#thank you ao3 volunteer gods

[ye-olde-trojan-horse]

petition for when ao3 is back online to make “full of disgusting smuts” the offical tag for nsfw fics

[strawberriesaresour]

ao3 is down again

[flamegobrrrr]

the funny thing to me about the ao3 shutdown is that for some reason, even though I've been on ao3 for around 3 years, I assumed my mom blocked the website from our wifi. The website has been shut down before too,, i just assumed since it refused to load that my wifi blocked it. im so fucking stupid

[mishapen-dear]

AO3 I LOVE YOU

[panicatwallmaria]

WE’RE BACK BABY

[rosieofcorona]

All We Do Not Say

Hi beloveds! I have crafted a soft little Gale fic for you because it's my firm belief that everyone's favorite wizard deserves all the warmth in the world. 😌 Also on AO3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

There was a time in his life that Gale could sleep anywhere, provided he had a good book and a space to sit down. 

In Waterdeep, he might wake in his armchair or on his balcony with the weight of an ancient tome still resting in his lap, or at his desk, his cheek pressed against parchment. The smell of it, of ink and lignin, would bring him back to his senses before his eyes were fully open, and he’d recall what he’d been studying, and begin reading again. 

At home, in his tower, he could do this night after night and still feel mostly rested come morning. 

But he is far from his tower, and farther each day.

Perhaps it is the orb that keeps him up as of late, with its insatiable, unnatural hunger, or perhaps it is the tadpole that wriggles and pulses impatiently inside his skull. Or it could, he supposes, be the simpler and less curable matter of aging– an affliction that seems, on occasion, more frightening than either of the others. 

Whatever the cause of his recent insomnia, it pulls Gale into a rather distressing cycle– he cannot sleep, so he cannot focus, so he cannot read, so he cannot sleep. 

Instead, he finds himself offering to keep watch over camp in the evenings, if only for the distraction. The far-off gibbering of a newborn gnoll, the crunch of foliage under goblin feet, an animal scream– each night a fresh and distant horror calls his mind away from greater threats, from illithids and tadpoles and gods.

It’s an odd remedy, he knows. But the alternative is lying awake in his tent, turning death over and over in his mind until the thought is worn smooth as a river stone. 

It works well for a time, keeps his mind on the present and off of some vague, future doom.

That is, at least, until they reach the Underdark. 

Deep beneath Faerûn, there is something profoundly disturbing about the lack of…well, everything. They find no grand cities or quaint little villages, few animals and even fewer people. 

No trees, no light. No sky. 

Most nights spent underground are so quiet that Gale may as well stay in his bedroll, staring up at a canopy of fabric, dark as the velvet earth above them. 

He thinks, It is like being buried alive, without even the stars to bear witness. 

On these nights he can feel the stones in his head turning over.

Even so, come the evening (or what he guesses is evening), Gale volunteers to stand sentinel for the fifth time in a tenday. 

He always asks them after dinner, when his companions are most likely to agree, after his cooking has warmed them and filled their bellies and made them want nothing more than to close their eyes and dream of somewhere, anywhere else. 

Tav is the only one who protests with any frequency, the only one who seems to notice that the circles under his eyes are half a shade darker than they were yesterday, when they were half a shade darker than the day before. 

Even on nights when she convinces someone else to take his place, he will relieve them after Tav has gone to sleep. 

It starts the same way every time. 

Gale walks the perimeter in an infinite loop, looking for life in the darkness, illuminated only by the fire in the center of their camp. It makes him feel like a distant planet, nearly untouched by the sun. How strange to think that he’d once felt like the sun itself. 

He continues in his orbit until the subterranean cold gnaws at his limbs. It bites down hard on his nose and ears and fingers, chases him back to the fire, back to the light. 

Hypnotized by the flames and their radiant warmth, he does not hear the quiet stirring in the tent beyond his own, doesn’t hear the soft approach of nimble feet. 

A voice comes to him out of the darkness.

“I hope you’re not keeping watch again.” 

“Mystra,” Gale gasps, startled, the goddess’s name invoked in equal parts a prayer, a curse.

“Forgive me,” Tav says, through a laugh she cannot help. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” If it were anyone else he might be annoyed, or even a little embarrassed– but the sound of her laughter bubbles like seafoam over sand, rushes over and around him. Coupled with the relief that she is not some dreadful creature of the Underdark, he finds it difficult to feel anything besides affection. 

“It’s quite alright,” he recovers, with a shake of his head. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

“Then I really hope you’re not keeping watch.” 

She is teasing him now, just lightly, a familiar spark of warmth behind her eyes. 

It is the same look she gives him when she brings him a new book, or when he cooks for her, or when he tells her about Waterdeep. It is the same look she gave him earlier in the day, when she had offered to brew him a tea that might help him to sleep.

Gale has trouble remembering the last time another looked at him this way, so interested and inviting and earnest. 

Perhaps, he thinks, another never has. 

“Are you alright?” Tav asks, when he’s been quiet for too long.  

“Of course,” he says with the sincerity of a promise, offered with a smile that he hopes will be convincing. “Just lost in thought.” 

There is a part of him that doesn’t want to leave it there, that wants to share his every thought with her, his every terror, every dream. She must know that there is more to it, must’ve learned by now to recognize when Gale isn’t telling her everything, but he is grateful that she doesn’t press him, never presses him. 

Instead she breaks into a grin and says, “You’re lucky I’m not a bulette.” 

“I’m lucky they’re not so light-footed. What are you doing up, anyway?”

“The cold always wakes me, sooner or later,” Tav sighs. “If I’d known it was so godsdamned frigid down here, I might’ve nicked a fur or two from the Zhent.” 

It’s Gale’s turn to laugh, though she’s only half-joking. 

She’s drawn near to him, to the flames, her palms outstretched, her fingers spread wide as if to grab hold of as much warmth as possible. 

“But it’s alright,” she continues, “So as long as I’m close to the fire.” 

“Any closer and you’ll be in it, I’m afraid. Perhaps I can help.” 

Tav tilts her head and quirks an eyebrow in a curious little expression. “Can you?”

“If you’ll allow me.” 

Gale turns to face her fully, and she mirrors him out of instinct. 

“Hold out your hands to me,” he says. “Palms together, just barely. Like you’re praying.” 

“Like this?” “Like that.” 

The spell is one his mother taught him, among the first he’d ever learned. 

He still remembers that winter in Waterdeep, when the snow fell hard and fast. When the ice in the harbor kept the ships at arm’s length and the frozen streets shone like glass. He was young then, six or seven, but even now he can feel his small hands in Morena’s, warmed by a word and a touch. 

Warm and fed, she used to tell him. That’s how you show someone they’re loved. 

Gale cages Tav’s hands lightly in his own, the way he might hold a butterfly. He pushes all thoughts of winter away and calls to mind the rippling heat of summer, an orchard grown fat with peaches, the silvery shimmer of sweat on skin. 

The rose-petal flush of a cheek cradled in a hand, her cheek, his hand…

“Calor aestas,” he says quietly, when the image comes into clear view. He feels the cold melt from her fingers, hears the comfortable sigh that follows. “Better?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Much.” 

She is looking at him now with an intensity he has not seen since the night he first showed her the Weave, all that time ago. The night he saw her thoughts laid bare, had all but felt her lips on his. 

Had she seen them now, the visions he had conjured? Had she felt him pull her close in his own mind?

Tav clears her throat softly and he comes back to himself, his heartbeat thrashing wildly in his chest. He realizes with some urgency that he has not let her go and pulls back suddenly, but not without reluctance. 

“I hope,” he swallows, trying to compose himself. “I hope it helps you sleep.” 

“Do you want me to stay up with you?”

Yes, he thinks selfishly, Yes. Stay up with me, stay close to me, always. 

He shakes his head instead. “You should rest while the spell holds.”

“And how long is that?”

“As long as I’m able to concentrate.” 

He will think of her hands and their pull on a bowstring, their pluck of a lyre, their grip on a sword. How they weave her own magic, how they cradle a book. How they felt clasped in his, soft and cold. 

A focus worth holding, at last. 

“Only if it’s no trouble,” she says. 

“None at all.” 

Gale is grateful that he manages to stop himself, for once, from saying the rest of the thought as it enters his head. I would think of you anyway, magic or no.  

Tav takes his hand in hers again, this time to squeeze it fondly.

For a moment, he feels that if he were to die just now– from the orb, from the tadpole, in the jaws of a hungry bulette– it would all have been worth it, for this. 

“Thank you, Gale.”

Her smile is warmer than any summer he remembers, brighter than any star he can name.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 8)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 7, Part 9

summary: You visit your ex. Miguel tags along.

warnings: mentions and description of depression. heavy angst, depictions of a toxic relationship. some suggestive language.

a/n: me when idk shit abt the american school system:

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 5.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you had forgotten; they were good.

Blank walls. Quiet corridors. The buzz of monitors and dull chatter sandwiched between blue vinyl and exit signs. You're not usually one to wander during your breaks; but you're going crazy looking at the same four walls. 

That hair net itches and the strap of a blue mask digs into skin as you make your way to a little courtyard. You sit out on a paltry bench overlooking concrete. The spindly remnants of a tree provides little cover from harsh elements. Wind whips through its branches, whistling and cool, as you rip off the mask and crumple it up in your pocket. A heavy sigh, and you feel some semblance of peace. Some quiet, before the morning comes. Before a rush of orders and shunting plastic trays up and down the wards. 

You screw your eyes shut to still the pounding at your temples. God. You're grateful for the job, really. And all things considered, it's not particularly taxing: coffee orders until the little cafe closes, meal prep for the morning rush, and sometimes you'd volunteer to take orders to bed bound patients. A whole lot of reheating and chopping and pressing buttons on the little machines. You don't quite get it, of course, but your lone coworker picks up the slack well enough. 

The older woman doesn't do much for company, anyways. Riveting conversation comes in the form of grunts and sharp elbows when you get in the way or round the corner of the kitchen. It has you counting down the seconds until your shift ends. 

And so you are grateful, well and truly. Jamie's not so sappy, anymore; doesn't partake in 'I love you's or grand gestures; but he is dependable. Safe. Willing to stick his neck out for you, at least. He'd gotten you a job at the hospital he has his placement at; with decent pay, and it slots in well with your other ones. He's taking you seriously – taking the news better than your parents. After telling him you wanted to go back to school, you're not met with thinly veiled disbelief, or lips pressed together with pity. He'd nodded, rather simply. Didn't make a fuss. No deep sighs, or heavy frowns. Okay , he had said. How can I help? 

It was the simplicity of his reaction that had bowled you over, almost bringing you to tears. To have someone believe in you, for once – wholeheartedly and without an onslaught of questions – felt like a deep breath of air after almost drowning. It felt like love ; and after desperate breaths, gasping and gulping and clawing at something to hold on to, you think you've found dry land. Something solid, something stable; a rough palm to pull you out of swirling depths. Because, unlike your family, and unlike half-hearted friends: Jamie was there. 

After heading back in to catch the morning rush, you're wiping down surfaces and sorting plastic trays onto a cart. Rote, repetitive, boring; you've settled into a routine that feels familiar. A couple more months, you reckon, and you'll be able to cover the costs for a second go at undergrad. You can shed the skin that seems to follow you at every family gathering, and the job interviews in between. Dropout – and when your Mom says it, it feels like a vile curse. Jamie calls it spiteful, and you opt for the democratic alternative; she's being dramatic - rather than cruel, rather than hurtful, rather than crass. You've heard enough, from all sorts: ‘too much pressure’, and ‘didn't think she had it in her, anyways’, are common phrases whispered in the background of phone calls home. 

Your chest aches with the weight of it – the kind of ache that seeps into skin, and lines a casket. Grief; mourning a person you could've been, and a person you never would be. For a while, it left you paralysed by the what ifs and the maybes; rotting in a quiet corner. Sinking into sofa cushions or caked onto the bed sheets like the mystery mould bloomed onto the plates in your room. But Jamie was there, more than anyone else. 

You'll wait for him in the corridor near the back of the service elevator, like you always do after a shift. You finish when he starts, early in the morning and rubbing away sleep from his eyes for ward rounds. You'll give him a kiss, and he'll give you a soft little smile to send you on your way. It almost makes the whole thing worth it. Almost. 

You give and you give and you give. Your boyfriend isn't quite the same; doesn't pour into you the way you'd like him to. But it works. It works because it has to; a thousand miles away from anything resembling home. You can't ask for more – the right words die in your throat. 

~~~

You've spent the past couple of hours in the library. Procrastinating for at least half of it, but you've managed to draft out a couple of essays and more or less reorganise your life. It's something you've been dreading for the past week or so; letting yourself get swept up in the monsoon that is your roommate. Miguel – sarcastic, saccharine-sweet Miguel – and his stupidly pretty lips, his pretty hands, and the pretty way he scrunches up his face like he's smelt something rotten. 

You're staring at a computer with a slew of books spread out on the adjacent desk. Your half-finished report seems to jumble together on the screen; a tangle of citations and filler words and shitty diagrams. It's not quite clicking , and it's making you want to tear out chunks of your hair in search of relief. A tale as old as time, one you can merely wallow in and fold yourself between its pages. Struggling at school; and this time it's a stats module you thought would be an easy couple of credits, that you definitely can’t afford to fail if you want to graduate early. 

You’ve picked a quiet spot on the third floor; a computer bay tucked into the corner. It overlooks a little window, cramped and claustrophobic and mystery mould in the corners of its grout. You've resorted to scanning the cracks with sharp eyes, light fingers on your neck to trace the leftovers of the morning. You can see it in the slightly mirrored surface of cloudy glass; you look like shit, you feel like shit, but you can still feel him. Lips on your neck, sucking soft hickies into the skin; and you can't help but like the way it looks on you. It's the same under your jeans, blooming like mauve and purple heather on a sprawling field.

You cross your legs, wincing at the dull ache that spreads. Sore, in that way that feels good; sending flashes of a morning with Miguel. Fingers knuckle deep in your cunt and the heat of him – cut and lean-lined – on top of you; it's impossible to ignore. Condensation drips from the panes, pooling in its corner and you swipe a finger in it, lazily. Again, you're reminded of him, for the thousandth time in the past hour: shaking legs, fisting his cock, spraying fat globs of his cum onto your face and chest. 

With another glimpse of your reflection, you sigh. Deep and heavy, with the weight of half a decade of frustration, sexual or otherwise. You've never felt this good or had your needs satiated so wholly, so exorbitantly. It feels odd. You don't know where to put your hands, how to place your feet on the floor. Do you shout, do you scream? How do you tell all the poor bystanders that scatter the third floor: I'm sleeping with Miguel O'Hara! A walking red flag with cheekbones that could cut glass! He wants me, and I want–

Your phone rings. The noise catches you off guard, and has you stumbling to press accept. 

"Hey," Miguel's voice sounds tinny in the speakers, and so you press it to your ears. 

"Y-Yeah?" You steel yourself, batting away daydreams of your legs wrapped around his middle – too horny for your own good, clearly. 

"I'm outside, chula. " He stops talking. The quiet ticking of an indicator becomes the only sign of life, before he says, "In that parking bay by the–" 

"I know, I know. Give me 5 minutes." You rush to pack up, clicking off the monitor and haphazardly shoving your notes into your bag. Not everything fits, and you give up trying to cram that textbook in. 

A beat passes before you realise he's still on the phone. Quiet, but still there. 

"…I brought food, by the way." 

You only just manage to catch it, slotting the phone between your ear and shoulder. That makes you perk up. 

" Seriously? " You give him a small laugh. You think you can hear him smile through the phone. "Thank fucking God, I'm starving. But you weren't rushing, or anything, right? I mean, it's so soon after your session with… Sally, or–" 

You're bounding down two steps at a time, so eager to see him – to get food , actually – that you're careless going down the stairs.

"Sarah . " He breathes, and you make your way downstairs. 

It stops you in your tracks, for some reason. 

"Okay. Sarah ." You say it with finality, voice tight. "What did you end up doing anyways? At her place, you said?" 

"Pressure differentials. Modelling viscosity. It's not very interesting." He hums, shifting in his seat. "What about you? Did you get something done?" 

You take a beat too long to respond, and it comes out half-baked. 

"Loads, Mig."

He snorts. " Sure. "

" Fuck you. " You say it under your breath, ducking past the entrance, and into a side road.

And there Miguel is, car heaped onto part of the sidewalk. He's leaning back, lazy arm sticking out the car window, showing off muscle and pretty tan skin. It's getting cold, but he's cracked the car door ajar; donned in a well-fitting t-shirt and slack trousers. 

You're trying not to drool; and he makes it a little easier by flashing a shit-eating grin. 

Childishly, you stick your tongue out; wrenching the door open and slumping into the passenger side. You tuck your things by your feet, and it lands on the floor with a thump. 

"You can put your stuff in the back.. . " Miguel frowns.

" Can't. We need the space, remember?" 

To pick up the rest of your things left in your ex's apartment. You hope he can parse out the rest of that from a raised eyebrow. 

He sighs, tossing a brown bag of takeout onto your lap. He starts the car. "...I didn't think we were still doing that, to be honest."

He seems disappointed, eyes flitting this way and that as he reverses and pulls out. You must've hit your head at some point, because you're in heat – pressing sore legs together at the way he does it. One arm on the back of your headrest, sharp jaw jutting out as he looks back, and bottom lip hooked under his teeth; he's just concentrating, trying not to hit one of the cat-sized rodents that roam the streets this late at night, and he's still hot . 

"You promised ."

"I had my face between your thighs. Would've said anything if it meant I could have more."

You draw your lips in faux disgust – your heart's not in it, but it's enough to make him chuckle. 

"Fuck you."

He doesn't miss a beat, deadpanning, "...you'd like that."

Lips pursed, you ignore the way it twists your stomach into knots. Steadfast, you stare out at the window, watching the yellow lights of a bustling city pass you by. 

Miguel takes a different turning, one that'll take you across the city and away from your place. To Jamie's, most likely. You soften, taking a moment to look across at him. 

His eyes flit over, intense and almost a deep red in the neon and lights. It's barely a couple of seconds, but he knows, just like that. 

"Are you nervous?" He tests the waters, voice steady and non-committal. It's not an accusation; even though everything feels like one, lately. Not from him, though. Never from him. 

" No ." Your tone is betraying, and you both know it. He seems to pretend not to hear that tremor in your voice. 

"You'll be okay, sweetheart." He says it soft and low, not quite looking at you. 

"It's just… it's the first time I'm going to see him after–" Your voice crackles. "After everything."

"You'll be okay," He starts. It doesn't feel like an empty platitude when he says it: it feels genuine and full-bodied and sonorous, clanging around your head like the chime of church bells. "Probably not right away – it's going to hit you like a semi, first. And you'll feel like shit afterwards. But it won't last. You'll move on, and you'll be okay; because you have to be."

He drifts off somewhere far away when he says that last bit; and you're not too sure what he's talking about anymore. Regardless, you wrap his words around you, holding it to your chest like a little songbird in the cradle of a tree. 

You'll be okay. You have to be. 

It feels less solid when it's not Miguel saying it, you think. You don't tell him that, though, sinking into the seat instead. 

He doesn't let that silence sit for too long. Traffic creates a natural lull, and he reaches over to tap at the book in your lap – one of many different textbooks, the rest of which is lodged in your bag.

"You're taking a stats module, I assume."

You nod. 

"With Dr. Karev?" 

You sit up slightly. "...yeah, actually."

He hums. "You thought it would be an easy A, then." 

He's right, but it doesn't make it sting any less. You were hoping for simple math and data processing, and here you were: drowning in matrices and linear algorithms.

 "I thought it would be."

"Let me help you, then. I took one of his classes and he barely changes the syllabus. I could dig up my old notes, and–" 

"You want to tutor me ?" You splutter – but you don't mean to sound as shocked as you do. " Why? " 

"Why not?" He shrugs. 

"I… I don't have any money, or anything."

"M'not offering because I want money." He's nonchalant, inching towards the car up front. 

You squint. It's not adding up. "What's the catch?" 

"No catch, I swear. Is it so hard to believe I'm being nice?" 

Now, you feel guilty. "Sorry, Mig. I appreciate it, I really do–" 

"Sit on my face and we'll call it even."

He turns to you now, face flat but with a twinkle in his eye. The corners of his mouth are slightly upturned - amused. He thinks this is funny? 

You give him a light shove as the traffic starts to break up. He's riled you up, now, and you're much too annoyed to be nervous. 

"Eyes on the road, asshole." 

It's more bark than bite, and you settle into the seat, finally cracking open the paper bag. You munch on fries and it makes him laugh. Miguel swears he can see it: the hint of a gentle smile on your face. 

~~~

He pulls up to the apartment complex. Modest, close to the hospital; and you probably couldn't have afforded to live there without your ex. Jamie was lucky; his parents could foot the bill of moving out, and he had family that lived in the city. 

It feels odd to be on the outside looking in. The building's windows become snapshots into other people's lives. For some, it meant an early night, blinds drawn and lights off. From the parking lot, you can see the dim yellow of lights streaming through other apartments. Silhouettes flit past every now and then; the only sign of life. 

Jamie's apartment is on the top floor, the two windows on the far right. You crane your head out of the car window, to get a better look. The lights are on, with one window left slightly ajar. 

Miguel moves to get out, with shuffling that breaks the silence. You stop him with a hand on his arm. 

"No, no. I'm going up by myself."

He cocks his head to the side, ever so slightly. 

"...you sure? If you need help shifting boxes, I can–" 

"I'm good, Mig. I just needed the car."

It comes out snappier than you meant it to, already irritable. With that, you pop the door open with a thunk . You can't see it, but he frowns, watching you swish and sway towards the entrance. 

You trace familiar steps to Jamie's apartment. The door code hasn't changed, and so you buzz yourself in. This is something you can do quickly and efficiently, you've decided. In and out, and you don't have the energy for much else. Bracing at the door, you get ready to knock, hand curled into a fist. 

The door swings open before you get the chance. He's there; still in light blue scrubs and a name badge pinned to his chest. It's the first thing you see, trying not to look at his face. But it's like pulling teeth, you decide: less painful when it's quick and sharp. 

" Where's my –" 

" Your stuff's in the –" 

In a great clash of words, you finally look up at him. Where you're expecting some form of emotion – a flash of something, even for just a moment – Jamie is steadfast. Blank; blinking back sleep, if anything. You clamp down what feels like bile rising in your throat and push past him into the front room. 

"Is this how it's going to be?"

Head down, you grit a quiet, "Don't . "

It's just as you left it, to the point it's almost comical. The same pillows you'd bury yourself in after work, the patterned tea towel you'd bought on a whim. The bar stools in lieu of a proper dining table, and that great big desk he had insisted on carting to the living room for years . Bits and pieces of you, of your relationship, and he barely bats an eye. He'll use your mugs and sleep on your patterned sheets. 

It makes you sick .

You head to the second room. There's a stack of boxes, hastily stashed in the corner. There's still permanent marker on them from when you first moved in. Now, it houses the things you couldn't take with you the first time – everything you left behind. 

Sick, sick, sick . 

You take a moment to dig through the top box, that's clearly been moved. Knick-knacks, books, clothes and all the clutter you've acquired; and it reminds you of family, it reminds you of friends. 

Jamie leans by the doorway, looking on in silence. 

When you pick up a box, straining to lift it, he doesn't offer to help. He watches as you flounder, dragging it towards the door. 

You're huffing when he finally says something; something that's clearly been on his mind for a while, with the way he says it. 

"Are you seeing someone?" He's looking out of the window, gaze fixed on the car parked outside. Miguel's car. 

Your eyes widen. You don't quite trust yourself to speak.

You leave the box by the door. "Are you?“

He shrugs. "Don't have the time."

It's noncommittal and frustratingly blasé. He's not giving you much, and it's fucking with your head. This whole thing feels like a big joke – he wants to talk, and all he's doing is asking bullshit questions. Once upon a time, you would've stewed in it; sat with that question on your tongue and let it rot. 

"I don't understand." You croak. It hurts to say out loud, but you say it. That's the important part. "I don't know why you're doing this… why are you still doing this?"

"I don't like how we left things." He says it slow, like he's choosing his words carefully. 

You want to scream.

" So? " 

" So , I need some kind of closure. We've got unfinished business."

" Unfinished business? " You roll it around on your tongue, reeling at its bitter taste. It feels clinical and lifeless, yet again. 

And then… oh. It clicks. Looking at him, arms folded and leaning on a wall, he looks antsy and uncomfortable. Now, when forced to face you. 

" Closure. " Another word that tastes like shit. You give a watery laugh. "You feel guilty."

He doesn't say anything but his body language says enough. He shifts his weight side to side, unable to make eye contact. 

You don't bother to stick around for an answer, snatching up the box as best you can. Through the doors, and down the corridor. You stagger down the flight of stairs, gritting your teeth. It's heavy – you've packed as much as you can inside, trying to get this over quickly – and you make it to the first floor before it clatters onto the steps. 

You fold ; knees drawn to your chest and hands tight in your hair. Heart racing, chest pumping: you're trying not to get swept away by heavy emotions. The tide rises. You pump your legs around the swirling mass - barely staying afloat in deep, deep water. 

You'll be okay. 

You remember Miguel's words, gentle and sweet and kind. You remember the way he said it; firmly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of grace that you don't have to work for and doesn't need a performance. He believes in you, at least; thinks you're stronger than you have any right to be. And you think of him in the car: eager to help and reassure. You brushed him off. You were mean. 

Deep breath. 

Miguel's waiting for you, just outside those doors. Diligent and patient, saccharine-sweet Miguel. Getting up, you make your way down the stairs with that box. 

When he spots you, a pretty little thing in a hoodie and jeans, he leaps out of the car. 

"Hey, hey, easy… " 

"I'm good, Mig – " 

You're struggling with the box, and he eases it out of your hands without breaking a sweat. One hand on the boot of the car, the other holding up the heavy box effortlessly, and he gives you a quick once over. 

"...he didn't offer to help?" His face is scrunched up - disgusted by the looks of it - and all you can manage is a limp shrug. 

It doesn't take him long to figure it out. You're dejected; nervous, down-trodden, blue in every meaning of the word; losing a little bit of that shine you had started the day with. If he had to guess, and he knows you well enough he'd bet money on it, it was that ex of yours – stealing away that light in a burlap sack, a thief in the brilliance of bright sun. 

It makes him grind his teeth, eyes flicking up at the fourth floor window. 

"I could help." He offers, a hand on your shoulder. It's your favourite hoodie, he thinks, as he circles the soft fabric with his thumb. 

You purse your lips, thinking it over. 

"It'll be quicker, chula. "

That pushes you over the edge, and you finally nod. 

It must be a sight, knocking at the door with Miguel hot on your heels. After living with him for so long, you've forgotten how intimidating he can be when you first meet him; taller than Jamie, and mean-mugging the blonde with a deadly look. If you weren't so on edge it would make you laugh: you know your roommate is mostly harmless. 

Jamie doesn't, of course. He visibly bristles, looking you both up and down. 

"I just need some help with the boxes. This is my roommate, Miguel."

You turn to the man beside you.

" Miguel ," You say it softer. "This is Jamie."

Wordlessly, he stretches out a palm,

rough and broad and tan. Hesitant, the man in front of you takes it. 

"Hey, man." Jamie flashes you a strange look when he says it. 

Miguel doesn't answer. 

You lead him to the second room, divvying up the boxes as Jamie hovers at the doorway. It's surprisingly efficient: Miguel insists on taking the heaviest boxes, hauling them up onto his shoulders, before stacking them up at the door. You'll take the smaller stuff, and it seems everything will be done in far fewer trips than before. It's hard to say out loud, but you're grateful for his help – Miguel was right , for once. 

After the first trip, he's bounding back up the stairs for more. You've both made it into a game, with neither one of you having to explain the rules. He pinches your arm whilst you sift through boxes, and you stick your tongue out in response. Elbow deep in crap, and he manages to make it feel a little better. 

Jamie stews. Jamie festers. In a corner of what used to be your shared apartment, he pretends to tap at his phone, uninterested. You know him too well for that facade to stick. 

Miguel takes the last of the boxes down, and you're straggling behind, picking up the last few bits and pieces. You're left alone with your ex, for a brief moment. 

"You're fucking him." He says it quiet, in a whisper that sounds oh-so loud in that little room. Fucking. He spits it out, and makes the word feel cheap and dirty. 

You look up from across the room. Slowly, he traverses its width, gaze pinning you down like a bug under a microscope. 

He brings a hand to your chin, cupping the flesh tenderly. It's intimate and familiar, reminding you of better days. Something bubbles up in your stomach, sweet and innocent. That feeling doesn't last long. 

"You're fucking him." 

It's accusatory, spat out with a rueful smile pulling at his lips. His fingers brush over your throat and you squirm, pulling up the mouth of your hoodie. 

Those hickies, blossoming like flowers in the spring. They crackle across your skin like fallen leaves in autumn. 

"It's none of your fucking business."

"Of course you are. I can't believe you." He rolls his eyes, half-laughing. "I was going to apologise! I was planning to say sorry for the way I handled things and you had to rub it in my face."

" What ?" You croak. 

"You brought the guy you're fucking to our apartment!" He explodes. 

His lips flatten into a tight line.

" ...now it's our apartment? You kicked me out. You dumped me ." 

"Don't…. fuck , don't do that. Don't make me the bad guy, here. I gave you plenty of time to find a new place."

"Two. Weeks." You grit. "You gave me two weeks, asshole. You left me alone, and told me to fend for myself whilst you fucked off to your sister's." 

That fire dies down as he hesitates. "I… I would've let you stay longer. You know that, baby."

" No. No I don't know, 'cuz you don't tell me shit , anymore." You blink back hot tears. "I don't make as much money as you do, and my family can't support me like yours can."

"I would've–" 

"You didn't. " You swallow roughly. "You didn't. I don't even know what I did wrong ."

"No, no." He cradles your face with his hands, swiping at stray tears. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Now, you look up at him. With glistening eyes, and a heavily furrowed brown, it barely comes out as a whisper; red-raw and strained. 

"Then why don't you love me?"

He doesn't deny it. There isn't a scramble to reassure you; to pat your head and kiss away tears to show you how much he cares. Instead, he steps away guiltily. 

"I care about you, of course I do. Remember when you changed your major?" 

You nod. 

"I was there, wasn't I? I stayed up for hours talking you through it. And when you dropped out, I came over on the weekends and brought you groceries."

"I was there. I helped you through that funk , and helped you get that job for school. Every stupid little question, every depressive episode, all those moments where no-one else would help: I did. Even though I had other things going on in my life, I showed up. For you. It was enough, for a while."

Until it wasn't. He sighs. 

"I'm starting my residency next year… and you're still in school, right?”

“Yes, I am.” You say it simply, not able to say much more without breaking down.

“I'm happy for you, really - proud that you actually got that far. But we're going in different directions, and at different paces. It's easier now that we're not together.”

You bristle at his tone: still in school, actually got that far . It oozes pomp and a quiet kind of superiority. Easier now, like it was difficult before. 

“I didn't make that decision because I hate you, or because I don't care about you. I know you're angry.” He places his hands on your shoulders, and doesn't break eye contact. For the first time since you got here, you think he's finally showing emotion; quiet melancholy just below the surface. Up this close, you can see it: deepening bags under his eyes, sallow skin, and fine lines. Jaime looks tired. In fact, he seems exhausted .  

“I'm sorry that I made you feel that way. But that doesn't excuse the fact that you brought your fuck buddy here, when I just wanted to talk.”

It feels cruel. The way he looks at you, and the way his demeanour switches from the Jamie you knew before, to this .  

"I wanted to talk." You strain. " Months ago. After you broke up with me, and disappeared off the face of the planet. Every time I called, crying and panicking, it went straight to voicemail." 

You shake his hands off of you, stepping back. 

"Miguel's a friend… did you ever think of that? Maybe I just needed some help moving my things, Jamie. Maybe I don't have that many friends since they stopped talking to me because of you, Jamie. Maybe, there's not some devious plot to spite you."

You pick up the rest of your stuff, a little basket of trinkets and books. The very same books that he had told you to pack up; to make some space for his textbooks. 

"Get your head out of your ass. Don't call me. Don't text me. I'm done. "

You're already halfway out of the door. With that, you start to storm off; clattering into Miguel by the stairs. When your things spill out of your hands, you both drop to your knees in a scramble to pick them up. You're chewing the inside of your cheek so hard it draws blood, fumbling around. Miguel is more efficient, scooping up your belongings back into its box. 

You're drooping, only able to mutter a quiet thanks. On the way to his car, you're dejected. Miguel watches carefully, trailing behind. 

~~~

He doesn't know what to say. 

You've left him speechless before. Many times, in the span of your couple months together. Miguel recalls it in exasperated messages to Lyla; you're something else entirely. Frustrating, sometimes. Quick-witted. Perceptive. Thoughtful. A million and one words to describe you, and yet, it still doesn't paint the full picture. You are multi-faceted and brilliant in a way he's not sure he completely understands. 

[Sent: 22:33]

Can't explain it, Ly. 

[Sent: 22:33]

I'm going fucking crazy. 

[Received: 22:34]

ur being dramatic :p

[Received: 22:34]

think u just need to get laid 

[Sent: 22:34]

Fuck off. 

[Sent: 22:35]

I said I'm taking a break. Meant it. 

[Received: 22:37]

(image attached) 

[Received: 22:37]

got this at the party

[Received: 22:37]

ur staring, mig

[Sent: 22:38]

… 

[Received: 22:38]

that's my dress! told u I have great taste :)) 

[Received: 23:06]

miggyyy

[Received: 23:06]

stop ignoring me! its not fun anymore >:(

That was a while ago. Before anything serious happened between you both. And he's had the privilege of seeing you in many different ways; stressed, angry, beaming with joy. Bouncing off the walls after too much coffee, or crawling out of bed following a late night. He's seen your lips curve to form a delicious O as you writhe underneath him; he's seen you smile. He'd tattoo it onto his skin, if he could. 

Fuck . He's overthinking it. 

You've retired to your spot on the couch, and yes, he's staring. Tracing the slope of your jaw and the tilt of nose outlined by the glow of the TV. After getting back home late, he brushed off limp protests and took most of the boxes up himself. It sits in a pile by the dining table. You'll deal with it tomorrow, he supposes. 

Retreating behind your ratty blanket, you stare blankly at the screen. Glassy eyes, you've curled up to watch reruns late into the night. Can't sleep, you told him, as he hovered by the doorway. 

He should go to bed. It's nothing to do with him, really, and he shouldn't have overheard as much as he did. Miguel is curious but not nosy, and well-versed on the art of minding your business . So he shouldn't feel his heart splintering; creaking like the trunk of a felled tree; hacked into two by the way he sees you drowning. 

He sits by your side. Not too close, of course, he's wary of all the shit you've been through today; not wanting to make you feel more uncomfortable. 

He's reminded of a childhood holiday. Half a summer spent at a campsite, bounding through woodland and creeks somewhere up north. Gabi and him would disappear, forgoing the beaten paths for their own adventure. Miguel couldn't make friends the way his brother could, so he'd straggle behind; watching from afar as the other kids would climb trees or swim in quiet lakes. Reading by the banks, and he remembers a time someone had slipped under the water. Drowning, and it wasn't anything like the movies. It was quick, silent and deadly. Thrashing under choppy water, and then…

…nothing. Just quiet. 

He feels that panic rising now, watching you stay so eerily still. You've slipped under the waves, and he doesn't know what to say to pull you back out. 

Miguel isn't too good with words. He's not known for his warmth, or comforting presence. Sometimes, he thinks he wasn't built with that switch turned on in his head – and he certainly didn't learn the right words from his parents. And so, he gives you comfort the only way he knows how. He shows you. He takes care of you. 

You come to him. Like two parts of a whole, you slot together perfectly: your head on his shoulder, at first. You end up on his chest, curled up like a housecat; matching shaky breaths to his steady ones. He brings a hand to your shoulder, drawing lazy circles in the fabric to soothe you. 

With the dull chatter and gloom of the TV, you fall asleep. It takes Miguel a little longer, but he wraps his arms around you. He listens out for it: the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Steady, like a metronome, and it grounds him – drowning out the creak of gears. 

_

_

_

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[daizymax]

the ways we love | lfl (m)

summary: periods of work mean periods without play between you and your longtime boyfriend. after he offers to be the muse for your latest artistic piece, you realize just how much you appreciate his never-ending support.

pairing: felix x fem reader

genre: smut

word count: 7.9k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: established relationship; profanity; mentions of alcohol consumption and (past) drunken sex; public marriage proposal; brief mention of having children; graphic sexual content; dom!felix; dirty talk; use of pet names; fingering; some spit play; oral sex (m receiving); some spanking; penetrative sex; multiple orgasms; creampie; aftercare

author’s note: rewritten for stray kids and reuploaded from my old blog. i think this will be the last of the fics from my old blog that i'll be reuploading here for the foreseeable future. also, i forgot how much fun i had writing the smut in this one. hope you enjoy!

( click here to read on AO3 instead )

---

He had started off so well. He was relaxed, comfortable, cheerful. Happy to help. This was his idea, after all.

But now… now he’s fidgety. Anxious and bored. You sympathize with that, but if he doesn’t — “Doll, can you please stop moving?” — then you’re ready to give up this entire project already.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs in that sweet, deep voice of his. “You’re just being so quiet. I thought you’d at least talk to me and let me know how it’s coming.”

You spare him a quick, direct glance before refocusing on the canvas. “I’m not going to give you a play-by-play of every mark I make, Lix. I need to concentrate. I want this to be as perfect as you are.”

Felix huffs and averts his eyes, but you know you have appeased him from the way he falls silent and relaxes his shoulders again. The new pink hue spreading across his freckled nose, ears and cheeks would be a nice touch if only you were ready to add color to the piece. For now, you store the inspirational image away for later.

You manage to finish your outline and flesh out some details around his nose before his real-live self ruins his posture — and subsequently, the lighting on his face — by shifting in his seat yet again. With a sigh, you set your utensils aside, wipe your palms on your pants and say, “How about a break? Let me get you a drink.”

Whatever his answer was going to be — agreement, argument, or otherwise — does not have time to be voiced before you are breezing by him and into the kitchen. When you return, he accepts the glass of water and obeys your command to drink up. You watch as he tips an ice cube into his mouth and licks his heart-shaped lips afterward.

He mistakes your admiration for scrutiny. “What’s wrong?”

You smooth some stray hairs near his ear and poke the bulge of ice in his cheek. “Nothing at all. I just like looking at you.”

He crunches the ice and blushes deeper. “Thanks. Don’t you need to do that from the other side of the room, though? Any idea when you might be finished?��

You shrug and fuss with the collar of his shirt until it un-creases. “You know I can’t answer that. A few hours? Days? Weeks? Whenever I’m satisfied with it. Or whenever you say, ‘Fuck you, I’m done with this.’ I told you I can always just use a photo to finish this so you don’t have to model for me.”

Felix smiles softly. “No, I don’t want you to do that. I volunteered, didn’t I? I like modeling for you. It feels fancy to do it this way, like it might turn out better if we do it like this.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it’ll be so awful you’ll leave me over how monstrous I make you look.”

“Well, at least that would make an interesting story to tell my next girlfriend.”

You giggle. “That’s true. Why don’t I just do a caricature? That way, if it looks bad, I can pretend it was on purpose.”

“No. God no,” he says firmly. “You’re too good an artist to be making pieces look silly on purpose.”

You peck his forehead. “Well, if you want this to be ‘professional,’ you have to sit still for me, doll.”

“I will. I’ll behave.” He tilts his chin to seek out your lips, and you willingly give them up. You smile into the kiss when you see him fumble to set his glass aside on the coffee table beside him without breaking contact with you. Before he can free up his hands to do goodness-knows-what with them, you slink away, back to your easel.

“You just told me you’d behave. If you’re not backing out, then I’m still working, and that means no playing,” you remind him.

He knows, but there is still a hint of disappointment in his dark brown gaze.

These abstinence periods are relatively new to your long-standing relationship. You suppose most people would think a couple purposefully denying themselves sex would tear a wedge of stress and resentment between them, but that has not been the case with you and Felix. It’s a stimulus. A game. A challenging one, to be sure, but always immensely rewarding.

So that is what you have both agreed: there is no sex while you are working on a piece. Not until the job is finished.

“How long do you think this one will take?” Felix asks again.

You plop down in your seat with a light groan and gather your utensils again. “The answer is the same, Lix. I can’t say for sure. A few hours, days, weeks?”

Your pretty muse nods and takes another sip of water as he mentally prepares himself for the oncoming drought. He does his best to relax in his seat again, and you flash him a smile before getting back to work.

---

It takes twelve days to complete the portrait, and Felix is not even sitting across from you when the last stroke falls upon the canvas. He might be offended by this once he finds out, but you couldn’t stop yourself from finishing without him. Besides, you know he will ultimately be as happy as you are that it is finally finished.

Truthfully, you might have been able to do most of the portrait simply from memory; you know his face as well as your own by now.

A sigh flutters past your lips. You take a step back to better admire (and scrutinize) your work. As you scan it over, you can’t help but smile. Not just out of pride for the job you did, but because of the striking resemblance you have been striving to achieve.

It is always difficult to instill life and warmth into mere lines and dots and smudges, but the two-dimensional rendition truly seems as though it could begin breathing at any moment, and a fresh wave of fondness for your best friend and lover as the real-life person he is comes over you. That is how you know you are satisfied, and not just in terms of your finished project.

This is something to celebrate, so after deciding how you want to do so, you pick up your phone to text Felix about an important dilemma.

[You: hey i forgot what you’re wearing today]

There is enough time to change out of your old, splattered overalls and heat up a late lunch before your phone buzzes back.

[Felix: i know it’s been a while since we’ve sexted but i think you meant to phrase that as “what are you wearing” with a smirk emoji]

You almost choke on a bite of your food as you laugh out loud.

You: dfjfdjso i’m not trying to sext you. i just need to know if you’re dressed nicely enough for a restaurant with a decent wine list tonight. we have some celebrating to do

[Felix: how come?]

[You: it’s finished]

This time your phone does not buzz. It rings.

“You finished the portrait?” Felix’s voice is hushed and a little rushed. You can tell he is on the move, probably heading somewhere away from his co-workers and customers for a more private conversation.

“It’s signed and everything,” you say cheerfully.

“That’s fantastic!” he says, not the least bit offended. “This is definitely worth celebrating. We should go to the nicest place in town and dress to the nines.”

More laughter bursts from deep in your chest. “Wha— I mean, it’s still just a portrait, Lix. I didn’t win an award or solve a murder case or anything.”

“So? I” — you hear the sound of a door closing in the background — “sat in that chair for a hundred years and went celibate waiting for that portrait to be done. No offense. This deserves a grand celebration.”

Your eyeroll can probably be heard through the receiver. “It didn’t take that long, did it? It was less than two weeks. Remember that waterfall landscape I did?”

Felix grunts at the memory. “Yeah, how can I forget? Longest month-and-a-half of my entire life.”

“It was worth it in the end, though, wasn’t it?” you say, remembering how neither of you could walk properly for at least a couple days after you finished that particular piece, which is now proudly mounted on a wall in the master bedroom. “Come on, doll. When I pick you up, we’ll go out and have that decent wine with a decent meal so the public knows we’re celebrating something, and then we’ll come home and fuck each other blind, okay?”

There was a time years ago when he might have choked and sputtered over your words, but this lewd proposal is mild, and today he doesn’t flinch.

“If that’s what Madame Artiste wants, then that’s what she’ll get,” Felix says.

He offers you a choice between two restaurants he deems himself dressed appropriately for without having to come home and change, and once you choose, he asks, “Can you just bring my navy suit jacket with you so I can make this outfit work, please? I’ll see you later. I can’t wait.”

He ends the call with the sound of a kiss.

---

The chimes on the door draw the attention of three pairs of eyes, and the sight of you stepping into the salon brings a smile to Felix’s face. Well, the mask on the lower half of his face prevents you from actually seeing his smile, but the happiness is there in his deep brown eyes.

“Hi,” he says, scanning your date-night outfit with obvious appreciation. “Be right with you.”

“Take your time,” you say, smiling at the customer sitting across from him. She smiles back politely and returns her attention to Felix, who goes back to focusing on her fingernails. He meticulously sweeps an emery board across the rounded ruby shapes to finish smoothing them out.

The third person in the salon gets up from his cozy perch in one of the pedicure chairs at the end of the row and crosses the floor.

“You look so nice, Y/N. Is it date night?”

“Yep, we’re off to dinner,” you say, accepting the man’s hug. “What’s new, Ji?”

“Oh, not much.” Jisung shrugs and takes one of your hands. He inspects your fingernails, which have unsightly matte polka dots chipped in the gloss. “Want me to redo these before you go? It won’t take that long.”

You let out a fleeting giggle. “Honestly, I don’t know why I bother getting them done in the first place when I put so much wear and tear on them. This damage only took me a week.”

“Well that’s because—” Jisung shoots your boyfriend a quick look and clearly alters the second part of his statement, “—you did them at home. You need to have them professionally done.”

His way of criticizing Felix’s work while leaving the customer in the room none the wiser is clever, and you have half a mind to applaud him for poking fun at his friend without hurting their business.

The comment is not lost on Felix. He glares over at you and Jisung, but he cannot seem to think of a subtle rebuttal, so he stews in silence.

“Ah, maybe that’s my problem,” you say, grinning.

“Give me, like, fifteen minutes and you’ll be all set,” Jisung promises.

As he’s making his offer, Felix finishes with the woman. From the edge of your vision, you see him remove his mask and lead her to the register to finish the transaction.

“Are you working Saturday morning?” you ask Jisung. “I’ll stop in then and you can do my toes, too.”

Before he can either confirm or deny the appointment, Felix interrupts by coming up behind you and waving his tip in front of your face. “Here, look what my ‘unprofessional’ work got us,” he says. “Buy yourself something nice, baby.”

You chuckle at his little joke until you flick through the bills and realize just how much worth is in them. “Wow, Lix, she was so generous!”

“She was appreciative of the amazing job I did,” he corrects with a peck to your cheek, then he takes his suit jacket from your arms to slip it on. “Sorry, Ji, we have to go. Ready, Y/N?”

“Ready,” you say.

“Sounds good,” Jisung replies at the same time. “I’ll lock up here. Enjoy your date, guys. See you Saturday, Y/N.”

---

The wine is more than decent, the food hits all the right spots, and the company is absolutely perfect.

Felix laughs happily from across the table. Strands of pale blonde hair trickle past his ears the further he tips his head back, and the apples of his cheeks are hued pink from where the rosé has gone. His smile loses none of its dazzle when the waiter interrupts to check on the two of you. The sheer warmth he radiates is boundless in the most endearing way.

When the waiter leaves, you watch Felix lean back in his chair. His eyes land on yours, and while some of the amusement fades from his face, the fondness remains. You see it there, twinkling in the inky pools of his irises; you feel it in the comfort he exudes while he is with you.

For some reason, the contentment of the moment draws something to mind. “Do you remember when we first met?” you ask out of the blue.

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Of course I do. Remember how you tried to kiss me?”

“Oh my god, yes,” you groan. “Honestly, I still don’t remember a whole lot about that night, but I definitely remember you saying, ‘Oh, no thank you,’ right in my face.”

“Listen,” he laughs in defense, holding up a finger. “I was trying to be polite. I was trying to be a gentleman. You were a hot mess. That party had you twenty so’s-worth of shit-faced.”

“Twenty what?”

“You were so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, soooo…” he starts chanting his stupid joke.

You giggle and hang your head. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“Hang on.” He holds that finger up higher. “So, so, SOOOO—”

“I said I get it already!”

“—so shit-faced. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“You did embarrass me, though! By rejecting me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says, dipping his head in apology, “but we both would’ve been way more embarrassed if we’d slept together that night. It would’ve been a disaster.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “What makes you think I would’ve slept with you so soon?”

“Uh. Did you or did you not sleep with my roommate that night instead?”

“Fair enough," you say, toasting your wine glass in his direction. “It’s only funny now because we’re the ones who ended up together.”

Felix smiles. “Thank goodness for that. Life is pretty incredible with you in it, sweetheart.”

His words sober you a bit, and you smile back almost shyly. “I could say the same about you, doll.”

He probably does not always love you as much and as effortlessly as he does right now. He certainly is not always his best, most charming self the way he is right now. Neither are you. But he is still worth loving when he is at his worst, and if you could have moments like these scattered all throughout the rest of your life, you feel it would be enough. His love and support and respect and admiration are more than enough.

So it comes as a soft entreaty rather than a question; out of the blue again, but also a long time coming: “Please marry me.”

This time Felix raises an eyebrow. He seems more intrigued than surprised by your impromptu proposal. Then he half-purses, half-pouts his lips in a cheeky sort of expression, like he thinks you’re bluffing but is willing to play along anyway.

That feeling of overconfidence you had that first drunken night when you leaned in to kiss him in a stranger’s kitchen comes back, as does the fear of the rejection you suffered immediately afterward. If he says ‘Oh, no thank you,’ again, you wonder if you’ll die of embarrassment right here in this restaurant, surrounded by different strangers with different alcohol on your breath.

But you know he won’t, not even as a joke, because he knows you now. He knows you well, and he sees the sincerity in your face.

“I don’t have a ring,” you go on, “but I’ll get down on one knee right here, right now. This dress won’t stop me.”

Wordlessly, Felix lifts his napkin from his lap to lay it across his plate, then leans sideways to pull something from his pocket. He casually holds it up for your inspection, and once you realize what it is, you move to kneel in front of him as promised without even questioning the coincidence. Now is not the time for questions. Now is the time to show how serious you are about this.

Felix stares down at you and pries open the tiny case to reveal the brilliance of the diamond’s sparkle. Your fingers are sure and steady when he slips the top-heavy band onto the appropriate one.

“I would be honored to marry you,” he says softly, poking back and forth at the engagement ring with the edge of his thumbnail.

By now there are dozens of eyes on the quiet scene the two of you are making, but his are the only pair you see. His smile is still there, softer and smaller now, but still brimming with the adoration he has gained over the years. It widens when you rise up just enough to press your lips to it. His hand finds the back of your head the same second yours cups his.

A round of coos and charmed applause from the crowd goes up around you, but it is all background noise to the sound of Felix’s precious, giddy laughter.

---

He is no longer laughing by the time you throw the front door shut and press him up against it. The needy kisses between here and the car have taken most of his oxygen.

“Shit,” he hisses, watching you work his belt buckle. “You get a ring on your finger and you turn feral, is that how it works?”

You growl playfully but say nothing.

“You better slow down, tiger, or we won’t last five minutes.”

“Don’t care.”

“Aren’t you gonna show me what we waited so long for this for first?”

“Later. I thought you were dying of celibacy?” you sass.

Felix clicks his tongue. The simple sound is quiet, but it shifts the air. You stop trying to get into his pants to give his dark eyes your undivided attention.

“We have all the time in the world now, don’t we?” he murmurs, as though the hard-on in his jeans is not growing as impatient as you.

You swallow. “I just want you so badly. It hurts.”

His gaze sharpens at your tone. “Does it?” He reaches up to graze a thumb along your bottom lip. “Where does it hurt, sweetheart? Here?”

The sound you let out is something between a hum and a whine. You feel so sex-starved, so desperate for any morsel of pleasure he can feed you. You try to take his thumb into your mouth, but he slips it away too fast, plucking your lip as he goes. He brushes across your breast next. The sensation is dulled by your clothing, but your nipple stands to attention nonetheless.

“What about here?” he whispers.

“Yes…” The fingers that had been so keen on removing his belt cling idly to the leather.

“Aw.” Felix pouts and bats his eyelashes at you, but his sympathy feels insincere. He’s amused by the state of you. He adores seeing you so riled up and pliant for him.

His thumb trails further, straight down your stomach, while the rest of his fingers are kept stiff and carefully away from your buzzing body.

Eventually, he reaches the crease between your thighs and presses through the layers of your dress and your panties where he estimates your clit to be. He is a little north at first but quickly readjusts his position. The soft moan you let out is a dead giveaway for when he has found it.

“And here?” He takes a step closer while he begins drawing tiny circles. “Tell me, angel, does it hurt here?”

“Yes. Yes...”

He kisses your cheek tenderly. Mercifully. His deep voice is pitched even deeper when he murmurs, “Shh. I know it does. It’s finally time for me to make it better, isn’t it.”

You cant your hips against his hand. “Felix, please...”

“Come here.”

He trades places to cage you up against the front door. You reach for him, but he draws back out of reach to shrug out of his jacket first. After he carefully pushes the sleeves of his sweater up, he uses both hands to hike your dress up along your waist. There is no rush to his movements. In fact, it’s almost graceful the way he does it, as though the actions he is about to perform could be considered decent.

When you try to remove your underwear from his way, he nudges your hands aside. “Ah-ah-ah,” he tuts. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Tell me the safe word first, Y/N.”

After all this time, he still has you say it out loud beforehand. Beneath your eager lust, you appreciate the basic act of care and commitment to playing the dominant role.

“Candle,” you answer.

He thanks you as though you’ve done him a favor and places a light kiss on the edge of your jaw. Then he hooks his thumb through the side of your panties to touch the hood of your bare clit directly. A jolt of electricity singes your nerves from his first flick. Your body noticeably quivers, and Felix smirks at his quick, effortless effect on you.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he drawls lowly.

You swallow again, drier this time. “Mm-hm.”

“Because we don’t play while you’re working anymore, do we?”

You shake your head. “Hm-mm.”

“And you’ve been working so hard, haven’t you, baby?”

You hum again, louder this time. Or maybe it’s a full-blown moan. Whatever the sound is, it becomes incessant over each passing second and each pass of his thumb. Every noise you make is met with a return sigh or hum from Felix. Every jerk of your hips is matched by a tilt of his head or other shift in his posture.

Getting fingered like this, fully dressed and up against the front door of your home, spikes a carnal, filthy pleasure into your blood. It sears through your muscles, hotter and hotter until it beads between your skin and your clothes. You want to take them off, but you dare not stop Felix for a second. You keen with lust and desperation.

“I know. I know,” he purrs, soft and sweet as a kitten. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels so good...” He nuzzles the space between your jaw and your neck and inhales deeply.

You tilt your face away to give him better access, but he peels back and takes your chin in his other hand to steer you back toward him. A puff of hot breath hits your damp temple; it almost feels cool.

“Eyes on me. Good girl.” His gaze skims down your form. “You’re still shaking. All I’ve done is touch your clit and you’re that close already, huh?”

“Yes, so close,” you admit, completely unashamed. “Just keep going, please just keep going.”

Felix smiles and takes the sweat from your temple with a pair of kisses. “How can I say no when you beg me so nicely like the perfect angel you are? Hold onto me. C’mon.”

You instinctively go to clutch his biceps but think of a better idea and hook your arms around his neck instead. Felix allows you to pull him even closer and finally — finally — slips another finger into your panties. He pushes it into your opening with almost no resistance, and you gasp when his knuckles bottom out inside you. Just as quickly as the finger entered, a second one joins and curls. He keeps them buried for a moment, then drags them back out to smear the juices he collected around your swollen bud. The slipperier his work gets, the more he enjoys it.

“Your pussy is so perfect,” he breathes. “Spread your legs. I want to feel just how wet it gets for me.”

You obediently open your legs wider, and he delves back in immediately, fast enough that his palm audibly claps against your slick lips, hard enough to send your head tipping backward to thump against the door. When his thumb drops back to your clit and nudges under the hood this time, you know it won’t be long until you’re unraveled.

“Ohhh my god,” you groan. More sweat builds on your forehead, on your chest, under your arms, along the backs of your knees. You grow lightheaded from the static in your veins from being fucked open by Felix’s talented, diligent fingers.

“That’s it,” he pants. You’re not sure when he became so breathless. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let go. Come for me. Come for me. Come.”

Another dozen strokes and you do as you’re told with a pinched yelp. Felix kisses your throat as he works you up your high and eases you back down, undulating his wrist and babbling encouragements into your sticky skin.

“That’s it, squeeze my fingers, just like that. Squeeze ‘em tight. Tight. There you go. That’s my good girl. So gorgeous when you come. So fucking perfect. Hey.”

The hand not still knuckle-deep in your pussy cups your cheek and pulls you in. He swallows the whines and the airless, nonsensical words of thanks you huff between kisses.

Once your breathing has had time to settle, he gingerly slips his fingers from your sensitive, throbbing walls. He doesn’t even look at those fingers as he brings them to his tongue. In fact, he closes his eyes altogether as he laps the tips and moans indulgently, as though this is the first time he has ever tasted you.

When he is done cleaning the mess you made on him, he looks you in the eye and says, “Now that we’ve rubbed out that easy one, I’m open to suggestions on what to do next.”

“Let me return the favor?” You inflect it as a question.

Felix smirks. “It wasn’t a favor, sweetheart, it was a pleasure. But since you’re asking so nicely again… c’mere.”

He tugs you by the hands and begins walking backward, slipping out of his shoes as he goes, and you follow his lead. You assume he is bringing you to the bedroom, but he stops when his feet hit the carpet in the living room and glances over his shoulder. It must be the chair he was looking for because he then moves toward it with a sense of purpose, leaving you a few paces behind.

“Strip,” he orders. His voice is even and his expression is calm as he sits and crosses an ankle over his opposite knee.

You move to obey without hesitation, twisting your arm behind your back to yank down the zipper on your dress. Felix keeps his eyes fixed on your face as you peel the gown away from your shoulders. Gravity takes the fabric to your waist, and you shove it down the rest of the way to step out of it completely. Next, you snap one of your bra straps with an eyebrow cocked in question.

Felix nods. “Mhm. Keep going ‘til you’re in nothing but that ring.”

You had nearly forgotten about it. You lift your hand to look at it again, but a sudden noise startles you. It sounds like more of a crack than a snap from the way it ricochets off the walls of your home, though you know a snap is exactly what it was by the pose of Felix’s fingers in the air.

“Don’t get distracted now,” he says, deep voice rumbling. He drops his hand back to his lap. “You’re being so good. Finish taking off your clothes, then come here.”

With his instructions, you unhook your bra and let it drop to the floor. His eyes dip to your naked chest, but his expression is more clinical than enticed.

You shove your thumbs into the band of your panties and stall there until you get the attention you want. It takes Felix a few seconds to realize you’re not moving and look back to your face. When he meets your eyes, he mouths the word ‘off,’ leaving his teeth planted in his bottom lip for an extended moment. Even when he is silent, you feel the authority radiating from him. You shiver when the air hits your slick, heated center.

Felix uncrosses his legs, and you finally glean a proper peek at your effect on him. The erection in his pants looks past the point of painful, but his demeanor is still relaxed as he invites you to stand in front of him by casually tossing a throw pillow at his feet. Once your toes brush against it, he reaches for your hands and sweeps his lips across your knuckles, quick and affectionate. Then his hands are on your waist, and near your ribs, and around the curves of your ass, and across your thighs. He soothes them up and down your skin, imprinting patches of heat everywhere he roams.

“There’s my gorgeous girl.” He leans forward and plants an open-mouthed kiss on your lower stomach, then peers up through his eyelashes at you and directs, “On your knees for me, gorgeous.”

Another look at his covered crotch and you do as you’re bid. When your knees touch down on the pillow, Felix shifts to whip his belt out of its loops at last. By the time it clanks to the floor, you’re already helping him with the button and the zipper. He lets you tug his pants down to and away from his ankles. His socks go next, and he takes care of his sweater and undershirt himself. His underwear is last but gone in a flash and then there he sits, stripped bare with his toned abdominals twitching and his cock standing flushed and rigid just for you. He is so goddamn beautiful.

“Is this what you want?” He leans back and takes his rosy length in a loose fist. “Is this what you’ve been being so good and working so hard for?”

You swallow and pretend it’s his precum sliding down your throat. “Yes.”

“What’s that, baby?” He strokes upward.

“Yes.”

“What do you say?” He strokes downward. Back up again. Your eyes may as well be stringed puppets with the way they follow helplessly.

“I said yes,” you repeat again.

And he patiently repeats: “No, what do you say? Look at me.”

Once you meet his lust-glazed stare, you don’t have to wrack your brain for the answer he’s looking for.

“Please,” you say, “let me suck your cock. I want it so badly. You deserve to feel good after waiting so long.”

Felix tucks his chin down, puckers his lips, and releases a ball of spit onto the head of his cock. Another soon follows, racing alongside the first, joining the trail of wetness that already leaked from the slit.

You shuffle closer between his knees and take him in your hand. He lets go of himself, but not before brushing his fingertips along the back of your hand. The gesture is deliberate, not coincidental, and you smile up at him. He smiles back, more with his eyes than his mouth. His mouth is used to give commands such as, “Put it in your mouth, sweetheart,” before leaning back comfortably. Even with his pulsing erection at your mercy, he is a marvel of beauty and dominance.

You give him a few strokes to spread the wetness around and simply enjoy the slick glide, then bend to take in his wet tip. He tastes delicious. Good enough for you to moan on contact, good enough for you to want to fill your entire mouth with his warm heaviness. He is tangy from his natural body and sweet from the taste of wine lingering in his spit. You sink down further, letting your tongue follow the path of a prominent vein.

“Open wide. That’s it,” he says. His voice is steady but barely there. The relief of finally being touched where he wants it most runs a succinct shiver through his legs, but otherwise he remains controlled, even when you tighten your lips to hollow your cheeks. “There you go. So good for me. So good at sucking my dick.”

His praise leaves you hungry for more, so you slather your tongue down and around his balls to hear the way his sighs and quiet pants start to crack his composure. He shifts his hips to ensure you can reach every sensitive part of him, and his cock feels just a bit stiffer when you try to swallow it down your throat.

“Hah,” he gasps. “Oh, fuck, baby, that’s it.”

On the armrest of the chair, his fist clenches tight enough to pop a knuckle. He soon releases it, however, and moves his hand toward you. You half-expect him to hold you in place because you know how much he enjoys being in your throat, but instead, he eases you off of him and uses his loose grip on the top of your head to roll it back in a slow, gentle circle along your neck and around your shoulders. A strand of spit — there is no way to tell whether it is yours or his — still bridges your lips to his swollen cock. You reach out to break it with your tongue, curling it devilishly. Felix watches with dark, hooded eyes.

“Dirty girl.” He wipes away the dribble on your chin with his thumb. “Where do you want it?”

You don’t quite understand his question. “Hm?”

Once again, he takes your hands in his, this time to help you up off the floor and onto his lap where he can sling your arms around his neck. The only conceivable reason for him to cut a blowjob so short is that he is already too close to coming. You won’t call him out on it, but you’re thrilled to know it’s true.

“I asked you where you want it. Where do you want me to fuck you?” His vulgar inquiry is warm honey on your tongue. “You want me to take you up against the wall? Fuck you so good and so hard that you can’t fucking walk in the morning? Hm?” His hum vibrates your lips with the sweetest melody. “Do you want me to take you in our bed, under the sheets, nice and slow, until you can’t remember your own name?” His lips are a soft, decadent treat you sink your teeth into. “Or do you want me to take you in this chair, right here where I sat while you were across the room working for hours and hours instead of bouncing on my dick?” His perfume is a laced drug that could leave you high in bliss for hours.

“Yes,” you breathe into his mouth. You pull at his lips, molding and folding them with yours while you feel up every inch of his skin you can reach — his jaw, his back, his arms, his chest, his stomach.

Felix relinquishes a shred of his control with a groan as he ravishes your lips right back. His own hands crawl along your shoulder blades, your spine, your ass. Eventually, he clears his head well enough to say, “That’s not an answer, sweetheart. You need to tell me right now where you want to fuck, or I’m choosing for you.”

“Here. Chair. Now,” you rasp brokenly.

He hoists you up right away, perching your ass halfway onto one of his forearms and using his other hand to drag his swollen, spongy cockhead through your folds until he finds your entrance. The tip slips inside with a stretch but little resistance, as does the rest of him until your lap and his are pressed flush against one another’s.

You rock your hips slowly to welcome the intrusion and ensure he is as deep and you are as full as possible, and his breath hitches from the movement. He lowers his eyes in a straight path from your eyes to your nose to your chin. His lips part as though he is going to say something, but after a couple seconds, he leans forward to give you another searing kiss instead, bracing a hand against your spine to keep you from tipping backward from the sudden motion.

Whatever he was going to say about how good it feels to be sunk in your wet heat again is conveyed through his tongue on yours and the way he clutches your bare skin.

Just when you think perhaps all his words have dried up, Felix sucks his mouth off yours, lays a slap across your ass, and grunts in deep bass: “Bounce for me, baby.”

You would love nothing more than to do just that, so you build up a steady pace as quick as you can. He is just thick enough to rub your walls and make them burn in the best way imaginable. The smacks that come from your pelvis and thighs meeting his over and over are lewd and wet and so fucking good. So fucking good.

You shut your eyes and hang your head back. “Oh my fucking god…”

Felix keeps an arm hooked around your moving waist while he paws at you from the front. He splays his free hand across your throat, applying just enough pressure to get a feel for your erratic pulse, then slips down your collarbone, down your chest to squeeze one of your tits.

“That’s it, baby. This is what we’ve been missing, isn’t it?” He lifts your breast and leans forward to wrap his lips around the perked nipple. The sensation makes you involuntarily clench around him, and he whimpers from the tightness. “Fuck, I’ve missed this so much.”

His admission spurs you to speed up. You try to roll your hips at the bottom of every drop, but your movements are getting sloppier the higher your pleasure climbs. It doesn’t seem to matter to Felix, though. His ragged breathing is a telltale sign of how good it feels to have your soaked pussy dragging up and down his cock. He tries to find your staggered rhythm in order to buck upward in time with your drops and help drive himself into your sweetest spot, but although both of you are hyper-concentrated on reaching your peaks, the coordination is not quite there.

“Sweetheart, you’re falling apart on my dick,” he moans with the little breath he has. “Jesus, you’re squeezing me so goddamn tight. You’ve already come once and now you’re about to soak my whole fucking lap, aren’t you?”

“Lix, I-I’m s-s-so-” you trill mindlessly.

“So close, I know.” He gives the fleshiest part of your ass another solid slap, then digs his fingers in to help you rock back and forth against him. “Do it. Come again on my fucking cock, baby. We’ve earned it.”

You work to get all the friction the ridges of his raw cock can give you, but the edge you’re chasing is still on the horizon, just a bit too far out of reach. “Felix, I can’t…”

“I’ll get you there,” he swears. “Let’s just—”

In no time, you’re on your back on the floor and Felix is plunging his steely length back between your drenched folds. Your legs automatically anchor themselves around his hips to steady yourself against the jarring pace he sets. The aftermath of the rough carpet on your bare skin is a worry for a later. Right now, you whine at him to go faster, go harder, just don’t fucking stop, whatever he does.

Felix leans close and takes one of your knees to push it back toward your chest so he can fuck into you deeper. His breath is hot and shaky and somewhere in the vicinity of your earlobe as he whispers, “Fuck, you’ve gotta come now, angel. Please.”

He readjusts his weight and his grip on you, pushes deep just a few more times, and you’re finally coming again, crying out and clenching around him so tight it nearly hurts from how hard he is inside you. He fucks you through your entire high, never stopping the solid snap-snap-snap of his slim hips.

“God, fuck, I’m right fucking there,” he huffs and pants. Sweat drips from his brow onto your cheek. “Where do you want it? Where should I come?”

“In me, come in me,” you beg, reaching down to squeeze his tight ass and urge him even deeper into your soaked depths.

Felix whines something wordlessly lyrical in a high alto as his release fills you with a sticky warmth. He fucks his cum into you with rough, staggered thrusts, his pace slowing but never completely stopping. Your legs begin to ache as he continues gingerly pumping himself. You assume his spent cock must hurt from the rising sensitivity following his orgasm, but he is not quite finished.

“Holy shit,” he whimpers. “Your pussy’s so fucking tight, I think I could come again.”

Your walls clench around him because you know he is serious. “Do it, baby,” you pant hard. “Use my pussy to come again. I want it all.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Just a little more, I’m gonna— fuck!”

He finds a second shaky high and buries his fingers in your hips deep enough that the bruises may last until your wedding day. The force with which he pulses a final spurt of cum toward your cervix is something you’re certain to remember for a long time as well.

“Holy shit,” Felix sighs again, blissful and fucked out. The two of you moan together when he slips out of you, still half hard. “Come here, angel.”

He slumps to the side and gathers you in his arms to face him. You tuck your forehead between his jaw and his shoulder, and he traces his fingertips along your shoulder blades where the skin is a little irritated from its row with the carpet. You’re not worried about the sting, but your nerves wince under his touch anyway, and he apologizes immediately.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have—”

“You’re not an idiot,” you giggle tiredly. “We’ve had worse rug burn before. Much worse.”

“I know, which means I know better than to have sex on the carpet.” He kisses your forehead and sweeps a thumb across your cheek. “I shouldn’t have gotten so caught up, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you insist. “Being fucked into the carpet never felt so good.”

Felix laughs quietly, deeply. “It was definitely worth the wait. I haven’t come twice in a row like that in a while.” His sigh is exhausted but pleased; his hug is weak but loving.

After a moment of recovery, he helps you stand and urges you to use the bathroom and change into something comfortable, and you agree on the condition he does the same.

Before you dress, he peppers sweet kisses along your lightly scraped skin and helps you apply lotion over it. He also insists that you drink at least half a glass of water to rehydrate yourself before you both return to the living room so you can finally show him what the two of you have been celebrating in the first place. He massages the back of your neck soothingly as you walk side by side.

“Alright, now I’m actually really proud of this, but you still need to be honest with me, okay?” you preface. Without waiting for him to respond, you whip the sheet covering the easel away with a flourish.

The moment it is revealed, Felix eyes dart over the portrait in patternless directions. You want to see inside that pretty head of his to know every thought going through his mind while he examines your depiction of him, but you can’t, so you keep your eyes trained on his pensive face and wait quietly for him to share whatever feedback he chooses.

“Y/N,” he eventually begins. You can’t tell if the hush in his tone is because he is awed or appalled.

“Yes?”

Felix turns to look you in the eye. “How do you keep outdoing yourself?”

A note of laughter pops past your lips, and the nervousness in it surprises you. “Well, you know what they say about practice. Does that mean you like it?”

“Are you kid— I love it! I don’t even know where to begin! The detail, Y/N! It’s so—” He faces his two-dimensional self again and waves his hand through the air in front of the canvas in a gesture you have no idea how to interpret. Then he extends a single finger toward the bottom edge of the canvas. “Like right here. The shadowing is so good. And the way you did the lighting here...” He lifts his finger higher to point at his painted cheekbones. “You did my freckles so well, I wouldn’t even be surprised if you captured literally every single one of them. It’s, like, scary good. And I don’t know if this is technically a critique towards the realism, but I don’t think my hair has ever actually looked this good in real life.”

You laugh louder, more happily. “I do think I did a pretty good job, but your real life self is way better than this, doll. Trust me.” You tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, and he brings his face back around to look at you again.

“I don’t even know what else to say without sounding dumb about it,” he tells you. It is not often he sounds bashful around you anymore, but he does now. “I’ll have to keep processing it. But in my unprofessional opinion, to my untrained, non-artistic eye, I’d say this is certifiably amazing work, sweetheart.”

You touch his cheek. “As long as you don’t feel like leaving me over it, you don’t have to say anything else.”

Felix takes your other hand and kisses the center of your palm, then each of your fingertips separately, then the ring between your knuckles.

Tomorrow, you’ll ask him for the story of how he happened to have it in his pocket tonight. Saturday, when Jisung sees it on your finger, you’ll ask his advice on how you should do your nails for the wedding (though you’ll probably end up having them done by your groom anyway). Next week, you’ll ask Felix what time of year he has in mind for the ceremony, or if he even wants to make a big pageantry of it. The week after that, you’ll either start looking into wedding venues or making an appointment with City Hall.

And years from now, when your children ask you about the portrait you painted of their father, you’ll tell them you did it because he was always your biggest supporter, and you’ll be reminded just how in love the two of you were tonight.

---

if you enjoyed, please consider re-blogging and/or leaving me some feedback. take care! ♡

copyright © 2024 by daizymax. all rights reserved. back to masterlist

[mortyvongola2-0]

Sacrificed

Pairing: God!Madara Uchiha x Reader

Genre: Oneshot, filthy filthy smut

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: too many to count, afab!reader, rough sex, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, the Uchiha breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, aphrodisiacs, Madara has a big dick Uchiha, blindfolds, hands are tied, stomach bulge, mating press, overstimulation, some temperature play, strong language

A/N: This monstrosity has way too many tags, forgive me if I didn't tag every kink. Honestly this was only supposed to have like, two kinks or so, but uh obviously that did not happen and I'm not sorry about it. If this one does well enough I plan on writing a Sacrificed for each of the founders trio, and if I feel the inspiration after that I could add other Naruto characters as well so, let me know if that's something you'd be interested in.

A HUGE thank you to @therantingfangirl for helping me edit this oversized self indulgence! She's the best you guys, I love her and you should send some love her way! This wouldn't have been out as quickly, and would've had many more typos lol, if not for her. So tell her thank you for me~

edit 7/30/22: WE NOW HAVE ART!! A biiiig huge thank you to the amazing @skydaddy01 for their incredible art. They did a fanfuckingtastic job creating god!Madara's appearance, especially with so little to go off of because I'm bad at asking for things. Seriously, go check them out, especially if you like the art~

Without further ado, enjoy Sacrificed (Sun)

Read it on AO3

Villagers scattered about, decorating homes and streets alike, preparing drums and costumes with jovial attitudes; the excitement was palpable. Most everyone looked forward to the Festival of the Sun, it was hard not to! The music, the ritual dancing, the offerings of food and wine to the gods as well as loved ones were certainly something to be excited about. The festivities themselves lasted for an entire week. It had to in order to entice him down from his place of rest. He was hard to excite, after all.

The Festival of the Sun is performed once a year before the cold season begins in order to plead with the sun god for protection from death during the upcoming frost. At the peak of the festivities, a living sacrifice is offered to the deity, but seldom does he come down. Most sacrifices come back without having even felt his presence, however throughout the history of the festival there were rare instances of his sacrifice being found dead at the end of the celebrations. The manner of death was always the same, burnt from the inside out. These instances came to be synonymous with having met him.

That fact made you, the sacrifice chosen for the upcoming celebrations, a bit nauseated. The idea of meeting the sun god made you nervous for many reasons; you were his devout follower, a young peasant chosen by the temple due to your dedication to your faith. At least, that’s what they told you when they notified you of your impending position. Your faith was well known in the village, you made the hike to his temple every two days without fail and prayed for hours in his sanctuary as well as volunteered to help clean the entirety of his temple.

His statues had always entranced you and you often wondered if that was what he really looked like. Was he really that tall and broad? Certainly awe inspiring if true. You’d run the soapy cloth along the carvings of his hair and close your eyes, guiltily pretending you were running your fingers through his majestic locks, it was so long, and the artist made it look so wild and untamed, giving his likeness a dangerous edge that made you bite your bottom lip. It would not be an exaggeration to say you were attracted to your god, or rather to the idea of him.

You had never met him or even heard his words as some priests had claimed to have heard. The high priest, the one who informed you of your role in the festivities, had said that your devotion moved the god and he had asked for you; that made you roll your eyes. As if the sun god himself would ask for you. The odd one, no family or friends, let alone a dating history, or anything of the sort that would catch the attention of anyone let alone such a powerful and incredible god. No matter, it would just mean another year without his appearance, though there is the possibility he’s so enraged by your presentation that he decides to burn you like the others.

He was not known for his mercy, after all. His lust for blood was legendary and his rivalry with the god of the forests still affects humanity despite their typically dormant state. Their battles have scored the earth and ruined oceans, much to the god of the sea’s displeasure. The temple texts state that the gods of forest and sun reawaken every century to continue their discourse. Were the previously killed sacrifices burned for his amusement or was he displeased with their appearance? Being burnt from the inside out at the hands of your beloved deity, was that your destined end?

As you contemplated your possible demise, the festival began. For the first three days your job was to stay in the temple. You were to pray all day, bathe in the ceremonial waters, and eat only the fruits provided. Each day the ceremonial drumming, which was performed as the sun began to set and would continue until sunrise, could be heard despite the temples stone walls. Their beat entrancing and familiar. It gave you something to look forward to as you prayed without response.

On the fourth day you weren’t allowed to eat anything, only drink a strangely viscus and milky liquid with no taste that left the core of your being feeling cold. The usual warm bath with citrus scents was replaced with the same cold and thick liquid you were forced to drink. Are they trying to give me a cold before they send me to my death? You thought as you shivered. The older priestesses were made to wash you, they rubbed the fluid into every part of your being. Maybe I’ll freeze before I’m burnt alive.

It was almost like a massage, the way the older women prepared you. The way they rubbed the fluid into the flesh of your breasts made you blush, and the blush only deepened when your sex was given the same amount of attention and pressure. You bit your lip and squeezed your eyes shut. The feeling was a bit unusual. Heat began to swirl in your center, and it helped you fight off the cold for the rest of the bath.

When you were brought out of the bath rolls of white and red silk were draped around your body in odd patterns. The material itself felt wonderful but they tied the red pieces around your arms and neck, while the white silk they used to bind your chest and cover your mound. It was an odd feeling, only being partially dressed and your abdomen being bare made you flush in embarrassment. They tied your hair back in a braid that was as long as your hair would allow, and they twisted the same type of red silk around it. You were not allowed to look at your own appearance and one of the women led you out of the temple without so much as a word.

Once outside you began to shiver again and your bare feet gracing the soft grass only made you feel colder. The breeze made goose flesh begin to rise along your skin and you wrapped your arms around yourself to try and keep warm. Sounds of the villagers enjoying the festival gave you something to focus on. What would you be doing, if you were not here? Enjoying some wine perhaps, dancing around the oversized fire that was lit in your god’s honor? Mmm maybe even enjoying a full plate of roast boar, your stomach grumbled at the thought.

A group of priests, including the high priest, emerged from the temple and began to lead you further to the west of the temple. On that side there was a trail. Most everyone knew of the trail, but it was not to be used by anyone but the blessed. It led up to the highest peak in the valley and at the top stood a temple made specifically to hold the sun god’s presence when he graced the earth.

The high priest ushered you onto the trail and began to walk in front of you, the others following behind. The entire hike up felt very stiff and uncomfortable, it made you more nervous than you already were. The high priest stopped, as did you, right before the doors to the sacred temple. It was much grander, the walls made of marble instead of stone with gold gilded doors and carvings of suns in the luxurious columns. A strong wind practically blew through you, and you wondered if you’d ever feel warm again. A quick glance around at the people meant to guide you made your stomach twist in knots. They all had such grave expressions. You wondered what was next and began to try to convey your question with your eyes but they refused look at you. “Um,” you began. “Excuse-“

A loud shout rang out from the village, the signal to start the drums. Startled, you glanced at the sky and saw that the sun had begun to set. The high priest turned and walked until he was right in front of you. He began to press a large flask of what looked to be the same viscous liquid into your hands while a different priest came behind you and began to tie a red ribbon made of the same silk tightly around your eyes. The cool material caused your heart to beat as hard as the drums. “Drink this once the sun has fully set, there will be more inside, be sure to drink all of it throughout the next few days.”

Your breathing picked up. Someone, you weren’t sure who, began to tie your wrists together in front of you. “Do not attempt to look at him,” the high priest spoke again. “Do not try to touch him, only he can initiate contact. You may roam around the temple but do not leave it.” How did he expect you to roam without being able to see? “We will be back at the end of the festival to collect you, do as we say and as he says and you will survive,” he paused, “probably.”

You nodded nervously; you couldn’t see his face but could feel the sense of dread in the air. “Alright, let us begin.” Someone began to push you forward and you felt your bare feet touch the chilled marble, heard the large doors creak open, and felt the plush of a cushion as they sat you down on the floor. Once their touch left you, the sense of foreboding increased. When you heard the door slam shut you knew you were alone.

You could hear the high priest begin a prayer outside the door, though it was rather muffled, you pressed your fingers against each other, and you tried to calm your nerves by joining in on the prayer. “Allow your warmth to protect and guide me,” you muttered. After a moment’s hesitation you added, “and your cruelty to pass over me.” And altogether you ended the prayer with an ‘amen’ though yours felt a tad more strained.

Through the blindfold you could make out vague shapes thanks to the small amounts of light; but that was all you could see, and once the sun set you would essentially be blind. You stayed seated for a time and fiddled with the flask that you had been given. The wrappings around your wrists weren’t painful or too constricting but they did limit what you could do. How were you supposed to stay like this for four nights and three days? “Where even is the restroom?” You glanced around at the shapes that made up what you could see. “Do gods even use the restroom?”

After a few more minutes of fretting and shaking you decided to stand and try to figure out what was in the room. You placed your arms out in front of you. Your hands may have been bound but you were still able to grab a hold of things. The temperature of the temple was colder than the temperature outside, it was similar to the biting chill of the nights in the cold season. At this point you wondered if you were doomed to die from frostbite. The tips of your fingers scraped against the cold marble of the walls, and you continued to glide your hands along the carvings to guide you through the area. As your vision began to worsen you knew the sun was almost under the mountain.

Your fingers brushed against a metal decoration and you began to explore the piece to the best of your abilities. It felt like a throne, a large one, with a cushion made of the same type of silk that was draped around you. The size of the throne made it feel a bit more like a small loveseat, you couldn’t imagine it being too comfortable with all the surrounding metals. Beside the throne seemed to be a short table with a pitcher atop it. The pitcher was carved, and you could tell it was well crafted by running your fingers along the object. It felt much too light to be filled with anything, much to your chagrin. You had been hoping for a sip of real water.

While there was still a bit of sunlight left you decided to try to explore the center of the room a bit more. You walked cautiously from the throne to the middle of the area and saw a shadow that seemed to be a table or something similar. It was a bit tall to be a table and you placed your hands on it and felt that it was also made of a cold marble. There were no chairs around it and as your fingers brushed along the edges you felt that there were words engraved on it. You wondered if they were gilded with gold like the carvings on the outer columns had been. Slowly, you attempted to read what was engraved around the table. “A sacrifice of flesh and blood,” you muttered. “Well, that would be me.”

“Is that right?”

You flinched. That was not a voice you recognized. It was deep and alluring, with an inflection that sounded almost amused. The man’s voice had come from behind you, where you remembered the throne being. Cautiously, you turned toward where you thought the voice was coming from but immediately had to squeeze your eyes shut. All there was in that direction was a bright light, like the sun itself had come to rest in front of you. Wait, your breath caught in your throat. The sun itself?

“A-Are you perhaps-“

“Yes?”

You felt so hesitant. Your heart felt like it was going to pound out of your chest, the urge to drop down on your knees and bow was at the forefront of your mind. There was a warmth, an intense but welcome warmth, that began to move toward you. Your eyes were still closed tight; even behind the blindfold his brightness was too much. Like a warm breath it felt like his presence was closer, but you weren’t sure how close. Without much more thought, you gave into your urge and got down to your hands and knees with your head resting atop your extended arms on the floor. Even the floor felt warmer now than it had before his arrival. “My lord!”

“Hm, not quite as interesting as I was expecting.” He sounded so close, almost as if he was directly above you. “But not altogether unpleasant.”

Your skin began to tingle from the contrast in temperature. Hot and cold. Internally, you still felt like you were freezing but externally his presence had warmed everything to such a degree it felt like you might melt. Lightly, it felt like just the tips of his fingers, began to trial down your exposed spine, like he was counting vertebrae. Again, your bottom lip felt the sting of your teeth as your mind reeled at not only meeting but being touched by your god. The same god whose likeness you had thought of in some not so holy ways.

“Is it still too bright?”

“P-Pardon?”

“I understand that my presence tends to be overwhelming for human eyes, shall I dim myself?” He answered his own question, as the harsh biting against your eyelids seemed to lessen and instead of a sun his presence looked more like a group of brightly lit candles. It hurt still, but you were finally able to open your eyes. You wanted to look at him, wanted to take the blindfold off and gaze upon his glory but you kept your head down, afraid of the consequences of doing so. “Thank you for your consideration, my lord.”

“Still so polite,” his dry chuckle was like velvet in your ears. You shivered, but not from fear or temperature; you wanted to hear him speak more. The pleasing thought of having him order you around floated about in your mind. Warm, overly warm, fingers gripped your chin roughly and had you look up at the veiled view of his face. “I like how you’ve thought about me a lot better than the way you’re speaking to me now.”

Your heart hiccupped. Your thoughts of him!? You could feel the color drain from your face. All the unsavory thoughts you had about his image filtered through your mind at once. The few times you had touched yourself had also been to ideas of him. Would he kill you now for your blasphemous behavior? Was he aware of all of them? That rich chuckle continued to fill your ears, much more amused this time, and he turned your head from side to side as if in assessment of a product at the market. “Don’t be so nervous, child. You act like I’m going to burn you alive.”

You were pretty sure he might.

There were no details, but from his outline it seemed like the statue was rather accurate. His hair was long, spiked, and wild like the mane of a lion; his shoulders broad and perfectly set. He barely had a hold on your chin but the bits of his fingers you could feel felt strong, large, and overly warm. The high priest had told you not to look at him but maybe? Just a peek? “Can I remove the-“

“Do you want to go blind?”

“What?”

“Do you think you can stare directly at the sun without repercussions? You’ll go blind if you look at me with your naked eye.”

“Oh,” you pressed your lips together, your cheeks red with embarrassment. “Right, yes, that makes sense.”

“Eager to see your god, are we?”

You wanted to nod but refrained and he let go of your chin. “You haven’t finished the elixir yet.” He said it as a statement of fact and let out a sigh that sounded exasperated. The blood in your veins rushed at a dizzying pace and you felt panic begin to rise in your throat. Had you displeased him? Would he leave because of it? Anything but that.

“I hadn’t realized the time, please forgive-“ Wet warm lips pressed against yours midsentence. It was intense and hot, so very hot. One of his large hands grabbed the back of your head roughly, forcing you to tilt your head back and he tugged on the braid. The surprise made you flinch, and your mouth opened slightly, but it was enough for him. He began to force a liquid into your mouth from his. It was different from the others; it had a sweet taste to it that sat heavy in your center. The warmth of his lips felt like it might burn, but the cool of the liquid soothed it almost immediately. The contrast made you moan, and his tongue began to enter your mouth.

Your eyes squeezed shut and you began to feel turned on as his tongue caressed and pulled at your own. Were you allowed to kiss back? How was this supposed to work? Another noise escaped you as his tongue scraped against the roof of your mouth, slowly and with intent. You squeezed your thighs together in an attempt to calm down. He pulled away slowly, allowing his tongue to linger against yours in the space between you. The sun god chuckled once again, “That face is rather enticing.”

If only you could see what face it was. His touch left you and the warmth of his being began to dissipate. “Resting for so long can be quite boring,” he began, his voice sounded like it was back at the throne. When you opened your eyes you could see the light of his being further back, it seemed as if he was sitting on the golden décor. It almost looked like he was slouched, with one hand against the arm rest and his head on his fist, but that was just your assumption. You had no way of seeing the details of his form. “So, while we wait for the elixir to kick in, entertain me.”

Entertain? How? Should you ask? What if that angered him? He didn’t seem like the patient sort. You heard a sound similar to liquid filling a basin and saw him shift as it looked like he may be drinking. Your heart pounded in your ears in time with the beat of the drums that boom from below. Oh, was that it? At this point in the evening, for the festival, everyone would be dancing. Is that what he wanted? The dance was created for his worship, after all.

You stood on nervous legs, your hands still bound, and listened patiently to the beat. When you felt you had a good enough idea of the rhythm you began the dance. It was fast, continuously moving, with moves similar to dodging attacks in a spar. When the drum paused you twisted your spine and bent backward, almost hitting the sacrificial table behind you, and stretch your arms up behind your head to touch the cool marble. The stretch made you feel exposed. Your neck, abdomen, and legs were on full display. As the pause remained, so did your position. It was difficult, but the dance seemed to warm you up. You felt the flush travel across your body, and you began to feel rather thirsty. You resumed at the same time as the drums.

Everything seemed to disappear as the song continued. Your muscles began to loosen, your tension nonexistent, you completely forgot where you were or why you were even dancing in the first place. It was like you were hypnotized to follow the music. One foot out in front and the other behind, your hands pushed out in front almost like you were begging. Everything felt warm now, your breathing was labored from exertion. Much to your embarrassment, even your core felt a bit sticky. Your hair began to frame your face and you barely registered that the braid had come loose. “Keep dancing,” came his silken command. So, you did.

His approach was harder to feel this time, the difference in temperature not quite as stark, but when his hand caressed the side of your neck you gasped at the excess heat. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

Right, more dancing.

One of his hands remained at your neck, curling around it like a collar and restricting your movements. You couldn’t move away from him without feeling choked. His other hand slid down the length of your swaying curves, from the tops of your covered breasts to the dip of your hips where the white ribbon was tied. The heat was almost sweltering and the ache in your sex began to grow. He tugged and the silk around your waist began to slip away, creating static as it fell from your flesh.

You couldn’t help but stop, your senses now fully focused on your naked lower half. Without the cloth your arousal was even more obvious, its evidence sticking to your thighs. “I don’t like to repeat myself,” he growled so close to your ear. A shiver wracked your form, and you did your best to start moving again, but his hand inching toward your center made you lose your rhythm and your movements became awkward. His hot tongue began to lick a stripe along the red silk wrapped around your collar bone. His warm fingers began to stroke the plush flesh of your mound. A fresh wave of slick began to coat your labia.

“Mm,” you pressed your lips together. You felt like you were on fire. “My lord, please,” you whispered, not entirely sure what you were asking for.

“Tsk, you know my name. Say it.”

He was giving you permission to call him by name? His fingers trailed down and began to stroke the naked flesh of your sex. The amount of wetness made the sounds of his fingers vulgar as he moved them back and forth against the sensitive skin. Your head fell back, and you gasped, his warm fingers immediately zeroing in on your clit. The heat was overwhelming, adding extra stimulation to your already pulsing bud. Your core began to clench, and your hips reflexively bucked toward his hand. “Go on,” he chided. “Say the name of your god, tell him how badly you want him to finger you.”

Your vagina pulsed at the thought. Saying his real name was taboo in the temple, but he was giving you permission. It was impossible to think, his fingers sped up their assault. Only incoherent noises left your throat as your knees began to buckle. How were you this close already? The hand that was around your neck squeezed teasingly, cutting off your air flow temporarily, before moving down to support your lower back as your legs threatened to give out. Instinctively you reached out and tried to use his arm for support before immediately pulling your hands back. They burned, like you had touched a hot stove.

“Do not try to touch him, only he can initiate contact.” The high priest’s words rang out in your mind.

“Weren’t you warned pet?” His head leaned down to your burnt hands, his fingers not ceasing, and he licked along your palms as if to soothe them. The mixture of pain and pleasure only brought you closer to the edge and you began to buck your hips in earnest. Your pleasured noises began to grow into full moans as you approached your peak.

Quickly, without warning, he removed his fingers from your clit and unceremoniously thrust two inside of your entrance. It burned, the heat and the pain of the stretch, but it brought you over the edge anyway. He hadn’t even had to move his fingers and you were already clenching down on them. Tears welled in your eyes behind the blindfold, and you called out, “Ahh, Madara!”

“How cute,” he announced, his voice a note or two deeper, the arm that was supporting you was trembling. “So eager that you came just from having my fingers inside you?”

Madara began to move his fingers, slow and deliberate, making sure to scrape them against your walls and ensuring that pain accompanied the pleasure. He moved his mouth to your neck and tugged at the red ribbon, untying it with his teeth and exposing the rest of your body to his gaze. He began to scissor your entrance and you felt the tightness in your gut return. “Such a naughty human, touching yourself to the thought of your god. Did you think I wasn’t watching? Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

You felt like you were burning, and you heard the juices of your arousal splash against your skin. His thick fingers began to thrust quickly, and he brought his palm up to rub at your sensitive clit. A whine left your throat. He continued his verbal assault. “I watched you each and every time you called out to me with lust. I saw the way your greedy pussy swallowed one, then two, even three of your own fingers. But it was never enough, was it? You needed something else, needed these fingers to fill you.” He added a third finger and you had never felt so full. A cry of his name left your lips again and that rich chuckle of his vibrated through you. “Well how is it? Now that you have the real thing, is it satisfactory? Are you still feeling greedy?”

“It’s good,” you slurred in a drawn-out moan. His fingers began to push at your walls in opposing directions and you thought you might drool. “So so good.”

“Only good? Well, I guess I’ll have to try harder then.”

All three fingers curled at once and began to press on a specific part of your walls. Your breathing stopped, your body convulsed, your toes curled, and your vagina clenched like your life depended on it. His palm pressed hard against your abused bundle of nerves, and you came yet again. But this one was different, more intense, almost painful as it washed over every part of your being. You felt dizzy before you remembered to breathe. His hand kept moving but you were at your wits end. “Too much, ah,” you wanted to grab a hold of his arm but barely registered you would get burned again if you did. Your sex throbbed painfully. “Please lord Madara,” you pleaded. “It’s too much.”

The sun god removed his fingers slowly but made sure to keep supporting you. You watched as the vague light of his being seemed to lick a trail from his own palm down his arm and he moaned deeply as he followed the trail back up to his palm. He moved his hand away from his own mouth and brought his fingers to your lips. “Suck,” he commanded.

Your tongue poked out of your mouth shyly and you wrapped it around the three fingers hesitantly. A grunt left your throat as you tasted yourself on his digits. He shoved the three of them into your mouth, not willing to give you the chance to continue to do as you pleased. Obediently, you sucked. The heat from his fingers almost felt like they would burn your mouth too. Again, you wondered what he looked like in full detail. You gently scraped your teeth against the three digits. “Good pet,” he muttered and pressed the pads of his fingers down on your tongue. “Now, lay down on that table. I’m going to take my sacrifice.”

Madara removed his fingers and let go of you entirely. You stumbled, almost fell to your knees again as your support disappeared. Thanks to the light of his being you were able to see the shadows that made up the cold marble of said sacrificial table. As much as you tried to make your crawl a top it look sexy, you fumbled a few times. It was rather high, making it difficult to crawl onto, but your inability to be graceful didn’t seem to deter him as he was atop you the moment you fully laid down.

The sun god’s scorching lips graced yours once more and this time you tried to meet his tongue stroke for stroke. His impossibly warm palms enveloped your breasts and began to mold them to his liking, almost as if he was trying to change their shape to his hands. For the first time you felt his entire body as it pressed against you. His muscles were firm as they met your squishy flesh and the hardness of his arousal rubbed against your belly in interest. It leaked with precum and the thought of that being your doing gave you butterflies. Slowly he pulled away, he seemed to sit up for a second as you heard the sounds of a glass bottle opening. His own breathing sounded labored, but it paused as he began to gulp down whatever he had opened.

When he was seemingly satisfied, he pressed his lips to yours again, and much like the first kiss, forced the liquid down your throat. Some of it dribbled down the side of your mouth, being too much to swallow all at once, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he continued to aggressively explore your mouth. What surprised you was when he began to pour out the chilled liquid onto your overheated sex. Your back arched, the contrast in temperatures a shock to your system.

He threw the glass bottle away and it broke against the flooring with a loud crash. His thick fingers began to coat themselves in the fluid and started to scoop it into you. You groaned into his mouth. Madara kept pushing it in, forcing it as deep inside of you as his fingers would allow. It felt odd, his hands and your body heat slowly warmed the liquid as he pushed it inside. The god pulled away from the kiss with a loud breath. “No more games,” he announced and pulled his fingers away.

The sound of his slick fingers against his own flesh made you shiver. You wished you could see it, him fisting himself atop you. What a gorgeous sight that would be, it was almost worth the risk of going blind. Almost. He lined himself up with your entrance, one hand holding your tied wrists above your head and the other holding him in place. His tip felt large as it twitched impatiently against your hole. Anticipation made you hold your breath.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

He thrust in and your jaw dropped. Big, he was so big. You felt overstuffed, like there were six of his large fingers shoved inside. Madara pushed forward more, your walls spasming around the intrusion. He was too big; it was too much. You felt like you were going to break, like he’d split you in half. More of his shaft entered you and he groaned, his guiding hand now reaching up to grip your hip and push you further onto him. It felt like he had knocked the wind out of you as the tip of his penis hit your cervix. Surely that was it, he couldn’t go any further. “Pretty little thing, so fucked out already and I’ve barely even started,” he chuckled, his words strained. He brought the hand that was holding your wrists down to wipe your chin of drool that you hadn’t even realized was there. “You’re so wet,” he grunted and pulled his hips back before snapping them forward quickly. You grunted, the drag of his dick the best thing you had ever felt. “Behave and I might just reward you.”

He began to thrust in earnest, the mushroom head hitting against your cervix with each thrust in, like it was trying to bury itself deeper inside of you. Your back bowed and he forced your hips to meet his. You brought your hands up and began to grip at the edge of the marble table. Your white-knuckled grip the only thing keeping you grounded. He brought his unoccupied hand down to your left breast and began to thumb the nipple in time with his thrusts. The shlick shlick shlick sound of each drag against your insides made your toes curl once again. You felt the heavy weight of his balls hit against your perineum and the slick that was pushed out with every thrust leaked down onto the stone beneath.

The sun god was more vocal than you had expected, grunting with effort, and groaning when you clenched particularly hard around him. You licked your lips, your mouth felt dry from hanging open for so long. Your guts began to twist in knots again and you knew you would cum soon. In a rush of bravery, you brought your legs up and attempted to wrap them around his waist. Immediately, your flesh began to burn, and you set them back down. “What did I tell you?” He sounded strained and he moved his second hand to your other hip. “Behave.”

“I can’t-“ you cut yourself off with a moan, his shaft scraping just right against your g-spot and causing your climax to begin again. He hissed and you felt his hair tickle your stomach as he leaned forward and his grip on your hips tightened. You hoped he’d leave bruises.

“Fuck,” he sounded depraved, and you bit your bottom lip hard. His hips continued to push into you. “Your walls are trying so hard to milk me, is that what you want? Hm? You want me to breed you?”

“Uhn,” you couldn’t help but nod vigorously. Your mind so warped with pleasure that you’d do anything he asked. “Oh, Madara,” you groaned and bucked your hips against his grip.

“You want to carry my bastard,” his voice thick with arousal. His large hands pulled you further down on the table and he put both of your legs up around his shoulders. “Everyone will know it’s mine. They’ll all see your rounded belly and know that it’s the seed of their god growing inside of you.”

The new angle was intense, he bore heavily down onto your cervix with every thrust. He pushed your legs forward, putting them up by your shoulders, almost folding you in half, and pushed into your womb. You screamed. It was too much, an intense mix of pain and pleasure that had your nerves confused. “Feel me reach the deepest parts of you,” he grunted. Madara grabbed your tied wrists and brought your hand down to your folded stomach. He made your hands press against your lower belly where you felt the outline of him inside of you. The extra pressure added more feeling and you whined. “I’m going to fill that pretty little womb of yours.”

His thrusts quickened, becoming bruising and focused. You kept your hand where he placed it and felt his bulge as it moved in and out of you. Your head moved back and through your lust filled haze you noticed that the edges of the blindfold had loosened. If you moved a bit more maybe it would come off? Madara moved one of his hands inward and began to stroke at your clit quickly. His pace becoming uneven as his breathing sped up. “You were fucking made for this,” he groaned out. “Made to take me, to be folded in half and fucked stupid.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cried out and moved your head to the side. The silk slipped off of your eyes and you kept them closed as you tried to ignore the need to look at him. He felt so good, so brutal. Your clit throbbed and your core clenched for the fourth time. This was it, the most intense orgasm you’d have possibly ever. You wanted to look at him, to gaze upon his glorious face as you came undone. “Madara, please,” you began, your voice keening at the end. “Look at me.”

You opened your eyes just in time to see him look into yours. He was gorgeous, his dark hair wild and strung about him in a halo of black, his naked flesh flushed pink with exertion, his eyes so dark they looked like they would swallow you whole. His muscles rippled as he fucked you open, the lines under his eyes crinkling as his lips tightened in a smirk. Madara whispered your name and gave one more strong thrust before you squeezed your eyes tight in ecstasy. “Such a bad girl,” he taunted.

This orgasm was unlike any other before, your entire being felt tingly and a different kind of pressure built in your sex. When that pressure released a large burst of clear liquid gushed from you and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. Your legs shook, your walls trembled, and you barely heard Madara’s own grunt of release as he poured his molten semen into your womb. Your everything trembled and you felt like you might melt into the table below you. Your vision went from white to black and you felt your consciousness begin to fade.

“You may rest for now,” his voice sounded so distant in your mind. “We’ll resume shortly.”

When you woke next, you felt so disoriented. Your eyes were open, but everything was hazy, you felt like you were sitting on something hard but comfortable and you lifted your head to try and see where you were. “It took you long enough, pet,” came Madara’s silky voice from behind you. His chest pressed to your back and his arms pressed you further against him. “We still have three more nights of fun to get to.”

A/N: Again, this amazing art contribution was made by the one and only @skydaddy01 please go check them out and send them a huge thank you from me! Madara looks incredible, doesn't he? Uhg I can't stop looking at this art.

Part Two

Hashirama||Tobirama

Season 2

[rwrbficrecs]

Readers' Choice Rec List Part 1 of 7

To celebrate 500 followers we thought we'd do a special rec list featuring recs submitted by all of you, the readers ❤️ Though at the time of posting this, we're at 800+ followers 🥺 From the volunteers and I, thank you for supporting this blog. We hope it's been a helpful resource! Hope you enjoy these recs, with a little comment from the reader. Thank you to everyone who submitted a fic rec 🥰 I'll be posting a list everyday till all 7 parts are posted Go and leave these authors some love ❤️ Happy Reading! Theme: A fic that you’d like to celebrate and give some love to ❤️ the poem you make of me by @omgcmere

@celaestis1: Just as they speculate under the linden tree, Henry is a writer; Alex a model. The story is just so beautiful, sweet and smutty and funny.

Omakase by @orchidscript

@historicallysam: Orchid made me fall in love with a brash American who wants respect and a stoic Brit who wants to be himself. I could read this story every single day.

We'll Invite Something In by @smc-27

@historicallysam: President ACD & HRH Prince Henry, grown up and willing to work for what they want. It's one of my top two favorite stories in this fandom.

Spoke Love to Soul by @celaestis1

@emmalostinwonderland: The story is gripping, the characters are compelling, and the myth they chose is really under-appreciated. I rode the entire rollercoaster of emotions with this one, and I would gladly do it again.

cover to cover by Anonymous

anon: The characters' voices are amazing and the narration is just super sweet! A feel-good fic for anyone craving a good intimate time.

On Thin Ice by @pirates-against-heterosexuality (WIP)

anon: A really sweet, in progress, NHL AU. It's in progress but It's really enjoyable so far, especially as it draws a lot of similarities to book moments, without being a copy.

Heartaches and Cupcakes and Sunshine Boys by @everwitch-magiks

anon: This was the first RWRB fic I read, and it's still my favorite! Henry as a writer (and her skill writing as Henry) and the emotional depth of this fic are things I need in every fic!

love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves by @kapplebougher

anon: I am simply OBSESSED with this oneshot, I scream about it to anybody that will listen. I come back and read it every time I read the climax of Alex and Henry's argument in London. It is Henry POV and the first time I read it I truly wondered if it was CMQ writing Henry fic on AO3. Not only does it build on the signet ring and give background on what it means to Henry and parallels it with his parents, but it also weaves fire/water symbolism for Alex/Henry. The thing that gets me is the quote at the end though. It's just like the queer historical quotes from the emails in the books and it makes the ending SO PERFECT it just makes me go feral. I wish I could give it all the kudos!

Picture On Your Corkboard by bleedingballroomfloor

anon: absolutely beautiful and a roller coaster of emotions. 100% recommended.

religion's in your lips (even if it's a false god) by @coffeecatsme

anon: NSFW but also incredibly good and i need everyone to appreciate billie's writing!!!

Someday We Will Be Home by witchseeker1133

anon: this fic is incredibly special to me bc it was one of the first ones i read. it is very angsty but i think its worth a read.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

yay!! the gift has been gifted, so here's the little ficlet i wrote for @thefreakandthehair's wedding gift zine!!! congratulations Lex!!!!!

pairing: steddie | word count: 1,313 | rated: G | on AO3: it started with the oven

It started with the oven.

Well, with him complaining about the oven, to be specific. The house those government folks put them up in after everything happened last year was new to them o’course, but nowhere near brand-spankin’. Still had some issues to work out.

“Sorry boys, roast might be a bit crispy on one side. Damn oven is acting up again.” 

Wayne didn’t notice it that first time, but Steve immediately perked up, the look completely throwing off his attempted casualness about what he said next.

“I can help you fix it if you like.”

Without even looking at his nephew, Wayne knows they’re both giving Steve twin looks of confusion.

“You know how to fix an oven? How in the hell do you know how to fix an oven?” Eddie asks, half incredulous, half actually curious.

“I uh…had to figure it out once when ours went out…”

Wayne could hear the rest of that statement clear as day, though Steve stayed quiet after that. “It was either that, or go hungry.” Those goddamn Harringtons…

“Sure thing son, let's let it cool down and we can take a look at it.”

By time dinner is over, Eddie’s disappeared, back to his room to do god knows what while he and Steve pull the oven away from the wall.

The longer they work, the quieter Steve becomes. Knowing what he knows now, it was the nerves about what he wanted to ask, but to the Wayne in the moment, it was just nice to get some help around the house without also hearing loud complaining.

Steve tells Wayne what he’d done before to fix his, and Wayne gives him a couple other tips with other potential problems, and soon, the oven is once again able to heat evenly.

“Looks good, kid,” Wayne says, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder once they’ve got the thing pushed back where it goes.

He turns to put away his tool box, leaving the young man to do whatever it is he normally does with his nephew (gross), when Steve’s voice stops him.

“Wayne?”

“Hm?” 

Steve falls quiet again, so Wayne turns, taking in Steve’s uncharacteristically anxious demeanor and now pale complexion.

“I–” Steve looks him in the eye, but only briefly. His gaze drops to the dirt on his hands, which he brushes off. “Nothing, just–thanks.” he finishes with a small smile, heading down the hall immediately after.

Wayne shrugs, going back to his toolbox. Odd. But whatever; glad to be of help with…whatever it was he helped with.

—

The next time, it was the front porch.

Luckily not ‘cause of anyone fallin’ through or anything, just about high time he got those front few planks replaced before someone does.

He says as much to his boys at dinner a few weeks after he and Steve fixed the oven, and Eddie volunteers himself for moral support.

“You just wanna see me shirtless and sweaty.” Steve accuses.

“Correct. Moral Support.” Ed sweeps his hand out and leans back in his chair.

“Do I hafta be shirtless too?”

Both boys loudly protest in answer, fake gags and all.

He and Steve get to work tearing out the old rotted boards a couple days later, and as expected, Eddie makes himself scarce within an hour. Something about “You guys workin’ this hard is making me thirsty. I’m gonna go grab milkshakes.”

“Moral Support my ass...” Wayne mumbles, shaking his head fondly.

Again, not long after Eddie’s gone, Steve’s easy conversation peters off; and again, Wayne just assumes he’s not quite used to being around him alone, or that he just prefers comfortable silence over chatter (something Wayne himself can appreciate).

He does come back in, however, after a long lull. “Wayne, I wanted to ask…”

Wayne doesn’t find out what Steve wanted though, as Eddie’s van rattles up the road at that moment, the promise of a cool treat too good to pass up for chattin’ with his boyfriend’s Uncle.

Though, as he watches Steve help Eddie out of the van, grabbing the milkshakes (and a quick kiss) from his boy, Wayne thinks he already knows what it is Steve was gonna ask.

And what his answer would be.

—

The third and final time was definitely the time.

This time, there was no pretense. Wayne and Steve weren’t already working on something together, no current excuse to talk without Eddie nearby. It was a Thursday evening and Wayne was alone at home about to head in for a shift.

Opening the door to a knock was weird though. Steve basically lived here, so opening the door to his wide-eyed, pale face was a shock.

“Steve? What’re knocking for, boy?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just–I’m–”

“You ‘right, son? C’mon inside now..” Wayne coaxes the kid inside, and Steve takes his shoes off automatically, lining them up along the messy pile of Eddie’s shoes just inside the door.

“Eddie’s at the Emersons’ y’know.” Wayne says, plopping back into his previously abandoned armchair.

“Y-yeah, I know, I just dropped him and Henderson off there for their game.”

They both fall quiet then. 

Steve rubs the back of his neck nervously, and Wayne waits patiently.

…Okay, maybe not that patiently.

“Now look, Steve, not that I don’t appreciate spendin’ time wit’cha, ‘cause I do, but it seems t’me you came here for a reason.”

Steve’s gaze snaps up, mouth agape. “How’d you–nevermind.” he clears his throat and continues.

“Mr. Munson–”

“Nope, none’a that, not even for this. M’name’s Wayne, son.” He enjoys throwing Steve off sometimes, alright? Sue him.

All the breath in Steve’s lungs seems to escape at once and he smiles slightly, visibly relaxing just a tad. 

Good.

“Wayne, Eddie and I have been dating for over a year now…obviously…you know that..”

“Is that what you two’ve been doin’? I thought you two were just the best of buds.”

This time, Steve actually laughs. “Shut up, I’m nervous, okay?”

“I know y’are, kiddo.”

He takes another settling breath, much calmer now, and continues. “I love him, Wayne. More than anything in my life.

“I know it’s not for real, I know, but I want him, and you, to know that I mean this to be forever. That if I could, I would marry him tomorrow.” Steve chuckles to himself at that, “Probably would’ve months ago, to be honest.

“All this to say—to ask! Ask…” he shuffles nervously again.

‘You got this, Steve, you’re almost there.’ Wayne thinks encouragingly at him.

As if he could hear him, Steve steels himself, looks Wayne in the eye, and (finally) says:

“Wayne, I would like your blessing to propose to Eddie.” He takes another short breath and presses on. “And I don’t want to hear anything about “Why’re you askin’ me, he’s not my kid.” or some crap, either. You’re the most important person in his life, and always will be. It may not be important to you, but it is to me… That you approve, I mean.”

Okay, he knew it was coming. But the added impassioned (and unnecessary) speech that came with it was a surprise. As if Steve was willing to fight Wayne for thinking Wayne wasn’t important to Eddie. 

He stands, hefting himself out of the sunken springs of his chair, and immediately pulls Steve in for a hug.

“Good speech, son.” he says, squeezing the kid tightly for a moment before adding on, “Though I don’t think there was a single question mark in that whole rant o’yours.”

Steve laughs into his shoulder, beaming his wide bright smile when they separate.

“Do I have your blessing or not, old man?” he snarks, pulling a bellowing laugh out of Wayne.

“That’s more like it!” He claps a hand onto Steve’s shoulder. “And of course y’have it, Steve…

“I’d be proud to call you a Munson.”

you can read this one and the whole rest of the collection here!

[forest-hashira]

Noble Blood - Chapter Four

hello again friends! sorry the wait between chapters was so much longer than the last two. life has been..... messy, to put it lightly. but the chapter is finished now and i'm posting it before i overthink it too much. i hope you enjoy!

fic masterlist here | read on ao3 here | wc: 2.4k | cw: gender neutral reader, gojo being a drama queen, a little bit of yaga slander (by gojo), that's pretty much it.

Not much changed after the new year’s festival. Satoru went back to his training sessions with Yaga while you and the rest of your friends attended school and filled your free time however you saw fit. 

Winter quickly turned to spring, and before you knew it, the sakura trees were in full bloom, the soft pink-white petals dancing on the breeze and covering the streets, the delicate perfume from the blossoms filling the air and making everything seem brighter.

All of those things also reminded you of the sakura tree that grew outside of Satoru’s bedroom, and it made you miss him even more than you already did. But springtime had a habit of bringing hope and with it, and you allowed yourself to imagine things would get better soon, and you would be able to spend your days with Satoru as you used to. 

It felt almost too good to be true when you stepped out of your house one morning to see Satoru and Shoko waiting for you outside.

“Thank god you’re here,” Shoko said. “He’s been driving me nuts while we were waiting. Says he has big news, or something, but that’s all I can get out of him.”

“Because we don’t have everybody here yet!” Satoru said, sticking his tongue out at Shoko before turning back to you and smiling brightly. “C’mon, we have a couple more stops to make.”

Unwilling to question how or why your friend was able to come down from the estate and spend time with all of you again, you nodded, following eagerly after him as he headed off down the road, presumably to pick up Utahime, then to see the Nanami siblings. 

“Do you have any idea what he’s on about?” Shoko asked, leaning in a bit closer to you as the two of you followed the boy. 

The only thing you could think of was that Satoru had finally decided to tell the rest of your friends that he had Kenji, regardless of what his parents wanted; he’d bonded with Kenji nearly three months before, and you were the only person outside the Gojo clan – besides Yaga – that knew Satoru had his dragon.

“None at all,” you told her, offering an apologetic smile. 

She sighed, rolled her eyes. “I bet it’s not even anything important, he’s just tired of being cooped up at home and he wants us all to pay attention to him again.”

You said nothing in response, knowing that she was going to be absolutely floored when she found out about Kenji, though stifling your laughter over her words was hard.

“Are you guys talking about me back there?” Satoru asked, glancing over his shoulder at you and grinning. “I am the most interesting person you know, after all.”

“We’re talking about how annoying you are,” Shoko said, and her words were made even funnier by her completely deadpan delivery. Satoru scowled at her, sticking his tongue out for the second time that morning, and this time Shoko returned the gesture. All you could do was laugh at them.

It wasn’t long before the three of you reached Utahime’s house, and Shoko volunteered to be the one to knock on the door; Utahime and Satoru were friends, yes, but if she only saw him and didn’t know that anyone else was with him yet, the odds that she would shut the door in his face were high.

Utahime looked past Shoko with narrowed eyes at Satoru, though her expression relaxed when she saw you standing there with him, and after a moment she stepped outside to join the rest of you.

“What’s the ‘big news’ you have?” she asked your white haired friend suspiciously. 

“I can’t tell you yet!” he declared with a grin. “We have to go get Nanamin first.” It was still exceedingly funny to you that Satoru still insisted on calling Kento by a diminutive of his last name, rather than by his first name like the rest of you did. Kento didn’t find it all that amusing, but he never complained about it, either.

And so, off the four of you went, Satoru leading the way while the rest of you followed after him. As you all filed into the bakery, you were greeted warmly by Kento’s father, Ginger perched on his shoulder for the time being.

“Hello, Nanami-san!” Satoru chirped, offering the older man a slight bow in greeting. 

“Is Kento here?” Utahime asked curiously. 

His father nodded. “Yes, I believe he’s upstairs. Kokoro is resting right now though, I’m afraid. She had a bit of a fever last night and didn’t sleep very well.”

You and Utahime frowned at that and offered your condolences, while Shoko gave a slight nod; her parents, as the healers of the settlement, always seemed to get busier when the seasons changed.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” your friend’s father said, before turning and stepping out of the bakery and up to his home on the second floor.

As the four of you waited for him, your gaze drifted to the cookies on the display trays; now that spring was well underway, some of the seasonal flavors had come back, and you were happy to see them. There were the plain shortbread cookies, as always, but there were others now, too: petal-pink cookies cut carefully in the shapes of the flowers that flavored them filled one tray, while another tray was lined with circle-shaped cookies you knew to be flavored with the same green tea your mother drank in the mornings. You must have been staring harder than you realized, because next thing you knew, Satoru was poking your cheek to get your attention.

“Hungry?” he asked, somewhat teasingly.

You rolled your eyes at his question. “They’re pretty,” you said after a moment. “I like seeing them every year.”

Satoru said nothing, just gave a small hum in response, but he looked up at Kento’s father with a smile once the man returned to the counter, his son trailing behind him. “Nanami-san, I’d like to buy some cookies before we all head out.”

You blinked at him in surprise, not having expected him to indulge you in such a way. He requested five of the sakura cookies and five of the matcha cookies – one of each flavor for each member of your group – and after tilting his head slightly towards his shoulder, as if he were listening to something, he also asked for one regular shortbread cookie.

Once the treats were paid for and wrapped up, Satoru accepted them and led everyone back outside, insisting he had something important to tell everyone.

“I bet it’s not even actually important,” Kento grumbled, though he did easily accept his share of the cookies as they were passed to him. He took a bite out of the matcha one, chewing it carefully and swallowing it before adding, “He just wants to feel important.”

If only you knew, you thought, but you said nothing; you doubted your white haired friend would forgive you anytime soon if you stole his thunder.

The group stopped once everyone reached the large, gnarled maple tree that stood about halfway between the bakery and the schoolhouse. Without any words being exchanged, Satoru sat with his back to the trunk, the rest of you sitting in a half circle in front of him.

“Will you please drop the theatrics now and just tell us already?” Utahime asked, somehow still scowling as she chewed on her cookie. 

Letting out a sigh that was very decidedly theatric, the boy relented. “Fine, fine, I suppose I’ve kept you all in suspense long enough.” He cleared his throat, sat up a bit straighter and, with a grin, announced, “I have a dragon.”

Before anyone even had time to call his bluff, Satoru pulled the plain shortbread cookie from the paper packaging, held it up closer to his shoulder, and said, “You can come out now, Kenji.”

Kenji, who apparently had a flare for the dramatic as much as Satoru did, poked his head out of the collar of the boy’s light jacket, then made a beeline for the cookie, climbing onto Satoru’s shoulder and taking the cookie into his mouth once it was within reach. 

“You’re welcome,” your friend pointedly told his dragon, when he got no sort of thanks for the treat. Kenji made a suspiciously mocking sound in response, though he never tore his attention away from the cookie he was nibbling on.

Throughout the whole exchange, your friends stared at Satoru and Kenji, eyes wide and jaws slack, as if unable to believe what they were seeing. Knowing you had probably looked very similar when you first saw Kenji, you had to stifle a giggle.

Shoko, who was sitting closest to you, noticed your muffled laughter, and she turned towards you, still wide-eyed. “You knew?” she asked incredulously. “You knew he had his dragon and you didn’t tell us?”

“He would’ve thrown a huge fit if I told you before he did!” you defended.

“My parents wanted Kenji kept a secret at first,” Satoru added, coming to your defense as well.

“But they still knew before the rest of us did!” Utahime cut in. “How is that fair?”

You didn’t have an answer for that, so you turned to Satoru, hoping your white haired menace of a friend had an answer that would satisfy everyone.

“Because they’re Satoru’s best friend,” Shoko said, before the boy could answer for himself. It was clear in the way she emphasized “best friend” that she meant something else, and though you weren’t sure what, you found your feelings were a bit hurt by…whatever the implication was; the confusion and hurt you felt doubled as you watched Shoko, Kento, and Utahime all exchange a knowing glance. You turned to Satoru then, assuming he would be just as confused as you were, but he’d got a bit red in the face, and was very pointedly not looking at you, instead focusing on Kenji as the dragon practically mauled the cookie he’d been given.

“What’s important is that I’m telling you guys now,” Satoru insisted, still failing to meet your eyes, though his gaze did flash in your direction for a brief moment. “Besides,” he added, “he’s not even that exciting yet. All he does is steal my food and pretend he doesn’t understand what I’m saying to him during training.”

Apparently taking great offense at the snowy haired boy’s words, Kenji turned to face Satoru, making a series of displeased noises that were clearly some sort of complaint. 

“You know it’s true— ow!”

At first you were shocked as you watched Kenji bite Satoru on the hand, but you relaxed when you realized he hadn’t actually broken the skin, and you laughed at how smug the little dragon looked, clinging to your friend’s arm and holding the cookie in his mouth as Satoru attempted to shake him off in retaliation for the bite. 

“How is training going?” Shoko asked curiously, tilting her head slightly and slowly chewing a bite of her own cookie as she waited for an answer. “I’ve seen your teacher in town some, he seems prickly.”

“Yaga-sensei is sooooo boring,” Satoru sighed dramatically, apparently deciding to forgive Kenji for biting him, at least for the time being. “He makes me do the same exercises every day.”

“Do you and Kenji have those exercises learned yet?” asked Kento.

“No.”

“Then that’s why you keep having to do them.”

“But it’s so boring!”

“What’s his dragon like?” you cut in, realizing then that the one time you’d met Yaga, he had not had a dragon with him.

“You mean Panda?” Satoru asked, his brows furrowed slightly as if he were deep in thought.

“He doesn’t have a dragon?”

“Where did he even get a panda, anyways?” Utahime added, her features pinched together in confusion.

“No, he does have a dragon. The dragon’s name is Panda,” Satoru explained with a small smile on his face. “But I agree, it’s a stupid name for a dragon.”

“I’m assuming Panda is black and white?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation away from possibly dissolving into pointless bickering.

“Obviously,” Satoru replied, rolling his eyes. When he caught the way you were scowling at him, though, he straightened up a bit. “Yeah, Panda’s black and white. He does actually look a lot like a panda, it’s weird.”

“Can he fly?” This time Kento was the one to ask.

“I don’t think so? He doesn’t have any wings, at least, and I’ve never seen him fly.”

As the rest of your friends tossed questions at Satoru about his training, about Yaga, about Panda, just trying to get a feel for how much of his life had changed in the last couple of months, you were more than happy just to listen, but you looked down when you felt something on your leg.

Unnoticed by everyone else – including Satoru – Kenji had made his way across the space between where he and his rider sat, all the way over to you, who he had apparently deemed a better companion for the time being.

You watched with a smile as the dragon steadily made his way up your leg, and you offered him your hand to give him a more direct path to your shoulder. That seemed to be all the invitation he needed, and he quickly scampered up your arm, settling on your shoulder as he finished the last piece of the cookie he’d been given earlier. 

After the dragon settled down in his new spot, you made an effort to move as little as possible, not wanting to jostle or upset him at all. You still weren’t sure why Kenji had taken a liking to you specifically and nobody else – besides Satoru, of course – but you tried not to question it too much; he didn’t seem to want anything from you, nor did it seem like he wanted to cause you problems, so you were content to let him seek you out whenever he saw fit. You may not have met your own dragon yet, but having caught the attention of your friend’s solid color dragon made you feel special.

Deep down you also hoped maybe it was a sign that you would meet your own dragon soon, and that maybe you’d be lucky enough to bond with a rare, special dragon, like Kenji.

for those of you who made it this far, first of all i want to say thank you for sticking around for the chapter updates! second, i want to let everyone know i'm going to be taking a break from this fic for a bit. i'm not sure how long, so i'm not going to give a time frame, but i literally frustrated myself to tears at least half a dozen times while writing this chapter, so i need to take a step back for a bit, before i frustrate myself to the point of fully giving up on this fic. i love this au, i want to keep writing this fic, but right now i need a break. i hope you'll all still be around when i'm ready to come back to it 💜

taglist: @ghost-1-y @kentohours @whatthefucksatan @why-the-fuck-am-i-so-tired @mitsuristoleme @lu-dao-writes @peachdues @lik0 @deepestartisanhumanoidshark @here-for-the-tea-baby @staryukis @roselleviennesstuff if your url is crossed out, it's because tumblr wouldn't let me tag you. i apologize!

[strawberriesaresour]

AO3 IS BACK UP

[king-nyx]

ao3 being down is testing my patience honestly. But, a huge fucking thank you to the volunteers who work for ao3. God bless them all, they're saving all our asses

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 ao3

Steve gets quiet.

They’re not talking about it, but Eddie can read more than enough into the silence, into the way Steve gets a fixed look in his eyes, keeps going to some place that he cannot follow. His jaw clenches a few times, as if he’s trying to hide how his breath starts to catch every so often; it’s such a subtle movement, but Eddie notices.

He can’t afford to not notice.

It feels too familiar. Feels like a clock ticking.

He slips away when a nurse brings up some dinner—tries to justify his exit as Steve is seemingly distracted, shooting the shit with her. The excuse is weak even in his own head; it doesn’t stop a nasty inner voice from whispering venomously, That’s right, run away. You’re a coward.

But his skin is crawling, and he can’t—He needs—

He presses the phone firmly against the side of his face, so that it feels as if each dial tone reverberates through him. He’s lucky, in the end, that Wayne picks up, caught in a lull between volunteering and his night shifts starting again. Eddie tries to crack a joke about how it didn’t take long for mundane routine to return, but his heart isn’t in it.

And of course Wayne can hear that. “Eddie,” he says, “what’s wrong?”

Eddie swallows. “I—I can’t stop thinking that—that something’s going to happen.” And the phrasing sounds childish out loud, but he can’t think of another way to put it. Can’t stop feeling that a part of him has never left the RV, still on the precipice of knowing…

“Saw that Nancy Wheeler at the trailer park,” Wayne says mildly.

Momentarily thrown, Eddie frowns. “Oh?”

“Mm-hmm. There was a big group of folks cleaning up there—I thought I’d shown up early for it, but she looked like she’d been there for hours.” Before Eddie can even ask how she was, Wayne goes on: “She smiled at me, but she was really quiet. Got her a coffee just so she could hold onto it, you know?”

Eddie smiles. “That’s… thanks, Wayne.”

“I think she was waiting for something to happen, too,” Wayne says, gentle.

Eddie breathes in and out.

“That kinda feeling doesn’t just leave you overnight, Ed. Even if there’s nothing left to—”

“But what if—” Eddie has to cut himself off, frightened suddenly that he will speak it into existence.

“Talk to him, Eddie,” Wayne says.

Eddie stands there holding the phone long after he’s hung up.

-

He moves the couch so it sits flush against the side of the hospital bed. Steve watches him absently; his eyes keep drifting over to Eddie’s guitar.

But Eddie doesn’t pick it up. He sits down on the couch, faces Steve. Tries to be brave.

Steve isn’t looking at him now; he’s staring at some fixed point in the distance. The sight makes Eddie’s stomach clench.

“You have to tell me,” he gets out.

Steve blinks, turns to him. His eyebrows furrow slightly. “…What?”

“If it’s—if it’s not over,” Eddie says. “If you’re… if you’re seeing… fuck.” He shakes his head, his attempt at seeming even remotely calm shattering all at once. “Look, I-I’m sorry, I just—I can’t do it again.”

Steve stares at him.

“Please don’t make me do it again,” Eddie pleads. His voice breaks at the end.

Silence.

“Oh,” Steve whispers. Then, louder: “Oh, shit. No, Eddie, that’s—God, I’m sorry. That’s not it.”

Air leaves Eddie’s lungs in a dizzying rush of relief. “N-no?”

“No. I don’t—he’s gone, I don’t feel… there’s nothing there. Nothing.”

“Okay, that’s… okay.” Eddie nods repeatedly, reaches for the guitar—it doesn’t need tuned but the pattern of it helps to hide the residual shake to his hands. He feels a bit foolish now, but he’s fine with that, honestly. Better that than…

“I’m… I’m really sorry, Eddie,” Steve insists. “You weren’t supposed to see, like, any of it.”

Any relief Eddie might have felt evaporates. He feels suddenly very cold.

“What,” he says flatly. Has to set the guitar aside again. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The worst thing is that Steve just looks confused, like what he’s said is meant to have been reassuring.

“What do you…? It’s not a riddle, dude, I just meant it wasn’t for you to—I should’ve—”

“Oh my god,” Eddie breathes. “Oh my god.” He feels like he’s just been pushed off a cliff, like he’s in free fall.

He can’t avoid the thought, now: that, if he had fallen asleep in the RV, if Steve was alone when…

Eddie makes an involuntary, despairing noise—not quite a whimper, but close enough to it that Steve’s expression softens despite his lingering frown.

“Eddie,” he says, far too kindly. “I don’t… I’m kinda lost here. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me,” Eddie manages.

“Tell you what?”

Eddie gives a shaky sigh. “Just—tell me you wouldn’t have—if I hadn’t heard you… Please. Please tell me you wouldn’t have—you wouldn’t have just gone off fucking quietly.”

Steve glances away.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says.

Because he can see it now, can imagine blearily waking in the RV along with everyone else; can see the driver’s seat lying empty.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Steve says, and his voice sounds strange—choked with something Eddie can’t truly place.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s some…” Steve exhales, and he sounds almost angry. “I don’t know! Like it’s some big thing.”

Eddie laughs in disbelief. “A thing.”

“Yeah! Like it’s something—fucking noble or—”

“Then what is it?” Eddie counters, heart pounding.

“I—”

“’Cause from where I’m standing, Harrington, it seems like—”

“Look, would you just—”

“—you’re the only one who can play the hero card, is that it?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he laughs harshly. “You know what? Yeah, that’s exactly what I—Stop looking like that, you’ve got no fucking right to judge what I—”

“I’m not judging, I’m—”

“Just shut up!” Steve says, eyes wild; and Eddie has the sinking feeling that he’s somehow missed several steps in this conversation. “I don’t care what you think, ’cause even if I’d—no matter what, I’d choose it. I’d choose it fucking gladly.”

“How can you say that?” Eddie says, hushed. “How can you even—”

“Because it had to be me!”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Eddie laughs again, but it barely counts as one; the sound equal parts tired and devastated. “You realise that’s not a fucking answer, right?”

Steve’s hands are clutching the sheets with a vice-like grip. “Because,” Steve says, suddenly very, very quiet, “it couldn’t be anyone else. I… I couldn’t handle it, okay? I’m not… I’d never forgive…”

“Steve—”

“And he knew that,” Steve says. He sounds close to tears. “He knew.”

A long, long moment.

Eddie sighs. “Jesus. I’m—okay, okay. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Can you just…?” Steve’s jaw clenches again. “Please just play.”

Eddie hesitates. Thinks of when he played the song this morning, Steve’s thousand-yard stare. “Not if it’s hurting you.”

“It helps,” Steve says, and Eddie can’t help thinking that it’s not quite a denial. “Helps me… remember.”

Eddie plays the song, but he doesn’t sing. Instead he searches and searches for something to say. He thinks of Chrissy. Fred. Patrick. How perhaps no-one had ever… noticed. Had never asked them.

But, faced with Steve, he doesn’t know where to start—instinctively feels like a question that’s too open-ended will seem too daunting to even begin to answer. So, he tries to keep it small. One step.

“How long did what?”

Steve blinks back into awareness. “Hmm?”

“This morning,” Eddie says. He slows his tempo until the song sounds almost like a lullaby. “You were gonna ask something, and you stopped yourself. How long…?”

“Oh.” Steve sighs. “Yeah.”

Eddie waits patiently, plays right through another verse until…

“How long did it take?”

Eddie hears the question, but he doesn’t understand. He continues to strum, replies, “How long did what take?”

“In your trailer,” Steve says, “for me to…?” And he must see something in Eddie’s face, because he’s quickly saying, “You don’t need to—Christ, I’m sorry.”

“No, I just—” Eddie drops the guitar, swallows through the sudden light-headedness, the nausea. “Just gimme a second.”

He must not be doing a very good job at collecting himself, because Steve looks stricken. “Eddie, you don’t have to—”

“Just gimme a second,” Eddie repeats, because if Steve withdraws now, he’ll never forgive himself. He covers his mouth with his hand for a moment, then says, “It was really fucking quick, man. Like…” He clicks his fingers, and it seems as if the sound echoes in the silence between them.

“Oh,” Steve says again. He pushes a palm briefly against his forehead, as if he’s the one to now feel light-headed. “That’s… Jesus, that’s really trippy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Felt like I was… Um. Felt like it went on for a… A lot longer.”

Eddie reaches out, slowly, slowly, to where one of Steve’s hands is gripping onto the sheets. He places his own hand on top, squeezes once. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You were…” Steve relaxes his hold, then pushes the back of his hand up against Eddie’s palm, like he’s leaning into the touch. “I remember, you were making me laugh. And then…”

The sight of the white film across Steve’s eyes flashes through Eddie’s mind, as harsh as lightning. He doesn’t allow himself to flinch. Keeps holding Steve’s hand.

And he gets it, suddenly. Because whatever is in Steve’s head is killing him, hurting him deeper than any physical wound ever could.

“Steve,” he says softly. Begging. “Please.”

Tell me.

Eventually, Steve nods. He smiles, of course he does, even through his fear. Takes a deep breath, then lets it out slow. “Okay.”

[witch-and-her-witcher]

Silver Lining

azris | T | undercover, canonverse, no magic, one bed | 3.4k

A very happy @acotargiftexchange to @bubybubsters! Although we aren't your original secret santas, @octobers-veryown has created this dashing moodboard to accompany the gift fic below I have written. We hope these tick a few of your likes from your list: secretly good/High Lord Eris, a hint of Feysand and Elucien, and of course - The One Bed Trope.

Many thanks to the darlings @queercontrarian and @popjunkie42-blog for the quick and efficient beta reads!! <3

ao3

~*~

“So we’ve reached our decision?”

“All in favor say ‘aye’.”

The chorus of resounding confirmations come from around the table. Each one is like another hot coal added to fuel Azriel’s ire where he stands back, leaning against one of the House of Winds’ red walls.

Elain and Lucien, acting as the representatives of Day Court, are the last vote. Elain’s eyes flicker to Azriel, apologetic, before she nods towards Lucien.

“Aye,” Lucien enunciates, threading his fingers through his mate’s above the tabletop. There was a time it would have eaten Azriel alive to see such a display, but now he only cares about the fate all those gathered today have sealed for him.

Feyre clears her throat where she and Rhys stand tall at the head of the table of the gathered High Lords, High Ladies, and their representatives. “Then it’s decided. High Lord Eris will travel to his contact in the south of the mortal realms under cover … aided by the Night Court’s Shadowsinger. Both of you hold the fate of Prythian in the success of your mission, travel swiftly and with the grace of Mother on your side. We’ll prepare whatever you may need for your journey.”

Shadows writhe around him as Azriel fights to control the swell of conflicting emotions. Of all the fae to be forced to safeguard —

“Give us time to discuss details and we can present an itemized list to the Council?”

The Autumn lilt in Eris’s speech grates Az’s nerves for no reason other than the male’s tongue has no right to sound so pleasant. 

“The Council grants two hours. Speed and secrecy are our only allies in this mission.”

“Understood.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

A muscle twitches in Azriel’s jaw. “What other choice was presented to me?”

Eris’s muscles bound together under the collar of his finely embroidered tunic as he shifts through paperwork, dips his quill in ink, and begins jotting down a list. He doesn’t look up as he answers, “I can find another spy’s service. You were readily available, that’s why your High Lady volunteered you. But considering …”

Azriel waits impatiently for Eris to collect or finish his thought — or to stop pausing for dramatic effect, whatever it is he’s trying to accomplish with this oddly cordial conversation.

Russet eyes flicker up to him. “Considering our history, I would understand if you wish to decline. The nature of this mission requires a complete trust in each other and if you still harbor ill will towards me because of a centuries old feud, I must insist you back out. I’m the High Lord now, my people require I return. They require this mission is a success.”

Reasonable.

So gods-damned reasonable.

Where is the arrogant prick he’d lunged across a table over a century ago to choke?

Azriel’s wings ruffle with annoyance. He’d heard Eris has changed with the relief of Beron’s death, has grown into himself as High Lord and no longer has the time to spend stirring up trouble for the sake of it.

He’s heard he’s a changed male. Living up to the words another had said to him about “being a good male under it all.”

But he hadn’t believed it.

Until now.

The shadows whisper of the sincerity the High Lord speaks with. They also whisper that no spy readily available in the Prythian network will be as good, as reliable, as seasoned, as Azriel.

Certain death, they whisper, unless it’s you, Master.

Something twists in his gut as he watches the proud male, his sharp jaw and freckle smattered cheek bones, assessing the documents in front of him once more. Writing down his list of supplies to request from the Council: cloaks of invisibility, lamas bread, a network of mounts prepared for them at predetermined way points.

It will be hard riding, hard living without the use of their own magic. Only their common sense, weapons knowledge, and a few enchanted items will be between them and death on foreign soil.

It’s for Prythian, he tells himself as Azriel moves close enough to feel the body heat pouring off of the High Lord of flames.

“I have contacts with a new enchanted shroud that has improved upon the cloak of invisibility's flaws. They’re expensive as hell … But let the Council dip into their coffers.”

Eris peers over his shoulder, cunning mouth twisting into a smirk as he watches Azriel’s flowing script as he adds to the request list.

“Let bygones be bygones?”

“A temporary amnesty, lets say.”

“Alright, Shadowsinger.”

“Some day, I would like to not be embroiled directly in life or death plots,” Eris mutters, stretching his legs as they dismount their exhausted mounts.

They’ve been riding hard for nearly twenty-four hours straight and have swapped horses thrice.

Azriel has never known such pain as the ache in his seat, in his knees, even in his shoulders from holding himself balanced on his horse while they have trotted most of those hours, sometimes breaking into full canters in stretches of path Eris deems too dangerous to linger on.

They’re now at their first rest spot since entering the southernmost duchy of the mortal realms. It’s a desolate mountain town, but Eris recollects from travels past that it's the safest.

Azriel dismounts and tries not to lose his balance, the glamor that has hidden his wings and other more fae features does nothing to assist with the odd balance he’s needing to learn quickly without their weight.

“That will be the day Eris Vanserra is found dead.”

“Touche.”

Azriel nearly smiles at the omission. He has to catch himself to remember despite the truce he doesn’t fully trust this male. It goes against what they agreed upon, but since it wasn’t an official bargain … Azriel watches the swagger Eris approaches the inn with, the soldier of his youth replacing the mighty High Lord as the glamor has rounded out his ears, dimmed the luster of his fiery locks so its merely enchanting rather than breathtaking to watch the curls of his longer pieces of hair along his neck —

Enchanting?

Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose.

Too long in the saddle. Too many days on lamas bread alone.

“I need a hot meal and bed,” Eris says to Azriel as he holds the door open, “If memory serves, this place serves a hearty stew and non-moldy bread.”

The tavern on the bottom floor of the inn is crowded with all types — mostly sellswords, likely half moonlighting as the bandits that haunt these routes, but there’s a few distinguishable merchants as well. The number of people overflowing from the bar, the tables, and even the dance floor where the band is playing a lively jig, makes Azriel’s skin crawl.

Without his shadows, he feels naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.

The only blessing is the Illyrian broadsword strapped to his back and Truth-Teller on his thigh.

“Get us food while I get our rooms?” Eris asks, surveying the crowd. Although he doesn’t appear outwardly nervous, there’s an obvious calculating edge to that russet gaze.

If there are no rooms left, it will be a hell of a night sleeping in the stable with the horses for their already aching bodies.

Azriel nods wordlessly and heads for the barmaid.

She smiles prettily at him as he approaches — flashing her gaping smile, several teeth missing. Azriel keeps his features carefully controlled. It isn’t his first time interacting with humans, but for his purposes milling about average folk hasn’t been as necessary …

“What’ll it be, sir?” she begins pouring a stein of ale before he can ask. “For you and your partner, yes?”

Azriel straightens. “He’s not my —”

“ — business partner? But you rode in together. You two are nicer dressed than most of the business types that stop through. Fancy those swords are more expensive than this whole shitty inn, eh?”

“Likely not,” Azriel says with a frown. “Two hot meals, please.”

“Alright, alright, the strong, silent type. Got it. Don’t you worry, Greta will take care of you. Here’s your ale, I’ll get you a meal that will fill both of your bellies to bursting and maybe you’ll share some of those pretty coppers I know you have with Greta.”

Azriel takes the steins and tries to avoid eye contact with anyone else in the tavern. Even with the glamors, they stand out.

When Eris drops into the booth beside him — one Azriel acquired by swooping in before another raggedy band of humans could beat him to it, cowed only by his size to move on — he’s grimacing into the pale brown reflection in his drink. There’s a fly floating on the surface he’s been debating removing.

“We should have had Lucien give us less teeth in the glamor,” Eris grumbles.

Azriel looks up and notes the flush on the male’s face, the obvious aggravation in the tense draw of his shoulders.

“Tried to swindle you, too?”

“The astronomical rate the innkeep charged me and for one bloody room, Mother above.”

Azriel freezes. 

There’s only one key on the table between them.

Eris exhales into his drink before taking a strong pull of the weak alcohol. Azriel watches the bobbing of his throat as Eris swallows, the press of his lips as he removes the cup and the quick dart of his tongue to swipe any foam from his upper lip. It’s nearly distracting enough to pull his thoughts from the critical detail Eris seems to be brushing over.

“How many rooms?”

The High Lord looks at Azriel’s still full stein. “Why haven’t you — Cauldron, that’s disgusting. Go get a new one, why are you brooding over it instead?”

“Because Greta will shout to the tavern again that we are sizable targets to steal from and when I have to kick all of their asses, it’ll risk blowing our cover,” Azriel says through his teeth. “Eris. How. Many. Rooms.”

Eris clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and shrugs, averting his gaze. “One. It’s all they had left.”

“How many beds?”

“Stop asking stupid questions.”

And just like that, the truce broken.

“It’s not stupid,” Azriel growls, and every overwrought nerve ending is screaming at him to reach across the table and strangle this good-for-nothing, spoiled High Lord with his nose in the air and complete disregard for —

“Grow up, Azriel. Haven’t you shared a bed before? You have brothers.”

“Not in centuries. I like my privacy.”

Eris shrugs. “You’re welcome to your privacy out with the horses then.”

“Prick.”

Their meals are set on the table in front of them. Eris smiles up at Greta and her lack of teeth and attempts to push her assets together in an enticing manner.

“My companion here needs a fresh ale, could you be a darling and get him one minus the fly?”

“Oh my! Oh no! Let me fix that right up!”

“No, it’s fine —”

Azriel and Eris lock stares across the table, all three of them grasping at the stein.

Greta fumbles, “Sir …Surely you don’t want to drink a fly?”

Eris’s russet eyes burn with repressed flames. “You’re not so uncivilized, right, Azriel?”

Damn him, of course Azriel doesn’t want a drink with a fly, but Eris has no right to make decisions for him. Anger burns through him, indignation at having his own problem solved for him, like Eris has any right with his handsome face and swaggering charm to just —

Greta laughs awkwardly. “I’ll just bring you a fresh one, let you two sort this out.”

At least he won’t have to worry about the barmaid flirting with either of them again. The stein falls to the table in a clatter and ale and the fly leaps over the sides … Right onto Eris’s slice of buttered bread.

The fly’s wings twitch as the ale soaks into the bread.

Eris bares his teeth at Azriel. “Do you feel satisfied now, you Illyrian —”

“ — here we go, I knew you were full of —”

“ — I’ve been nothing but decent, you’re the child that can’t —”

“Here’s that fresh ale! Oh … I’ll get you another slice of bread, sir … but it’ll cost you.”

Eris grimaces through a smile at the barmaid. “That will be amenable, Greta. Thank you.”

They brood over their dinners, silenced by the woman’s uncomfortable gaze. At least the food is as hearty as Eris claimed it would be, even if they’re searching for more surprise seasonings of bugs.

Lively music and the din of the crowd fills the space between them.

Exhaustion tugs at Azriel. 

All he wants is to stretch out on a semi-decent mattress and rest his eyes and body for a few hours. But the best he’ll get is a sliver of that. If not for the logistical nightmare of the sheer size of both of them trying to fit in one bed without touching, the unpleasant —alright, occasionally pleasant— surge of feelings that close proximity to Eris causes in Azriel…

Sleep will be difficult, even as exhaustion settles into the very marrow of his bones.

It’s just like sleeping with his brothers, he tells himself. Not that his cheeks flush with heat or his skin feels too tight just at the thought of sleeping beside Cass or Rhys.

Gods, he’s screwed.

And now he’s been a complete idiot about the ale.

Azriel scoops the last of the meal into his mouth and dabs at his mouth politely. When Greta had promised their bellies would be bursting, she likely didn’t realize she was feeding an Illyrian sized appetite. 

There’s still food on Eris’s plate.

He’s barely eaten the meat, sticking to the greens and potatoes. Azriel furrows his brow. Is Autumn Court largely vegetarian? Or is the High Lord just too snobby?

“What?” Eris asks, setting his fork down and sitting back.

Azriel looks between his plate and the male. “Are you … going to eat that?”

“I can’t stop thinking about that fly.”

“Haven’t you had worse out in the field?”

Eris looks around the tavern as he admits, “I haven’t been in the field in a while. My palette has become more refined.”

“Spoiled, you mean.”

“Fine. Spoiled.” Eris shoves the plate towards Azriel. “Have at it.”

Setting aside the flare of anger between them, Azriel accepts the plate with a polite dip of his chin. He needs to get control of himself before they’re in one bed, trying to navigate the small space.

Admittedly, the more food he inhales, the less slighted he feels over Eris trading out the ale anyway.

Eris’s eyelids are drooping by the time Azriel scrapes off the last bite of meat and gravy.

“I’ve ridden hard before, but it must be the lack of magic,” Eris says through a yawn. “I feel drained. Almost like —”

“ — faebane?”

“Exactly.”

At least there’s none of the stomach churning nausea to go along with this form of magicless exhaustion.

They pay Greta and Azriel slides a few extra coppers into her hand out of guilt for his display of emotion she had to bear witness to.

“Well. It’s a bed.”

Azriel sighs despondently.

A small bed compared to the one he has at home, that he’s used to winnowing to whenever he does rest. So, maybe Eris isn’t the only one spoiled by the passage of time and changes in positions and the luxuries those positions afford. 

“At least I don’t have my wings,” Azriel says with a sigh. It would have been impossible with them.

Eris unbuckles his sword belt and sets it on the narrow table. He begins unfastening the buttons on his jacket, his boots next, until he’s standing in only an undershirt and his trousers. Freckles dot the pale skin exposed from his loose collar that bares his clavicles, the strong muscles of his neck and shoulders that are lined by the thin fabric the rest of the way down.

Strong. It’s not easy to forget this High Lord has earned his place.

“Don’t bring road dust into the bed,” Eris says absently, otherwise not commenting on Azriel’s hesitation to undress when they’re both standing so close in the small square footage of the room.

He climbs into the bed and shoves himself against the wall. There’s just enough space remaining for Azriel. 

Suddenly self conscious, he blows the candle out before shucking his sword and jacket. At home, he sleeps in the buff, but of course on a mission, with Eris in his bed —

Why is he even thinking about that implausible scenario?

Azriel toes off his boots and slips under the covers.

Their shoulders touch if they both lay on their backs. The quick touch sparks a quick movement in both of them to readjust, surprising Azriel. Eris is just as jumpy, and this close he can pick up the High Lord’s elevated heart rate.

So, this isn’t straightforward for either of them.

Eris clears his throat once they’ve finished shifting and the bed no longer creaks beneath their substantial bulk.

“I don’t believe I properly thanked you yet for agreeing to accompany me on this mission. I know you understand how important it is to keep Prythian safe, but without you …”

“You’d be going into a suicide mission?”

The click of Eris swallowing is like a bell ringing. In the dark, neither of them can see the other’s face, read the vulnerability that opening up to a lifelong enemy entails, but there’s other tells.

“Why did you offer to do it then? If you knew I’d be justified to say no?”

“The truth is maudlin… and a little bit pathetic. But we’re getting close to seven hundred and I’ve heard that’s when the sentimentality starts to creep in for anyone other than my prick of a father.”

“Sentimentality or senility?” Azriel quips out of instinct, then corrects quickly, “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Eris chuckles low and warm. 

It sends a shiver down Azriel’s spine, and the soft huff of air as the other male must have angled towards Azriel draws across the exposed skin of his arm in his short sleeve shirt. The fine hairs there prickle in response, drawing to attention in the same way every nerve ending seems to with the shift in their discussion.

“Everything Lucien has overcome, his spirit to impact change. It inspired me. And my mother is so proud of the male he’s grown into.”

Azriel thinks of his own mother. The worry creases along her lines when she asks after his well being, if he’s been taking care of himself … Does he make his mother proud? She says he does, but is that simply because he hasn’t remained as the little boy locked away? Has he actually accomplished anything to make her truly proud?

“It’s pathetic, I know.”

“It’s not,” Azriel says quickly. Too quickly. Heat rises from his chest, up his neck, and creeps across his cheeks.

Eris sighs. “It’s naive to assume I can accomplish anything through a grand gesture, but I know how everyone questions if I’ve really changed. They don’t understand what it took to survive Beron’s iron rule … But I would like to be an honorable male who can act in the light, like Lucien.”

Silence blankets them until Azriel wonders if Eris has drifted into sleep. 

He knows his entire being is screaming for rest and he’s fighting the urge tooth and nail because … because those words mean something. Eris is sharing something significant and Azriel had agreed to join him because of the need to protect his own loved ones, but now. 

Now he’s glad he’s here with Eris. 

Eris shifts on the mattress and their arms brush. Azriel doesn’t jerk away this time. Eris has paused, but when Azriel doesn’t move, he relaxes his body into the position.

“Since I’m tied to your grand gesture, I guess maybe it will drag both of us into the light,” Azriel says, the words quiet like a secret.

“We can both look like fools together.”

“As long as we’re successful fools.”

Eris laughs through his nose and Az doesn’t stop the small smile from parting his lips as his eyelids slide shut.

“Lets focus on getting out of this alive and we’ll see about the rest.”

Azriel doesn’t respond. His stomach is alight with too many feelings, anticipation and excitement. Thankfully it's all drenched in his heavy meal and half of Eris’s and so his mind can’t race for too long. 

Maybe he’s been fighting this undeniable draw between them for too long, holding on to an old feud solely to keep this distance wedged between them.

As Eris’s breath even out beside him, Azriel shifts ever so slightly to increase the span of their bodies that touch in the bed.

Maybe it’s time to remove the distance.