer. You resist weakly. “Now that we’re alone I can finally tell you the very thing I’ve thought of ceaselessly for years.”

A tentacle slides up your leg, straying closer to your inner thigh. You flinch away.

“Azul, wait. I don’t want—”

“I love you.”

You squirm in his hold, attempting to thwart the tentacles that grab at your every limb. You trip over yourself in the process. This time Azul doesn’t catch you. Water laps at your dress, soaking through at once. He’s radiant beneath the moon. Dreading his touch, you scoot as far from him as you can get in the water, hoping to reach land. Azul seizes your wrist and pulls you into his arms. You fight him with more force.

“No… No, let go of me! Release me!”

“Why should I? You’re mine now. Is it not customary for a married couple to consummate their new bond? We do something similar in the sea.” A tentacle brushes your veil back so that he can look upon your pretty face. “I’d take you to a quiet space in the seagrass, lay you down in the sand, and then—”

“I don’t want that! No!” You lash out, swinging blindly. A tentacle shoots out to stop your arm before it can smack him. “Azul, please—”

“I was patient. I waited and waited in hopes that you might warm up to me. I cherished you in silence. I learned your language. Your customs. Your habits. I wrote to you. Traveled to meet you. And yet you look at me as if I’m a monster…”

It’s not the devastated look in his eyes or the edge in his voice that scares you. It’s the startling gentleness with which he handles you. Tentacles loop around your body, exploring beneath your gown. You wriggle in discomfort, yelping when suckers brush against the frilly garter secured around your thigh. Azul hums and holds you up in his tentacles, using two to spread your legs so that he may slide it from your leg.

“I wasn’t forceful. I courted you kindly. You accepted all of my gifts. You wore them proudly and I thought—I knew you would love me, too. You were mine from the moment our parents signed that agreement. And if you leave me, you’ll break a political promise and then our kingdoms will go to war and I’ll be sure to collect the heads of your family first. Each one of them, and you will watch as I bring ruin to the kingdom you love so fondly.”

“N-No… Please stop. Please.”

“I’ve waited ten years for you.” A tentacle hooks around your panties. You thrash again, shaking your head at him. He remains unconvinced, watching with gleeful eyes as your nudity is revealed to him. “And aren’t you an angel? Oh, you’re so pretty…”

Like your hopes, your panties are cast aside.

The tip of a tentacle prods curiously at your pussy. Your breath hitches.

“W-Wait! You… You can’t.” His eyes find yours, and you swallow the rising sob. “T-That can’t go inside… It won’t fit. It won’t—”

Azul smiles. “Of course it will. The human body is capable of marvelous feats.”

Even though it’s pointless, you struggle. “I can’t! Please… Azul, I’m scared. Please don’t do this…”

A lone tentacle slides into your hand. Thoughtless, you hold tight.

“My love, there’s no need to cry. I’m not going to hurt you.” He brings you closer, kissing your tears away. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been here, even when you didn’t seem to need me.”

You hiccup, your chest heaving. It’s not lonely for long, for he pulls your dress down your shoulders. Your breasts spill free and are quickly cradled in cold hands. Azul watches your expression with an intense focus while he rolls your nipples between his fingers. You grit your teeth, refusing to respond. But then the tentacle between your legs finds your clit and a sucker affixes to it, suctioning slowly. You gasp and throw your head back, bolts of pleasure racing up your spine. It happens in a white-hot flash. You slacken in his grasp.

Azul laughs, astonished. “Did you cum? Already?”

“Nooo,” you whine, closing your hand around the tentacle once more. Another one strokes your cheek. “You’ve had your fun. Now let go of me…”

“What a silly demand.”

He tugs on your nipples. You groan, lashes fluttering. “Ooh… Stop. No, stop it… Don’t touch there. Not—haa… Not there!”

“You’re so sensitive.” He drags the underside of a tentacle along your cunt and shivers. “And so wet… Is this your season? Do humans experience such a thing?”

You’ve no idea what he’s referring to, but before you can dwell on it he leans down to take your perky bud in his mouth. Your free hand grabs at his hair, pinning him to your chest. His tongue laves across it, warm and wet. You shouldn’t enjoy it so much, and yet you can’t stop yourself from crying out.

He hums against your skin, beaming like a devil. You can’t hate him. He’s your husband. He’s yours. You shouldn’t hate him.

You’re falling apart in his tentacles, grinding down to chase the bliss provided by the underside of the appendage clinging to your pussy. The sinful squelch of skin on skin fills the quiet inlet. The scent of sex and salt intermingles. It’s wrong and it’s right. It’s instinct, carnal and corrupt. Azul groans against your breast, your teat between his teeth.

“Az—ooh!” You tug on his hair, insatiable. Your brain is fogging over with lust. You don’t want to lose yourself in this madness. You can’t. “N-No more… No more.”

But he’s not listening. He pinches your other nipple between his fingers, and that’s all it takes for you to unravel.

In the aftermath, the tapered tip of a thicker tentacle squirms between your thighs. Mindlessly, you spread your legs and lift your hips for him. It presses in shallowly, a jarring experience.

“Not inside—don’t! You can’t!”

Azul pulls away from you, his expression scrunched in woozy ecstasy. “Why not?” he mumbles, smiling stupidly. “You’re my bride. It’s only fair…”

Before you can bicker, he kisses you. His tongue pursues yours in a sloppy tango. You lick into his mouth, desperate and dazed. Lost in a sea of salacity, shipwrecked on an island of forgotten inhibitions.

The tentacle pushes through rings of tight, slick muscle. Tears spring to your eyes. It feels weird and foreign, so unlike your fingers. He holds you close, minding his strength and pace. It fills you slowly, reaching places you’ve never been able to feel. The lust numbs your senses and gives way to something animalistic—a base desire you’ve suppressed. Azul rocks the appendage deeper until it’s pushed up against the entrance to your womb, squeezed snugly in your warm walls.

“I-It’s in…” you mumble once he’s broken the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting your mouths. “It’s really…inside me…”

Azul kisses your cheek and pets you with a tentacle. “We were made for each other.”

Surely not, you think, but it feels so when he draws back and thrusts in. Maybe he’s right.

He fucks you gently, savoring every single sound you make. He tells you he loves you, whispers it over and over like it’s prayer. You nod dumbly, grabbing at his hand to hold it. The both of you are gasping in unison, chasing cloud nine. In just a few more deep strokes, his tip bullying its way to your womb, he finally finds his end. A thin substance fills you up in plentiful amounts. Distantly, you think it’s water until he drags your hips further down. Your mouth drops open in a strangled scream as something round and gelatinous passes through. It settles in your womb, and you know right away that it shouldn’t be there.

You panic. “W-Wait… Wha—Zul… Stop… No, I don’t want—”

“It’s all right,” he breathes, his mouth on your shoulder. He soothes you with soft shushes and even softer kisses. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

You dig your nails into the tentacle curled in your palm just as a second orb squeezes through. He groans, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Finally…” He pants, a wobbly smile stretching on his delirious countenance. “Finally, my love, my dear—oh, my beloved bride!”

He cradles you like a mother would a newborn. You lie there as he fills you, your voice hoarse from babbling and bewailing. These things—little orbs of jelly—are stuffed into your womb, and by the time you surpass twenty you lose count and blank out, trembling through yet another orgasm. You’re not sure how many more he has left or how many more you can possibly fit. It feels too good to think about that.

“Bigger. They’ll get bigger. You’ll look so pretty—round and full and soft.”

Dizzy, you glance at the bloated dome that is your belly. Your gown strains over it, an impressively deceptive size that you almost mistake for pregnancy. That’s when it clicks. Eggs. These are eggs.

“I’ll make sure they survive. All of them—as many as I possibly can. I’ll stay by your side. I’ll keep you content. I’ll fill you with love—so much love—an abundance of it, and you’ll never know emptiness again,” he rambles, resting a tentacle over your distended middle.

It’s not just a senseless sweet nothing. It’s a promise.

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul x reader #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #yandere azul #n/sfw #tw: noncon #tw: breeding #tw: oviposition

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thisthatpinkvenom · 10 months

Text

IT'S SWEATPANTS SEASON, OH MY!

JOCK!SAN / BAND GEEK!FEM READER

⤏ Synopsis: Autumn has arrived; the season of pumpkin spice lattes, corn and—unfortunately for you—grey sweatpants. those pesky little things have attached themselves to your boyfriend's legs like glue, and you're having a hard time keeping your mind out of the gutter.

⤏ Genre(s): drabble*, fluff, humor(??), smut, smut, smut

⤏ Content: jock!San, band geek!fem reader (I know, I'm so original), you're referred to as "sweet potato" once—don't ask, just go with it, established relationship!au, college!au, non-idol!au

⤏ NSFW Warning(s): dry humping, unprotected piv (it's fiction, guysss. use your rubbers and stay safe!), creampie, just lots of build up because I'm down bad for a man in grey sweatpants 🙈

⤏ Note*: this content is completely fictional.

The mosaic of orange and yellow was striking below the dull blue clouds as the trees continued to shed their leaves. Your eyes swayed with the leaf you'd been watching descend its way patiently to the ground while you sat on the bench, shoulders jittering in the midst of the decreasing temperature. Your hands peeked out from the ends of your sleeves before rubbing together, the crisp morning air making your fingers tingle in the cold. You should've worn a thicker jacket, is what you mulled over in your head that you hadn't even noticed San until he enveloped his own padded jacket over you. The gust of warmth awoke you from your reverie and you hummed, meeting eyes with him when he lowered himself into a squat.

"You didn't have to come here," he said, a dimple indenting his cheek as he curled one corner of his mouth upward. After pulling the hood over your head, he tenderly brushed his thumb across your cheek. "I know you're not a morning person."

You struggled to fight a yawn until you decidedly gave in, white fog manifesting in your breath.

"I want to support you," you murmured. You were too busy blinking away your fatigue to notice how he looked on in nothing but fondness. Your conscience warped your thoughts when you scanned over the jacket engulfing your frame, your lips forming into a small pout. "Mm…aren't you going to be cold?"

San took a glance at his attire; he's only got a windbreaker left to keep him warm. Nonetheless, he shook his head and insisted he was used to practicing like this on the field. Despite wearing less than you and the flushed red on his nose and cheeks, you couldn't really tell if he felt the effect of the weather as much as you did. You couldn't fathom how he had the motivation to get up at the ass crack of dawn to run around with a ball, doing drills with his teammates while Coach Kim rapid-fired pointer after pointer without a stop to catch his breath. It truly was admirable how smiley he was at 7:00 a.m. without consuming any caffeine.

Coach Kim sauntered along the grass before he blew his whistle and commanded the team to group together. Your boyfriend looked over his shoulder before turning back to you, eyes squinting as the sun's orange glow began to blanket over the field.

"Well, gotta start soon," he observed. "Stay warm and if you're sleepy, just go back. I'm happy you're here but don't force yourself to stay. All right, Sweet Potato?"

You made a small noise of confirmation, unfazed by the odd affectionate nickname you had gotten used to over time. The heat of his palms skimmed over your ears as he pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead before standing tall. But what you didn't anticipate—whoa—had really slapped you awake right then and there. For the mere five seconds you'd managed to capture a mental image, time felt as if it'd been stretched to hell when your boyfriend's crotch had leveled with your eyes. You hadn't realized the grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips and now that you've gotten a face full of…that, you're acutely aware.

You're shook to the core.

Your gaze trailed after his jogging figure, following the path up his long and toned legs to his cute little bu—okay, whoa! It's only 7:15 in the morning. You had no business indulging in these thoughts right now. Get it together.

Oh, he's facing your general direction now.

Are you staring at it too much? It's starting to feel a little warm, all of a sudden; it's the jacket, isn't it? Just how long is this going to take?

You're trapped on this bench. It hadn't even been 10 minutes since practice started and Coach Kim was rambling on about the importance of warming up while you're glued to your seat, pathetically staring at your boyfriend's dickprint while he seemingly had no idea. God, you felt like a perv. Even though he assured you that it was okay, you didn't want to just up and leave. This was a relationship built on give and take, and there were one too many times when he watched your concerts while knowing little to nothing about orchestral music.

You'll just suffer, then.

"Just fuck him."

"Lisa!" you chided, pushing three fingers against your friend's arm as she rolled her eyes.

"What?" She swirled her tongue around the glob of chocolate ice cream sitting on top of her waffle cone. "He's a hot, charming guy. Your own boyfriend makes you horny and that's supposed to be a problem now?"

"Oh, my gosh, I just…" you trailed off, eyes searching elsewhere for your thoughts. "I'm not used to being all"—you waved your hands disorientedly in front of you—"dirty…minded. He's the one who usually initiates it."

"Sex?"

"Everything physical, really," you clarified. "I just feel like if I start it, it's just going to be off—and awkward."

You sighed. "How am I going to get through this season?"

"Oh, yeah, the sweatpants; that's what's been making you a sex freak," Lisa recalled with an airy laugh. "Those things are like lingerie for guys. Especially the grey ones…oomf. 'Dicktoria's Secret' is real," she snorted.

You gave her a blank stare.

"Look, just be honest," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—which it was. "You really think any guy is gonna find it offensive that his girl's drooling over his bulge?"

"I wasn't drooling—"

"You will be."

"Oh, my gosh."

You weren't aware that having a footballer-boyfriend automatically signed you up for three months' worth of almost nothing but sweatpants. You also didn't know how many he had stashed in his wardrobe until now—it's good to know he didn't wear the same pair everyday. But this meant he had enough pairs to flaunt his dick outline in your face whenever you were together.

Not good for your cavewoman brain.

Fingers danced along your neck and you squirmed at the intrusion, meeting eyes with San's own with your face sporting a frown. The same fingers belonged to the arm lazing comfortably around your shoulders, both of you having snuggled together into mush on his couch while you binge-watched one of your favorite shows. You whined his name in annoyance when you're kicked out of your thoughts.

He chortled. "Sorry, I just—it's Buffy and you don't even seem that into it. Is everything okay?"

Let's see: it's a Friday night. His roommate, Mingi went to visit his parents for the weekend and you're all alone with your hot, charming boyfriend™ who's clearly gone commando under his sweats. And you're supposed to be watching Buffy slay vampires…how?

"Y-Yeah, why wouldn't it be?" you stammered.

He hummed in feigned ponder, and the knowing smirk surging its way onto his lips would've sent a churn in your belly if you'd actually caught sight of it.

"You know that my eyes are up here, right?"

Your eyes snapped up in panic, and silence was the only response you had sitting on your tongue. You wanted to hide in a cave, where you could wallow in embarrassment without disturbance. Your own boyfriend had just caught you ogling his crotch like a perv.

San tucked his bottom lip between his teeth, suppressing a smile at how you resembled a deer in headlights. "You thought I wouldn't notice?"

Your mouth was stuck in a battle between opening and closing as you desperately searched for the right words. With a defeated sigh, your face fell into the safety of your palms.

"This is so embarrassing," you groaned, words muffled against your hands.

"Hey," he laughed softly, grabbing your wrists in an attempt to retract your hands away from your face. "It's not a big deal"—you sighed when the light from the standing lamp washed into your eyes—"it's cute."

You gave him a funny look. "Cute," you stated, doubt laced in your tone.

"Yeah. Usually, I'm the one doing all the staring."

He scanned you up and down with a pondering pout on his lips, continuing on to ask, "It's the sweatpants, isn't it?"

"Do you have to state the obvious?" you whined.

"What? I just wanna make things clear, so I know what to wear for you," he teased. He shifted closer and smoothed a hand up your thigh. "I'll wear more for you."

If he felt the goosebumps on your skin, he didn't comment on them.

"You say it like it's lingerie," you quipped, recalling what Lisa said a few days ago. You're saying anything to distract yourself right now, but you crumbled easily whenever he touched you. And he knew it well, especially when his hand moved dangerously close to your pyjama shorts. You're not even sure if you were breathing.

"If it's gotten you like this, then I'd say it pretty much is."

He moved on to say, "I like it when you look at me like that."

Your expression was frozen. "Like what?"

San's eyes changed ever so slightly, his hand finally slipping between your squeezed thighs.

"Like you really want me."

Your thighs parted for him. "I…I do," you murmured.

"Oh, really? Where do you want me?"

"Where else?"

"I asked you first."

You made a quiet huff from your nose, looking down at his hand that's aching to pull your shorts down. "Inside"—you hesitated—"inside me. I-I would like it if we had sex…please?"

His lustful gaze turned softer, eyebrows raised high at your interesting way of words. While you, on the other hand, visibly grimaced. San found your eyes shutting tight and your nose scrunching up all too adorable, and without a doubt, he would've bitten your cheeks if he could.

With a chuffed smile, he hooked his fingers at the waistbands of your shorts and underwear, waiting for you to lift your hips. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's have the sex now."

You sulked at his incessant teasing, knowing well enough that he was purposefully expressing his words awkwardly. He laughed and assured you he would stop there, before grabbing your now half-naked body by the hips and having you straddle him. His fleece sweatpants were rough from the continuous use, giving you some nice sense of friction on your sensitive nub.

But above all that, you could feel the presence of his cock hiding beneath his pants, your pussy lips spreading the slightest on his erection. Your breath hitched as his hands made their way under your sweater, then your shirt; reposed comfortably at your hips as if they made home there. The pads of his fingers kneaded your skin as he looked up at you with expectant eyes.

"C'mon, get yourself off for me."

You waited with bated breath for nothing in particular—you'd just been momentarily distracted by his intense stare. Nodding too many times in the span of a second, you began to move your hips under the guide of his hands.

"Oh…"

There was a minor ache in your hips when he dug his fingers deeper in your skin, but you were too focused on the soft chafing of the fabric against your clit. It was getting you in the right place; so rough.

"Are you doing okay, Baby?"

You released an unstable sigh. "Y-Yeah."

He eyed the way your skin slightly folded with every move you made on his clothed cock, teeth pulling at his bottom lip. Your motions grew faster and more impatient as you yearned for his mouth against yours, falling forward before your lips touched his.

He pushed you down each time he pulled you forward, earning growingly unsteady breaths from you into his mouth. You nearly choked when he bucked his hips upward, soft moans having no chance to escape when each were engulfed by his lips. You continued to do nothing but mindlessly grind your clit on him, humping his clothed cock like you were in desperate heat.

You didn't have the mind to warn him at this moment, unable to hear anything but your own moans until you were reaching your impending climax. And soon with trembling thighs, you came. Your skin grew rampant with shivers while your mind went elsewhere for the bite of a second.

San finally spared some mercy, separating from you with a thin string of spit connecting your lips before he's splitting it with a lick from his tongue. Stealing a glance at the dark spot you left on his pants, he served you a lustful, lopsided smile.

"This is what you'll get if you're just a little more honest with me," he chuckled.

Your ears grew hot at the sight of your arousal leaving its mark, adjusting yourself with your hands on the backrest behind him. You waited a few beats to gather your words before you muttered, "Well…can I be honest with you right now?"

"Of course."

San waited with patient eyes, his stare nearly melting you into goo while he thumbed your skin again.

"I'd like to have the sex—with your penis inside me…please."

He didn't try at all to suppress amusement at how you'd poked fun at yourself, hearty laughter producing from the pit of his belly. The dimples in his cheeks emerged from hiding as he grinned and nodded while pushing his waistband down, just enough for his cock to free itself. When his laughter had settled, he pressed a peck on the tip of your nose.

"Whenever you're ready."

You grabbed the base of his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance, pausing for a moment until you began to slowly but surely, sink entirely down his length. The stretch always started as an odd pressure between your walls, but once they'd completely swallowed his dick whole, it always left you wanting more. It's a feeling you don't think you could ever give justice to, if you were ever asked to describe it. He was just so right for you.

Your body gave into him as he pulled you flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist like a tightened belt. His hushed groans were made only for you, and hearing them continuously by your ear sent shivers down your spine.

"So warm," he muttered under his breath. He slid his bum further down the couch with you in his grasp and spread his legs wider. And when he was sure of the angle, he rolled his hips to meet yours, finding a steady pace with the most agonizingly unyielding thrusts. With every slam of his hips, your moans rendered into off-key whimpers as you melted under his guidance.

It felt like you were experiencing the hottest temperatures of the summer; your cheeks were burning and at moments, you felt like pushing away just from the sheer heat of your bodies entangled together.

A cuss left your boyfriend's lips when you gnawed on his shoulder, the salty tang of sweat grazing your tongue. And as if he wasn't holding onto you tightly already, he pulled you even closer as his cock rammed relentlessly, his rhythm growing sloppy when he began reaching his peak.

Your back felt like it'd been bent beyond repair as his cum coated your walls, the familiar twitching of his cock presented inside you. But he didn't stop there, he wouldn't until you came as well. And with his jaw clenched, he fucked into you like you were his toy, white rings of his own orgasm spilling with every move and making way to stain his pants.

"C'mon, Baby," he grunted. "Cum, f-fuck—cum, fucking c-cum…"

And in a few more thrusts, all you saw were specks of white among darkness. Your pussy spared no consideration on his sensitive cock and clenched as you trembled, the string of swears leaving his lips going deaf on your ears. Your limbs fell limp to pure exhaustion, despite how much you wanted to just wrap them around him like you were a koala and he was the tree. You wanted to mark your kisses all over his face but not even your lips were functioning right now as you barely managed to muster out a "thank you".

It was clear that it took a moment for San to register what you'd said, before he let out a breathy laugh. Not because he found something funny, it was just one of those laughs you got when you felt so euphoric—like getting your balls drained until you were a moaning mess; that kind of euphoric.

He kissed the top of your head, looking ahead at the TV where Buffy was still slaying vampires as usual. His dick stayed inside you, soft and relaxed in your warmth, neither of you in any rush to clean up.

"Mm…remind me to buy more of these sweats."

#ateez smut #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez drabbles #ateez imagines #choi san smut #ateez san smut #san smut #kpop smut

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comfortless · 2 months

Text

Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other

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rebelliousstories · 6 days

Text

Peachy

Relationship: Cooper “The Ghoul” Howard x Reader

Fandom: Fallout

Request: No

Warnings: Strong Language, Brief Violence, Suggestive Themes

Word Count: 1,785

Main Masterlist: Here

Fallout Masterlist: Here

Summary: Lucy gets a front row seat to the strange happenings in the Wasteland.

It should be a crime for the day to be this hot. With the sun beating down, it felt like she was going to die rather imminently. But that Ghoul behind her back kept marching her forward whenever she tried to drop. It was not until they made it to some abandoned, two-story building, that the duo was finally able to be granted a moment’s reprieve.

“Sit down Vaultie.” The Ghoul demanded, leading the woman to sit against the worn out walls and dimpled stone. The cool rock felt blessed beneath her body. Even through her Vault-Tech suit insulated her against a lot of the extreme weather, enough was able to slip through for her to begin to cool down.

“That’s a girl. Stayin’ the night here, but I wouldn’ go wanderin’ after dark. A lotta things worse than a ghoul round here.” He spoke once more, starting to gather carve himself a little spot where he could rest.

“Where are we?” Lucy finally asked, voice rasped with dehydration and exhaustion. However, the man did not answer. He simply stretched out his long limbs, and placed his hat over his eyes in an attempt to get some sleep.

“Where are we?” She pleaded once more, to which the Ghoul was not sympathetic to.

“Hey!” Yelling now, the Ghoul picked his hat up from his eyes and set it back on his head while looking at the girl he held.

“Now, am I gonna have to cut out that tongue in order to get some peace and quiet?” Lucy was taken aback, and could not quite tell if he was joking or not. Taking his moment of silence, the man swept his hat over his eyes once more; but it did not last long. The clattering of something nearby caught the attention of the vault dweller, and surface dweller. With a heaving groan, the Ghoul stood back up, placed his hat on his head, and looked around. Lucy also tried to look, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary for the surface.

“Thou shalt get sidetracked by bullshit every goddamn time.” He muttered under his breath. Spurs clicked as he walked around and took inventory. But the clattering of a can behind him made the Ghoul pull his pistol and aim. There was nothing behind him, though. Lucy watched intently as the man surveyed his surroundings, and was just a beat too late to warn him about the shadowy figure to his back.

“Behind you!” The Ghoul did not have time to fire off a round. The figure jumped on his back, and locked on. He tried to swivel the creature off, but to no avail. Dropping to a knee, the Ghoul threw his assailant off of hm and on to the ground below. Whoever it was, they were fast. Reaching a leg up, the person managed to get him in a headlock with their legs, and rolled them around until they emerged on top. Pinning his hands down with both of theirs, the attacker shimmied out of the mask covering the bottom half of their face. It was a woman; a really pretty one at that.

“Hiya, Coop.” She teased, switching to a one handed hold on his wrists to snatch his hat off of his head. The piece of clothing was set upon her own head as a lazy smirk was pulled from his face.

“Well, if it ain’t my darling little peach.” He drawled. Once her other hand came down to rest on his wrists again, he switched their placements in the blink of an eye. Now, both of her wrists were in one of his, while his other came to rest behind her head. Cooper bucked the young woman up and off, spinning them around to pin her t the floor.

“Careful with that tone, Ghoul. Someone might think you missed me.” Once again, she was teasing. She spread her legs a little wider to accommodate him, and trailed one of them up to rest along his back. In turn, Cooper leaned down to get right up close to her face.

“Aww, we wouldn’t want that. Now would we, peaches?” A wicked smile decorated his face that she mirrored, and it seemed they were both trapped in their own little world for a time.

“How can you like him like that?” A high, feminine voice broke them free of their trance. Both Wastelanders looked over to the vault dweller with a mix of annoyance, confusion, and upset over being interrupted.

“Hope you’re not thinking of replacing me with that.” The woman, still pinned underneath the Ghoul, spoke. Her words did not sound as harsh as they should have; perhaps it was the smile that still plagued the woman’s face that offered her a softer edge that the usual surface dwellers Lucy had met thus far.

“Believe me, peach. Ain’t nothin’ able to replace you.” Cooper groaned out, letting the woman come to to sit and observe the woman before them.

“Ooo. You got yourself a Vaultie? You know how much they go for?” The woman asked, watching Lucy’s eyes widen in shock and horror. As much as she wanted to keep it going, the woman began laughing as she saw the expression on the vault dweller’s face.

“Nah, ‘m just messing with you. I ain’t got no clue how much y’all are worth. Probably a lot though. Whatcha doin’ travelin’ with this bag o’ bones?” Being friendly was confusing yet refreshing to Lucy, even as the mysterious woman remained tangled up in Cooper’s arms.

“Oh,” Lucy perked up, “well, I’m looking for my father. It’s a really long story but you are by far the nicest person I have met on the surface. My name is Lucy, and you are?” She rattled off, unable to contain her nerves or speech.

“Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve used my real name, I’ve nearly forgotten it. He calls me peach or some variation of it so-” squeaking out, the woman turned to see that Cooper had pinched her side hard in a warning.

“Okay. Not allowed to call me that then.” She supplied her real name afterwards, and saw the vault dweller before her visibly relax.

“Now that that’s out of the way, I bring gifts.” Untangling herself from the Ghoul, she made her way to where her bag was dropped. Lucy guessed that was what they heard falling before the ‘fight’ broke out. She pulled out a few cans of food, presumably, and tossed them to Cooper, however one of the cans was tossed towards Lucy. Reading the front of the label, she took not that it was a Vault-Tech brand of pie filling.

“Sugar, you shouldn’t have.” Cooper drawled, gratefully taking the jerky and chems that were provided.

“Well, figured you’d want a little gift for all your troubles.” Effortlessly, she just kept emptying her bags. Right when you think she is done, she would pull out more from the same place. It was, honestly, a wonder.

“One last thing. Just for us tonight.” Holding a can in her hands, she pulled a knife from her belt to begin cracking it open. The label was long since gone from it, but that didn’t stop them from eagerly tearing into it. Once she was close enough, she sat down and allowed Cooper to take it from her hands. He finished the job of getting the lid off of the can, and let delight take over his scarred features.

“Now, where’d you find this, peach?” He asked, letting her tuck herself under his arm to get closer.

“Trader I went to had a whole shipment of them Georgia. Well, what’s left of it. Anyways, you should be thankful I managed to get some. That one can cost me two hundred and fifty caps.” While his eyes did not bug out of his skull, his brow area did raise considerably when he heard the price.

“Careful, peach. Someone might think you like me.” Cooper stabbed a thick, juicy slice and brought it up to the woman’s lips to let her take a bite off, before bringing the other half of the slice to his own lips. A sinful groan was released from the both of them as they allowed the sugary sweet fruit to explode. It was a taste that Cooper was not sure if he would ever taste again after the bombs destroyed the world as he knew it.

“Is that peach? Is that what it’s supposed to taste like?” She asked, hoping sh had gotten it right. The Ghoul stabbed yet another slice and repeated the process from before as he watched the woman intensely.

“Yep. That is the sweet taste of peach, alright.” With how he was staring at her, the woman was not sure that he was talking about the fruit anymore. They continued to swap the fruit back and forth as they finished the can. When it got down to the juices, she pushed the can closer to him, encouraging him to take the drink. And he did; but that was not the end of it. As he drank down the last gulp of juices from the can, Cooper grabbed her chin, pressed his lips to hers, and pushed some of the liquid into her mouth instead. She chased the taste on his lips once she had taken her drink, and let herself get lost in the moment. He pawed at the layers covering her body, but the sound of Lucy finishing her can brought them out.

“I don’t feel like having an audience tonight, cowpoke.” She whispered, breathless, against his face. The hat was still set atop her head, and it was not going to be leaving anytime soon. A yawn tore through the woman in his arms, before being caught by Lucy against the stone.

“Really startin’ to get pissed at this Vaultie, peaches.” He whispered back, pressing another kiss to her lips, before returning to their previous position.

“Get some shut eye. We leave at day break.” Cooper said with a definitive tone, leaning his head back against the wall in an effort to sleep. The woman below him cuddled herself into his chest and drifted off to sleep without a worry of being attacked in her sleep. Lucy was the last one to close her eyes, but not the last one to fall asleep. Her mind raced with questions she wished she could ask, but thought better of not asking. Hoping that the mystery woman was there in the morning, the vault dweller and surface dwellers found themselves in the land of dreams before long, hoping and trying to survive till the next sunset.

#rebelliousstories #writing #fallout imagine #fallout #the ghoul fallout #cooper the ghoul howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #cooper howard imagine #the ghoul imagine #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul

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slttygeto · 7 months

Text

"IT'S A BLUE WORLD WITHOUT YOU" -- GOJO. S

c.w: heavy manga spoilers, heavy content mentioned towards the end (su!cide), wrote this with fem! reader on mind.

word count: 2k.

note: this is how I cope.

You are fifteen and you think Satoru is annoying.

You like rainy days. You like the feeling of comfort that comes with hearing the sound of rain hit the ground, the smell of soil and winter approaching and everyone pulling out their colored umbrellas to shield themselves from getting what. You love the rain, but you learn that someone doesn’t.

The door to the classroom slides open and you see a new figure standing by the door, looking extremely pissed. You share a look with your classmate, Shoko before Yaga steps from behind the new student and clears his throat.

“Girls, we have a new student-“

“I hate the rain.” The white haired boy interrupts your teacher and you furrow your eyebrows. Did he not know anything about respecting his elders? But before you could even think of possibly pointing it out to Shoko, Yaga’s hand collides with the back of the boy’s head and a loud smack echoes in the classroom. You watch the scene unfold with wide eyes.

“I was talking,” Yaga presses and the white haired male rubs the back of his head with a whine.

“That hurt!”

“Good. Anyway, this piece of shit is Gojo Satoru. He will be a student here with you. That’s Shoko,” Yaga points at the girl before moving his pointer towards you.

“And that’s (Name). Sit between them or next to one of them, it’s up to you.”

Gojo’s eyes flicker between you and Shoko for a good second before deciding to put his desk next to you and you raise your eyebrow.

“What?” He asks and you finally notice that he has sunglasses on during cold weather.

“I like to sit next to the window.”

“Well, he told me to choose.” He says before looking outside of the window, turning his back towards you.

“You don’t like the rain,” you add. “But I do, and I wanna sit next to the window when it rains.”

“You like the rain?” He sounds offended but you don’t falter and simply nod.

“Very much.” You hear him sigh before moving his seat back a little, swaying back and forth.

“Okay, let’s change seats.”

“That easily?” You raise an eyebrow and you can tell that he’s glaring at you behind his glasses.

“Just take the seat.”

Shoko watches the interaction with careful eyes but doesn’t say anything. When she turns to face the board, she notices Yaga staring at the two of you with something she couldn’t quite understand at the time, but she remains quiet nonetheless.

But then you turn seventeen, and you still think Gojo is just as annoying—idiotic, even.

You know you shouldn’t make him feel worse than he already feels, but Suguru was a dear friend of yours and the fact that Satoru couldn’t make him stay—despite it not being his responsibility made you feel like shit. So you storm to his room, you bang at the door and open it before he can even get out of his bed.

“You’re an idiot.” Satoru’s never seen you this heartbroken, but his eyes are puffy too and you should’ve stopped—you should’ve just left his room, but you didn’t. “You’re an idiot, you’re a horrible person!” And the louder you got, the closer Gojo stepped towards you.

“You think I don’t know that?!” Your heart stills at the loudness of his voice. “You think I am not aware of how badly I fucked up? You think I don’t know what was expected of me? I do! But I fucked up, and there’s nothing me-the strongest can do about it!”

And by the time tears are falling down his cheeks, you are holding his face and bringing him closer to you—hugging him the same way he’s been craving for years. You hold Gojo Satoru like the most fragile worn out cup in your pantry, you stroke his hair and let him cry on your shoulder as you wet his shirt too. For the first time in a while, you both feel like kids and you don’t realize the weight of what you both went through with Suguru leaving the school.

By the time you turn 26, Megumi has gotten used to your presence around the house. He doesn’t know whether or not you and Satoru are a thing, you never call each other ‘babe’ or endearing terms, and he knows just how shameless the white haired male can be, so embarrassment wasn’t something that could ever hold him back from referring to you as his partner. But he doesn’t, and neither do you.

You sleep in the same room, on the same bed. There have been nights where you and Satoru would simply cuddle on the couch and not exchange a single word, the comfortable silence engulfing the both of you when Megumi walks downstairs to the scene makes him raise an eyebrow before blurting out a single sentence.

“What are you two?” You look up from your book and Satoru groans a little because he was far behind in the page you were reading compared to you, but he looks at the boy you both took in after the tragedy that happened with Megumi’s father and gives him a look.

“And how does it matter to you?”

“It’s just… weird.” Megumi confesses and you give him an apologetic smile.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” The softness of your voice with him has always been the boy’s favorite thing, a reminder that a motherly figure that cares deeply for him does exist.

“No, but I just wish you made it official.”

His words hit you hard, and you try to pretend like it didn’t distract you from the book you were reading. Megumi goes back to his room and you are left with Satoru who seems to be adamant on getting you to notice him, or tell him off as he breathed hard against the back of your neck.

“Anything on your mind, Satoru?” you finally broke the silence and you shudder when you feel him press his lips against your nape.

“Don’t you wanna think about what he just said?”

And as honest as you can get, you simply reply. “No. I like it this way. Don’t you?”

Satoru is quiet. He presses a kiss to your skin and whispers against it. “Would love to call you mine one day.”

“I’m already yours.”

“Then let me say it,” Satoru makes you sit up and leave the warmth of his embrace. He turns your face around to look at him and speaks more firmly. “Let me call you mine.”

You’ve known Satoru for so long, but never has he made you feel so small and so intimidated. You are barely able to look him in the eye, flushed cheeks and trembling lips giving away the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Satoru…”

“Are you mine?” He whispers and his hand grabs your face in a way that has your breath catching in your throat.

“I am yours.” You whisper back, voice so small and body leaning towards his.

“Yeah,” he breathes out and his eyes trail down to your wet lips. “You’re mine.”

The night is long after that and you remember having to skip work the next day, with Gojo giving the kids a lame excuse as to why you didn’t wake up early to make them breakfast like you usually do.

“She caught a cold,” Satoru makes his way out of the house when he makes sure both Tsumiki and Megumi are in the car and the latter gives him a look.

“She was fine yesterday.”

“Yeah, I was surprised too.” The grin that Gojo flashes his spiky haired son is too cocky for the boy’s liking. You wake up an hour later with pain killers, breakfast and a note on your nightstand.

--I’ll be back after I drop the kids. I miss you already. I really enjoy calling you mine<3

You both are twenty seven when Satoru has to fight Suguru one last time. You hold your breath as your approach the duo having what you supposed was their last conversation, and with teary eyes, you step from behind the strongest to glance at the almost lifeless body of your once very close friend.

“Suguru,” you try not to let it show on your face, but you are broken. You don’t feel betrayed by him, you never did and it was something that Satoru chose to ignore since he felt all sorts of emotions when it came to his best friend’s abrupt decision a decade ago.

“Oh, you’re here,” the relief in Suguru’s voice makes your shoulders shake and your lip trembles in a sad attempt not to cry.

“When I asked to meet up all those years ago,” Suguru continues with half a smile. “You didn’t show up.”

“I refused to believe anything being said about you.” You confess. “Which is a bit insulting to you because you took it so seriously but…” You trail off, eyes lingering on the bruised body of your friend. “It just hurt. Knowing that I was there, but didn’t do anything about it.”

Suguru tells you that he doesn’t regret anything, how he simply couldn’t be happy in such a cruel world. Satoru tells you not to take a step closer, but you see his teary eyes and you hold the cold body of Suguru as tight as you can. The empty and quiet alleyway is filled with pathetic sobs and hushed comforting words.

You never heal from the incident that happened on December 24th, 2017.

You are now twenty eight and being brought up to the room where Gojo was. After being let out of Kenjaku’s prisom realm, you rush to your boyfriend’s side and slam the door open. There he was, sitting on the bed looking a bit too relaxed.

“Satoru,” you breathe out, tears brimming the corner of your eyes and said man opens his arms in an attempt to catch you when you throw yourself at him.

“Easy there,” he whispers against your hair but you tighten your hold around him and cry on his shoulder. “You really had no faith in me?” He tries to lighten up the mood, but when you pull away and have such a serious look on your face, he almost deflates and lets himself be vulnerable with you.

Almost.

“You were distracted,” you say and grip his shoulders.

“Won’t happen again.” He reassures you and leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Nothing can happen to me,” he continues. “I am the strongest after all.”

The sentence has a bitter taste to it now as you sit front row, watching the last few moments of his fight with Sukuna unfold.

Your seat is pushed back as you stand up abruptly. You wanna cheer when it is announced that Gojo has won, finally won—but you can’t. Your voice is lost, you’re not sure how, but your tongue feels numb and your heartbeat is loud. You feel your stomach churning at the sight.

Satoru spits out blood, and Sukuna has a smug look on his face as he watches the upper half of his opponent’s body detach and fall to the ground with a loud thud. And then it’s quiet.

No one dares to say a word, no one dares to move.

It was over, and Gojo broke the one promise he kept to both you and the students.

“I’ll win.” His lifeless body said otherwise. You can’t find it in you to think of anything—anyone but Shoko.

“Do something!” You scream out to her and the woman flinches at the loudness of your voice. Never has she seen you in so much distress. “Do something, make yourself useful—save him, he’s right there!”

“(Name)-“

“I don’t want to hear it… I don’t-“ you glance towards his body once again and your hands are tangled in your own hair.

“You can’t leave me Satoru,” you wish no one could hear you, but you see Yuuji’s body flinch from the corner of your eyes. “You know I won’t stay if you leave.”

2023 ; all works belong to @ slttygeto. do not repost my works on any other platofrm.

#moon's works #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru headcanons #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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zorobraun · 9 months

Text

ex husband ghost at your kiddo’s football game part three

you want to die.

simon wants to die as well.

you both regret the night that theo told him about your wedding.

it’s been weeks. it’s been weeks that the two of you have been fighting over the stupidest things. the weather is cold and you sent theo to simon’s house without a sweatshirt? fight. simon brought theo back to your house ten minutes late? fight. you sneezed too loud in front of him? fight. simon rolled his eyes with something you said in front of you? fight. you’re both putting each other through hell. however, you’d rather have a stressful life with him, than live a peaceful life without him. you’d rather scream, fight, curse his name, than feel that excruciating distance between the two of you.

you’re both too worn out, though. you both know that one of you have to give in, let your guards down. you know he won’t do it. and that’s exactly why you’re standing in his doorstep, waiting for him to open the door. theo is at football practice, it’s already dark outside. it’s cold, just like simon’s gaze when he opens the door and stares at you. silence. silence. silence. “what are you doing here? theo is at football practice.” he says in a low, but secretly surprised tone. “i know my son’s schedule, thank you.” you reply in an annoyed one. simon sighs, gripping the door tightly with one hand, while the other runs through his hair. “it seems that you also know my schedule, since you’re bothering me during my day off of work.” he bites back mockingly, face serious.

“stop this madness, simon. i can’t take this anymore. we both can’t. we’re destroying each other, we both look like shit, look at us.” you point at yourself then at him. in his eyes, you look beautiful still. “we look exhausted. dark circles under our eyes, empty gaze, you’re still hitting the gym but i can tell you’re not eating enough. you’re too lean. i am too. so let’s just… stop.” you swallow hard, sighing. you look at the ground for a second, making simon lock his jaw, thinking about your statement. you’re right. but at the same time, he has this need to watch you tolerate it. just like he has been tolerating the fact that you’re marrying an idiot in three weeks.

“just tell me why you’re here, and i won’t put up another fight with you.” simon looks into your eyes. you know his eyes so well… you know they’re begging you to just say that you’re sorry for everything, and that you want him to take you back. that you regret replacing him. the funny thing is: you are sorry for everything. you want him to take you back. you regret replacing him. “i… i’m here because… i can’t hold back these words anymore. they’ve been stuck in my throat for so long now…” you swallow hard, your desperate voice matching his desperate eyes. simon keeps looking at you, analyzing your every move, your beautiful necklace — the one that he gave you in your last birthday, when the two of you were still together.

oh, simon knows you miss him. you miss his fingertips brushing over the back of your neck when he used to put this same necklace on you. he knows it. there’s no way you don’t miss him. he keeps repeating this thought over and over again, as if he’s trying to convince himself that he’s right. simon licks his lips, feeling out of his mind. “what are you waiting for? speak up.” he breaks the awkward silence with a surprisingly calm tone. you’re both looking into each other’s eyes, and the eye contact hurts. it hurts, until you look away from him to stare at the ground. you swallow hard, your hands shaking a bit. simon wants to put his fake hatred for you aside and just hug you tightly, to break your hesitation in tiny little pieces.

then, you look up at him to meet his eyes. you lick your lips nervously, placing your hand on the back of his neck. you kiss him. and nothing could’ve ever prepared simon to this unexpected kiss. he grabs your arm with his gentle touch, pulling away from you after a second or two, even though he was reluctant about it. he opens his eyes, his shallow breathing making little noise. simon clears his throat, jaw clenching from anxiety. “don’t.” he whispers, eyes locked with yours. god, he missed this. he missed the feeling of your soft, warm lips against his. he missed your sweet taste. your cheeks get red from embarrassment. what were you thinking, anyway? that he would kiss you back after everything that happened? you sigh heavily, shaking your head.

“i…” simon cuts you off with a kiss. you widen your eyes at first, getting caught off guard. he pulls you close by the hips, kissing you so slowly but so passionately. you kiss him back with the same affection. you kiss him back until you’re both breathless against each other’s lips. simon breaks the kiss to lean his forehead against yours, eyes closed, heavy breathing. “i broke up with him.” you break the silence, your voice is low and a bit breathy. simon pulls slightly away from you to make sure he heard it right, since your kiss got him too lightheaded. he’s looking into your eyes to find any hint of joke or lie. but you just keep looking at him with lovesick eyes, and suddenly he hates to love you so fucking much.

“how long have you been single?” simon asks in a serious tone, pretending to be nonchalant. his hand leaving your waist so he can focus on this conversation instead of your curves. “a month.” you sigh quietly, crossing your arms. he frowns slightly, making you look at the ground. “what? why didn’t you say a word?” simon’s tone is a but frustrated now. you look at him with a sad smile. you touch his arm. “c-can i come in?” you ask, squeezing his arm gently. he swallows hard, taking a step back to give you space to come in. he closes the door, leaning his back against it with crossed arms, waiting for you to start talking about something. anything. maybe an explanation. you turn your back to face him, standing in front of him, from a small distance. you swallow hard.

“i didn’t say a word because i didn’t want you to think that i broke up with him just because you said all of those things to me. i didn’t want you to feel guilty about it, because i know you would. you’re too kind-hearted.” you sigh with a sad smile, staring right into his eyes. simon clenches his jaw, his breathing growing a bit erratic. “i broke up with him because our relationship was a lie, and i was the liar.” you add, feeling a bit uncomfortable to say it out loud. truth really hurts. simon doesn’t move, feeling a bit nervous about this subject as well. something tells him that this conversation is about to get worse.

simon is staring at you as if he’s waiting for you to keep talking, since he vowed to not beg for your love anymore. you lick your lips nervously. “the reason why i asked for a divorce…” you start, making him swallow hard with the delicate topic. “was because i loved you way too much.” you look into his eyes before looking down to search for some courage. simon sighs impatiently with your unserious statement. “wait, simon. i’ll elaborate.” you say in a defensive tone, taking a step closer to him.

“remember when my mom died, right? so, when my mom died, i died too. i couldn’t see mysef getting over her death. meanwhile, we were also having a hard time in our marriage because i was so fucking depressed, we were fighting too much, i was treating you like shit, i wasn’t being a good mother to theo… i was just making the two of you suffer, basically.” you start tearing up, making simon let his guard down, too. you can feel his heart softening again. and it gives you strength, somehow. “and i’m so fucking sorry about everything. i… i hated myself for so long.” you admit it, trying to hide the shakiness in your voice. simon is looking at you with so much empathy in his eyes. so much love.

“i know that’s not an excuse, but i was young, immature, i didn’t know how to handle that situation. i was lost, and i felt so done with everything. you knew that, too. regardless of you being by my side always, telling me that it was okay, that we would get through that tough moment together, i felt guilty. i couldn’t accept the fact that i put the person i loved the most through hell during months and months. you did everything and more to help me, but i didn’t want to be helped, because i found comfort in depression, somehow. i didn’t want you to think that all of your efforts didn’t matter, because they did matter. but i was the problem. i was the only one holding me down. so then, i made the worst and hardest decision of my life…” you pause, looking at the ground for a second. “i asked for a divorce because you didn’t deserve to go through all of that. i thought i didn’t deserve you, and i really didn’t, back then.” you look into his eyes, a few tears running down your cheeks as he takes a step closer to you.

simon is speechless when he pulls you into a tight, comforting hug. he’s tearing up because he remembers everything — he remembers how hard it was for both of you. even for theo, regardless of simon’s efforts to separate his son of the marriage’s mess. it’s fair to say that he tried his best to be strong for his family, specially for you. “love, you can’t just carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and think that it’s okay.” simon mutters, stroking your back gently. “you shouldn’t have felt guilty for anything, there’s nothing i wouldn’t do for you, anyway.” he says in a low tone, placing a kiss on your forehead. he stares at you, holding your face on his hands. “why didn’t you say anything? you’ve kept it all to yourself all along, angel…” simon smiles sadly, in disbelief. “you’re stronger than you think, but you’re also an idiot.” he adds with a soft chuckle, kissing your nose. you chuckle quietly, too.

“it was so hard for me to open up about it… the last thing i wanted was to make you feel like you or your self-sacrifices weren’t enough. god knows i wouldn’t even be alive today if it wasn’t for you and theo.” you sob quietly, your tears wetting simon’s hands. he pulls you into another tight hug. “you gave me the two greatest gifts of my entire life, simon… our son and an opportunity to love you.” you place a sweet, grateful kiss on his neck. simon’s heart feels like it’s about to burst with your words. “your love keeps me gentle. your love listens with patience and empathy. thank you for asking ‘what do you need?’ or ‘how can i help you?’, and saying ‘we’re in this together’ instead of running away. thank you for staying, even when you didn’t have reasons to. i’m so, so sorry for pushing you away, baby.” you add in a low, shaky voice. your arms are still wrapped around his neck as you both feel each other’s heartbeats.

simon smiles softly, stroking your hair. “sweetheart… i will stay when it’s scary, when it’s hard, when we don’t see eye-to-eye. on all our good days and bad days, i’ll choose to love you, always. we’ll learn from each other, just like we always have.” he pulls slightly away from the hug to kiss your tears away. you nod with a soft smile, caressing the back of his neck. “simon, i just need to hear you say that you forgive me. i’m not even asking you to take me back or try to give us a chance of starting over again, even though i could wait for you and respect your time patiently. that is, if you still want me, by any chance. i would never pressure you, if you think it’s too soon…” you sound too desperate, too messy, too in love, and it’s embarrassing.

simon places one reassuring kiss on your lips and one daring kiss on your forehead. he sighs quietly, looking down at you. “i forgive you, even though you did nothing wrong.” simon caresses your cheek with his thumb. you shake your head, chuckling quietly. “and soon?” he holds back a laugh, raising an eyebrow. “do you even know how often i’ve wished to have you near me again?” simon puts a stray of hair behind your ear, staring at you with soft bright eyes. “i still want you in such a desperate way that i could just drive to the church we married and do my vows all over again, with empty seats and without the priest.” he holds your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours. he takes your hand to his lips to place a kiss on the top of it and on your palm. “i love you, idiot. i’m crazy about you, you know that.” simon smirks, grabbing you by the waist to pull you into a gentle kiss.

you don’t really know how to explain it, but kissing simon feels like a breath of fresh air. like something you’ll always need at the end of the day. like warm sweet tea during winter or sunday mornings in bed. you’ve missed this more than you could ever explain. he’s so special to you. “i love you more, but you won’t believe that.” you whisper jokingly against his lips, making him smile before breaking the kiss. he kisses your neck. “of course i won’t. my love for you… just reached neptune. maybe even a little bit further, to be honest.” he mutters playfully next to your ear, placing one last kiss on the soft, warm skin of your neck, breathing you in. “oh, is that so?” you raise an eyebrow, staring at him with a smile. “then… my love for you just exceeded the whole solar system.” you joke back, making him chuckle with a frown.

“since when we’re into astronomy?” simon laughs, realizing just now how random this whole cheesy interaction was. you shrug, laughing too. “all i know is that i’m into you since the day we met.” you wink playfully with a smirk. “you’re lucky i’ve been under your spell for years, otherwise you’d be single by now.” simon teases you with a laugh, picking you up from the floor as you wrap your legs around his waist. you kiss him between smiles and quiet laughs, your arms wrapped around him in a cozy hug, while you lay your face on the crook of his neck, breathing him in. “just so you know… you’ve never stopped being my love, even when i was with him. i’ve always been yours. my heart too.” you say next to his ear, in the same comfortable position. he carries you as if you were weightless.

“you know i feel the same. you’re so precious to me, love.” simon smiles softly before kissing your cheek. “god, ms. riley, i’m sorry if i’m being too forward, but… you’re so gorgeous.” he smirks while he lays you down on his bed, placing both of his hands on each side of your head to stay above you. “such a perfect body…” he glances down your body, biting his lip. “and i’ve missed you so much…” simon whispers next to your ear, kissing the area under it, nibbling on your earlobe. you sigh heavily with the tingling sensation, wrapping one leg around his waist. you kiss and lick his neck, leaving a few love bites on him. simon can’t help but press himself against you, kissing your lips until you’re needy enough to try to kiss him again when he pulls away. “you have fifteen minutes until we leave to pick theo up at his football practice.” you breathe out, staring into his lustful eyes. it sounds like a dare, and he’s not a man to back out.

“you know i only need seven minutes inside, sweetness.” he says in a low, cocky tone. you swallow hard when he leans down to get closer to your face, his lips almost touching yours. “but it’s been so long since the last time i fucked you, that you might be done in five.” simon’s voice is low and breathy, and he has a half smirk on his lips, almost as if he’s mocking you. well, it’s been so long since the last time you had him like this, that you had forgotten how talkative and dirty-mouthed your husband is during sex.

two months later…

you take a deep breath when you finish throwing up for the second time this morning. you frown in pain, placing your hand on your sensitive stomach. you brush your teeth again, staring at yourself in the bathroom’s mirror. you look beautiful and healthy, but your body feels too sore, specially your breasts, you can’t even breathe normally without wanting to throw up. and most importantly, your period is late. you hold back a smile when you realize that you’re pregnant. you’re a mother, so you know your pregnancy symptoms by personal experience. you bought a pregnancy test yesterday, because you were already suspecting it.

you do the test without thinking twice. now you’re waiting patiently for the result. your hands are shaking a bit, you lick your lips nervously. a few more seconds and you see the result: positive. you widen your eyes, smiling like an idiot. you want to scream and shout, but you can’t — you want to surprise simon, since he always dreamt about having more kids with you. your heart is beating so fast, you’re so happy, it’s overwhelming, even. you already know how to surprise him, it’s fair to say that you’ve been wanting this more than your husband. however, the surprise will have to wait until you find out if the baby is a girl or a boy.

you’re too anxious to wait, though, so you look at the result again. it says that you’ve been pregnant for more than three weeks, so it’s possible to know the baby’s sex if you’re at least eight weeks pregnant. you sigh quietly, excited. you’ve just decided that you’re going to the doctor right now, counting on your lucky stars. you also need to talk to theo about the surprise, since it involves flowers and the family’s tradition of buying you flowers every sunday — you never got tired of them, somehow. going to the floriculture at sundays was theo’s favorite hobby when his parents were still together. now that you and simon got back together, theo is more than excited to finally buy you flowers again, today, a warm sunday.

“love, what the fuck are you doing in there? it’s been ten hours.” simon says in a joking tone as he knocks at the bathroom door. you quickly clean the test and hide it on the back of the drawer. you open the door with an innocent smile, staring at a sleepy simon who’s wearing nothing but black sweatpants. “oh my god, you really can’t stay a minute without me, can you?” you tease your husband, crossing your arms against your chest, trying your best to hide the euphoria. simon sighs with a chuckle. “i was just worried. are you okay? you look pale.” he stares at your face with a certain concern, placing a kiss on your temple. he wraps his arms around you, squeezing you gently to his chest, comforting you. the action makes you forget about the sickness for a few minutes.

“i’m okay.” you reply with a soft smile, caressing his arm. all you want to do is kiss him and tell him that he’s going to be a father again, but you need to control yourself. “do you need something? a glass of water, maybe?” he’s still worried about you, gently brushing some hair off your face with his fingers. “no, babe. i need to go to the grocery store, though.” you lie, smiling genuinely at him. simon frowns, chuckling. “okay? out of a sudden?” he keeps laughing quietly, glancing at you. “yes. don’t worry, i’ll be back quickly.” you kiss his cheek before walking towards your wardrobe to start getting ready to go to the doctor. “oh, you’re in a hurry, love.” simon raises an eyebrow, looking at you from afar with an awkward smile on his lips. “do you want me to go with you?” he asks, running his fingers through his hair lazily.

“there’s no need to. i’ll just buy a few things, but thank you. wait for me, okay? we’re going to the floriculture today, theo is driving me crazy about it.” you look at him briefly with a smile. simon nods, smiling back at you. “y-yeah, sure.” he replies, still finding your behavior a bit weird, but it’s fine. you grab your purse and walk towards simon to kiss him goodbye. he kisses you back, smiling softly as he watches you leave the bedroom.

before leaving the house, you go to theo’s bedroom to tell him about the news, alongside with your plan to surprise simon. “mom! congratulations! i-i’m so happy, i’ll take care of her or him, i promise!” theo gives you a surprised smile, hugging you tightly. “i know you will.” you smile, kissing the top of his head. “just don’t tell your father, baby. deal?” you smile at him, stroking his hair. “yes, of course. then i’ll have to choose only pink flowers or blue flowers, right?” theo needs your reassurance, smiling. “exactly, my love. okay, see you later! i’m in a rush, i’m sorry.” you squeeze his hand gently. he nods, excited. you chuckle quietly before leaving the house for good.

(…)

you’re holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in all shades of pink, with a small card on top of it. you and theo can’t seem to stop smiling, and simon notices it — this extreme happiness. he doesn’t say a thing, though. he feels the same, so it’s probably normal. your family is finally back together, he couldn’t ask for anything more. simon’s hand is on your thigh as he drives back home, brushing his thumb against your soft skin. you place your hand above his, squeezing it gently. theo is on the backseat, smiling and daydreaming about his little sister. he’s so happy. it’s almost like he feels complete now, with his other half being generated inside you.

when the three of you get home, you walk towards the table, holding theo’s hand. simon is on his phone as you both look at him with a quiet laugh. “dad, come help us with the flowers. we need to put them on the vase.” theo tries to not sound suspicious as he grins like the happiest person in the world. simon raises an eyebrow with a chuckle. “alright, alright.” he mutters with a soft smile, walking towards the two of you. simon starts taking the flowers out of the bouquet while you and theo puts them in the vase. “what is this?” simon frowns curiously, taking the pink card between his fingers. “what, babe?” you fake confusion, staring at him. theo is already smiling when simon opens the small card.

‘congratulations, girl dad!’

simon’s eyes widen as his mouth opens in surprise. he looks at you, then at theo, then at you again. “shut up, y/n.” he mutters with a shaky voice, still too shocked to move. you start tearing up while you laugh softly, nodding. theo watches his parents in silence, happiness plastered all over his face. simon chuckles in disbelief as the card falls from his fingers. his smile grows bigger as he picks you up in an excited hug, making you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist with a happy chuckle. simon squeezes you against him carefully, just enough to not hurt you. he places sweet kisses all over your face before speaking. “do you have any ideia of how happy i am right now? my heart is about to explode, love. thank you so much for making me the happiest man alive.” simon’s gaze softens with a genuine smile, making you kiss him again.

he stands you up to carry theo. simon hugs his son so tightly that the kid feels like being smashed, making the three of you laugh. “you have a sister now, buddy!” simon chuckles in excitement, kissing theo’s forehead. “i’m so happy, dad. i’ll be her hero!” he replies, hugging simon’s neck again. you wipe your happy tears away to wrap your arms around them both. just like a family hug should be. “that’s right, you’ll look after her and i’ll look after the three of you.” simon smiles softly at him before kissing your temple. you stroke his back gently, kissing theo’s cheek. this is pure happiness. it feels like you’ve been dreaming about this for a long time now.

“the three of you are my purpose.” you say, smiling softly, stroking both of their faces with bright eyes. simon starts tearing up from joy, from the feeling of an enormous sensation of being complete. you feel the same, he can tell by the way you’re crying again, just like the time you discovered about theo’s pregnancy. you always get too emotional and he doesn’t blame you at all. simon laughs softly, stroking your hair to comfort you. “i’m sorry!” you laugh too, fanning yourself to try to stop crying. “it’s just that… i’ve never been happier.” you add in all honesty, taking a deep breath. simon’s heart just melted completely.

he puts theo back on the ground to cup your face and give you a sweet kiss on the lips, to show you how much you and the kids will always be safe and live well under his responsibility. simon strokes your belly gently, before crouching in front of you, with theo by his side. they’re both admiring your belly, even though it’s not that grown yet. “i can’t believe i’ll have the privilege to have a mini you running around the house with theo. our little princess will be so cute, love.” simon looks up at you with an infatuated chuckle, placing a sweet kiss on your belly. you laugh softly, caressing his hair. “now we have a mini simon and a mini me.” you smile wholeheartedly. he grins while standing up, his hand placed on your belly.

“give me a daughter with your delicate beautiful face, your enchanting smile, your dark-bright eyes, your stubborn heart and your even temper…” he smiles, giving you another kiss. you wrap your arm around him to feel him closer to you. “…so that even when we’re gone, the world will find within her all of the reasons why i loved you.” he places a sweet kiss on your shoulder before kissing you quickly again. “everything feels better when shared with you.” simon whispers against your lips, pulling you impossibly closer by the waist. you both smile.

so this is it — you got your happy ending, after all. your heart is completely full. this overwhelming love was meant to be. it was meant to be shared with simon, and simon only. you’re drowning in the purest form of love and happiness and you don’t want to see the surface ever again. with simon, theo and mia by your side, you intend to stay that way.

#call of duty #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley #simon riley angst #simon riley fluff #simon riley smut #simon riley x y/n

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murdrdocs · 2 months

Text

suggestive content; mentioned public sex MDNI w/ LUKE CASTELLAN

thinking about the beginning of summer with luke.

the mist keeps camp half blood's weather decent year around, but the beginning of summer can still be marked by the way shines a little heavier and the lack of wind creating a stuffy feeling. that, and the general euphoria that takes over everyone.

when your clothes stick to your bodies and you're nearing heat exhaustion, there is nothing else to do but sneak away to the water with luke.

following a path frequently taken, the grass worn down by the soles of your beat up sneakers. gossiping and snickering and gasping at stories about your day, usually told about the short moments you hadn't spent together.

sometimes, if you had enough time or patience, you both would be wearing clothes fit for swimming. most times, though, you reach the water and peel of your camp shirt and your shorts to reveal your usual underwear. (if you two only had a short amount of time to relax, luke would usually convince you both to take your underwear off, only so it wouldn't have to take long to dry)

on the occasions where you're at the water to cool off and escape, you and luke will float on your backs and listen to the soothing sounds of nature. there's nothing more relaxing than being alone and weightless without the burden of counselor responsibilities and the nagging of children distracting you.

but there are times where you would make a day out of it. on the weekends, after a tiring capture the flag battle, you would pack clothes and towels and strawberries and take them down to the shoreline.

luke would convince you to let him slather your body in sunscreen (he is suddenly an activist for skin cancer prevention, but his hands lingering on your hips tell another story), and you let him do it only if you can return the favor (you don't bother pretending to care about his skin when you run your hands down his abs).

many kisses are shared. if you have enough energy, you'll lazily make out with each other. you straddle his hips, he has a hand on your face and another on your ass. luke likes to tease in this scenario. he likes to dig his fingers under the elastic of your bottoms, maybe snap the string back onto your skin if you're wearing a bikini. sometimes, he'll go as far as to peel the crotch of your bottoms aside, or lodge one of his thumbs under the cup of your top.

begrudgingly, you end up slapping his hand away with fear that someone (or even something) could catch you. (you both know there will come a day where you let him go all the way)

by the time you leave the shore, you both have new tan lines, saltwater clinging to your skin, and the swapped taste of strawberries on your kiss-swollen lips.

#lukesworld!#celeste writes pjo #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan fluff

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sweetercalypso · 7 months

Text

New Gods ✩ Abby Anderson

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: The first time Abby meets seraphite!reader, she shows her mercy. The second time they meet, reader repays her kindness

Notes: minors dni; fingering and oral (Abby rec.), semi-public sex, afab reader, dom!Abby, mean!Abby, mentions of guns, brief violence, religious references, enemies to lovers

When Abby hears that she’s being put on a patrol headed for the abandoned side of town, she thinks it’s a joke.

Surely this was some form of punishment, or a test of her loyalty to Isaac’s command. Two weeks in an unoccupied base with a batch of new recruits – it has to be a mistake.

It’s not until the transport truck pulls away from the stadium that Abby accepts the reality of the situation, groaning into her hands to hide her indignation.

The only good thing about this patrol, she thinks, is that absolutely nothing can go wrong.

Abby and her entourage of WLF recruits arrive at their assigned base late in the evening, the sun already sinking low behind Seattle’s derelict skyline.

The city is silent beyond the hum of the armored truck rolling to a stop in front of an old office building. Years ago, the area had been a thriving hub of WLF activity, but the threat of Seraphite armies had shifted attention elsewhere, leaving the bases to sit empty and collecting dust.

Abby swallows her complaints as the truck’s engine shuts off, leaving a jarring silence that prompts her fellow gunmen to turn their collective attention towards her.

Her expertise is better suited to combat than to training, and the thought of being in charge of four wide-eyed rookies makes her question the sanity of whoever put this team together.

She briefly explains the patrol assignment before dolling out tasks to each of the recruits, leaving herself the duty of surveying the perimeter.

Early WLF soldiers had cleared most of the infected while the area was still active, and with the lack of excitement in the streets, Abby returns to the base with the verdict that this patrol will be entirely uneventful.

While the others are setting up camp on the second floor – five cots lined against a wall with a radio station by the windows and supply crates littered around the room – Abby keeps herself busy with watching the thick, heavy clouds rolling in the distance.

She imagines what she might be doing if she had been placed on a different patrol and she crosses her arms over her chest with a bitter sigh.

Anything has to be more exciting than this.

–

Abby awakens while the sky is still dark, the remaining light of dusk swallowed by the inky black threat of storm clouds overhead.

Thunder cracks viciously in the air, rumbling the dusty room and promising to crumble the building’s frame already bowing under years of neglect.

The sound of her distress is barely audible over the harsh rain beating against the windows and, for a moment, Abby can’t remember where she is.

Her mouth feels dry, and it takes an effort to slow her labored breaths. She runs a hand over her face, wiping away her momentary confusion before checking that the other patrollers are still asleep, slipping off her cot and stumbling blindly through the darkened room.

Her weapons and her pack are still resting against a nearby crate, exactly where she’d left them. She slips the strap of her backpack between her fingers, hoping that the familiar worn canvas will distract from the deafening thunder crackling in her ears.

She holds her breath and counts the seconds between the streaks of lightning and claps of thunder – a trick her dad had taught her when she was young.

Somewhere between flash and bang, the sound of footsteps overhead catches Abby’s attention. Her head jerks up towards the source of the noise and she quickly forgets about the looming urgency of bad weather.

The door to the stairwell is propped open, and although Abby knows it was left ajar to air out the stuffy office space, she can’t help but imagine something sinister looming beyond the doorway.

She grabs the closest gun and makes her way to the stairs, listening for the sounds of movement overhead.

All the floors had been checked for infected and all the windows had been secured, but Abby still couldn’t shake the thought of someone invading their base in the dead of night.

She treads up the stairs and pushes the door open, only to be met with the sight of a lonely silhouette moving through the darkness. Abby jumps into action just as she’d been taught, heart thumping wildly as she raises her weapon and aims.

“Get on the ground – now!”

She spits out the stern command, harsh but still quiet enough that it barely fills the room. Despite the anger twisting in her chest, she’s rational enough to know better than to alert the other patrollers sleeping downstairs.

From the looks of it, the intruder was here alone, unarmed. It seemed better to deal with the situation on her own than to cause unwarranted panic the first night in to a new assignment.

The sound of her voice must’ve caught you by surprise because you stop dead in your tracks, not even moving to lunge for cover from the stranger gunning you down.

Illuminated by only the sharp flashes of lightning cutting through the shadows, it takes a moment for Abby to piece together the scene before her.

You’re soaked to the bone, cloaked in brown cloth and shivering from the rain clinging to your skin.

At first, she thought you might’ve been a soldier from another patrol, separated from your group and seeking shelter in an expectedly empty outpost. Or maybe you could’ve been a straggler roaming the city in search of supplies left behind by its former inhabitants.

But when a crack of lightning catches your features at the right angle, Abby recognizes the mark stretching across your cheek, and realization washes over her.

“Fucking Scars.”

She keeps her gun steady, though her fingers flex against the heavy, steel grip.

With eyes trained diligently on your figure, she closes the distance between the two of you in a few short steps, scowling when she’s close enough to discern the look of confusion on your face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, shoving the muzzle of her gun roughly into your shoulder and spitting out a sharp “answer me”.

Her boot hits the back of your leg and you crumble into the floor with swallowed discontent.

“I’m not- I didn’t know you would be here.” You scramble to explain yourself, chancing a look at Abby standing behind you. She pushes her gun further into your shoulder, silently instructing your gaze back to the floor.

“This building’s supposed to be empty. It says so on the map.”

“You’re spying on our bases?” Her voice rises with every word, no longer concerned with who might hear. “Planning a fucking ambush?”

“No! Nothing like that. I’m not a soldier, I was supposed to collect supplies from the city, but I got caught in the rain.”

She laughs and rolls her shoulders reflexively.

“I don’t care why you’re here – Scars don’t get second chances.”

Thunder rattles the thin-paned windows lining the room. Abby’s heartbeat fills her ears. Prayer tumbles from your lips like the nervous chatter of teeth – uneasy, repetitive, instinctive.

Abby had never given much thought to prayer before, especially not that of a Scar. It’s always the same routine pleading that’ll never be answered. But it doesn’t sound like you’re begging for salvation, it sounds like you’re making peace.

Something about the situation doesn’t seem fair. You’re completely helpless, caught in a trap you couldn’t see laid out in front of you. Your people must’ve known something like this could happen, yet they sent you into the wolves’ den, anyway – a sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter.

A foreign pang of uncertainty resonates through Abby’s chest, and she lowers her gun with a shake of her head.

“Just- just go.”

A beat passes before you look back at Abby in disbelief. You gape blankly at her for a moment before mouthing a small “what?”.

She huffs impatiently and grabs you by the arm, hauling you up from your position on the floor. If anyone came in and found the two of you standing this close, you’d both be dead before you could part.

“Leave. Now. If the others find you here, they won’t be so nice.”

Her eyes flit over your face, searching for confirmation that she was doing the right thing. She expected to find fear etched into your features, maybe gratefulness, or even shock. But she’s met with only curiosity in your wide, unblinking eyes.

She pushes you away and turns to leave before she can change her mind, shutting the door behind her with a soft thud.

Abby knows what the other patrollers would’ve done if they had found you first. She knows what she would’ve done if the circumstances had been different.

You should be dead – or worse. It hadn’t been that long since she’d assisted in the interrogations that happened to Scars who’d been captured and strung up in cells for the rest of their days.

When Abby thinks about those people now, only one face stares back at her.

–

The next morning, Abby is forced to bite her tongue when someone finds the upstairs window open, raindrops clinging to the wood frame serving as the only evidence of your intrusion.

She blames it on one of the other patrollers, suggesting that they didn’t do a thorough enough sweep the night before, but not everyone is convinced.

They search the building anyway but come up empty-handed, and the situation is defused and entirely forgotten by midday.

For the remainder of their two-week patrol, Abby wonders if you had really been there at all, or if you were a product of some underlying guilt she had stored in the back of her mind. She would stay up through night and listen for the sound of footsteps, not sure if she should feel relief or disappointment when the mornings arrived without any sign of you.

When the familiar rumble of the armored truck rolls in to collect Abby and the recruits, she returns to the stadium and does her best to keep you off her mind.

She volunteers for extra shifts; she monitors the communications radio; she listens to stories of other patrollers and wonders if they’re describing you in their encounters with unnamed and faceless Scars.

When she hears about another group headed for the abandoned side of the city, she jumps at the opportunity to join their patrol. Anything for some peace of mind, she tells herself.

They’re dropped off in front of a different building, a couple blocks west of where her last patrol had been located. Abby’s chest deflates when she realizes the absurdity of her desire to find you again.

It’d been weeks since she’d let you go, and surely you’d learned your lesson about venturing near WLF bases alone. Maybe you hadn’t, and someone else had found you before Abby had the chance.

She shivers at the thought and moves to catch up with the rest of her team, abandoning her concern for something more practical.

She offers to check the upper floors while the others bring in supplies, and no one objects to avoiding the endless flights of stairs and dusty rooms waiting for her.

Four floors up, Abby stops to inspect a window that had been broken some time ago. Shards of glass and a handful of dead leaves lay at her feet, and when stoops down to look for anything out of the ordinary, the door to the stairwell creaks shut behind her.

“It’s you.”

Her head whips around at the sound of your voice, familiar but different now that you’re no longer at her will.

From where she stands, Abby can see the way your chest rises and falls with anticipation, the way your hands twist at your sides. She waits for you to speak again, but the room falls silent.

“What’re you doing here?” she hisses, praying that the others were too busy to come check on her progress.

“I heard the truck – I knew you were coming.”

Abby frowns and moves a step closer. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you know how many of those soldiers downstairs would like to get their hands on you?”

You cock your head to the side, as if you didn’t understand.

“You saved my life once already. I wouldn’t have come if I thought I’d be in danger.”

She scoffs at the presumption that she would betray her people again, but a small voice reminds her that’s exactly what she’d planned to do.

She moves past you to leave but you stop her with a hand laid over her arm. Abby’s jaw tenses at the contact, but when her resentful gaze flickers up to meet yours, she’s met with the same unabashed interest you’d worn before.

“I owe you, wolf. The Prophet commands us to repay those who show mercy.”

You pause before continuing. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

Abby takes a moment to consider. What does she want?

She wants your leader’s head at her feet; she wants to make her friends proud; she wants to understand why she had let you go that night in the storm.

Her eyes trail down to your lips, to the mottled scar etched into your cheek. She wonders what you’d look like without its crooked ridges marring your skin. She wonders how it would feel under her hands.

It catches you both off guard when her parted lips press against yours, teeth clacking together from the fervency of her kiss.

Her hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, though she’s not sure if she wants to pull you closer or push you away. She grunts into your mouth and slides her other hand around your waist. An unfamiliar heat licks at the base of your spine.

“I want you to thank me for letting you go,” she declares.

Seraphite leaders had spoken on end about the corrupt morals of ‘new world’ adherents, but this was not the danger you’d learned to fear. Abby was unique, addicting, and you wanted more.

You fall to your knees at her feet, almost a mirror image of the night you’d met. This time, however, you’re the one in control.

She hums and rubs the pad of her thumb over her swollen bottom lip, still wet with your spit. “That’s a good start.”

Nimble fingers work open the button of her jeans, shimmying the dark denim down her toned, freckled thighs. Her black boxers follow suit, revealing a smattering of blonde hair trailing down from her naval.

Your hands smooth over her heated skin, palming at her hips in an attempt to pull her closer. She concedes and shuffles forward until her cunt presses to your awaiting mouth and your tongue dips out to taste her.

It’s like nothing either of you have experienced – the guilt of betraying your own people, the trust that comes from such inconceivable circumstances. It’s all too much to comprehend, so you choose to ignore it for the time being.

Abby’s head tips back with a sigh, little breaths and chirps of pleasure pushed from her lungs as your tongue flattens over her clit.

It almost looks like you’re praying, Abby decides. Kneeling in front of your altar, eyes screwed shut, searching for a sign from some divine being. She cards her fingers through your hair and tugs at the roots, pulling you impossibly closer.

It’s messy, greedy, downright sinful the way you press your mouth to her. Slick coats your chin and your cheeks, glistening in the dim light streaming through the windows.

You’re spurred on by the way she tilts her hips, the wet squelch of her cunt against your mouth. Her thighs flex against the sides of your face, smothering your cheeks in her arousal.

“Ah- just like that.”

In addition to your tongue roaming everywhere you can reach, your thumb comes up to rub firm circles against her clit. After a moment, you switch positions, dragging your fingers through her slick and dipping two digits inside her.

She gasps at the intrusion and bucks her hips harshly, urging you to move faster. Your fingers curl inside her, driving into that gummy spot at the top of her walls while you suction her clit into your mouth.

“Fuck,” she pants, grinding down on your mouth. “M’gonna come.”

It’s not long before she’s shuddering through her release, choking back a poorly suppressed moan while she fights to keep her eyes open. You continue to work over her mound until she releases your hair from her grip and takes half a step back on shaky legs.

Remembering her earlier request for gratitude, you lean back on your heels and lick the remnants of her slick from your lips.

“Thank you, wolf.”

She looks down as if she’d only just remembered you were there and her eyes sparkle with renewed interest. A lazy smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“You gonna stay so I can return the favor?”

#abby anderson #the last of us #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x y/n #abby x reader #abby tlou #the last of us smut #the last of us x reader #tlou #enemies to lovers #wlw smut

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withleeknow · 3 months

Note

hiya! I noticed you have your requests open and if you don't mind, could I please suggest: "for once... I was right" with "don't you dare walk away from me" for Lee Know - maybe angsty but I don't mind you just going with the flow.

thank you!

blue hour.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: exes au, exes to ...? 🫢, angst; minho's pov mostly, open ending kinda, some light cursing, unedited don't look at me word count: 2.2k (i got carried away a little bit) listen to 🎧: breathe again - sara bareilles

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

“this should be the last of your things.”

“thanks,” you say, rummaging through the box that minho hands over to you. everything that you left at his place throughout the entire time you were together; every sweatshirt of yours in his closet, every piece of jewelry on his nightstand, every bottle of nail polish that you kept in his bathroom reserved for nights where you two would pamper each other. they're all here, except for... “did you see my red scarf though? i can’t find it anywhere.”

“no, i checked,” he says. “this is everything.”

“hmm, okay.”

you hold the box between your arms, and minho can’t help but feel something twist painfully in his chest. it’s like you're holding your relationship, or what’s left of it anyway, ready to make your swift exit from his life. two years of love, all dumped into one stupid cardboard box.

you both stand there in silence for what feels like forever, just staring at each other, then at your surroundings, neither of you saying anything. minho knows why he hasn’t bid you a farewell goodnight yet; it’s because he doesn’t want this to end. even though it’s a sad occasion, the finale to your story, he still wants to the seconds to stretch on, for the minutes to last longer. after all, isn’t this the last time he'll ever see you?

why you haven’t left him to his devices and gone upstairs, he isn’t sure.

another moment passes. life goes on but it seems like you two are in your own bubble where nothing moves forward. everything stays rooted to the spot.

“do you want to go for a walk?” you ask after a while. the question surprises minho enough that he lets it show, and it makes you quickly tack on an excuse. “the weather is nice and i... i don’t want to be on my own.”

yes, he does want to go for a walk with you. anything to be with you even if it’s only for a moment longer.

“sure,” he says. “let’s go for a walk.”

“okay. i’ll leave this upstairs and get my jacket.”

he watches as you disappear inside your building, only to reemerge momentarily afterward, a wool jacket draped over your frame. he wishes you’d worn something lighter, just so he could have an excuse to wrap his arm around your shoulders if it gets colder.

you walk side by side around your neighborhood, a distance between your bodies that never used to be there before. it’s strange, of course it is. but minho supposes this is yours and his new reality now.

“how are the cats?” you ask.

“they’re okay. dori had a cold a couple weeks ago, but everything’s fine now,” he tells you. “they... they miss you.”

i miss you too - that's a thought that he doesn’t say out loud, only keeps it to himself because it feels too humiliating to utter those words to you.

“they’re cats. how can you tell?”

“i can always tell.” he shrugs. “they wait by the door when i’m already home. they sleep on your-... they sleep on the other side of the bed.”

if you notice his slip up, you don’t say anything. you purse your lips and nod somberly, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “they’ll forget about me soon enough,” you say.

minho glances at you. he wants to rebuke that statement, to argue with you over something as silly as whether or not his freaking cats will retain their memories of you in the future. but he just bites his tongue and swallows down the lump in his throat, humming to let you know that he’s heard what you said. not a hum of agreement, just one of acknowledgement.

“how’s work?” he asks. god, it’s just so fucking weird to be asking you these things. you know each other inside and out and yet, you’re here making small talk.

torn apart when all you two should be is together.

“it’s alright. still the same, kinda boring. you know there’s not a lot that can happen in that place in one month.”

yes, because it’s been a little over a month since you parted ways, since you moved back into your old apartment and left his home perpetually cold and empty. he can’t blame you for leaving when he was the one who agreed to break up. he can’t blame you for his heartache when he was the one who broke your heart first.

he didn’t mean to, but isn’t that what they all say?

“do you still want to leave?”

“sure,” you reply. “if i can find something better, i’d leave that place in a heartbeat. but for now, it’ll have to do. it used to be a bit more bearable though.”

“i hope you find something that makes you happier.”

“thanks.” you give him a smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. “how about you? how’s life?”

minho almost says the first thing that comes into mind. life is terrible without you. i think about you every single minute of every day but you're not here and it’s my own damn fault.

he could lie and come up with something much more palatable, because he doesn’t reckon his truth is something you’d like to hear right now.

but he doesn’t want to lie to you. in the time that you were together, minho never lied to you, not even once, not even over something stupid and insignificant. beside, he’s got a feeling that you would see through his bullshit anyway.

his answer ends up being a sad shrug, then, “it’s life. i’m hanging in there.”

your footsteps slow until you stop completely. this makes him stop too, turning around to look at you with his head tilted to one side, confused.

“it’s not like you to sound so defeated,” you comment.

“what?” he asks with a sigh. “it’s the truth.”

“it’s not the whole truth.”

“what do you want me to say?”

“i want you to be honest with me,” you tell him, your shoulders slumping just slightly. “i still care about you. i want to know you’re okay.”

minho takes a step closer until he’s right in front of you, the closest that you two have been all night. his body feels the warmth radiating from yours but he has to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching out and touching you.

“if you really want to know, i haven’t been myself since you left.”

guilt flashes in your eyes. it wasn’t his intention at all.

you bite your bottom lip, inhale a shaky breath, before you speak, “i’m sorry for leaving.”

“don’t apologize. i’m sorry for driving you away.”

then he watches the tears well up as you look at him. he’s been wondering this the whole night, how you seem so cavalier about it all, how you’re able to speak to him so casually as if you’re just old friends with some shared history, and not as though the wound is still fresh. he’s still bleeding and you’re acting like you’ve already healed.

but he sees it now. you’re just as sad as he is, just as miserable. the only difference is you’re better at hiding it, or maybe you’ve just had more time to get used to the way it hurts.

is this how you felt in the weeks, the months, leading up to your departure? every time he neglected you, prioritized something else over you, missed every date and overlooked every text message? every single instance where he was too busy for you?

he never wanted to break your heart, but alas, here you are.

he didn’t want you to go, and yet, when you felt like you couldn’t handle the loneliness anymore, he hadn’t stopped you from walking out the door. he gave up, and he gave up so easily.

nothing along the lines of ‘don’t you dare walk away from me’, no tearful argument, no explosive and definitive end to your relationship. minho just let your love slip away.

how must that have made you feel on top of everything that he did - or didn’t do - to you?

minho has been called every variation of ‘cold’ before. to everyone else, he’s callous, rough, intimidating and unapproachable. but to you, he’s kind, soft, gentle and loving. it never mattered what anyone thought of him, as long as you always knew that he loved you, that you saw him for who he was.

but toward the end, what if you saw him how the others did? what if you had deemed him cold too?

the mere thought makes him sick to his stomach.

you sniffle, wiping at your eyes. “you don’t have to say that. it’s in the past now.”

fracture upon fracture upon fracture. minho doesn’t know how much more of this his heart can take.

his fingers twitch, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching for your hands. to his surprise, you let him.

your hands, so delicate in his, so warm.

“i should’ve fought harder for you,” he says, his voice so small that you barely catch the words at all.

but his eyes… he hopes you can see it in his eyes - the regret, the longing, the pain of losing you dimming the light of the stars he holds there.

giving his hands a light squeeze, you say, “and maybe i should’ve held on tighter instead of letting go.”

“i made you feel like you weren’t enough. it’s the worst thing i ever did to you. i understand why you left.”

you try to calm your breathing, because you really don’t feel like breaking down in front of him right now. you don’t say anything in response; what are you even supposed to say? you told him everything that you wanted to the night that you two broke up. everything that you tried to bottle up for months was laid on the table that night. you watched as he listened to you, watched as his heart broke alongside yours. that was it.

“i… i’m sorry,” minho stutters, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks scared. “i’m sorry. can’t we try again? i swear i won’t let you down again. i swear to you.”

“min…” the nickname slips out of habit and for a second there, minho thinks you would say yes. but then… “i know you’re sorry. i know we didn’t break things off because we fell out of love. but i don’t think you’re at a point in your life where i can be the most important thing right now. you may not mean to, but there’ll be things that you prioritize over me… and i’m not at a place in my life where i can settle for being on someone’s back burner either. the timing’s just off. it’s not your fault, life just got in the way.”

minho stares at you, the stars dying out one by one. the hurt is beyond what any word can describe but in a way, he understands. it fucking sucks, but he gets it. he has to accept it now.

he nods solemnly, tracing odd patterns on your palms. then he asks, quietly, “can i hold you? just for a while.”

please indulge me, he thinks. this is the last thing i’ll ever ask from you.

you don’t reply with words. instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into you. you two stay there in each other’s embrace for god knows how long. it could’ve been minutes or it could’ve been hours. you always lose track of time when you’re wrapped up together.

you hold him like he - tough and intimidating minho - is made of glass, and he holds you like he doesn’t ever want to let you go.

but he has to eventually.

you untangle yourself from him to find that he’s been crying. the tears on his cheeks catch the light from the street lamps, reflecting like crystals in the night. when you wipe them away, you tell him, “for once, i was right.”

“about what?” he sniffles.

“you really are a hopeless romantic,” you smile, trying to lighten the mood. as much as you can anyway. “i knew you’d prove me right one day.”

minho wants to scoff but his eyes are burning from the tears and his throat feels like it's closing up, so he lets you have this one. the last one, right?

maybe he is a romantic, and maybe it’s only for you. maybe it makes him a little hopeless.

the walk back to yours ends too quickly. but truth be told, even if you had walked together until the sun came up, it still wouldn’t have been long enough for him.

you both stand there, two heavy hearts looking at each other, looking for one another.

there’s no goodbye, only goodnight.

and you’re the one who says it first.

minho returns your sentiment with a choked up voice, a brush of his fingers against yours, and when you finally turn to walk up the steps, his gaze lingers on your retreating figure.

then he calls your name softly. “hey, uhm... i’ll let you know if the scarf turns up, okay?”

you turn back with a knowing smile. it’s still sad, but there’s some faith hidden there.

“i hope it will.”

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #lee know angst #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #stray kids #lee know #lee minho

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vashs-turtleneck · 5 months

Text

Spoiled Rotten.

Rating: EXPLICIT (18+ ONLY) Summary: Vash's idea of you spoiling him isn't what you had in mind, but if it makes him happy... Pairing: Vash the Stampede x f!reader Word count: 3.1k Content: smut, face riding, oral (f! receiving), established relationship, pwp

NSFW BELOW, 18+ ONLY, MDNI!

It's been a frustrating few days, finding yourselves travelling between towns without being able to catch a break from all the bandits hot on your tails. The previous town was particularly awful, barely managing to step into the damn place before being chased out by the townsfolk cursing the humanoid typhoon's name. He's hiding how much it's bothering him, but you can tell Vash is feeling less than under the weather.

When he gets like this, it's not uncommon for him to seek out your touch when you're finally in private, under the roof of some worn down inn, his arms circling your waist, his face pressing against the back of your neck.

"Mayfly..." He whispers huskily, shakily, like he's trying desperately to hold himself back, his breath hot on your skin.

"Please."

He doesn't have to say anything more for you to know what he's looking for. He wants solace, a chance to forget the world for even just a moment, and you're more than happy to give it to him.

It's not long before his lips are on yours in a heated kiss, before all your clothes are scattered all over the floor of the dusty room, your back pressed against the worn linen of the bed, his body caging yours beneath him, looking down at you like you're something to be worshipped.

It should be the other way around. With everything he's been through, be it recently or decades prior, it should be you looking down at him in marvel right now, worshipping every inch of his patchwork skin until his face is filled with nothing but blissful euphoria.

His mouth is on your neck, lips and and teeth sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin while his hands trace the curves of your naked body.

"Vash..." You whisper out softly, your hand tangling through his soft blonde hair.

"Yes, mayfly?" He breaths out against your neck, not pausing his ministrations as his tongue traces patterns against your skin.

"I- I want-" Your words get cut off as he sucks on a particularly sensitive part of your neck, stealing your breath. You know that he knows exactly what he's doing too, because you can feel the smirk on his face as you trip over your words.

"What do you want? Anything for you. Just tell me."

'Anything for you.'

Yeah, you know. You know he's always so eager to put your pleasure far before his own. Right now though, what you want is nothing more than for him to let you take care of him for once. If there's something that could help him forget the guilt he feels dragging him down every waking moment, you want to know what it is. Yet, he's always so tricky and coy, even when you're trying to take care of him, somehow always managing to turn the tables and make the evening all about your pleasure every time.

"I wanna take care of you." You whisper shakily, his relentless tongue dancing along your pulse point, carving a subtle arch into your spine.

"Hm?" His mouth leaves your neck, finally giving you a moment to breathe, his head tilting up towards yours and those pretty baby blues staring at you curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I wanna do something for you, Vash."

But he just chuckles softly at you, shaking his head as his thumbs trace little circles into your waist.

"You're already doing plenty for me. Just lay there and keep looking pretty, angel."

He goes to dive back towards your neck, but you swiftly press your palm to his mouth to stop him, his azure eyes blinking wide in confusion at you as he mumbles an incoherent 'mmgh?' against your hand.

"Oh come on, you know what I mean. Let me take care of you, please? I wanna do something special for you." You tell him, your fingertips moving to trail along his jawline.

"You don't have to do anything for me, mayfly. I'm perfectly happy right here."

You sigh, feigning annoyance at his reluctance to tell you what he wants. He's so difficult when it comes to his own urges, but tonight, you're keen on getting the words out of his mouth.

"Really? You don't have anything you can think of that you'd like?"

And you don't miss the slight flicker in his eyes, but he says nothing, staring at you silently as his cheeks start to turn pink.

"Oh, you do have something in mind, then." You tease, pushing him a little further, resting your hand on his cheek as you wait for his answer.

"W-Well... y'know..." Vash says sheepishly, his face flushing a deep scarlet now.

Your eyes narrow on him, tilting your head as you wait for him to tell you. Your curious expression only flushes him more. Why do you have to always be so cute and caring? Always so willing to fulfill his desires.

"I guess there has been... something I've been thinking about." He mumbles shyly, his eyes not quite meeting yours as his cute little blush covers his handsome features.

"Tell me." You press a chaste kiss to his cheekbone, right on that adorable little mole beneath his eye. "I wanna make you happy. Wanna spoil you."

Your words make his heart soar. What he did to ever deserve someone like you, he'll never know, but you're a blessing he'll never stop thanking universe for.

"Oh, mayfly. You always make me happy." He coos, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he plants a featherlight kiss to the corner of your mouth. "And you spoil me every time you give me the pleasure of being with you so... so intimately."

He can tell by the look in your eyes that you're still intent on indulging him tonight, so with a breathy chuckle and an exasperated sigh, he gives in.

"You really don't give up, do you?" He says playfully, but despite his initial reluctance, he can't deny the part of him that wants to let you spoil him, his thoughts sending a new wave of heat straight down to his already throbbing cock.

"Alright, let me just..." Vash rolls off of you, laying his back flat against the creaky bed before he holds his hands out to you and gestures you to come closer.

Oh, does he just want a blowjob? Easy enough.

You go to situate yourself between his legs, your hands already reaching for his cock before he jolts up and gently graps your wrists.

"Oh n-no, mayfly! That's not what I meant." He sputters, letting go of your wrists and rubbing the back of his head with his prosthetic. He looks away when he sees the puzzled look on your face.

"I mean, not that I don't like that. I actually really like that, and you're really good at it too. You're always so good to me. You're too good for m-" You press your finger to his lips to shut him up. He's rambling, clearly flustered now. You know he's always had a hard time voicing his needs and wants, never feeling like he deserves to have them fulfilled in the first place, but your mind is set on spoiling him tonight, and you want to know what he wants.

"Vash, love, relax. It's okay. Just tell me what you want, okay?" He nods against your finger on his lips, azure eyes looking at you so intently you feel like you might drown in them. You move your finger from his lips, gently cupping his face as you wait for him to speak.

"I want..." His words trail off again, overcome with this overwhelming shyness to share his desires with you, but there's also this intense longing in his eyes. "Mayfly, I want you to... to sit on my face."

You blink.

Oh.

"S-Sit?"

Vash looks at you, blushing with a sheepish little grin on his handsome face as he nods.

"Mhmm. I've been wanting this for a while actually, just been nervous to ask you."

Of course. How like Vash. Of course his idea of indulging himself would be to have your cunt pressed in his face while he pleasures you.

"Only if you want to, of course!" He sputters nervously. "If it's not something you want, that's okay, I don't mind. Really!"

"Well, of course I want to, but..." You trail off. The thought of Vash plunging his tongue deep inside you as he pulls your hips to his face sounds like the best idea he's ever had, but you can't help but feel like it's a bit one-sided.

"But I wanted to do something for you, Vash."

You can see him trying to hide just how excited he is, like he can't contain the beaming smile creeping up on his face. His hand trace along the curves over your body before resting on your hips, his excited grin quickly being replaced by a hungry smirk.

"Oh trust me, mayfly. This is for me."

His sultry tone sends a wave of heat down between your legs. His hands are already strongly gripping your hips, urging you to shift yourself forward as he gets comfortable on the bed.

"Come. Sit. Spoil me. Please." He purrs.

With his hands guiding your hips, you climb up the length of his body until his head is situated between your thighs, giving him an incredibly intimate view of you, his pretty baby blues fluttering between your face and your pussy with an eager little smile on his face.

"Just tap on my leg if you need me to get off of you, okay?" You say, feeling his soft hair tickle the insides of your thighs.

"Like I'd ever tap out." He chuckles as his hands gently trace the curves of your hips and thighs, waiting impatiently to have them soundly pressed against his face.

Vash groans audibly, his eyes fluttering as he watches your cunt drop against his greedy tongue, your thighs pressing down on each side of his head, encasing him between your legs, exactly where he wants to be. His deepest desire was manifesting itself in this very moment, the lewd fantasy of greedily pulling apart your wet cunt as you ride his face to your heart's content finally becoming a reality. His tongue immediately begins to lick at your sex, tasting you as he wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, holding you in place and urging you to ride his mouth. He groans as your moist heat swallows his face, a shiver running up his spine as his breaths catch in his throat. His lips curl into a smug grin as his tongue brushes against your sweet, soft flesh, moaning softly, relishing in the taste of you.

"Mmm, you spoil me, angel," he whispers, his voice low and hoarse, trembling ever so slightly, like he quite contain how excited he is right now. "Let me drown in you."

Vash has always been quite enthusiastic when it comes to eating you out, taking his time and savoring you like he's trying to make it last as long as he can, wringing out your pleasure and enjoying every drop you have to give him.

But this time is different. He's ravenous, hungry, his mouth latched to your slit like his life depends on it. He's taking his frustrations from these last few days out on your pussy in the best way possible, completely gorging himself on your body in a way that has you already seeing stars. You have to grip the bedframe firmly to keep yourself hovering above his face, your legs trembling from the onslaught of pleasure he's so lovingly wrecking your cunt with.

"Mayfly..." You hear his hoarse, lust striken voice call out to you. When you gaze down, you see his hazy blue eyes staring back up at you, glassed over with a deep hunger that you don't see often.

"I told you to sit." He says, emphasizing his point but gently pulling your thighs down harder, dropping more of your weight onto him.

You're surprised as he tugs you down, but you maintain your weight, holding yourself up, whining out a weak little, "I- I don't want to smother you."

He chuckles at you, licking a teasing stripe from your inviting little entrance all the way up to your clit just to hear your voice crack with pleasure.

"I want you to smother me." He breathes out, his words completely genuine despite how lewd they are. "I'll be fine. I'm tough." He adds with a playful wink.

His eyes are filled with pure, unadulterated elation, looking up at you like you're the one doing him a favor, like worshipping every inch of your pussy is the sweetest gift you can grant him, and if it's what makes him happy, you'll give it to him.

You lower your hips down towards him, letting your weight fall against his face while his hands lovingly support your body, a sweet sigh leaving his wet lips.

"Good girl," he whispers, his voice trembling with anticipation, his eyes glued to your most intimate areas as he feels you drop down on him. "That's it. Just press your weight down on me, baby. Don't worry about me."

Strong hands encase your thighs, pulling you down eagerly and parting your knees further, opening up every hidden bit of your drooling flesh to his greedy mouth, his tongue expertly dancing over every intimate corner of your pussy.

One of your impatient hands lets go of the bedfreame to grip at his soft blonde locks between your thighs, eliciting a needful, longing groan from the man beneath you. He growls as he presses his face into your plush folds, his nose teasing your clit with every hungry movement of his mouth.

"Oh fuuuck, mayfly."

Vash shivers as he feels the touch of your thighs spreading further apart, his fingers gripping the meat of your legs as he holds you in place, devouring you like a meal. His tongue flicks against your lower lips before wrapping his mouth around your sensitive little bud, making you gasp and shiver as he looks up at you.

You feel the cool metal of his prosthetic slowly release its grip on your thighs, his fingers gently slipping underneath you. You feel his dexterous digits spreading your pussy open, holding back your wet folds and exposing your aching entrance to himself. His tongue flicks and slides against your drooling hole, his breath catching in his throat as his mouth fills with your dripping arousal. You moan out wantonly when you feel his hot, skillful muscle push inside you, gathering your slick on his tongue like your juices are a reward.

The taste of you, the sound of you, it's all too damn much for the man lovingly nestled between your thighs right now, turning him on so much that he can feel his cock aching to plunge himself deep inside you. Yet he wouldn't dream of leaving his spot between your legs, every little whimper and whine that leaves the tip of your tongue only further fueling the fire burning inside him.

His hips begin to move, his cock pathetically thrusting upwards into the air above him in tandem with his tongue as he works your cunt, his body tense with need as he looks up at you with hungry eyes. A low moan escapes the humanoid typhoon, his lips spreading apart as his flesh hand moves to grip your ass and pull even closer to his face.

"M-Mayfly..." He says, his voice sultry and low, sending vibrations through your pussy that shake you to the marrow, his tongue blindly mapping your drooling sex as he pushes and pulls your body and forces you to grind against his face. "Fuck, angel. Keep using my mouth."

Despite being concerned for the muscles in his neck and his ability to breathe, you give in to what he wants, gently swaying your hips and letting yourself fuck his face the way he wants you to. His eyes glow brightly as he watches you, his tongue relentlessly stroking against your flesh as you pleasure yourself on his face until you feel like you might burst.

"Spoil me more. Drown me in you," he says breathily, relishing in the knowledge that he can make you spew such pretty noises and make your eyes roll back until all he can see is white.

"Va- Vash!" You cry out his name like a choir between frantic gasps for air, feeling your body about to explode in a pleasure.

Your climax hits you like a typhoon, slamming into you with such roaring intensity that would have had you falling over had it not been for the bedframe and Vash's strong grip on you. You hear a mewling whimper leave his lips, muffled by your body, and you feel him spasm and twitch beneath you before he comes along with you, plastering his chest, thighs, and even a bit of your back with hot spurts of his seed.

Despite the mind-numbing orgasm you're both still feeling the aftershocks of, you don't feel him pause for even a moment, his lips and tongue continuing to greedily devour your twitching and pulsing sex like he's in some love drunk haze, drinking the floods of your arousal like it's second nature.

Oh god, he's not stopping, his tongue lapping and swirling and overstimulating you until you feel like you're about to implode. Funny enough, it's you that ends up tapping out, fingers tangling through his blonde wisps to get his attention.

"Va- ah! -sh, t-too much!" You whimper out, gently tugging at his hair, to which he only moans out deeply in response.

"Mmmm, 'm sorry..." Vash murmurs hoarsly, licking one last firm and hungry stripe along your sopping cunt before his grip on you finally loosens.

You carefully move off his face, situating yourself on his chest as you take in deep gulps of air. When you finally look down at him, you're dumbstruck by the heavenly sight of him. His eyes are glassed over and hazy, his face flushed a pretty scarlet all the way down to his heaving chest, his own cum painting his abdomen, dripping down the meat of his thighs, dousing the twisted sheets beneath him, your juices coating his face as his tongue absentmindedly licks away the taste of you. He almost looks drunk, completely and blissfully fucked out.

"Vash, are you oka-"

"Can we do that again? Please? Please, mayfly?"

And who are you to deny him when he looks like he's drowning in the crypts of euphoria and begs you so gleefully.

#vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede x you #vash x you #vash x reader #vash smut #vash the stampede smut #trigun smut

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cinnamostar · 4 months

Text

blankets and kisses

pairing : chan x gn!reader

summary : the bitter iciness of winter wore you down, yet your boyfriend knew how to melt away your sorrows

wc : 913

cw : alludes to seasonal depression, established relationship, comforting bf chan, fluffy, not proof read

a/n : this was entirely self indulgent LMAO sorry if formatting is bad though, im on my phone and wrote this kinda quickly bc i felt inspired hehe . also im floridian so i know nothing abt snow or winter so i did my best

in the hushed whispers of the night, you found yourself yearning his comforting embrace, a closeness you always craved and yearned for. the chilling zephyrs brushing against your skin, your hair bellowing in response as you shiver under the icy winds the harsh winter always brought in its company.

you couldn’t bear this season alone, it was taxing to repeat the same mundanity and solitude adulthood had introduced you to. daylight was always so fleeting and witnessing it had become a luxury during these cold months.

it was always the same deep blue morning sky that greeted you as you made your way to work, and after eight grueling hours, the same sky would be waiting to be welcome you once more, except this time with the sun rays barely peeking out from the edge of the sky. you hated this time of year, and you could never understand the holiday joy and excitement everyone seemed to buzzing with around you. what was there to enjoy?

the weather was unpleasant, the low temperatures of the world pricking the tip of your nose as you briskly made your way home, trudging your way through the light sheets of snow that covered the sidewalks. the glacial breeze never relented its attacks on you, always piercing through the layers of warmth you adorned yourself with.

the lack of sunlight allowed dreary, dark clouds take over your mind as you surrendered yourself to exhaustion. how much longer would your days be like this? how much longer would the wintry season plague your mind with somber thoughts?

you crack for the door open to your shared apartment, basking in its inviting warmth that provided you refuge from the world you had just shut behind you. the comforting smell of fresh linen making its presence known as a grateful smile graces your features. you gently place your bag on the small side table, shedding the layers of coats you had worn to endure freezing winds, not caring that they’d remain on the floor.

your mind was too focused on finding solace and reprieve to worry about your belongings as your feet dragged you to your living room. your own personal source sunshine that kept your afloat during these difficult times was waiting for you on the sofa, his head turning to your direction once he heard the pitter patter of your steps.

a smile stretches across his face, his eyes becoming crescents as he lifts himself off the couch to meet you half way.

“hi baby,” chan whispers as his arms envelope you, a chaste kiss landing on your forehead, melting away the restricting stiffness the icy winds had diseased you with. the tension in your muscles loosen under his summery touch, your mind relaxing knowing you had found safety in his arms once again.

“hi,” was all you could muster out, your sleepiness catching up to you as your heavy eyelids flutter shut, snuggling your head into his chest, taking in the comforting thumping of his heartbeat.

chan’s hand found itself resting atop your head, his other drawing gentle circles on your back, “i warmed up some blankets for us to cuddle up in,” he spoke, “i think you deserve some rest.” he knew this time of year was suffocating for you and without fail, he found ways to bring light and warmth into your gloomy world, whether it was through gentle words or acts of love, he was the healing your ailing mind needed.

his words were soothing to your worn-down soul, a small smile appearing on your face as you peer into his eyes, chin resting on his chest. “that sounds so nice, thank you, chan,” you feebly mutter.

without skipping a beat, chan swiftly lifts you up, carrying you to your bedroom as a hearty giggle escapes him, you squealing at the unexpected action. he softly drops you atop the bed, the sheets rippling under the sudden weight as you lost yourself to a fit a giggles, blood rushing to your face as you succumbed to the bustling butterflies that made themselves home in your stomach. chan lays himself next to you, hastily pulling a toasty blanket over your bodies. his arms pull you into him, your body fitting snuggly into his as his leg rests over yours. he cups your face with one hand as his lovingly gazes into your eyes, his eyes sparkling with adoration as he drank in every detail before peppering your face with kisses.

airy laughs continue to leave both of you, overwhelming you as each kiss tickles your flustered skin, leaving burning warmth and desire behind each kiss as your eyes squeeze shut. after bearing his feverish affection, he then places one last, languid kiss on your lips, lingering for a few moments before pulling away, beaming at your dazed state.

“i love you, y/n.”

“i love you too, chan.”

despite the brutal winter season that sapped the happiness out of you, as long as you had chan by your side, you knew you’d be able to uncover the joyful glee everyone else seemed to have. his very presence shooed away the heavy snow clouds that darkened your thoughts, rays of sunshine peaking out to thaw out the icy shell that encased your heart, reminding you that this too shall pass. somehow, in the midst of harsh snowstorms, he was a blooming flower that emanated infectious jubilation, and you were blessed to be able to bask underneath it.

#cinnamostar writes #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #skz fanfic #skz fluff #bang chan x reader #chan x reader #chan x you #bang chan x you #bang chan #skz chan fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids chan #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines

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ghostandsoap · 1 year

Text

Cards and Communication

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Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem! “Gecko” Reader (Ft. Soap, Gaz, and Price) Tags: Soap being Soap. Kinda jealous Ghost. Slightly aggressive Ghost? Price eating up all the drama. Word Count: 5.3k “I…I really want to talk to you,”

⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡

Alejandro’s safe house had been an absolute blessing.

It wasn’t much to look at. In many ways, it was almost nothing to look at. The structure was well outdated and parts of the building were nearly ready to disintegrate. The outside was overrun with untamed weeds growing in the area around the house, and some of them had even begun to venture up the sides.

It was no movie star mansion, but it would do. If you were being completely honest, you found the safe house rather endearing. It wasn’t often that you were graced with a safe place to stay and call “home” while you were on a mission.

There were times where you could go days (or even weeks, if it was really bad) without anywhere to crash in those periods of waiting to move into action. Alejandro had provided a safe zone and a home base for the remainder of the team’s time in Mexico. That was something that everybody appreciated.

The inside was a tad more appealing than the outside, but not by much. The innards of the house were pretty beat up as well. The furniture inside was worn and washed out, some pieces even falling apart. The wooden floorboards squeaked and creaked, and a few of them had become loose from their not-so secured position.

Soap, Ghost, and yourself had been the first ones to arrive, Gaz and Price were scheduled to be there later, so the three of you got the first look at the place. The sun was close to setting when you arrived, and the sky was already dotted with speckles of stars.

The most fortunate part was that all the windows and doors were intact, which offered great relief from the weather of the world outside. However, that didn’t stop the outside temperature from creeping in, and Soap had immediately commented on the house’s chilly nature.

“Fuck. It’s freezin’ in here,'' Soap hissed. “Gonna get a fire going, Lt.”

“Affirmative. Need a hand?” Ghost offered as Soap kneeled to inspect the fireplace in the living area.

“I don’t think so. You and Gecko can go ahead and get first dibs on where you wanna set up your stuff.” Soap politely declined.

Ghost released his backpack and all of his gear into a pile on the floor at his feet. It was no wonder that Ghost stayed in such flawless shape. All of his gear put together must’ve weighed a ton and lugging all of that stuff around was a workout in and of itself.

“Actually I’m going to scope out the perimeter before it gets dark.” Ghost remarked.

That was typical Ghost behavior. On the off chance that you were able to score a safe house or some kind of temporary base, Ghost always checked to make sure that it really was safe.

“Alejandro swore this place was secure, and no one followed us, Ghost.” You piped up, turning to the colossal man preparing to exit the house.

Ghost’s stare into your eyes was lingering. He knew that your words were a reassurance rather than a criticism. It was even more typical for you to attempt to keep Ghost from getting stressed. But Ghost believed that there was no such thing as being too careful.

“I know. I just want to be sure.” Ghost replied.

“Okay. Do you need help?” You offered, a certain sparkle gleaming in your pupils as you asked.

Ghost noticed that glimmer. It was the same one that shined in your eyes every time you wanted to do something with him. It was also the one that made his heart revel in the fact that he had someone who cared about him enough to want to do such menial tasks with him. Of course he wanted to say yes. He always wanted you with him – but if there was some kind of external threat waiting for him outside, he didn’t want to take that risk of you getting hurt too.

“No, I can handle it. Go ahead and pick a spot. Take a load off, G.”

With that, Ghost disappeared outside, armed and ready for any potential unwanted visitors. A quiet sigh escaped your chest as you closed the door behind him, a slight twinge of disappointment pecking at you. It passed quickly though when you turned around and saw Soap peering at you through squinted eyes.

“What?”

“Nothin’…” Soap squeaked as he scrambled to return to assembling the fire.

“No – what is it, Soap? Why are you looking at me like that?” You demanded, your hands landing on your hips as you glared at your sergeant.

“It’s nothin’ really, it’s just…he called you ‘G’ again.” Soap pointed out, tossing the last log into the fireplace.

There was a roll of anxiety over your stomach. This wasn’t the first time that someone had questioned you on Ghost’s demeanor when it came to you. It had gotten easier to dismiss over time, but if Soap was noticing it – then you and Ghost had gotten really sloppy when it came to hiding it.

“Yeah? Lieutenant calls me G sometimes.” You shrugged, refusing to let the knowingness show on your face.

“Sure, but…he’s the only one who calls you that,” Soap returned, turning to look at you. “I’m pretty sure he’d shoot me if I even tried to call you G.”

“Oh, come on, Soap. You’re a nut,” You groaned with a grin. “I highly doubt Ghost takes it that seriously. You should try it sometime.”

Soap only hummed with uncertainty, but a beaming smile appeared on his features when the fireplace erupted into flames of orange and red. A rush of heat flushed through the living room, and it made you realize just how cold you were. Who knew that Mexico could get this chilly?

Your hands ran up and down your arms, rubbing through the material of your jacket and long sleeved shirt underneath to create some extra warmth.

“Here,” Soap moved over to allow you to get closer. “I’ll share with you this time.” Soap joked.

You gratefully accepted the empty space in front of the fire, kneeling down next to Soap in front of the flames. The house would be warm in no time, as long as there was someone to tend to it. About the time that you and Soap were fully warmed up, the front door of the safe house opened to reveal Ghost once more. Based on the fact that he wasn’t frantically running to cover, it was reasonable to assume that the coast was clear. The sky had gone fully dark now, and the night hours had officially started.

“Good call, Johnny. It’s warmer than when I walked in the first time,” Ghost kicked the door closed with his foot. “Check all the windows and doors to be sure that they’re closed. Don’t want any heat gettin’ out.”

“Sure thing, L.T.” Soap rose to his feet and scurried off to check the rest of the house.

Once Soap was gone and out of earshot, you turned to Ghost.

“Didn’t you check the windows and doors when you scoped the house?” You asked.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.” Ghost grinned under his mask.

You laughed at that, and Ghost used it as an invitation to join you by the fire for a moment. He’d been on his feet all day, and he needed a moment.

A moment alone with you.

“Are you warm enough?” Ghost whispered in your ear, his voice sounding like more of a coherent rumble more than anything.

“Yeah, I’m warm.” You replied, voice just as quiet as his.

“Good,” He pressed a swift kiss to the crown of your head. “Did you get your stuff put somewhere?”

“No. Didn’t have a chance to.”

“There’s one bedroom in the back,” Ghost suggested. “The bedroom is bigger.”

“I mean, I don’t particularly need the space,” You snorted. “Give the bedroom to Price.”

“He won’t do that. He always likes to hang out near the door,” Ghost bantered. “How about you take the bed and the rest of us can camp out in here?”

“The bed might be better for you. It’ll keep you from being so stiff in the morning,” You countered. Ghost’s large frame was a constant victim of sleeping on the floor, and it never boded well for him the next day. “You’re taller.”

“Mm. You’re prettier,” He raised his balaclava just enough for a fast, real kiss. “Take the bedroom. Please? For me?”

“Alright,” You rose from the floor, collecting your pack and smaller belongings that you had dropped by the front door when you had entered. “Be right back.”

Ghost watched you traverse to the back of the house to mark the bedroom as yours. A shudder and an exhale of air fluttered from his lungs. For a moment, albeit he knew it would be brief, he felt relaxed. The house was secure, the team was safe…you were safe.

He could take a breather and collect himself over the course of the next few days to follow. He was no good to Force 141 if he was all strung out with himself and unorganized. Ghost was learning how to be just as skilled and good at his job as he always had been, while simultaneously making sure that you were happy and taken care of. This safe house was a life saver for literal and metaphorical reasons. He was grateful to have it.

And for now, the lieutenant could rest.

⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡

Sleeping never came easy for any of you when you were in the midst of completing a mission. When there was too much at stake and danger always on the horizon, a good night of decent slumber was hard to come by. Nights like this usually consisted of everybody spreading out and staying up until they had even the slightest urge to fall asleep. Ghost usually stayed on watch, considering he didn’t sleep much to begin with.

This meant long night hours with hardly anything entertaining to do. The first night at the safe house was no exception.

Gaz and Price showed up at the safe house well after the sun had gone down. They were cold, weary, and in need of a minute to decompress. Their arrival sparked enough conversation to last an hour or so. Price filled you, Soap, and Ghost in on what to expect in the next few days to come. You talked strategy and theorized on what could go wrong, but also what could go right if things worked out. The plan was explained and understood, and everyone was on the same page.

The initial buzz of excitement for having a legit place to hole up had worn off. Now the boredom had set in. The five of you had run out of things to talk about that weren’t work related, and you could only talk shop so much before it grew old.

It was around 1:00 a.m. when everyone had hit burnout. Ghost was sitting on the battered sofa by the window closest to the front door, keeping a watchful eye out for anything or anyone that might appear outside. He had discarded his outer skull mask an half an hour before, but the infamous balaclava was clad to his face as usual.

Price was sunken as far as he could go into the armchair next to the sofa, cradling his left boot in his hand and inspecting the newly formed hole in the side of it. Of the five of you, he was the closest to feeling any kind of desire to get some sleep.

You accompanied Gaz in front of the fire, sitting on the floor as he prodded the logs to keep the fire burning. Soap was roaming around, scrounging for any kind of morsel of entertainment. No one said anything, and the only noises were the crackling of the flames and Soap’s rummaging through cabinets and drawers. Surely there had to be something to do here. Even if Alejandro intended for it to be an emergency safe house, someone had to have left something behind at some point.

“Ah! I hit the jackpot!” Soap shrieked from the small kitchen that was adjacent to the living room. He came barreling back in with a laugh, a small cardboard box in his hands. The box was ripped in places, and there was no way to really know what it was. “Anybody up for a game of cards?”

“Me!” You gasped.

“I’m in,” Gaz nodded. “Price? Ghost?”

“The only card game I play is poker.” Price responded, which was his way of saying no considering there weren’t any chips or real items to bet with.

“I’m on watch.” Ghost mumbled, never once looking away from the window he was seated next to.

Soap was hardly listening as he joined you and Gaz in front of the fire, the three of you making a halfway triangle. This would keep you occupied for at least a little while. There were plenty of card games to play to keep you busy.

“Let’s start easy. How about Go Fish?” Soap questioned.

“Sure. Hopefully all the cards are in there.” Gaz remarked.

Soap slid the deck out of the box, his hands thumbing through the stack. The cards had definitely been sitting around for a while because they smelled of stale paper, and they didn’t look to be in the most pristine shape. Regardless, Soap shuffled the deck and dealt five cards each. You were sitting across from Soap on the left, meaning you were the starting player.

“Soap. Got any twos?”

The Scotsman glanced over his cards, squinting at the numbers that had either faded or been rubbed off completely.

“Nah. Go fish.” He smirked.

There was a light grumble from your chest as you plucked a new card from the draw pile, adding it to your already hefty hand.

“Any queens, Gaz?” Soap asked.

“Nope.” Gaz sighed.

The banter back and forth continued until the end of the first round, where Gaz was the winner. It was a simple and rather bland way to kill time, but it definitely beat staring into the fire for the rest of the night. Price listened to and watched the game being played in front of him. He watched the three of you argue over Soap’s “adjustments” to the rules and listened to you giggle every time Soap nearly rage quit.

Ghost was listening to bits and pieces, picking up a comment here and there – and really only tuning in when your voice and laughter registered in his mind. For the most part, he was more focused on keeping his attention on watching through the window.

Or at least, that was his focus until something very peculiar graced his ears.

“You have any sevens, G?” Soap asked, and you nearly passed out.

Ghost nearly gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned to look. His eyes were wide as he stared at his best pal. His cheeks were running red, and he couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming sting of annoyance in his chest.

Gaz and Price sucked all the air out of the room and spit it right back out. Price’s eyes were trained on Ghost with a bit of a smirk, waiting for a reaction. Gaz avoided eye contact with anyone in the room – only boring a hole into the card that was in the middle of his hand.

Now, an outsider might say that you set Soap up for this rocky encounter that was about to ensue. After all, you had quite literally told him to call you the very special nickname that was generally reserved for Ghost. Ghost was the only one allowed to get creative with your call sign – it was an unspoken rule amongst the 141. It was common knowledge that you were Gecko and Gecko only to everybody except Ghost.

In your defense, that rule was lost on you…and also you didn’t actually expect Soap to try it.

But you would’ve been a fool not to notice how tense the room became after Soap’s test run of your Ghost-only-nickname. Based on the way that Ghost’s shocked stare had turned into more of a glare, you were pretty confident in saying that he wasn’t happy.

“Sevens?” You cleared your throat with a meek tone. “Yeah, I have a seven.”

You shoved your hand forward that was holding the 7 of spades, but Soap was hardly paying attention, because he could feel the searing stare of his lieutenant on the back of his head. Soap said had a silent appreciation for the fact that he was sitting with his back towards Ghost. Soap had regretted saying it as fast as he had said it.

It felt wrong. It felt straight up illegal even uttering what he had said. Soap felt like Ghost could kick his ass all over the street, and he wouldn’t even have the right to stop him.

“That’s Gecko to you, Soap.” Ghost nearly boomed.

So much for being sneaky. If Soap hadn’t caught on before to what was going on between you and Ghost, he definitely had a better idea now. At least it wasn’t a mistake he’d make twice.

“Right. Uhm…” Soap chuckled nervously. “Sorry, L.T.”

“Sorry is not an answer,” Ghost went on, and suddenly the fire didn’t seem so warm anymore compared to the heat he was spitting out. “I don’t want to have this conversation again, Sergeant.”

“Understood. Won’t happen again, Lieutenant.” Soap gulped.

You didn’t like the tone that Ghost was taking with Soap. You understood Ghost wanting to have something to himself when it came to you, but you’d be damned if you allowed him to get aggressive with his best friend like that. It wasn’t in your best interest to pick a fight about it right at this moment, but it was definitely a conversation that needed to be had.

You gave Ghost a look. A look that was very annoyed and a look that read “what hell is your problem?” Ghost knew that look, and he didn’t like the way it sank his stomach.

The next hour to follow was rather quiet.

Price was barely holding it together. Even though the room was incredibly uneasy, he found this situation exceedingly funny, and the burning red in his cheeks as he withheld his laughter was evidence of that. Every few minutes, a stifled chuckle would sound from him – which only made the tension worse.

Gaz was too afraid to say anything. He tried his best to pay attention to the game of Go Fish once the three of you continued. He had debated on making a joke to at least try to ease the room, but he feared that no response to it would make this unbearable.

Ghost’s mood had gone sour. He was irritated for the most part that Soap had said that, a little hurt that you were so okay with it. He returned to watching the window and was about one pout away from straight up sulking.

In the back of his mind, Ghost understood that it really wasn’t that big of a deal.

So what that Soap called you the name that only Ghost used? It wasn’t like Ghost had ever explicitly said that the name was only for his own use. Soap really hadn’t done anything wrong. Soap hadn’t done it with any intentions that weren’t innocent. Ghost knew that.

Ghost didn’t get much to himself. It had been like that his entire life. There hadn’t been many things that Ghost felt like he could really call his own. You were your own person, of course. You were as independent as could be and Ghost didn’t see you as anything less than the most wonderful, loving person on the planet.

But Ghost would even admit that there was this part of himself that was so unbelievably happy that you were his. Happiness was something that was foreign to him for the longest time. It was something he didn’t understand as well as most people probably did. He had the seed for it, and it was well watered. But you were the sunshine that really allowed it to grow and blossom into something beautiful for him.

He didn’t like the thought of something or someone else getting in the way of that. There was nothing that he adored and cared for more. In a lot of ways, his harsh overreaction had been a defense mechanism, something that he was very familiar with.

Ghost knew that was something he needed to work on. Building a stronger sense of trust would prove beneficial to both of you. He didn’t want to ruin this just because he flipped out over every little thing. He needed to find a balance – a healthy one.

Ghost’s busy mind traffic was cleared when he heard Gaz finally speak up, despite his previous hesitance.

“As much as I’d love to keep playing, I think I need to get some shut eye.” Gaz mumbled, returning his cards to the pile.

“Not a bad idea, Gaz. Think I’m going to turn in for the night myself,” Price announced, rising from the chair with a groan. “Need to switch out, Ghost?”

Truthfully, he didn’t. Ghost could stay on watch all night without getting tired. But Price’s hard glance was a hint to Ghost that he needed to swap and take the opportunity to have a chat with you.

“Sure, Captain.” Ghost shifted, standing from the window and fully extending his massive frame.

“Alright then. Soap, you’re up.”

Soap was quick to clean up the cards, shoving them back into the box and into his pocket. He was keeping them on him just in case. At least he could play Solitaire in the base of the window when he got bored. He practically rocketed to his feet, taking Ghost’s former position on the sofa to keep an eye on things.

Ghost felt a pit in his gut when he realized that you had retreated to the bedroom without a word. That was a telltale sign that you weren’t very happy with him. Ghost shoved his hands into his pockets, dragging his heavy boots across the creaky floorboards to get to the closed bedroom door.

He debated even knocking at all. Odds were that you would probably be a little easier to talk to in the morning…but Ghost didn’t like the thought of leaving this unresolved for the remainder of the night.

“Hey, Gecko?” He called, and his voice nearly cracked. “Can we talk? Please…?”

There wasn’t a response, so he knew you were ignoring him.

“I…I really want to talk to you,” He tried again, a bit softer and quieter this time. “Please, baby?”

There was a quick moment of quiet on the other side, and then a reply.

“Okay.”

He felt a jolt of relief, and he turned the brass knob to allow himself in. You were standing at the foot of the full sized bed, removing all of the items out of your pack to no doubt rearrange the contents as you always did when you had a spare moment.

The room was fairly dark. There wasn’t much to it. There was a bed, dresser, and one bedside table on the left side. The battered curtains were drawn, and the full moon outside was the only source of light spilling into the bedroom.

Ghost wasn’t sure what to say, but he wasn’t surprised when you hardly waited for him to come up with something.

“That was uncalled for.” You started.

He swallowed hard, his head lowering as he shifted his feet,

“I know.”

“He didn’t mean anything by it.” You went on.

“I know.”

“He’s your best friend. You can’t just talk to him like that.”

“I know,” He repeated. “I’m sorry.”

His timid and meek apology brought a ping of sympathy to your chest. It was that same feeling of sympathy that plagued you any time you knew that he was aware that he had done something out of line. He took accountability and responsibility for his action and his words…and he knew when it was time to make things right.

All at once, you were reminded of why he reacted to certain things the way that he did.

All you could imagine was a young, tiny Simon Riley – a defenseless and teary eyed kid who was scared to death of every person in his life that was supposed to love him. He was once a little kid who was terrified of making anybody in his life angry (even over the small things) because of the consequences and emotional misery that always followed.

Now, he was a grown and scarred man who shut down every time that he made a mistake. No one was harder on Ghost than Ghost himself.

He never wanted you to be angry with him. He never wanted anyone that he cared about to be angry with him over something that he did or said. Simon didn’t handle fights well. The two of you had only fallen into a real argument a couple of times. It was never anything permanently altering, and it was surely never enough to make either of you resentful of the other. If there was a way to resolve a situation without fighting, that was the route he always took.

“Simon…” You took a breath, keeping a level tone when you turned to look at him. “Why did that make you so upset?”

“I didn’t like him calling you that,” He answered, eyes trained on the tips of his boots that were as worn as could be. “It’s just…I like calling you that.”

“Did it bother you because Soap said it?” You went on.

“I don’t like the idea of anyone saying it.” Ghost admitted.

Ghost closed the door behind him considering that this conversation was just getting started. He didn’t want any of the rest of the team eavesdropping.

“Okay, sure. But it isn’t that serious. It’s just a name, Simon.” You pleaded with him.

“It’s not just a name. It’s my name for you.” He stressed.

“So just because you came up with it, you get to yell at Soap for saying it?”

“No, love. I don’t know what I’m trying to tell you,” He huffed. “I didn’t like it because I like having you to myself.”

His wording was specific. You caught this, and it was just enough to let you take the invitation to transition to the real reason for all of this.

“You…you always have me to yourself,” You said, a brow raised. “I’m nobody’s but yours. You know that.”

Simon was disappointed in himself more than anything. He had made a lot of progress when it came to himself. He worked hard to better himself mentally and emotionally to be the best person to you that he possibly could be. He was grateful that you were willing to work with him on a lot of things. He liked your support in helping him through some of the challenges. But every progress journey had its slip ups. Those moments of insecurity and doubt that would always set him back a step.

“I know,” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck through the fabric of his balaclava. “I guess I just had a moment.”

He was beating himself up over an issue that was far bigger than the fact that he had gotten out of line with his best friend. It was a battle that he had been fighting since long before he had ever been blessed with the chance to merely even lay eyes on you. It pained you to see him so hard on himself, especially when you had seen the progress he had made for yourself.

“Come here.” You stretched out a gentle hand, a sign of comfort and reassurance.

It was an invitation that he always accepted, and one that he was always thankful for. He slipped his hand into yours, its size was always laughable with how it made yours look so petite. The skin of his palm was calloused as always as he held your hand in his. He towered over you from where you were now sitting on the edge of the mattress, the springs making a rickety noise as you sat down.

He looked into those eyes of yours. The very same ones that he had gotten lost in the first time he had a real chat with you. They were pools of love, swimming with adoration and care for a world that was otherwise doomed.

He had seen stars of joy dance over your irises on many occasions. He had seen your pupils dilate in an angry rage when things didn’t go as planned on a critical mission. He had seen rivers of tears fill their space and stream down your cheeks in moments of hurt and despair. He’d witnessed all the stories that your eyes could tell, and some of them were stories he was ecstatic to be a part of.

“Simon. It makes sense how you feel. I understand what you’re saying,” You spoke to him sweetly and smoothly. “But you can’t lash out like that when you feel that way. That’s not fair.”

“I know,” He said for what felt like the millionth time. “Just let my head get the best of me.”

“It happens. It’s okay. But I think you owe Soap an apology in the morning…or, well, whenever we get up again.” You suggested, noting aloud that it was indeed already technically the morning.

He nodded. Soap wasn’t one to hold grudges – not against his pals anyway.

“Alright. I’ll talk to Soap.” He agreed.

You stood from the bed, your chest pressed against his sternum as you looked up at the giant of a man.

“I’m yours. Completely and totally yours,” You smiled, and he felt every neuron in his body combust. “And I’m proud of you.”

He never understood it. How could someone like you be so wrapped up in someone like him? Not that he complained, of course. Here you were, praising him for doing nothing more than calmly working through his emotions and communicating his problem. He felt like that really should’ve been the bare minimum, but he supposed that if it was important to you, then it was important to him.

His free hand came to cup your face, his hand nearly engulfing the right half of your face. His thumb dragged across the apple of your cheek, which was his silent sign for you to do the honors. Your fingertips slipped under his balaclava just enough to raise it above his lips that were just begging to be kissed. He softened when you kissed him, as he always did.

He loved nothing more than sharing moments like this with you. The ones that reminded him that one little fight wasn’t enough to destroy what you had. Those moments of conflict really were necessary for a relationship to grow. And with time, he’d learn to be more comfortable with that.

He exhaled when you pulled away, returning his mask to its correct position on his face.

“I’m going to get some sleep,” You told him. “Want to stick around and get some actual decent sleep?”

“You take the bed. My feet are gonna hang off the end I’m afraid.” He chuckled.

The bed was rather short. Tall people problems.

“You sure?” You asked one more time.

“Yeah. Think I’m going to go talk to Soap now since he’s on watch.” Simon said.

Another beaming smile spread on your face. He couldn’t help but grin a little too.

“Okay, Ghosty.”

Ghosty. That was a new one. He nearly melted all over again.

“Goodnight, my love. Call me if you need me, yeah?”

You nodded as he exited, your heart swelling with love for him in a way that grew stronger and stronger each day.

“Goodnight.”

4K notes · View notes

munson-blurbs · 1 year

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Summary: Conflict arises with Harris's new teacher, filling Halloween with more tricks than treats. But it's nothing a visit with Ms. Sweetheart can't fix.

Warnings: allusion to Reader and Eddie's one-night stand, panic attack, Reader's grandma has dementia.

WC: 5.6k

Chapter 6/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Guns N’ Roses t-shirt: check. Goodwill jeans with makeshift holes in the knees: check. Bandana tied snugly around his forehead: check. Arms littered with an assortment of temporary tattoos: check.

Eddie grins as he assesses his son’s costume, reaching into the thrift store bag as he pulls out the pièce de résistance: a denim jacket, only two sizes bigger than Harris would usually wear. It was a bit over what he’d been hoping to spend, but he’d reasoned with himself that it could also be worn after Halloween. It was an investment, he’d decided, not a splurge.

His smile falters when Harris indignantly stomps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest. While Eddie had hoped his son would go with more badass tattoo options, perhaps a skull and crossbones or even a snake, he had insisted on a Sesame Street theme. Cookie Monster munches on his signature treat as Harris pouts.

“No, Daddy!” he whines, twisting away when Eddie holds the jacket closer to him. “I can’t wear that!”

“C’mon, Har,” he tries, scouring his brain to come up with a convincing enough lie. “Axl Rose wore jackets all the time!”

Harris doesn’t just shake his head; he swivels his entire body back and forth in protest. “I don’t care! No one’s gonna be able to see my tattoos!” He holds out both arms in front of him; nearly every square inch (besides the section blocked by his cast) is covered. Eddie had spent most of last night diligently applying them precisely where Harris had asked, lest there be a tantrum. There was, unfortunately, a headless Elmo from when Harris had asked–no, demanded–that he try by himself. Still, Eddie figured that only one casualty was a win.

“Those are some sweet ol’ tatties,” Eddie muses, biting back a laugh at the two-dimensional Big Bird on his son’s forearm. “But wouldn’t it be cool if you wore the jacket into school and then–BAM!--took it off and surprised everyone with them?

Harris appears to consider this, mouth tucked into his cheeks. “Can I show Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Sure, bud. We’ll stop by her classroom when I pick you up.” Whatever gets us out of the house in weather-appropriate attire. “But first, show me your most metal pose.”

The boy opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue as far as it extends, scrunching his face dramatically until the corners of his eyes crinkle. His middle and ring fingers press into his palm, thumb crossing over them, with his forefinger and pinky raised in the quintessential rock ‘n roll symbol.

Eddie swoops down and smacks a wet kiss to Harris’s cheek. “That’s my boy!”

Standing among the crowd of parents at pick-up, Eddie opts out of making banal small talk and instead chooses to look at the bulletin board. The previous art project that had been hanging against the faded blue paper–”self-portraits” that the students had made on the first day of school–have been replaced by finger paintings of orange blobs that vaguely resemble pumpkins. There wasn’t one for Harris because he was in Ms. Sweetheart’s classroom then, so it’s his first art project in his new class. He eagerly scans the board for Harris’s, frowning when he can’t find his name.

Maybe it’s still drying, he tries to convince himself, imagining his son over-saturating the paper with globs of paint. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character.

Ms. Marion’s classroom is a sea of costumed children. A boy dressed as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stands by his mom. A Cinderella, a black cat, and a Thomas the Tank Engine surround Ms. Paula. As soon as Eddie spots Harris, he smiles and waves him over, hurriedly scribbling his signature on the sign-out sheet.

He expects Harris to zoom past the other kids, fueled by the standard Halloween diet of sugar and chocolate, but he just kind of…mopes to the doorway. His shoulders slump dejectedly, and though he keeps his gaze low, Eddie can still see the film of mist staining his innocent eyes.

“Har, what’s wrong?” He waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t receive one–an oddity for his perpetually chatty son–he tries a new tactic. “Wanna show me where your artwork is? I must be gettin’ old, because I couldn’t find it on the board out there.”

“‘S not there,” Harris mumbles, scratching off a flaking piece of the Rosita tattoo on the back of his hand. “I didn’t get to finish.”

Eddie watches as the tears start to slip down his cheeks, and he brings him into the hallway before Ms. Marion or Ms. Paula sees what’s going on. He can’t be certain, but his paternal instincts tell him that they’ve contributed to Harris’s sad state. “Why not?”

“I-I t-tried, but M-Ms. Mar-Marion and Ms. P-Paula got m-mad at me.” The words come out between choked sobs. “‘C-Cuz I c-couldn’t sit d-down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I k-keeped st-standing up, ‘cuz m-my legs wanted to st-stand.” The explanation tumbles out of him so quickly, as though he’s trying to beat the clock. “And they s-said if I did-didn’t sit down, I c-couldn’t do art. But I k-keeped f-f-forgetting, and th-they t-taked away my pay-pay-paper and said, ‘sit in the c-corner!’”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking again. “Did…did that happen in Ms. Sweetheart’s class? The legs thing?”

“Mhm,” Harris manages, “b-but she let me stand and d-do ju-jumps to get the wig-wiggles out. She just t-t-telled me not to do ju-jumps with s-s-scissors, ‘cuz of s-safety.” His breathing increases to a rapid pace, face flushing red as his chest heaves. “B-But Ms. M-Marion ye-ye-yelled at me!”

Eddie’s brows pinch together, and he gently presses his calloused palms against Harris’s narrow shoulders, desperate to prevent him from hyperventilating. “Harris, you gotta calm down. I can’t understand you when you’re crying like this!” Despite his efforts, his frustration bleeds into his tone, and he winces when the latter sentence ends with an unwanted snap. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just an art project.”

“Harris?”

The sound of your voice draws the attention of both Munsons. You let out a small oof as Harris flings himself against your legs, and though he practically flew the five foot distance between his father and you, now is not the time to remind him about using his walking feet.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You crouch down, taking his hand in yours, and notice his quick, shallow breaths. “We’re gonna breathe together, okay? Eyes on me.” You demonstrate inhaling for three seconds, holding for three seconds, and exhaling for three seconds. “Now let’s do it together.”

He hesitates but ultimately follows your lead, and you guide him until his breathing slows enough for him to sputter, “I t-tried to sit, b-but I c-couldn’t.”

You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s referring to, but Eddie fills you in. You feel the heat of anger creeping through your body, not just for the way your co-worker treated the sweet boy, but for her insolent approach to teaching as a whole.

“We can go to my classroom,” you offer, silently sighing in relief when the boy nods in agreement. “I don’t know if I have the supplies to make the same project as Ms. Marion, but if you have a few minutes, you can draw something now. I bet Mr. Will would love to help you; he’s a super-duper artist.”

Just as you’d predicted, Will jumps at the opportunity to help Harris with his impromptu art project, encouraging him to draw something that makes him happy. While he does that, you comb through the mess left behind from the Halloween party you’d thrown. You’d sooner toss one hundred cupcake wrappers in the trash before attempting a conversation with Eddie Munson. He’s simply too unpredictable; kind and thoughtful one day, harsh and guarded the next.

One of the wrappers in your hand drops to the floor and you reach forward to pick it up, pinching the pleated material between your pointer and middle fingers. You can feel Eddie’s eyes on your form, the way the backs of your thighs are slightly exposed when you bend over, and you stand up quickly.

“Are you the Magic School Bus lady?” He takes in your lavender dress with planets and stars stamped all over it. Oh. He wasn’t checking you out; he was just trying to figure out who you’d dressed up as. Good. Anything else would be inappropriate.

So why does a twinge of disappointment radiate through you?

You glance at your costume; with all of the commotion, you’d forgotten you’d even been wearing one “I mean, would I even be a teacher if I didn’t jump at the chance to be Ms. Frizzle?” You motion over to Will, decked out in green from head to toe with two yellow horns glued to a headband atop his mop of brown hair. “Have you met my trusty sidekick, Liz the Lizard?”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, Byers actually used to play in my D&D club back in high school. Made some pretty sick art pieces to liven up that dingy excuse for a room.”

You look between the two of them, trying to do the mental math. “Will, didn’t you say you’re twenty-four?” And if Eddie is thirty, that means…

“I, uh, had a little trouble graduating,” Eddie sheepishly admits, ruffling the back of his hair and offering a tight grimace. “But I got there eventually. Class of ‘86, baby!”

“Worked out for me,” Will shrugs with a grin, looking up from Harris’s drawing. “You were the best DM Hellfire ever had. Although, rumor has it that Erica Sinclair gave you a run for your money.”

Harris picks up a yellow marker, furiously scribbling a circle in the left-hand corner of his paper. You try peering over to see the whole drawing, but he presses his whole body against the table, successfully thwarting your plans. “No peeking!” he warns, not putting his feet back on the ground until you’ve averted your gaze. “‘S a surprise.”

You put your hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll be surprised.” You raise your eyebrows at Eddie, who shares a similar response in return.

“Dunno when he got so bossy,” he snorts before calling out to his son, “Har-Bear? Five more minutes. We gotta get home to trick-or-treat with Grampa Wayne.”

“Ooh, that sounds like fun!” you echo as Harris grabs a purple marker from the box. “What’s your favorite candy?”

“Hmm.” Harris uses his free hand–the one with the cast–to tap his chin, continuing to color with the other one. “M&Ms. But only the plain ones. Daddy doesn’t let me have the peanut ones ‘cause he says I could choke.”

You shoot a sly, knowing look at Eddie. “I’m sure that’s the only reason. Such a selfless father.” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head innocently. “And what do you do with all of these confiscated peanut M&Ms, Mr. Munson? Donate them?”

Eddie tucks his lips into his mouth to mask his grin. “Listen, the jig is gonna be up at some point,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, loud enough so you can hear but soft enough that Harris can’t. “Let me enjoy my free candy while it lasts.”

“No judgment here,” you say with a small laugh, “they’re one of my favorites, too.”

“TA-DA!” Harris shouts, startling you, Eddie, and Will. He holds up the construction paper and smiles widely. To anyone without kids–or who didn’t teach preschool for a living–it would look like a bunch of colorful scribbles. But you can tell that he’s drawn a group of people standing by a tree (or a really, really tall flower) underneath the sun.

“Wow, Harris! That’s amazing!” you clap your hands together to punctuate your enthusiasm. “Who are all those people?”

Harris’s pointer finger travels left to right across the paper as he names each person: “That’s me, Grampa Wayne, Daddy, you, and Mr. Will!” The stick figure that represents you has a purple scribble on it, which you realize must be the costume you’re wearing. “An’ we’re all smiling because we’re happy!” Sure enough, each person has a curved red line at the bottom of their face. But there’s something else that catches your eye.

All of the people have a small space between them, except for you and Eddie. The circle that Harris drew to represent your left hand overlaps with the circle that is Eddie’s right.

You glance at the real Eddie, and if he notices, he doesn’t give any indication. “I love it, buddy.” He takes the drawing and inspects it closely. “Yup, this one’s definitely going on the fridge when we get home.” He flicks the paper for good measure. “Go clean up the markers so we can head out, Axl Rose.”

Among the noise of markers clattering back in the bins, you lean in to Eddie, inadvertently inhaling the scent of his cigarettes and cologne. For a brief moment, you’re transported back to the night fate had led you to cross paths; the thought of his lips on your neck in the stairwell has you clenching your thighs and swallowing thickly as you murmur, “I can ask him to make a new one with just you, him, and his grandpa.”

Eddie shakes his head. “N-No. I like this one.” He lets one hand drop to his side and it grazes yours. His rings brush your knuckles, and you instinctively draw back at the sensation of the cool metal and the zing of heat that pulses at his light touch. “Sorry,” he mumbles, not making eye contact.

“S’okay.”

He blinks a few times and redirects his attention to his son. “What do you say to Mr. Will and Ms. Sweetheart for letting you do your art project?”

Harris’s little chest swells as he inhales deeply, storing up as much oxygen as he can fit in his lungs before bellowing, “THANK YOUUUUUUU!”

Eddie brings his palm to his ear canal, rotating his forefinger as though trying to repair a punctured eardrum. “Love the enthusiasm,” he says through gritted teeth. “Seriously, though. Thank you both so much.”

“Of course,” Will says warmly, picking up the marker bin and placing it in its space on the shelf.

“Anything for Harris.” You smile, motioning towards the little boy already by his father’s side. “Have fun trick-or-treating tonight, bud! I can’t wait to hear about all the yummy candy you got.”

Harris scrunches his nose in contemplation. “Are you going trick-or-treating, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Nah,” you laugh, “I’m gonna stay home and give candy to all the kids who come by.” And pray that Grandma doesn’t curse them out, you silently add.

“Oh.” Harris pauses, grabbing his dad’s hand. “Okay, bye!”

Eddie chuckles as his son pulls him towards the door. “That’s my cue. Um, Happy Halloween,” he adds awkwardly, waving once before disappearing down the hallway.

There’s so much more that he wants to say: you’re the best; you saved the day; you should be my son’s teacher instead of that old, bitchy bat. But he didn’t have time. Maybe another day. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Wayne arrives just a few minutes after Eddie and Harris get home. As soon as his gruff voice comes over the intercom, Harris excitedly buzzes him in. “Grampa Wayne’s here!” he yells, even though Eddie’s standing right next to him. He grabs the pillowcase from the couch; it was originally white, but after Eddie accidentally threw in a red sock with the white laundry, it’s tinted light pink.

No sooner does the older man cross the threshold into the apartment, Harris is trying to drag him out again. “Let’s go, before all the good candy is gone!” he whines. His eyebrows pinch together and he drops his grandfather’s hand. “Oh, wait, I gotta show you something.” He scampers off into the kitchen, and Wayne winces when he hears the rattle of magnets falling to the floor.

“I’m okay!” Harris calls out, running back with a piece of paper in his hand. “Look what I drawed at school today!” He gives Wayne the rundown of who’s who.

Wayne analyzes each person in the picture, stopping at the overlapping circles between you and Eddie. “This is great, Har-Bear,” he muses. “Are, um, are Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart holding hands?”

“Mhm,” Harris casually confirms, taking the drawing back. “‘Cause they’re married.”

Eddie chokes on air as Wayne does a double-take. “Congrats, Ed,” he jokes, clapping a hand to his nephew’s shoulder. “Gotta say, I thought I’d at least get an invite.”

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Harris, why do you think that Ms. Sweetheart and I are married?” He wracks his brain for answers, but he can’t come to a logical conclusion. Did I talk about her in my sleep? Oh, shit, what if it was when I had that dream—

“Because you gived her a present,” Harris says, eyes innocent and wide. “And when grown-ups love each other, they give each other presents.”

“Oh, he gave Ms. Sweetheart a present, huh?” On the surface, Wayne’s words are as innocuous as Harris’s, but Eddie hears the teasing buried just beneath.

Harris nods. “Mhm. He gived her a tape!”

“It was the Toni Braxton one that she came into the shop for…that day that, uh…” Eddie raises his eyebrows at his uncle, who nods in acknowledgment. He brings his focus back to his son. “It doesn’t mean that we’re married. People have to go on dates and fall in love before they get married.”

The young boy absorbs this information. “So you should go on dates and fall in love with Ms. Sweetheart!” His face lights up at the idea of it, and it breaks Eddie’s heart to let him down.

So, he doesn’t.

“Why don’t you hang that back up so we can get outta here and get you some candy, huh?” He forces a smile and watches his son scamper into the kitchen before turning back to Wayne and shaking his head.

Harris peels a magnet off of the fridge, the one Eddie bought him on their Daddy-Son day. It has a sea lion balancing a beach ball on its snout, with HAWKINS ZOO printed in bolded letters along the bottom.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he speaks directly to his drawing. “When Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love and get married, I’ll finally have a mommy.” He presses his hand flat against the paper as though he’s sealing in the wish. He stays like that for a moment until his dad calls his name, and he clutches his pillow case as they head out the door.

Eddie assumes that the love and marriage talk is done for the evening, but the feeling of relief doesn’t last long. The trio of Munson men is halfway down the stairwell when Wayne starts instigating. “Hey, Har, is Ms. Sweetheart pretty?”

“WAYNE!” Eddie grits his teeth and shoots a sharp look at his uncle. The last thing he needs is for Harris to get his hopes up about a blossoming romance between his dad and his former teacher.

“Oh, yeah!” Harris gleefully agrees, oblivious to the mounting tension. He grips the railing and jumps from the second to last step onto the tiled landing below. “Super pretty! Like a princess.”

The eldest Munson turns to Eddie. “Didja hear that? Pretty like a princess.”

“I heard him,” Eddie replies tersely.

“Daddy?”

No. Don’t ask me. Harris Wayne Munson, do not ask me what I think you’re going to—

“Do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty?”

Although he anticipated the question, Eddie still freezes. If he disagrees, Harris will inevitably want to know why not. And if he’s being honest with himself, he can’t name a single ugly thing about you.

He does think you’re pretty. He thinks you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. And even though he’s literally seen you naked, fully on display for him–a memory he revisits more often than he’s willing to admit–it’s the thought of what you did today that solidifies your beauty. The way you’d effortlessly calmed Harris down without Eddie even having to ask. The frown on his face almost instantly became a smile, the flow of his tears ceasing and turning into the giggles that brought sunlight into Eddie’s life. You did that.

Any woman can be sexy, but you? In that moment, you were perfect.

Fuck.

“Daddy? Hello?”

At the sound of Harris’s voice, Eddie realizes that he physically hasn’t moved from his spot on the stairs. His hand is gripping the banister so tightly that it leaves an imprint in his palm. “Yeah, buddy,” he manages through his Sahara Desert throat. “I think Ms. Sweetheart’s pretty.”

“Like a princess?” Wayne’s eyes twinkle mischievously. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to tease his nephew about a crush, and he’s not passing up this limited opportunity.

“Yeah. Like a princess.”

Education outsiders might think that Halloween is one of the worst days to be a teacher. The lethal combination of sugar and excitement barely contained in tiny costumed bodies seems like a recipe for disaster. But any teacher worth their salt will tell you that there is a day far, far worse than Halloween: November 1st.

On Halloween, there is the expectation for fun. There’s a costume parade, classroom trick-or-treating, and even a little party. The kids are out of control, but who cares? It’s Halloween.

But on November 1st, there is work to be done. And you’re expected to teach the months of the year to 10 four-year-olds who are suffering from candy hangovers and won’t stop asking why they can’t go trick-or-treating again today.

You and Will are preparing for battle as students trickle in, excited to show off the candy stashes they acquired the night before. Abby Carver cries because she ate her Reese’s cup and now she’s sad that it’s gone. Joshua Harrington is continuing to “sling webs” at the other kids despite your incessant reminders that he is no longer Spider-Man. A fight over a KitKat bar breaks out not even five minutes into the day, and you confiscate it before someone causes serious bodily harm.

Two fingers lightly tap on your shoulder—too high up to be a kid—and you whirl around with an irritated, “what?”

“Whoa,” Eddie says, concern etched into his otherwise soft features. He takes a small step back, nearly tripping over a rogue Lego that somehow made its way out of the toy area. He stumbles but catches his balance easily. “Everything okay?”

“‘S a warzone out here,” you try and joke, but you feel it fall flat. You’re too tired for humor. Grandma may not have yelled at the trick-or-treaters like you’d feared, but she did get increasingly angrier with each knock on the door. After the fifth time of her snarling at you to “shut the hell up” (like you could simultaneously be on both sides of the door), you’d relented and just put the candy bowl on the welcome mat, scribbling “TAKE ONE” on a yellow sticky note, adhering it to the plastic container.

Two decades earlier, Halloween at Grandma’s house had a completely different connotation. She’d have a little pizza party all set up for you, and she’d buy a big bag of your favorite candy, in case you didn’t get enough during your door-to-door quests. And she’d always let you watch whatever spooky movie your heart desired, regardless of your parents’ rules.

“That’s what grandmas are for,” she’d said with a wink, and the two of you curled up to watch Little Shop of Horrors. Her demeanor matched the hokey magnet on her fridge that read, If I knew how fun my grandkids would be, I would’ve had them first. You’d stay like that until you both fell asleep, only being roused by your parents arriving to pick you up. The good old days, before Grandma waking up involved watching the confusion in her eyes as she tried and failed to place you.

“C-Can I help you with something?” Your guard goes up immediately when you notice that Harris isn’t with him. The time you’d spent together after school yesterday had been nice, fun, even, but you couldn’t trust that today would be the same. Not after what happened a few short weeks ago.

“I, um…I just swung by to give you this.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his denim jacket; it’s the same one that he lent to Harris when he’d forgotten his at home. A flash of yellow paper catches your eye, and he unfurls his palm to reveal a small bag of peanut M&Ms. “You said they were one of your favorites, right?”

You look at the treat, not willing to reach out and grab it. What if it’s a joke? An elaborate ploy to reel you in, just to shout “gotcha” when you finally let your walls come down?

“Are they poisoned or something?” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you spike them with Ex-Lax?”

Eddie’s lips part in surprise before he collects himself. “Guess I deserve that,” he mumbles. “But, no. They’re not. I swear on James Hetfield’s life.” He drags his fingernail over his heart in an X-formation.

You take the bag, inspecting it for any sign of tampering, but you come up short. The edges are sealed, and there are no pinpricks as far as your eyes can see. “Dipped into Harris’s stash for me?”

“Hey, these bad boys are technically mine for the taking until he figures out that he can eat them without dying.” Eddie chuckles lightly, peering at you through impossibly long lashes. “But, yeah, I was hoping you’d accept these as part of my apology. Or apologies, I guess. For, uh, for not calling when I said I would, and all of the awful shi—awful things I said to you.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he steps closer and says, “I am so fucking sorry.”

You make a small tear in the bag, tapping it against your palm until an M&M falls out. Popping the blue candy in your mouth, you allow the shell to start dissolving on your tongue before crunching on the peanut, hoping you can process what he’s said by the time you’re finished chewing.

This is what you’ve been waiting for—an actual heartfelt apology. His brown eyes reflect nothing but shame and remorse, and you can tell by the way that he’s fidgeting with his rings that he’s anxiously awaiting your reply.

His vulnerability softens you slightly, and considering you haven’t keeled over after ingesting the candy, you throw him a bone.

“This fun size bag covers the ‘not calling’ part, but I’m gonna need a lot more candy if you want me to forgive you for what you said at the music store.” You keep your tone light; teasing, even, but there’s a layer of truth to it. He can’t merely waltz into your classroom with a gift and expect you to forget his hurtful words.

Eddie nods, his frizzy curls brushing the tops of his denim-clas shoulders. “I know. I’ve said some pretty terrible things in my life, but that might’ve been the worst. And, um,” he fumbles his words, desperately searching for the right ones. Semantics has never been his forte. “You didn’t deserve that. It’s not true; your grandma didn’t want to forget you. And…neither do I.” When you raise your eyebrows, he starts to backtrack. “Because you’re so great with Harris; like, you understand him and stuff. He’s always talking about you.”

Daddy, do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty? The question replays like a song he can’t shake from his head, its melody familiar but the notes still keeping him on edge. Pretty like a princess, only instead of saving her, I’m the one who needs to be rescued. So much for Prince Charming, huh?

The M&M melts in your mouth while you formulate a response to his candid admission. Sweetness seeps into your taste buds as you try to straddle the line between careful consideration and overthinking. Speak too quickly and you might say something you’ll regret. Take too long and you’ll make this even more awkward.

“W-Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Short, simple, to the point. Your words are slightly slurred by the candy obstruction, but what else is there to say? You could add that you forgive him, but you’re truthfully not sure that you do. His words scarred, had taken your already mangled self-worth and snapped it into pieces, and so did his reasoning for hurting you. Despite the love and kindness you’d shown his son, Eddie had fully believed that you were responsible for spreading personal information that would wound him. It was exactly as Jeff had said: Eddie struck below the belt at the first sign of conflict, so determined to protect himself that he didn’t even realize that he was attacking the people on his side.

The sound of books clattering to the floor snatches your attention from him, and you whip your head to your little classroom library to see two kids standing over a pile of fallen books, guilty looks stamped on their faces. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurt out, dashing off to assess the damage. You’ve never been so grateful for your students causing mischief.

The hour hand crawls to the number two; at one point, you swore the clock was moving backwards. The chaos of the morning was only a preview of the rest of the day’s fiascos, but you and Will had navigated as best as you could.

“Jesus,” he murmurs once the kids have all been dismissed, gingerly rubbing his temples, “that was brutal. I can handle the day after Halloween; I can handle Fridays, but when they coincide? Nope, never again.” He slumps into a chair dramatically, letting his arms drape over the sides.

“Gonna have a glass of wine when you get home?” you joke, wiping Play-Doh residue from a tabletop.

Will nods. “Or a whole bottle.” His focus shifts to your desk, and he nods his chin in that direction. “I see you have something to look forward to tonight, too.”

You follow his gaze, widening your eyes when you see the object he’s referring to. A bag of peanut M&Ms–much bigger than the one you’d inhaled this morning–sits on top of your desk calendar; resting next to it is a cassette. You walk over, curiosity getting the better of you. The cassette is Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction; you recognize the iconic cover as soon as it comes into view. It’s not your usual music choice, but you’ll listen to almost anything.

There’s a piece of paper taped to the giant yellow M&M bag, folded in equal triads. Messily scrawled across the front in black ink is Ms. Sweetheart. You gently pull the adhesive loose and open the letter, nervously running your forefinger across the irregular edge where it was obviously torn from a composition notebook.

Fun size mistake=fun size bag of candy

Family size mistake=family size bag of candy

I’m really good at fucking things up, but really bad at fixing them. I wish I could say that I didn’t mean to hurt you, but we both know that I did.

You don’t have to forgive me, but I need you to know how sorry I am.

-Eddie

P.S. Not sure if hard rock is your thing, but I saw this at work and it reminded me of the kindness you showed our favorite little Axl Rose yesterday.

“Who’s it from?” Will asks, breaking into your thoughts. “A secret admirer?” He brings his clasped hands to his cheek in mock dreaminess.

You manage a laugh as you fold the note back up and tuck it under the calendar. “If it is, he’s really bad at it, because he signed his name.” When did he even sneak in here to do this? Kind of scary that someone could walk in and you didn’t even notice.

“Aha! So it is a guy!” Will pumps his fist triumphantly, though you’re not quite sure what he thinks he’s won.

“Just Eddie Munson, thanking us for letting Harris draw here yesterday.”

It’s not a total lie, but Will sees right through it. “Uh-huh. Thanking us? So that note is also for me? Can I read it?” He starts towards your desk, outstretched hand reaching towards where you’d tried to hide it, but you playfully swat them away.

You glance at the clock and frown. “If you leave a little early, I won’t tell anyone.”

Will flips you off; over the last two months, you two had developed a sibling-esque relationship that came out more once the kids had left for the day. He grabs his backpack from the supply closet and slings it over his shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m exhausted, or I’d stick around and keep bothering you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes, knowing full well that he’s itching to leave regardless. “Gotta save up your energy for when Marshall visits.”

Will blushes at the mention of his long-distance boyfriend’s name. He still wasn’t out to many people, but when you’d casually mentioned the date Jess had with a girl named Robin, he’d felt comfortable opening up to you. “I can’t wait!” His grin is so wide you swear it’ll stretch right off of his face. “Thanks again; you’re the best.”

That leaves you alone with your gigantic bag of candy, a Guns N’ Roses cassette, and an apology that you have no idea what to do with.

Once again, Eddie Munson has given you more questions than answers.

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