#what is a coverlet

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One TwentyTwo

This chapter is NSFW

“Okay,” Steve says to himself quietly, trying to psych himself up for this. They’ve washed up and brushed their teeth, Eddie’s already in bed and Steve is running out of excuses to hide in the bathroom.

Yesterday was a pretty long day, the couple hours of housework before watching ‘Splash,’ at lunch time, and then Joyce and Hopper's visit in the afternoon. So, last night after scrubbing the pool, Steve had been exhausted and Eddie’s new muscles had been quivering with exertion. He’d walked like an old man to get up the stairs, and showering together had been quick and perfunctory; Eddie practically falling asleep against Steve under the water. He’d barely managed their ‘last kiss of the day’ before falling asleep.

Tonight, not so much, and Eddie had been watching Steve expectantly for at least an hour before they came to bed. Or at least, it felt like he had been, maybe it’s just Steve’s imagination.

Tonight is the night. Probably.

Steve remembers the way Eddie’s dick had seemed to startle and slip back inside, like a terrified cat hiding under the couch. “It’s probably more frightened of you than you are of it,” Steve whispers reassurance to himself as he dries his hands, then heads into the bedroom and climbs into bed.

“Stee love,” Eddie says as Steve settles down.

“Hey baby? You okay?”

Eddie makes an affirmative noise, “kisses?”

“Sure,” because how could Steve possibly resist him. The prickliness has grown out of Eddie’s hair, it’s long enough to become more like a peach fuzz now, and Steve likes running his hands over it a little. He fiddles with the point of Eddie’s ear too.

“Eddie? Before...when you had a tail...did you have a, uhm, did you have a dick then?”

“Dick?”

Steve hums, leaning back to cup himself through his pants to show him, “dick. Or penis I guess, is the proper name.”

Eddie’s face lights with understanding, “no. Not before.”

“Right. Right. So...we need to work this out together.”

“Together,” Eddie latches onto the salient point there. Steve’s pretty sure Eddie would agree to pretty much anything as long as Steve spiced it up with a ‘together.’ Which is kind of nice, to be loved like that.

They kiss again, soft and gentle, Steve sometimes pulling back to rub noses, until it’s Eddie’s turn to ask a question, “pull pants down?”

Steve snorts a laugh, he can’t help it. Fond and warm inside; nothing could possibly be scary with Eddie.

“Sure baby, we can do that.”

They undress themselves, Eddie with no concern for the space around him, and Steve has to dodge a lethal elbow as Eddie strips off real quick.

Looking down the long pale line of Eddie’s bony body, a thought occurs to Steve, “did you poop before?”

Eddie shakes his head, “no poop tail.”

“Oh. So I guess you just...digested absolutely everything? There was no poop at all?”

“Yes poop,” and then Eddie makes a motion, opening his mouth and fake coughing, indicating with his fingers that he caught something, that something...came up.

“Out of your mouth,” Steve says, unable to hide how absolutely horrified he is at the image. And then flashing on all the times they kissed before Eddie had legs.

“Not...poop,” Eddie thinks for a second, “seeds. Pear…” he holds his hand above his head, a single finger sticking up, “pear hat.”

“Ohhhhh...the seeds and,” Steve copies Eddie, one finger pointing above his head, “stalk.” Eddie nods, “what did you do with them?” Steve never ever saw Eddie do this, he had no idea this was even happening.

Eddie makes a fair impression of scratching at the coverlet, and then pushing a mound of...dirt back over what he’s just imaginary buried in the covers, “you planted them. You planted the seeds. Like with the pine cones?”

Eddie nods, “planted the seeds, yes,” and then he points, their universal sign for ‘outside’, “pear trees?”

“I...I don’t know if they will grow, I don’t really know much about trees but...when the weather gets a little warmer, we can go looking for them?”

“Warm weather put tent out?”

“Yeah, yeah sure baby we can put your tent back up,” Eddie nods, content with Steve’s answer, he leans in for more kisses, the oval points of Eddie’s nails scratching gently down Steve’s back, Steve stops them again, carefully disengaging, another thought occurs to him, “did you plant things in The Upside Down?”

Eddie nods, “seeds. Black trees and…” he makes a wriggly motion with his hands.

“The vines,” Steve suddenly understands, “you planted them, for food?”

“Yes...tadpole vines best food. Not good when...parent?”

“Ohhh...they’re nicer when they’re, like young, I guess?”

Eddie hums smiling. Steve can’t help it, he kisses him again, Eddie wriggling closer, pressing them together. Eddie’s bony, but it isn’t off putting, and Steve can feel his cock pressing against the top of Eddie’s slit for a moment before he remembers what comes out of there and pulls back a little, “can I touch you?”

“Touch good.”

“Can I touch you here?” Steve hovers his hand in the space between them, wanting to make sure Eddie understands completely before he does anything. Eddie nods, rolling onto his back a little to allow Steve some access, “okay, lets do this.” There’s no way Steve’s going to be able to let himself get into this if he’s worrying about Eddie’s dick suddenly biting him.

It also means if Eddie just...didn’t have a dick before, then that means they need to figure out...everything. Can Eddie even have an orgasm? Steve has no idea how his parts work so, “I guess we can just...try stuff, okay baby?”

“Eddidie try,” Eddie confirms, shifting his legs further apart, as clear of an invite as Eddie could possibly give; Steve throws a leg over Eddie’s to get close enough. The soft light of the bedside lamp is enough to see by.

Eddie’s shifting, parting his legs, has caused the slit to gape a little down between Eddie’s legs, but nothing has made an appearance just yet, “I guess I’ll just...go for it.”

Steve traces the edge of Eddie’s slit with a fingertip, careful and soft. He figures it’s not that different to what a girl would have in placement, but it seems tighter and smaller, more flush to Eddie’s body; neater somehow. He’s also completely hairless here, and there’s no stubble, so Steve figures nothing is ever going to grow down here. Steve lets his fingertip slide into where Eddie has gaped open a little. It’s not dry inside, but it’s not exactly moist either. It just feels like more skin.

Steve rubs his finger up and down the middle of Eddie’s slit a couple of times, not going any further than the part that’s opened naturally. Eddie’s dick still hasn’t made an appearance. “This okay?” Eddie’s watching him with wide eyes, lying still for the moment. He doesn’t appear to be...well...aroused, or showing any particular interest yet, but he nods. “Okay, lets go a little...more.”

Steve lets his finger sink in. There’s no resistance, and Steve finds it’s a little more moist the deeper he goes. Eddie accepts his finger easily, shifting a little and letting out a sweet sounding sigh once Steve is as deep as he can go. The top of Eddie’s slit finally parts, just the head of his dick poking out a little. Like it’s...cautious. Curious.

“Uhm, hey,” Steve says, and then berates himself internally for how absolutely fucking ridiculous that was. Luckily Eddie has no clue what’s normal and clearly isn’t judging him for having a chat with his dick.

Steve’s been with plenty of girls, but never with a guy. And definitely never with anyone who doesn’t have human parts so, unfortunately, absolutely non of Steve’s experience is translating to how he’s supposed to deal with this…he takes a breath, and decides he needs to be all in.

“Okay,” he carefully presses down with his finger, Eddie’s narrow inside, the sides of his channel gripping Steve’s finger as he slides downward until he finds the ‘bottom’ of Eddie’s opening. He traces it with his finger, following the dip until he finds a...ridge. Or a pucker; he rubs it with his moist finger. Eddie makes a huffing noise, “feel good?”

Eddie frowns at him, “maybe?”

“Right, okay,” so Steve withdraws his finger, Eddie making a soft noise of what Steve hopes is pleasure. He carefully offers his slightly moist fingertip to the black, rounded exposed head of Eddie’s cock, and then just...waits. Eddie’s penis slithers out a little further, and then, after a brief stand off, it gently nudges at Steve’s offered finger. “Oh, okay, yeah,” Steve’s eyes flick to Eddie’s briefly to check in, only to find he’s looking down his own body, watching with as much open interest as Steve is. Right then.

Eddie’s dick slithers all the way out, the head as black as Steve remembers, fading into the usual color of Eddie’s pale flesh; it tangles gently with Steve’s fingers, and Eddie makes a noise. Just a little wisp of a thing, but it gives Steve hope that he’s doing the right thing with this. He risks a brief look; Eddie’s cheeks have a little flush to them, his mouth popped open just a tiny bit.

Eddie’s dick is nudging at Steve’s finger, drawing his attention back down, and Steve watches as the head opens up, slowly the petals peel apart. It’s pink inside, Steve sees this time, and covered in hundreds of the most minuscule little pink bumps. Like kind of teeth, or the start of teeth, but they never quite made it there. It waits, hovering uncertainly.

Steve takes a deep breath, letting it out slow, “okay little guy,” and he really, really needs to stop speaking to Eddie’s penis, like, right now.

Steve, gently, offers the pad of his thumb. The petals cup it, a soft touch, all of the tiny little nobbles pressing against Steve’s skin, just wide enough that their petal tips cross over the edges of Steve’s thumbnail. Eddie sighs, and then...kind of nothing happens.

Steve’s eyes flick to Eddie again, since his dick seems content to just hold Steve’s thumb, “Eddie, this okay?”

Eddie nods.

“Any idea what I should...do?”

Eddie shakes his head, looking at Steve helplessly.

“Right, okay, maybe I can…” Steve shifts his hand, keeping his thumb where it is, he wraps his fingers around the thick shaft. Eddie’s dick squirms a little in his grip, but otherwise it seems fine. Steve holds a little tighter, and next to him, Eddie breathes out a little sound. Maybe a little startled, “okay?”

Eddie nods real quick, the sound of his short hair dragging on the pillow, “touch good,” he insists, reaching up himself to grip Steve’s arm where Steve is half hovering over him.

“Okay,” they both look down again, past Eddie’s ribs and his still nearly concave stomach, “okay.”

Steve grips a little tighter, Eddie dick is squirming against Steve’s palm but not like it’s trying to escape or anything, just like it’s rubbing against all of Steve’s hand that it can reach. Steve figures sticking to what works is probably the way to go, so he takes away his thumb to hold Eddie properly, then tries gently sliding his hand down, in an attempt to jack Eddie off.

The flower petal head flails a little, grasping at the air. When Steve pulls down, Eddie's dick simply bends with him, and Steve is sure some of it just...goes back inside. So rather than rubbing Eddie’s dick he just ends up...moving it. Steve hums, that’s not going to work he doesn’t think. Eddie’s dick might be firm but it’s just not rigid enough for Steve to make that work. Steve draws his hand back up to the top, offering the flailing head his thumb, where once again it latches, apparently, happily.

Eddie makes another soft noise at that, he did last time too, Steve thinks. Maybe that’s where he should focus his attention. He decides to try it, gripping Eddie’s dick more firmly, it gives him purchase to rub the pad of his thumb across the dip of the opening and the petals.

Eddie’s breath comes sharp and startled, his nails digging into Steve’s arm, “did I hurt you?”

“No. No it didn’t hurt. Good. Touch many good.”

Right, well, that's about as big of a green light as Steve figures he’s going to get. He rubs again with his thumb. He rubs straight across, forward and back, the pad of his thumb following the shallow bowl shaped dip revealed by the petals, which Eddie seems to like if his quiet noises are anything to go by.

Steve changes it up, trying small circles across all the petals, the tiny little bumps dragging on his skin...almost like he’s rubbing the soft side of velcro. “Stee,” Eddie moans, shifting his hips, parting his legs even further.

“Okay baby?” Steve asks him, although he can’t take his eyes off where Eddie’s penis is wriggling against his palm and fingers, where the flower petals are opening and closing on Steve's thumb. They bend easily where Steve presses on them, alternately stretching as far open as they can before they grip at Steve’s thumb again, moving in a strange, pulsing dance.

The next time they open fully, Steve uses the opportunity to rub his thumb all the way across them, tip to tip, and Eddie’s hips buck uncontrolled, Eddie making a startled noise of pleasure.

Steve himself has started to get hard against Eddie’s hip, Eddie’s wriggling and obvious noises of pleasure causing Steve to become aroused, and he lets himself grind a little, only half aware of his own movements. The wet head drags against Eddie’s soft skin, so Steve rocks again, he’s not able to drag his eyes away from where he’s working the flower petal head of Eddie’s cock.

The drag of all the little nobbles feels a little dry, so Steve leans down, lifting his thumb out of the way for a moment to let a blob of spit drip onto Eddie’s dick, Steve presses it in with his thumb, spreading the moisture.

Eddie’s reaction is almost immediate, his back arches and the petals grip Steve’s thumb tight. Much tighter than they have up until now. Eddie’s hips are writhing against the bed, rolling like waves as Steve just holds still. Eddie makes quiet noises, and Steve flicks his eyes up for a second to check on him; Eddie’s eyes are squeezed shut tight, his mouth hanging open wide. The hand on Steve’s arm holding there loosely, forgotten as Eddie, presumably, orgasms.

The head of Eddie’s dick feels like it’s pulsing. Sucking. Gentle pulls against the pad of of Steve’s thumb, like little sucking kisses. And then it fades, becoming weaker, the petals grip loosening as Eddie’s hips relax back onto the bed and become still, his penis slowly slipping from Steve’s fingers. It withdraws some of the way, resting floppily against the bottom of Eddie’s tummy.

It looks a little drunk, the way it wobbles over.

“Stee,” Eddie says weakly, his hand flopping against Steve’s arm in a halfhearted pat.

“Yeah?”

“Good,” Eddie blinks at him, pupils blown wide but eyes all sleepy. He smacks his lips a second before shifting against Steve and frowning down at himself, “et.”

Eddie’s speech seems to have regressed back to how it was in the beginning, but Steve doesn’t mind. He kind of likes that he just blew Eddie’s mind, “wet? Where?”

“In,” Eddie answers, shifting again, one leg is still trapped by Steve’s thigh, but Eddie moves the other leg, trying to pull them together, he wriggles his free leg to scissor his thighs together.

And yeah, Steve can see it now, seeping shiny wet from the middle of Eddie’s slit, “can I?”

Steve’s hand hovers, waiting for Eddie to nod, which he does.

Eddie is very wet now. He shifts, parting his legs again to accommodate Steve’s finger, and then fingers after the first one slips in so easily. It looks completely clear in the light, and it’s very viscous on Steve’s fingers. Steve pulls them out again to look at them; it’s very thick, almost jello like where it clings, all shiny. It’s super slick where Steve rubs his fingers together.

Sever rocks against Eddie’s hip again, his hard cock dragging against Eddie’s hip at the thought of sinking his cock into Eddie’s wet slit.

It’s warm inside, Steve notices first when he puts his fingers back, the slick on his fingers had chilled in the air, highlighting the difference. It’s much easier to feel around now, Steve’s fingers sliding easily through the slick. Eddie sighs, and it sounds contented, so Steve asks, “this okay?”

Eddie hums, “touch good.”

“As good as when I was touching your dick?”

Eddie frowns sleepily, thinking about it, “no. Different.”

Steve nods, he gets that.

Steve investigates properly now, touching all of Eddie’s insides that he can reach. The walls are slick all over now, some of the gooey slick being pressed out around Steve’s fingers. Steve can’t find any features but for the pucker right at the bottom, so he touches there again.

A wet fingertip breaches it far more easily than Steve expects, and Eddie yelps, suddenly grabbing Steve’s wrist, “no,” Eddie’s dick slips back inside, like it wants to get out of the way.

“Okay, okay, is it bad?”

Eddie giggles, shifting against the sensations before relaxing again and blinking, “maybe. Good bad.”

“Okay,” Steve files that away, but avoids it for now.

Steve’s hips have started rocking again, as he slowly finger fucks Eddie’s channel. All the soft wetness making slick noises as he does. Eddie makes happy noises, the occasional relaxed sigh, but he looks sleepy again, “do you think you could come from this?”

“Come?”

“Like before, it felt really good?”

“Eddie come then wet? Dick touch come?”

“Yeah, do you think me touching you like this will make you come again?”

Eddie seems to think for a minute, blinking more awake again and tilting his hips a little to rock down onto Steve’s fingers, “feel many good...not come good.”

“Right, okay,” Eddie keeps shifting, and Steve follows the movement with his own hips, his cock leaking now, leaving a little smear of precome on Eddie’s skin.

“Stee come?”

“Not yet...I want to, though.”

“Eddidie can? Help? Same before? Tail.”

“Yeah. Yeah baby you can touch this time, if you want. Use your hands?”

“Okay,” they switch positions a little, Eddie not seeming to be at all bothered by it when Steve’s fingers abruptly slip free of him. Steve uses the slick on his fingers to wet his cock first, and when Eddie’s sees this he lifts a leg, not at all self conscious, and drags his own fingers over his slit, gathering the thick wetness there.

Steve helps Eddie position his hand, wrapping it around Eddie’s hand on his cock, then moving them both. Eddie catches on fast, “I’m not going to take long,” Steve tells him, already feeling the familiar tightening in his balls.

Steve lets go, Eddie has the idea now, and he jacks Steve fast, making wet noises. His fingers are so pale next to Steve’s skin, but firm and strong, and Steve doesn’t look away from the movement of Eddie’s hand.

“Close baby,” Steve breaths out a warning, his own hips starting to tilt, fucking a little into Eddie’s movements.

Steve lets his eyes close and his head slide back, Eddie lets out a sweet sounding, “oh,” as Steve starts to come, the first pulses landing hot on his own stomach. He has to reach out again, grasping Eddie’s hand to slow him, to show him how to work Steve through his orgasm.

Steve lets himself have a second, after, blinking sleepily as the last twitches of pleasure tingle though him. Next to him, Eddie makes a sound of disgust, and Steve looks over to find he’s clearly just licked some of Steve’s come off his fingers.

Steve can’t help it, he laughs, “not good?”

Eddie wrinkles his nose, “not good.”

“You want to get cleaned up?”

Eddie nods, “wet.”

They shower again together, just to get the worst of it off, “did that feel okay baby? Was it good?”

Eddie nods, “good. Feel…” Eddie stops a second, standing under the water, trying to figure out how to tell Steve. He makes the flashing movement from the Christmas lights, with his hands, “pretty. Many many,” he rubs his tummy, but low down, making his fingers dance in little tingles across his skin, “good like Christmas food and Pizza and Pears.”

“I think I get what you mean. It felt really good.”

Eddie nods, seemingly satisfied, but then frowns, “more later? Again?”

Steve snorts a laugh. That does make him feel absolutely certain, Eddie must have liked it if he’s asking again so soon, “sure baby.”

Eddie’s not at all self conscious, and he happily cocks a leg, resting his foot on the side of the tub to let Steve clear out the goop from inside his slit. Steve figures he gets the worst of it, inspecting a particularly lumpy part that’s has stuck itself to his fingertips.

There are darker shapes inside, small dots Steve thinks, about the size of peas maybe. Steve inspects the darker splotches clinging to his fingers; he’s only found a couple in amongst the clear jello they’ve cleaned from between Eddie’s legs, “baby, what do you think these are?”

Eddie shrugs, “seeds?”

Steve lets the water catch them, washing them away, “best not plant those in the yard.”

Eddie snorts a laugh, “Eddidie trees,” and then laughs again, tickled by the idea.

Part TwentyFour

[cassieuncaged]

Comforting Touch (Astarion x Reader)

NSFW/MATURE/18+/MDNI

Summary: You bring a new definition to a ‘good morning’ for a certain vampire spawn.

TW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (male receiving), hand jobs, language, etc.

WC: 1.7 K

A/N: Haven’t done a smutty reader insert in awhile so here ya go!

The windows are safely shuttered come morning, only the tiniest tendrils of sun sneaking through the cracks. Your shared chambers may be humble though they are rather cozy, stuffed to the brim with furs and a meager stone mantle. Astarion had pouted when you’d balked at a mansion nestled in Manor Born, telling the Grand Duke a cottage on the outskirts of the city would be preferred. Raised from elven nobility, he’d thought an opportunity had been squandered for a mere pittance. Though the vampire didn’t complain now, curled into your side as he tranced.

Organic warmth soothed him these days especially, no longer having the luxury of the sun beating down upon icy skin. Though he’d settled for the heat that his lover radiated, the moon coming to love the sun for all she offered. It was poetic, despite the pangs of frustration at losing something else. What had his last two centuries been but filled with loss?

Dashing the intrusive thought from a groggy mind, bleary eyes fell upon the prim man. One arm was slung across your torso, rising and falling with your every breath. Limp curls had bled out the rest of their pomade, laying messily atop his head and across a pallid brow. You giggled, knowing how he preferred to keep them so neat and tidy, practically styling every damned curl with his fingers. It was as frustrating as it was adorable. Now he didn’t care, nestled between your bosoms. Cold air escaped his mouth, fangs twitching as he remained blissfully unaware of the world around him.

Fingers gently muss silken curls, enjoying the locks of spun silver tickling the tips of your fingers. They were so lovely and soft, malleable as they wound around sure digits again and again. It kept you busy, refusing to move until your lover stirred. A long time had passed where Astarion had known no such comforts and hells you wanted to hoist them all upon him now. Of course there were adventures to be had, research to be done, companions to write to. But that could wait a bit longer. At least until those liquid ruby eyes fluttered open, as delicate as the wings of a butterfly.

Pads of cool fingers pressed into the fleshy curve of your thigh, flexing softly before even colder lips were pressing gently across your chest. He lingered for a moment, enjoying that steady heartbeat that ruminated beneath his touch.  A delighted chuckle vibrated against a warm plane of skin, resulting in goose flesh that spread from your scalp down to the tips of ten toes.

“Morning, darling.” He murmured between kisses peppered up to one clavicle then the hollow of your throat, “Have you been awake long?”

“Not especially,” you sighed, enjoying his ministrations as soft touches migrated from thigh to navel, drifting down to trace the curve of one hip bone, “Just enjoying you.”

“Seems to defeat the purpose when I’m lost in a trance,” he cooed before rolling onto his side. Your mouth was agape, scraping across the sight of him, skin lustrous beneath the low light, groin delicately draped with the coverlet. “There’s more fun to be had when I’m awake, my dear.”

Propping yourself on one elbow, you studied him silently as a barrage of thoughts crept through your mind. One word and you’d be a fly trapped in the spider’s web, the hare bloody and twitching in the wolf’s maw. And as much as you enjoyed submitting to him, something more appealing came to mind.

“What is it, love?” his head cocked to one side, curls lolling as he did. Gods he was lovely, and you wanted nothing more than to remind him of that. “You’ve a mischievous glint in your eyes; what’re you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing…” You inched closer until your nose practically nestled beneath his chin, lips pressing against knot bobbing in his throat. One hand pressed against the flat of a lean chest, fingers drifting down the ridges of hard muscles, “It’s just that you always take care of me. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s, erm, a very nice thought.” His voice trembles as his fingers wrap around a slender wrist, stopping the descent to the apex of muscular thighs. “But this is all still very new to me.”

“We can just lay like this,” you whisper against icy skin, nuzzling into the column of his neck, “I won’t force you into anything.”

“I didn’t say stop,” burgundy eyes roll, unseen as warm lips continue soft ministrations. Carefully, he drags your fingers to the hem of the coverlet, urging you to uncover his cock. The silken bedclothes began to tent as he slowly hardened. “I often imagine your hands on me.”

You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. As much as you want to caress him, there’s a small request that hangs at the back of your throat. Eyes shutter at the thought of teeth slotting into those fading scars, feeding until warmth envelopes the icy marble of his body. How you swear it ignites a pulse within in his chest, how the veins in his cock become tight ridges along his shaft, skin dusky and warm…

“Whatever you’re thinking has you smelling absolutely delectable.” He inhales your arousal as it tickles his nostrils, filling his heightened senses. “Do tell, lover.”

“I’d like you to bite me. First.” You pull back, so your gaze can fall upon those shimmering rubies. An ashen brow arches upward at this revelation, corners of lush lips quirking upwards. “I want to feel your warmth beneath the tips of my fingers, against my tongue…

“How absolutely debauched of you,” he reaches out to stroke your hair, genuinely adoring such a suggestion despite the aching inside him. The spawn wishes he could provide such a natural warmth but appreciates your loving offer. “Let me sup from you.”

Then he curls into the curve of your neck, suckling and lapping at scars that have never healed completely, preparing you for the icy sting. You hiss at the initial insertion, the ice that shoots through your veins slowly dissipating into a thrum that invigorates as life blood is supped upon. And you feel it, the heat begins to pool beneath his skin, inviting as you finally pulled the sheet from his hips.

Astarion laps at the droplets oozing from your wound as lithe fingers drift down his length. He peels his lips away, mouth bloody as he looks upon you. Eyes drift down to see your own gaze glued to his now straining and rosy cock. Feeding upon you always stiffened him completely, leading to a pleasurable grind against your thigh while he shrouded you like a shadow.

But now, shallow breathing was parsed through gritted teeth as you finger gently traced a dusky vein from base to tip, enjoying how the blunt head was flushed and bulging. He twitched beneath such a gentle touch, enjoying how you used a fat bead of pre spend to lubricate the length of his slit. The muscles in his neck tightened at that familiar tug behind his navel, the one that demanded more. So your fingers splayed around him, enjoying how he felt like velvet wrapped around steel as you gave a firm squeeze. Slender hips thrust involuntarily, needing more friction as you suddenly removed that warm hand.

“What are you doing?” his voice came out in a strangled whimper, eyes widening as you lapped at his salty seed coating your thumb. It was still a mystery to the vampire how his body delighted you so, though he wasn’t about to complain. Awkwardly, you craned your neck upward to dribble a healthy amount of drool upon an upturned palm before slinking back to where he most needed such attention.

“Relax, my love.” You pressed a kiss to his chin before focusing on that task literally at hand. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did, savoring the rhythmic pump as your knuckle slid down his length, careful to stroke from head to base. His hips began to meet your jerks, imagining the tight heat of your cunt wrapped around him so pleasantly. Actually focusing on his own sexual pleasure was still so foreign, chasing his own release without worrying about another’s climax. Gods, it was delicious. Almost as much as the blood still staining his lips.

“On your back,” you demanded softly, removing a soaked palm to topple him onto the broad back, “I want to taste you.”

“If you do that, I’m afraid I won’t last.” His breathing was coming out in ragged pants as you slid between his spread thighs. Astarion watched with rapt attention, enjoying how your breasts swayed as you moved to lay flat on your belly.

“That’s alright,” you assured, tongue darting out to lap at the seam beneath the head. And he moaned, such glorious music cutting straight to your core. What a symphony every groan and whimper was, even as you continued to tease with short licks and kisses. “I want you to come undone in my mouth.”

“Get on with it, please.” His hips thrust upwards, tip pressing past the barrier of your lips before you complied with his wishes. Hollowing your cheeks, you sank upon all that could be fit into your mouth as a warm fist enveloped the rest. His heady musk invaded your senses, cock twitching on your tongue, practically begging you to move. “Hells below.”

Astarion’s deep bellow had been enough to spur you into a fervor, bobbing hungrily as his back arched off the mattress. Lithe fingers knotted in your hair, holding you still as he began to frantically fuck your throat. He could count on one hand how many times he’d enjoy such a pleasure over the past two centuries while he craved to lose track of how many times he absolutely lost himself in you. Pumping, striving, chasing that release while he imagined you bouncing atop him. Your blood warmed him but he felt like he was on fire.

“So good,” he muttered between ragged breathing as you struggled to breathe out of your nose. “So, so good.”

Then the dam broke as he came down your throat, twitching and spasming until he was still against your tongue. Swallowing all of the seed that was earned, you broke away and began to clean his softening length before snaking up to curl upon that delightfully broad chest.

“How do you feel?” your voice was a welcome whisper that buzzed in his ears, messy curls digging back into a down pillow as long arms cinched at the small of your back.

“Like I know what it is to feel true pleasure,” he groaned sleepily, nuzzling into your own nest of messy hair. “True love.”

“You’re drunk on ecstasy,” you giggled, eyes watching as his expression softened, any masks long melted away. “It’ll pass.”

“The feeling won’t,” he argued softly, “No, you’ve gifted me so much that I never thought I’d have. Taking care of me so sweetly. I’m eternally indebted to you, darling.”

“There’s no debtors in love,” you reminded him warmly before resting an ear above his dormant heart. “There’s only equals.”

“If this is your way of reminding me, I may need your help remembering more often.”

[naffeclipse]

One Soul to Another

Reader x Mermaid!Eclipse

Commission Info

I absolutely loved writing this darling hurt/comfort fic centered on Vanessa and Mer!Eclipse from In Deep Dreams Between the Waves for @counterbalance! The unlikely pair getting to connect while Y/N feels so much for their dear friend and dear mer is delightful.

Content Warning for mentions of death/violence/being eaten alive/mind control.

———

The Rustbucket II floats gently along a calm ocean as the dawn waits to spread rosy-tinged fingers over the horizon and lighten the darkness of the salty waves splashing softly against the side of your boat. In the cabin, you stir gradually, still caught between dreams and the black depths filled with stars where you spend your nights with your giant mer.

A calm warmth fills your heart. The beautiful weight of Eclipse’s presence sits tenderly within you, and you swear his fingers still curve softly around you, cradling you close to his chest. His bioluminescence glows behind your eyelids with the strong, orange light of a bonfire. His soft warbles and purrs fall against you but distantly, held at arm’s length by your waking consciousness.

Eclipse?

He withdrew from you softly, setting you back into your sleeping mind like he was tucking you into bed. You blink slowly, your eyelids weighed down with sleep. He doesn’t often leave you so early. He looks forward to your shared dreams the most. 

Slowly gliding your hand over the thin coverlet, you push yourself up on your bed, supporting yourself on your elbows as you force your eyes to focus on the gray-dark light touching the ocean. It’s still so dark. A cool mist hangs in the air. The smell of seaspray clings tightly to your senses. Working up your alertness, you slip your bare feet over the creaking floors of the cabin and softly slip towards the doors leading to the deck. The glass windows are slightly stained with ocean water and you mentally jot down a note to clean those when you return to shore.

Peering out onto the deck, you find a very beautiful, rare sight.

Vanessa. Her arms are folded, leaning against the handrails with her blonde hair outside of her usual ponytail. It’s gotten longer. It falls over her shoulders and down her back. Bangs fall into her eyes from what little of her face you see. A thick-knitted cardigan of cream warms her against the early morning chill. 

Just beyond her, nestled in the water with his head above the surface, is Eclipse. The leviathan hides his great size just below. His lithe four arms are the length of ships and his long, serpentine tail is dark and beautifully frilled.

His eyes don't shift you, his brilliant yellow colors set entirely on your dear friend, but a gentle pulse ripples through your heart. 

Hello, seashell.

You silently hide in the shadow of the cabin, unwilling to disturb this moment for Vanessa. She hardly ever wants to see Eclipse. He reminds her too much of the vicious mer who took hold of her and compelled her into his horrid bidding. 

She has nightmares of his song, but she didn’t last night. You would have heard her screams.

The softest sounds of Vanessa’s voice slip through the calm ocean air. You quietly hold your breath.

“I don’t know how they found you,” she says softly. Her hands nervously knit one over the other, wringing and twisting her fingers. She hardly lifts her eyes to look at Eclipse. He’s trying very hard, you realize, to make himself small and non-threatening for her.

He warbles a low sound, sending ripples across the settled ocean surface. The slightest twitch of her brow follows.

You lean closer against the door, your ear pricking towards her. Maybe you shouldn’t listen in. Vanessa might have told you much but she hasn’t told you everything. Now that she speaks to Eclipse, you can’t help but wonder if this might be therapeutic, a way to help undo some of the damage done by Glitch.

“There must be a difference between a mer meeting a human when the mer is small and when they’re grown.” Her head bows deeper. “Do mers grow up without a human and decide to sink their ships, just because they can?”

Eclipse shifts in the slightest, his brilliant arrangement of frills crowning his head in bright oranges and yellows sweeping in a soft, comforting gesture. His attention remains on her. A soft note slips from him. A soothing sound you so often hear when a terrible dread creeps over you and you feel the wet walls of Glitch’s stomach closing in around you again.

Her eyes still don’t stray from him. A confusing need to calm her sweeps through you. You stand silently, hugging your arms in the quiet dawn-gray light. 

“I don’t know why a bad one found me. Why did he choose me?” Vanessa’s voice wobbles wetly. You almost step closer, to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Eclipse rumbles gently. The sound seems to wash over Vanessa like a wave of sea foam. Slowly, she reaches up and touches her face, smearing something wet while clearing her throat. 

A radiance of patience and compassion fills you. The distant echo falling from Eclipse brims you with a warmth like sunlight dappling a watery surface. You shift and squeeze your hands together. You so often admire your mer in his wonderful care for you. Now you witness it for Vanessa.

She swallows thickly. 

“I think about it sometimes,” she says so quietly you almost don’t catch her words. “If he hadn’t chosen me, I would be dead like the rest of them. He would have eaten me alive.”

A tide of rage flows into your heart, not your own, but Eclipses. A shudder overtakes you. Closing your eyes briefly, you clench your teeth and breathe deeply, focusing on the wooden frame of the cabin and the soft creaking sounds of your boat.

Glitch is dead. Eclipse ripped him apart.

“But he did choose me,” she says quietly, haunted. “I’m alive.”

A low warble leaves Eclipse. He bobs along the surface and catches her gaze.

On the smallest ray of sunlight filling the horizon, you watch a tear drop into the salt of the sea off of Vanessa’s face. Her fingers clench, twisting in her cardigan sleeves. A rattling breath leaves her.

“He terrifies me still,” she whispers to Eclipse. “I think he’s hiding in my dreams, waiting to come back.”

A soft rumble leaves the giant mer. Eclipse slips the smallest bit closer, sending small waves out from his movement and splashing quietly against the boat. He softly parts his lips, keeping his teeth well hidden while singing a gentle note. A confirmation.

You feel his memory as if it were your own hands. One reached down into the gullet of the leviathan to find you and pull you free, and the other two pried Glitch’s jaw wider and wider until muscle and sinew ripped and bones cracked. Until the water turned red with blood. And he held you safe in his hands, your tiny body sinking into the safety of his grasp.

He’s dead.

Vanessa lifts her eyes to him. Her bottom lip trembles.

He cannot hurt you anymore.

You breathe out softly and clutch your heart. You wish Vanessa could hear his voice.

“I know,” she says, as if she did. She hunches lower along the handrails. Even when you were at her side in the time she couldn’t sleep and feared a singing voice, she never looked so small. Perhaps you are too used to her watching over you. She looked out for you when you were younger, always taller and wiser. Now you see her for the fragile state she remains in. Your heart squeezes within you.

A gentle wave of warmth seeps over your shoulders. You breathe again.

“I had no control.” Vanessa squeezes her hands into fists until the skin over her knuckles stretches white. “He forced me to lead every single soul to their death. I was burning. Resisting him was agony like he was going to cleave my soul from my body. I could never tell him no.”

She drags the heel of her hand into her cheek, eyes squeezed shut. Eclipse stays quiet, waiting until she can breathe again. You furl and unfurl your fingers but force yourself to be as patient as Eclipse. He knows what he’s doing.

“His song still lives in my head. When it gets too quiet, I hear it again. I think he’s back.” She trembles where she stands. Her hair falls around her shoulders and you wish to sweep it back to see her face and tell her it’s alright. Glitch is gone. 

“When I was face to face with him,” she stops and bites her bottom lip. Another tear fell down her face, “I was nothing. He could have crushed me. He could have speared me with one of his claws. I could do nothing to stop him.”

A wretched sob leaves her. Horror rips from her teeth. The breath drags out of her throat and you start, your heart breaking in the echo of her sound. Tears threaten to swell within your own eyes. No. You have to be strong for her now.

She doesn’t deserve this. She is as innocent as the ones Glitch killed.

Water softly sloshes down below. Vanessa stills. Rising to the handrails, one of Eclipse’s hands holds steady. He reaches the back of one crooked finger for Vanessa but leaves distance between true contact. Vanessa steps back once. Slick brine falls away from his skin and back into the water, dripping from his claws. Eclipse holds her gaze, steady despite the slightly bobbing boat. 

Her body is rigid, taunt like a prey animal about to race from a predator. Low, coaxing sounds fall from Eclipse’s mouth as he keeps his head below. Vanessa has the choice. He will not force it but a will of simmering need to comfort one so afflicted by Glitch, just like you, heats his very heart.

You touch your chest softly. You’re here, too. It’s okay.

In silent awe, you watch Vanessa ball up her hands and step closer. As slow as the rising sun now sending sharp rays of light across the sea, she loosens her fist and slowly, cautiously, sets her hand on one of Eclipse’s knuckles. He softly hums and warbles in encouragement. Vanessa stares. She still shakes—you fear she might fall apart and dissolve into another panic attack—but she breathes. Her shoulders heave. Carefully, she looks Eclipse in the eye.

A great swirl of pride opens within you, shared equally by you and your mer. 

“You’re so big,” Vanessa mutters, far away, as if she can’t quite wrap her mind around it. Or perhaps, she’s thinking of another mer entirely. Her eyes fall below the water. “But you can be gentle.”

Yes.

Eclipse shifts his gaze to you for the briefest moment. Your smile tugs on the corner of your lips. He chirrs gently before Vanessa looks up, and holds the leviathan's gaze once more.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I tried to kill you when I found you with them. You were small then, even smaller than them.”

He grumbles and trills, his grin splitting across his features as if he were allowing the incident to pass like water under a bridge.

She weeps once, her back shaking. She bows low and holds tight to Eclipse’s fingers and releases what you imagine to be a great flood of anguish over what’s been done. What Glitch did to her.

A whirlpool of revolt and hatred begins. The seaspray of Eclipse’s fury towards Glitch is a storm threatening to swallow all that draws near its spinning mouth. You lean deeper against the cabin door frame and brace yourself.

Wild visions cut across your vision, filled with violence and righteous anger. A soul bond is sacred. To take a human is to share a mer’s very being with them. The dreams, the pain, the love of a mer, anchored to a little human soul. To defile such a bond, to use it for mayhem and death is unforgivable.

Eclipse’s tail flicks below. A few gurgles of water flip and Vanessa stiffens in the slightest, her eyes straying to the movement. You feel the cords of his being tightened into control. The refusal to startle Vanessa just as he closed the distance between them, and listened to her woes. His frills lower and his arms calm, holding carefully still once more.

He can be gentle.

It is wrong what Glitch did. It is unfathomable to your giant mer, and you love him more for it.

You recall asking him if he would ever do such a thing to you. You were almost washed away by his revolt and disgust for such a notion, and you were stunned. You realized your error in even asking. 

No, Eclipse could never do such a thing to you. You look at Vanessa. She didn’t deserve it.

It’s alright, you soothe inwardly, brushing against his own heart. She’s safe. No mer will ever hurt her again.

A great rumble of agreement joins your thoughts. Vanessa slowly takes her hand back and wipes the slickness sticking to her skin on her cardigan. 

“Thank you,” she says at last. Her voice is small and weak, almost crackling with emotion. “If it wasn't for you and them…”

She rubs a hand over her face, pressing down on her eyes as if to shove the alternative out of her very mind.

“I don’t want to think about it too much,” she concludes. Her hand lowers and she offers a rare, small smile to Eclipse. “Thank you. For being good to them.”

Eclipse yearns to tell her more, to flick his fins and tell her all that Glitch did is wrong, but he can only warble. Gratitude softly blossoms within you.

You’ll make sure to tell Vanessa for him.

Using the back of her hand, Vanessa wipes her face and smears tears over her cheeks until the new sunlight shines on her skin. It will dry soon enough. A deep breath echoes softly as she fills her lungs and lifts her face towards the sky streaked with the pale light of dawn. Relief, you think, paints her eyes a softer green.

Eclipse lowers his hand with a gentle gloop of water as it falls below the surface. He turns his attention fully to you. His stunning frills catch the yellow light and brighten it. His eyes glow gently as he holds your gaze. Vanessa slowly turns to find you standing there. Her shoulders push back. She exhales a rattling breath.

“Did Eclipse wake you?” she asks in a thick voice.

“No. I just heard your voice,” you offer gently. 

Stepping quietly, you cross the deck. Her smile is wet but real.

You open your arms for an embrace. She accepts, falling into you with her hands hooking around you tightly as if you were a lifesaver at sea. You gather her together and hold her tight.

Eclipse watches you both. His soft trills echo before Vanessa pulls away and wipes her face one last time.

“I’ll start some tea,” she says. 

“Okay, I’ll be there in a moment,” you nod. The tiny kitchenette in your cabin is nothing grand, but it will do well enough to get a pot of tea going.

You let her go, slowly leaning back against the handrails as she disappears inside the cabin with a quiet click of the door. 

A gentle purr from Eclipse follows, and you glance up at him with a soft joy filling you to the brim.

“Hey, big guy.” You smile.

Eclipse offers his hand, water rises until it surfaces with a slickness to his palm. Without hesitation, you accept, crawling onto the pads of his fingers and ignoring how your pajamas grow damp with his touch. 

He lifts you gently into the air. With a soft flick, he leans back and slips away from the rustbucket II but stays well within sight. You settle into his palm as if you were coming home. A pulsing warmth trickles between your ribs and into your heart. You hold his big, yellow eyes softly.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You reach out and stroke his thumb. “You were very kind to listen to Vanessa. I think it helps her a lot.”

Eclipse whistles a happy sound and you’re nearly bowled over by his sweet joy for being able to provide comfort to a human he is still getting to know. But below the harmonic chords of cheer, you feel a bitter tang. Upset at the thoughts of a terrible fate thrust upon a human. A bond crafted not to use for love, but for control.

You watch his lips pull back into a silent snarl. His teeth are powerful and large, shaped like shark incisors, but they do not scare you. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” you say softly. You shift to sit on your knees, waiting until he holds your gaze and loses the sharpness of his eyes. “It’s over now. You made sure of that.”

He killed Glitch. He told Vanessa just as much.

“You would never do such an awful thing,” you also press. You don’t need to tell Eclipse that, but you believe the mere thought grinds against his fins and scrapes his scales. 

You think back to the tiny mer you found on the beach with a hook stuck in his lip. He was so tiny, so afraid then. You were an unknown monster reaching for him, but then you set him free. Now here he is, holding you in the palm of his hand.

You smile and open your arms, a silent request.

He answers you without hesitation. Gently lifting you to his large face, he sets you against his cheek. His nuzzle is joined by a thick, vibrating purr and you laugh softly, pressing against his slick flesh. 

“See? It’s okay,” you tell him and stroke softly down the side of his face and brush a few of his swaying frills. “You take good care of me.”

And you take care of me.

You close your eyes and press just underneath the curve of his eye. 

“Yes,” you murmur.

A gush of warmth envelopes you far more than Eclipse’s hands. Slowly, he pulls you back and with a gentle lick of his tongue, swipes half your body in his fishy saliva.

“Eclipse,” you half laugh, half chastise.

Love you.

He trills and sings and lowers you back to his chest where he gently washes you with drips of salt water from his claws. You close your eyes—this must be what kittens feel like being washed by their mother’s tongue—until you are less fishy and more salty smelling.

He hums low and gentle, and as the sun rises higher and higher, you rest above Eclipse’s heart. The beautiful beat within is steady. You drift upon Eclipse until Vanessa’s voice calls out from your boat. Tea is ready.

[aettuddae]

business matter — chapter 58.

↳ synopsis: two of the most important kpop companies covet a partnership with a huge global brand, only to be surprised when the deal is extended to both labels. fearing potential sabotage and cynical strategies to secure exclusivity for just one of them, both CEOs resort to desperate measures. in a bid to maintain trust and prevent betrayal before the signing, they come up with a pact: forcing a fake relationship between the leaders of their star girlgroups. if one side attempted to fail the other, they threaten to expose it all to the conservative south korea.

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[written chapter]

all the lights in seoul went out. although the girl had not yet fallen asleep completely, the shock after the blackout had awakened her. once she understood what was happening she might have gone back to sleep if something hadn't abruptly crashed into the door and then slammed it open, without her even getting out of bed. from the dark house, serim emerged holding her phone that had the flashlight on and once inside the room she aggressively kicked the door to close it.

"what are you doing…?" karina whispered.

before she could hear her, serim made an olympic leap towards the bed where the blackhaired woman was resting and, ignoring the complaints and pushes that she gave her to get out of her bed, she managed to hide under the sheets. they both fell silent and then only serim's heavy breathing could be heard.

"what's going on?" the youngest asked stoically.

“what's going on, karina? there was a blackout." she said obviously.

“yes, serim, i can notice that, but why are you in my bed?” she spoke into the air since jang was completely covered.

“promise me you won’t laugh.” she asked.

“i won't laugh." she assured, already trying to hold back her laughter.

from beneath her, in the part of her body that was underneath the blanket, she felt serim poke her abdomen with her little finger. karina tried to stop her, but she continued until she understood what she wanted and put her hand under the coverlet, with her pinky extended, and she intertwined it with serim's, sealing her promise.

“i am very afraid of the dark.” she admitted. “since i was little, i could never get over it.” she sounded upset, like she was having trouble breathing. “i hate to thank you, but luckily you're here because i don't know what i would have done if i was alone during the blackout.”

“are you still afraid of the dark?”

"do not judge me!"

"i'm not!"

serim began to poke the contrary's abdomen repeatedly and quickly to annoy her, to which karina tried to get away from her and catch her hands to make her cease the action. out of nowhere, a loud crash was heard causing serim to let out a sharp scream of terror accompanied by a jump on the mattress, and then move disastrously and frantic trying to cover every small hole that led to the outside, messing up the bed, and approaching karina to cling to her body so that she would save her from whatever the threat was. due to the position in which she had ended up after so much rolling around on the bed, the closest extremity of yu within her reach was her legs, so she hugged one of these tightly.

“serim, serim.” she tried to detach her from her leg without results, so she rested her hands on her back. “it was the neighbor upstairs colliding with a chair, nothing's wrong, don't worry.” she patted her skin, frustrated at having to take care of a 26-year-old. “come, get out of there.”

the youngest took the girl by one of her arms and carefully pulled it upwards, trying to get her out from under the covers, but she resisted, clinging to her body tightly so she could stay there below.

“no, karina, i can’t.” she refused, her voice fragile. “what do i do if the boogeyman is out there in the dark?”

“the only thing out here in the dark is me and the oxygen that is not reaching you right now.” she continued to exert force. “namu, don't worry, i'm here.”

“i don't know if i'm more scared of the boogeyman or you.”

"come here." she finally got the older girl to uncover herself and take her head outside, although now holding on tightly to her shirt. “it's okay, you're scared, i'm not going to do anything bad, don't worry.” she tried to calm her down.

barely seeing her image with the little light that filtered from behind the curtains of the room's large window, yu noticed that her hair was a mess due to all the movement she made before, so, leaving a hand on serim's shoulder, she took the other to fix the locks that were in her face.

“you don't mind me sleeping here, do you?” jang asked weakly, fear and vulnerability impossible to hide.

“five minutes ago i would have told you to leave, but now that i see that you are seriously terrified of the dark, i can't be that mean.” she laughed softly. “what does it say about myself if you choose the boogeyman instead of me?”

“i could make great jokes about you and the boogeyman, but i'm scared so maybe another time.” she said with a sad voice and her lips forming a pout.

the blackhaired found that comment cute, so she couldn't resist a light smile, and giving a caress to the girl's cheek, as if it were a reassuring, friendly pat. she turned her body that was on her side facing serim and lay down on her back, but the oldest didn't move, instead she took advantage of her change of position to wrap herself around her arm and hide her head on her neck.

“namu, you can't sleep so close to me.” she carefully tried to push her body.

“i need to be touching you to know that there is someone and not be afraid.”

she babbled with her face still between karina's shoulder and jaw, moving to circle her torso and hold onto it, lacing her fingers with the fabric of her pajamas that draped over her ribs. by hugging her more securely, the young one could no longer separate her from her, and on the other side, she only felt her getting closer and closer. due to the little space between their bodies, the vocalist's nose constantly rubbed against the other's skin, and this one couldn't help but be distracted by this detail.

“why is your nose cold?” she asked in a low volume.

the girl returned to the previous position she was in, standing on her side, face to face and impossibly nearer to serim, who, due to the motion, remained holding the youngest in her arms, and upon noticing this, she rested her hands on her waist and lower back to press and attract her towards her.

"i have no idea." unlike her voice moments ago when she was scared, now her words came out in a serious deep tone typical of when you just woke up, still in a whisper.

yu held her face gently between her fingertips and moved closer to her, brushing their noses lightly once, taking a second to appreciate the sensation of the recent touch on her skin before lifting her chin again to rub her nose against jang's again and then maintain that contact for a moment, going back and forth slowly and tenderly, until she brought her lips to the opposite tip and left a kiss there.

before separating from her, serim moved towards her to capture her mouth with her own, but karina turned around, lying face up, quickly, avoiding the connection.

"i can't, i have a boyfriend." she remembered, that sentence coming out between labored breaths, as if she had just run.

serim rolled on the mattress, ending up on the opposite end of it, the back of her hand falling on the dancer's chest, keeping contact, she gave a frustrated sigh.

“so, you don't do it because you have a boyfriend,” she reiterated. “not because you don't want to." observed.

"think whatever you want." yu dismissed her, returning to the same sour tone with which she always spoke to her, adjusting her pillow to go to sleep.

“karina." the woman called after a moment of complete silence.

"now what?" tha named one asked tired, she was sleepy.

“can you hold my hand?” she asked shyly.

“namu…”

“it's not romantic at all, it's just that i need to be in contact with you to be reassured that there is someone else and i'm not alone in the darkness.” she explained honestly.

the youngest didn't react, so serim thought that she would not pay attention to her and so began to breathe with difficulty as she became aware of the lack of light again and felt helpless in it, but before she lost her composure she felt the touch of karina on her skin, sliding along it in search of her hand. the oldest made her task easier, tapping on her to make it simpler to find it. yu then wrapped her palm around jang's thumb, holding it steady, bringing calm to serim, and finally helping her fall asleep.

(!)

— taglist [CLOSED]: @yoontoonwhs @cwpiqwon @aliceiwk @xen248 @gtfoiydlyj @rinapomu @aeriuchinarga @multiliker @somedaydream @impossiblesharkcashrebel @yjiminswallet @haerinsloverr @yerimbrit @73vyn @dni-unavailable @yizhuobberi @sewiouslyz @yeetaberry127 @masuowo @yallatalla @aerithykly @chaenniefirst @minfolio @starrynini05 @hotluvlet @wmnrhot @mineige @lisaswifey @brocoliisscared @fae-the-wanderer

[blossomwritesthings]

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

pairing: minho x fem!reader (afab)

genre: sick!fic. idol!minho. sick!reader. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. reader pov. established relationship.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. mild thematic elements. angst galore. reader is sick. minho is a soft and doting bf. reader has a fainting scare/high temp/migraine. slight possessive behavior from minho (but in a cute and soft way, i promise!!). pet names (affectionately). cuteness overload.

word count: 8.3k

summary: it's the dead of winter when you suddenly come down with a bad case of the flu. and your doting boyfriend minho is more than happy and willing to help you through the pain.

a/n: yes, i am fully on the brainwashing and brainrotting train that is writing minho out to be a soft, caring bf. don't come for me, it's one of the only pleasures in my life rn!! i wrote this in one sitting (and yes, most of the content in here is based off of my own experience with the flu this past year), so it might be horrible or really amazing. lmk what ya'll think and if you'd like more of this content from me! :))

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The first symptom of the flu to come upon you was a sore throat. It happened just after you and Minho had finished eating dinner - since it was a Wednesday night, Chinese takeout had been on the menu. 

 You were laying in bed, already cozied up in your pajamas and snuggled under the thick coverlets, reading one of the winter-themed books that you had recently checked out at your local library. When, all of a sudden, your throat started to feel scratchy. Every few minutes, you kept reaching over to your nightstand table to take a sip from the glass of water that you always kept there. 

 Just then Minho came out of the master bedroom’s adjoining bathroom, clad in the black sweatpants that he always wore to bed. He was shirtless since his hot-blooded self could never fall asleep if he had too many clothes on. You got a clear view of his chiseled chest muscles and sinewy biceps as he padded over to you with his slippers on and gave your forehead a gentle kiss. 

 When he pulled away from you and saw the discomfort that was evident in the way your brows were furrowed together, he frowned slightly. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He asked, tucking a few strands of your loose hair behind your ear as he peered down at you with those sparkly, expressive doe-eyes of his. 

 “I don’t know, my throat hurts all of a sudden.” You said, swallowing over the painful scratch in your mouth. 

 “Did you drink some water?” 

 “Yeah, but it’s not helping…” 

 “Let me make you some warm tea, then,” your boyfriend reached down and tenderly squeezed your forearm with a tiny smile stretching across his lips. “Surely that will help you feel better.” 

 “But- Min, it’s too late, you worked so much today… it’s okay, I can make it,” you protested, catching hold of his wrist and stopping him from leaving your side. You looked up at him with pleading eyes, even as your throat was screaming at you for something warm. 

 “It’s okay, kitten. Making the tea will only take a few minutes, and then I’ll be right back in bed with you.” Just then he bent into you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before pulling away and ruffling some of your hair with a wide grin on his face. “Wanna help you, baby, hmm?” 

 And how could you deny that face? Those words? So, you released your grasp over him and watched him flood from the bedroom. Not a minute later you heard rummaging in the kitchen, as your loving boyfriend began to prepare a cup of tea for you. 

 In his absence, you tried - and failed - to get comfortable in bed again. Your book was long forgotten on your nightstand, and your throat had gotten so progressively worse over a few minutes that swallowing was starting to hurt. 

 Just when you thought you couldn’t take waiting any longer, Minho walked through your bedroom door with a huge, steaming mug in his hands. “It’s lemon-chamomile flavour… I added some honey for extra comfort, too.” He said as he placed it into your outstretched palms. 

 “Thank you, baby- don’t deserve you.” You mumbled in a quiet voice, offering him a tiny smile. 

 “Does it hurt to talk?” He asked as he turned off the lamp on your nightstand before rounding the bed and joining you on his side. He got comfortable underneath the thick duvet before switching off the last remaining light in the bedroom. 

 Everything was thrown into darkness around you, and for a moment, you were disoriented. But then you felt a familiar hand reach over to you and grasp one of your free hands, squeezing slightly, and you relaxed into your pillows. 

 “Yeah, kinda…” Your voice trailed off into the night as you took a sip of the tea. It was piping hot, but even still, felt amazing as it went down. You could already feel the chamomile and honey concoction soothing your discomfort away. “This tastes amazing, Min. Thank you.” 

 Minho snuggled deeper into the covers, shivering a few times from the chill in the air. It was the dead of winter and even with the heat blasting throughout your shared apartment, your place always seemed to have a cold draft traveling between the few rooms. “I’m glad you like it.” Your boyfriend’s voice was heavy, indicating that he was truly exhausted. 

 You leaned over to him and carded a few fingers through his dark, chestnut-brown hair. “Now, go to sleep, you workaholic. You’ve got a jam-packed schedule for the rest of the week.” You said into the quiet that had suddenly fallen over the bedroom. 

 Your words suddenly had Minho groaning into his pillow, “Don’t even fucking remind me about tomorrow’s schedule- it’s gonna be hell, for sure,” he began in that deep voice of his that would always come out late at night. You had told him many times in the past that you loved the sound of it, to which he cockily said that he’d try to stay up later with you so that way you could hear it more and gush over how sexy he sounded. Secretly, he loved the praise… a little too much, if you were truly honest with yourself. “You’ll be okay to go to bed?” He suddenly asked, bringing you out of your reverie of thought on his sultry ‘night voice.’

 “Just fine,” you whispered, snuggling down under the sheets. You could already feel the heat that was radiating off of Minho’s body, as he slowly warmed the two of you up just with his hot-blooded self alone. 

 “Okay, then… goodnight, my baby. Feel better in the morning, yeah?” 

 “Goodnight Min. And sure, I’ll try to.” You replied in a quiet voice. 

 And then there was no reply from your boyfriend, as he swiftly drifted off to dreamland. After you had finished your tea, you snuggled up against him, wrapping one of his arms around your waist and pressing your back against his inviting, bare chest. The chamomile had helped immensely to take the ache in your throat away, and in no time at all, you were joining Minho in dreamland.

 When you woke up the next day, your throat hurt like a bitch. You had thought that the night before had been bad, but nothing compared to how dry and scratchy it felt so early in the morning. 

 Turning over on your side with a groan, you cracked your eyes open against the bright light shining through from the bedroom’s large bay window. You noticed how Minho’s space was already empty. You shifted a palm across his pillow, noting the coldness of the satin fabric. 

 Stumbling out of bed a few minutes later, you realized how quiet the apartment was. With a glance at the nearby clock on your nightstand, the time read just past seven in the morning. Minho was already long gone.

 Since your sore throat had only gotten worse overnight, you deemed yourself unfit to go to work that day. So after having called up your manager and telling her that you had to take a sick day, you slowly got ready for the day. The hot shower worked somewhat in relieving your throat pain, but not by much. And by the time you had dried your hair, brushed your teeth, and thrown on some comfy sweats and one of the many hoodies that you had stolen from Minho throughout your relationship, a spilling migraine had begun to bloom across your temples. 

 “Just my luck…” You mumbled to yourself as you made your way into the kitchen. With a glance around the adjacent living room/dining room, you noticed how the apartment looked more tidy than usual. Your boyfriend must’ve cleaned the place before he left early that morning. The thought of him picking up because you didn’t feel well left a wide smile on your face as your trudged to the fridge. 

 Having opened the thing, you noticed a huge soup pot that was covered with a lit, sitting on the middle shelf. A note was attached to the top of it, and it read, 

 Baby, 

 Made some rice porridge for you this morning. Didn’t have time to wake you up to tell you, so only kissed you goodbye. Text me after you’re finished eating- I haven’t made the recipe in a while and want to know how I did. 

 Love you, and hope you feel better, 

 - Min XX 

 You felt the emotions rising inside of you as you read the small note again, and soon, your eyes were turning watery from unshed tears. He truly was the best boyfriend ever. Minho was the type of guy who liked to share his love for you in actions. He loved cooking for you and cleaning for you. But over time, since you two had started dating, he had slowly become more expressive with his feelings through words as well. It was a nice change that you gladly welcomed and it made your heart all fuzzy to know that he was trying to be a better lover for you alone. 

 In no time at all, you had heated a portion of rice porridge for yourself. It was chock full of tender, flavourful chicken, and tons of veggies - like carrots, mushrooms, and even zucchini. You drizzled some fish sauce and soy sauce on top of it and used the chopped-up scallions that Minho had left for you to garnish the porridge. 

 You took a picture to send to your boyfriend before you dug into the meal. And instantly, you felt so much better. The heat of the porridge slid down your throat and coated your insides with a fuzzy, comforting feeling. It was so very delectable and you finished it in just a few minutes. After you were done eating, you made sure to take some ibuprofen that you had on hand to try and combat the splitting migraine that was upon you. 

 Sending the picture you had taken earlier of your meal, you quickly texted Minho.

Min Today 10:03

Me: Just had the porridge… WHY have you never made this for me before?! It was amazing!! 

 Within a minute, he texted back. 

Min: Wow, I had no idea you’d like it that much, I’ll have to make it again. It makes me happy to hear that you enjoyed it. :) Did it help with your sore throat? You looked to be in discomfort when I left this morning… 

Me: Yes! The porridge really soothed me, I feel better already! 

Min: Ok, I’m glad then :) You took off work today, right? 

Me: I mean, yeah, since I can barely talk :( 

Min: Awe baby :( I’m so sorry. Just rest today, I’ll try to be home earlier than I was last night. 

Me: I’ll just be laying in bed all day haha… and ok, have a good day at work! Love you <3

Min: Love you too <;33

 Staring at the bright screen of your phone was only making your headache worse, so you turned it off and trekked back to your bed. The exhaustion hit you as soon as your back hit the soft mattress, and halfway through the comfort movie you had turned on on the tv, you were already drifting off to sleep. 

 Late that same night, the fever started. At first, your cheeks were just flushed, which could happen from time to time. But then, the back of your neck started to feel warm too. And soon, it felt like your entire body had been doused in a scorching hot pit of lava. 

 Keeping to his word, Minho arrived home an entire hour earlier than the night before. When he walked through the apartment’s front door at eleven with both hands full of groceries, you immediately stood up from the living room couch to help him unpack. 

 “No, no- I’ve got it. Go sit back down,” he insisted, trying to shoo you away with his hand as he placed the many bags atop the kitchen counter. 

 You peeked into one of them and saw a huge box of multi-flavoured popsicles. “What’s all this for?” You mumbled in a weak voice. 

 “You, my dear… want to cook some good meals to help you feel better,” Minho said, turning you towards him so that he could get a good look at your face. When he noticed the deep crimson flush that stretched across your cheeks and traveled down to the part of your next that was exposed from your - formerly his - baggy hoodie, his brows furrowed. “Baby, do you feel warm?” The light in his eyes flashed with concern as he gently pressed a hand against your cheek and forehead. 

 “Y-yeah, a little…” 

 “You’re burning up,” Minho said, voice a little panicked as he led you back over to the living room couch, the groceries suddenly forgotten. You had only ever gotten a fever once before in all the time that you two had been dating, and it hadn’t been all that bad, to begin with. And it sure as hell hadn’t made you feel as hot as you did just then. “Here, let me get the thermometer.” 

 Then he was gone from your side and rushing into your bedroom, in search of the only thermometer you kept on hand. Resting against the couch, you tried to focus on anything else but the soreness in your throat and the heat that flooded through your veins just then. The headache had come back with a vengeance a little earlier that night, the ibuprofen wearing off fairly quickly. Much to your demise.  

 Minho was beside you again a few minutes later, thermometer in hand. “Baby, open for me,” he instructed, and you opened your mouth slightly so that he could slide the small thing under your tongue. The metal felt cold against your teeth, and time seemed to pass by agonizingly slowly, as you two sat there on the couch and waited for the reading. When it finally beeped loudly, Minho took it out and inspected it. “Nighty-nine-point-eight. You’ve definitely got a fever.” 

 You closed your eyes then, resting an arm across your eyes and groaning into the crook of your elbow. Even your eyelids felt hot. “Fuck- I’ll have to take off more sick days from work. I really can’t afford to do that-”

 “Kitten, I think that’s the least of your worries right now,” your boyfriend said softly just beside you. You felt his hand wrap around your knee and squeeze the skin there gently. “I’m going to get some cold rags, okay? Just- stay here.” By the way that his voice had turned a little high-pitched, you could tell how he was slowly starting to get stressed out about the whole thing. Which was saying a lot, since there wasn’t much in the world that could stress him out. 

 The two of you rarely fell ill, and when you did, it was always a mild case of the cold. So for you to have so many symptoms all at once, must’ve been very overwhelming for your boyfriend. But, what could you do? The sickness was here, and it was here to stay… 

 You felt something cold press against your forehead amid your thoughts, and you cracked your tired eyes open to glimpse Minho leaning towards you on the couch, two other wet washcloths in hand. 

 “These will help to cool you down,” he explained, as he helped move you forward a little bit so that he could place the second cloth behind your neck. Then you let him guide you so that you were fully laying down on the couch, limbs sprawled out. You were too sapped of energy to even ask what he was doing as he gingerly lifted your oversized hoodie. When you felt the coldness of a third, and final washcloth press against your stomach, you understood his sudden actions. “You should take some ibuprofen, that’ll help bring your fever down.” 

 “I can’t take it without first eating something.” 

 “Then I’ll make you some food- did you have dinner?” 

 You shook your head no, the motion only making your pounding headache worse. You winced and grabbed at your head, massaging one of your temples. 

 “How about I heat some of the rice porridge from earlier?” Minho offered before standing up from his kneeling position on the ground.

 But just as he was about to leave your side, you stopped him by grasping at the fabric of his dark-blue sweatpants by his knees. He was still sweaty from the apparent dance practice that he had been doing in the studio just before he came home. “No- I- I’m too nauseous to eat anything right now.” You mumbled, voice cracking a little bit from the pain that was solidly rooted in your throat. Your cheeks were so hot, it felt like you had gotten a sunburn while laying out on the beach, when in reality- you had been lying around your apartment all day, not even catching a single glimpse of the sun through the hazy January clouds outside. 

 “Okay, well, maybe you can take the medicine later when you feel a little better,” Minho said. He was squatting down at your side then, brushing back your hair from your forehead. “Just rest on the couch here while I put the groceries away, and then we can go to bed.” 

 You nodded in understanding, too tired to say anything else as he kissed your hot cheek and finally pulled away from your side.

 That night turned out to be absolutely horrendous. 

 You tossed and turned throughout it, not being able to get comfortable. The cold washcloths had done little to help bring your fever down, and the throat lozenges that Minho had gotten for you at the grocery store earlier merely coated your throat in this weird aftertaste that left you coughing for half of the night. 

 Not to mention the headache. 

 Which had turned into a full-blown migraine. 

 The ache wrapped around your entire head, and it felt like someone had your skull in a vice-like grip, squeezing and squeezing the very life out of it. 

 Your boyfriend, who stayed up with you for the entirety of the night, was a literal fucking saint. He made trips into the bathroom every hour to dampen your washcloths with cold water again and regularly made you tea to try and help relieve your throat. 

 “Min- baby- you need to stop helping me now,” you whispered through the daze of tiredness. Because if you were drained, you couldn’t imagine how your boyfriend had to feel - what with having worked for the better half of sixteen hours that day. “You have so much on your plate right now, I can’t expect you to stay up all night just because I’m feeling like shit.” 

 “S’okay, I’m not sleepy…” But the way his quiet voice drifted off at the end of his words proved differently to you. 

 You turned on your side in bed, catching a glimpse of your boyfriend’s slumped form through the faint moonlight that shined through the bedroom window’s curtains. His shoulders were hunched over, his head hanging low, as he massaged languid circles into the palm of your closest hand. 

 “Yes, you are. Now, go to sleep.” You said firmly, pushing on his shoulders so that his head hit his pillow. 

 At your forceful movement, his eyes shot open. “I can’t leave you like this- baby, you’re in so much fucking pain right now. I-I feel horrible that I can’t help you more.” He said, his tone desperate. He threaded his fingers through yours then, squeezing a little desperately, trying to convey how strongly he felt about staying up with you and helping you practically survive the night. 

 “I know babe, I know…” You pushed away a few locks of his dark, chestnut-brown hair that had fallen in front of his face, giving him a soft smile. “But you need to sleep now, okay? That’s how you can help me feel better- by going to bed. I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” 

 Minho was silent for a few beats, as you stared into each other's eyes. You were both incredibly stubborn when you wanted to be, but on this topic- you wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t jeopardize his packed schedule while also letting the boys down just because you weren’t feeling well. 

 “Alright,” he finally surrendered in a defeated-sounding voice. “But, you’ll wake me up if anything happens, right?” 

 “Of course.” You leaned down into him and gave the crown of his head a soft kiss. “Love you, Min.” 

 “Love you too…” He said, his eyes already closed. And just like that, you watched his face relax, body melting into the soft downy mattress, as he finally drifted off to sleep. 

 And hopefully, you’d soon join him in blissful sleep as well. 

 Turns out that you didn’t get a wink of shut-eye that night, tossing and turning underneath your thin sheet - you had thrown off the thick duvet coverlet that had been laid on top of you early on in the night. A thick coating of sweat covered your entire body, even with the cold washcloths still placed on you. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, had been out like a light. 

 In your sleepless, frail daze, you hadn’t managed to catch him as he left for work early the next morning. But as soon as your eyes opened, your head throbbed from the bright light flooding through your bedroom’s curtains, and a strong wave of nausea overtook you. 

 You shot from your bed and barely made it to the bathroom. You leaned over the toilet bowl and hurled up the little contents that were left inside of you. The only thing you had eaten the day before was the rice porridge that Minho had made for you in the morning and two strawberry-mango-flavoured popsicles to try and ease your throat. 

 It still hurt like hell, and your head was pounding from your migraine. When you leaned back from the toilet, a loud groan escaped past your lips from the distress that you were in. You sat there on the cold, tiled bathroom floor for a few minutes, just taking in deep breaths and trying to persuade yourself to get up when all you felt like doing was tipping over and passing out from exhaustion. 

 In the end, you managed to get up from the hard ground and brush your teeth before making your way back to your nightstand, where you had glimpsed a small piece of paper placed just atop your latest pick from your local library. The nightstand’s clock read just half-past ten o’clock in the morning. 

 You probably didn’t get much sleep last night. Try to take a nap sometime today when you can. 

 You need to eat something, but, if you’re too nauseous, at least drink lots of water. There’s some Pocari Sweat in the fridge, so drink plenty of that. 

 And please, try to take some ibuprofen if you can. It will help bring down your fever. Checked it before I left, temp is now at 102.8. It should’ve broken in the night.  

 Call/text me whenever you want to, I’ll be available all day and will be home even earlier than yesterday. 

Love you, Minho XX

 Even through your confused state of pain and weariness, a smile graced your lips at your boyfriend’s thoughtfulness. Since you rarely got sick, it was uncommon for you to experience this exact side of him. It was a whole kind of new Lee Minho, and to be honest, you quite liked it. And although the doting could be a little excessive and suffocating, it was the thought that counted, right? 

 Somehow, you found enough energy inside of you to get up from your comfy bed and into the shower. The hot water felt amazing on your skin, and did wonders for your bad migraine. You stood under the spout for at least twenty minutes - maybe even more than that. And when you were too tired to keep standing, you sat down on the cold tile of the stall. The steam that the scalding water emitted all around you also helped to calm your inflamed throat down, and you basked in the comforting feeling for quite a while. 

 It was only after you stepped out of the shower, legs slightly wobbly, that you realized your mistake. 

 You had a fucking fever, for God’s sake- 

 It should’ve been very obvious to you- 

 Not to take a scalding hot shower for that long. 

 Even still, there was no turning back. And almost immediately, you felt the repercussions of your actions. As you wrapped a fluffy white towel around your body and grabbed for the blow dryer, you suddenly felt very lightheaded. 

 And not the kind of lightheaded that you would sometimes get if you stood up from a sitting position too quickly. 

 No, this kind of lightheadedness was the kind where you felt like you were about to fucking pass out. 

 Just then, you realized how hot your entire body felt. You thought that it had been bad before- but nothing compared to the sheer heat that radiated off of your body. 

 With a racing heart and shaking limbs, you slowly shuffled out of the bathroom, clutching onto the wall for support. Your vision was going in and out, turning so blurry that you could barely see in front of you. 

 You fumbled around your nightstand for your phone, and with quaking fingers, you dialed Minho’s number as fast as you could. You were standing just beside your bed, legs feeling like they were about to give out on you. You were so weary and confused and felt like you were about to fall over, so half of what you were doing didn’t even make sense to you. But you knew that you had to get ahold of your boyfriend- in that scary moment, that was the most important thing to you. 

 The phone rang once, 

 Twice, 

 Three times. 

 Please, just fucking pick up- 

 Please don’t be in a meeting or at practice or- 

 “Baby? I’m so glad you called, how are you-” His gentle, serene voice rang out across your phone’s speaker that was pressed to your ear. 

 You let out a sob of relief, the tears finally flowing down your cheeks. “M-Min, I-I can’t-“ It was hard for you to speak over the dizziness and confusion. 

 “Y/N? What’s wrong? What happened?” Minho’s voice immediately turned frantic at your mumblings. 

 “S-So dizzy- got out of the shower and- and gonna pass out- help me, Min, please-” It felt like your knees were about to buckle just then, but Minho’s voice cut through your heated stupor. 

 “Lie down right now, baby. You close to the bed?” 

 “Y-yeah-”

 “Lie down, completely stretch out your body. Can you do that for me?” 

 You said nothing more, shifting towards your bed and collapsing on top of it with a tiny gasp of exhaustion. “I-I’m on it-”

 “I’m leaving the company right now,” Minho’s exclamation broke through your daze of fatigue. 

 “W-What? Baby- no, don’t- you have an important recording today and-”

 “To hell with the schedule!” He was suddenly shouting through the phone, making you pull it away from your ear from the loudness. It only made your headache worse. When he heard your whimper of pain, he began speaking again but in a quieter voice. “I’m sorry for yelling, baby- it’s just that, the company can’t expect me to go to work when the fucking love of my life is about to pass out from the flu that she has.” His voice was much calmer this time and helped to soothe your racing heart a little bit. Your limbs were still shaking though, your vision going in and out. 

 There was silence on both your ends, as your slow mind processed his words. You heard shuffling on his line and muffled voices. Then he was talking to someone - it sounded like Chan - their whispers were hard to hear over the static of the phone. 

 “Baby?” Minho’s voice cut through your tiredness. You opened your eyes weakly, trying to focus your attention on the painting that hung on the wall just beside your flatscreen tv. It was of a single, pink tulip positioned in a grassy field. The piece was something that Hyunjin had gifted you for your birthday in the past year. “I want you to stay on the phone with me until I get home, okay? Just keep talking to me - about anything - just don’t close your eyes, alright?” 

 His instructions seemed like absolute torture to you right then, because all you wanted to do was close your eyes and let go - let your mind drift off into wonderland for even a few blissful seconds. “I’ll try,” you started, voice quiet as you nuzzled into the bed’s thick duvet that was still messed up from the night before. You hadn’t found the energy to make it yet. “I-I threw up this morning.” 

 “Oh, darling- I’m so sorry I wasn’t there… but, I’ll be there soon, yeah? I’ll take care of you, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” His tone was laced with concern, and a tiny smile spread across your lips at how attentive he was being toward you. 

 The entire thirty-minute commute that he took every day from your apartment to the company, you stayed on the line with your boyfriend, talking about whatever came to your mind. You were still nauseous, so food was never brought up, mainly just the changing weather and what you wanted to do that weekend since he’d have a break from schedules that Saturday, which was quite a rare occurrence for him. 

 Laying down on the bed had helped your dizziness somewhat, but every time you shifted just a little bit, your vision would go blurry again. It was annoying as fuck, to add yet another symptom to your myriad of other problems. 

 “I’m pulling up to the apartment right now, so I’ll hang up. Wait for me, baby.” Minho finally said after what felt like an eternity of him traveling home from the company. You mumbled an incoherent ‘yes’ before he hung up the call. 

 True to your promise, you kept your eyes open, laying as still as a statue on the bed. You were back to studying Hyunjin’s flower painting just as you heard the front door’s keypad being used. A breath of relief left you as shuffling echoed throughout the one-bedroom apartment, and in no time at all, there your boyfriend was- rushing into your bedroom with a wild look in his eyes and flushed cheeks, his dark brows furrowed.  

 “Kitten-“ he breathed out in a sight of relief at the sight of your still-awake form, “C’mere.” He dropped his backpack on the floor next to the door before he was bounding towards you. In one swift movement, he was lifting you off the bed, taking you up into his arms, and cradling your head against his chest as he sat back down on the bed’s plush mattress. 

 The tears started again almost as soon as he had you in his arms. Your sobs wracked through your body, as he brushed soothing fingers through your hair. You knew that crying would only make your migraine worse, but you couldn’t give a flying fuck about anything just then. You were just so happy to see your boyfriend, after such a disastrous morning. 

 “Y-You came back for me,” you sniffled after a long bout of silence that was filled with only your cries. You pulled away from his chest, looking up at him through blurry vision. “I-I was so scared, Min.”

 Minho swiped his thumbs underneath your eyes, gently catching your falling tears with the pads of his soft fingers. “Of course I did, baby. I love you… and it kills me to see you this way. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help you.” 

 “Just glad you’re here now,” you whispered, clutching onto his waist a little harder. “I’ll feel better now with just your presence alone… but, how long are you staying for?” 

 He tucked a few strands of your still-sopping wet hair behind your ear. In your dizziness, you hadn’t found the time to dry it yet. “Not leaving you again, darling. The company gave me the day off, Chan helped me persuade them.” 

 “B-But you’re gonna miss such an important day of schedules and-”

 Your boyfriend shushed you with a slender finger to your lips. “It’s already done now, Y/N. So let’s just focus on helping you feel better, alright? By firstly, getting you dressed.” 

 You looked down and realized that you were still only clad in your soaked towel. “Wow, I didn’t even realize I was still in this…” Your voice trailed off, as Minho placed you back down on the bed and made for your walk-in closet. 

 “Is it a sweatpants and hoodie kinda day again?” He asked as he poked his head into the closet. 

 “A-Actually, I’m too hot to wear anything thick,” you managed to stutter out, perched at the edge of the bed. And soon enough, your loving, doting boyfriend emerged from the closet with a pair of soft, black cotton shorts and a thin, maroon-colored camisole. 

 “Will this do?” He questioned, holding up the items for you to inspect them from across the room.

 Wordlessly, you nodded your approval. And soon enough, he was shifting his way toward you. In no time at all, he had helped slip the shorts up your bare legs, the loose waistband resting gently against your hips. Then, he guided the camisole over your head, gently pulling the thin spaghetti straps over your shoulders. 

 “All good?” Leaning forward, he tucked a piece of your wet hair that had fallen into the front of your face behind your ear. 

 “Mhm- but my hair’s still wet from the shower,” you mumbled, staring up into his dark pupils that were dancing with a myriad of emotions - but especially, concern. “Carry me?” You asked, reaching out your arms to him, supple and waiting, like a small baby that wanted to be carried by someone they trusted. 

 “Always, kitten.” He whispered, just as he pulled you up into his hold. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he charged for the bathroom. And soon, you were sitting atop the granite counter, as he ran his fingers through your hair. 

 The blow dryer was loud in your ears, and the heat from it only seemed to raise your temperature even more. You still had your legs wound around Minho’s torso as he worked with nimble fingers to dry your hair. You tipped your head towards his hand every time he ran a brush through your locks. 

 When he was finished, he pressed a palm against your forehead for what felt like the millionth time that day. “You’re still burning up, baby…” His voice trailed off, as he leaned across the counter, grabbing a stray hair bobble. He pulled your hair away from your face and fitted it into a loose ponytail at the back of your head. Immediately upon the feeling of your thick locks being out of your face, a content sigh of relief escaped past your lips. “I really need you to take that ibuprofen, honey.” A deep frown bloomed across his lips, turning his mouth downwards in a displeased kind of way. 

 “My migraine isn’t as bad as it was earlier, so I think I can choke something down now.” You said. Your eyes were still closed, as you breathed in the familiar scent - of warm, dark roasted coffee and cinnamon sticks - of your boyfriend. 

 And in no time at all, he had you seated on the living room couch, your eyes trailing over the food that he prepared for lunch. There was a bowl of the porridge that he had made the day before, a piece of plain, white buttered toast, and a yellowed banana. Not to mention the medicine set off to the side with a tall glass of water. 

 “Eat, baby.” Your boyfriend took hold of the tray that the food was on and positioned it on your lap. 

 He was sitting beside you on the couch, gaze locked on your form with a certain kind of intensity that would make you anxious if you didn’t know him so well. The intensity he had was only borne out of concern. He so desperately wanted you to get better, that’s all. 

 “Thank you, Min… it looks delicious.” You pecked his cheek gently, watching as a soft smile cracked across his lips before you delved into the lunch. 

 You had to admit, the food was exceptionally good. The porridge helped to alleviate your throat, and the bread filled your stomach comfortably. You hadn’t realized how hungry you had truly been until you started eating. But halfway through the meal, you stopped when you noticed how your boyfriend hadn’t moved from his spot of watching you. 

 “Aren’t you going to join me?” You asked, motioning towards your spoon that was laden with porridge. 

 He shook his head slowly, “Want to take care of you first, that’s all.” 

 You gave him a deep frown. “Min, you're already taking care of me. Just making this meal is enough for me.” 

 “I know, but I wasn’t here earlier- don’t want to take my eyes off you for even a second, in case something happens.” 

 “I’m not going to pass out, baby. I’m fine now. So please, eat some lunch, yeah?” 

 “You still have the flu, Y/N. Just because you haven’t passed out yet doesn’t mean you won’t in the future,” Minho crossed his arms in front of his chest, canting his head to the side, eyes trailing on your red-cheeked face. “And I want to be sure I’m here to catch you if that happens.” 

 “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence…” You grumbled softly, turning your attention back to your cooling porridge. There was no use fighting him on the matter anyway. He was a stubborn mule when he wanted to be, and apparently, Minho would run himself ragged before he ever looked away from you again. 

 It was only after you had finished your lunch, and had downed four ibuprofen pills and a glass of water with it, that Minho finally got up from the couch to put your dishes away and make something for himself. He rounded the couch a few minutes later, pressing a cold washcloth against your head. The sudden coolness surprised you, and you slightly sat up from your laying position on the couch to catch a glimpse of your boyfriend. 

 Minho took a seat at the end of the couch, near your feet, a plate of food in his hands. For his meal, he was having a rather bland-looking sandwich, with a green apple sliced thin set off to the side. 

 “That’s all you’re having to eat?” You raised an eyebrow at him, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a good look at him. 

 His gaze was already on you even before you met his stare, as he bit into his sandwich. “Don’t pass judgment on my habits when you hadn’t eaten anything until just now.” 

 “But I’m the one who’s sick here…” You protested, shaking your head in disapproval at the lack of food on his plate. He was a growing guy, always in the gym, always straining his body for work. He needed to eat enough to fuel himself properly. Changbin was always harping about such things to the boys, but especially, your boyfriend. Since, as Changbin put it, ‘he never seems to get enough macros in for his height and weight range.’ Whatever the hell that meant. 

 To that, Minho said nothing, merely biting into his sandwich once more. His silence only made you more agitated with him, and that, coupled with your slightly-pounding migraine and your drowsiness only helped to add fuel to the fire. 

 “I”m worried about you, Min… you need to eat more if you want-”

 “You’re worried?” He suddenly let out a dry, humorless scoff. And instantly, you recognized his tone. In the blink of an eye, his entire demeanor shifted. It changed from the intensity he had from caring for you, to the intensity that he always got whenever he was worked up. Whenever he was worked up about you, and your safety. “I’m the one who’s fucking worried here, Y/N!” He practically burst out in a loud voice, throwing his plate down on the nearby coffee table in his sudden exclamation. 

 “Minho-” You began in a soft voice but you were quickly cut off by his raising voice once more. 

 “Do you have any fucking idea how scary it was to get a call from you this morning and have you practically fighting for your very life to not pass out right then and there?” He ran a few frantic fingers through his hair, clutching at the roots, slightly bending over, and resting his elbows against his knees. “Because damn it- I was practically shaking from all the worry. And then I come home and find you literally naked and sopping wet and crying and-” Just then, his voice cracked, his words fading off into the distance. 

 And in the next beat, you were moving. Towards him, so that you were right up in his personal space. You took hold of one of his hands, pulling it away from tugging at his locks of brown hair. Squeezing your fingers between his own, you pressed a soft kiss to the top of his hand. 

 “Baby, I’m so sorry… it’s my fault that everything became such a big mess. I didn’t have to take such a long, hot shower.” You admitted, giving his skin another kiss. 

 Minho pulled his head up just then, as it had dropped between his hunched shoulders in his distress. His eyes slid over to yours instantly. “Don’t apologize, none of this is your fault. You were only trying to relieve your symptoms, I get it.” He held onto your hand a little tighter, like in that moment, he needed to be grounded in the reality of you. That you were still there with him, still living and breathing, albeit tired as hell and ill to the bone. But still, there nonetheless. “And please, just... don’t leave me, okay? I can’t lose you, baby… I can’t…” His voice became a tiny whisper at the end of his words, misery flashing across his face, radiating deep in the way that his eyes softened at the sight of you, his brows creasing with the tears that he could never seem to shed. 

 “Min, I have the flu… not the damn plague.” You laughed, lips grazing his hand again as you placed another peck against his skin. “And of course, I’m not going to leave you.” 

 “Good, because I’m never going to leave you either.” And suddenly, he was taking hold of you, pulling you onto his lap and burrowing his face into the crook of your exposed neck. He blew raspberry kisses against your heated skin, making you burst out into a fit of giggles. You kicked your feet up into the air, trying to escape him as his nimble fingers tickled you at your sides. 

 And all at once, just for a few minutes, he helped you forget about everything - about your sickness, the discomfort, and the fatigue. All of it. Helping by kissing away the swarthy thoughts and tension-filled temples. 

 Later that day, your fever finally broke. The medicine seemed to kick in just in time and helped to completely take away your headache. Your throat still felt dry and scratchy, but continually downing warm cups of tea was slowly helping that. You and Minho spent the day lounging around the apartment, watching random reality shows that were playing on the tv, and indulging in a whole pint of chocolate ice cream an hour before bed. 

 But despite having all that sugar and caffeine right before laying down, you found that sleep threatened to take over you as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

 “Will you go in to work tomorrow?” You asked, laying on your side and facing your boyfriend as he sprawled out in the bed just a little ways away from you. 

 “I don’t know… I hope not.” 

 “The boys will need you, baby. I think you should.” 

 After all, he was an integral part of the team. He couldn’t simply disappear from Stray Kids for even a few days and not have them feel the lasting effects of his absence. 

 “Let’s not worry about that and just focus on going to bed, okay?” He reached out to you, clutching onto your hip and pulling you towards him. 

 When your forehead was comfortably rested against his bare, muscled chest, you peered up at him with a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Thanks for taking care of me today, honey. I don’t deserve you…” 

 He pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead, his voice rumbling with sleep as he spoke, “I’ll do anything for you, kitten. And of course, you deserve me- I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” 

 Without another word said between the two of you, you closed your eyes and breathed in deeply. Your boyfriend's comforting scent washed over you, seeming to soothe a tender spot inside of you, and all at once, you were falling fast and hard into a deep slumber. 

 The first thing you noticed when you awoke the following morning was that for once in what felt like an eternity, the blinding morning light shining through the bedroom curtains didn’t automatically make you feel like shit. Instead, it helped to place a content feeling deep inside your heart. 

 And the second thing that you noticed when you awoke the following morning was the fact that your boyfriend was still in bed. 

 He had both arms wrapped around your waist, and when you dragged away from his chest, a muffled groan fled from his slightly-parted lips. 

 With a glance at your nearby clock, you noticed how it was well past the time that he usually got up for work. 

 Minho cracked an eye open from the shifting of your figure, a lazy smirk blooming across his mouth at the sight of your eyebrows raising on your forehead in surprise. “Guess I won’t be going in to work after all…” He said, voice husky with sleep. 

 You squirmed in his arms until you were loose enough to get a good look at him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and suddenly, you thought that perhaps the huskiness of his voice wasn’t just from sleep. “Why are you staying home today? I thought you said you were going to go into the office.” 

 Shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, that same smirk was still on his face. “The sore throat woke me up in the middle of the night.” 

 A loud groan bubbled up and out of you, as you scrubbed a frustrated hand across your face. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

 “Hey- well, at least you’re feeling somewhat better now… that way, you can take care of me when I nearly pass out after a hot shower.” 

 With that, you shoved at his shoulder gently, sending a glare his way. “This isn’t funny, Min. You shouldn’t have gotten so close to me- shouldn’t have kissed me! Now you can’t go to work for God knows how long because of this stupid flu!” 

 He waved a noncommittal hand in the air, batting away your worries like he didn’t have seven other boys who depended on him, like he didn’t have a whole company counting on his work, like he didn’t have millions of worldwide fans anticipating his presence. “Eh- to hell with it all, I was bored with work anyway. And besides, I cannot ever stop myself from kissing you, baby. At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s hardwired into my brain as a daily need to function.” He gave you a playful wink, and you rolled your eyes exasperatingly. 

 “You're so stupid,” you grumbled, hating the idea of seeing him go through the same pain you went through. You had survived the worst of it already, but you wouldn’t wish it on anyone - not even your worst enemy. “Well, you better promise that you won’t be a pain in my ass and actually accept my help when you need it.” 

 He shook his head noncommittally, “I shall make no such promises.” You felt a hand clutch at one of your sides, just as he was pulling you against his warm body once more. “Now, c’mere and give me a kiss.” 

 You smiled against his mouth, melting into his hold as he pressed kiss after soft kiss to your lips. 

 Because even though now you were both sick, 

 At least you had each other. 

 And at the end of the day, that’s all that mattered…

 That Minho had you, and you had him. 

 So even despite feeling like a literal ball of hot, steamy garbage baking in the summer heat, 

 You felt like, at that moment, you could whether anything in life - any storm coming your way, any curve ball thrown at you, any toxic person coming into your path, 

 Just as long as you had him by your side. 

 As long as you had Lee Minho, your beautiful, loving, eccentric, doting boyfriend, you’d be just fine. 

 Fin.

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© ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

[harpyqueen714]

What better way to celebrate freedom than Gale getting his back blown out by Rolan?

The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was opulent, belonging either to a patriar that was kind enough to offer shelter and respite to the "Heroes of Baldur's Gate" or dead enough not to object. Rolan had let Gale bathe first, the other wizard needing it desperately more than he had, and he was very glad of that now because it meant he got to enter the bedroom to see a very nude Gale turning down the very fancy coverlet on the very big bed. "Well now, this is very nice."

Gale looked over his shoulder. "I did promise you a real bed. I thought it should be one worthy of the occasion."

"And so it is. Very well done, 'Master Gale.'"

"I'll have you now there are plenty of other bedrooms available. I don't have to put up with this disrespect."

Rolan ignored the toothless threat and stepped up behind Gale, sliding his arms around his torso to pull him close. Settling his head on the curve where Gale's neck met his shoulder, he took a moment to just breathe. "Is that it, then? Is it over?"

"Very nearly. Only one small thing left to do, and after all this, I dare say it will be easy, maybe even enjoyable."

"And then we go home."

"And then we go home," Gale agreed, with such terrible longing that it made Rolan's own heart ache.

Rolan lifted his head to gaze over Gale's shoulder at the expanse of bed before them. It would be a shame not to get as much use out of it as possible. He pushed Gale forward a little, thrilling at how easily he went. He allowed himself a few moments to rut against Gale, shuddering when Gale widened his stance to brace himself better. It would be so, so easy to just keep going, but that wasn't what he wanted.

He pulled away, ignoring the small sound of confusion Gale made, and pulled the other man back up and around. Gale immediately pulled him close, tipping his head to the side as their lips met. "I do believe you made me a promise," Gale murmured when they parted for a moment. "And I don't know if I could love a man who doesn't keep his word."

Rolan remembered that promise very well and he couldn't help but grin as he pushed Gale back onto the bed. "Careful. You might regret that tomorrow."

"Never."

[nebulaafterdark]

Do you think you could write something with Aegon x velaryon or targ reader and it’s their wedding night? Plz and thank youuuuu

Yes! Here we go.

Sweet Girl

Aegon x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI unprotected sex, loss of virginity, Targcest, soft!Aegon.

This is it. Y/N fidgets restless at the foot of Aegon’s mattress. Her uncle, her nemesis, her husband.

Aegon approaches with two cups in hand.

“No,” Y/N puts a hand out, pushing back against the gauntlet lightly. “Thank you.”

“You’re shaking.” Aegon says, pointedly. “Trust me, a drink or two always takes the edge off.”

“You don’t have to be nice to me now.”

“That’s not entirely true.” He frowns. “I have no desire to face the wrath of your mother, stepfather or the King.”

“You think my mother would be angry?” Y/N scoffs, “if Rhaenyra cared she would not have been so willing to let us marry.”

Aegon tosses back his drink. “You are her heir after all, there’s bound to be sacrifice required to pave your way. If it makes you feel any better, this was my mother’s doing as well.”

Y/N looks up at him, still standing over her with the cup.

“It is not poison, I swear.”

The brunette smirks, taking the offering in hand and chugging the liquid. It burns its way down her throat, much stronger than wine. “What is that?” She chokes out.

Aegon takes the seat beside her, the mattress shifting under his weight as he claps the princess once on the back. “Only the best for my wife.”

Y/N allows the cup to tumble from her hand and clatter to the floor. The effects of the concoction hit her fast.

“Would you like another?” Aegon asks.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s a good idea. Unless you prefer me unconscious.” Y/N muses, “on second thought-” she makes for the chalice.

“Oh no,” Aegon chuckles, catching her around the waist. “If I have to be awake for this, so do you.”

“Let us get on with it then.” Y/N tosses herself backwards onto the coverlet.

“You’re just going to lie there?”

“Mhm,” Y/N closes both eyes.

“Am I truly so awful?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“How are you meant to see anything with your eyes closed?”

Y/N peeks at him, through a slit in one eye.

Aegon moves over her slowly, leaning on his elbows. Keeping most of his weight off of her. “I’ll be good to you.”

She sighs, taking in his face above her, in full. Aegon is beautiful, she’ll give him that. And when he’s not being a twat, he can be kind. “Swear it?”

“I do.”

In a spirit induced state of willful negligence, she reaches a hand up to cup his cheek. “Could you ever love me?”

“Love,” he laughs. “What is love but a frivolous endeavor which breeds eternal suffering?”

Y/N lifts a shoulder, “I suppose you’re right. But there must also be benefits. Think of all those who live and die for it.”

Aegon shifts against her, making himself at home with his chest to hers. “I have never known love. However, lust and I are dear companions. You will find pleasure each time we lie together.”

“And when we are finished I’ll leave?”

“If that is your desire.”

“What if I stay?”

“That is my desire.”

“Then you do crave affection?”

“Among other things, yes.” He admits. “From you, as my wife, I crave affection above all.”

“I’ve never…been with anyone. I can’t say if I’ll be good at it.” Her eyes search his for reassurance.

“We could learn together.” Aegon leans in a bit closer, their breath mingling. “Conquer love and rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

Y/N pushes slightly off the bedding, capturing his lips with hers. “You’ll have to conquer me first.”

Aegon grins against her mouth, “gently the first round, then without mercy.”

Y/N inhales deeply, feeling his tongue invade her mouth. Lapping against her own, tasting her thoroughly.

As he suspected, she is sweet. Aegon relishes in this for a long moment, until her hips begin canting up against his. His finger tips grazing along the silhouette of her torso through the material of her nightgown. Squeezing the flesh of her hip, past her rib cage to the outskirts of her breasts. Cupping her soft mounds, nipples pebbling against his palm.

Y/N gasps, pressure building between her thighs. She rocks her hips against Aegon for relief, gasping at the feel of him, rock solid.

“Could you come undone like this, sweetheart?”

“I- I don’t know.”

Aegon hums, trailing kisses away from her lips, over her cheek, the corner of her panting mouth, sucking lightly at the pulse point on her neck. Rolling her peaks between his thumb and forefinger. “So responsive, I think you could.”

Y/N whines, looking for some relief from her aching core. “Aegon, please.”

“May I take this off?” He tugs at her gown, lightly.

She nods, staring up at him with glossy eyes. Following his lead, until nothing is left between them. Catching a glimpse of his length, she quickly moves her gaze away.

“You can look.” Aegon offers her a lopsided grin.

“Does it hurt,” Y/N motions to his cock, hard and pink at the tip.

Aegon kneels down between her legs, parting her thighs farther and finding her bundle of nerves. Y/N squeals, gripping his shoulders for purchase. “It wants attention, but it’s not painful yet.”

“I want you inside me.” Y/N rides his hand unabashedly.

Aegon groans, “need you to peak first, while my fingers fuck open your perfect little cunt.”

She whimpers.

“Lie back for me, dearest.” He purrs, still on his knees between her trembling limbs. He pecks a kiss to her knee. “Relax.”

Y/N’s muscles are taut in anticipation of his next move, bowing off the bed when his thumbs part her lips, making room for his mouth to connect with her pearl. He teases the swollen bud with his tongue.

“Gods, Aegon.” She cries out, desperately fisting his hair in hand. Unsure if she wants to pull him closer or push him away.

Aegon hums his approval. Sweetest cunt he’s ever had. Slipping a single finger carefully into her tight heat. Feeling her walls clench at the intrusion.

The feeling is foreign to Y/N, her husband allows her to get accustomed to it before adding a second. Curling them up to coax release from her.

He laps at her cunt as she thrashes above him. Overwhelmed with sensation. Calling out for him desperately. Three digits is a stretch and Y/N does whine a bit at the intrusion but Aegon keeps her attention on his lips. Closed around her pearl and sucking until she peaks. Hugging his fingers so tightly even Aegon moans.

Y/N nudges at his head, coming down from her high, “too much.” She cries when Aegon attempts to keep her in place.

He chuckles, licking a firm strip up her slit before slinking up her boneless form. “You alright?”

“I think so,” she pants, shuttering at the lightest touch.

Aegon steals a kiss from her lips, then the tip of her nose.

“I want you.” She repeats.

The prince has been a lot of things in his life, wanted is hardly one of them.

“There might still be a bit of pain from your maidenhead,” he warns.

“Do it all at once.” Y/N encourages, feeling the tip of him nudging at her entrance.

“Tell me if it’s too much, we’ll stop.”

Y/N nods, bracing herself.

Aegon takes her mouth once more, waiting until she is fully at ease, contented in their kiss before sliding into her. There is little resistance as he bottoms out in her warmth.

“Ah.” She whimpers, it burns.

“Such a good girl,” Aegon praises, nuzzling against her cheek.

“Aegon.” Y/N paws restlessly at his back.

“Shhh,” he slides an arm behind her shoulder blades, holding her fast against the crook of his neck. Fighting to stay still.

They remain like this for a long moment before Y/N experimentally bucks her hips upward. There is still a bit of pain from the stretch, but nothing unbearable.

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Aegon admonishes, “be still until you are ready. Do not tempt me.”

“Move,” Y/N murmurs, against the shell of his ear.

He pulls out, until only the tip of him remains, thrusting back in softly. “Alright?”

Y/N nods, her head cradled against him as he begins fucking her in earnest. All the breath leaving her lungs in short puffs.

“So tight,” Aegon grunts out. “Not leaving this room until you’ve reached your peak draped over every piece of furniture. Against every wall.”

“Please.”

“Would you like that, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” Y/N is drawing near the edge again, the nip of pain from their coupling only serves to heighten the experience.

“I’ll fill you to the brim with my seed so that you might be with child on the morrow.” Aegon promises, clenching and unclenching his fingers in her dark hair. Feeling the quickening throughout his entire body. “Come apart once more for me.”

“I need you to touch me…the way you did before.” She pleads, so close to the precipice.

Allowing not an inch of space between them, Aegon snakes his free hand down to her pearl. Letting her rock against his fingers for friction.

“Fuck,” Y/N sobs, clamping down hard around his cock.

“That’s my girl,” Aegon all but growls between gritted teeth as his orgasm washes over him. “My good fucking girl.”

Y/N continues milking his length, even harder at his words. Riding out their shared high until Aegon flops down beside her, spent. He smirks devilishly; reaching down to collect the bit of his release trickling from her and forcing it back into her warmth.

He has conquered her. Or perhaps they have conquered each other.

[littlest-w01f]

Loving

Rhysand x Evelyn (See Evelyn here)

For @officialrhysandweek

Rhysand week 2024 Masterlist

Day 4: Lord of Night

Summary: Evelyn's learnt there is more to the High Lord of Night than she knew.

Cw: Fluff, cuddles, horny, pregnancy

Rhysand was the male her father had wanted her to marry. Rhysand was a cruel High Lord. Rhysand was the most horrible male. That's what Evelyn knew all her life.

Evelyn sighed, turning in her bed, well, Rhysand's bed she had slept in, her eyes opening to the sight of Rhysand asleep. Blood red roses grew on their headboard, flowers she'd created out of nothing in her peaceful sleep.

But, Rhysand was her mate. Rhysand was one of the most kindest High Lords. Rhysand was one of the gentlest males she had ever met. Rhysand was caring. Rhysand was loving.

She watched his features, and he didn't look a bit like the cruel image of him everyone else would see.

The High Lord's broad chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his lean muscles relaxed through the exposed torso. A hint of stubble dusted his strong jawline, adding to the allure of his masculine beauty. Even in sleep, there was an undeniable aura of power about him, yet it seemed tempered by an underlying gentleness that Evelyn had come to appreciate during their time together.

Evelyn gazed at Rhysand's peaceful face, illuminated only by the soft moonlight filtering through the ornate windows of their opulent bedchamber. His chiselled jawline was relaxed, his full lips parted slightly as he breathed deeply in slumber. A lock of onxy blue-black hair fell across his forehead, adding to his rugged yet endearing appearance, being mated had done him so well if Evelyn were to boast about herself.

As she studied Rhysand, Evelyn felt a pang of guilt for having believed the vile rumours about him for so long. Her father's words echoed in her mind, that Rhysand was cruel just like his father, and heartless, and that she deserved a male like him for being a bad daughter. But now, seeing the tender lines around Rhysand's closed eyes, the way his fingers curled gently beneath the coverlet, reaching for her even in sleep, she realized how wrong those assumptions were.

Evelyn reached out tentatively, her fingertips hovering just above Rhysand's cheek before lightly brushing against the warm skin. He stirred softly at her touch, eyelids fluttering open to reveal those striking violet irises that seemed to pierce straight into her soul. For a moment they simply gazed at each other, a thousand unspoken words passing between them in the charged silence.

Rhysand lifted a hand to cover hers, pressing it more firmly against his face as he turned to place a gentle kiss upon her palm. "Good morning, elskan," he murmured, voice low and gravelly from sleep. The endearment sent a shiver down Evelyn's spine, the intimacy of it both thrilling and terrifying.

The High Lord's gaze held a warmth that contradicted everything Evelyn had been led to believe about him. There was no cruelty, no heartlessness, only genuine affection for her reflected back in those mesmerizing violet depths.

"You're awake early today," Rhysand noted, his voice still thick with sleep but filled with a contentment that mirrored hers. He shifted slightly, pulling her closer until their bodies touched intimately along the length of their joined forms. "Did something disturb your rest?" he asked, concern lacing his tone.

"Oh just this baby that keeps kicking," Evelyn mentioned nonchalently.

Evelyn's casual remark made Rhysand smile, a slow curve of his sensual lips that held no small amount of pride. He placed a large, warm hand over the swell of her belly, feeling the tiny flutters of movement within. "Ah, so our little one is eager to greet the day," he observed, stroking gently over the taut skin. "No doubt she takes after her mother, always ready for adventure."

Evelyn hadn't been pregnant long, nearly three weeks and the babe seemed to have figured out she could move and hadn't stopped for even a second.

Evelyn remembered the first time she slept in the same space as him, she'd truly rather be anywhere but there back then. And now, nothing could be close enough.

Elation swirled within Evelyn as memories flooded her mind, the initial night they shared a bed, when she had been terrified by Rhysand's proximity, convinced that his cruelty would manifest itself physically. Now, the very thought of being apart from him filled her with a profound sense of loss.

Rhysand's gaze softened, violet eyes shimmering with affection as he brought her hand to his lips once more, kissing each knuckle reverently.

His thumb traced idle patterns over the delicate knuckles of her hand, the other giving soothing stroks her slightly swollen belly, an innocent act filled with deep affection and unspoken promises. "You have nothing to fear from me. You've never had."

Evelyn began to speak but she couldn't find the right words, so she simply nestled into his warmth.

"You're never allowed to doubt who I am again," he declared sternly, though there was unmistakable warmth behind his words. "I know I may not have been easy to understand… but remember always…" He leaned closer until his breath whispered against her earlobe "… I am yours."

His whispered declaration hung heavy in the air between them, thick with promise and raw emotion. Rhysand's eyes held an intensity that seemed to burn right through to her very core, making her feel both seen and cherished.

Slowly, deliberately, one strong arm slid around her waist pulling her flush against him while the other tangled itself within her loose curls. His head dipped lower until their noses brushed and his mouth hovered mere inches away from hers.

"And I am hungry," Evelyn whispered cheekily, giving him a gentle peck.

Rhysand chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that vibrated through Evelyn's entire body. "Hungry, darling?" He sat up, pulling Evelyn with him so that she straddled his lap, facing him. "Well, I suppose it's the perfect opportunity for breakfast."

His hands slid under her loose nightgown, palms grazing the smooth expanse of her thighs before finding purchase on her hips. With a firm grip, he guided her down onto his hardness, letting out a low groan at the sensation of her wet heat surrounding him.

"I'll feed you, my greedy little flower," Rhysand promised huskily, his lips seeking hers in a searing kiss that left no doubt about his intentions. "And afterwards, perhaps you can return the favor…"

With a possessive claim, Rhysand's lips crashed against hers in a fiery display of dominance and desire. His tongue swept past her lips, demanding entrance and tasting every inch of her mouth with hungry need. His free hand roamed up along the curve of her back, gripping tightly at the fabric of her nightgown as if trying to pull her even closer than physically possible.

Evelyn gasped into the kiss, feeling overwhelmed by both the strength of Rhysand's arousal and the tenderness that radiated off him in waves. She returned his passionate embrace eagerly, wrapping herself around him like ivy clinging to a tree trunk - secure and unwavering despite any attempts at separation.

Their bodies melded together seamlessly, every contour fitting perfectly against another creating an intoxicating blend of pleasure and comfort unlike anything either had experienced before.

Evelyn then pulled away, "Alright, food first. Sex later, ok?"

A mischievous glint lit up Rhysand's violet eyes as he heard Evelyn's conditions, but he didn't argue. Instead, he gave her a playful wink before easing her off of himself completely.

"Your wish is my command," he murmured, releasing her only momentarily before standing gracefully from their entwined state. He offered his hand towards the large dining table, where with a wave of his hand, breakfast awaited.

As they moved towards the decadence laid out before them, Rhysand stole glances at Evelyn’s form, her curves outlined by the thin fabric of her nightgown, the way her tender breasts rose and fell with each breath she took, her body was changing little by little every day, and he loved each development, the flare of her hips leading down to the roundness of her pregnant belly which bore silent testament to their love.

Before Evelyn could take her seat, Rhysand pulled her on his lap, "Stay right here, my flower," he purred in her ear, kissing around it, a hand over her stomach "Let me feed my darlings. What would you like? Something sweet? Spicy? Sour?"

"The skewers… Sweet." Evelyn smiled softly, pointing to the fruit skewers, mixed with all kinds of fruits.

With a pleased hum, Rhysand obliged, selecting two skewers of fresh fruits from the spread and handing one to Evelyn. Their fingers brushed against each other in the exchange, sending sparks of electricity coursing through their connected bodies.

"Eat up, my love," he urged softly, guiding the fruit to her lips with his own. As she accepted the morsel, he watched her intently, his violet eyes sparkling with admiration and lustful promise.

Feeling bold, Rhysand dipped his head lower, nipping gently at the exposed column of her throat before trailing kisses upwards towards her jawline. "You taste sweeter than any fruit I've ever known," he growled against her skin, his voice thickened by desire.

Rhysand was many things, but the one certain thing was that the Lord of Night was hers. Their gazes locked, violet meeting hers in a piercing stare that spoke volumes without needing words.

Evelyn's hair tumbled wildly around her face, framing her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Rhysand's chiselled features were etched with desire, his lips parted and eyes glazed with lust. The room around them faded into insignificance. They only had eyes for each other.

{General Taglist - @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-smut @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith}

{Rhysand Taglist - @yeonalie}

{RhysandWeek Taglist - @andreperez11}

[juneknight]

•.Be Lost.• 1

Chapter 1 | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2.5

Summary: after a series of failures to find a dominant, your long time best friend Marc offers to give topping you a shot.

About this: Marc Spector/f!reader, mentions of kink, dominance and submission, kneeling, orgasm control

Immersivity: reader is a non-physically described cisgender woman. She works with animals and spends months out of the year in a place where it is cold—but this is the extent of her description. If there are other details which need mentioned because they hinder your immersive experience, please feel free to point them out.

*

“Give up. Give In. in the end It would be better to surrender before you begin. be lost. Be lost—And then you will not care if you are ever found.”—Victoria Schwab

*

Marc sends the message one night after the two of you have hung up from a lengthy venting session about your latest dating failures. A simple, without context: 

You could do better

I know, you type back, squinting at the screen of your phone in the darkness. Outside, the wind howls—another snowstorm which you hope will either amount to nothing or be bad enough that you won’t have to traverse the icy roads to work in the morning. You roll onto your side, adjusting the pillow beneath you. You’re covered nose to toes beneath the coverlet and still shivering, but Marc always has a way of making you feel warm. That’s why I told that guy off, isn’t it? I know I can do better. 

You watch as he types, no hesitation: 

You could do me

*

In the morning, you text him with one hand, spooning Cheerios into your mouth with the other. 

What, are you offering? There. You’re giving him an out. His message had confused you, left you spending half the night awake wondering about its context. You could do me. You could do me. You could do me? However he had meant it, you knew you had to offer him an easy way out. A fire escape. Maybe one of those seats on the plane that are right by the emergency exits. There’s a parachute beneath your seat, Marc, you think to yourself, drinking the remnants of milk from your bowl. Take it. 

Yes. Give me a chance to help you feel better

Your face flushes. God, how embarrassing is it that Marc knows how bad you need fucked? Not just that—Marc knows how bad you need submitted. That was the caveat of having him as a best friend: he was more likely to listen than to speak, and as such, you told him everything. All your struggles with the kink scene up here in your little frozen section of the States. All the things every guy before him had done wrong…

You aren’t into that stuff, you text back. 

And at the end of your work day, toes frozen in your boots, cheeks dry and chapped from the wind, you finally pull out your phone to see his response: 

Says who?

*

I’m at a disadvantage here, you type to him while cooking dinner. The tiny kitchen of the sublet you rent during the winter months smells of pesto. You’re just glad it’s warm, wiggling your bare toes by the heat of the stove. You know all my kinks, I don’t know yours. 

Marc sends a voice chat. It’s just over a minute long. Your heart is in your throat while your finger hovers over the play button. God, what the fuck could he be saying? Is he listing them all out for you, in alphabetical order or something? It will be the first time you’ve heard his voice since his text (“You could do me”, the phrase haunted your dreams now). 

Pressing the button, you quickly hold the phone up to your ear. There’s no one else in the sublet with you, but you still imagine that his words will be scandalous enough to curl the nails in the floorboards. 

There is rustling—Marc’s voice in the background, bright and laughing and calling out to someone, and then obviously speaking lowly into the phone to you: “You know what my kink is? Three years ago when I tried to take you hiking on that backpacking-for-beginners trail and got us lost, you remember? We spent half the fucking day—literally six hours or something—finding our way out, and after we did, I felt so bad I took you out to dinner. We didn’t even go home first, we were so hungry. We went to that fancy Italian place in town, both of us smelling like sweat and covered in dirt and at least ten pounds lighter from all the energy we burned out there in the woods, and when the waiter finally set that plate of food in front of you, you took a bite and you made this sound, this sound like you’d been dying of thirst but now you were lapping water right out of God’s palm. It was pleasure, and, and relief all in one—hearing you make that noise, and getting you to make it over and over again? That’s my kink. Do with that what you will.”

The voice message ends.

You drop your pesto spoon in the pot of boiling noodles. 

*

You call him that night. You have to. 

You and Marc have been friends for years, meeting in your early days of adulthood. It had been a fast friendship, both of you complimenting each other well. Marc was so easy to love, it had only made sense that you’d fallen in love with him. He was handsome and gentle and sometimes scathing and often hilarious. The only thing standing between him and a long term relationship was what Marc considered his ‘baggage’: the terrible abuse he had suffered as a boy, and the ramifications of it which he was still actively working to overcome after all these years. Marc didn’t think himself fit for marriage or even long-term dating. It was a shame for all the single women out there. 

A blessing for you, though. 

“Is this weird?” you ask as soon as he picks up the phone. “I don’t want things to be weird, Marc.” 

“You spent half your day FaceTiming a horse,” says Marc dryly. “I don’t think your life can get any weirder.” 

It was true—you had had to walk out to the barn three separate times today through the sleet to let an owner FaceTime with her horse who was sick and under your care. It had felt a little strange, being the third wheel in that conversation, but you understood her anxiety. 

“I just—Marc, I don’t want to lose you. As a friend.” 

You hear the phone shift as he shuffles it from one ear to another. He says: “The only way you could lose me would be if you told me to get lost. So can we figure this out?”

“Are you even attracted to me?” Maybe it’s desperate, but you’ve asked it. Marc has always taken efforts to compliment your appearance (resulting in heart palpitations all afternoon for yourself), but he’s never explicitly said that he finds you attractive. 

On the other end, Marc lets out a breath which sounds a little like a laugh. Or a sigh? “Yes. Are you attracted to me?” 

Marc clearly has never looked in a mirror as long as he has been alive. Tan skin that turns golden in the right lighting, dark curls that you wouldn’t mind trying to manage with your fingers, brown eyes that hint at the color of whiskey, a jaw to die for…

You clear your throat. “I mean—sure.” 

“Sure.” You can hear his smile on the other end. It makes you want to die, just a little. 

“Kind of.” 

“Understandable.” 

“You’re passable.”

“I’ll take it.” 

*

One time, he texts while you brush your teeth. And if I’m no good at it, you can keep going to all those kink clubs up in the arctic circle 

And if you are good at it? you wonder, because Marc has never been bad at anything in his life. Because ever since he suggested it, it’s all you’ve been able to think about, the feelings that you’ve had for Marc surging forward from the dusty shelf in the back of your brain where you had stored them all these years. Marc could just give you a look and you’re pretty sure it would melt you. There’s no way he’s going to be bad at topping you. 

Then I’ll take care of you

Yes. Yes, melting already. You spit in the sink and rinse.

*

“Tell me again how it went with this last guy,” Marc says during your next phonecall. The two of you call each other every other night religiously when you are away (“up in the arctic circle” as he would say) for the coldest three months of the year. His voice is warm and low, quiet. 

Even though you have already told him once, it is different now, isn’t it? The thought of relaying again everything that happened makes your face heat, makes you tug the blankets over your head until it is dark all around you. 

“Do I have to?” you wonder. 

“Do I have to make you?” he wonders back, voice lowering a fraction.

Your heart stutters. Your breaths begin to come at a faster rate. 

“No,” you say, breathy and obviously on the verge of being devastated. “I’ll tell—we met on fetlife. He seemed nice and his picture was cute. Our interests lined up, so we met up at one of the clubs in town, but even though our interests had matched up on paper, we weren’t, like, meshing in real life. 

“Like—,” you have to pause to clear your throat, voice dropping down low enough to almost be considered a whisper. God, you couldn’t believe you were telling Marc this again. “He…he called me a slut. I had marked that I wasn’t into degradation like that, but I think he thought it was an exception.” 

“Why did he think that?” Marc asks. You’ve heard it said before that a lawyer never asks a witness a question that they don’t already know the answer to. In this moment, it seems like Marc is the same way. 

“Because he called me his slut,” you admit. “He thought that would like, negate…I don’t know.” 

“Are you?” Marc asks. “A slut, I mean.” 

It rolls off your tongue before you can stop it: “Not his.” 

There comes a breathy little exhale from Marc’s end of the line. It couldn’t be you—not when you’re holding your breath, eyes wide at your own audacity, at the mere suggestion that you would be okay being Marc’s slut, but not this stranger’s. Marc’s voice rasps from the other end: “I know, honey. I know.

“Tell me what happened next.” 

*

I’ve been thinking, you text the next morning (which is true, there is a single moment spent outside of work that you aren’t spent thinking about this). Maybe this is where I’m going wrong with every guy, but—maybe we should practice. On the phone, you know? 

Over text? he asks. 

Sure, you say, aiming for nonchalant. 

I want to hear your voice, he texts, effectively ruining any hope you had for nonchalance. It’s the last thing you want though. You’re terrified that hearing Marc’s voice croon such dangerous, sinful things to you will destroy you. You will be irrevocably changed. There will be the Before Marc times and the After Marc times.

Compromise? Start like this, and if we’re clicking, then we can do it over call. 

It, he teases. Can you say it? Can you tell me what you want? 

Jesus, Marc. You know what I want. 

Use your words. 

You whine, an honest-to-God audible whine beneath your blankets. He’s already slipping into the role so well. Or is he? Is he truly made to be dominant, some prodigious Dom, or are you simply made to melt at everything he does? But it also brings to light the question: what do you want? 

Can I think about it? 

Always, he says. 

*

It takes time for you to gather your thoughts. Everything to think about the fact that this is Marc you’re talking about, your brain gets fuzzy and you lose your words. Finally, you devote yourself to writing it out longhand and thinking in general terms. What would you have wanted from Mr. My-Slut if he had asked you the same question? 

When you’re finished, you text it to him before you can second guess yourself. 

I want to feel owned. I want to feel small but safe. I want to feel consumed, like nothing else matters but you and what you do to me and what I do for you. I want my head to feel empty of anything that isn’t good for me or doesn’t feel good. 

You bury your face in your pillow, but aren’t even there long enough to suffocate before your phone buzzes with a reply. 

I can do that. 

*

For a while, you don’t text Marc. You even miss one of your ritualistic calls. The thought of speaking to him when he knows what you want from a Dom is too much. Before, it had been easy to brush off your kinks to him. So much about wanting to be submitted had become akin to pop culture. Yeah, I want someone to tie me up and spank me and call me a slut, tee-hee! 

It had always gone so much deeper for you, and for so many others, you could imagine. You were a hard worker even as a child. You became someone that people could rely on—and too often, they did. It only made sense that you would crave a way to be useful to someone, crave a way to shut your mind off. Crave a way to feel loved. 

You throw yourself into your work, marking off days on a calendar. The first day of March, you will drive south back to the city. Back to Marc. Your contract here will be up, until next winter. God, you can’t wait to see him again. He always meets you outside the door to your building, chewing gum and pacing, like he’s nervous. Though only God knows what he would have to be nervous about. 

Marc doesn’t text or call you either. He must have picked up on the vibes. Instead, he gives you space. 

The next time you are due for your nightly vent sessions, Marc calls you. If you are worried you’ll get a talking to (or at least questions: why you hadn’t called, whether or not you were mad at him or other absurdities), you don’t get one. You slip back into the warm easiness that is your friendship, swapping stories about your days, talking about current events. Sometimes you don’t say anything, just sit in silence knowing the other person is there or listen to the quiet sounds of the other doing some mundane task: folding laundry, pouring a glass of water. 

You exchange your customary ‘Love you’s at the end of the call, but the words reverberate in your throat. You love him. You really do. 

*

Okay, show me what you got. 

? 

Come on, you know what I mean. I’m ready. Let me have it. 

Oh is that how this goes? 

You blink at the question. …yeah?

I don’t think so, he texts. You know how to ask for something you want. 

Your heart leaps to your throat. Thumbs shaking a little, you ask: How’s that? 

You say please. 

You take a deep, soothing breath. Please? 

That’s the word, yeah. Then he sends the thumb’s up emoji—monster. 

Marc, I’m ready. Can we try, please? Your nerves are shot, stomach in your throat as you wait for a response. As soon as you see him start typing, you lose your nerve and turn off your phone screen. It’s like a horror movie. You can’t watch. When he finally sends a response and you open it, your mouth drops. 

You can do better than that, can’t you? And a moment later: Beg me.

Fuck you, you text, laughing brightly at his audacity. 

Not with that attitude, he types. I only fuck good girls. 

“Jesus, Marc,” you mutter to yourself, breaths coming fast and short. How can he just say stuff like that? Single sentences that are hotter than any of the dirty talk men have given you during sex over the years. For a while, you are torn on what to answer. You want to quip, to say something bratty and whitty that will make him give one of his quiet exhales of laughter, the kind you are so familiar with hearing from the other end of your sofa while you both scroll through your phones. But, deep down—

What if I’m not a good girl? Maybe he’ll consider it just mindless sexy talk. Yeah, I’m not a good girl, I’m a bad girl. Maybe you’ve even said something like this before to one of those other guys. You can almost hear in some generic male voice the response: yeah, you’re such a bad girl. 

Which is why Marc’s answer is so striking: She’s in there. Do I need to help you? 

You have no idea what it could mean, but your fingers answer without any hesitation: Yes please

And your phone rings. 

You answer it. Holding the phone to your ear, you become aware of how you are holding your breath, not letting a single word or sound pass through your lips. 

On the other end, you can hear Marc’s steady, soft breathing. 

“You there, baby?” 

You hum in affirmation, but it comes out as a choked whine that makes your face turn hot. 

“You’re going to have to use your words,” he warns. “But I’ll help you. Alright? The only thing I need you to do is this: if I say something that isn’t true, don’t say it. Otherwise, just repeat after me. Can you do that?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Good girl,” he says, voice dipping into a silky, pleased octave from his side of the phone. Your thighs clench together. Holy fuck. He’s going to destroy you. “Here we go: Marc Spector.”

“Marc Spector,” you sigh shakily. Easy enough. 

“I trust you.”

“I trust you.”

“I trust you so-o much.”

You snort. “I trust you so-o-o much.”

“That I trust you to know what I need.” Mouth dry, you repeat the words. He adds: “And I trust you to be able to give it to me.”

“Marc,” you whisper, though you don’t know why. 

“I love the way you sound when you say my name,” Marc admits to you. “Especially when you sound half-wrecked, and I’m five hundred miles away, not even able to touch you. But I need you to be a good girl and follow my directions. Repeat after me, or say nothing. Can you do that? Say, Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Good girl,” he says again. “I don’t know how anyone could mistake you for anything else. Now keep repeating, okay?: I trust you to be able to give me what I need.” 

“I trust you to be able to give me what I need,” you repeat. As you say it, the words strike you in the chest. They’re true. You really do. All the people in the world, and maybe you love Marc more than any of them. And he is the sort of man who keeps his word—always. 

“And I want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe. 

“Real bad, Marc.” 

“Really bad, Marc.” 

“Are you in bed?”

“Are you in—wait—“ Marc laughs. “Yes? I’m—“

“I want you to get out of bed and get on your knees,” he says—just casually. Oh, lovely evening, now get down on your knees for me. Like being on your knees for Marc wasn’t on your mind constantly these days. 

Without higher thought, you throw the blanket off, the cold air chilling your body. Sitting up, you let your legs dangle off the edge of the bed, holding the phone to your ear with your shoulder. Your socked-toes skim the floor. 

“What’s it matter if I go down there?” you whisper. “I’m in a different state. It’s not as if you can see me.”

“It matters to me,” he says. “If it’s too cold, put down a blanket. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Go on.” 

You don’t bother with the blanket, appreciating the chilly floors against your bare knees and shins. You sit on your heels, thighs squeezed tightly together. 

“What if I just lie?” you wonder. “Say I did it, but I’m still under the covers.” 

“You wouldn’t do that. Are you down there?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Fuck. ‘What does it matter’, as if I need to see you. Like I can’t picture you clear as day in my head. Like it doesn’t mean more to me to know you’re on your knees a hundred-hundred miles away, just because I told you to.” Marc sounds strangely wrecked, and the knowledge that this menial action really has affected him so deeply has your shoulders going lax, bowing over to rest the top half of your frame against the soft mattress. Your cunt aches. 

“Marc,” you whine. 

“Yes?”

“Please,” you groan, turning to muffle your face into the mattress. Your further words are just inarticulate mumbles. He laughs, soft and warm. 

“Spread your knees apart,” he says. “Far apart, as wide as you can.” 

It is the last thing you want to do, but you do it. The brief sparks of pleasure that lit you up every time you clenched your thighs together are gone now, the cool air brushing against your heated sex through your underwear. It only emphasizes how much you ache, how little you’ve been satisfying yourself lately because every time your hand dips between your legs, Marc comes to mind, and you’re too flustered to give in and rub one out thinking of him. But oh god, that’s going to change. You can tell. 

“Are you wet right now?” he wonders lowly. 

You make a sound that is the vaguest affirmation you can give. 

He exhales, the sound shaky through the speaker. “You’re so fucking good. I don’t know how you could ever think otherwise. Absolutely perfect. That’s how I know you’re going to be good and follow this next rule of mine.” 

“Wha’s that?” you slur, head fuzzy where it rests against your sheets.

“You can touch yourself as often as you like,” he says, making your face burn hot again. “Use those toys I know you have—but absolutely no one else. Not in person, not over the phone. If we do this, you rely on me and I do the same for you. Deal?”

“Deal,” you sigh, relieved that his condition goes both ways. You aren’t necessarily strict on monogamy, but you are strict on devotion. The last thing you could ever do would be to go behind your partner’s back—and it’s something that could be liable to shatter your heart if it happened to you. 

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he says. “But this next part is just as important okay, so make sure you’re listening, yeah?” 

“I’m listenin’.” 

“If you want to cum, you get permission from me, first.”

[oumaheroes]

[8] + fruk? idk, it sounds like something they'd hardly tell each other but I figured it's a challenge you could enjoy solving. :) i love your writing btw. Thank you for sharing it with the world. <3

[8] 'I love you'

Both of these asks are so so old but I enjoy a challenge, Anons! Took me a while but I got there in the end. Hope you like!

Characters: France, England, FrUK

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Love Is...

'You're not entirely intolerable.'

England says this to him in warm candlelight, yellows and orange hues dancing gently on his cheek and across his nose. On his back, no less, looking up at France with wine soft eyes amongst expensive coverlets and pillows of a borrowed palace bed.

France's hands are busy, one supporting him, one not, and thus he knows there is some bias to England’s words.

If it were darker, less candlelight and more masking cover, maybe they would be more true. England had always been gentler in the shadows, safer when he feels he can't be seen.

'Shame the same cannot be said for you.' France says in reply, and bites him hard on the shoulder.

-------------

'You can be useful.'

France sounds surprised.

England clenches his jaw. 'Fuck you.'

'I'm serious.' France twirls the pointed end of his share knife into England thick wooden table. 'There may yet be hope in regards to you being anything of value.'

It is France's own knife, at least, that he is blunting. Gilded- overly so, so it's almost more decorative than usable. Almost. France does so like to find those lines and tease them.

The remains of a meal are pushed aside, a map open and curling long between them instead like a dried up sea. England wants to grab the knife out of France’s hand and jab it in his eye but he doesn’t. He needs France, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, needs his help sweet talking the French nobility and keeping his King in check and so refrains from lunging across the table. Swallows bitterness down and looks from the maimed table to the map.

The French coastline looks alien upside-down but England doesn’t ask France to turn it around.

‘So.’ France’s voice is silky and low, ‘Can you deliver on your end?’

England thinks of his own King, thinks of his endless envy that is great enough to engulf his nation’s pride. He nods.

France clicks his tongue, ‘What a surprise.’

-------------

‘Where have you been?’ A nation who will one day be England pouts and crosses his arms across his chest, ‘I’ve been waiting here for hours’.

‘It wasn’t hours.’ A nation who will one day be France looks about the bank of the tree where England is sat in distain, ‘The ground is wet.’

‘You’re late.’ England insists, ‘You said you would be here by noon. And wet ground is better to write in.’

‘It’s still noon. Couldn’t you have picked somewhere sunnier? The ground hasn’t dried here; where will I sit.’

‘Are you stupid?’ England holds out an arm and gestures to the shadow it makes upon the floor with another. It is slightly longer than noon would provide, ‘Does that look like noon?’

‘Do you want me to help, or not.’

‘No.’

France sighs, ‘Fine. Do you want me to do this the easy way or the hard way.’

England kicks at a small stone and it bumps a little ways down the small pathway along the edge of the wheat field he’s been biding his time in. This France knows, because there’s chaff caught in his hair and dusting amongst the mud of the dampened hem of his cloak.

‘I already know how to write letters,’ England grumbles, ‘Rome made me learn his, and they’re exactly the same as your ones. Why do I have to do this all again.’

‘Because after Rome, you learnt some barbarian ones, and now I want to make you presentable. These are things any decent, proper nation should know.’ France dusts down England’s hair, ‘And it’s very hard to bring you up to par when you keep avoiding my visits and moving from castle to castle.’

England shakes his head and looks away.

‘You should stay with the King,’ France says pointedly, ‘Not move about the strongholds like a vagabond. You shouldn’t show your earls too much favour.’

France sees England hold himself back from speaking. He knows what England wants to say and is relieved when he keeps the several possible and difficult arguments to himself. An improvement, but maybe only because there’s no one else to hear.

‘Move.’ England says suddenly. He picks up a stick that France had failed to notice, propped up ready to go against a thick root, and waves him out of the way and off the flat dirt road. He begins scrawling in the ground in rigid, sharp strokes. ‘If I write “go fuck yourself” in Latin, Norman, and French, will you do so?’

-------------

‘I don't always hate you.’

France says this so quietly that England almost didn’t hear him. He wouldn’t have done, if he didn’t know France’s voice and his habits so well. He halts, the quiet palace yawning open unseen down the darkened passage ahead.

From the corner of his eye, England sees France shift where he leans in the archway. He was so still that England hadn’t noticed him as he walked, his dark shape held like a statue in shadows. Now that he knows he’s there, England can almost see the glint of silver threads in the moonlight, fine clothes on a man made just as much from the dirt as he.

A shift of fabric as France moves again. England stares ahead and does not look at him.

‘You may not believe that, but it’s true.’ France offers quietly. ‘I don’t like to think that you believe otherwise.’

‘I don’t like that you make me believe so.’

A pause. England can hear the sounds of the evening: distant footsteps on flagstones, the rustle of trees in the orchard beyond the stone courtyard walls. The smells of thousands of past summers on the warm breeze, blurring the edges of the era and turning the night endless.

The moment stretches, full and expectant. Then, a sigh.

It passes.

France does not reply, and England walks away.

-------------

‘Are you coming with me?’

France snorts. ‘I am offended that you would ever think that I would.’

‘Oh fuck off. Come on.’ England’s eyes are dangerously captivating, ‘You’re just as bored as I am.’

‘Unlike yourself, I am able to find joy in the finer things.’

‘Francis, this is the worst fucking ball we’ve been to in centuries.’

France winces, ‘Yes, but the food is at least good. And the people here are-‘

‘All over fifty.’

‘We are over fifty. And they’re-’

‘Boring.’

‘Important.’ France corrects, ‘They are important, my dear.’

England scoffs and looks across the lacklustre and lethargic dancefloor, couples with outdated clothes and dour expressions stiffly moving in their formations. He swirls his wine in his glass and points with it shamelessly, ‘Important for what, exactly.’

‘To be seen by. To talk politics with. To encourage away from silly decisions that will ruin my skin for the next decade.’

‘And the younger important people? Or heaven forbid, any fun ones? Where are they?’

France shrugs with one shoulder helplessly, ‘The Viscount is... particular.’

England raises and eyebrow and France shrugs, ‘Fine. It is dull. He is dull, and these are all his dull friends. What do you want me to say, the money is here but the life is gone. I’m not blind, Arthur.’

England adjusts the lace of France’s collar, straightening it from where a point has curled under itself, ‘Well, I’m going to the inn on Perry street. That’s where the kitchen boy told me-‘

‘The one with the hair, or the one with the funny leg?’

‘The one with the teeth.’

France shakes his head, ‘Poor boy. Sugar is a terrible thing, I wonder when people will pick up on that.’

England rolls his eyes and downs his wine. France winces, ‘That was expensive.’

‘Good. I’m off.’ England kisses his cheek quickly, the powdered hairs of his wig tickling France’s neck, ‘Have fun somehow being the most interesting thing in the room for a change.’

‘Ha ha.’

France watches England carelessly drop his very expensive glass onto a passing waiter’s tray and tuts at him, ‘You’re too over-dressed for a common inn, you’ll get mugged.’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘I’m sure you will. When I find your naked corpse in a hedge tomorrow, don’t tell me I didn’t tell you so.’

‘I tell you your make-up makes you look like sun bleached fish every day, and yet you still wear it.’

France huffs and turns away. He hears the clip of England’s shoes as he slips behind a curtain until his steps soften, sights fixed on the dancers. The crowds in the edges of the hall, in the dark corners where candles cannot find them, have a low murmuring buzz that heaves itself above the orchestra enough to give life to the odd word of two. None of them give France any hope.

Once he is sure no one noticed England leave, France downs his own wine and pushes himself away from the wall to join him.

------------

‘Be careful.’

England blinks, confused.

It is dark, moonlight all they have to go by, and they are watching British soldiers pour out from and over French beaches into hungry, waiting boats. Months of planning, countless sleepless nights and hours held stressed and tense in the wait for scraps of coded information has lead them here, to this. To men running through waves, to home so close and yet so far, and a flight through the dark to get stranded soldiers home before France falls.

England feels hollow. His chest feels concaved, an empty feeling of something like relief rotting and curdling there at the thought that this momentous victory is in the grand scheme of things, nothing at all. A huge success merely only for how difficult any small victory is. And still a failure because... because-

France’s hand brushes his. England swallows and entwines their fingers together.

‘You’re the one who should be careful.’ He says.

France squeezes his fingers. ‘If-‘

‘Don’t.’

‘-If.’ France’s grip tightens, ‘If, Arthur. Just be careful. I’ll be fine. It’s you who-‘

France breaks off.

‘I won’t.’ England says. He takes a deep breath in. ‘Not me. Not yet.’

‘I would be deeply embarrassed for you, if you do. It’s shameful. To a child, and one raised by Gilbert, no less.’

England snorts and smooths his thumb over France’s knuckle before he breaks them apart. He tugs down his uniform, wishing for gold trimming and a deep red coat, and smooth wood of a longbow.

D-Day unfolds in the muddied, darkened shallows of Dunkirk beach, and two empires watch the world turn over and into something new.

------------

‘Move over.’

France wakes to a knee in the small of his back. ‘A.. Arthur?’

‘Francis, move.’

Bewildered, France obediently shuffles over and there’s a gasp of cold air as England lifts the covers to climb inside. ‘What are...?’

‘Shh!’

France hears the heavy drapes around his bed being rearranged, then gets another knee in his back as England burrows down next to him.

France turns over. In the darkened room and behind thick curtains, England is nothing more than a source of warmth and the feeling of being watched. ‘What are you doing here.’

‘This is my castle, isn’t it?’

‘It’s one of your King’s castles, yes.’

‘Well then.’

‘But you weren’t here.’ France whispers, When we arrived. ‘He is very upset. He says you shame him.’

‘He shames me.’ England’s cool hands find themselves under France’s back, ‘The grandson of a usurper has nothing to do with me.’

‘Arthur.’ France cautions, but then stops. It is not the time, nor place. Nor, he knows, his place, really, to say anything at all. He places his hand on the cool skin of England’s arm and squeezes it, ‘I’m happy you’re here now. Apart from all the dirt you’ve likely tracked into the bed.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘I can smell it. You smell like outside.’

‘Outside doesn't have a smell.’

It does. Brought in to a human space where it doesn’t belong, the night air that clings to England’s hair and skin is earthy and cool. Fresh and foreign amongst wood fires and the fresh thresh on the floors.

‘I changed.’ England insists, seemingly having taken France’s lack of answer as an argument, ‘I do have nightclothes, you know. I’m not a savage.’

‘Hmm.’

England wriggles his fingers under France’s back to the soft parts of his sides and France can’t help but yelp as they tickle.

‘I was in York but heard you were leaving.’ England says, ‘Did you want to go riding before you go?’

‘We go Tuesday.’ France whispers, conscious of the servants littered about the room asleep. How England crept past them all or even got into the castle so quietly in the first place, he’ll never know. ‘We’re almost ready.’

‘So, do you want to go riding, or not.’

It is Sunday. There will be a lot to do before he goes back to his own lands, lots of packing and planning and then talking to people and France is exhausted just thinking about how much of it he will be needed for, let alone the voyage back across likely windy seas.

‘I don’t want to share. I want my own horse.’

‘Fine.’

------------

‘Here.’

England looks up from his laptop to find a cup of what might be soup held aloft before him.

France waggles it, evidently deeming England too slow on the uptake, ‘Take it.’

England does, cautiously, and moves his laptop aside to safety. ‘What’s this for.’

‘You.’

‘I could infer that.’

‘Could you? I never want to assume.’ Before England can tell him not to, France settles himself in the seat opposite. The booth England has hidden himself in has a wide table down the middle which takes up most of the room, but France moves himself into the tight space far more dramatically than is needed.

The soup is hot. England pops the lid off- carrot and coriander. His stomach clenches at the smell, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. ‘Where on earth did you get it? They stopped serving dinner hours ago.’

‘I know. You missed it.’ France shoots him a pointed look, ‘I went to a café down the road.’

England looks down and swirls the soup around the Styrofoam. It’s thick, good quality. ‘I’m not paying you for it.’

‘Ah yes, because that is why I went.’

England glances at his laptop. France shuts it. ‘Now, whilst you’re eating, listen to me. I have a story for you.’

England takes the spoon that France offers and stirs. He wonders if France has any chocolates in his pockets, ‘Is it about the look Antonio gave-‘

‘Yes.’ France leans forwards eagerly, ‘But shut up. Let me talk.’

-------------

‘It’s... it’s large.’ The scientist at the front of the room looks shrunken, weighed down and wizened. He runs a hand through his hair, glasses glinting in sterile, overheads lights. ‘It’s large.’

France looks up and catches England’s eye. He looks tired, old.

Scared.

Question lights flash on around the room, every national and political delegation with something to say or ask. The scientist seems to freeze, overwhelmed by where or who to turn to first, and then people start shouting all over each other, nations and their politicians alike.

‘What the fuck is this?’ France’s president holds her hands to her mouth and shakes her head slowly from side to side, ‘This cannot be happening.’

‘There is nothing we can do!’ France hears the scientist say over the braying clamour, ‘It’s too late, it’s-‘

‘Francis.’ England is there, at his shoulder. ‘Come on.’

-------------

‘What the fuck have you done to yourself?’

France sniffs and turns away, ‘That’s none of your business.’

England snorts and hangs his hat and coat on the stand, ‘You look like you’ve fallen off a horse.’

‘You look like an unkempt vagabond.’

England looks down at his finely pressed suit and trousers and then back to France. He is on his sofa, studiously reading a book and not looking at England making himself comfortable in France’s livingroom. His leg is before him on a padded stool, swollen at least twice the size, and there is a purple bruise blossoming upon one cheek.

England comes around the back of him and brushes soft golden hair away from France’s shoulder. ‘I could do better.’ he says, gently thumbing the fragile scabbing of France’s bottom lip.

France swats at him, ‘Go away. I don’t want you here.’

‘Wrong place wrong time? Or did you try to speak sense again to someone who actually has some.’

‘Arthur, stop.’ France catches England’s wrist and kisses the inside, ‘You’re too unsympathetic to understand.’

‘Hmm.’ England kneads at France’s shoulder and then heads to the kitchen, ‘Would it help you to know I’m planning on telling everyone you fell ice skating?’

France lets out a bark of laughter, ‘Oh? And who on earth would you tell.’

‘Anyone who will listen.’ He collects a glass and a bottle of wine, along with some bread and some of the expensive cheese that he knows France always squirrels away in his pantry whenever he can, and takes them back to the living room.

-------------

‘If you could be anywhere, where would you be.’

Soft music from a Spanish restaurant down the road, warm ocean breeze. Anywhere and everywhere, all at once.

Besides him, England sips warm ale from a can he smuggled through customs and shrugs, ‘Home.’

‘That’s a boring answer.’

‘That’s the truest answer.’

‘And where again would Arthur go, if he could leave England behind.’ Francis watches Arthur from the corner of his eye, sees the fragments of him outside of all else that they always are.

‘I can’t leave England behind.’ England says, ‘So there’s not much point entertaining it.’

‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation.’

‘Then don’t ask a hypothetical question.’

Francis sighs, and retreats. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and watches the smoke drift away into the dark.

‘But if you’re asking time.’ England tilts his head, considering. Behind them on the seafront, students between bright club front lights in loud, drunken clusters, ‘Now, I think. Maybe a hundred years ago, at most.’

‘Really?’ France is surprised, ‘I would have thought-‘

‘Boring answer,’ Arthur says, and the rest remains unfinished.

-------------

‘Don’t you fucking die on me.’

Of all the places England expected to die, this was actually what he’d considered the least likely. In Calais, oft contested, right by the sea, and entirely calm. No war or battle to take him, no disease or crop failure to push him along. He can see Dover in the distance, his white cliffs so close he can almost feel them in the bones they represent.

But above them, burning and close, the sky roils.

France lies in his lap on the grass of his garden, eyes wet and smiling. ‘That’s not fair, you can’t say that to me. That’s what I was going to say to you.’

‘I’m serious.’ England swallows down something bitter and painful in his throat, and brushes the hair from France’s face, ‘You’re not allowed to go first unless I’m given that honour. Keep yourself awake.’

France freezes, eyes wide, ‘What-‘

‘I know you too well,’ England says, and dips his head to kiss him. There is a golden chain around France’s neck, old and reliable. On it hangs a much-used pendant, once again filled and ready. Still full, he hopes.

England fiddles with it in the hollow of France’s neck and sees the burning heavens reflected in his eyes. ‘We’ll go together.’

-------------

‘I love you.’

On a nameless bit of a terraformed Earth that might have once been a small kingdom in the northern sea, a man called Francis pauses at the hydro sink, half washed cup in his hands. A man called Arthur stands next to him with a dish cloth and when Francis turns to him, Arthur stares back, face inscrutable.

Arthur does not mince words. He has always spoken his mind frankly, regardless of how offensive or tactless his thoughts may be. He has never tailored himself to a situation, never presented himself as anything he is not. But softness and open vulnerability is not a texture he can wear upon himself. Not because he doesn’t have any, Francis knows, but because he expects that Arthur doesn’t know how. Some core part of his personality that gets lost from his heart to his tongue, or given spikes along the way.

Maybe that was what caught Francis’ attention in the first place, all those years ago on the transport ship to Earth. The parts Arthur kept to himself more than the parts he did not. Arthur spoke kindness and care in actions, not words, and words were what Francis had heard far too much of.

Francis looks away and makes sure to keep his face just as blank, just as unconcerned.

‘I love you too.’

[bluejay757]

"I'm dying of boredom," Howl said pathetically. "Or maybe just dying."

He was lying propped on dirty gray pillows, look- ing quite poorly, with what might have been a patch- work coverlet over him, except that it was all one color with dust. The spiders he seemed to like so much were spinning busily in the canopy above him.

Sophie felt his forehead. "You do have a bit of a fever," she admitted.

"I'm delirious," said Howl. "Spots are crawling before my eyes."

"Those are spiders," said Sophie.

I will forever remain that the book version of Howls Moving Castle is 10000× funnier than the movie.

[bebravedearheart]

😂 tickling for merthur!

I don't know why, I had a feeling I'd get this one😂

***

Merlin threw open the heavy curtains blocking the dawn from Arthur's chambers, eliciting a groan from the prince who for all he said Merlin puzzled him was a mystery himself. How could a man with the honed reflexes of a knight training since childhood, who woke at the slightest twitch or rustle while on patrol or on a hunt, be so difficult to wake in the mornings he spent in his lavish bed in the castle.

Though, on reflection, Merlin didn't think he'd wake up so easily if he too was enveloped in soft linen sheets and a feather mattress.

Arthur had done no more than press his face further into his pillow.

"Come on then," Merlin said brightly, just a fraction louder than he needed to. "Let's have you lazy daisy," He knew Arthur hated that phrase and it might at least get something thrown at his head--which meant Arthur would have to move to do so.

The prince, clearly intending to be particularly difficult today, just groaned again, one hand dragged from the warmth of the deep red coverlet to make a shooing motion at Merlin.

"Breakfast will get cold," Merlin tried, deciding not to mention the fact he had once again been late to pick it up and it was already no more than lukewarm.

"S'always cold," Arthur muttered, muffled in his decadence.

"Do I have to drag you out, my lord?" Merlin asked, both of them well aware he only titled Arthur when he was being particularly sardonic. "I've done it before and I will do it again," he continued, trying his best to channel his mother's particular brand of ferocity.

"Are you threatening me, Merlin?" came the still-muffled, still-pompous tone. Arthur was feeling a little more awake, then.

"If that's what it needs to be to get your lazy arse out of bed, royal or not." Merlin answered loftily, with a long-suffering sigh for good measure. He still couldn't see the prince's face, but Arthur's hand was idly twisting in his coverlet; those broad, calloused fingers wrinkling then smoothing the linen.

"You can't talk to me like that," Arthur raised his head, the effect of his commanding, self-important tone somewhat lessened by the yawn that broke his words and the way his hair stuck up in all directions.

Something warm settled itself beneath Merlin's ribs, as it so often did in unguarded moments like these, the glimpses of the man beneath the crown, the infuriating, stubborn, childish man.

"Well, are you getting out of bed?"

"Nope."

"Then I shall continue."

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Sod off."

"Right." Merlin had a note of finality to his tone. "If you're not getting out of bed, I'm getting in."

"Excuse me?" Arthur demanded, though the words had not even left his mouth before Merlin was sat on his hips, knees either side of him.

"Get up," Merlin singsonged, prodding Arthur's bare chest with one long finger.

"Get off," Arthur grumbled, with far less heat than he knew he should at such familiarity.

"Get up," Merlin sang again, prodding Arthur in the ribs this time. The prince could not suppress the slight twitch and shiver when Merlin's finger brushed the sensitive, ticklish spot on his ribs. Merlin did not fail to notice and he grinned wickedly.

"Right." He said again, drawing all of his fingers, feather-light across Arthur's ribs.

***

"Merlin!" the prince squeaked--with dignity, of course--thinking wildly for a moment about how soft Merlin's palms were where they rested on his sides, how warm.

"Are you getting up, my lord?" Merlin said again, his other hand skating over Arthur's chest as the laughter he could not help broke free.

"Merlin! Give up! Merlin!" He bellowed between giggles, had no idea what anyone passing in the corridor might think. His manservant had never listened to him, however, and it did not look like he was about to start now.

Truly awake now, Arthur drew on those perfectly honed reflexes and grabbed Merlin's wrist, knowing Merlin wasn't expecting it. "Ha!" his voice was triumphant as he sat up, still holding Merlin's wrist. They had wrestled like children before, gone far beyond any boundary of lord and servant many times but this felt different. The air felt charged with something Arthur could not name and tried hard not to think about.

His hand seemed so large, clumsy against Merlin's. His blunt, calloused fingertips looked like they would sully Merlin's perfectly pale skin. Arthur swallowed thickly, knowing he should let go but unable to make himself just yet.

Merlin flexed his fingers and Arthur watched the movement intently, didn't think of rules or propriety as he brought Merlin's hand closer to his face, pressed a kiss to his warm palm. Merlin's breath caught in his throat and Arthur moved to kiss the pads of each of Merlin's finger. He tasted the salt-sweat of Merlin's skin, the barest hint of whichever herbs he had picked for Gaius before coming to wake him and the honey from the rolls he always brought Arthur for breakfast. "Stealing my sweetmeats before you've even served me, Merlin?"

The tips of Merlin's ears flushed a delicate pink and Arthur knew he was right. He let go of Merlin's wrist, reluctantly. "We should--"

Merlin's hand had already found its way back to Arthur's chest, pressed flat against his sternum, pushing Arthur to lie back down. Those elegant fingers ran across his chest, down his ribs again; over all the ticklish spots that made Arthur shiver, brushing a nipple oh-so-lightly--which made Arthur actually gasp.

Merlin's smile turned wicked as he tickled Arthur's ribs again just to watch him twitch.

"I think you can stay in bed just a little longer."

[unsoundedcomic]

Well, Duane's light goes out, buried under a pile of eels, and I cry with Sette. Want your family?! Have it. ... It - what? I could see people assuming Sette would cut something out of him with his claws. Instead, seems he gets something he didn't know about a reason of his griefs. I like your mercy, lady Florida Lioness.

Duane caught on her claws like a heavy coverlet, pulling her forward with him and nearly off the soft, slimy eel-covered bed that had formed beneath their feet to witness the execution. Sette didn't understand how he could be so heavy; so tendinous and gelatinous in her hands. Wasn't he a ghost? She flexed her fingers. A frisson of horror thickened her tail as he slid with a slurp off her pinioning grasp, and she was free to catch herself.

He fell away from her, a shed thing. A dead thing. Then a wet plop in the blackness below. She convulsed forward as if to jump after him, catch him, but stopped instead and stared off the edge.

There he lay in the bruise-red mire, face tilted to the void of the evil khert sky. Though he loved a good sky, none had come to tell him good-bye. Instead in a drunk frenzy the eels danced around him, blocked his vision, threaded their bodies into his hood, parted the shirt from his waist to curl under the idea of his clothing, lie flush with his dead clay chest.

Sette couldn't look away. She waited for him to sit up, to try and keep running, to yell at her, anything! The eels snapped at his face. Get away from him! she wanted to scream, but her throat was all stopped up with snot and crying. They didn't get away from him. He belonged to them now, forever. She watched his golden eyes bloom an ugly bronze, then tarnish to black. She watched him sink unblinking beneath the blood swarm, leaving behind only a single word - a final prayer, bobbing like a cork - to mark the site where Duane Adelier fell into Hell.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FIVE: OATS

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink

This is chronologically the fifth chapter in the series

---

The day after the failed feast Dr Lecter enters your unhappy chamber to find you already awake, greasily feverish in the maelstrom of narcotic hangover. Moaning under the dripping cloth of your bedsheet, you wince from the light that punctures the room as Hannibal draws back the curtains with a determined flourish.

"This is what happens when you do not eat and drink enough, I'm afraid," he says, putting a lusciously cool hand to your brow. "The excitement around the table certainly didn't help matters. Had you been receptive, then you would have been hydrated, full-bellied, and ready for the day ahead. Alas, your mulish nature is the portcullis that refuses you entry into better health. I cannot raise it for you."

You haven't the life in you to retaliate to such sanctimonious jibes, and he well knows it.

Humming a strand of Vide Cor Meum, Hannibal glides about you, first plumping your pillow, then holding a glass of water to your lips until you must either drink, or drown. In fractured gulps you salve your chapped throat with it, then part your lips again for a spoon of porridge; to your surprise, the portion spilled from cutlery to tongue is slim, a suggestion of treaty, of a temporary kind.

"I will never make you eat more than is reasonable, little one," says Hannibal, meeting your narrowed stare so frankly that you are almost abashed by the look. "It would do you no good to upset your stomach any further. I will minimise your intake for a few days, at least."

The suggestion is so unbelievable that you search his plain expression for the merest taint of trickery.

"You're not... angry with me," you observe, at last.

Dr Lecter's head inclines.

"Any ill feelings between us were settled at dinner, were they not?"

He helps you to the bathroom, stepping politely outside the door as you list at a sloppy port-wise angle, gripping either side of the bowl with preventative force; you may fall should you let go, humiliate yourself in the necessity of further care.

That Hannibal reverts to a veneer of nurturing aid after an episode of violence with such undisturbed ease frightens you, as does your instinct to accept that profferred assistance. Too many years span from here to the last time you allowed yourself to do so, and though you know well Dr Lecter's malign in having manufactured such frailty, you may never regain the position to resist it without him.

As with Will, your way out of this house is to drive yourself further in.

"I'll return home early today," says Hannibal, as he eases you back into bed in stops and starts to accomodate each shimmer of nausea. "I can reschedule my afternoon appointments for another time."

"Don't bother," you mutter, against your pillow. "I want to be on my own."

"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, I will be here to monitor you. If you're feeling better tonight, then I will conduct your next therapy session."

Fear flowers at your core, all thorn tipped leaves.

"I won't be better," you say, your lips still crushed to starched cotton. "That promise I made to you about trying— I can't stick to that. I can't be the person you need. And I can't eat. It's too hard for me."

Hannibal lays a hand on your back, soothing you as he might an infant with colic.

"I know," he says, simply. "Relapses are to be expected. Neither Will or I will admonish you for that. What I will not tolerate is rudeness. I have demonstrated what will occur if you do not keep your tongue in check."

At this your head snaps upright against the pull of sickness.

"Aren't you rude?" you ask, sharply. "And Will?"

Hannibal pats down your coverlet, quite unoffended.

"One might argue that is down to interpretation. I pride myself on cultivating elegance, which includes manners, as a matter of course. Will, however, is— unique. I overlook his cruder moments for the complexity layered beneath them. As for what we have done to you, it is unfortunate that you cannot observe the act through our eyes, and perceive its beauty, as well as your own."

To this, you have no answer. You can think only of snaring hands, of Will's stubble scarring your cheek, and the blood broken like bottled wine across your inner thighs, so much ugliness paraded as glory.

"Please drink the water I've left out for you," says Hannibal.

You do, for he will know, if you do not.

*

There was something in that glass, or the oats, you comprehend, for when you are next conscious you are propped upright in a leather chair, only part returned from witless repose.

A metronome clicks at your ear, back and forth.

Lights flash and cease, white and black their blinking through the timeless night in which Dr Lecter has you drown. You sit, or swim in it; you cannot tell. The fungal spell of Hannibal's cooking robs you of both voice and tether to the earth. You could be foam in a Homerean ocean, where men become pigs on its alien isles.

You too might be such a beast, or a child, or some sylph of amorphous matter trapped in such hampering skin.

The sound of your breath comes, shuttered and sharp.

A warm hand cups your chest, and your lungs seem to open to its gesture as though by unknown magic.

Then a voice murmurs from a face before you, its shape without edge, an orb.

"You are safe. You are cared for. You belong."

Like a switchblade across your eye the light comes again, and you are part of it, an impulse that is all life, all one.

Hannibal speaks your name, grounding you to him, as to a stack in some wild sea.

"I'm going to ask you some questions now," he tells you. "They may be difficult. Try to answer them honestly."

There is only a man here, there is only light; you cannot refuse them.

"Okay," you mumble.

Hannibal's pleasure in your answer is a current timed to the swishing metronome.

"How did your eating disorder begin?" he asks. "What did it look like, then?"

"Just a diet, at first," you say. "The meals got smaller and smaller. Then a lot of food scared me. I started counting calories. Throwing food out. Being around anyone eating was like I was being tortured. That's when I knew that something was really wrong with me."

You hear the scratch of a pen on an unseen pad.

"I see. And how did that realisation make you feel?"

"Nothing. I didn't care. Then I started to like it. Challenging myself. The compliments— feeling like I had something nobody else did, that I was so good at— It became everything I was. My identity, kind of."

How easy it is to speak, when you cannot see the expression of the listener before you.

"Trauma frequently shapes us in our formative years," Hannibal comments. "It is a natural response to build oneself in its image. So, let us retreat to older memories. Tell me of a time that you recall being afraid."

The flashing light numbs to an ebbing glow.

"There was this guy," you say. "A guy that my dad was friends with. Still is. His name is Leland Frost. He used to come over to our house all the time. He was always so friendly, but I knew that there was something wrong with him. There was something in his eyes, the way he laughed too much, or stood too close to me. Like he was putting on a rubber Hallowe'en mask of a regular guy, and everyone was just pretending it was fine, but they really weren't pretending."

"Elaborate."

You gnaw at your lower lip until you taste warm iron, and consider spitting out the calories.

"I tried to tell people about it," you say. "But Dad could never see it. He'd just say, 'oh, that's just Lee. Silly old Uncle Lee. That's just how he is.' But I knew. I saw him. I smelled the cheap rubber mask."

"Did this Uncle Lee ever hurt you?" asks Hannibal, softly. "Touch you in an inappropriate manner?"

This memory is dusky, a cobwebbed photograph.

"I don't know," you admit, at last. "I always thought he wanted to, though. I always thought the minute my parents left me alone with him something bad would happen. The waiting was always the worst part."

A pause, in which you sense rather than see Dr Lecter watching you through the dark-light-darkness.

"But maybe it wasn't Uncle Lee that I was waiting for," you say, at last. "Maybe it was you and Will."

The gloom becomes further marred by tears, and you feel a box of tissues being pressed into your loose hand.

"That's enough for today," says Hannibal, rising from his seat. "You've done well for me. This calls for a reward."

He crosses the room to pick up a telephone, glancing at you with an unintelligible heat in his eyes.

"Good evening," he says, into the receiver. "I hope this is a convenient time for you. Yes, that is correct; I'm calling about your daughter's progress. I am very satisfied with her cooperation today. We are approaching some early milestones."

Hearing the tinny, distant voices of your parents, you struggle towards a lucidity that feels so desperately out of touch.

Hannibal crosses the room towards you again and turns the phone away from his mouth to murmur, "I will allow you a few words to them, if you will be sensible."

By this he means: if you do not give the game away.

You nod your head jerkily and extend a fist as Dr Lecter introduces you into the conversation.

"She is here, now. Somewhat tired, but all is well."

You clenched the receiver to your ear, tears coming in such a quick patter that, at first, you can only sit in hyperventilating silence as your parents babble at you, their voices sharp with an underlying guilt.

"How are you, honey? It's so good to hear from you! We love you! Is everything okay?"

Each day you've been parted from them you've missed them as you would your most vital structures, with a sore and deathly strength, yet your love is not so stark as your disappointment in being so abandoned by them.

"No," you say, at last. "I'm not okay, Mom. Dad. How could you send me away and not even warn me?"

The babbling rises, panic in male and female iteration.

"We had no other choice. It was all we could think to do! We tried everything. But Dr Lecter's helping you, isn't he?"

Hannibal's stare is, itself, a warning.

Pressing your knuckles to your anguished mouth, you pass the telephone back to him, not trusting yourself not to scream for help and damn yourself to the harshest punishment that such an executioner of free will might hand to you.

"She is overwrought," says Dr Lecter, apologetically. "I'll call again next week."

He hangs up, and leans across to clean the tears from your face himself, ensuring the tissue is discarded in a wastpaper basket; even in this he must be perfect, organised and pristine. You hate him for it, this performance he makes of his life, preserving such details as no one would be likely to notice but him.

"I wish you hadn't let me talk to them," you whisper. "Now I feel even worse."

"Of course you do," says Hannibal. "Your family betrayed you. It would be much more unusual if you held no resentment towards them at all."

You squint up at him in accusation.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Leaving a wound open may sometimes allow it to dry, and subsequently heal. You will not advance without acknowledging the harm your parents have done to you, whether through dispatching you to me without consent, or by ignoring your justifiable fear of Leland Frost. The map to your mental injury is unfurling before us: the continents take shape, as do the names that mark each turn in your unhappy life. In time, I will know them all."

Weeping, you slip down in your chair, not wanting to see the truth that thrusts itself up from the outcrop of evil.

"I will help you to your room," says Dr Lecter. "More sleep is in order, I think."

*

Will Graham enters the house some time in the night; you hear his low voice through the floorboards as you lie in swaying wakefulness, wondering what brings the professor here at so late an hour. He stays for so long that he accepts an invite into one of Hannibal's spare rooms, a fact that you discern from the voices passing your door in the hallway.

Again you sleep, though not pleasantly, your psyche disturbed by the third presence in the building, and by the lasting bruise of Dr Lecter's relentless torments.

In this sleep you dream of an antlered thing burying you in a terracotta wood, its face so darkly passive as soil smothers your airways that you might well be a bone, stored there to be gnawed at some late and starving hour.

When you emerge from this haunted slumber you still feel the threads of it still noosed around you; dream-sick, drug-thick, you stagger across your bedroom and, finding the door unlocked, tumble on into the hallway beyond.

By chance you find Will's room, letting yourself into quarters that smell of night-sweat, and pine, and male musk. You scarcely know what you do as you climb into bed with him against his salty heat, nor why it is he, of your abusers, that you seek.

Will starts awake, wild-haired and horrified as he senses your body beside him. Your name bolts from his lips, scarcely recognisable, the utterance of an animal groomed to speak a human tongue.

"What are you doing here? You should be in your own room."

Keeping your back to him, you drowsily reply.

"Had a bad dream."

Will breathes an ironic laugh.

"And you think you'll sleep any better in my bed? I destroyed you, remember?"

Self-blame, self-loathing, all jagged and tail-swallowing teeth.

"No," you mumble. "He did. Not you, Daddy."

You feel Will sit up behind you, scratching a hand through his unruly curls.

"You're not in your right mind," he announces, gruffly. "I'd better tell Dr Lecter to stop giving you whatever medication you're on. It's not good for you. No wonder you're having nightmares."

Still, he doesn't attempt to turn you out of bed, or to call Hannibal to eject you on his behalf. He only slouches, gazing at you, until you turn on your side to look back at his pretty, troubled face in its nest of brindled shadow.

Will's shoulders still droop in a mode of shame, yet the black of the room deepens the blue of his eyes into a yearning colour through which many a woman would gladly fall. He wants you here, you realise, perhaps likes the power he holds in having you soft and needful beside him, in his lair, after all he's done.

You should detest him for feeling it, and you do.

But recognising that craving within him reawakens the understanding of that power you may yet hold over him, in return, the mistress of a cur that bites all but those that direct the leash.

It is a long way off, this control, but the taste of it will do, for now.

"Let me stay," you implore, fluttering sodden eyelashes in a coquettish attempt to convince him. "Please? Just for tonight? I don't want that dream to come back."

You'll loathe yourself for this, in the morning, but now all you care for is the night. Will seems to be having the same thought, for he lies back down on the mattress again, taking care to leave ample space between you.

How does he compartmentalise his violence—his taste for it—from his revulsion towards you, and further still from the empathy that stirs in him like a stamped out fire?

"Just one night," says Will, sternly. "I don't know what Hannibal is going to say about this."

You pull the quilt up under your chin, almost giddy with your achievement, and with it the comfort that pours over you like a September afternoon. This strange happiness you will remember, and wonder at, when all you should have known were the tatters of despair.

"Dr Lecter left my door unlocked," you say, as Will moves in restless, settling motions at your back, still refusing to make contact with your skin. "So it's really his fault I'm here, you know."

At this Will half-rises again, but whatever question or comment he murmurs is lost to your abrupt slumber.

By morning he is gone, and you are alone again, only the scent of the monster remaining about you to mark out your miserable self-treachery.

He is not there to see you thrust the sheets against your face and inhale their bitter stink, if only to claw back the triumph of having made vulnerable a man so very closed to contact of the most human kind.

He is not there, and he is everywhere.

Will is as part of this house as Dr Lecter, now.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

get ya thinkin' (that you need me)

Fandom: Twisters Rating: T Word Count: 6028

Summary: Kate, Javi, Tyler, Lily, Dexter, Dani, and Boone—they're all one crew now, and they need funding. Trying to look more responsible on a grant application, they come up with an unconventional solution: two of them should get married. But which two? Javi and Tyler prompt Kate to consider what her friendships could become.

“I know it was me,” Tyler prefaces. “I know I’m the one who said our crew didn’t need PhDs, but…”

“But it might be nice to have one right about now?” Lily guesses.

There’s a collective sigh as they all stare at the screen together. Javi, controlling the touchpad, scrolls down and back up again, like the words might have changed, like this grant application isn’t punishingly particular and hopelessly intimidating.

“If we type it up in the wrong font it gets rejected?” Lily checks, jabbing a finger at the line she picks out of the blur.

Boone shifts and turns to Kate. “You’re doing your PhD, right? How soon you gonna be done?”

Kate gives him a look that asks if he’s shitting her. “Not by next Monday, which is when this application’s due.”

“Fuck,” Javi groans, rubbing his forehead.

“Well, hey, you gotta be good at this kinda thing, Storm Par,” Tyler reasons. “Your old crew had money comin’ out its eyeballs.”

“That was from investors. Highly unethical investors,” he clarifies, with a glance at Kate, who frowns sympathetically. “Private money. We never held a government grant.”

“We need more time,” Kate declares, like just saying that could possibly extend the deadline.

She shoves herself up and away from the motel bed they’re all gathered on the end of. If any of them were responsible adults, they’d be able to admit that they don’t need the deadline to be later, they need to have started working on this sooner. A lot sooner. The trouble is, they’re the furthest thing possible from responsible—at least, not in any way a government grant application would define the term (and, Jesus, does this application ever love defining terms—Definition of Terms is a whole section of the instructions, right at the top). They’re storm-chasers, risk-takers, and no, no one has yet seen fit to bestow upon them large amounts of money to fund their research, so it’s tough to prove they’re a safe bet, a good call, a fast horse.

“The only aspect we may be able to exploit,” Dexter pipes up, “is format.”

“It’s all online, I thought,” Dani says, seated beside him.

“Most of it is, but… could you scroll back up?” he requests of Javi. “Right… there. In the research proposal section, there’s an option for delivery method.”

“Thirty minutes or it’s free?” Boone quips.

Lily rolls her eyes at him.

“No,” Kate says, pacing. “No, it means we might have a better chance if we submit an audio recording of us explaining our research, maybe Javi talking through the data to make the significance really clear. Or we make a slideshow, or film a video.” She pauses to smile. “You guys would be great at that. The point is—”

“The point is,” Tyler picks up, meeting her eyes, “we could convince them on our own terms. No PhD necessary.”

“Though we’d still have to seem stable,” Kate stresses. Everyone nods back at her. “Professional.”

“Who says we’re not professional?” Javi demands.

“Do I need to bring up the pants thing?”

“…No.”

“Everybody in this room knows their shit,” Tyler says.

“Right,” Dani says slowly, “but you can’t say we aren’t… slightly erratic. Not that it’s a bad thing, for what we do. But Kate did say ‘stable.’”

“To be clear,” Kate says, “I’m not telling anybody to quit driving like a total jackass, or making up catchphrases that promote reckless behaviour—”

“Or shooting fireworks into a tornado,” Javi contributes.

“These non-criticisms feel oddly specific,” Tyler says tightly.

“Our roster’s not even stable,” Lily points out. She folds her legs on top of the bland coverlet and the mattress’s springs shriek. “Kate’s only been part of the crew a couple days longer than Javi, and that hasn’t been very long.”

“That is a valid point,” Dexter says.

Kate sighs. “It is. So, I’m asking honestly,” she finishes. “What can we do, by next Monday, to convince some government committee”—she slaps the back of one hand into the palm of the other as she lists criteria—“we are sane, we are stable, we are going to go the distance with this research?”

Into the silence that follows, Javi says, “We could get married.”

There’s another second of absolute quiet before Tyler asks, “Was that an open proposal, or is there a happy couple you had in mind?”

What Kate thinks they’ve probably all been enjoying about the new (or just newly expanded) crew is the lack of awkwardness. Javi’s Storm Par crew was rife with it. While having zero members with a PhD is sometimes a challenge, Kate saw how too many PhDs could be even worse; there was a hierarchy amongst those guys, and if anyone dared offer a suggestion, the rest of them would throw sidelong glances at one another. Kate figured a few of them could straight-up go to hell (particularly Scott), but she still doesn’t know how Javi stood it.

But even that awkwardness was clearly power-based. Javi’s suggestion is different, more personal, and definitely more awkward.

The vibe in the motel room is immediately screwed up. Some people look like they want to laugh, others are frowning in contemplation, and Javi’s just blushing, not looking anyone in the eye. Still, because he’s Javi, he doesn’t chicken out. He tries to make his case.

“You guys heard of Jo Harding?”

“Fuck yeah, I’ve heard of Jo Harding,” Dani announces. “Who in the tornado game hasn’t?”

“Well, she’s an Oklahoma girl, so I was just checking.” Javi shrugs. “Her husband was her partner when she chased.”

“Yeah, but she had a whole crew,” Boone says.

“Yeah, but she also had a husband.”

“Stop mansplaining Jo Harding,” Lily complains, flinging herself backwards on the bed.

“It’s not like having a husband made her a good scientist, or a good storm-chaser,” Dani says.

“I’m not saying that!” Javi protests.

“Yeah, dude, Jo’s husband isn’t the most interesting thing about her,” Boone adds.

“I can’t believe we’ve now spent more time talking about Jo Harding’s husband than Jo Harding,” Lily groans.

“They won the grant!” Javi bursts out. “They won the fucking grant!”

Tyler, who’s mostly just been observing the crew with amusement up to this point, looks at Javi and cocks an eyebrow. “This grant?”

“Yes! This grant! I’m just trying to say they’re a powerful team. Formidable. I’ve read, like, every article ever done on them—”

“Woah, woah, woah. You have? That’s intense.”

Kate glances at Tyler and explains, “He had a crush.”

“Sounds more like an obsession.”

“I admired their work,” Javi says defensively.

“Oh, is that what you were admiring in that one article where you cut across the text and just kept the photo of Jo?” Kate checks, smirking.

“What have I done to you, Kate? Goddamn.”

“Finish your point,” she prompts.

Javi sighs and braces his hands behind him, leaning back carefully so the laptop doesn’t slide from his lap.

“They always talk about how they make each other better. Not that the other person is why they’re good at their job in the first place,” he clarifies, shooting glances at Lily, Boone, and Dani, “but that they look out for each other, stop each other from making stupid decisions, keep each other safe. And yeah, a crew can do that too. A good crew. But a married couple just sells devotion and, and conviction in a different way. All I’m saying is it’s something to try.”

“It’s not an unreasonable proposition,” Dexter allows when it’s clear that Javi’s done. Dexter’s calm, steady voice giving the idea his tentative approval strengthens its merit for everyone in the room. Kate can see it. She exhales.

“Alright,” she says. “Well, we don’t have a lot of time to mull this over before the deadline, but let’s give Javi’s suggestion some thought. And any other ideas you guys come up with. Maybe reconvene on this tomorrow?”

There are nods and murmurs of approval.

The room they’re in is Lily and Dani’s, so the crewmembers not hanging around to chill file out onto the sidewalk that lines the motel. Kate’s just thinking about going back to her own room—well, hers and Javi’s, with matching twin beds in baby-blue coverlets that make her think of the Shining twins—and getting some sleep. They chased yesterday, then stayed up late last night going over the data. They’ve all been eating at weird hours, and now with the stress of the grant application… Kate runs a hand over her face. She can hear Javi and Tyler talking behind her, but she doesn’t think anything of it until she’s unlocked the motel room door and Tyler follows her and Javi inside.

“We need to talk,” Tyler states the second the door’s closed.

“‘We could get married,’” Kate quotes. (Sarcastically, but yeah, she’s beat.) “‘We need to talk.’ You’re both so dramatic today.”

“That’s what we need to talk about,” Tyler says, ignoring her sarcasm.

“What?”

“Getting married.”

Kate gives him a slow blink.

“We just did,” she says. “That’s what that conversation was.” She points in the direction of the other motel room.

“But we need to decide,” Javi says.

“We will. Everyone needs some time to think.”

“No, they don’t,” Tyler says.

“Uh, yes, they do. If they’d either thought it was the best solution or a total flop, they would’ve said right after Javi explained.”

“I know our crew better than you do, Sapulpa—just a fact. Trust me, they had an opinion.”

“Then how come nobody said anything?” Kate asks skeptically.

“Because it isn’t about them,” Javi says.

“What? Of course it is! The grant is for the team. We can put it towards a new drone for Lily and get Boone some more—”

“Not the grant. The marriage.”

“The marriage would be for the grant.” Kate has a bad feeling that she’s started talking to Javi like he’s an idiot, but she’s seriously just not getting it. Why isn’t he just saying what he means? She’s tired.

Tyler laughs. He laughs! She stares at him.

“Come on,” he says, “you have to know why they all clammed up.”

Kate looks to Javi. Javi, the guy she basically ghosted until he showed up at her workplace to drag her back here. Javi, who’s still her best friend, no matter what. Javi, who she really needs to make sense right now.

“They didn’t ask any questions,” Javi says gently.

“Most importantly,” Tyler cuts in, “nobody asked who this hypothetical marriage would be between. You catch that?”

“That’s just because we need to decide whether or not we’re doing it first,” Kate says, crossing her arms.

“You really think that’s why? And not that it’s because of the way Storm Par here looks at you, or the fact that he’s the one who suggested getting hitched? It’s not just a grant application, Kate. There are other stakes here.”

Kate flushes lightly, and when she chances a look at Javi, he is too. Tyler’s not exactly wrong, but he isn’t quite right either; she and Javi go back a long way. They care about one another—which is natural, especially after what they survived. Kate would also be lying if she tried to tell Tyler she hasn’t noticed those looks of Javi’s, that she’s blind to the way his steady brown eyes linger on her when she speaks, find her when she’s still, working out the math for their next planned chase. She doesn’t hate it, that way he has of looking at her.

Javi temporarily saves her from responding. Once he’s made his point, she’s not entirely grateful.

"Me?" he says to Tyler. “Those guys aren’t keeping their opinions to themselves because of some obvious claim I was staking on Kate. I’m subtle.”

The remark is so pointed that it’s no wonder Tyler reacts to it, even as Kate has a private, silent panic.

“I never staked a claim on Kate,” Tyler assures him.

“Sure you did,” Javi argues. “You stayed at her house. You met her mom. You basically poached her from Storm Par.”

“I didn’t need to poach her. She came willingly. And I bet you’ve stayed at her house and met her mom! You’ve known each other, what? Forever? That about right?”

“Well, what about you two?” Kate interrupts, gesturing between the men. “Old rivals, new allies. Some unresolved tension from chasing the same storms, maybe? How do you know the crew weren’t picturing you at the altar?”

While this seems to genuinely bewilder Javi, Tyler hitches his jeans and shrugs. “Wouldn’t be my first rodeo.”

“I just don’t think anybody’s thinking anything.”

“They might not all be thinking the same thing,” Tyler allows her, “but they’re all thinkin’ something. The two people getting married to give us a shot at this grant are standing in this room right now. I guarantee it.”

The three of them eye each other.

“If there’s going to be a marriage,” Javi says.

“Oh, there is,” Tyler says. “You made too good a case for it. Whole lotta money on the line. Seems too logical not to try.”

“Nothing about this is logical,” Kate decides, and goes to brush her teeth in the tiny bathroom.

When she comes back out, Tyler’s gone. She cedes the bathroom to Javi so he can get ready for bed too. They exchange a look as he passes her, but she waves him on, pats his shoulder as he passes. They can talk when he’s ready. Well, maybe not ready, but ready for bed. She goes to her squeaky twin and sits down to wait.

“It’s insane,” Kate says a little later.

They’re lying down, facing each other across the divide between their narrow beds. There’s an old movie playing on the perhaps equally old TV that sits against the opposite wall; they’ve turned the sound way down. The screen’s glow provides the only light. Kate thumps her pillow for emphasis rather than elaborating. She just doesn’t have anything smart left to say on this topic.

“It’s also not,” Javi counters. He’s run out of more sophisticated arguments too.

“So, two of us are really going to get married?”

“Hey, we do crazier shit literally every day. And it’s not, like, real. Whether or not it helps us get the grant, the marriage can be annulled, or they can get divorced, or whatever. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Kate laughs, and then Javi laughs too. She likes watching him laugh; his smile hangs on for such a long time after he stops. It’s sweet.

“Who do you think it should be?” she wonders.

“I mean, I would do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I suggested it, right? Gotta put my… I don’t know, my vows where my mouth is.”

“So rational,” Kate notes, sort of joking, though she does also admire Javi’s pragmatism. He’s thinking of the crew, how to look out for them, both by securing this grant and by sparing them the need to enter into this plan which is—regardless of what he says—a little insane. When she thinks of it that way… “I guess I would too.”

“You would get married?”

“Why not? Since it has to be somebody. You’re my best friend, anyway,” she says, sending him a soft smile. “It wouldn’t be like marrying a stranger. Besides, nothing would really change.”

“You don’t think so?” Javi asks earnestly. Which is not the easiest question to answer. But Javi has more to say before he’ll let her try. “You know… I mean, I told you…”

“That you would’ve done anything for me, back then,” Kate fills in. She sees Javi nod against his pillow. She exhales slowly. “Yeah. I didn’t really pick up on that. I just thought we were friends.”

“We were friends. We are. I just felt a little more for you than that. Not that I ever would’ve done anything. You and Jeb were great together. I wouldn’t have been dumb enough to try to come between you, and I didn’t want to. I just sort of quietly…” Javi grins like he can’t help it. “…had this thing for you.”

Kate returns his grin, amused because it’s easier to feel amused than to feel sad. She wants to be able to talk about Jeb, hasn’t let herself in so long, putting herself more than a thousand miles away from anyone else who knew him. Now, it feels so good to hear Jeb’s name in the mouth of somebody who cared about him too. With Javi, Jeb will never be forgotten. Kate will never lose the opportunity to talk about Jeb, to reminisce. Javi will be as respectful now as he apparently was then, keeping his own wants reined in so Jeb and Kate could be happy with each other. Who should she—should either of them—allow to make her happy now? With his caring, trusting eyes trained on her as the light from the TV flashes and shifts, Javi seems like a pretty good choice.

“It’d be more than practical for you,” she acknowledges.

“It would.” Javi sighs. “I thought you’d better have all the facts.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And now you can admit it,” he prompts.

“What?”

“That you got the hots for me too.”

They share another laugh. But Kate can only laugh so long as a reaction to his teasing tone, because, yeah, she kind of has started to think of him in that way since being back here in Oklahoma. She’s been trying to wait it out a little. Part of that’s fear; Jeb was her last serious attachment. She hasn’t been able to love somebody like that again (she hasn’t even really tried to date), too scared that something awful will happen. With Javi, it’s a real possibility that he could meet Jeb’s exact same fate, and there’s no place in the whole world Kate could move to that could get her far enough away from here if that happened.

The other reason she’s waited is that coming back, coming home, has provoked a swirling mess of feelings in her—an emotional tornado, if she’s honest, and it has taken honesty to let herself be hit by the force of those feelings instead of retreating to the mental bunker where she’s spent the last five years. Those winds are still calming. In the meantime, Kate hasn’t wanted to confuse the feeling of being home with a desire to be more than friends with Javi.

“Not then,” he says kindly, when she doesn’t reply right away. “I know you didn’t then.”

“Coming back,” Kate starts, her gaze drifting, “hasn’t been totally what I thought it would be. I’d be lying if I said you weren’t part of that. You’re the same as you were then, but different too. I’d never seen you lead a team before.”

“You surprised those guys listened to me?”

“No, I guess I just wasn’t expecting the way you made room for me. I saw that you were still on my side…

“I always have been.”

“I know,” she promises, meeting his eye. “And you trusted me again, immediately—”

“No reason not to,” Javi says easily.

“There were reasons not to,” she insists. Does she need to remind him of their first chase after she arrived? How she panicked? How she was the reason they didn’t get the third scanner set up and so couldn’t collect data that day? “But you vouched for me. Last time, with our team, you trusted me because I was the head of the project. It felt like you trusted me just as fully this time, even though it meant committing all those other people and all your resources.”

She’s surprised, while she’s being this sincere, that Javi laughs at her.

“I never trusted you just because you were the head of the project,” he explains. “I trusted you because you were you. You’re still you. You’re so you that Tyler’s ready to marry you too, and you’ve known each other less than a month.”

Kate makes a dismissive sound.

“You know there’s something between you,” Javi says. “That man is crazy about you.”

“I think he might just be crazy. It’s well-documented on the internet.”

“He’s always close to you.”

“So are you.”

“Exactly,” Javi agrees. “So I can speak to his motives.”

“We survived an EF4 together. He sheltered me with his body in the bottom of a swimming pool. Maybe we just shared an intense, near-death experience.”

“Is that all?”

Kate deflates.

“No. He is pretty hot.”

“That’s what I thought,” Javi says triumphantly.

There’s more to it than that, but Javi can obviously tell that already, so it doesn’t seem worth saying. Kate folds her pillow in half so she can sit up a little higher.

“Well, can we talk about the look on your face?”

“When?”

“‘Wouldn’t be my first rodeo,’” Kate quotes, badly mimicking Tyler’s voice.

“As if he meant anything by that.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s Tyler Owens! He just says shit for dramatic effect!”

Kate crosses her arms and stares at her friend with amusement.

“Probably!” Javi adds weakly.

“I could see you two married. Fake-married.”

“He is good at what he does,” Javi concedes, “when he’s not being a total jackass.”

“Is that all?” she teases.

She hears Javi’s deep sigh.

“I’ve watched a few of his YouTube videos,” Javi confesses. “He takes off his shirt sometimes.”

Kate sinks back down into bed after that. At some point, half-asleep, she hears Javi get up to use the bathroom. He switches off the TV on his way past, and the light quits flickering across Kate’s closed eyelids.

—

They aren’t chasing the next day, so they decide to stay in town for breakfast at the little diner. Because they’re together so much—hunched over the same screens, crammed into the same vehicles, bunked in the same motel rooms—it isn’t unusual for them to not eat together. Four of them practically feels like a family reunion, but Kate’s glad of the company. She, Javi, Tyler, and Boone grab a booth and flap open their cracked plastic menus.

Javi, seated opposite her and next to Boone, keeps looking at her. Kate can feel it without returning his gaze. When she relents and looks back at him while they’re eating, she sees (as she suspected she would) that he isn’t making eyes at her over his pancakes—he’s watching her with Tyler. She makes a face at Javi. There’s nothing to see! Tyler might be sitting beside her, but he’s intent on dipping his bacon into the yolks of his eggs, laughing across the table at something Boone’s telling him he captured in recent footage of the crew goofing around. Tyler and Kate aren’t looking at one another. They aren’t even touching. Yeah, maybe she can feel the heat of him because their thighs are almost close enough to touch on the seat, but it doesn’t mean any more today that it did yesterday. Javi’s just trying to make it weird, because of their conversation last night.

I could make it weird too, she threatens with her eyes. That makes Javi smile and go back to his pancakes.

After they’ve finished though, when Boone and Javi get into a discussion that quickly becomes so focused that it shuts out the other side of the table, Tyler nudges Kate’s arm with his elbow and jerks his head towards the door.

Outside, Kate takes a breath that doesn’t feel deep enough. It’s dry today. A field borders one side of the diner parking lot, and the wheat rustles crisply. Taking it all in is second nature, requires no thought at all. There’s the windspeed she can guess at when a breeze strokes across her arm; there’s wind direction, determined when a slightly stronger gush sweeps a strand of hair loose from her ponytail; she judges the atmospheric pressure with her sinuses; and she gathers all of this without even looking at the sky. When she does, it’s cloudless, flat as a blue tablecloth.

She looks at Tyler. He’s studying her.

“Just trying to pick up some tips,” he says, before she can say anything.

“And? What’ve you learned?”

Tyler just smiles mysteriously.

“You guys talk last night?”

“Me and Javi?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure,” Kate says. She knows it’s a vague answer, but Tyler will be bold enough to ask for the information he really wants. She’d bet on it.

She turns to face him fully, crosses her arms expectantly.

“Did you decide anything?” Tyler asks. He has his cowboy hat on, but the morning light slants low, making him squint when he looks at her. She circles him a little so he’s not staring into the sun.

“It shouldn’t really be a unilateral decision, should it?”

“Typically, yeah, it is just one person who decides to propose.”

“This isn’t about just one person,” Kate reminds him. “It’s about the crew.”

“I’m aware.”

“Well…”

“Well. Are you guys waiting on a group vote then?” he inquires facetiously.

“I didn’t say Javi and I agreed to get married,” she says, frowning.

“You didn’t say you didn’t either.”

She sighs at how frustrating Tyler’s being. He shifts his feet, making the gravel crunch under his boots. There’s a grit to him too—in how he only seems like he’s going along with this but obviously has something he feels he still has to say, something he hasn’t yet given up on. But Kate has a hard time with waiting. She likes making decisions quickly. Somehow, this—the prospect of marriage—is an exception. More complicated than it should be, if it’s just about securing the funding.

(It’s not. She knows it’s not, especially after talking to Javi last night.)

“I’m better at running,” Kate says quickly. “Lately.”

“What?”

“Than chasing.” She offers a weak shrug, not sure what to do with herself, with her body. Tyler’s so solid, standing here in front of her. So steady in his eyes.

“Do you wanna chase me?” He doesn’t sound surprised, exactly, but his words are less than a challenge.

“Seems like it’s my turn. You followed me to New York and all.”

“I didn’t follow you. Your flight got delayed and I had time to buy a ticket. I went with you.”

It’s true, he did. First, they waited out the delay together. The weather didn’t turn into what it might’ve, so it was only an extra hour. Tyler had time to call Boone about coming to get the truck, and Kate had time to call Javi about the storm warning. Javi hadn’t left the airport yet. Initially, he came inside. A tornado was about the only thing that could excuse there now being two trucks parked in the Drop-off Only zone outside. (That poor man.) They sat together in the chairs by the check-in desk, Kate and Tyler on either side of Javi as the three of them studied the weather data on his laptop, the hard-edged coloured shapes that scudded across dark county lines. As soon as they knew it was nothing, Javi said he’d drive back to get Boone himself, then bring him to the airport to collect the truck. Tyler said he didn’t have to. When Javi insisted, Tyler gave way. That surprised all of them. It was maybe the start of the new team.

In New York, Kate let Tyler come to work with her. Her coworkers were the weather-geek demographic Tyler appeared to have never even dreamed of; many of them were familiar with his YouTube channel. One of them asked if Dani was single. Kate grinned as she stood back and watched Tyler lean into his persona for the fans, into his accent—just the same as she had leaned away from her accent when she moved up here, not wanting questions about where she was from. Not wanting to think too often of home. She stood and watched, and then she went to her boss’s office and quit with as much grace as she could manage after taking a week off on almost no notice. Tyler urged the whole place into his trademark call and response on their way out the door.

“That’ll numb any hard feelings for a while,” he assured her as they took the elevator down to the lobby.

“What hard feelings?”

Tyler frowned at her.

“About losing you. They’re gonna miss the hell outta you, Sapulpa.”

“Too bad,” she said. She didn’t think it was true.

“Too bad is right. You belong to the South, and we’re takin’ you back.”

She wouldn’t let him help her pack up her apartment. What had once seemed fresh to her—the white walls and clean lines of starting over—now seemed barren and sad. She found she was glad to leave it. She didn’t want Tyler to see.

He spent his time in other ways. Took a ferry out to Liberty Island. Ate pizza in Brooklyn, pastrami on the Lower East Side. He got up to the Bronx to watch a baseball game at Yankee Stadium. Kate didn’t know how he managed it all. They were in New York for three and a half days. Tyler just beamed and told her his feet were killing him. He still helped her carry all her boxes down the stairs of her walk-up while the train rattled by.

They drove back to Oklahoma in a rental truck. Somehow, Tyler made it take four days, when they probably could’ve done it in two. He bought her an ice cream in St. Louis, laughed as it melted so fast that it ran down her hand.

She guesses this, now, standing in a diner parking lot, is overdue. Even though, like Javi said, she and Tyler have known each other less than a month. It doesn’t feel like it.

“What about you and Javi?” she asks bluntly.

“That could be fun,” Tyler allows. “There are a few more buttons there I wouldn’t mind pushing. Think he’d go for ‘Javi Owens’?”

A laugh bursts from Kate.

“I think you’d be taking your life in your hands if you asked him.”

When Tyler smiles at her, pleased but gentle, she gets it. She got it from them both: they’d get married for the application, probably even find it a lark, but it wouldn’t mean much more than that. There’d be less danger in it. That should be a good thing—a reason for Tyler and Javi to be the ones—but Kate knows it’s also the thing that’s making them all hold their breath. They’re used to this type of crossroad, the three of them, used to tilting their faces to the sky to check the conditions. In the end, they’ll always pick the road that leads them into danger, not away from it.

They both want Kate.

“You don’t have to chase me just because you think you should,” Tyler says sternly. “You don’t have to chase me at all.” His face softens. “I’m standing still.”

She laughs and, incredulous, asks, “Since when?”

“You,” he says simply. “I like Javi, Kate. I do.” But I want it to be me, his eyes say when his mouth stops.

“Yeah.” She knows. She can see that he does.

She and Tyler leave it there, because Boone and Javi are coming out of the diner now. They came in two vehicles and Kate goes with Javi because she knows he’ll let her think.

It’s officially not about the grant anymore. It’s not even about getting married. This is bigger and smaller than that. Kate puts the passenger-side window of Javi’s truck down (an older truck, no Storm Par logo) and leans into the onrush of air. The marriage would be strategic, but a relationship with either Tyler or Javi would be completely real. Real feelings, real expectations, real mess if it fell apart and they kept working together. Which they would; they all love this job too much.

For just a second, Kate shuts her eyes and wishes this wasn’t happening to her. Then she feels silly because, after Jeb, ever falling for another human being seemed astronomically unlikely. She stuck to storms. Had crushes on cloud formations. Made lovesick eyes at the sky when it turned a spooky shade of green. That Javi and Tyler are both ready to be with her seems like a miracle. She’s grateful. She just doesn’t know how to choose.

Javi leaves her alone for the entirety of the short drive. They pull into the motel lot behind Tyler and Boone and drive to the end where the doors of the crew’s motel rooms stand in a line. Dexter, Dani, and Lily are there as they pull in. They’re excited about something; Lily’s practically dancing on the sidewalk and Dani says something to Boone that makes him yank her into a hug.

Kate and Javi spill out of his truck.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

Lily springs towards her, raising her hand to show off a ring that’s slightly too big, slipping up and down her finger as Kate tries to look. Kate’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Dani and I got married!”

“Congratulations,” Tyler says, butting in before Kate can blurt out another What? or When?

“It’s just for the grant,” Lily reminds him, laughing and waving off his sincerity.

“Never thought I’d say somebody married me for the money,” Dani remarks wryly. She’s wearing a ring too. Hers fits better. Kate wonders where they got them, and assumes the tiny antique store on the main strip.

Lily blows Dani a kiss.

“I went as a witness,” Dexter says.

“This just happened?” Javi asks, looking at each of the three conspirators in turn.

Lily shrugs and says, “Yeah.”

“You didn’t talk to the rest of us about it,” Tyler says. Kate doesn’t think it’s quite a complaint, but he seems thrown to have been left out of the loop.

“Oh, like the three of you let us in on whatever you’ve been planning?” Dani demands, pointing out Tyler, Kate, and Javi.

Tyler looks a little sheepish after that.

“Haste was the order of the day,” Dexter says. “It seemed efficient. We can move forward with our application now.”

“Yeah,” Kate agrees, still a little stunned. “For sure. Efficient. Thanks for taking one for the team, you guys.”

“No problem,” Lily says, and pulls her into a hug.

It’s not until later, out at a bar to celebrate the wedding (or the marriage, or their hopes to deceive the government for financial gain, or just their crew, really, who delight in one another’s exploits), that Kate, Javi, and Tyler find themselves at the same table. As if it’s a coincidence. Kate presses the rim of her bottle of beer into her smile.

“Lived to fight another day,” Tyler says over the vibrant twang of music, staring at the rest of their crew as they line dance to and fro across the floor.

It’s so typically dramatic of him that Kate and Javi glance at one another, and Kate has to pinch her nose shut so beer doesn’t shoot out of it when she laughs.

“Owens, I saw you talking to Kate outside the diner this morning,” Javi reveals. “Didn’t look like you were pleading to be spared.”

“You were spying on us?” Kate demands, rounding on Javi. She gives his shoulder a half-hearted shove as he laughs.

“Hey! I wanted to see how things were gonna turn out!”

“I’m pretty curious about how things are gonna turn out myself,” Tyler asserts, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He gives Kate a significant look. She dodges it, ducking her head with a smile. She can feel the both of them watching her.

Javi reads her right:  “Too soon to say, huh, Kate?”

She looks up, letting her eyes slide from one face to the other, incredibly fond of them both. Slowly, she grins.

“Guess you’ll just have to keep watching the weather,” she tells them.

Kate slaps her hands on the table and rises to join the others on the floor.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

and im over here in my version of this stupid au like-

it's not skin contact

Vaggie tries that first- she'd wear gloves for the rest of ETERNITY if that's all it took to keep her kid from crying, turtle necks and leggings / long skirts, fuck her personal style if she could just HOLD THEM-

but magic... soul stuff.... it goes deeper than the skin, it's the worst expression of exact words and it doesn't care HOW Vaggie is holding her kid, just that she is, with her own body that was a weapon too (still is) just like this baby was

(her old spear, with her her whole life, alive and wailing in her arms whenever she tries-) (until she stops trying)

thank fuck her new wings don't count

(thank hell Charlie found her before she could take those last few needed lives and end up with one depending on her like this)

wings aren't the same and aren't ENOUGH but the kid learns how to sidle up without touching, asking for a wing snuggle, learns their mom doesn't flinch away as long as they only reach up for the soft fluff of her wings, will let them hide in and hang off them, teething small fangs on the strong muscles under coverlets until Vaggie's wings look like a pack of rats gnawed on them and it takes hours to get them sorta sorted out again, all of this the kid learns their mom will do for them with a small smile that's the safest, calmest place in the world-

(she still won't hold them the way she does their other mom)

But. no matter how hard Charlie believes the "being born from weapons" thing Doesn't Matter, for the person their kid will grow into OR for who Vaggie is now

Vaggie, miss "misses stabbing people like she means it", knows different

she knows the real reason the baby cries when she holds them isn't fear. it isn't horror or disgust at all the death they were used for. it's not them wailing for the visions and sensations of blood to stop

it's that urge- the same one she has- to feel it again

and frustration when they can't make it happen

not yet

Vaggie swore to herself she'd keep no more secrets from Charlie, not after that first big one rocked them to the core. she also swore to be Charlie's armor. she also loves this kid now- like Charlie clearly loves them- she loves them more than anything

she can't- wont- tell Charlie how scared of them she is

how much will they hate her when they realize what kind of life she's given them?

an Exorcist's life, even if their wings are grey like her new ones instead of banded black and white like the ones she used to kill with. Her fear-

what if... what if they don't hate it at all?

(Lute up in heaven, smiling and sharpening her sword. Waiting)