#rock where snow gathers

[stus-warrior-designs]

How Sharptooth only managed to take his tail and nothing else is shocking

[skyscratch-wc]

[lightningwaters]

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | iv.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The warmth of the sun caresses  your eyelids as they quake open. You groan, stirring under the sheets. But instantly, you freeze. Pain cascades through your body. A soreness starting at the apex of your thighs and radiating through your limbs has you struggling to move.

Still, you do it, pushing past the weird feeling embedded in your flesh. 

Your brows collide as you attempt to remember. 

Where are you? How did you get here?

The damask walls are unfamiliar and the gigantic bed even more so. You comb through your memories but nothing surfaces, a violent headache assailing your senses whenever you think too hard. You squint at light pouring through the half-drawn velvet curtains. You peel off the heavy blanket, gaze traveling downward. Ice spreads through your veins. 

You’re shocked to find yourself stark naked, skin speckled with darkening bruises. Even worse, a tiny crimson spot stains the white sheet covering the mattress. You shudder. 

Your breaths start to quicken. Quivering, you grip the sheet, twisting it between your fingers as disbelief rocks through your core. The blood on it seems to enlarge, painting your whole vision red.

As you inspect the room, noticing the state of the rumpled bedding and your clothes lying in a heap near the bed, denial clashes with the blatant truth. 

It can’t be. Yet all the evidence is staring right at you. 

You start to hyperventilate. 

The door cracks open and your head jerks to the side. Coriolanus’ towering frame fills the doorway. There’s a silver tray in his hands and the smell of coffee and fresh toast rise from it.

You take in his tousled blonde locks and his half-unbuttoned blouse. He looks more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him. A gentle smile hovers on his lips. But, as he registers your distressed state, it vanishes. He rushes to you, placing the tray on the mahogany nightstand near the bed.

Face growing hot, you tug the blanket so it conceals your nakedness.

“Hey, take it easy, princess,” he whispers, brows knitting as his hands reach your cheeks to cup them.

Chest rising and falling at a fast pace, you stutter, “C-Coryo, what happened last night?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Concern sparkles in his cobalt orbs, pellucid as crystal in the morning light.

He caresses your face and gingerly says, “It was…a bit of a wild night.”

You scowl at his response. It’s not what you’re asking and he knows it. 

You lick your lips, gathering the tiny embers of courage sizzling within you.

You don’t want to ask what you’re about to ask. Hell, you might not even want to know. But you have to. You have to because there’s a pit of discomfort and confusion within you and it’s swelling by the second.

You take a deep breath and inquire, “Why am I naked? Why…Why is there blood on the sheets?”

His frown accentuates.

“Princess…”

You nudge his hands away from your face as your patience dissolves.

“Tell me,” you emphasize.

His jaw ticks at your reaction. He then releases a deep sigh.

“You drank a bit too much. We both did.”

A sinking feeling blooms in your stomach. Your eyes grow saucer-wide as the words are snatched from your tongue.

You’re statue-still as Coriolanus’ fingertips wander over your arm, stroking up and down lightly. 

“You were having so much fun, genuine fun.” His voice softens. “It was the first time in a long time I saw you smiling this much.” He pauses, holding your gaze. “And I suppose…there were budding feelings and we got carried away.” Your jaw drops. “You told me you needed me. And I had quite a few drinks myself.” He chuckles but it’s bereft of humor. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t remember all of it either, just you begging for me and screaming my name.”

Warmth gathers in your cheeks. 

“God. You and I, we…”

Coriolanus nods. “Yes.”

Tears well up in your eyes. Coriolanus wipes each of them, uttering tenderly, “I know you didn’t want it to happen that way, but at least it was with me, right?”

You’re at a loss for words. Sure, it’s better for it to be Coryo than a stranger…at least in some way. But as naive and old-fashioned as it is, you wanted to save yourself for your first love, for your future husband. You looked forward to your first experience being one of absolute love and trust…one you actually could cherish and, most crucially, remember. 

Now it’s forever ruined. 

Your heart plummets.

“I need to go home. I need to-” Clutching the sheet against your bare form, you try to climb off the bed. 

Coriolanus seizes your shoulders, easily cinching you to your spot.

You glower at him, puzzled and frustrated. 

Still holding your shoulders, he explains, “Like this, princess? Are you sure that this is a good idea?” His soft inflection drips concern. He bends closer to you. “Your parents, William…What would they think?”

This gives you pause.

You lower your head, pondering his words.

Dread mounts within you as you realize how right he is. You could spin falsehoods to your parents until you’re blue in the face but they’ll know something is off the second they lay their eyes on you. Especially your mom.

One look at you and she’ll guess exactly what occurred. Or some of it at least.

It’s been like this since you were brought into their home as a little girl.

Nothing ever gets past Demetria Plinth’s keen eye.

Then who knows what they might ask you to do to preserve your honor and dignity? 

The thought makes your insides twist in knots.

You tossed away your virtue out of wedlock, you betrayed William, you besmirched your family name. You’re a disgrace.

There aren’t a million options in cases such as yours, and it’s a scenario you’d like to avoid. 

It guts you to imagine not only ruining your life, but Coriolanus’ as well. All because of one stupid drunken mistake. 

Besides, while it might be foolish and presumptuous in your current predicament, you still want to marry William. He’s the man of your dreams. You suppose it’s just a matter of whether or not he’ll even want you now.

Folding your knees, you tuck them against your chest and wrap your arms around your ankles. Tears stream down your face as you quaver, “I don’t know what to do.”

Silence hangs in the air as you weep, Coriolanus rubbing your shoulder in quiet support.

After a while, he suggests, “You could come to my place.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

His thumb presses along your collarbone.

“Just for a few days. It’ll give you time to rest, get yourself together.”

“No, Coryo, I can’t ask you…” You shake your head, guilt clawing at your heart. “I’m horrible and I should-”

“You’re far from horrible,” he interrupts, placing his long fingers on the side of your face. “But you need a little time, right?”

You give a shaky nod, despising yourself. You’re a coward. Instead of facing your actions and their consequences, you’re running away, hiding. 

“Just let me handle everything, princess.” His knuckles sweep over your cheek, collecting more fresh tears. “I’ll take care of it and it’ll be like none of it ever happened.”

“W-Where are we right now?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from the storm of anguish raging inside you.

“Oh, this is one of the many spare rooms of the Dovecote estate,” he replies casually, though you discern a hint of something. Disdain, perhaps? 

“Clemensia…”

“I talked to her,” he reassures. “Don’t worry, she won’t tell a soul.”

You can’t imagine Clemensia doing anything to help you but you suppose, for Coryo, she would.

“She also made sure to quell any rumors before they can start.”

Your forehead creases. “Rumors?”

He gives your hair absent strokes as he sighs. “People know how close we are, princess.” Your heart skips a beat. He angles your chin upward, his gaze confident. “Don’t you worry, okay? I’ll take care of you. All you need to do is trust me.”

You acquiesce and it elicits a broad, tight-lipped smile from him.

He rises from the bed.

“How about you grab a bite?” he offers, bending to graze his lips over your forehead. “The car will be here in less than an hour.”

A car, already? Part of you is astounded by his swiftness but your distress overtakes everything else. You should count your blessings that no one else knows about last night.

You take perfunctory bites of the toast on the tray and sip a few gulps of the tepid coffee.

Once more, you try to remember. You wince when another throbbing headache hits you. 

All you can see are Coriolanus’ bright blue eyes and his smile. Nothing else emerges. 

So, you give it a rest. Maybe in time, everything will come back to you. 

For now, you just need to trust your friend. 

You shroud yourself in silence the entire drive to Coriolanus’ home. He keeps smiling at you from the seat near yours and you return it meekly. While you know it’s not his fault, you find it nearly impossible to meet his gaze, an uncomfortable feeling pitting in your stomach whenever you do. Anxiety bounces in your gut when the Corso comes into view. 

You haven’t been here very often, though your dad often spoke of moving here, where most of Panem’s elite resides. The thought of leaving your childhood home doesn’t thrill you but you’re keenly aware of what the Corso represents in Strabo’s eyes. The sign that the Plinth family made it. And to add this kind of feather in his cap, your father would move you and your mother to a smaller place in a heartbeat. You know he is only waiting for the paperwork to be signed.

It’s something you’ve tried to forget as of late. And now you’re cruelly reminded of it.

The car comes to a stop in front of an antique apartment building. Your eyes wander above the window. Piles of rubble still sit amidst the place, a reminder of the Dark Days perhaps.

Coriolanus opens your door and offers you his hand. You accept it and stagger out of the car.

He removes his coat and throws it on your shoulders, swaddling your shivering frame. You’re thankful. You’re still wearing the same red dress from the night before and it hardly shields you from the cold. 

You can’t help but soak in every detail as you and Coryo take the elevator to the penthouse. You sometimes wondered how the wealthiest in Panem lived. Your parent’s house is nice but this is different. Every inch of the building from floor to ceiling screams luxury.

As soon as you’ve crossed the doorstep of the penthouse, slender arms wrap you in a warm hug.

Tigris’ eyes glimmer as they rest on you.

“Coryo said you’re going to stay with us for a while,” she chimes. “How wonderful.”

“Only for a day or two,” you correct.

She squeezes your hands. “Then we’ll have to make the best of it.”

An old woman appears from an adjacent room. She strolls to you, a small smile etched on her lips. Uttering no word, she presses a white rose between your hands. You examine it. It looks exactly like the ones Coriolanus sometimes wears on his breast pocket. 

“Is this your grandma?” you whisper as the old woman wanders off, humming a tune you vaguely recognize as Panem’s anthem.

Tigris’ lips curl skywards. “Yes, but we call her grandma’am.” She giggles. “It’s much more distinguished.” Sadness glistens in her amber gaze. “She isn’t…all the way here these days, but she still tends to her roses.”

Coriolanus wedges himself between the two of you.

“She’s tired, Tigris. You have to let her rest,” he informs.

“Of course. We’ll catch up tomorrow. Promise?”

You give a weary smile. “Promise.”

“I’m so very glad you’re here,” she says, hugging you again before taking her leave.

Coriolanus guides you through the apartment, his hand curled around the small of your back.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

He takes you to an opulent room with a massive bed in the middle. 

“I had a bath drawn for you,” he announces.

Your eyes round as you note the copper clawfoot tub sitting near the bed. Stunned, you approach it. Your fingers drag along the edge of the tub.

Flower petals float atop the steaming water. 

“I’ll leave you to it, princess.” He drops a quick peck on your forehead before disappearing.

You lock the door as soon as he leaves and peel the crimson dress off your body. You’ve half a mind to destroy it once you return home. Your mother would probably be appalled at that considering its price…but you can’t see yourself wearing it ever again.

The water’s burning hot when you plop inside the tub. You welcome it.

You bring your knees to your chest as you stare at the rose petals. You wish your worries could melt away in the water the way dirt and grime can.

But no such luck. So you’re left contemplating the tiny ripples form above the surface as you swallow yet another surge of tears threatening to spill.

A soft high-pitched voice draws you back to consciousness. Groggily, you sit up in the bed.

Tigris’ beaming face greets you.

“Are you okay? You slept past dinner. Coryo said not to disturb you.”

You look around.

Stars pepper the night sky outside the stained glass windows. You can’t believe you took such a long nap. You vaguely remember burying yourself between the sheets after your bath. You didn’t want to think, or even be awake. You wished for oblivion. So you let sleep ensnare you as soon as your head hit the pillows.

Your features scrunch. Your memory’s still foggy, but the headaches have abated at least.

“The maid can warm you a plate if you like,” Tigris offers.

You shake your head. You have no appetite.

“I just hate that I overslept.”

Sympathy dawns on the young woman’s face.

“Your body must have needed it. Coryo said you guys partied pretty hard last night?”

Your heart wrenches. But you try not to let anything show on your face, giving a placid nod.

“Besides, you don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” she inquires.

Your stomach sinks. You were supposed to meet with William today, but you can’t imagine seeing him in your current state. 

“No, I don’t,” you lie.

Your gaze meanders about the room. Surprise ripples through you at the wooden trunk you detect in a corner of the room by the wardrobe.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, Coryo had your things brought over,” Tigris replies casually.

You gasp. “But I won’t be staying long. He shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”

“He said he wants you to be as comfortable as possible.”

A deep, familiar voice echoes in the room. “She’s right. After all, our home is your home, princess.”

Your eyes find Coriolanus'. His tall frame fills the door. He looks like his usual self now, his blond locks neatly slicked back and his outfit impeccable.

Guilt creeps inside you following his statement.

“I should warn my parents,” you muse aloud as you rise from the bed. 

Coriolanus shares a look with his cousin.

“Tigris, can you give us a moment?”

She nods before heading for the door.

You try to do the same, panic swelling inside you, but Coriolanus blocks your way as he stands before the door. He towers over you with ease, hands clasped at his back as he leans against the doorjamb. 

You give him a puzzled look.

“I already sent them a letter,” he reveals.

“Oh,” you mumble.

“I just told them you’re with us and you’re fine.” He smiles. “It’s the least I could do.”

“The least?” you scoff. “You’ve already done so much for me, Coryo.”

“Like I said, I don’t want you to worry about a thing.”

He licks his lips, scrutinizing you a while before continuing, “You’re not just a guest. You’re family. You can stay for as long as necessary.”

This makes tears spring to your eyes. You dip your head but his digits sneak below your chin, tilting it upward so your gazes meet.

“What’s wrong?”

Your voice comes out a watery croak.

“You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” you sob, tears skipping down your face freely now.

You erected a fence around your emotions and now the dam is shattering.

He slants his head. “Why not?”

You don’t reply, a flood of tears blurring your vision. You grow overwhelmed, unable to utter a word as strangled sobs spill from your throat.

Coriolanus’ arms coil around your frame. He cradles the back of your head, tucking it against his chest.

His dulcet timbre breezes over the top of your head.

“It’s okay, princess. You’re safe. You’re always safe with me,” he whispers, letting your tears drench his blouse.

[theonewiththefanfics]

Seal It With a Kiss (one-shot)

Synopsys: After a looting session goes wrong, Astarion and Reader have to face the music and confront their feelings. Whatever they might be.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings: talks of blood, injuries, swearing, mentions of abuse, but nothing explicit

Word count: 3234

A/N: I have not played Baldur's Gate 3 (I don't own a PS or a PC where to play it. all of this is based on the info gathered online and through Neil's own gameplay etc. Please be kind :) )

The light was too bright. And the ground was too hard. And the pillow too tough and lumpy. And why did Y/N feel so hot when it was literally snowing? And, actually, when had it started snowing? From bright blue skies, might she add?

Slowly, haziness dissipated from her eyes, and the world around came into sharp, painful focus. The light was too bright because half of her surroundings were on literal fire. The ground was too hard because she was half on rubble that once was a palace roof, and the tough, lumpy pillow was a rock her head had smashed against, while the snow was ashes flowing down, covering everything, including her, in a grey layer of soot, the sky peeking in from the hole above.

Although her sight was clearing, a sharp ringing pierced her ears. Or was it shouting?

A shadow crossed the sky, and above her, she could see their resident vampiric elf’s mouth moving.

“ – were you thinking?!” Finally, her ears started to clear as well. “You absolute imbecile! Why would you do that?!”

Y/N just groaned in response, as her memories came back in quick flashes. Everyone was arguing about where they should look for another magical artefact, Astarion shooting down what Gale had proposed, Wyll trying to make a sensible plan while Lae’Zel interrupted Shadowheart at any given moment. A deep rumble from the depths of the abandoned palace they were in silenced them all, Karlach throwing them a worried expression. And then the whole building exploded.

On instinct, Y/N had pushed Astarion as far away as she could before the ceiling came crashing down on top of her. It was nothing short of a miracle, she had managed to survive. Bruised, battered, no doubt with broken bones, but alive nonetheless. Maybe she’d have to thank a goddess or two. That was if Astarion didn’t rip her to pieces beforehand with how furious he looked.

Slowly Y/N tried to lift herself onto her forearms, and for all his admonishments, Astarion was quick to crouch down and help her, putting his arms under her pits and letting her rest against his chest.

“Oh dear,” she mumbled, noticing a large bannister lying across her leg. “That’s not good.”

“Not good?!” Astarion practically shrieked, his hands tightening around her ribs. “How hard did you hit your fucking head? This is so beyond not good I can’t even think of a level!”

Y/N winced at his tone. “Can you stop shouting, please? Gods, my head is splitting.”

“Oh, is it now? It would be quite the fucking miracle if it wasn’t, seeing as a whole fucking palace just toppled on you!”

“Quit being so dramatic and help get that thing off me! Where’re the rest?”

“Frankly, I don’t fucking care right now!” Astarion gently laid Y/N back down and went to the large boulder.

His arms strained as he lifted the piece of the pillar, her eyes widening at the display of strength.

She sometimes forgot how strong Astarion actually was, how easily he could snap her neck with just a twist of his hands if he so wished while Y/N allowed him to drink from her. But he was always gentle instead, with how he held her nape, fingers soothingly pressing into her scalp and knuckles brushing against her collarbones once he was done in a sweet gesture of thanks.

As quickly as she could, Y/N scooted from under the rubble, Astarion dropping the boulder back unceremoniously, and he was back by her side in a second, an arm wrapping around her waist, so she could lean on him.

“We have to find the others,” Y/N hissed as she stood. Her whole body screamed in pain, but they had to get out of the now-ruined palace, lest another explosion happen.

“They can find their own way out,” Astarion grunted, as he led them towards the exit.

“Astarion!”

“No!” He snapped his head to look at Y/N, and his scarlet eyes held such a desperate gaze in them, that she pinched her lips shut. “I will knock you out if I have to. I am not letting you get hurt again.”

“Astarion, they’re our friends,” Y/N’s voice was gentle. “We have to help them if we can.”

For a moment, Astarion truly looked like he might just throw her over his shoulder and march out of the place. But then he sighed, hanging his head in defeat before looking at her with pain distorting his features. “Why do you always have to be so good?”

Something tugged at her heart. That expression on his face, as if it physically put him in agony to lead them around the ruined palace in search of their companions, as he flinched and tightened his hold on her whenever something crackled, ready to throw his own body atop hers, in case something happened. It wasn’t selfishness, not one bit. Something deeper lay beneath Astarion’s reluctance.

It took them a while to find their party, but luckily no one was injured, and Y/N was the worst one off.  Shadowheart was by her side in an instant, giving her a healing potion.

“Should keep you set until we get back to camp.” She patted her shoulder. “I’ll heal you fully once we’re out of immediate danger.”

“Thank you.” Y/N smiled at the cleric.

She was just about to ask Astarion whether he was alright, but the vampire had already detached himself and was glaring at the ground, arms crossed over his chest ten feet away from her.

Y/N couldn’t deny – it stung. He’d been so worried just a few moments ago, yet now he couldn’t even look at her?

Her feet worked on their own accord, moving in his direction, but the way he turned his back to her, told her all she needed to know – he didn’t want to talk.

Pain shot through her heart, and it was definitely not because of the explosion, but Y/N respected his privacy, so she didn’t approach him any further, even though they always, always, walked next to one another.

“We should head back,” she spoke up, eyes remaining on Astarion’s taut back. “Maybe get some rest as well. We still have tomorrow anyway to search this place.”

When Astarion left the palace without even waiting to see if anyone was following, Y/N could do nothing but sigh and depart as well.

The walk to where they’d set up their camp was uncharacteristically quiet, especially from the pale elf’s side. He’d usually fill their travels with mindless talk and sarcastic quips, but this time around, he hung towards the back of their group and was as mum as a grave. He didn’t even comment on whatever Gale was saying, which made Y/N all the more uneasy.

She couldn’t wrap her mind around why he’d become so distant all of a sudden. What’d happened at the palace was nothing unusual. They risked their lives on the daily, saving others and themselves, so why in the world was Astarion so pissed about this, she had no clue.

Karlach leaned to the side, watching as the vampire entered his tent, closing the laces immediately. “Fangs is quite in a bad mood. Anything we should know about, soldier?”

Y/N huffed. “Probably broke a nail or something. In any case – nothing important enough to be acting the way he is.”

“Maybe I should go and – “

She put a palm on Karlach’s shoulder, stopping her, and giving her friend a wry smile. “I’ll talk to him. Better he’s angry at me and only me, not someone else as well. Apparently, I’ve pissed him off as is.”

“You sure?” the tiefling asked.

“Yeah.” Y/N nodded. “I think we need to have a talk anyway.”

With a “good luck” from Karlach, she sighed and steeled herself against whatever the vampire would throw her way. She unlaced the ties and lifted the flap to the side. With crossed arms, she entered Astarion’s tent, only to be greeted by his back as he stubbornly kept looking at a book in his hands, not even acknowledging her.

“Are you seriously pouting right now?” Y/N asked after a minute of silence.

“I’m not pouting, I’m brooding. There’s a difference.”

“Well, does brooding involve giving the silent treatment, or can we talk?”

Astarion threw a withering gaze over his shoulder. “What is there you want to talk about? Unless it’s an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”

Y/N let out an exasperated huff. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I won’t apologise for saving your life.”

“By putting your own life in danger?!” Astarion spun around, throwing the tome he’d been holding onto his bedroll.

“Comes with the territory.” She shrugged. “You should know how it is.”

“Letting a whole building collapse on top of you is very different to knocking a blade out of the way!”

“Why are you so angry with me?” Y/N raised her voice, matching Astarion’s furious tone. “I saved your life!

“I didn’t ask for you to!”

She let out a disbelieving scoff. “Well, sucks to be you then! Because I was not just going to let you get crushed underneath all that rubble! Your life is just as important as everyone else’s!”

“Not to me! Not when it comes to you!”

Now that shut her up completely, her lips pinched in a thin line, eyes wide in shock. She and Astarion were friends, at least Y/N would've liked to think so. She most definitely had developed deeper feelings than that, but would only admit to it over her own dead body. The thought of Astarion’s rejection made her want to crumple into a small heap, but his reaction put thoughts in her head that maybe, just maybe, her feelings weren’t one-sided.

“What do you suppose I would do if you – if – if,” he stumbled on his words. “If I had to go on without you? If you were no longer with us… with me…”

“Astarion…”

“Do you understand how it felt to see you go down?” He sighed, hanging his head. “When I saw the roof caving in and then felt you push me away before you vanished beneath rubble and dust and ash… I’ve never been more terrified in all of my life, two hundred years of which were spent under the rule of an absolute sadist, where horrors awaited around every corner.”

His eyes bore nothing but pain and despair he’d felt in that moment. “I heard everyone else screaming - Shadowheart calling out, Wyll and Karlach making sure Gale and Lae’Zel were alright but nothing… not a single whisper from your voice. You tell me I’m pouting, but all I can see when I close my eyes is you… how you would look… dead. Your eyes closed forever, your blood spilling out of your body and I… I have to stand and watch as I am unable to save you.

“But I’m alright.” Y/N stepped up to him, taking one of his palms in hers, and squeezing it. “Astarion, I’m alive, and I’m fine.”

“But you almost weren’t!” he hissed, pulling her closer, bringing their clasped hands to rest against his chest. “And all I would have been left to do was wait for the dust to settle and dig out your broken body. You would have condemned me to eternity without you… I just almost lost the person I love... and that fear is something I never wish to experience again.”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat at such an honest confession. “I umm I didn’t know you felt that way about me.” Friendship was one thing, but love? That threw her completely off balance.

“Feel? Felt? What does it matter anymore? Clearly, it’s not like it’s reciprocated.” He scoffed, back the mask of bravado and not caring, but Y/N wasn’t having any of it.

“It matters to me.” Her brows furrowed. “It matters a great deal to me. Why do you think I did what I did, exactly? Because it’s fun? Because I enjoy blocks of buildings dropping down on me? Because it’s such an absolute delight to realise - if I don’t push you out of the way, you will be in direct line of fire, and I might lose you?”

Astarion’s mouth opened and closed. “I didn’t – I –“

“No!” Y/N pointed an accusatory finger at him. Now she was angry. “You don’t get to play the "I'm in love with you" card and be angry with me. Not if you dare tell me how I feel without asking first!”

“You...” He shook his head, a crease to his brow. “You never indicated you held anything more than… friendly affections towards me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Yes, because I let everyone in this party use me as their personal snack each night. I’d say that should’ve been your first clue.”

“I’d say you’re a full-course meal, my darling, but I understand the sentiment.” And though back was his usual air of sarcasm, a deep vulnerability could be seen shining in his crimson eyes as he weaved a gentle hand to wrap around the small of her waist, brushing underneath her sleep tunic to rest against her skin.

Cold met warm, and Y/N gasped as a shiver ran down her spine. His slender fingers dug into her back as he pulled Y/N closer, their breaths mingling, and if they only moved just a couple of centimetres, lips would touch.

“I just – I cannot stand and watch you throw your life away for someone like me. The thought of your brightness being extinguished because of it… I couldn’t bear it.”

Y/N tilted her head to the side. “Someone like who exactly? Someone who I’ve grown to look at as my dearest confidant? Someone who I know will always tell me the truth and be there if I cannot handle it? Or someone who so deftly has stolen my heart, he cannot even comprehend it’s been his the whole time? Besides, even if it wasn’t reciprocated...” She played with the string of his shirt, “you can’t tell me to be more careful, to not save you when you do the exact same thing.”

“How can I not?” Astarion’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, and for once, he seemed to want the moment to reflect what truly lay in his soul. “You make my heart beat on its own. If I had to give up walking in the sun for the rest of my life, I would. As long as it meant you were safe and happy. I’d even gladly go back to Cazador if you were on the line. Without a second to spare.”

“Don’t you dare fucking say that!"

“But it’s true.”

“Not if I can help it,” Y/N grumbled, tightening her hold on his shirt by his hips, pulling him closer like she had to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. “He’s not ever going to get near you. I’ll level the whole of Baldur’s Gate if I have to.”

“And I am being honest when I say, if I had to choose between you being unhurt or me being imprisoned, being used as I was, I would always put you first.”

Y/N was on the verge of tears. “You listen to me you pompous blood-sucking elf – you will do no such thing. Whatever comes, we both will get through it. And Cazador will have his head ripped from his shoulders, but not before I gouge his eyes out, and do every single vile thing he did to you back onto him. I will skin him alive and then throw him in a tomb with nothing but cockroaches. Let him drink his own blood and see how he likes it.” She shuddered, taking in a deep breath. “Your life is not worth less than mine. Don’t you ever dare think that way.”

A watery chuckle escaped Astarion, and his eyes brimmed with silvery tears. “Can I kiss you?” He didn’t dare lift his gaze, focusing on their intertwined fingers, resting against where his heart no doubt would have been rattling a crazy rhythm if it still beat.

“If you want to.” Y/N’s reply was as quiet as his question had been, but there was no teasing in her tone.

His eyes flashed for a second, but she didn’t get a full grasp on what it was she saw. Maybe surprise. Maybe gratitude? She couldn’t tell really, all she knew was that the emotion caused a pang to ring to her very core. She’d kill Cazador with her own bloody hands.

“I want it.” He nodded. “More than anything.”

“More than my blood? That first night you almost drained me dry,” Y/N’s words, though true, held no malice, only gentle teasing.

“And how do you know that first time I wasn’t trying to wake up the sleeping princess with a magical true love’s kiss? The feeding just ended up being a bonus.” He brushed her nose with his, and couldn’t help the way his own lips turned up as Y/N smiled.

“Well, this sleeping princess would’ve punched you in the nose, had you awoken her for such silly things. Besides, you did miss my lips.”

Astarion chuckled, relishing the way her body pressed against his. “But I am allowed to awaken you to drink from you?”

“Well...” She nudged his nose with hers now. “Seeing as you become absolutely unbearable when hungry, I think for my own peace and everyone else’s, that does count as a vital reason to rouse me."

Gentle hands cupped her cheeks. “Allow me to demonstrate then how vital a kiss can be to one’s survival.”

And then their lips met.

She’d never admit it out loud, for his ego would surely grow larger than it already was, but it did feel like a magical kiss of life. Her whole body sang as his fingers slid against the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, almost like Astarion was afraid she’d pull back, but she could never. Not when he slipped his tongue past her lips, and her knees almost crumbled.

Y/N had to tighten her hold on his waist to not completely lose it, and she could feel the smirk growing on the vampire’s face, as he realised just how incapacitated his kiss had made her. He nipped at the bottom of her lip and relished in the small whimper he got to devour.

After what felt like ages, they pulled back, panting, but not going too far as Astarion rested his forehead against hers.

Y/N smiled. “True love’s kiss you say?”

“It feels like it,” he mumbled, allowing himself to indulge in the tender touch of her fingers skimming up and down his back. “Though I don’t know much about… love… I’d like to experience it with you. All of it. The good and the bad that might come with it.”

“I’ll be here,” Y/N promised. “As long as you want me to, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And if I ask for forever?”

She let out an over-exaggerated, dramatic sigh. “Forever’s quite a long time, don’t you think?”

“Not long enough,” Astarion replied, a smile tugging up his lips. “It’d never be long enough with you.”

Y/N quirked a brow. “Is that a challenge?”

He chuckled at that. “I’d say it’s more of a promise, if anything.”

“Seal it with a kiss?”

“Deal, my love.”

Tags:

Everything tags: @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @m-a-t-91 @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @lestersglitterglue @im-squished @strangersstranger

Astarion tags: @spacebarbarianweird

A/N: my tags are always open, so just drop a message if you want to be tagged :)

P.S. do not plagiarise my work or repost it on other platforms!!!

[phfenomena]

his girl. || Coriolanus Snow x Reader

| WARNINGS - none!

i’ve literally never publicly wrote anything before so apologies if this is literally shit but i just finished reading the ballad of songbirds and snakes so i just had to.

there were no records for life in district 12. she floated in and out as she pleased, leaving people to wonder was she even there at all?. the ghost girl, she was.

but she was seemingly real to him. her small and almost hollow appearing frame twirled and cavorted all along the length of the makeshift stage at the hob. the covey following suit of her irregular movements. she almost glides like an angel coriolanus thought, awestruck by the girl in front of him. the spotlights casting a halo-like glow upon her shining face. all caution thrown to the wind as she strums forcefully against the tight strings of her guitar. before his mind caught up with the rest of his body, his legs were moving on their own. gradually approaching the dais supporting the beaming girl. his lips curl up almost matching the wide and enticing smile settling on the angel's face. he momentarily forgot all troubles that perverted his every thought. his own personal bottle of medicine. as the music influencing her frantic steps died slowly, she floated to the microphone sitting in the middle of stage.

“did y’all miss me? even the hunger games couldn’t keep me away from this wonderful crowd!”

the rowdy gathering of people screamed unintelligible words around coriolanus, but he couldn’t find himself to care. his girl was in front of him, the very girl he fought tooth and nail for to survive in the arena. the girl he wanted, no, the girl he needed. her eyes meet his and a flash of recognition flees quickly, but he saw it. he didn’t imagine it all, it was real. she was real. he felt as if they were the only people residing in this shabby excuse of a bar. her mouth drops open and her teeth reveal. she smiled at him. her fingers gently strum as she continues her invocation to the mass.

“now we did enjoy singing for y’all, but it’s late and a girls gotta get her beauty rest! thank you and goodnight!”

she blows kisses towards the crowd and happily bobs off stage. his feet carry him quickly and clumsily towards her direction. he finds her standing, rocking back and forth on her heels. was she waiting for him? her eyes catch his and she smirks.

“coriolanus snow. what the hell are you doing here? and what did they do to your hair?”

she exasperated at the end and goes to touch where his curls previously resided. he chuckles and grabs her hand.

“peacekeepers aren’t allowed to have pretty and curly hair.” he teases her.

she looks solemn as she quickly pulls him into an embrace.

“i never got the chance to thank you, did i? the little man shipped me off rather quickly. but thank you coriolanus.” she mumbles into his chest, voice slightly breaking.

“please call me coryo, y/n. and there’s no need to thank me, i would’ve lost my mind and never gotten it back if you weren’t the victor.”

she laughs into him. she laughed at his joke.

“you know just what to say to make a lady feel better. i think coryo is a very cute nickname, also a lot easier for me to say. i cant pronounce all of those letters.”

her accent is thick and melodious to coriolanus’ ears. his girl is in his arms and it’s all okay.

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

(cw: a child, f!reader, "mommy", and "daddy")

[8:41 am]

"Are you sure she's warm enough?" Dad!Jeno asked nervously, adjusting the scarf on his toddler for the nth time.

"She's sweating Jeno, she's fine. Right baby?" You bend to ask the toddler to pull up her zipper.

She nods with an excited smile. You and Jeno had woken up to the excited squeals of you daughter while she jumped on your bed and babbled on and on about the snow. This would be her first year she could actually remember being in the snow and being able to play on her own. She was so excited, she talked the whole way through breakfast about how she couldn't wait to be outside and play in the snow until the sun went down.

Before you all went outside, after a lot of begging on your daughter's end, and many, many layers later, you were all heading down stairs to go outside.

Jeno had bundled her up in a thermal, sweats, gloves, a beanie, and a snow suit, the poor girl would be sweating outside. Jeno had made sure you were bundled up as well and led you all out of the house in his pajamas. Needless to say, you made him go in and get changed.

"Snow!" Your daughter cheered as she dashed out of the elevator. Jeno was hot on her tail, grabbing her hand and helping her over the icy sidewalk to get to the fluffy white snow.

You joined them outside right on time to see her plop onto her back, sinking into the snow to make a snow angel. She laughed happily, flapping her arms up and down through the snow. She stood up with snow stuck to her snowsuit and rosy cheeks, red from the cold and ran off to play some more.

You and Jeno watched her for a while, running around happily with the other kids of the apartment building. She made countless snow angels, snowballs, and just had fun in the snow.

Jeno smiled at her lovingly, "She really looks like she's having a good time- put the snowball down! Don't eat it!"

You laughed watching Jeno chase after her and the snowball she was going to eat. She ran straight behind you to hide, giggling like crazy and out of breath.

"Hey baby," You laugh, adjusting her hat, "Want to build a snowman with Mommy?"

She nods excitedly, beginning to gather up a pile of snow. Once it gets to the point where you need it to be taller you send her off to get some sticks and little rocks for the details. She comes back with an armful of twigs with happy laughs and beyond excited to show you some cool rocks she found.

Jeno joins you both to add his scarf to the snowman. Your daughter giggles happily, "It's daddy!"

Jeno laughs cheerfully and calls her over so they can start making more snowmen, one small one, and one more that was "adult size." The small one gets your daughter's scarf and the remaining one of course gets yours when your daughter waddles over to ask for your hat and scarf.

"Look at that baby! Who did you make?" You ask her with a smile.

She claps her hands, the sound muffled by her gloves, "It's me, mommy, and daddy." She begins to babble on and on about how she made them, how many sticks she found, her cool rocks, a dog she saw earlier, how she saw a snowman in a movie, and really- whatever else comes to mind.

Jeno comes up to you, wrapping his arm around your waist to tug you closer, "I think she liked the snow."

"So much she's trying to eat it again," you chuckle, watching her form a small clump of snow and lick it.

Jeno runs to her, "Not again! Leave it on the ground!"

-

tagging! @jaeminnanaaa17 enjoy more dad!nct dream :)

[the-kr8tor]

Hello!! I hope that u r having a wonderful day/night!

I feel like suffering today so could I request reader comforting hobie after a canon event?

I need some more hurt/comfort in my life bc it’s one of my fav tropes even tho it’s sad 😭

🕊️anon

Hi, dovey!! Thank you for requesting! Prepare to be hurt/comforted 😂

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, CW implied violence, CW Injury, TW blood. Hurt/comfort.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Your hands are covered in crimson, iron fills your lungs as you scrub his hands in the basin. Legs aching from kneeling, tearful eyes staring at Hobie whilst he sits on the floor of your shared flat. His back lays flat on the wall. The same walls covered in the wallpaper you two chose for the place, all smiles and laughter filling the room— it's a stark contrast to the scene in front of you, his soft sobs wracking his battered body, wheezing from his bruised lungs. Yet he keeps his eyes open, red around the whites of his eyes, staring mindlessly at the ceiling he just dusted a few hours ago before it happened.

His entire suit is covered in blood, seeping through the fabric and into his skin. The same skin you brush against every morning, the same skin you love and adore. He thinks you wouldn't want to touch him again after seeing it marred by his blood and someone he failed to save. Their ichor drips on the carpeted floors, mixing into his own, staining the white material like blood on snow.

It's silent, you're silent, and he's afraid that it was almost you. Your blood almost spilled on him if he wasn't fast enough, if he chose the stranger rather than you.

Your face is unreadable, and he's terrified that he almost came home without seeing it ever again.

Your touch is soft against his split skin, and he's furious that green goblin made him choose, he feels he doesn't deserve the softness of your hands against his bloodstained ones.

Your breath hitches in your throat, dust dirtying your face, clothes torn from where goblin gripped you too tight, his mark left on your bicep; tiny pinpricks of dried blood from his sharp nails dot along your arm like grim stars.

And he's terrified of the other outcome where he didn't catch you in time.

“Hobie,” your hoarse voice cuts him like a knife, tone cracking at the simple utterance of his name, the steel twisting inside his gut at the screams you let out. “It'll be okay. We'll be okay.”

At your simple words, he wakes up, reaching over to you even when his wounds protest, even when his guilt screams at him to let you go.

You take him in your arms, kicking away the basin for more space, embracing him fully as he disappears into you. Hiding himself in the crook of your neck, body slotting perfectly against yours.

“‘m sorry,” your heart shatters at his apology. Hobie clings to you tighter, hands balling your shirt, refusing to let you go. His salty tears are gathering around your neck. But it's alright as yours drench his stained cheeks.

“It's okay.” You rock him in your arms, heavy kisses pressed on his temple, letting your love calm him. “Let it out, I'm here. I love you.”

Hobie hopes that one day you'll forgive him. Even though there's nothing to forgive while you cradle him in your arms.

[charlesoberonn]

Concept: A puzzle-platformer game where you play as a snowball in Hell. Certain areas/items/enemies will damage you and make the snowball smaller. But healing/gathering snow will make you bigger.

You need to be precise with your movement to control the snowball's size in order to enter narrow spaces, weigh down switches, and be able to hurt enemies.

You can also grow new material layers above the snow core. Like a layer of rock that is denser. A layer of plants that you can shed to grow vines. A layer of glass that can refract light. And more.

[lovesickinbed]

SAY DON'T GO.

✧.* "Why'd you have to make me want you? Why'd you have to give me nothin' back? Why'd you have to make me love you? I said, "I love you", you say nothin' back."

pairing. ellie williams x f!reader summary. ellie confesses her feelings for her best friend. it doesn't go as hoped. based on say don't go by taylor swift. warning. angst!! with plans for a happy ending depending on if you guys want a part 2. w.c. 2400.

It's cold in Jackson.

You tug the sleeves of your sweater starchly over your fingertips, fighting to ignore the chill that whips at your cheeks as you cross your arms beneath your chest.

The Tipsy Bison looms ahead of you, an amber glow pouring from the windows and into the empty, snow-ridden street.

Rocking on the balls of your feet, you deliberate whether or not you should run back to your place and change. It's a bit of a walk, and the thin layer of snow piling at your feet makes it less than ideal, but it beats catching frostbite.

Who wears a skirt in December?

You're about to make a break for it when — before you can even register her presence — a slender pair of hands drapes a jacket across your shoulders.

"You look pretty," the owner of the hands says. "Nice skirt."

A familiar warmth spreads to your cheeks as Ellie steps into your line of sight. Unlike you, she's dressed for the weather in a casual grey hoodie and winter boots, her signature green parka now hanging from your shoulders.

Warm breath hits your face as Ellie leans forward and pulls the jacket tighter across your figure.

Her hair's pulled back into a low bun, and something twists in your chest as your eyes take in her freckled features, latching onto where they're dusted pink from the cold.

You tug a lip between your teeth, choosing to ignore the fuzzy feeling that's become intrinsically linked with Ellie's presence.

Cute, you think.

"It's Dina's," you say, eyebrows scrunching together. "I'm cold as shit, though. I feel stupid."

A wolf-whistle resounds from Ellie's lips.

"Well thank you, Dina," she sing-songs, her voice low. You grow hot under her gaze, belly swirling as those green eyes take you in. "It'll be warmer inside. Keep the jacket, though."

"Are you sure? I feel bad."

"Angel, don't," Ellie says conclusively, waving a hand. "It looks better on you than it does me anyway."

Her mouth quirks to the side, a smirk playing at her lips as she tucks loose hair behind your ear.

You open your mouth to protest, but she's already reaching for your hand and dragging you inside.

In the midst of an apocalypse, the Tipsy Bison is alive and well.

It thrums with life, the citizens of Jackson all gathering in what Maria has called "a celebration of years of peaceful occupation".

Or, as Jesse liked to call it, a "Hey, we're still not dead!" party.

"You made it!" Dina exclaims, eyes bright as you join her and Jesse at the bar. Jesse greets the both of you with a simple salute as Dina moves to hug Ellie first, then you, firm hands settling on your cloaked shoulders. "And you look amazing."

She eyes the skirt, and you feel a little self-conscious as the group's attention falls on your outfit. "Right, Ellie?"

Her tone is conspiratorially light as she looks pointedly at the auburn-haired girl, something unspoken transpiring between the two of them. Ellie looks away, scratches at her neck.

You stare at the floor, hoping that if you look hard enough it'll swallow you whole and save you the embarrassment of whatever they're currently thinking about you.

Jesse raises his brows at his girlfriend, who gives him the kind of look that says "What?" and rolls her eyes, turning to face you instead.

"So," Dina says, leaning against the bar. "What's new? How's everything going with the garden?"

You almost sigh, grateful for the chance to speak about something other than your choice of attire. You launch into a discussion about Jackson's community garden, a project you'd been overseeing for the last month or so.

Sometime between discussing the tomato shortage and unearthing the details of the temporary caterpillar problem, Ellie pulls you against her, pressing your back to her front.

She casually rests her hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing hypnotic circles against your hips.

It's around this time that you forget how to talk.

You know, consciously, that you're still speaking. And you know those words must be making some kind of sense, because Dina is nodding and Jesse's making quips, but none of it registers over the roar of blood rushing to your ears.

There's this other thing, too. The thing you shove down as you squeeze your thighs shut, trying to dull an ache you don't fully understand. Not yet, anyway.

"So, yeah," you cough, bringing the story to halt. "That's about it."

After another couple minutes of mindless chatter, Dina and Jesse take to the dancefloor, and you're left alone with Ellie.

Her voice is a low murmur against the shell of your ear.

"You okay, angel?"

Angel.

"Uh, yeah," you say, pulling out of her grip. "Just hot, I think. Is it just me or is it, like, really warm in here?"

It's almost comical how quickly you strip out of her jacket, flinging it across one of the stools. You turn to face her, hoping the heat in your cheeks doesn't flare as much as it burns.

The corner of Ellie's lip quirks downward at the loss of contact, eyebrows cinching together. She reaches to bring you back to her, but you're already moving backward.

"I think I'm gonna go dance," you say before she can get a word in edgewise.

You make for the dancefloor, desperate to quieten the roaring in your ears.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Older music blares from the overhead speakers, a song you recognise pouring into the venue. You let the beat carry your movements and join the pulse of bodies moving in time with the music.

"Mind if I join you?" a voice asks from behind you.

You turn, immediately faced with a boy about your age.

"Max!" you exclaim, drawing him into a hug. You recognise him instantly as the person you'd been partnered with for stables duties last spring, right before he'd switched assignments. "Hey, how are you?"

Max flashes you a toothy grin. "I'm great. Not as great as you, though. You look... wow."

He raises a hand, gesturing to your outfit.

"It's just a skirt," you say dismissively. "And this is probably the last time I'll wear one of these, anyway. Too much attention."

"I'm sure."

You blink at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean that you've got to know how beautiful you are. It makes sense you're getting a little attention."

"That's sweet but..." you laugh, awkwardly. "I don't really get much attention from anyone, really. I was referring to my friends."

Max quirks a brow. "Well you've got to know why that is."

You tilt your head, not quite getting it.

"Come on," Max says, shaking his head. "It's obvious."

His gaze shifts, and you follow his line of sight to where Ellie is standing at the bar. She's staring at you, hard. Something unreadable flickers in her eyes, her jaw set as she looks straight ahead.

You look away quickly.

Shaking your head, you ask: "Ellie? What does she have to do with anything?"

"Wow. Don't tell me you're that oblivious."

"Oblivious to..."

"Everyone thinks the two of you are together."

You pause. "What? No, we're just friends."

Max laughs, almost meanly. "You sure about that? The girl's attached to you like an extra limb."

"I'm her best friend," you reiterate.

Max didn't get it — Ellie had lost a lot of people she really cared about.

She didn't like to talk about life pre-Jackson that much, but it made sense to you that she'd be a little clingy after going through something like that.

"Sorry, sorry," Max says, raising his hands in defense. "I don't mean to pry. I'm just saying that's probably why everyone steers clear. I mean, she can be pretty scary."

"Ellie's harmless," you say, your words unconvincing to your own ears.

You recall her eyes burning holes into the two of you.

She can be pretty scary.

"So, a couple of us are heading out," Max says, changing the subject. "A buddy of mine found an abandoned park a little way's out. Might shoot up some infected and hang out for a while. Interested?"

You nod. It sounds exactly like the type of thing you're very much not interested in, to be honest.

You glance over to the bar, catching Ellie's intense gaze, and feel a pit of anxiety form in your stomach.

"Yeah," you say, slowly. "I'll be there. Just let me say bye to my friends."

He grins as you excuse yourself and walk over to where Ellie is standing.

"I'm heading out," you say as you approach her. "Max invited me to go with him and some others outside of town for a little while."

Ellie's brows scrunch together. "What?"

"Yeah, we're thinking of, uhm, shooting up some infected and hanging out at the park—"

"Not happening."

You frown. "Excuse me?"

Ellie rolls her eyes, scoffing. "Not fucking happening."

"I don't remember asking your permission?"

"Are you stupid?" She asks, tone harsh. "You think Maria would sign off on something like this?"

"Since when do you care about what Maria signs off on? She's distracted with the party, anyway."

"I care that you're putting yourself in danger," Ellie huffs. "You call me to come take care of it when there's a spider in your room. You can't handle infected."

"I'll be with Max and his friends," you say firmly. "They're all on patrol."

Ellie's laugh is forced. "Yeah, because Max and his dickhead friends are going to protect you. First sign of a bloater and they're running to save their own asses."

You open your mouth to protest, but she's quick to cut you off.

"I'm coming with you," she says. "Let me get my gun."

Max's voice rings in your ears.

The girl's attached to you like an extra limb.

"I don't think that's a good idea," you say, quietly.

Something flashes in Ellie's eyes. Confusion, at first. Then hurt.

You suddenly feel like an asshole.

You want to reach out and smooth the crease in her brows, tell her you're sorry — even if you aren't quite sure what for.

Ellie's gaze flickers between you and the crowd. "So this is about him, then."

Him. She says it like it burns.

You don't know what game you're playing anymore. You don't care about Max, you never have.

But when you're around Ellie, everything's too much — too hot, too fucking intense, too saturated — and you don't know what it means, or how to turn it off.

I'm her best friend.

It makes you feel like shit.

So, you nod.

"Yeah," you say, against your better judgement. "I was thinking it'd be nice to get to know him a little. One on one."

"Right."

Silence.

"Is that okay?"

Music bleats from the speakers. For a second, Ellie doesn't say anything.

And then: "Don't."

You look up, dragging your eyes away from their fixation on the hardwood floor.

"Don't go. Please."

She says the words like they're hard to get out. Painful, even.

"Ellie," you say, softly. "I'll be safe."

"It's not that. Not just that, I mean."

You stare at her, but she isn't looking back, too busy picking dutifully at the peeling skin on her fingers.

You resist the urge to reach forward and close your hands around her own to get her to stop.

"Then what is it?"

Ellie's inhale is shaky. "I didn't want to... at least not like this... fuck, this is awkward."

The song on the speakers changes to an 80s number you recognise from Joel's CD collection. It draws Ellie from her thoughts, makes her huff with frustration.

You take her hand, dragging her outside and onto the porch. It's quieter here, but you'd forgotten how cold it was, wincing as it immediately bites at your cheeks.

You cross your arms over your chest and look at Ellie, who lets out a strained: "Look... angel, you've gotta know how I feel about you."

Not what you'd been expecting.

"How you... feel about me?"

"Yeah." Ellie walks over to the wooden banister, her green eyes reluctantly meeting yours as you come up beside her.

"I don't get it," you say, puzzled.

Ellie's voice is barely above a whisper. "You're really gonna make me say it, huh?"

She braces herself, rests both hands against the banister. Another shaky breath.

"I... fucking hell." She runs a hand across her face. "I love you."

"I love you too? What does that—"

"No," Ellie says, cutting you off. Her hand hangs in the air between you. "Not just... not just as a friend."

Oh. Oh.

Her confession settles between you like fallen snow. Heavy, thick.

Cold.

Ellie leans forward, green eyes searching yours. "Wait, you seriously didn't know?"

I love you. Not just as a friend.

You shake your head. None of this makes any sense.

"You never...there was no indication—"

"No indication? Angel, I gave you my jacket."

"Okay, but that doesn't necessarily mean—"

"Whenever you come over, I let you sleep in my bed—"

"I thought you were just cold—"

"I call you angel, for fuck's sake—"

"I thought you called everyone angel."

Ellie looks at you, incredulous. "Have you ever heard me call Dina 'angel'?"

"No, but—"

"What about Jesse? Have you ever seen me cuddling Jesse?"

"We're best friends!" you exclaim. "That's what best friends do!"

It's like a tap has been opened, the words flooding out of you in a rush. This was all too much, too soon.

Ellie didn't love you.

She couldn't.

Silence.

"Is that... what we are to you?" Ellie asks, the crack in her voice betraying her.

Your words are soft, tentative.

"I don't know how to be anything else."

At that moment, the doors to the Tipsy Bison swing open. Max walks out of the bar, his friends flanking him from both sides. He sidles up to you, swings a hefty arm across your shoulders.

"You ready to go?" He asks, a wide smile plastered across his red face. The smell of nicotine washes over you as he talks.

I love you. Not just as a friend.

You nod, and Ellie's face falls.

"Great!" Max exclaims. "See you around, Ellie."

And then he leads you by the shoulders, pulling you away from the one real thing you've ever known, a crestfallen Ellie watching from the porch.

[saintship]

Can i have a prompt #17 with Graves and a tm reader with a lik spice on the side?

Prompt #17 - “Don’t doubt yourself.”

My fics have been a little LAZY recently so this is my attempt at regaining my former glory, I haven’t written for Graves in a hot minute so I had to resurface some feelings lol

Also, I’ve never written mlm before, so if there’s anything that’s particularly off-putting, irritating, inconsiderate, etc, please drop a comment, also I didn’t really mention the fact they’re trans except for one part if you squint, I didn’t know if it was necessary to outright mention it, ALSO the spice is very mild I hope that’s okay :,)

Thank you!

Phillip Graves x tm!Reader - Snowed in

Warnings: description of injury, Gaz possibly being Graves’ gay awakening, internalized homophobia, suggestions of Graves’ racist actions, mild spice, some angst

To be a part of Price’s task force—to be an operator—was to be a team player. No matter what, no matter how genius your idea may be, no matter how good you are at whatever risky bullshit you’re into, you are never on your own until someone says so. This was articulated to Phillip Graves. But there was a reason he ran his own company instead working for one. There was something bold inside him; something demanding and mean. He used it to build Shadow Company, but that didn’t change the fact that his nature was what stranded him by himself in the first place.

You knew from the day you met him that he had walls up that may never come down for the rest of his life. Those traces of insecurity and fear that shot from him in the form of sharp words and trickling bigotry. He was good at ordering. Good at explosives.

Bad at people.

It was warm in the safehouse that the 141, Alejandro, Rudy, Graves, and one of his Shadows were laying low after your ammunition ran thin, and Gaz was grazed badly through the gaps of his vest. You sat at his side while the others gathered themselves, inspecting the wound. Gaz stripped to his bare torso, revealing a sizable chunk missing from just above his hip. The flesh was torn irregularly, and you struggled to find a solution that would avoid infection.

You heard Graves murmur to one of the Shadows,

“Go on.”

He spoke to his men like they were still in training, his tone a smooth blend of authoritative and encouraging. Sometimes you wondered if it was a bad thing that they’d follow his word without a second thought.

The Shadow gently replaced your spot beside him and began working on the wound, his medic badge partially torn from the rock face they had scaled to reach the cabin.

“You look surprised.” Graves’ low voice caught your attention. Your eyes met before he returned his gaze to the Shadow medic, his arms crossed.

“Maybe a little.” You muttered.

“I’m not that cruel, Sergeant.” The smile that he flashed was a dangerous one. His teeth a crystal white, his incisors pointed like a malinois’.

“So you are cruel—a little.” You reply.

“This is war, Sergeant.” He answered evenly, but he could never hide that underlying bite of defensiveness. ‘I’m right, you’re wrong.’

You tilted your head in resignation.

“This is war.”

Graves’ ego was effortless to satiate. He walked away without another smart comment.

“Getting friendly, hermano?”

Alejandro fidgeted with a combat knife where he sat on the tattered couch, his free arm laying on the backrest.

“Not everyone will hate the men that you do.” Rudy chided from beside him.

Your quiet laugh made Alejandro bristle.

“Oye, cuándo dije eso?”

“You’re practically fantasizing with that thing.” Rudy pointed out Alejandro’s knife.

“I..don’t trust him.”

“We know.” You commented. “But he helped Farah, why not Las Almas?”

“Urzikstan does not have a history with America the way Mexico does..” Rudy pointed out. “Graves was born in Texas, he was probably taught all kinds of shit that made him like that.”

It was true; Graves’ file revealed he had never left his hometown until he joined the military. He grew up in the kind of place where the horses and cows outnumbered the people.

“Maybe he’s just the kind of guy that can’t come home from work.”

Your words surprised you.

“What do you get defending him?” Alejandro retorted. “He’s not a good guy.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I think I do.”

As Alejandro stood from his previous position, you heard your name, turning to see Graves leaning in the doorway with one arm on the wooden frame and the other hand having a thumb hooked in his vest. He always stood like that; his hands just had to be grasping something. It made your mouth feel dry.

“One of you, come help me get our truck out of the ditch.” He called.

You heard Alejandro’s scoff and muttering as you crossed the room.

“Thanks.” Graves muttered as he turned to lead you through the snow to the ditch.

“How’d it get in the ditch, exactly?” You spoke, your breath a mist of air in front of your lips.

“Whatever dipshit that was in the driver’s seat left it in neutral.”

“That—might have been me.”

Graves glanced at you, his steps faltering.

“I’m fucking with you.” You murmur.

He just shook his head, that glowing smile flashing again.

You both came upon the trucks, the back two tires settled in the ditch while the front two stayed on the flat ground.

“Who’s pushing?”

“Where I’m from, it’s whoever asks that.” You didn’t miss his grin as he opened the driver’s side door.

“I’m sure you’re not making that up.”

“I’m not..” He laughed a bit through his words, and it made you dizzy. “It’s true..”

“You got a lot of experience doing dumb shit with trucks?”

“You could say that..” Graves’ smile hadn’t dropped. You wanted to keep going, to savor his expression, but your boots carried you behind the truck, and you waited for the wheels to turn before pushing up.

“Don’t let up!”

You heard his shout over the roar of the engine, and tried to steady yourself. But the ice was slick with mud, the soles of your boots providing little traction as you clung to the back bumper.

“Is it moving?” You call to him.

“It’s-"

His words were cut short by a sickening sputter of the engine.

“Get out! Get out of there, the battery’s dead!” His shout was more desperate than you’d ever heard him.

“I can’t-" You muttered helplessly before the weight of the heavy truck pressed you to the frozen mud, the angle of the underside up against the ditch pinning you to the cold earth. The parts that stuck out had raked down your back, cutting into the vulnerable flesh.

You heard him yell your name, your first name. You heard him curse as he dropped down beside where you were trapped.

“Please tell me you’re alive.. come on, talk to me..”

“My legs.. I can’t move my..” You rasped. From the knee down, the crushing metal pinned your legs enough to render you immobile.

“Breathe. You’re gonna be fine, come here.. come on..”

His gloved hand fit into your own securely, and you had to shake off the rush in your head.

When he tried to ease you out, you couldn’t stop the groan of pain that escaped you, devolving into quick, panicked breaths. “I can’t..”

“Easy.. easy.” He had enough room to hold your upper arm steady. “It’s gonna hurt, alright? But you gotta get out from under there..”

You nod, your breath short. “Yeah.. okay..”

“I’ve got you. You hear me?”

“I hear..”

“Alright.”

This time, one his arms worked around your middle, and the warmth blooming in your ribs nearly offset the white-hot tendrils shooting up your legs and back.

Graves pulled slowly, your legs slowly inching free as you gasped and groaned in pain.

“Breathe..” Graves murmured like he was speaking to a small animal, his breath warm on your temple. “Come on.. come on, now..”

Finally, he yanked you free, the both of you partially collapsing in the filthy ditch. You try to stand, but were quickly guided to sit down.

“Hey, don’t be a hero, sit still..” Graves knelt, inspecting your back with a low whistle.

“You didn’t break anything..” You murmured. You couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Told you.. I got you..”

You sit side by side, exhausted from the day, the adrenaline, the pain.

“Thank you.” You murmur.

Graves brought up a knee to rest his elbow on, his other hand waving you off.

“Not an issue, baby.”

When the words left his mouth, any softness in his face hardened into something else. Like he’d made himself angry.

“I-" He looked away.

“What’d you call me?” Your voice was a soft murmur.

“Nothing. I didn’t call you anything, come on..” He straightened to stand.

His expression matched yours now; flushed and confused.

“Graves.”

“I said come on!” He barked, but couldn’t get to his feet before you pulled him to sit back down.

“Sergeant..” His tone was warning. His hand covered yours where you held onto his vest. “That didn’t happen.”

“It did.”

“No.” His words were firm, but his eyes were desperate.

You slid a hand up to his shoulder. “It’s okay..”

“No! I cant-"

“But you want to.” Your eyes bore into his with an unwavering steadiness while your voice quieted to a whisper. “You want to..”

His face conveyed so many emotions, conflicting and fighting one another. He looked at your lips, and exhaled shakily.

“God dammit..”

“I know it’s hard to let go of what other people see you as. It’s okay.”

“You mean cause’ you..”

You nod.

“I—don’t know how.” He managed.

“Don’t doubt yourself like that.”

You were closer now. Close enough for the puffs of your breath to mingle with his.

“No one knows. No one..” He shakes his head, still partially in the headspace that wouldn’t let him feel anything other than bitterness.

“It’s up to you who does.” You murmur.

“Graves?”

Soap’s voice called from a few meters away, sending Graves scrambling to his feet.

“The truck pinned them, they’re hurt. Help me out.” In his fashion, he wasted no time showing his embarrassment, reverting to his wavering authority.

Soap only shook his head, but dropped down beside you. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, he got me out..” You muttered as Soap hauled you to your feet, not missing the way Graves looked away at the mention of his rescuing you.

The rest of the night was tense—your back was ripped up, your legs were sore and tender, but it was ensured that nothing was broken. For the three days left before an exfil helicopter arrived, you spent most of your time with your legs propped on the couch. It felt wrong to take up one of the only spaces to rest, to not be able to follow Graves when he walked outside to scan the surrounding hills. You felt chained in place, your only glimpses of him being his fleeting glances in your direction before he walked away again.

You almost forgot he wasn’t coming back to the base with you. He’d be going back to his own site, onto the next mission, onto the next project. It was supposed to be a short interaction between the 141 and him, but you just had to volunteer to help him move that truck. You just had to press him about it.

The sound of helicopter blades woke you up on the fourth morning, and most everyone else was moving equipment outside. You heard muffled voices.

“Graves, go help him into the heli.” Price’s gruff order sounded from outside.

“You don’t need help movin’ all that?” Graves’ tone was wavering; grasping at any excuse to keep avoiding you. You were starting to get irritated.

“You got a problem with my Sergeant?” Price retorted.

A sigh. “No, sir.”

“Right, then.”

His snow-covered boots tracked in the mud from outside, and you glanced at them before you looked at his face.

“Hey.” He didn’t meet your eyes, offering a hand to help you upright. You didn’t move.

“You’re avoiding me.” You mutter. The frustration crept up your throat.

He sighed, his hand dropping back to his side.

“We don’t have time for this.. we might never see each other again, can you focus on that?” His eyes caught your frustration and reflected it right back in your face.

“You can’t brush this off, Graves.”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.” He snapped, walking to the door. “You act like you know me because I fucked up back there, but you don’t. This conversation-"

You hauled yourself to your feet, the pain making you wince. You straightened anyway, walking over until you were in his face again.

“What if you didn’t fuck up? You ever think about that?” You muttered.

His chest rose and fell with angry breath.

“Why’re you doin’ this to me?”

His soft tone caught you off guard, and your shoulders that had been tensed relaxed downward again.

“Because you don’t deserve to live like this. No one does.”

Your hand had found its way to his upper arm unintentionally, but he hadn’t pulled away. You weren’t wearing your gloves, the warmth of your palm radiating through his sleeve and thawing the sparse snowflakes that had caught on the fabric.

“How can you be so sure?” His brow was still furrowed with stress, his body somehow lax and tensed all at once.

“I can’t.” you admit. “But I won’t let you walk away without hearing that there is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Who you love is not up to the rest of the world, and that’s one of the few things you still have to yourself. So keep it close.”

His eyes searched your face, your eyes, and finally your lips. His breath quickened.

Your hand drew upward to hold his jaw in your palm. He smelled like warm linen and smoke. One of his hands crept up your back while the other settled on your cheek, all in an impossibly fast motion before he pressed a kiss to your parted lips.

You felt the anxiety and shame melt from him for a moment, your lips working in tandem. Once he had a taste for you, he couldn’t stop. He deepened the kiss with a groan, your own hands hooking into his vest and pressing your bodies together. His hand was just working under your shirt and up your stomach before the door handle turned. With his hand still under your clothes, he shut the door firmly, keeping whoever it was outside. You heard a vague, confused voice, but most of your brain was clouded by his hand moving over your front, up your waist and ribs that were still wrapped in gauze.

You reluctantly pulled your lips from his, breathing heavily.

“Graves..”

“Oi! What the fuck is goin’ on, I’m breaking the door down in three!”

Ghost’s voice caused you to gently move Graves’ hand from under your shirt, pressing one last kiss to his lips before pulling the door open and putting on your best limp. Ghost’s eyes told you he didn’t buy it for a second, but he stayed quiet as Graves trailed after you with flushed cheeks.

You were the last to board the helicopter, turned around by your shoulder before stepping up to see Graves. He seemed almost shaken; but placed his hands around one of yours before setting off back to the safe house. Looking in your hand, you saw the scrawled digits of a phone number on a scrap of a report sheet. You held it the entire flight back.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

What Am I Going To Do With You? - Logan Howlett X GN Reader

Title: What Am I Going To Do With You?

Logan Howlett X GN Reader

Additional Characters: N/A

Requested by Anon!

WC: 4,438

Warnings: Death mentioned briefly, X-Men canon violence briefly mentioned, italics, cursing, unconsciousness?, alcohol (beer), very brief mentions of poisoning, yelling mentioned, nightmares mentioned, confessions, strangers to friends to lovers, nicknames, banter, teasing, flirting, slight suggestiveness, slight angst, and fluff

The snow was falling softly outside, and a few puffy flakes were already starting their journey into the ground of the forested land that surrounded your small cabin in Hunter, New York. The air was cold and biting with each puff of wind that blew across the open landscape. It was early in the morning, on a Friday, when you would usually go out and cut up some new firewood for the upcoming days. It was hard work, especially in such cold weather, but it ultimately kept you warm for a week or two before you'd have to chop up some more.

In your oversized, white coat, you gathered as much wood as you possibly could fit into your arms before setting off through the thick snow, back to your back door. Kicking and knocking your snow boats against the slightly raised threshold, you shook your hair out as you nudged the door closed with your hip. The snow that had landed softly in your hair began to instantly melt into its liquid form once the warm and comforting heat of your house hit you. Setting down the wood logs on the small wooden table by your wood-burning furnace; you stood up straight, back slightly aching as you did so. 

Upon looking at your wood pile, you worried on your bottom lip before deciding to go out for a couple more from the large stack you had up against the side of your cabin. You weren't entirely sure that you'd have enough, so it was best to grab more wood than you'd need. You didn't want to freeze to death during the rest of your winter, and you didn't want to go out into the freezing cold more than you'd have to. 

With a short glance at your still-steaming coffee on your dining room table, you let out a sigh before stepping back out into the cold. Stuffing your mittens together to keep them tight on your hands, you rubbed at your chill-to-the-bone nose before heading back around to the side of your cabin. But right as you turned the corner, you froze, not literally. There, lying slumped in the thick and deep snow was a man. He definitely wasn’t there when you went out to get the first load of logs. He didn't move, possibly unconscious... Or worse... Dead. You couldn't have a dead man on your property... It would only bring trouble. 

Hoping, praying that his man was still alive, you dragged your feet through the seven-inch snow, standing within inches from him, you dropped to your knees. Eyes wandering his large figure, you bit your lip; he was breathing, his back rising and falling slowly. This man wouldn't survive long, him facing down like that. Tearing off your gloves, you quickly pushed him over, groaning slightly from how heavy the man was. What did he eat? Rocks?

Once upon his back, you let out a short breath, a small foggy plume escaping your lips as you looked over him. You couldn't help but stare, completely entranced by the man's striking features. His face, although covered in bits of stubborn snow, was a rosy pink, with a dark beard, and brown-curly hair. And though he was unconscious, he looked at peace, even though he lay in the middle of the cold snow. He reminded you of someone, but you didn't know who... Your mind began racing as you racked your brain to figure out where he might have been coming from, why he was unconscious, and why he would be out and about in just jeans and a flannel button-up?

Feeling the biting tingling on your hands from the cold you blinked out of your thoughts. And as if on instinct, you stood back up, your knees aching in the process as you moved around to his head. Taking hold of his arms, you grunted lightly as you pushed him forward, in a sitting position. Once you were satisfied that you had him positioned as he needed to be, you began to drag him to your back door.

It took you a long time, but by the time you had gotten the unconscious - handsome - stranger inside, you were well out of breath. You had to take a moment, taking a moment to catch your breath and calm your heart rate as you stared down at the man lying on your wooden floor. Tossing your gloves onto one of your couches, you quickly tore off your winter coat, hanging it sharply on the hook near your front door. Turning back to the man, you placed both your hands on your hips, huffing lightly. 

"What am I going to do with you?" You asked, mostly to yourself as you ran your hands through your hair. “I can’t call the police… They’ll only bring trouble…”

Thinking that now would be the best time to lay him down somewhere more comfortable before he woke, you grabbed the man again and pulled him over to your other couch, closest to the fire that was burning. You thought it would be easier to lay on your other couch than your bed; lifting the man was already hard enough - him feeling like he weighed a million pounds - but lifting him as you have up the stairs... No way. 

Staring down at the man, you worried whether or not you should get him a change of clothes, but that would be impossible. You live a good couple of miles from the closest shops and you didn't have any clothes that would fit the man; who you guessed was around six-foot-something. But you didn't want him to catch his death, so a good couple of blankets would hopefully suffice. You didn't really know… You had hoped so. Grabbing the throw on the back of the other couch, you carefully tossed it over the man before grabbing the rest of the blankets you had around the cabin. 

Upon placing the last blanket down on him, you stopped. Finally, away from the cold air and snow, you began to see the redness in his cheeks fade away slightly, and only then did you have the chance to take a better look at his face. Now that there wasn't any snow in his hair, you let your eyes run over his handsome features, noticing all the little details. From the way his eyelashes curled delicately, his short, dark brown curls became more pronounced as his hair dried, and the way his tanned skin seemed to glow under the artificial light of your lamps and the fireplace; he even had barely-there freckles upon the apples of his cheeks. Your hand twitched with the urge to stroke his cheek,.. Nope. Bad idea, bad idea... Maybe... You paused to think. Yeah, to check if he had a fever, you could do that. 

Reaching out, you softly brushed some of the stray hairs from his forehead - in awe from how soft they were from just the brief brush - your mind searing into you that having this unknown man in your home was dangerous. He could be dangerous. He was tall, obviously strong; he could easily break you in two with those large hands of his, but you ignored it. Finally, you pressed the back of your hand on his forehead, only to sigh in relief. No fever. Quickly, you pulled your hand away, making sure that he was breathing once more before you headed to the kitchen, grabbing your coffee from the dining room table as you did so. Maybe you could make some soup, for you, and possibly for the man that was in your living room. 

~~~

It had been a couple of days since the mysterious man had come into your life. And for the past couple of days, that mysterious man was still unconscious. You had been doing your best to take care of him, not really knowing what to do; though you read up on the few First Aid and Nursing textbooks you had found three years ago at a thrift store, but never got around to reading. Sitting next to the fire, in your old rocking chair that you got for the amazing price of seven dollars, a book in your hand, you decided to catch up on some reading. As you rocked, turning page after page, you occasionally looked up to make sure that he was still breathing, in turn, not fully paying attention to the words on the page. Looking over to the clock on the wall, you let out a sigh before standing and setting down your book on the rocking chair seat; the book was a bit boring anyway. 

Walking over, you sat on the ground beside the couch. Resting on your knees, you stared at the man, your mind wandering. Who was he? He looked so familiar. Like you had known him or had seen him before. But you hadn’t been out and about in - quote on quote - ‘the real world’ for years. You had been sort of living off the grid for the past couple of years. 

Reaching out, you went to feel his forehead for a fever again when his hand suddenly reached up, gripping your wrist. You gasped, eyes widening as you watched the man's eyes open, a small but gruff groan reverberating from his well-built chest. Slowly, he sat up, bringing your wrist with him, tightening his grasp slightly as he stared down at you with hard, dark brown eyes. You couldn't look away, both scared and lost in those eyes that were locked onto yours.

"Wha' happened?" He rasped, his voice rough and hoarse, "Who are you?"

You swallowed down your spit, trying not to let the nervous feeling overwhelm you. "Uh, I'm Y/N... Uh, I found you outside my cabin, unconscious." You spoke in a hushed tone, your voice quiet as you stared up at the man with wide eyes.

The man stared at you, his brows furrowing as he tilted his head slightly, clearly confused though he never dropped his slightly threatening demeanor. "Where am I?"

"You're- You're in my cabin... In, uh, Hunter, New York." You answered as you glanced from his dark eyes to his hand on your wrist, "Uh, could you please let go of me?"

His own eyes snapped to his hand, tightly wrapped around your wrist before quickly dropping your hand. Without another word, he stood, the pile of blankets falling to the side as he made his way quickly to the closet door. Staggering to your feet, you made your way to him, grabbing his flannel sleeve without really thinking. 

"Wait! You can't go back out there! It's freezing!" You exclaimed, his eyes staring down at your hand sharply before meeting your worried gaze once more.

"It don't bother me." He spoke, voice deep, sounding irritated, "I don't care 'bout no damn weather." 

"But you have no jacket, gloves, or hat... Or- Or anything! You'll catch your death out there!" At that, the man clicked his tongue, pulling his arm from your grasp, "Besides, the nearest town is miles away. Fifteen to be exact. You won't be able to make it. Especially after being unconscious for five days!" The man said nothing, walking the rest of his way to the front door, his large hand grabbing the door handle. Becoming slightly irritated, you grabbed his arm again, using enough strength to turn him towards you a little. "Listen here. It's freezing out, you just woke from some sort of small coma-like sleep thing, haven't drunk or eaten anything, and you expect me to just let you leave?" You growled, tightening your grip slightly, "At least stay a couple more days until the storm calms down. I have soup on the stove and a few drinking options in my fridge. Though, if you have a death wish, by all means, I can’t stop you, go on out there."

You stared up at the man as he stared down at you, his eyes moving around your face before he huffed, "Got any beer?"

"Beer?" You asked, slightly deadpanned, as the man looked back down at you and nodded, "Yeah... Uh, yeah, I got beer. Uh, just follow me, please." Breaking away, you turned and made your way to your kitchen, the sound of the man's heavy footsteps following close behind you. Reaching the stove, you grabbed a bowl from the cupboard before grabbing the large spoon and pouring a bit of mashed potato and onion soup into the bowl. Turning to the fridge, you grabbed one of the Coronas you had next to your hard lemonades before shutting the door with your hip. 

Turning, you found the man sitting on the stool, his lower arms resting on your counter. Clearing your throat, you set the beer and bowl of soup down before him before you grabbed your own soup. "Thanks," You heard him mutter slightly as you turned your back. 

Leaning against the corner of the counter, you stirred your soup around with a spoon, feeling very awkward. Glancing over as the man took a long sip of his beer, you spoke up once more. "Uh, may I know your name?" You asked, watching as he froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, "I mean, it's only fair. You know my name, and I've most likely saved your life and all. Nasty storm."

The man took another sip before setting the glass bottle aside, running his hand through his hair before glancing over at you, "... I'm Logan."

"Logan..." You repeated the name slowly, testing it out, "Well... What were you doing in my woods before you fell unconscious?" You asked, raising an eyebrow.

Logan shrugged, glancing away at the picture of a moose on your wall before taking another sip of his beer. Silence followed the question and you wondered why he hadn't answered. What was he hiding? Was he even hiding anything? Could he even remember? What did he know? What did he know about you?

"You live 'ere?" He suddenly asked, making you pause eating this time.

"Of course I do. What kind of question is that?" You asked, looking up at the man once more with an eyebrow raised before pushing off of the counter and tossing your empty bowl in the sink. You quickly rushed away from the kitchen, Logan watching you as you grabbed your winter coat from the hook and shrugged it on.

"Where ya goin'?" He asked as you slid on your gloves and grabbed your old messenger bag.

"Out to grab more wood for my furnace and fireplace." You answered simply. "It'll take a bit. So, if you're not here when I get back, I'll understand. But you should at least stay until the snow dies down and I can get you a ride into town."

Logan pursed his lips, finishing off his beer before speaking, "'nd ya think ya can trust me? Some stranger?" He asked as you made your way to the back door, shuffling your boots on.

You paused at the back door, hand on the door handle, "Yeah. I can trust you." You said confidently before turning to look at the burly man with a slight grin, "There's more beer in the fridge if you want it, and water too if you're still thirsty."

And with that, you opened and shut the door behind you, a waft of cold air hitting you in the face before you started walking along the thick snow to the side of your cabin.

~~~

"Logan! Could you help me in the kitchen for a moment!?" You called out aimlessly in the cabin from the said kitchen, hands covered in dough and flour.

Needing the dough, you smiled as you heard the familiar heavy footsteps make their way to you. Logan huffed, pulling his hands from his jeans pockets as he made his way over. "Wha' do ya need me fo'?" He grumbled, leaning against the counter. 

You rolled your eyes playfully, gesturing to the bag of flour on the counter beside the both of you, "Could you pour me some of that? I miscalculated how much I was going to need."

Logan grunted, grabbing the bag and dumping a small pile onto the dough, "That good?" He asked and you smiled with a nod.

"Yep! Perfect, thank you, Lo." You replied, smiling up at him as he stepped back, eyeing you curiously.

"What're ya makin'?" Logan asked, peering over your shoulder at what you were doing.

You grinned lightly, "Pie dough." You stated, glancing up at him.

"Pie dough?" He asked, "What kind of pie?"

"Cherry."

He stared at you, his eyebrows furrowed. "No kiddin'?"

"Yup." You giggled, grinning brightly at the man. "Didn't I tell you about it last night?"

Logan shook his head, "Nah, ya didn't mention it. Didn't say a thin'."

"Well," You began, "I'm making cherry pie. It'll be ready for dessert tonight. Just have to make it, bake it, and give it enough time to cool down a bit." You glanced up at him before finishing, "Wanna help me with this?"

Logan huffed, "I don't know… I ain’t good at bakin’." He began, watching as you tried to blow a couple of stray hairs from your face, "I was goin' to go out and get more wood for the fire." He answered, bringing his hand up to brush the stubborn hairs away from your face and behind your ear, making your face heat up as you smiled sheepishly up at him.

"We already have enough firewood in here to last us a few more days, Lo." You laughed out, looking back down at the dough on the counter.

"Fine. But ya owe me a beer," Logan answered, pouring a bit more flour over your dough before you could ask him to do it "And an extra slice of the pie." 

Your smile widened, chuckling lightly, "It's not like you take the beer anyway." You teased as Logan scoffed softly, rolling his eyes. "But, you may have an extra piece, maybe three pieces, since you're helping me and all."

"Fine by me," Logan muttered, "Whaddya want me to do?"

"Oh, uh, could you cut me up some of those cherries, and make sure the pits are out of them? Cherry pits have amygdalin."

“Amy-wha’ now?” Logan asked, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a beer.

“Amygdalin.” You corrected, “It’s what’s in cherry pits. Our body converts it into cyanide.” You answered as Logan took in what you were saying, his lips just pressed onto the glass rim of the beer bottle as he paused.

Logan hummed deeply before finally taking a sip of his drink, grabbing the see-through bag of pre-washed cherries with one hand. Glancing over at him briefly, you couldn't help but smile. It had been a little over a month since you found Logan in the snow. And the past month had been pretty amazing. After the initial awkwardness passed, Logan became really nice to talk to and even began to become a little fun to be around, though he was still quiet and kept to himself for the most part.

The only thing that ever seemed to truly change was when he would wake up in the middle of the night screaming from inside his guest bedroom. The first time it happened, you had rushed over to his room across from yours and came face to face with a set of claws. He didn't hurt you, but he apologized to you as if he did. He didn't really talk to you much after the first nightmare, and it took you a mighty long time to get him to open back up to you again. Though he was rather stubborn, so were you, and with a lot of reassurance, you finally cracked him out of his shell enough for him not to run away into the snowstorm. And after a long conversation by the fire, and with warm coffee filling your stomachs, you finally got some of his story. 

And though you feared that he was going to leave you, Logan stayed.

And the longer he stayed, the more you began to fall for him. Under that gruff exterior, Logan was actually a softie. A sarcastic, sarcastic, softie. It was one of the many things you loved about him. And you were sure that he might've felt the same, or at least something close to it. From lingering glances and the less-than-accidental touches, he was certainly getting close to you, or closer than he usually let himself get to anyone. He had thought about leaving, in the middle of the night, or in the early morning before you woke up. But if Logan had left, he would’ve felt guilty, leaving you all alone, only for you to wake up and not find him there. That tension was there. And that fear of accidentally hurting you was still there. And it scared him. It scared him at how close he was actually getting to you.

"Bub," Logan called out, making you jump slightly and look up at him as you snapped out of your daydreaming. Logan stared down at you, his eyes narrowed slightly, "Are ya okay?"

You nodded slightly, wiping the flour off the best you could before going over to wash them in the sink, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just lost in thought."

Logan watched you carefully, "What 'bout?" He asked and you tilted your head slightly as you thought.

"Hmm… Nothing really... Uh, it happens when I bake." You mutter sheepishly, reaching out for the dish towel on the oven handle only to find it right in front of your face, in Logan's hand. Giving him a thankful smile, you take the small towel, drying your hands off. "Thank you, Logan. Are those cherries ready?" You asked, looking over past his figure to take a look at the cherries he directed for the pie.

"They're ready," He answered, grabbing your attention again, "There's somethin' buzzin' around in that pretty head of yours."

"Hm?" You hummed, raising a brow curiously. "Somethin’ buzzin’ around?" You repeated questioningly with a smile.

Logan chuckled dryly, stepping closer to you, smirking, "Don't play coy with me, Y/N. Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?"

You flushed lightly, biting your bottom lip and shifting your weight uncomfortably under his gaze. Your heart fluttered lightly at his closeness. He looked so gorgeous today. Hair all clean from a fresh shower, washed-out jeans, and in his new flannel that you bought him. And that look upon his face, eyes narrowed playfully, filled with mirth; the chocolate brown speckled with hints of green. And that grin, encompassed by his freshly-trimmed beard. Why did he have to be so handsome... And smell so nice? And how did he shape his hair in that way, all cute and pointy? It truly fascinated you. 

"Uhhhh," You stammered intelligently, unsure of whether you should answer him. Or just keep thinking. Yeah, thinking sounded nice. Suddenly, you felt Logan's hands on either side of your body, your hands instinctively coming up to latch onto Logan's shoulders as he picked you up and onto the flour-free counter. "Logan..." You breathed out in slight shock and surprise. His hands wrapped around your waist, standing between your knees.

"If ya don't wanna talk, ya don't have to." He murmured lowly, his dark eyes scanning your features, making you shift in your seat slightly under his intense gaze. “I ain’t gonna force you to talk if ya don’t wan’ to.”

"And let me guess, it'll help if I talk about it?" You questioned with a chuckle, shaking your head slowly.

"It might." He answered confidently, nonchalantly.

You gave him a look, crossing your arms over your chest, "And what if I was just daydreaming? Is it so wrong to daydream?" Unable to stop the corners of your lips from twitching.

"Depends. Do ya daydream 'bout me?" Logan asked in response and you sighed exasperatedly, shrugging your shoulders slightly.

"Do I daydream about you, Lo?" You asked yourself as if you were thinking it over. "I don't know. What would you think if I did?" You then asked, gaining the courage to make eye contact. 

Logan raised a brow, his grin widening. "I'd be flattered, bub." He answered, as he watched you roll your eyes playfully.

"You would." You agreed, giving him a teasing grin.

"I probably would tease ya a bit." He continued, "Daydreamin' 'bout me and all."

"You would." You repeated, lowering your voice slightly with slight annoyance, glancing off to the side, right at your unfinished pie. You really needed to finish that pie… Maybe in the end you’d have enough leftover dough for smaller pies… That’d be cute…

"I'd probably kiss ya." Logan then said.

"You would-" You paused, blinking before turning to look up at him, eyes wide and face flushed. "Wait, what?" You asked, a confused look forming on your face. Did he really say what you thought he said..?

Logan's smirk dwindled, "Do you not want me to?" He asked, and you quickly responded by shaking your head.

"No! I mean, yes! I mean... Um…" You trailed off, trying to think of a way out of this embarrassing mess. "Um… I'd kinda… Like that…" You mumbled the last part, trying to hide how embarrassed you suddenly felt. You never expected him to say anything like that.

"Really?" Logan said, seeming genuinely surprised as he watched you nod. 

"Yup." You replied quickly, hoping that he wouldn't hear the faint squeak in your voice.

"You sure, bub?" He questioned. "Because, if this is gonna make you uncomf-"

Rolling your eyes, you uncrossed your arms, "Oh, shut up and kiss me, Logan." You growled, grabbing the collar of his flannel, and pulling him towards you, pressing your lips harshly against his own, making him pause for a moment before kissing back. Your hands went from his collar to tangled in his hair, tugging gently, while his grip on your hips tightened slightly. His fingers slid a bit under the hem of your shirt, burning against the small portion of your cool skin that he had found at your waist. After a few moments, you pulled back, panting slightly. "You taste like cherries." You muttered breathlessly.

"I may have snuck some when ya weren't lookin’." He grinned a toothy grin, looking down at you mischievously.

You chuckled slightly. "What am I going to do with you?" You commented, feeling his warm fingers brush through your hair as they rested on the nape of your neck before he leaned forward, capturing your lips once more.

---

Main Masterlist | X-Men Masterlist

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxviii, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-eight: After three days spent healing, Cassian finally wakes and finds that he has several things to say to his brother.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

At first it was the village.

Not quite a dream, but a nightmare laced with memory as Cassian found himself standing right back in the ashes of his own  rage, watching the smoke drift, bitter and acrid, toward the sky. Blood stained the snow and seeped across grey rock, and he could have sworn, even in delirium, that screams still echoed through the mountain pass.

Broken siphons lay shattered, the shards as sharp as drawn blades, and in the dream Cassian looked down at his hands and saw Illyrian blood dripping thick from his fingers. It blurred in his mind, the deserted, desecrated camp high in the mountains looming in his memory as the nightmare sunk its claws deep into his flesh.

And then the screams shifted, a warrior’s pain morphing into something else. The blood on his hands thinned, turning dark— turning to Cauldron-water as the rock beneath his feet turned smooth, blood-stained snow replaced by polished marble.  The scene around him changed, until it wasn’t blood on his hands but water, water that needled his skin like acid as it pooled beneath him in a puddle so dark it seemed to swallow the light whole.

Pain— there was so much pain.

His, but not his.

The world began and ended with his every breath, an aching kind of cold pressing at his fingertips and spreading up through his veins as the village he had destroyed once in his fury bled into the throne room like ink, the horrors of both twining until the screams of anguish he heard echoing through the mountains weren’t his anymore but hers—

The floor of Hybern’s throne room was slick with dark water, as black as the night itself. Cassian’s hands slipped as he tried to rise, struggling to find purchase, and gods, it burned. Where the Cauldron’s water kissed his skin, Cassian felt an ice so deep it beggared belief sinking into his veins. He heard screaming, heard her screaming, felt her drowning like it was his own heart ceasing to beat, his own blood beginning to boil. He pulled away, or tried to, but the memory dragged him down, reality converging brutally with the dream, and in his chest hoarfrost gathered, beginning to crawl, and when he opened his mouth to scream—

All he tasted was medicine, a sleeping tonic thick and bitter on his tongue, keeping him chained and trapped within the nightmare until at last, blackness swallowed him… and Cassian remembered nothing at all.

***

When he opened his eyes at last, Cassian swore he could feel her.

Nesta’s scent lingered in the air, draped lightly over the sheets as though she had only just been there, sitting beside him as he lay healing. He seemed to have missed her by a hair’s breadth— by a moment or a second, a heartbeat or an hour, he wasn’t sure. The light danced across the bed, sharp in the wake of his dreams, and as Cassian breathed in the scent of his mate, slowly, slowly, he stretched out a hand, reaching for the ghost of her left behind.

But the movement sent sent a bolt of fire spearing right down his spine, drawing a livid curse from his lips as pain - unrelenting pain - shot like lightning across the broken mass of his wings.

It didn’t stop him.

Couldn’t stop him, not as he reached for the empty space on that mattress, hoping he might bring her back if his fingers could just graze the sheets that still smelled, faintly, of her.

But the space beside him was cold, and if Nesta had been there, it had been hours ago.

Cassian’s brow furrowed, fingers curling tightly in the sheets.

In his chest, something broke.

He loosed his grip on the bedsheets, drawing a gasping breath as he flexed his hand. The movement was stiff, and the siphon he wore was shining as if through fog as pain radiated from the bottom of his wings to the nape of his neck. At his back, pinned beneath him, those wings were nothing but a blistering ache, so sharp his breath got caught in his throat.

And— fuck, when he twitched them, to test how much strength they had left, they were as spindly as the legs of a newborn deer. Wrapped in so many bandages it was a wonder there was any linen left in Velaris at all, he forced his wings to shift. But a roaring pain engulfed him, a tidal wave of it he felt down to the tips of his toes.

His entire body felt hollow, bones aching like they had been snapped too, and he hissed as the pain barrelled through him, a sound of pure agony building within his throat.

It was a brutal reminder of just how close he had come to death.

He had been bleeding and broken, wings shredded, and though he was no stranger to risk or injury… it was different, this time. This time he had felt death in a way he never had before. It had cracked open an eye in the darkness and saw right through to his soul, staking a claim on him as the pain had dragged him under.

A chill coursed through him, kith to the ice still burning in his chest.

But he forced it away.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

His own pain, his own anguish, was nothing. He recalled the dreams that had haunted him in his sleep, the screams he knew would dog him for the rest of his days. His hands reached again for that space on the bed beside him, her name echoing with each beat of his broken heart.

Nesta.

He could still see her eyes, brimming with terror and rage as the king’s guards forced her into that Cauldron. Could still feel the bond, taut as a bow-string and thrumming the way it had the moment their eyes had met across that godsforsaken throne room. Absolute, inexorable need surged through him as the bond tightened, stealing his breath, and it was for Nesta that Cassian took a breath and braced both palms against the mattress. For her he ignored the barbs of pain that shot through his wings as he pushed his weight against the heel of his hands, trying to rise.

For her.

“Fuck,” he gasped, breaths turning ragged as agony knifed along his spine, spreading across his shoulders.

And across the room, from a half-hidden corner by the window that Cassian hadn’t even glanced at before now, another curse echoed his own.

“For fuck’s sake, Cass.”

Sharp footsteps sounded from the wall of windows opposite, but before Cassian could force his broken body to rise another inch, Rhys’ hand was pressed flat against Cassian’s shoulder, firm and immovable.

“Don’t even think about it,” the High Lord said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Cassian didn’t stop for a minute to study his brother— to really note the anguish that cloaked him like a second skin. Nor did he pause to wonder how or why Rhys was the only one waiting for him to wake. His brother has been so lost in thought standing in that corner, staring listlessly out of the window, that it seemed he hadn’t even noticed Cassian opening his eyes until that whispered curse had been torn from his throat. He’d never known Rhys to be so distracted but…

No, Cassian didn’t pause. Not for a second, because he couldn’t fucking breathe.

He pushed once more against Rhys’ palm, gritting his teeth against the riot of pain working its way up and down his spine.

“Let me up,” he managed through clenched teeth.

Stitches were pulled taut in wounds not yet healed, and the new, fragile membrane of his wings threatened to tear as his arms began to tremble. His muscles ached, like keeping himself sitting upright was challenge enough, but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter, didn’t matter—

Rhys didn’t move.

“Rhys,” Cassian snarled. “Let. Me. Up.”

The High Lord said nothing, violet eyes dark and determined as he refused to relent. He kept his hand pressed against Cassian’s shoulder, and fucking hell, Cassian thought grimly, any other day he’d be able to force Rhys away without so much as blinking. But the blast that had taken out his wings had all but decimated his strength, leaving him with nothing but the sweat gleaming on his brow as he fought to stay upright.

After what felt like an age of bone-cracking agony, Cassian could do nothing more than collapse back against his pillows, staring furiously at the ceiling and cursing his sudden weakness.

“Not yet,” Rhys said mildly as he removed his hand at last. “Give it another day— give it until tomorrow.”

Cassian slammed a fist against his sickbed. “Another day? How long has it been already?”

His voice was cold, but Rhys didn’t flinch.

“Three days.”

Cassian swore the world began to tilt beneath him, the balance suddenly off-kilter.

“Three days,” he echoed, deadpan.

“And a half,” Rhys added, turning to the window at his back, as if tracking the movement of the sun. “It’s almost noon.”

As if Cassian gave a fuck about what time it was.

“Where is she.”

The demand came out rough, like gravel, and his voice seemed to quake beneath the weight of the temper he was only barely keeping in check. Deep within, something primal and primordial began to howl.

Rhys only rolled his eyes. Under his breath he muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘both the fucking same,’ and Cassian’s brow lowered over narrowed eyes as he began to wonder if Rhys had faced similar questioning from Nesta herself. But then— why wasn’t she here? Where was she? And Mother save him, how was she?

They were the only questions worth asking, the only things that seemed to matter.

“She’s here,” Rhys said after a pause, waving a hand in a gesture so casual it made Cassian clench his jaw. “And she’s awake, which is more than I can say for Elain.”

“Elain isn’t awake?”

“No.”

Cassian glowered. “So Nesta’s been on her own for three fucking days then,” he countered darkly, running a hand over his ribs to make sure those, at least, were still intact. Feeling nothing broken he shifted, more than ready to try and rise again regardless of the pain, but Rhys stopped him with a glare so glacial it made chasms of his eyes.

“Not alone,” Rhys said bluntly. “I checked on her, and Mor took her some clothes.”

Cassian was silent. His eyes seemed to burn as he looked pointedly at his brother and waited for him to continue— because if Rhys thought that was explanation enough, then he was so severely mistaken that Cassian might have started to wonder if the High Lord had hit his head on the way out of Hybern’s throne room. As it was, his brother sighed heavily before running a hand through his already-mussed hair.

“The Cauldron took its toll,” he explained. “Neither Nesta nor Elain were fully conscious when we made it back to Velaris, and after Mor and I winnowed them up here… they were out of it for a little while. Nesta woke after a few hours, but Elain is still drifting in and out.” When Cassian’s gaze turned sharp, bladed with concern, Rhys added, “There’s no injury. Physically, they both seem fine.”

A note of caution entered his voice, one that had all of Cassian’s instincts sharpening like a blade against a whetstone.

“Mor brought Nesta clothes,” the Lord continued flatly, violet eyes devoid of stars. “But she didn’t even bother to look at them before casting them off. Mor wasn’t exactly happy—“

Cassian snarled again, a sound of abject consternation so abrasive it was a wonder it didn’t rake claws down his throat.

“What the fuck,” he asked, in a voice so rough it was little more than a growl, “were you thinking?”

The glare he gave Rhys was one that so rarely crossed his face these days— one that even battle-hardened warriors had run from in the past. But he didn’t bother to temper it. Of course Nesta would refuse whatever it was that Mor had offered. Night Court fashion was a world away from what they were used to below the wall, and though Mor had shaken off the shackles of her upbringing, it was plain as fucking day that Nesta hadn’t.

As well-intentioned as it was, was it any wonder it had brought out Nesta’s claws?

Rhys didn’t answer, only pressed his lips thin.

“Get her something else,” Cassian said sharply.

“I tried,” Rhys retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She doesn’t want anything else.”

“Then I’ll fucking do it,” he huffed, his hands curling once more into fists so tight his knuckles began to ache.

“You can’t get up,” Rhys hissed. “It’s a fucking miracle you’re even alive. It wasn’t just your wings, you know. Whatever was in that blast— you’ve had a temperature for days that even the healers can’t understand. Like you were burning from the inside out.”

Cassian stilled. The dream came back to him in a rush, an echo of that burning heat thrumming distant in his veins. Like it wasn’t him burning at all.

The bond twining around his ribs trembled, and in the silence that followed Cassian shoved it all away and clenched his jaw before demanding roughly,

“Tell me what happened.”

Rhys looked uncomfortable with the question, his shadowed face stony. “I haven’t been able to glean much. All I know is that Hybern broke in whilst they were sleeping. Killed the servants—“

“And the Illyrians?” Cassian felt his anger harden, cool into something far more difficult to break. “Where the fuck were they? I swear, if they—“

“They’re dead, Cass.”

It took Cassian a moment to understand. For the words to sink in. And when they did, there was a ringing in his ears so sharp he had to shake his head to clear it.

Fuck.

“Ash arrows were found in the grounds,” Rhys continued darkly. “And the other four men you sent to the Mandray house never saw Nesta. By the time they arrived she had already gone to stay with Elain. They didn’t know she wasn’t inside.”

It was like being dragged into a riptide.

The waves kept coming, kept pulling and pushing and holding him under, each new kernel of information Rhys offered one that made Cassian feel like his lungs were taking on water. Four men dead— men who had families, friends, loved ones. Cassian had personally picked the ones to go below the wall. He hadn’t been about to put Nesta and Elain’s safety in the hands of any of the more… conservative Illyrians, especially when Devlon had been so reluctant to let them go at all. No, these had been soldiers who respected him, who had only barely grumbled about being stationed so far from home.

Dead.

He’d have to tell their families, have to visit them personally.

And the servants. Gods— who would tell their families? Or Nesta’s father? Cassian didn’t have an overwhelming amount of respect for the man, but still. Would he return to an empty house, dilapidated and dark, a ruin filled with nothing but shattered glass and the echo of violence?

Each thought made his head spin, and yet it was nothing - absolutely fucking nothing - to the weight in his chest, the crushing heaviness where his heart should be.

Because the sharpest undercurrent of all was…

He’d known.

He’d known something was wrong. That night, after Hybern’s attack, he had been so consumed with worry it had almost eaten him alive. He had felt it, as certain as anything.

If only he’d sent a shadow to the Archeron estate that night too. If only he’d known Nesta wasn’t with her husband at all, but with her sister. If only he’d insisted Azriel somehow find the strength to command two shadows across the wall, or better yet, if he himself had flown there despite his exhaustion…

If only, if only, if only.

His eyes closed.

“So when Az sent that shadow…” he began, hoarse. “Nesta wasn’t even at home that night. She was with Elain the whole time.”

His heart felt as brittle as cracked glass, his eyes stinging. Somewhere inside him was a pendulum, one that swung wildly between spikes of terrifying fury, and deep valleys carved of guilt and grief.

He could have saved her.

Could have stopped her being taken in the night, bound and gagged and thrown into that Cauldron. All of it could have been avoided had he only been looking in the right place that night, when the bond in his chest had been so damned insistent that something was wrong.

He should’ve listened. Should have paid more attention.

How many lives would have been saved? How many grieving mothers would have been spared a loss? Most importantly to Cassian, how much pain could he have kept Nesta from? How much agony might have been avoided?

When he slid his eyes open again, he saw Rhys nod.

“That’s all I’ve been able to gather. Nesta hasn’t exactly been… forthcoming with the details.”

Cassian blinked slowly, eyes darkening. “Can you blame her?”

Rhys sighed, taking a step closer. Slowly, carefully, he added, “There’s something… up with her, Cass.”

“Up with her,” Cassian echoed, in a voice as that was cold and flat, as desolate as a Winter Court snow plain. He could have sworn his brother cringed.

“I can sense something,” Rhys continued. “I don’t know what, exactly. She won’t tell me what happened inside the Cauldron—“

“Rhys,” he warned, “back off, would you?”

The dream lurched once more in his memory— the cold, the aching in his bones. That distant feeling of ice searing him right through, stealing his breath with its ferocity. It lingered, even now, like it had been fucking real. Cassian suppressed a shudder.

“It’s her eyes, Cass. There’s something there, some kind of power she won’t speak of—“

“Rhys.”

Cassian fixed his brother with the kind of glare reserved usually for soldiers out of line— the kind that made his entire face harden. He didn’t give a single shit about what Nesta may or may not have emerged from that Cauldron with. It wouldn’t be enough to change anything— to stop him loving her with everything he had left.

“Let her work it out in her own time,” he added gruffly, his tone one that threatened retribution if not flat-out violence.

“We might not have time,” Rhys countered dryly.

Cassian snarled. “I said back off.”

For a second Rhys looked prepared to argue his point, a scowl twisting the corners of his mouth, but Cassian snarled again softly, little more than a growl of patience lost, and Rhys’ scowl vanished. He exhaled heavily and raised a hand in surrender, giving his brother a small nod.

“Alright,” he said tightly. “Alright.”

Cassian nodded once too, brisk, and settled back against the pillows, careful not to disturb the mass of bandages and scar tissue that was his wings.

There was a beat— where Cassian felt the ache deep in his bones collide with the weariness that gnawed, ravenous, at his edges. He sighed, and let himself relent. For now— just for now.

“And Az?” he asked after a moment, forcing himself away from the memory of Azriel’s blood slicking his hands in that throne room.

“The healers are still keeping him under. The poison… it had almost reached his heart.” Rhys shuddered. “It’s the same poison that tipped the arrows I was hit with, only in a far more concentrated dose. If Feyre were here, she could probably heal him just as quickly as she healed me, but…”

The High Lord stumbled over his mate’s name, like it pained him to speak of her. He trailed off, eyes darting back to the window he’d been staring out of before Cassian had opened his eyes, like he was trying to follow the bond and see all the way to the south, to wherever Feyre was now.

“She’s in Spring,” Cassian breathed, not quite a question.

In the dimness of his memory he recalled the way Feyre had drifted back to Tamlin’s side in that throne room, the way Rhys had fallen to his knees. Cassian didn’t remember much— couldn’t remember words or put it all together in any kind of narrative that made sense, and he’d been dragged into unconsciousness soon after his brother had screamed in pain. But he remembered the way Tamlin reached for Feyre, a wary kind of relief igniting in his green eyes and mingling with the reflected candlelight until they were an evergreen forest consumed by flame.

The lines on Tamlin’s face had smoothed as he placed a hand on Feyre’s wrist. No matter that Cassian’s vision had been growing dark, or that Azriel’s life hung by a thread. No matter that Elain trembled in a puddle of Cauldron-spilled water, or that Nesta scrambled towards her sister even as her eyes remained fixed on Cassian.

None of that had mattered to the High Lord of Spring.

A sharp, terse nod was Rhys’ only response.

“There’s something else you should know too,” Rhys said, his voice made heavy by the bitterest sort of irony. He turned back to the bed and looked Cassian in the eye, lifting his chin with all the bearing of a High Lord. “Before we went to Hybern, I made Feyre High Lady.”

For a moment, Cassian forgot the pain in his wings.

He thought he must have misheard, must have been hallucinating from all the tonics the healers had been giving him—

“Mor and Amren were told as soon as we got back,” Rhys said, “but with you and Az unconscious…”

“You fucking what?” Cassian spat, scrambling on his hands to raise himself from the bed. His wings protested again as his muscles shifted, stitches close to tearing, and once more Rhys stepped forward with ease and halted him with a palm flat against his shoulder.

“Don’t start. I’ve already had all this from Mor and Amren.”

Cassian hissed. “And if you think you’re not going to get it from me too then you’re sorely mistaken. You didn’t think we deserved to know that we weren’t just taking the Lady of the Night Court into Hybern, but the High Lady? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

A dark laugh bubbled in his chest, one that ached in his throat. Suddenly all those feelings he thought’d he’d buried, the ones left over from when Rhys went Under the Mountain… they came screaming back, every ounce of inadequacy and failure returning in a wave as he realised that once again he’d been left out of Rhys’ scheming. That the High Lord had left his General in the dark.

He knew how it looked— how it seemed. Every sensible part of him clung desperately to the knowledge that Rhys trusted him implicitly, that theirs was a bond forged of blood and sweat and tears that could not be broken idly…

And yet.

“You didn’t think we needed to know?” Cassian asked again, blunt as an axe. “That we deserved to know?”

Rhys took a breath. “It’s not about that. It was never about that.”

“We were unprepared,” Cassian snapped. “We never would have—”

Rhys drew back, as surely as if Cassian had slapped him.

Everything in the High Lord appeared to crumble. His eyes, dark before, seemed abyssal now. The tension in his shoulders evaporated, the harsh lines at his mouth and his brow vanishing as the fight seemed to leave him entirely. He looked up to the ceiling, the shadows beneath his eyes seeming darker and more prominent than before. A pang of remorse echoed through Cassian’s chest as his words died in his throat and Rhys lifted a hand, not in surrender this time, but something like supplication.

“Enough. It’s done, Cass,” he said, his tone just a touch too resigned to be considered sharp. He sighed again, maudlin. “It’s done.”

Cassian took a breath, willing the waves of his anger to subside. That twinge of remorse in his chest surged as he looked to the windows, where Rhys had been gazing so forlornly. Gods, had he been any better when it was Nesta so far away? How many times had he stared out at that same horizon, wishing miles were inches?

Nesta.

Just the thought of her had everything else fading.

“Tell me something else,” Cassian said, breaking the heavy silence, remembering what was important. “Tell me about Nesta. How was she— when she woke?”

The question lingered, and Rhys… hesitated.

The sure and certain High Lord, who had an answer for everything, hesitated. The silence that followed spoke louder than anything Rhys might have said, and as Cassian’s eyes narrowed, he gave his brother a look of warning that said he’d better come up with an answer, and a good one, fast.

“Rhys,” he said slowly, his voice sharpening. “You were there. Right? Tell me you didn’t let her wake up alone.”

Silence.

The ruby siphon on his hand began to pulse in time with his raging, racing heart, flaring as his temper spiked. His hand curled into a fist so tight his fingertips began to feel numb, and behind his ribs the bond strained so tightly it stole his breath, like a blade had pierced his lungs.

Rhys only scowled, plucking at a piece of fucking lint.

“We’ve been preparing for war,” he said flatly, lifting his chin. “And in case it escaped your notice, I’ve been down a commander and a spymaster. Mor and Amren and I have just about managed to hold this court together, so forgive me for not sitting idle by your sweetheart’s bedside while the world around us goes to shit.”

Cassian growled, a rumble in his chest so deep his entire body seemed to thrum.

“My sweetheart,” he echoed with a low, dangerous laugh. “You’re a fucking cunt sometimes, Rhys, you know that?” His brother was quiet, and Cassian felt the reins of his temper slip through his fingers as he uncurled his hands, leaning forwards as if he was only a breath away from rising from that bed and closing those hands around his brother’s fucking throat. “Never mind that you’ve clearly been sitting idle by my bedside. Never mind that she’s your mate’s sister.”

His lips curled back over his teeth, something feral and unrestrained howling inside, hammering against his chest, begging to be set loose. His siphons flickered.

“She’s so much more than my fucking sweetheart and you damn well know it,” he seethed. “Give her the respect she deserves.”

The voice that left him sounded foreign even to his own ears. It was sharp and bladed and angry— he hadn’t felt like this since that day in that village in the mountains, when he’d slaughtered so many of the men who had sneered when he’d asked where his mother was. Rhys didn’t balk in the face of that anger; his brother stood stoic and firm, letting Cassian’s rage wash over him in a wave.

Cassian took a breath, clenching his fists as he tried to find the moment where everything had gone wrong these past few weeks. It seemed like only yesterday Nesta was in his arms by the water, watching the stars fall from the sky. Only yesterday that Rhys had told him to go and get her, to bring her to Velaris for the night.

And now— somehow they had ended up here. With Rhys separated from his mate as the entire continent faced Hybern’s threat, and Nesta no doubt in more pain than she’d ever been before, no matter how fine Rhys thought she was.

He loosed a single breath, forced the thrumming in his veins to steady.

“I get it,” Cassian bit out as the waves of anger receded just enough to let him breathe again. “Feyre’s not here and you’re losing your mind. But that doesn’t mean you can be a prick to the ones of us left behind with you.” His jaw grew tight, his voice dipping low. “After all, maybe now you’ll understand how we felt all those years you were Under the Mountain.”

Rhys snapped his gaze back to Cassian’s, starless violet meeting furious hazel. His lips parted, as if ready to argue, but something Cassian had said must have resonated because he quickly looked away, back to the windows. Regret flickered in those dark eyes as he ran a fist through his hair, turning his face away.

“You’re right,” Rhys said quietly, like it pained him to admit it. A heavy sigh rattled through his chest. “I’m sorry, Cass.”

Cassian sighed too, the atmosphere shifting as he sat back. Their heated words died in the silence, anger melting and giving way to something else, the kind of acceptance and acquiescence only found in the wake of a blistering argument between those who loved one another as family.

“As soon as I can get out of this bed,” Cassian said darkly, “I’m going to hit you so fucking hard you’ll see stars for a week.”

A tentative smirk pulled at Rhys’ lips.

“Fair,” he answered with a shrug.

And with that, all of the resentment was gone— just like that. Cassian let himself fall back agains the pillows, the burning in his wings easing as they lay flat once more. Looking up at the ceiling, he felt his heart pound as his mind wandered, a different kind of guilt pulling at him, fraying his edges until he was half afraid there would be nothing of himself left by the time it was done.

I’ll find a way to keep you safe. I swear it.

Who could have guessed it would turn out to be such pointless vow, a hollow promise?

“I made her a promise,” Cassian said quietly now, his voice too close to breaking. He spoke more to himself than to Rhys, but still his brother was there to listen. “I swore to protect her and I didn’t.”

“How could you have stopped it?” Rhys asked mildly. “You were in no position to—“

“I could have done something,” Cassian interjected hotly. “I should have done something.”

Gods— the guilt would eat him alive. Would destroy him, and he couldn’t quite tell whether he wanted to run to her or hide from her forever. His entire soul, every tiny facet of his being, longed to find her— but could he bear the betrayal in her eyes, knowing he was the reason she’d been dragged into that throne room? Knowing his failings had cost her her life?

And after all hadn’t he thought, once, that he’d give anything for Nesta to be fae?

Like a fucking fool, he’d once dreamed of her living above the wall, living forever… and for his stunning hubris, his stupid fucking arrogance, the Mother had granted his wish.

He turned his head, eyes catching on the sheets beside him that still carried that lingering trace of her. She’d been sitting there— right beside him. Maybe that meant she didn’t hate him after all.

But maybe she should.

Maybe someone ought to.

He closed his eyes, feeling wave after wave of anguish swallow him whole.

“She still doesn’t know, does she?” Rhys asked gently. “About the bond?”

Cassian shook his head, hardly able to speak. He felt sick.

Rhys let out a dry laugh. “The way you snarled in that throne room… how could she not have realised?”

Cassian didn’t want to think of it, didn’t want to be taken back to that expansive stone room, thick with the scent of spilled blood. But he couldn’t help but recall Lucien and the three little words that had burst from his mouth, like he hadn’t physically been capable of keeping them inside.

You’re my mate.

Gods, the Autumn prince had made it look so fucking easy. Part of Cassian wondered now why he hadn’t just done the same weeks ago, torn off the bandage and made it quick.

Fuck.

Given how badly Nesta had reacted to Lucien’s little outburst… well, Cassian could hardly tell her now, could he? She’d made it clear with the way she’d scrambled to Elain’s side, horror written all over her face, that the last thing in the world she needed - wanted - was a mate.

He’d thought he needed to give her time. To let her adjust to the idea of a mating bond before he sprung one on her, but now…

“Gods,” Cassian groaned, “it’s all so fucked, Rhys.”

Rhys snorted his agreement. “Yeah,” he said dryly, glancing down at his hands. “Yeah, it is.”

The High Lord glanced at the sky again, the sun high in the centre. He looked back to the bed, eyes softening.

“I told Amren I’d meet with her after noon,” he said, brushing a hand down his black shirt. “I should go. There’s still work to be done, and someone needs to keep an eye on those queens. Especially in the wake of….” He waved a hand, gesturing broadly at the chaos that surrounded them. “…All this.”

Cassian started. “You can’t mean to go yourself.”

“Someone needs to, and Az is hardly up to it.”

“You’re a fool, Rhys.”

“I am capable of looking after myself, you know.”

Cassian was about to argue, but as the sun slanted across Rhys’ midnight hair, he looked at his brother— really looked, for the first time since he’d woken. Stress was carved so deeply in his face that every plane of it seemed strained, and his eyes were flat and empty, like the stars there had simply given up hope of shining. He looked like every single drop of anguish Cassian felt had scarred him too, and Cassian’s own eyes softened as he shook his head.

“I’m not going to be the one to tell Feyre when you get yourself hurt,” he said archly.

Rhys laughed, bitter. “Let’s worry about that when she’s home, shall we?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, absently lifting a hand to his chest. It was something subconscious, something innate, that had his fingers splaying across his ribs, right above where he felt that bond tying him so resolutely to Nesta. It was brighter now, more alive, like her being turned fae had amplified it. Rhys tracked the movement and blinked, nodding in understanding. His own fingers twitched, like he’d reach for Feyre if only he could.

“I’ll come back later,” he said gently, nodding to the bedside table where several small glass vials were laid out. “If the pain gets too much, take three drops from the green bottle. Six drops for sleep.”

Cassian nodded, even though he had no intention of sleeping any time soon. He’d spent three days sleeping— it was more than enough. There were more important things now than sleep, more pressing things than pain.

Rhys glanced pointedly at the bottles once more before raising an eyebrow and fixing Cassian with a knowing stare.

“You really should stay in bed for a little longer,” he said, stepping forward to clap him lightly on the shoulder. His voice was weary, but the resignation in his tone said he knew that, short of tying Cassian to the bed, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop him.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “And you really should have told us before making Feyre High Lady.”

Rhys rolled his eyes, drawing back. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. After a minute he loosed a long breath, shaking his head in surrender. “Swear to me you’ll be careful.”

“I’m not the one going to spy on the same queens that sold us down the river to Hybern,” Cassian pointed out flatly, a scowl settling above his brows. Rhys grimaced.

“No, but I’m not the one who almost died from blood loss.”

Cassian waved a hand, like it was nothing. Like he didn’t still remember the way his fingers had slipped in pools of his own blood, staining his skin crimson.

“I promise I’ll be careful if you will,” he offered instead, and this time Rhys rolled his eyes, resting his hand on Cassian’s shoulder once more.

“I promise,” the High Lord said, dipping his head. And then he drew back, his steps almost silent as he pulled away. He looked to the door, straightening his spine and plucking at his sleeves before adding a soft, “I’ll see you later, brother.”

It was the only farewell he offered, and even though Cassian muttered a quiet see you later in return, Rhys didn’t say anything more before sweeping from that bedroom, leaving only silence in his wake.

Cassian waited for one breath— then two, three. Just enough to ensure Rhys wasn’t about to come storming back.

And then, arduously, he began to rise.

Every nerve he possessed protested as he forced himself upright. His bones barked beneath the pressure, the bottoms of both wings burning beneath the bandages, like someone had just taken a match to them. He felt every single one of the small, intricate muscles straining as he straightened his spine, pulling so painfully that darkness gathered once more at the corners of his eyes.

But he refused to black out this time.

Cassian gritted his teeth, biting back the groan that rose to his lips.

He eyed the bottles on the side, wondering if he ought to take those three drops after all.

But he pushed— pushed and pushed and pushed, his body screaming.

With effort, he managed to swing his legs off the bed. Somehow, he made it to the door, pulled it open.

In his mind was a singular focus, a sole purpose that kept him going as he staggered down the hallway, each step a labour. He dragged one hand along the wall as he went, using it as a support. And then he was at the stairs, swallowing as pain bloomed in every part of him, as he looked at the downward spiral of steps and knew that the effort might just make him faint.

But for Nesta, Cassian knew he needed to make it down those stairs— come hell or high water.

He was sweating by the time he made it to the landing a floor below. The guest corridor stretched out before him, seemingly endless, and his heart thundered as he made his way down its length. He had guessed this was where Rhys would have housed the sisters, and even though he’d never gotten confirmation, the bond in his chest was thrumming with his every step, like it was leading him right to her. Cassian didn’t know what room Nesta was in, but that thrumming grew louder and louder until he found himself standing in front of a closed door.

Instinctively, he knew this was it.

Already he could hear her heart.

If he wasn’t already so desperate, Cassian thought he might really have collapsed then. If his body could have handled it, he thought he might have sank to his knees.

His mind went blank; his heart pounding against his ribs.

And Cassian didn’t think— didn’t knock.

Like a man starved, he pushed open that door and all but stumbled over the threshold. Instantly he was met with her scent, and with a gasp his mate turned her head, silver eyes glinting across the distance between them that suddenly seemed vast enough to wound.

But as Cassian looked upon Nesta for the first time in days…

Every single thought eddied from his head.

Every single word he knew was forgotten save one.

Nesta.

Her name. Just her name— the only thing in the world that still held meaning.

It bubbled to his lips, his strength failing him as he grasped at the doorframe and felt his knees go weak. He couldn’t pretend arrogance, couldn’t find it in him to flirt. As she lingered, still, on the other side of the room, Cassian felt himself growing brittle as, at last, he found it in him to rasp a single, aching,

“Nesta.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

[deanwritings]

The Guest House - Chapter 1

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Dean Winchester is going through a nasty divorce. He doesn't have much left to his name, but what he does have is his house. Leave it to his soon-to-be ex wife to find a way to even ruin that for him. Enter Y/N, who is looking to get away from life for a bit, and stumbles right into the middle of it all.

The Guest House Master List

Word Count: 3,375

Your fingers drum along the steering wheel as you navigate the winding backroads, nothing but bare trees and a littering of snow to keep your mind occupied as you hum along to the radio station. 

You had exited the highway almost an hour ago, and the longer you drove, the less cars you passed and the more trees appeared. 

A part of you was worried you were making a mistake; what if this town ended up being too small? Or what if your rental was a total sham and you got scammed? You could always dispute the charge with the bank, but the embarrassment of being conned and having to admit that to your family would be the worst part. An “I told you so” would definitely be waiting for you from your mother. 

But your GPS showed another thirty-five minutes before your arrival, so you figured you might as well check it, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. 

This was definitely out of your comfort zone, but you deserved this. A month of no work or responsibilities. Just taking each day as it came and answering to no one but yourself.

This is going to be good for me. You keep reminding yourself.  

About twenty minutes later, a few buildings appear in between the trees; houses and some small, specialty shops like a hardware store and a car repair shop. As you drive further in, brick buildings, all connected to each other line your path. You slow down as you begin taking in the shops and restaurants, noticing an antique store and Irish pub first, as well as some art galleries and thrift stores. The town is certainly picturesque, with a charmingly old downtown, the stone sidewalks dotted with trees that are surely full and vibrant in the warmer months, but their bare branches still clinging to string lights from the holidays. 

You smile, this was exactly what you were hoping for. Maybe this was going to work out after all. 

True to the posting, your GPS announces your arrival about ten minutes later. The driveway is long and unpaved, and your eyes widen as the log cabin that sits proudly to your left comes into view behind the trees. Large, dark logs, perfectly sat on top of one another, leading up to a green, gable roof and thick stone chimney. A large porch adorns the front facade, and you see two empty rocking chairs swaying in the winter wind. 

Continue past the main house for another 15 seconds or so, and the guest house is located towards the back of the property. Lisa had messaged you instructions after your booking was confirmed. 

As you keep driving, more trees appear, the back of the property not as cleared out as the front. But through the lifeless trees you spot your home for the next month, exactly how it appeared in the posting; gray, wooden siding with two porches; one off the front and another off the bedroom. The same gabled roof graces this home, though shaded red. A small, tin chimney sits perfectly atop, completing the picture you saw online. 

Turns out, you didn’t get scammed at all. Maybe it was your Aunt Rose, or a guardian angel, but someone was clearly looking out for you and made sure you were getting exactly what you deserved. 

You park on the side of the house, per Lisa’s instructions, and gather up all your bags, not wanting to make more than one trip. You struggle with your suitcase against the gravel, but thankfully it doesn’t take you long before you arrive at the front, all-glass door, allowing you a sneak peek before you even step foot inside. 

Key is under the flower pot to the left of the door. And you smile when you find it exactly where it’s meant to be. 

You unlock the door and push it open, and despite the purse and backpack you're carrying, your shoulders immediately slump and you take in an easy, deep breath of relief. The house is immaculate; bright, pine plank floors, plaid, comfortable looking couches facing the tv and wood-burning stove. The living room continues into the kitchen, the whole floor plan wide and open. The cabinets match the floors, and the countertops are a forest green granite. The appliances are a bit outdated; the older, white stove and microwave combo that looks very similar to the one you had in college, but that doesn’t bother you. You can see straight back to the only bedroom, the open door and revealing a sliver of the bed for your next month. The house is adorned with floor to ceiling windows, making the atmosphere feel light, even in the dark, winter twilight.  

You drag your stuff back to the bedroom, heaving your extra large suitcase up the four steps that lead to the space.

The bedroom is simple; a queen bed with cream comforter, curtains that match the bedding, and two pine nightstands, each with a glass-bottomed lamp. 

You drop your suitcase onto the floor and carefully place your purse and backpack on the small ottoman in the corner of the room. 

As you turn in the space, you spy the hot tub on the back patio, string lights strung above, and you smile. 

After three and half hours in the car, you knew exactly how you were going to start your trip.

The clock on the radio dash illuminates 6:27 as Dean throws his car in park and cuts the engine, exhaustion radiating through his shoulders and down his back as he steps out, the gravel crunching beneath his work boots. He’s looking forward to reheating leftovers, pouring himself a beer, and hitting his bed early tonight. 

The shop had been overrun today, and with Benny out sick and Adam on vacation, Dean found himself without a single break since he started at 7:30 this morning. He usually tried to be home around 5, but by the time he finished the last car, cleaned up and closed up shop, it was well past 6. 

As he takes a few steps across the unpaved driveway towards the front steps of his house, he perks up, his ears catching a sound. He stops, narrowing his eyes as he realizes it’s music. He can’t quite make out the lyrics or the beat, but it’s definitely music. And as he focuses closer, he realizes it’s coming from the guest house. The empty guest house. 

With careful steps, Dean hurries to the garage, unlocking the side door instead of using his automatic opener which would make enough noise to alert whoever wasn’t supposed to be here. Dean makes quick work of opening the locker along the wall and typing in the code to his safe, revealing his pistol, the marble-handled one his father got him when he turned eighteen. He checks to make sure the magazine is loaded and clicks off the safety, not wanting to be caught off guard by whoever was where no one was supposed to be. 

With his weapon ready, Dean takes quiet steps towards the guest house, expertly avoiding the creaky first step as he walks up to the porch and peers in through the open windows. He doesn’t see any movement, but his brow furrows at the shoes resting to the side of the door. 

He reaches for the handle, and it twists open, the lock undone, but not broken, and steps inside. His eyes scan the front room, looking for anyone or anything out of place besides the shoes, and seeing everything in order, starts towards sliding back doors that lead to the patio, where the sound of the music grows louder. As he reaches the door, he peers out, his shoulders dropping as he notices the string lights illuminated and the hot tub cover pushed off, a head lounging against one of the built-in pillows.

God damn kids pool hopping again. He sighs and clicks the safety to his gun back on. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with after the day he had. 

This wasn’t the first time he’s found someone using his hot tub when they thought he was at work, but he figured he had put a stop to it after the McDowell twins and their girlfriends had snuck in and he called the cops on them for trespassing. Granted, he didn’t press charges, Dean wasn’t out to ruin the kids' lives, but the embarrassment of getting picked up naked and brought to the police station was enough to scare them and anyone else from trying it again. 

Or so he thought. 

The tension in his shoulders builds again as he pushes the door open, making his presence known with heavy steps before he shouts, “I thought you kids would know by now to stop–”

His words drop as a woman jumps up from the hot tub with a screech, her eyes wide as she takes quick steps away from him, or as far away as she can get in the hot tub. 

She’s definitely not a kid. From the looks of it, she’s probably in her late twenties, or maybe someone who looks good for her thirties. Her short and wet Y/C/H drips onto her shoulders, and Dean unintentionally follows the path of a water droplet as it races down her chest, through her bikini-coveraged cleavage and down to her navel, before getting soaked into her bottoms.

Yeah, definitely not a kid. 

“I’m calling the cops!” She shouts, her phone in hand, music blaring from the speaker as her fingers are ready to press the three numbers as she stares at him with fear in her Y/C/E eyes.

“Take it easy,” Dean holds his hands up, and the woman looks like she’s going to have a heart attack as she notices the gun in his right hand. Realizing his mistake, he quickly tucks it away into his waistband and holds his empty hands out to her, wanting her to know he’s not a threat.

“First off,” Dean holds up a finger at her. “If anyone should be calling the cops, it’s me.” He points back to himself. “Secondly, what are you doing in my house?” 

“Your house?” Her voice drips with confusion as her brow furrows.

“Yes my house.” He echoes, emphasizing his ownership. She continues to frown.  

“Well if it’s your house, you would know I’m renting your guest house for the next four weeks.” She crosses her arms defiantly, confusion and fear gone as she challenges him. 

“What are you talking about?” Now it’s Dean’s turn to be confused. He’s never rented the guest house out, nor would he ever. Especially not for a fucking month. 

Dean had no problem chatting with people at the shop or meeting friends for drinks downtown, but here at home, this was his private space, where he came to get away from it all. He rarely had anyone over as he just didn’t want to bother with people in his space. 

“I rented this house from you and your wife on AirBnB.” She states simply, having no idea the weight behind her words as realization crosses Dean.

“That bitch.” He mutters under his breath and runs a hand down his face. 

“Excuse me?” The woman seems to have heard him and he looks back to her. 

“No, not you.” He quickly clarifies with a sigh. “My soon-to-be ex wife. I’m gonna take a guess she’s behind this.” Her brows fold again. 

“Is her name Lisa Brandon?” She asks, and with a tight lipped, ghost of a smile, Dean nods, noting the use of her maiden name. He hadn’t heard her called that in years. 

“How’d you know that?”

“She’s listed as the homeowner. She sent me the instructions for how to get into the house.”

Dean lets his head fall back and groans. His day was getting worse and worse. 

Now he had to call his bitch of an ex and find out why there’s a woman planning to stay in his guest house for the next month. 

“Got it,” Dean straightens himself out though his shoulder slumps. Leave it to Lisa to bring some poor woman into the middle of their mess. 

“Seems we have a miscommunication. Sorry to ‘ave scared ya.” He holds his hand up in a half wave and forces a smile as he begins to turn back to step off the patio. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Dean hurries down the small path around the side of the house, not wanting to cut back through the house now that he knew someone was staying there, even if it was his space.  

He vehemently shakes his head as he makes his way to the main house, his fists tight by his side as he prepares for his upcoming battle. 

This was actually the last thing he wanted to do after the day he had. 

Dean and Lisa have been separated for almost two years now, both unhappy for a long time before Lisa declared one day she had enough and had met someone else. 

As he stomps into the house, he kicks his boots off messily at the door and removes the pistol from his waistband and drops it next to the keybowl. Initially he was thinking a beer, but now, he wandered over to the bar and poured himself a finger of whiskey, quickly throwing it back and feeling the warmth spread as it travels down to his stomach. 

He runs a hand through his hair before taking a deep breath and pulling out his phone.

Her. Is what her contact is now. It wasn’t always. But that ship had long sailed. 

He closes his eyes and licks his lips as the line rings, four times, before she answers.  

“What do you want, Dean?” Her exasperated voice sighs through the other end of the line. He’s bothering her, but he’s only calling because she’s started it. 

“You’re renting out my guest house?” He barks. He knows her well enough to know she’s smirking. 

“Our guest house.” She corrects him and his hand balls into a fist. “Figured I’d make use of that house. No one’s used it in years.” He lets out a deep breath through his nose. 

Except you and your boyfriend. He wants to throw in, but he won’t get anywhere if he starts throwing low blows, even if they are well deserved. 

“You’ve got my attention, Lisa, now what do you want?” Dean cuts to the chase. He wants to keep this call as quick as possible.

“I want the property.” Dean scoffs. This was the one reason the divorce hadn’t been finalized yet. Both Dean and Lisa wanted to keep the house they bought together. She wanted it for a second income, and he wanted to keep it just to spite her because she wanted it. Was he proud of it? No. But after everything that happened, he wanted to keep her from getting the only thing she wanted in the divorce. Plus, she couldn’t marry her boy toy until their divorce was finalized, so Dean saw no reason to give in anytime soon. 

“Nice try. You know that’s off the table, and I’ll have my lawyer look into this little stunt of yours.” Dean figures he can either hit her with a cease and desist since she was the one who left and moved away or negotiate getting half of the income she’s going to earn off the rentals. Not that he wants anyone in his space, but if he figures he can take half the cut, Lisa may just stop bothering.  

“In case you’ve forgotten Dean, we’re still married.” No one needed to remind him that. “And my name is still on the property agreement. So that house is just as much mine as it is yours, and I have every right to rent it out. But feel free to get the lawyers involved. All you're doing is wasting my time and yours, not to mention your money.” Dean shakes his head and tightens his jaw. 

The goddamn lawyers. As much as he was enjoying prolonging the inevitable, it turned out, lawyers were pretty damn expensive to keep on retainer. He made good money at the shop, but it wasn’t two-years-worth of lawyer money, and Dean knew that he was close to ruining his finances just to satisfy his pettiness. But Dean was stubborn, and wasn’t ready to give in just yet. 

“Get her out or I will, Lis.” And with that, Dean ends the call. He picks up the bottle of whiskey, this time forgoing the glass as he takes a big swig. There was no way he was going to bed early tonight now.

Once your heart had finally settled and you were sure you weren’t going to pass out from the fear of the strikingly tall and broad-shouldered man who apparently was the co-owner of the home sneaking up on you as you relaxed in what was his hot tub, you whipped out your laptop and settled down on one of the bar stools that sat under the extended kitchen counter. You had opened the bottle of red wine you had brought up with you, not expecting to open it so soon, but after your hellish meet-and-greet with the actual owner, you needed it. 

You cross your legs underneath you as you pull up your AirBNB inbox, finding Lisa’s name and starting a message as you take a big sip of wine that you had poured into a coffee mug, the cabin not equipped with any barware. 

You sigh through your nose and purse your lips. The other shoe had to drop at some point. Between the amazing rental price, picturequest town, and beautiful guest house, everything had seemed too good to be true. Turns out, it was. 

Hi Lisa, it seems there is a miscommunication. I met your husband this evening and it sounds like he was unaware I’m renting the space. I’m not looking to get in the middle of anything so would you please be able to refund me and I’ll stay elsewhere? Your message flies off with a whoosh and you take another sip. 

Your life had been enough of a mess the last few months, you had no interest in getting involved in someone else’s drama. So you would have Lisa refund you for the stay, try to find a new spot to stay, and hopefully be on your way in the morning, even if it meant spending more than you initially were planning. 

You’re about to stand up and head to the tv but your inbox pings with a response from Lisa. 

Don’t worry about him. You rented the guest house and it’s yours for the four weeks. And per the booking site, I do not need to issue you a refund for any reason unless the house is uninhabitable, which it isn’t. So if you are going to leave, that’s up to you, but I will not be refunding your stay. But if you will be canceling, let me know.

You stare at the text flabbergasted. What a bitch. You don’t even know her and you were getting a glimpse into why this marriage didn’t work out. 

You really didn’t want to be a part of her mind games, you had had enough of that in your own life. Your vacation had barely started and it was already on the verge of being ruined. 

You hop onto the booking site and start looking for other options, with a check in starting tomorrow. As you scroll through, the few options available are wildly expensive, and seem to be a room share versus a private rental. And you couldn’t return to your apartment; you had told your landlord about your trip and agreed to let him sublease the space while you were gone, which initially you agreed to since it would cover your rent for the month, but now was just another series of bad decisions since you quit your job. 

Which really just left you with one option; suck it up, keep your head down, and try to make the most of your trip. 

Well this sucks.

Keep Reading

NEXT TIME:

“Look,” You snap and point a finger at him. “I’m not here to be the pawn in your divorce game. I came here to relax. Problem is, every other place I’ve looked at in the area is either sold out or way more expensive than here, and I can’t afford it. You wife-”

“Ex wife-” He interjects curtly. 

“Whatever,” you snarl at his interruption. “Rented this place for a good deal, and considering I don’t have a job right now, I can’t really afford to go somewhere else.” 

“If you don’t have a job, what the hell are you doing here then?” He challenges, crossing his arms and matching your stance.  

“That’s none of your business.” He tsks his tongue and throws his head back with an exasperated sigh. 

“Look,” You lower your voice, hoping a calmer tone will help ease the situation. “Unless you need this house for anything, I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t bother you, and you’ll barely know I’m here. But I already paid Lisa and I don’t have any other options, so you’re stuck with me.”

The man takes a deep breath through his nose and purses his lips.  

“Fine.” He snaps. “Enjoy your freakin’ vacation.” He huffs before he storms away from the porch and back to the main house. You shake your head at his antics.

Like a toddler having a temper tantrum. 

Between Lisa’s bitchy attitude and his man-child behavior, it’s a wonder how those two ever actually liked each other enough to get married.

Tag List

Forever 

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TGH

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[mypoisonedvine]

𝖘𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖒𝖊𝖑𝖙 | koner x dark!wildling!reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 | a journey to the outskirts of winterfell in search of valuables to plunder led you to take something from a lone guard in the forest— something you can't sell or trade.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 | over 4k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 | smut (NONCON/DUBCON, reader forces koner not the other way around!), knife kink, multiple orgasms/overstimulation, degradation, dom!reader and sub(ish)!koner, koner getting nonconned but also being kinda into it (actually, very into it), sort of implied inexperienced koner

a/n - you do not need to have seen game of thrones to read this, I wrote it without seeing it! the only context you'll need is that wildlings are nomadic people who live north of 'the wall' (big ass block of ice) without being ruled by any kingdoms

You stalked closer and closer to your prey, carefully laying each step on the forest floor so as not to be heard.  It took a great deal of stealthiness to walk softly on crunchy wet snow like this, but that posed little trouble for you: you had to hunt like this every day, to eat.

But today, you weren’t hunting for a meal— not even for furs.  You had your sights on a guard of Winterfell.

It was his own fault for straying so far from his post; sure, you were far from where you were meant to be as well, but the life of a wildling sometimes required raiding down South so you could gather resources not available in your usual turf.  You hadn’t expected to encounter anyone this far from your destination, but you heard him a few metres back— he was talking to himself, the dolt.  Humming occasionally as well, then complaining that he couldn’t get the blasted song out of his head.

For a minute, you watched him, wondering if he’d ever turn so you could see his face— his whole head was covered with a black cowl, so you couldn’t see any of him.  Which was better, obviously, because it meant he wouldn’t see you, either; but then again, he seemed to be off in his own world anyways, and you were much better camouflaged than him in that black leather.  After a while, he began to kick rocks around to entertain himself, once squatting to scoop up some snow and pat it into a ball in his gloved hands; which at once he tossed and watched explode against a tree with a snort of delight.  You scoffed to yourself— these guards were more and more daft each time you came here. 

Your eyes glanced at the ground around you, behind this tree you’d ducked beside once you heard the guard nearby.  There was a decently-sized rock, you could probably club him over the head with it and be done, but that sounded a little too easy for your tastes.  Plus, you had this fabulous dagger you’d stolen last time you ventured this far South… maybe you could use it to cut his armour off of him to take for yourself.  

You only had to wait a second longer for the right moment: you stood up and dashed forward.  He didn't hear you coming until it was far too late— he hadn't even turned around enough to see you before you were on him.

He yelped pathetically— more like a screech, really— as you tackled him; his cowl came off in the struggle, revealing dirty-blonde curls cropped short against his head.  He put up a bit of a fight, and though he was strong enough his balance was poor; he toppled over as you found a tight grip on his wrists so he couldn’t swing his fists at you anymore.

As soon as you had the guard pinned to the ground under you, your dagger was against his throat.  One swipe and his blood would pour from his neck and soak into the earth.

But it was his neck that made you hesitate: you looked at his face, something you usually disliked to do until after they were dead.  His pale, soft skin made you realise how young he must be; his face gave away even more.

The poor thing was terrified, understandably.  There was no defiance or disgust on his face, only terror as he shut his eyes tight and swallowed nervously under the pressure of your blade.  He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, probably even younger, and he looked the opposite of battle-hardened as he laid here beneath you, bracing for death.

Eventually noticing your hesitation, he carefully opened one of his eyes and looked up at you with it.  Then they both opened wide, as if reacting to something— and you didn't know what, until his head turned slightly and his eyes drifted to your hair.  "You're—" he realised, but you bared your teeth and pressed your blade harder against his neck to shut him up.

Of course a Winterfell guard would be so perplexed to be overpowered by a woman.  Their tiny little brains couldn't comprehend such a thing, and their tiny little dicks—

You knitted your eyebrows together, feeling something under your rear as you sat on him; when you shifted slightly, he whimpered, his mouth falling open for a moment.  You ever-so-slightly relaxed your dagger-wielding hand, though the other that gripped his wrist above his head held on tighter.  A shudder jumped up your back when you were forced to realise what you were feeling as you straddled his lap.

Well, it wasn't tiny…

His expression softened, and you didn't like how comfortable he was getting; snarling, you pushed the steel blade harder against his throat again, making him gasp and tilt his head back.  "I can't imagine how you can be aroused in a time like this," you scolded him.  

"S-sorry…" he whispered, his voice weak and shaky.

"About to die and all you can manage to do is let your cock swell against my arse?" you hissed.

"It's not on purpose," he defended, "but you— you're on top of me and y-you're… I'm only a man."

"A man?  Your face is soft and smooth, like a little boy," you noticed as you lightly dragged your dagger across his jaw, "and you scream like a little girl.  Is that what passes for a man on this side of the wall?"

Your insults didn't seem to deter the erection under you, actually you swore you could almost feel it throb.  "Is this what women are like on your side of the wall?" the guard asked quietly.  "Ruthless killers?"

You smiled proudly, though he probably saw the sharp grin of a predator.  "Something like that," you agreed, "though none as fearsome as me.  Haven't you heard the stories of wildling women?"

He swallowed again, throat bobbing.  "O-one or two…"

You were pleased because you could tell exactly what kind of stories he'd heard.  His mummy probably told him when he was a boy that if he was bad, the evil scary wildlings would snatch him up.  "We're not soft and weak like your women here," you informed him.

"I can tell…" he mumbled.

You smirked proudly.  "But I guess that doesn't bother you much, does it?  You seem to like it, in fact."

He didn't answer, or nod, but you could tell by the way his massive brown eyes stared up at you that you were right.  Well, that and the massive boner under your bum.

You carefully pulled at the string that kept his cape tied at his clavicle; you unbuckled the leather straps that held on his chestplate.  “I’ll be taking this, if you don’t mind,” you decided with a proud smirk.

“Not sure it’ll fit you,” he warned, and you frowned.

“To sell, idiot.”

You tossed the armour aside, leaving him in only the thin wool shirt underneath— not much to protect from the chilly air, but then again, to you this weather was temperate.

Dragging your knife slowly down, you watched it slice through his tunic like butter.  His breathing picked up, but he dared not let his chest or stomach move as he breathed; you saw him shaking a bit as you got a peek at his skin.

When the garment was split from the top to the bottom, you grabbed it and pushed it open at either side— and you laughed with a snort at the back of your throat when you gazed upon his exposed chest: all but completely hairless.  "Pathetic," you spat, and he made a little face: kind of sad, kind of something else.  "Men are men where I'm from."

"Women are ladies where I'm from," he talked back, and you stopped holding him down with one hand so you could slap him quickly across the face.

"Women are useless where you're from," you corrected, "and apparently, so are the men.  If you could even be considered one."

As his cheek reddened from the slap, his cock jumped; you snickered proudly, moving your hips just barely so you could watch him choke on his whine.

It felt pleasantly thick, from what you could tell, and you liked the way he looked up at you when you moved.  You probably wouldn't have thought twice about killing a young, pretty boy like this if it hadn't been so long since you felt any kind of touch… but for a while now, you'd had a natural instinct— a craving, even— for the sort of pleasure your own fingers just couldn't bring.

That was what inspired you to lift your hips and start to tug your thick wool trousers down your thighs.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbled, "are you— oh, is this really—?"

"Quiet," you ordered as you cut his trousers open, making him whimper for a second out of fear that your dagger would slip and he'd lose some important anatomy.

Once all the requisite garments were out of the way, you quickly spat onto the ends of your fingers, wiping it over yourself to make this just a bit easier.  He sighed shakily when he saw you do it; even more when you gripped his shaft, guiding the thick head of him to your cunt.

You shut your eyes as you sank down slowly onto it, but you still heard him gasp and groan as your body took his in.  

"O-oh!" he choked, and you felt a hand suddenly land on your thigh.  Sneering, you grabbed it and held it down against the ground— still only halfway down the length of his cock.  "You're so warm— you feel so—"

"Shut up," you hissed as you sat down in his lap, trying not to react to how deep he was inside you.  It nearly made your stomach ache, the way his cock filled you up to the brim and curved right as it reached the end of you.  It had been years since you felt a man in this way, and though you hated to admit it, none had ever felt quite like this.

"Fuck, fuck," he chanted, writhing under you.  "Gods, aren't you gonna move?"

"Shut up," you demanded again, eyes shut and head tilting back, as you started to grind your hips.

"Oh gods," he moaned, hands balled up into fists just past where you held his wrists down.  "You feel— fuck."

Every rock of your hips gave a nice rub to your clit, not to mention stirring the thick member inside you.  The stretch of it was still a little sharp, but it got more comfortable over time.

"So fucking tight," the man under you hissed.  "You're tighter than the women here, too."

"How would you fucking know?" you snapped, moving a little faster on top of him, and he groaned.

You found a pattern that you liked quickly, and soon the only sounds in the forest were your panting breaths, his pathetic moans, and the rustle of leaves under your knees as you moved.  

He didn't offer much protest at first, but he started to struggle after a few minutes— uselessly, of course.  You weren't sure why until he suddenly made his demand.

"Lay back," he suggested.

"No."

"I can pleasure you."

You only scoffed as your answer.  It was much easier to take your own pleasure, and you'd never be fucked by someone like him, anyways.  As if you would just lay in the dirt and spread your legs for a guard, so he could have his way and probably spill his load in seconds— only to leave you unsatisfied, of course.

"Please," he added eventually, and you grunted as you moved faster— trying to get this over with, so you wouldn't have to hear his whining anymore.

Ignoring him, you sighed as a pleasant feeling began to grow inside you: pleasant, but needy, spurring you to grind down on him harder and faster.  The fat head of his cock brushed up against something deep in you and you gasped loudly.

"Y'like it, huh?" he taunted— you didn't even open your eyes to hit him across the face again, and he groaned.

You kept riding with heavy breaths, biting down on your lip as a moan threatened to come out; the snow under your knees had started to melt, soaking through the fur pants and wetting your skin, but you didn’t notice much or care.  You’d found just the right angle to force his cock to rub that place that made your legs shake— so much that it was almost difficult to keep lifting yourself above him, and yet as the pleasure grew you were helpless to stop.  You didn’t think you could stop now even if someone came upon you; guards rarely moved alone, he probably had a partner somewhere in the woods, and what would he think of finding his companion on the ground with a knife to his neck and a wildling woman riding his cock with reckless abandon?

You smirked to yourself; maybe he’d just appreciate the show, you decided.  And then I could kill them both.

The heat built as you moved, gathering inside your furs and making them stick to your skin. The unpleasant clamminess made you groan as you reached up to undress yourself— just enough to get some breeze on your upper body.  

As you untied the cords and let your chest become exposed to the evening air, you heard him groan happily.  "Oh, fuck," he swore, hands struggling a bit more against your grip.  You leaned forward to give your movements better leverage, but the unintended consequence was pushing your breasts right into his face.  

You felt his mouth on you a second later, muffled moans around your stiffening nipples as he latched onto them.  You scoffed but made no move to stop him.  "You cry like a babe, you babble like a babe— now you suckle like one, too.  Southern men are so strange."

"M'not Southern," he broke away from you as he moved from one nipple to the other, mumbling against your skin.

"South of the wall, you're a Southerner to me," you grinned, though your smile fell when his tongue flicked at the bud on your breast, a sharp jolt of pleasure running through you at the feeling.  "Oh…"

You felt him smile around your skin and you sneered.  You hadn't expected to give away that anything he did might bring you pleasure— you didn't want to give him any sort of power over you.  But it did feel good to be touched this way, to feel his mouth somewhere you'd never had a mouth before… you'd never been this naked with a man before, the weather where you're from simply didn't permit it.

You switched from rocking your hips back and forth to bouncing them up and down, and he moaned loudly— he even started to try to move his own hips to meet yours, thrusting up into your warmth.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he repeated over and over.  "So good— you feel so good… you're so beautiful…"

You hated the way his words made your inner walls tighten up, but nobody had ever called you that before.  And it was the last thing expected him to say— you figured he thought you were a brute, a wild beast of a woman, and maybe he did… but apparently, that was sort of his thing.  You scoffed to yourself to imagine this was his fantasy: a feral woman overpowers him in the night, takes what she wants, and disappears never to be seen again.  Lucky for him, he'd accidentally fit right into one of your fantasies, though you'd never admit that you had any: defeating a man in combat and in doing so cause him to develop affections for you.  The fact that he had a kind face and a big cock was just an added bonus.

“I— oh, I’ll— get off,” he instructed suddenly.

“I told you— fuck— to be quiet,” you groaned, moving faster as you chased that tight feeling building in your gut.

“Get off,” he warned again, “I’m going to— gods, I’m—!”

He never got a chance to say it, but it was obvious that he was coming inside you— you could feel his cock flexing inside you, and you chuckled as you realised how quickly he’d reached his ecstasy.

You were going to take a bit longer, of course, not as easily to please as a young guard who may as well have been a virgin; and since your pleasure was all you were here for, you didn't see any reason to stop— not even his protests.  "Fuck, FUCK!" he yelped.  "O-oh, oh gods, you're not— you— fuck!"

You barely paid any attention to it, nor to the way he shook under you as you kept riding him after he'd come already.  As your walls dragged on every side of his sensitive and pulsing cock, he writhed weakly against your tight grasp on his wrists.

"Fuckfuckfuck— please, please, slow down," he sobbed.

"I'll slow down when I'm done," you offered, and he choked on a cry.

"Hurts, fuck, it hurts," he whimpered.  "Ah fuck, fuck!"

"If it hurts so badly," you panted, "why are you still hard?"

He grunted through his teeth.  "I don't know, I don't—" 

Another slap shut him up quickly.  It was supposed to be a rhetorical question.

You kept riding as he sobbed and whined, though you had to laugh to yourself when it only took a few more minutes for him to start trying to thrust up into you again.

"I— oh gods, I'll— I'm going to—" he tried to warn you, but it happened suddenly: his cock pulsed inside you and another few pumps of come, weaker than the last, dribbled inside you.  His eyes rolled back in his head and he fought to lift himself but you kept him pinned there, watching the way he looked wrecked by a second orgasm without stopping since the first.  

He cried weakly, and the overflowing come inside you made every movement sticky and squelching; it was disgusting, but for better or for worse, it turned you on.  Feeling his cock flex right against your spot made your head fall back, and your own body started to shake and shiver.  "Fuck," you hissed under your breath, your cunt gripping him tight in rhythmic pulses as your orgasm began.

He gurgled helplessly as your walls milked his cock of those last few drops of come, until finally the waves subsided and everything stilled.

For a minute, you were just panting— so was he— and letting the numb feeling pass you by.

When you were satisfied, finally, you lifted your hips and let his softening cock slip out, which made him sob pathetically.  He hissed when he was finally free, and you stood up over him as you quickly pulled your trousers back up.

You stepped over him, turning away to adjust the furs over your shoulders, expecting to walk away any moment and never see him again.  He, apparently, had different expectations.

"D-do you have to leave so quickly?" he wondered.  "I thought we could talk."

You didn't answer, focused on covering your body again.  He waited for a moment, apparently still hoping for a reply, before he got up and brushed the snow off himself.

"Can I at least know your name?"

"I must go,” you shook your head.

"You could take me with you!" he suggested eagerly.

You gave him an unimpressed glance.  "You'd freeze in a minute past the wall, hairless and skinny as you are."

"Then stay here," he pleaded.  "You'd make a pretty wife."

That made you stop what you were doing, and laugh.  "Gods!  Wife?!  Are you mad?" you asked as you stared at him in bewilderment.

"A bit," he agreed with a smile.  "I just never— I'd imagined—"

He stopped talking over himself and sighed, starting over again. 

"Maybe a night, then," he suggested.  "Just stay with me one night.  The other guards won't find you if you're with me a-and if you'd like, we could fuck again."

You snorted.  "Can you get it up again tonight?"

He hesitated.  "I can at least try— I'm sure if you show me more of you I won't be able to help it.  I-I barely even got to see you before…”

You watched his face as he looked down, brown eyes following his gloved hand as it traced down your chest over the thick furs that covered you.

"No, wait," he mumbled, “it couldn't just be one night— you can't go because what if… what if you're…"

His hand drifted to brush over your stomach.  "Pregnant?" you realised what he meant.  "I'm not too worried about that, virile men have beards."

"I have one," he frowned defensively, "I just shave it!"

You rolled your eyes.  "It's better this way, regardless.  I disappear and we forget this night.  I have to return to my people and hope they won't find out somehow that I sullied myself with a Winterfell guard."

"They'll find out if you're pregnant."

"I'll tell them it was another traveller."

He seemed heartbroken enough to imagine you taking his hypothetical child without him, let alone that you would lie and forget the real father.  Sighing, he pulled you closer by your hips and rested his forehead on yours.  "Tell them the truth," he pleaded.  "Tell them about the beautiful night we had in Winterfell—"

"Fucking on the ground, like animals— sobbing with a knife to your neck because I've gone past your limits— that's beautiful to you?"

"Yes," he whispered, "you're beautiful to me."

You smirked.  “You know, I’m almost impressed.  Not many men would consider me marriage material.”

“Most men are fools,” he shrugged.

“And you are the most foolish man I ever encountered,” you announced— but only when you said it aloud did you realise the opportunity you had before you.  You looked up at him, and just that made his expression flood with hope.  “You’d like me to stay, yes?”

He beamed widely; “Will you?”

You could already imagine it: all that armour, all those weapons and treasure, inside the walls of Winterfell.  He was going to lead you right to it, for free— you could skip the sneaking and the hiding and just walk in the front gates, join him in his quarters, wait for him to fall asleep and take as much as you could carry.  It was too easy.  All you had to do was outrun the night watch, or kill them… neither would pose much trouble.

He was still talking, you realised suddenly; rambling about where he slept and how he’d make room for you there, that he could keep you company when he wasn’t on duty.  “I think you’ll like it, not as cold here as you’re used to,” he continued, “a-and I know you said I’m mad, but… but maybe you would like to be my wife, someday.  If I show you what it would be like, and I could—”

“Take me there,” you interrupted, and he looked down at your face with a sparkle in his eyes.  “If you put back on your chestplate, you should be able to bring me as your prisoner— tell the other guards that you’re taking me to your quarters to, er, have your way with me.”

He blushed a little, probably wondering just as you were if they could possibly imagine that you had already had your way with him.

“And I’ll stay with you,” you offered, reaching up to touch his chest gingerly, “for a while.”

He looked at you like he was trying to suppress his excitement so he could seem more tough, but it wasn’t really working.  “All right,” he agreed, and you started to walk away so you could both go— but he grabbed your arm and pulled you back to him.  “Wait… kiss me first.”

“What for?”

His smile was gentle, if a little mischievous, as he stepped closer to you.  “Because I’d like it,” he answered softly, reaching up to toy with a lock of your hair briefly.  “Do your people even kiss?”

You’d be happy to kiss him if it made him stop asking stupid questions like that; so you did, putting your hand on his shoulder and leaning it, pressing your mouth to his.  His lips were full and soft, and he sighed as he kissed you back— much more gentle and sweet than you expected him to kiss you, after all this.

You shouldn't have let it go on for so long, that was your fault, but it was actually quite nice; you weren't sure you'd ever been kissed quite like this. He was the one that broke away first, leaving you fighting the urge to chase his lips for more. He smiled at you gently, a glimmer in his eyes, as his thumb and finger held your chin. "Seems you'll make for a very willing prisoner, my wildling," he cooed.

[sweet-lover-girl]

trust issues shaped reader >>>>

trust issues reader just like me crying and losing sleep thinking she's not enough to be loved and her gf will always need to be with someone else >>>>>>>>

There he was, that fucking ass.

Owen Moore. That fucking prick—telling your girlfriend he got Mel pregnant.

You huff and say,”Owen, the definition of man who only think with his dick.” Taking another bite of food.

Manny was taking a drink as you say this and he spits it out laughing, trying desperately not to chock as he covers his mouth.

Abby looks at you unamused, tilting her head to the side with a frown.

“What?” You say looking her way. “It’s true.”

“Really? Don’t do that,” she sighed, picking up her tray.

“Why?” You pushed.

“Because—I expect more from you.” She got up and walked away.

You sigh as Manny pays your back,”Hey it’s okay, she’s just moody because its early.”

You know it’s not that, she’s been moody with you for at least a week now, not telling you way. But you think you know why and it breaks you heart, Owen. The man who once held you lovers heart—still might hold it. You tear up at the thought and turn away from Manny, picking up your tray and throwing away your trash.”I’ll see you later Manny.” You wave to him over your shoulder and leave the cafeteria.

You sigh as you stuff you hands in your jacket pockets once you got outside, it was mid winter and freezing, there was a thick blanket of white snow everywhere. You let out another sigh of white puffy smoke and you perk up when you hear Abby’s laugh.

Looking to the side where you heard it you could see Owen leaning his arm up against the wall as he spoke to Abby, her face flushed—wither because of the cold or his flirting, you didn’t know and you didn’t wanna find out. You quickly walked the other way with tears in your eyes. You couldn’t even keep her away from her ex-boyfriend, why did you think this would work, you were nothing like him. Owen was a solider who was apart of Abby’s past, an important part of Abby’s past at that. You only knew her for four years at this point, having made friends with her when she first got to WLF.

You are worthless, your intrusive thoughts hissed in your ear, making you shake your head. You will never be good enough for her. You let out a whimper and close your eyes, a tear falling down your cheek. Your heart physically hurt right now. You didn’t understand why, why? Are you not good enough—don’t work hard enough. Maybe she just never loved you—

“—stop!”

You gasp and twist your wrist that was now in someone’s grasp, quickly turning around you see Abby’s concerned face. You relax with a breath and close your eyes. She places her hand on your cheek while still holding your wrist, and you nuzzle into her gentle hand.

“Hey, are you okay?” Abby voiced her concern.

You stand there for a second. Are you okay? No. Are you gonna tell her that? No. You smile and nod you head, making Abby just hummed to your reply. Not believing you.

She drops her hand and let’s go of your wrist, crossing her arms in front of her chest looking down at you. “Okay, what is it?” She asked.

You look at her feigning confusion, but she knew better, she knew you better.

You sigh and drop the act, looking down at the ground with solemn eyes. Tears reappearing at your water lines, making you vision go blurry. “Tell me—what’s wrong with you.” She commanded in a sharp tone, and you flinch and blink, making tears finally fall from your eyes. Abby sighs and drops her arms taking a step closer to you, and you back up. She pause her advance with wide eyes, looking at you like you slapped her.

You felt ashamed looking to the ground—not being able to look at her hurt eyes. “Pumpkin?” She whisper waterly.

You let out a sob and say, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—Abby breaks her stunned form and quickly gathers you up in her arms.”Shh, it’s okay—it’s okay Baby.” She rocks you both side to side, sharing her warmth with you and you just tear up even more, letting out a cry as you hug her to your chest.

She lets you cry into her shoulder for a while, just holding you and swaying back and forth. Whispering sweet words,”It’s okay,” and “I love you.” And you begin to settle down.

“Pumpkin, what’s wrong? Please—talk to me.” She whispers desperately in your ear and you break. Telling her how all week it seems like she was mad at you and there was tension between the both of you. You hated when you and Abby fight—as rarely as you did, you still fucking hated it. But this time you had no idea what you did, so you tell her as much.

“Please, what did I do Abby?” You beg. “What ever I did I’ll fix it I promise! Just please—“She stops you by placing her thumb over your lips, looking at you with regretful eyes. “Baby, I’m so fucking sorry—you didn’t do anything I—“She sighed as she dropped her arms, sliding her hands down yours as she looked at the ground. You wait for her to speak, holding your tongue.

“You didn’t do anything, I’ve just been a bitch because Isaac has been holding back on some information about ‘what the fuckever’ and when his stresses like this it pisses me off because I’m the one who gets the shit for it—but I-I’m not saying that’s a good reason as to why I’ve been so mean this last week! I just—“She sighs once more.

“I’m so sorry Pumpkin, I have no reason as to why I’ve been a bitch but I have been one. I’m so fucking sorry.” She whispered sadly.

Now it was your turn to sigh and you gather her up in your arms, now it was your turn to be truthful with her.

“I’ve been in a strange mood too love, it’s not just you and I’m sorry.” You hold onto her tightly as your eyes water up again. “I just feeling like—like I’m losing you..”

It went dead silent as Abby froze in her place, eyes wide as she looked over your shoulder hugging you still, a tear falls from her eye as her eyelashes flutter. What? What did you say? She pulled away from you to see you look back down to the ground, avoiding her gaze.

“What?” Abby asked quietly.

You stood there and crossed your arms over your chest in a protective stance and lift your hand up to lick at your lips, your nervous tick Abby hated.

“What?” She repeated and grabbed your hand—pulling it away from your mouth and made you look up by lifting you chin with her knuckles.

You let out a huff and turn your head from her, hiding your tears. “Don’t play with me Abby, please..”

“I’m not, what do you mean by that?” She stepped in front of your vision. “You think your losing me?”

You turn from her once more—trying desperately to hide you emotions. You were hugging yourself, your arms holding hardly any warmth close to Abby’s, you felt so cold.

“Pumpkin please, tell me..”Abby walks up behind you and wraps her arms around you, warming you instantly. You sigh for the hundredth time and finally tell her how you really feel, how hurt you feel and ashamed.

“Because! I’m not Owen! I’ll never be like him and I’ll losing you because if it! I’m no solider—I don’t work hard enough—I don’t love you enough and I—“

You rant is jolted as she steps in front of you and kisses you hard, shutting you up instantly. You melt into the kiss—full of tension and love, anger and passion. It was a lot.

She pulls away and your both breathless. She hasn’t kissed you like that in a while. She placed her forehead on yours and looked you in the eyes.

“Fuck Owen.” Is all she said and kissed you again.

You didn’t wanna pull away—but you needed answers. So with a heavy heart you pull away breathless once more and look at her about to speak, but she beat you to the punch.

“If I wanted Owen—I would date Owen, but I don’t want him—fuck him, okay? Fuck him. I want you Pumpkin, only you. The last four years of my life have been so much brighter with you in them. Fuck baby, your smile alone fixed my heart. I just need you—please, only you.” She said.

You let out a sob as you leaned in to kiss her once more with all your heart and soul. She stood there holding you in the freezing cold for a while, just kissing and loving you, no words were needed.

She finally did say though.”Let’s get you inside, okay Baby?” She took off her jacket and wrapped it around you arms despite you trying to stop her, but she told you her long sleeve was enough and lead you inside for a warm drink and cuddles.

———

What they didn’t see was someone standing there behind a tree watching the whole thing.

Owen Moore. The man who stood there studded as he realized—he truly lost Abby Anderson to someone who was far greater and much more better then him, he had finally fucking realized it.

>>>>>>>>

Fuck Owen.