#when your bedding is freshly clean and you burrow yourself into it

[andy-clutterbuck]

The Ones Who Live | 1x04

[ericsprincess]

wanna take a look inside you

nc-17, stalker!Jaemin, Jaemin/female reader, cunnilingus, crack

~~~

Your stalker really cares about you.

~~~

Why the fuck is it snowing again? Just why? you groan, as soon as you open your eyes and see all the fluffy snowflakes falling behind your window. 

You reluctantly roll out of your warm bed and start getting ready for the day. You should be rushing through your morning routine, since you have to get to work, but you’re almost deliberately slow. You’re just trying to delay the inevitable, which is having to shovel half a meter of snow out of your driveway and your car, and scrape off the ice from your car windows. You’re seriously considering calling in sick, just to not have to deal with standing outside in snow and fighting your flimsy plastic shovel and tiny ice scraper. 

You’re pouring yourself a cup of coffee when you stop at the sudden glimpse out of your kitchen window. What the hell. 

Your driveway is already nicely and precisely shoveled, with all the snow neatly piled up on one side. Not only that, your car is completely cleaned, covered with only a small layer of freshly fallen snow, indicating that whoever took mercy on you did it only a while ago. 

You sit down behind the table and absentmindedly scratch behind your dog's ears while chewing on toast. 

Maybe one of the neighbors did it? Or maybe there is some kind of a community service? Which is weird. You just moved into this area and by the looks of it you would expect to get your car stolen rather than cleaned. 

Hmm, you think. Maybe the neighborhood here isn’t that bad. 

(Narrator voice: It is actually that bad.)

~~~

Ironically, a few days later you do end up calling in sick. The cold winter weather got to you and after an evening of feeling like shit you woke up with fever, sore throat, and no will to live. 

You blindly feel around your bed to search for your phone, eventually finding it under your dog (Oof, move, you fat fuck), and call Jaemin from HR, in your office also known as Hot Jaemin from HR, to inform him that you’re taking a sick day. 

He picks up immediately after the first ring and with his completely pleasant, friendly, and only slightly creepy deep voice, he takes your note and wishes you to get well soon. He even asks if there are some work related heads up to pass to your coworkers, just like the nice and considerate guy he always is. If only every coworker was like Jaemin (nice, competent and hot), work would be much more bearable, you sigh. Sometimes he even sits down with you for lunch in the breakroom and offers you some home baked pastry while he talks about his cats. Really, just an overall nice guy. 

You finally hang up and burrow yourself back under the covers, when you notice the time on your phone. 6:58. Huh? I must be delirious, you think hazily, already drifting back to sleep. He’s not even supposed to be at work yet.  

~~~

When you finally emerge from your supposed delirium (also known as common flu) two days later, both of which you spent almost entirely just sleeping, you take a gloriously good hot shower and head to the kitchen, wondering what you will be able to scavenge from the fridge. 

Thankfully, it seems well stocked. So you quickly make a sandwich with some fresh ham and vegetables, scarf it down like a madwoman, after barely eating for two days and put the plate into the sink.

The dishes are also done. 

The house is actually pretty spotless, you squint as you look around. Even more than usual - no socks anywhere, no cups with forgotten tea. Dog looks fed and happy. 

The laundry machine beeps to announce that it’s finished. 

Wow, it must have been really bad, because I don’t remember doing any of that. Good job, sick me, you mentally pat yourself on your shoulder. 

~~~

You open the door to get out of your house for a nice walk and you stop dead in your tracks.

What the actual everloving fuck. 

Right in front of your doorstep there is a line of six mice, nicely ordered and completely dead, and you barely manage to prevent your dog from taking a good sniff. 

You retreat back to your house, pulling the dog with you and you lock all the locks on the door. 

You don’t even own a cat? 

~~~

You would swear the oil change light in your car was blinking for the past two months. Like, it had been mocking you and your procrastination. You felt bad about it, but ignored it, because who would want to deal with it unless you really have to? 

Well, it’s not blinking today. 

Which must mean only one thing - the light is broken now too. Which might also mean some electronic failure.

You frown. Karma for being lazy found you and there goes your free Saturday. 

And then it finds you again 2 hours later for being an idiot, when it turns out the oil does not need to be changed and the whole electronic system in your car is working alright. You made the mechanic check twice because you could swear you’re not making it all up, just to end up looking like a dumbass in front of the whole shop. 

You go home in shame and then you dig out the car manual you once threw into a cupboard and never read. 

~~~

Ugh, this guy again. You fight the urge to run, but he has already noticed you and you don’t want to look weak. Or afraid. But you are, a little. 

Walking on the same street, your creepy neighbor is approaching you from the opposite direction and you’re already bracing yourself. 

He never lets you go just with “Hello,” he always tries to flirt creepily and invite you for coffee, last time he even tried to grab your hand. You shudder at the memory. You hate these kinds of slimebags and their audacity. But you’re afraid he might snap if you really tell him off. 

So, you’re not sure what to do, you’re always just distantly polite and doing your best to not give him any signal that he might interpret as his attention being welcome. 

But you did start bringing pepper spray with you and going everywhere with your dog. Not like this fat fuck could ever protect your from anything, but still. For mental support. (But seriously, why is it getting so fat? You make a mental note to take him on longer walks, despite the shitty neighborhood.)

He’s getting closer and you’re already feeling the anxiety, when he swiftly crosses the road to get to the opposite side of the street. He walks faster. It’s like he’s avoiding you. Not only that, but he’s limping and his nose is bandaged as if it were broken. 

What could have happened to him? you wonder. Maybe he bothered the wrong girl and her boyfriend went to teach him to leave women alone, you chuckle. Who knows. 

~~~

You suddenly startle out of your sleep to the sound of breaking glass. It's a deep night but you are barely gathering your wits from being so crudely woken up, but you can hear a strange commotion from downstairs. 

Burglars, is your first thought. You’re shaking hard but you slowly and silently tiptoe to your closet to get a broom, the only weapon you can think of right now. A broom in one hand and your phone in the other, with the police dialed up, just waiting to press a call, you pad down the stairs to your living room where the sound came from. 

The lights are already on. And in there there is-

“Jaemin??? What are you doing here?” you scream. 

Right in the middle of your living room is Hot Jaemin from HR, disheveled and slightly out of breath, and just about to finish hog-tying a masked man. He pulls the rope tightly and kicks the man into the ribs for good measure. He stands up and turns to you with a bright and wide smile. 

“Y/N! Go to sleep, I got it!” he says happily and throws you a thumbs up. He ignores the question.

“B-But-” you take a step forward but Jaemin stops you. 

“Be careful, Y/N, there is glass. I threw a vase at him, that fucker really thought he can mess with me like that,” he snorts. “Just go back to sleep, I’ll clean it up and deal with this bag of dicks.” he urges you gently. 

“H-How are you going to deal with him?” you’re confused. Jaemin’s smile gets even wider. 

“I’ll deal with him, I have tools in my car. Don’t worry about it.” he brushes you off. 

“You know what, I’ll just call the police,” you wave your phone, barely out of shock from what just happened. 

“Okay,” Jaemin sighs with dramatic exasperation. “But it will take forever while you could have just left it to me and gone to sleep.”

You squint at him suspiciously and press the dial. 

~~~

“So, that would be all, Mrs. Y/L/N. We will contact you about the further proceedings,” the police officer clicks his pen off and gathers his papers. Your kitchen is still flashing red and blue from police cars parked outside. 

“Thank you, officer, I really appreciate it,” you beep back at him. This police thing turned out to be a lot more serious and lengthy than you expected.

“Don’t thank me, miss, you should thank your..uhhh…” he looks up at Jaemin, who is standing behind you with his hands on your shoulders. 

“Husband,” Jaemin offers, with his signature bright smile and you fight the urge to step on his foot. 

“Yeah, that. Anyways, if you have any questions, call us. Good night!” he salutes you with two fingers and brusquely walks out of your house. The cars leave one by one and then you’re alone. With Jaemin. 

You turn back to him. 

“I am not sure what to think about all of this, but thank you, I guess. But I have a lot of questions and I want answers to all of them,” you stick a finger right in the middle of his chest. 

“Okay, of course. Whatever you want, Y/N,” Jaemin offers. It’s the first time you see him look anything else but bright and cheerful. He looks almost unsure. 

“I’m now going to sleep and if I find out you’re still in this house, I’ll call the police again. On you.” you threaten. “You have 2 minutes to leave,” you add and pointedly look at the clock on your kitchen wall. 

“Oh, okay, let me just…” he gathers his rope that the cops left behind and his jacket and hurriedly slips on his shoes. He’s in the door in thirty seconds, waving at you. 

“See you at work!” he squeezes your hand briefly and runs out of your house. 

Why do I always attract these weirdos, you sigh and drag yourself upstairs to your bedroom. You fling yourself on the bed and you suddenly really feel how tired and exhausted you are from all the adrenaline. It would be really for the best to just sleep, you decide and crawl under the covers. 

But the sleep is not coming, you’re just thinking about everything that happened. You keep tossing and turning, ending up staring out into your bedroom window. 

Suddenly, a phone display lights up in the crown of a nearby tree. You decide to pointedly ignore it and you flip to the other side, turning your back to the window. You grab your dog, who’s been snoozing peacefully throughout the whole night and snuggle into his white fluffy fur to sleep. 

~~~

The next day at work you don’t waste any time. After throwing your bag at your desk you change direction right into the HR office. 

You don’t knock, just let yourself in, meeting Jaemin who is currently sitting behind his desk, unpacking his things for a day. He looks up at you, smiling. 

You cross your arms and point at the nametag on his desk that says “Na Jaemin, Head of HR” with your chin. 

“Ironic, huh?” 

“What’s ironic?” he straightens up, smile unwavering. 

“I can’t even report you, you asshole.” you frown. “And I don’t really want to go to the police because you did save my life.”

“Well that’s bad.“ he nods solemnly.

“It really is. So… Care to explain what you were doing at my house?” 

“Guarding you?” he answers like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wh-guarding?? From what?” you ask incredulously. Oh. “Okay don’t answer.” 

“Yeah,” he laughs. “You know that as a head of HR I have access to aaaaaaaaaalllll of your records, right?” he spins his pen between his fingers. “So I really couldn’t help but notice you moved into a really shitty location, Y/N. Really, there? I know how much you make, you don’t need to live there at all.”

“I’m saving money for my own house, okay?” you answer defensively. You couldn’t have possibly known it would be that bad. You thought that everyone was just exaggerating. “Why were you even keeping tabs on my address?” you ask him accusingly. 

Jaemin just keeps looking at you, smiling. It’s unnerving. Like a shark about to eat you, but with joy.

“...so you’re not gonna answer?” you frown. Of course. 

“I mean, isn’t that obvious?” he drawls, tilting his head as if he were mocking you. And you think it should be obvious, but at the same time, you never know what’s going on in Jaemin’s head. 

You sigh. “You know, next time JUST ASK ME OUT YOU MORON!” 

“Oh, yeah, I could have done that…” he startles with realization. “I guess I was too preoccupied.”

“With what? Figuring out my daily patterns? Putting a GPS tracker on my car?”

“How did you find that?” he asks surprisingly, pulling up his phone to check. 

You close your eyes and breathe deeply. Come on, you have dealt with worse. And he’s really hot *and* whipped, even though he has a particular way about it. And he saved your life. You could have a use for him. 

“Drive me home.”

“Sure,” he gets up immediately, picking up his jacket. 

“You’re not even gonna question me wanting to leave work just like that?” 

“Who do you think is processing your attendance records?” he winks at you and leads you out of his office to the parking lot with a hand on your waist 

~~~

“By the way, you didn’t answer.” you say while fighting with the seatbelt while Jaemin starts the car. “What were you doing at my house?”

“Uh. Is this now the time to tell you I’ve been sleeping in front of your bedroom door for the past few weeks?”

You can literally taste the headache coming. 

“I don’t think there is ever a good time for that.”

~~~

You open the door to your house and let both you and Jaemin in. Your dog comes running to welcome you and you’re not even surprised that it actually ignores you in favor of running into Jaemin,  who doesn’t wait to start playing with him, laughing and telling him what a good boy he is. 

More like a traitor. You frown at Jaemin pulling out a treat out of his jeans pocket and your dog chasing it hungrily as Jaemin teases him. Sold me for a piece of snack. 

“Let’s go upstairs before I change my mind.”

“Sure,” smiles Jaemin and stands up, suddenly taking a hold of you and picking you up over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. 

“Hey! Put me down!” you yell at him, grabbing his ass and squeezing it. “I will fucking bite you!”

“Leave that for later…” he drawls in his creepy flirty voice as he walks up the stairs. He takes you to your bedroom and gently lowers you down on your bed. 

You really like the view from under him. He leans down to kiss your neck.

“Hey Jaemin..” you begin. 

“Hmmm?” he mumbles, continuing to kiss and lick your neck while his hands are working on taking your clothes off. 

“While you were sleeping outside my bedroom…Heards anything weird?” you ask. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Pretty sure I heard my name at least once,” he bites into your collarbone. He takes off your shirt and pinches off the hooks of your bra in a second and you help take it off you. 

“And you still didn’t think of asking me out?” you ask disbelievingly. He pulls back a little and you get distracted by his shoulders. You start unbuttoning his shirt, just to reveal his beautiful full chest and muscular arms. Nice.

“You said Doyoung’s name once too.” he shrugs. He doesn't really meet your eyes.

“Oh yeah, Doyoungie from accounting…Haven’t seen him in a while, I wonder how he's doing…”

“He asked for a transfer. Doesn’t matter. Let’s not talk about him,” says Jaemin once again back to his bright smile and leans down to you, now fully committed to undressing you as soon as possible. He pulls off your pants together with your panties and lets his shirt slide off his body as well. 

“What are you gonna do?” you ask, while he shifts down your body. You instinctively spread your legs.

“Apologize,” he says while looking into your eyes and straight up dives into your pussy. 

You can tell he’s really sorry. He’s putting all the enthusiasm into eating you out, trying really hard to figure out what makes you tick and then applying it tenfold. You can feel him smile the moment you start making sounds.

You can feel yourself being close to coming and you try to tell him by pulling his hair, but in the end it doesn’t matter. He knows it already and he continues to flick his tongue over your clit even as you come, holding you by your thighs firmly so you don’t move too much to slip out of his hold. Once your orgasm starts to fade, he eases up a little, switching to slower, gentle licks with flat tongue, while you catch your breath, but in a minute, he’s back at it, relentlessly stimulating you as if you didn’t even have a choice about whether you want another round or not. 

You can only applaud his skill and stamina and let him make you come, with absolutely no guidance, for the second time, barely a couple minutes after the first one. 

While you’re coming down from your orgasm, feeling all liquid and brainless, Jaemin disentangles himself from your legs and crawls up the bed to drag you into his arms.

You turn to kiss him when you realize he hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet. You slide your hand to rub over his hard cock a little and he sighs and nuzzles into your neck. “Do you want…” you start.

“No. I haven’t deserved it yet,” he breathes out. “I’m already close though…” He looks like he’s fighting himself on that.

“Oh really?” you grin, and rise up to look better at his flushed face. “Well then get back to work?” you pull him by his (insanely attractive) sex hair. He whines, you don’t know if it's from pain or arousal, but it doesn’t matter.

“I’m going to sit on your face now, okay?” you whisper to him. 

“Uhhhh uhhh,” he closes his eyes. 

“Great. If you come, this one doesn’t count,” you laugh, and swing one leg over his leg to kneel over him.

~~~

You’re lying in your bed, sweaty and tired and almost falling asleep in Jaemin arms, when you suddenly remember. 

“Hey, actually...what about the mice?” 

He turns and smiles at you with a full Cheshire cat smile. Way too many teeth.

"Well..."

[tigertales9]

Necessary Roughness II

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Warnings: 18+ / Smut

Description: This is part 2 of Necessary Roughness (Valentine's Day blindfold action that occurs after the Super Bowl loss to the Rams)

Date/Location: 2/14/22 - Cincinnati, Ohio

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

You pull your car into the garage and pop the trunk, making a couple of trips to bring in your luggage and the groceries you stopped to pick up on the way home from the airport. You shiver as you put the groceries away before hurrying to bump the thermostat up a few notches. It was a little jarring to go from balmy temps. in LA to below freezing in Cincinnati.

Your flight left LA about 2.5 hours before the team charter, so you have plenty of time to get ready before Joe gets home. You grab your luggage and head upstairs, deciding that a hot shower is the first item to knock off of your to-do list.

40 minutes later you walk back downstairs, freshly washed, moisturized and perfumed, your long hair cascading down your back in partially dry waves that'll be totally dry by the time Joe gets home. You head to the kitchen to prep dinner while thinking back on the conversations you had with Joe over the last several hours, both in person and on the phone. It had taken a while before he decided what he wanted for dinner. The final convo went something like this:

"No really, Joe, you need to tell me what you want. And don't say a damn blindfold!"

"Okay," he'd sighed. "Maybe something Cajun."

"Something Cajun? Can you be more specific?"

"I don't care. Something spicy and Cajun."

"Cool," you'd chirped. "Guess we'll be having spicy fried alligator."

"Not alligator," he'd laughed. "How about salmon?"

Y'all had finally settled on blackened salmon, dirty rice, roasted broccoli, garlic bread plus bananas Foster for dessert. You'd asked if he wanted an appetizer and he'd said:

"No. Let's get straight to dinner so we can hurry up and get to dessert."

"Really looking forward to that bananas Foster, huh?" you'd teased.

"I'm not talking about the bananas Foster."

You shake your head when you think about the sexual innuendo in that last line. He'd been like a dog with a bone ever since you casually mentioned a blindfold after your tryst in the jet-black storage room during the Super Bowl after-party. He'd mentioned the damn blindfold so many times over the ensuing hours that you were almost certain he was hyperfixating on it as a way to ignore the horrible disappointment of losing the big game.

You finish dinner prep and wash your hands before rummaging through a closet where you keep holiday and party decorations, looking for one of the feathers from a Mardi Gras party y'all had thrown last year. You smile as you encounter a plush purple feather. "Perfect," you mutter, flicking the feather a few times before heading upstairs.

Regardless of his protestations, you knew Joe was going to be way too tired for a full scene tonight, but you still wanted to give him a little something before he crashed. You stash the feather in the top drawer of your bedside table and go looking for a few more props. You consider just using a scarf for a blindfold before you remember that black sleep mask that's way too big for you. "Bingo," you purr, pulling the mask out of a drawer in your lingerie chest, stretching the elastic to test it. "This should fit his big head," you chuckle, grabbing a gauzy red scarf before heading back into the bedroom; you place the scarf and mask in the bedside drawer before folding the comforter and top sheet down to the foot of the bed.

"What else?" you whisper to yourself. "Oh yeah," you mutter, grabbing a bottle of perfume that drives Joe crazy; you spritz the heady elixir on your clean sheets, smiling as the sensual aroma wafts up toward you. "He's gonna love that," you sigh, feeling a little tingle between your thighs thinking about the night to come before you give yourself a reality check. "Girl please," you laugh. "You'll be lucky to get him fed and give him head before his ass passes smooth out."

You head back downstairs, thinking about another conversation you had with Joe earlier in the day; he'd let you know he did not want to talk about the Super Bowl loss. To basically pretend it didn't happen. You shake your head thinking about it. "Probably for the best," you mutter to yourself. "He'll work that shit out in his own sweet time. No rushing it."

You walk to the living room to get the fire going. Joe had stacked logs in the fireplace before he left for Cali, anticipating that y'all would have a romantic Valentine's Day when you got home. You feel a pang of sadness as you light the fire, wondering if he's even going to want it now. You glance at the small bistro table and two dining chairs that he'd helped you set in front of the fireplace before he left. Y'all almost always had date night dinners in front of a roaring fire when it was cold outside, but you're not sure what he's gonna want tonight. "Just roll with it," you whisper, jumping a bit when the doorbell rings.

You grab your phone to check the ring camera, smiling when you see a lady holding a ridiculously large flower bouquet with all of your favorite flowers. You hurry to the door and sling it open. "Oh my gosh!" you exclaim, smiling ear to ear as she hands you the gigantic arrangement. "Let me grab you a tip," you say, leaning your head around the massive bouquet to make eye contact with her. "It's been taken care of," she trills, giving you a wave as she heads back to her van. You close the door and carry the bouquet into the kitchen, setting it on the bar. "Holy shit!" you laugh, stepping back to take in the impressive display. Your eyes land on an envelope nestled within the blooms; you grab it and pull the card out.

Happy Valentine's Day, Gorgeous! Can't wait to see you tonight. Love, Joe

You take a few pics of the OTT flowers. "Can't use this as a centerpiece on the table," you giggle to yourself. "We wouldn't be able to see each other." An idea hits you and you carefully pluck three coral pink peonies out of the huge bouquet, rearranging it just a bit so you can't tell anything is missing. You grab a small glass vase out of a cabinet and add a little water before arranging the frilly flowers in it. You set it on the bistro table in front of the fire and add a candle on either side, smiling at the result. "Simple but perfect," you sigh.

Your phone rings and you hurry to grab it. "Hey babe. How was your flight?"

"It was fine," Joe mutters. "I'll be home in about 30 minutes, longer if traffic is bad."

"Okay. Be careful."

"I will. I can't wait to see you."

He delivers that last line in a way that sets off butterflies in your stomach. "I feel the same," you whisper, biting your bottom lip before a thought hits you. "Thank you for the flowers," you blurt out. "They're absolutely beautiful! All of my favs."

"You're welcome. I'm glad you like them."

"I love them and I love you."

"Love you too, baby. See you soon."

You hurry upstairs to change clothes, stripping out of your yoga pants and oversized t-shirt before shimmying into a slinky 3/4 sleeve black wrap minidress, no bra or panties. You sit down at your vanity table and deftly apply a quick smoky eye plus a dark red lipstain, smiling at your sultry reflection in the mirror while fluffing your hair. You slide your feet into a pair of fuzzy pink slippers and grab a pair of candy apple red patent stilettos before heading downstairs.

You check the clock and quickly get the dirty rice started since it takes the longest to finish. You pull plates and silverware out, the butterflies in your stomach taking flight when you hear the garage door open. You hurry down the hall to meet Joe at the garage entrance. The door opens and Joe walks in followed by a frosty swirl of air. "Brrrr," you shiver, giving him a dazzling smile as he shuts the door and turns to face you. Your heart breaks a little at the dark circles under his eyes, no doubt the result of a lot of disappointment, a few tears and a mostly sleepless night. He reaches for you and pulls you into a tight hug, nestling his nose in your hair and breathing you in. "It's so good to be home," he whispers. "Good to have you home," you sigh, melting into his embrace as he runs his hands up and down your back. He drops a kiss on your forehead and cheek before capturing your lips, sliding his tongue in your mouth to slowly tangle with yours in a way that sets off a throb of arousal deep inside you. You lean into him as he deepens the kiss, both of you laughing several seconds later when his stomach growls loudly. "Better get some dinner in you," you giggle against his slick lips.

"I guess so," he grumbles, whistling as he steps back to take in your slinky minidress. "Damn, you look amazing," he continues, his eyes lingering on your bare thighs and cleavage before finally re-capturing your gaze. "Thanks," you grin. "I have some killer heels to go with this outfit, but I got so excited when I heard the garage door that I forgot to put them on." You point at your fuzzy pink slippers. "Guess these kind of ruin the sexy effect."

"You don't need heels to be sexy, baby girl," he states, kissing your neck before stepping back to strip off his coat. You take it from him and hang it on the coat rack before grabbing his hand. "Come check out this gorgeous bouquet of flowers," you say, leading him into the kitchen. "Damn," he chuckles. "I said I wanted it to be big and they didn't disappoint."

"It's so big," you giggle.

He gives you a dirty wink. "That's not the only big thing you're getting tonight."

You give him a cheeky look before walking to the stove to stir the dirty rice.

"I'm gonna take a quick shower then I have something to give you," he says, laughing when you throw him a look over your shoulder.

"I know exactly what you want to give me, but I'm going to get a nice hot meal in your belly first, so just slow your roll."

"What?" he chuckles. "I wasn't talking about that, you horndog. I have an actual gift for you."

You spin around and hit him with a 'boy please' look. "You've been talking about blindfolds and sex for several hours straight, but I'm the horndog?"

"Obvs."

You pick up a dish towel and throw it at him, shaking your head when he easily side steps it. "Sheisty ass," you grumble. "Go get your shower."

"Yes, ma'am," he mutters, chuckling as he heads upstairs.

He comes down about 15 minutes later in slinky black trackpants and a blue t-shirt the same color as his eyes; he places a red Cartier gift bag on the bar, giving you a deep-throated laugh when you reach into a cabinet and pull the exact same Cartier gift bag out and set it next to his. "Uh-oh," he chuckles. "Hope we didn't get each other the same thing."

"Before we open gifts, can you open the Champagne?" you ask, grabbing the bottle out of the fridge. "Sure," he says, taking the bottle from you as you pull Champagne flutes out of a cabinet. You were perfectly capable of opening the bubbly, but it was much more fun to let him do it so you could watch his ridiculously sexy hands gripping and twisting the bottle, easing the cork out with effortless finesse.

The cork leaves the bottle with an audible 'pop' and he lets it breathe for a bit before pouring. He hands you a glass of effervescent bubbles before picking up his own. "Happy Valentine's Day," he purrs, holding his glass up. "Happy Valentine's Day," you echo, kissing your glass against his before taking a sip.

"Ladies first," he says, sliding your gift bag toward you. You take another sip before reaching into the bag and pulling out a rectangular gift box. Bracelet, you think to yourself, smiling in delight as you flip the box open and lay eyes on the Cartier interlocking Love bracelet in rose gold. "It's gorgeous," you sigh. "I love it!" You pluck the delicate chain out of the gift box and hand it to Joe. "Put it on me please," you ask, watching as his agile fingers easily work the tiny clasp. "It looks perfect," he says. "Classy and beautiful just like you."

"Thank you, daddy," you tease, smiling when his eyebrows shoot upward. "Your turn," you continue, pushing his gift bag toward him. "I'm just supposed to ignore the whole 'daddy' thing?" he grumps, his hot gaze raking up and down your curvy frame as you give him an innocent smile. "Yes," you giggle. "Dinner's almost ready."

He narrows his eyes at you playfully before reaching a hand inside his gift bag, pulling out a tiger-striped thong. "My fav," he purrs, eyes lighting up.

"I know you told me to order 50 more," you shrug, "but that seemed excessive so I ordered 20. They'll be here in a few days."

"20 is a good start," he mutters, his eyes glued to the lacy panties. You shake your head and hold a hand out. "If you want me to wear those tonight I'm gonna need 'em. That's the only pair I have right now since you shredded my other ones last night." He flicks his gaze down to your crotch before meeting your eyes. "What are you wearing now?" You give him a grin. "Nothing, but if you want me to wear those . . ."

"Hell no," he interrupts, tossing the thong to the side while licking his lips. You nod at his gift bag. "There's something else in there." He continues to eye you like a starving man eyeing a juicy steak, so you clear your throat and try again. "Babe, I need you to focus," you state, smiling when he finally manages to pull his eyes off of your crotchal region. "Huh?" he mutters. You tap a finger against the bag. "There's something else in there," you repeat.

"Oh," he mumbles, reaching in and pulling out a rectangular box, grinning when he flips it open. "New shades! Thanks, baby, I love 'em." He slides them on, turning his head side to side. "How do they look?"

"Uh-oh," you mutter, tilting your head to the side as you grimace.

"Do they look bad?"

"Badass," you giggle.

"Then why'd you make a face?"

"I'm just afraid you might cause trouble wearing them."

"What kind of trouble?"

You shrug. "You look so damn hot, I'm afraid your fangirls might spontaneously ovulate at the sight of you."

"Shut up," he chuckles.

"No seriously," you sigh, giving him a solemn look. "The tidal wave of estrogen could be catastrophic."

He slides the glasses off and shakes his head at you. "You're trippin'," he mumbles, trying and failing to keep the smug grin off his face.

The oven timer goes off and you spring into action, pulling pans out of the oven while giving orders. "Babe, take the napkins and silverware to the table, plus top off our Champagne flutes and take those too."

"Got it," he says, doing your bidding, stopping long enough to throw another log on the fire and light the candles before heading back to the kitchen. You're just finishing up plating the food when he walks back in. "That smells delicious," he moans, taking both dinner plates from you as you grab the plate of garlic bread. "I'm fucking starving," he continues, setting the plates on the table before pulling your chair out for you. You give him a smile and hand him the garlic bread. "Be right back," you chirp, hurrying back into the kitchen before reappearing several seconds later wearing the candy apple red fuck-me pumps. You put a little extra swish in your hips as you walk toward him, smiling at the look on his face. "Goddamn," he breathes, watching you intently as you get settled in your chair. "You like 'em?" you ask, making a show of crossing your legs. "Love 'em," he mutters, tilting his head to the side, his gaze sliding from your feet to your crotch. "You trying to get an upskirt, Burrow?" you tease. "Damn right," he chuckles, making a disappointed face when you place your napkin on your lap.

He eventually drops into his chair and starts eating his dinner, making appreciative noises in between small talk, his eyes instinctively drawn time and time again to the deep 'v' of your cleavage and your bare legs shimmering in the flickering firelight. He pats his belly as he polishes off his last bite of garlic bread. "That was so good, babe, but I'm too full for the bananas Foster. Can we have it tomorrow?"

You nod your head. "Sure. What time is your MRI scheduled for your knee?"

"Not until 2:00 p.m."

"Good. We can sleep in then I'll make us a nice brunch with bananas Foster for dessert. Does that sound okay?"

"Sounds great. Let's go to bed." He closes the fire screen then helps you carry everything to the kitchen.

"Let me handle this," you say, shooing him toward the stairs. "I want you booty butt naked in the bed when I get up there in 10 minutes."

"Bossy ass," he chuckles, as he heads for the stairs.

"Damn right," you giggle. "I'm calling the shots tonight."

He mumbles something under his breath as he heads upstairs. "What was that?" you holler. "Nothing," he answers.

You shake your head as you finish loading the dishwasher. You wipe down the counters and wash your hands before grabbing your half-full glass of Champagne; you finally head upstairs, expecting Joe to be sound asleep. Instead he's deliciously naked sitting on the side of the bed.

"Hey," you mutter, turning off the overhead light as you walk in the room. "Hey," he responds," his voice thick with carnal promise as you walk toward him and flick on the bedside lamp. You set your glass down on the bedside table and pull the drawer out just far enough to slide your hand in, not wanting him to see the contents. You pull the red scarf out and drape it over the lamp. "Sexy," he murmurs, sliding a big foot forward to press his toes against your porny red heels. "Mood lighting," you whisper, reaching back in the drawer to pull out the mask. You step between his thighs to place the mask on him. "Hold on," he protests. "Take your dress off first." You raise an eyebrow at his bossy tone. "Please," he adds, "I wanna see you before you blindfold me."

You untie the strings holding your dress in place and allow it to fall open, watching as Joe's gaze takes in your breasts and crotch, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "Maybe the blindfold isn't such a good idea," he admits. "Oh hell no," you laugh, shrugging off your dress. "I've heard the word 'blindfold' several hundred times since midnight last night. Best believe we're doing this." You step forward and place the mask on him. "Lay down," you order, smiling when he does your bidding. You look at his pretty pink nipples and quickly realize you forgot the damn whipped cream. "Be right back," you chirp, "forgot the Champagne."

You hustle downstairs and grab the mostly-empty Champagne bottle and the can of dairy-free whipped cream from the fridge, slightly out of breath as you hurry back into the bedroom. He pulls his mask up to peek at you and you wiggle the Champagne bottle at him while hiding the whipped cream behind your back. "Got it," you purr. "Quit peeking," you continue, waiting for him to lower his mask before setting the bottle on the table while sliding the whipped cream under the covers at the end of the bed. You take a sip of bubbly and crawl on the bed beside him, leaning down and letting the cool, fizzy liquid dribble into his belly button before slurping it out. "What's that?" he gasps, as you do it again. "Battery acid," you mutter, rolling your eyes as he pulls his mask up to look at you. "It's Champagne, goober," you giggle, giving him another splash and slurp while he watches. "Quit peeking!" you snap, waiting for him to lower the mask before crawling in between his thighs; you reach down and grab the can of whipped cream, giving it a vigorous shake before anointing his hard nipples with two creamy puffs. "What the hell is that?" he croaks, groaning as you lick and suck the sweet foam off of his sensitive nubs. You give him a second helping, shaking your head when he lifts the mask to peek at you. "Boy, you are too damn nosy," you laugh, waiting for him to lower the mask before licking his nipples clean.

This is the goofiest scene ever, you think to yourself, your eyes flicking down to his raging hard-on. Guess he's enjoying it, you shrug, leaning forward to grab the feather out of your bedside drawer. "Put your hands over your head," you order, waiting until he obeys before sliding the gossamer feather down the length of that prominent vein on the underside of his right arm; he hisses as you tickle his exposed armpit before heading farther south, grazing his hard nipples before slowly sliding down the length of his torso. You smile when his well-defined ab muscles jump and twitch under your sensual onslaught.

You shift the feather to your left hand and gently drag it over his erection, biting your lip when his cock flexes up into the caress. He hisses in pleasure as you repeat the motion while stealthily reaching your right hand out to grab the whipped cream; you give the can a quick shake then adorn his balls with a decadent swirl.

"Oh my God," he whispers, moaning as you lick a stripe through the cream. He rips the mask off and throws it across the room, watching as you lick and suck the frothy, sweet foam off of him, taking your time as he squirms beneath you. "You like that?" you tease, looking up at him through your long lashes. "Love it," he grits out, fisting both hands in the slinky sheets. You finish cleaning off his balls then flatten your tongue against the base of his cock and slowly drag it up, lapping up the precum on his tip before taking him deep.

"Shit baby, hold on!" he croaks. "I don't wanna cum yet." You pull off and go back to teasing him with delicate licks. "Let me know what you need," you breathe. "I just need a minute," he mutters. "Let me calm down a bit."

You sit back on your heels and give him a thorough up-and-down look, your eyes coming to rest on his thick thighs. "I think I'll have some fun while you reset," you purr, straddling one muscular thigh and grinding down. You both groan at the feel of your slick heat sliding against him. He flexes his quad as you roll your hips and you moan at the added friction. "So juicy for me," he murmurs, reaching a hand down to tease your clit as you ride his thigh. You gasp when he pinches the sensitive nub causing a gush of wetness. "Mmmm," he moans, trailing his fingers through your essence before raising them to his mouth and sucking them clean.

"Come here," he urges, curling two long fingers to beckon you forward. "I want it straight from the source," he teases, slowly sliding his long tongue across his bottom lip while giving you an absolutely filthy grin. You know exactly what that tongue is capable of; you feel a throb of anticipation deep inside as you crawl forward to do his bidding, biting your lip as you straddle his face. He turns his head side to side, pressing wet kisses against your inner thighs before lining his mouth up with your core. "Lower," he demands, making a guttural noise in his throat when you spread your thighs wider, dropping down until you can feel his hot breath on your most sensitive flesh.

You gasp when he flicks the tip of his tongue against your slit, squeezing your eyes closed as you wait for more, the anticipation making you a little lightheaded. After several seconds you look down and notice he's looking directly at your crotch. You're almost shy in that moment since you're basically doing the splits on his face, but your shyness vanishes when you feel his deep voice vibrating against you, lavishing praise for how you look and taste in a way that sends a sizzle of pleasure up your spine. "Such a pretty pink pussy," he groans, using his thumbs to spread your lips before giving you a long, slow lick from ass to clit. "Taste so good, baby," he breathes, continuing to tease you with his fingers and tongue.

You grab the top of the headboard to steady yourself as he works you in all the ways he knows you love, switching between delicate and aggressive, keeping you off balance with shallow licks followed by the hot, velvety length of his tongue pushed deep inside you. "So good," you whimper, feeling a coil of pleasure tighten in your belly. You lift one hand off the headboard and reach down, threading your fingers in his unruly curls as you shamelessly grind your pussy against him. He moans as you pull his hair, the added sensation causing your core to clench around his tongue.

"I'm close!" you whine, your breath catching in your throat as he slides his tongue up to your clit and gives it a loud suck while shoving two fingers inside you, nothing delicate anymore just relentlessly fucking his thick fingers into you as he devours your clit. Several heartbeats later your climax hits hard and you throw your head back, his name on your lips as your core squeezes his fingers.

You moan as his fingers continue to tease you, wringing every bit of pleasure out of you as you gasp for breath. "Oh my God," you gasp, pulling off of his fingers and sliding down a bit, trying to get your trembling legs to cooperate as you maneuver your way down until your core is hovering over his erection. "Now let me take care of you," you whisper shakily, taking several deep breaths while you reach down and guide his thick cock between your slick folds. "Take it slow," he urges, his eyes sliding shut as you inch down until he's buried to the hilt. You're just starting to slide back up when he grabs your waist. "Don't move," he orders, and you go completely still, biting your lip as you feel the aftershocks of your climax fluttering around his cock. "No need to rush this," he states as he wraps his big hands around your thighs and gives a squeeze. "Your legs are still shaking."

"Everything is still shaking." You give a breathless laugh. "That climax was insane; I'm a little lightheaded, but I'm good. I can handle business."

"Let me take over," he demands.

"Thought I was calling the shots tonight," you pout.

"I've got a better idea," he points at his mouth. "I want your lips right here."

You lean forward slowly, hitting a hard Kegel just as you press your lips against his, catching his groan in your mouth. "That's what you get for being bossy," you giggle.

He bites your plump bottom lip hard enough to get your attention. "Babe, I need you to focus."

"Okay."

"I'm gonna flip you over then I'm gonna fuck you senseless. You okay with that?"

His husky voice sends a shiver up your spine. "Yes, sir," you whisper against his lips, your breath catching in your throat as he wraps his arms around you and flips you over, his cock still buried deep inside you once you're on your back; you wrap your legs around him and arch up into his thrusts as he snaps his hips forward. You run your hands over his back, shoulders and arms, breathless at the feel of his muscles flexing and bulging under your fingertips.

He shifts his upper-body weight onto his left arm to free his right arm to play with you. You relish the feel of his big body pressing you into the mattress, his fingers on your nipples and his hot mouth on your neck. He licks a trail up to your sensitive ear. "You feel so good, baby. So tight," he groans, his deep voice mixed with soft grunts as he fucks you hard sending jolts of pleasure to all the right places. He wraps his free hand around your slender throat, his eyes icy-hot with arousal as he squeezes just hard enough for the edges of your vision to go a little hazy. You gasp for air as he eases up, his gaze pinning you in place as he squeezes a little harder, leaning down to catch your whimpers in his mouth as your core clenches around his thrusting cock. "Fuck," he growls, the raw lust in his voice sizzling across every nerve ending in your body.

You're drunk on the sound of him, the smell and the feel of him as he pulls back and locks eyes with you. "Can you cum for me again?" he asks, sliding a hand down to tease your super sensitive clit. "Yes, daddy," you whisper, watching in fascination as his baby blue eyes go completely black, pupils blown wide from arousal. He continues to play with your swollen clit while pounding into you, giving you every. single. inch. of his big cock in a way that straddles the line between pleasure and pain, drawing whimpers from your throat in a steady stream. He presses his lips against your ear. "Cum for me, baby," he growls, while pinching your clit. Your vision immediately goes hazy then fades to black as your climax hits; he follows you seconds later, burying his cock to the hilt and rocking into you as your pulsating core milks him dry.

He eventually rolls onto his back and pulls you on top of his sweat-slick chest, running a hand up and down your back as you catch your breath; you breathe in his scent as you listen to his racing heartbeat gradually slow back down to a normal pace.

After several minutes, you take one more deep breath and speak up. "So much for me doing most of the work and calling most of the shots," you grumble playfully.

"Sorry," he groans. "Guess I'm never beating the bossy allegations."

"Never!" you chirp. "I mean that blindfold didn't last long before you hucked it across the room."

"I wanted to see you," he pouts. "Can't blame me for that."

"I guess so," you mumble, sighing in contentment as he continues to stroke a big hand up and down your back.

Several minutes pass before his deep voice stirs you out of your post-climax bliss. "You awake?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Listen," he states. "I don't know what I'd do without you. Win or lose, I know you'll always be there for me. Can't even explain how much that means to me." He heaves a sigh before continuing. "I just wish I could've gotten it done. Wish I could've made everybody proud."

"Baby, everybody is proud." You sit up and lock eyes with him. "You carried this team all the way to the fucking Super Bowl in your first full season, coming off a horrible knee injury and behind an asstastic o-line that tried to get you killed every week." He laughs softly as you continue. "You put the entire league on notice. They know you're a couple decent o-linemen away from total domination."

He gives you a tired smile. "You always know just what to say to make me feel better," he sighs, cupping a hand around the back of your neck to pull you down for a kiss. "I love you," he whispers against your lips. "Love you, too," you murmur, melting into the languid kiss for a minute before snuggling into his warm embrace.

Just before you nod off, your leg touches something cool and you turn your head to see what it is. Oh yeah, the whipped cream, you think to yourself. Better put it back in the fridge. You slide out of bed, giving Joe a smile as he reaches a hand out for you.

"Where are you going?" he pouts.

You shake the can at him. "Be right back. Just gotta put this in the fridge." You take two steps before his voice stops you.

"We will definitely need that tomorrow."

You spin around and give him a smile. "Yep, the bananas Foster wouldn't be as good without it."

He gives you a grin that's half sleepy half naughty. "I wasn't talking about the bananas Foster."

You raise one eyebrow at the look on his face. "We just had sex and you're already thinking about it again?"

"Obvs," he says, yawning while giving you a wink.

"Go to sleep, horndog," you chuckle, rolling your eyes playfully as you head to the kitchen.

[silkenstarlight]

in the softest hours of night

Summary: Bucky gets a haircut and (Y/N) helps him to fully wrench himself from the clutches of his past.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning/s: fluff, cuddling, kissing, mention of Bucky’s past trauma

Word count: 1.6k

Author’s note: this made me feel very soft

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The sound of Bucky singing in the shower always made you smile.

He didn’t know that you could hear him from your spot in the bedroom. Sometimes, you considered telling him that you were his audience, when the guilt crept in and you felt as if you were intruding on a private moment. 

But, most times, you chose to lie beneath the blankets and listen. 

You could only ever make out fragments of lyrics-- tonight, he was singing Gene Sullivan. 

“When my blue moon turns to gold again… you'll be back in my arms to stay.”

It was soft and tentative, his breathy, murmured syllables of blues-y jazz and swinging pop bouncing off the tiles with a sweet, echoing reverberation. He seemed to weave in between thought and song, quietly uttered lyrics often followed by a long period of silence before he picked the melody up again at the next chorus. Sometimes, his words were rushed and garbled, as if he were leaning into the shower head’s stream to wash shampoo-scented suds from his hair. Other times, he embraced the song head-on, crooning confidently into the clouds of steam, as if he were imagining brazen trumpets and thrumming drumbeats backing his vocals. 

Whenever his volume crescendoed like that, you couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face. He sounded so peaceful, so free, when for the past several decades, he had been the prisoner of his own mind. His singing was a small thing, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

You heard the water turn off and you turned onto your side, burrowing into the sheets and wiping any evidence of eavesdropping from your face.

A few seconds later, you heard his feet padding against the hardwood, and you turned to face him, smiling sleepily. He was bare, save for the white towel wrapped around his hips, minuscule water droplets rolling off of his muscled body with every step. His shoulder-length hair was drenched, framing his face in a slicked chestnut curtain. 

He reached the dresser and pulled out the top drawer, picking out a clean pair of boxers. He slipped them on beneath the cover of the towel, and you smirked at his unnecessary, but courteous, sense of modesty. You had seen him naked before, but he still preferred to stay covered in nonsexual situations such as this. So traditional.

He unwrapped the towel from around his waist and tossed it in the dirty laundry bin, and then walked over to your side of the bed. You reached up to him and he eagerly climbed on top of you, grinning as he nuzzled his face into your neck.

You stayed like that for a moment, even though his wet hair slid against your jaw and his weight crushed the breath from your lungs. You didn’t care that you couldn’t breathe. You loved it when he was mellow. He was his truest self when he was at his most vulnerable, his eyes crinkling at the edges with affection, his lips turned upward in a toothy smile that stole your breath and colored your cheeks a rosy pink.

He shifted, pushing up to rest his forehead against yours. Your eyes fluttered shut before he pressed his mouth lightly against yours in a delicate gesture of warmth, his lips warm and soft. His hair fell against your face, brushing against your skin and tickling your cheeks.

You broke the kiss, dipping your chin down and giggling. You opened your eyes to meet his gaze.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” Bucky repeated back, his voice low, his tone similar to the one he used when he sang quietly in the shower. He returned your smile, until more of his hair slid down, blocking his vision of your face. He pushed it back with a dissatisfied grunt and frowned slightly.

He sighed. “Would you-- would you mind braiding my hair for me?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, sitting up. “I don’t like the weight of it all. My hair, I mean.”

You sat up as well, instantly understanding the dual meaning behind his request. He wanted the hair out of his face, yes, but he also loathed the identity that was tied to it, the decades of mindless, brainwashed life that it represented. He hadn’t trimmed it since the forties, his hair an immortalized vision of his pre-war self, an artifact of the abuse he faced at the hands of Hydra. His hair carried the weight of a lifetime.

“Absolutely,” you responded.

He shifted, sitting at the edge of the bed, and you sat behind him, your legs caging him in. Despite the fact that he was almost naked, his modesty preserved by his plaid boxers, he was warm. You leaned into his broad back, savoring the heat that he provided, walking your fingertips lightly up his spine in a teasing gesture before brushing them through his hair.

“Your hair is really soft after you wash it.” Your fingers carded through Bucky’s shoulder-length locks, fingernails lightly scraping against his scalp. You brushed through the wet strands, gently untangling a few nasty snarls with adept ease.

“Well, I did have to borrow your conditioner. Hope that’s okay.” Bucky said quietly, his back to you as you separated his freshly-washed hair into three sections.

“I don’t mind,” you mumbled, pushing your tongue between your teeth as you began to concentrate on the braid. “Makes you smell good.”

He scoffed. “Did I not smell good before?”

You paused, strands held loosely in your fingers. “I-- well, yes.”

He huffed a laugh, but was silent after that, enjoying the dull tug as you weaved his hair into a neat plait. 

You were reaching the end of the braid when a thought crossed your mind. You paused, still grasping the three separate sections, and looked at the back of Bucky’s head.

“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice gentle. “We could cut your hair, if it bothers you this much.”

He paused, breath stalling, and considered what you said. Although he hated the years of violence attached to his hair, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to completely sever it from him. So much pain, so much history, snipped off and swept away in the blink of an eye-- he wasn’t sure who he would be without it. He surely wouldn’t be the same man as he was before all of this, so smug and cocksure, so smooth-talking and suave, the perfect image of 1940’s lady-killing swagger. But, he also wasn’t sure if that even mattered. That was who he was before. Now, he had lived through years of torture, decades of service as a trained assassin. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Maybe a fresh start would do him some good.

“Can we?” His voice cracked, throat tight with a sudden urgent need to bid farewell to his past incarnations.

“Do you want to do it now?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Go into the bathroom. I’ll find the scissors.”

Bucky followed your orders, reaching back to undo the braid you had so carefully woven. Silken, freshly-washed strands slipped through his fingers until he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for you to rid him of this long-held burden. He stared at his reflection, the tired, light purple crescents that shaded beneath his eyes, the natural down-turned tug of his lips, the deep, worried crease between his brows. A hard knot of self-hatred began to form in his throat, but he swallowed it as he heard you approach the bathroom.

You slipped behind Bucky, scissors in hand, and tapped his shoulder. At your signal, he knelt, folding his arms in front of him and leaning his head against the counter to allow you easier access to his hair. 

“You ready?” you asked, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

“Absolutely,” he said, nodding slightly, granting you permission to proceed.

You combed through his locks one last time, savoring their slippery, soft texture, their bristly split-ends. And then, you grasped a large section from the back and snipped.

You watched as the hair fluttered to the tiled floor below. Bucky smiled.

“Keep going,” he encouraged.

Slowly, you began to cut away more and more sections of hair, trying your best to avoid creating any harsh, choppy lines. You weren’t a hairdresser by any means, though, so once the bulk of the length had been cut away, Bucky’s hair was a haphazard mess.

“Oh, god,” you breathed, shakily placing the scissors on the counter. “We’ll have to make an appointment with a hairdresser tomorrow.”

He stood, brushing stray strands from his shoulders. “That’s fine.” He turned towards you, not bothering to look at his reflection. “Just wanted to get rid of the length.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, whether in shock at his new appearance, or in embarrassment at your amateur handiwork, you couldn’t tell. But he just wrapped his arms around you, hugging you to his chest as you both shook with laughter. 

He leaned back, reaching up to your face and tucking your hair behind your ear. “Let’s go to bed.”

You nodded and let him lead you back into the bedroom, turning off the bedside lamp and climbing under the sheets after him. He settled on his back and you wrapped yourself around him, tucked into his side, breathing in his fresh, soapy scent. 

“Goodnight, doll,” he breathed, and you kissed his ribcage before letting his breathing lull you into the gentle space of sleep. 

He simply smiled and stared up at the ceiling, a decades-old weight suddenly lifted from his neck. No longer did he feel the tendrils of his past slithering against his neck with every movement.

So this is what it’s like, to be free. 

He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, tugging you just a little closer as he drifted to sleep.

[thebadgerclan]

Different Scent

Pairing: Alpha Sirius Black x Omega reader (Golden Era)

Requested by Anonymous

Summary: Sirius comes home, but your scent is different...

A/N: Still kinda new at writing A/B/O, so sorry if it’s not the best

The change in the air woke you from a dead sleep, and you sat bolt upright.  It had been over a decade since you’d smelled it, but you’d know that scent anywhere.  Alpha is home.  You flew from your bed, running down the stairs as fast as your feet would carry you, following the intoxicating scent of your Alpha.  He stood just inside the doorway, clothes tattered and dirty, slumped in on himself, but alive.  

“Alpha?” you said, slightly weary, but Sirius turned to face you, and his face lit up.  “Omega,” he responded, moving towards you.  “Y/N, you’re here.”  You were pulled to him, instinct carrying you into your Alpha’s arms, and you sobbed with relief when his arms closed around you.  “Sirius,” you cried, nosing at his neck, breathing in his scent; the scent that you’d longed for for 12 years, the scent that could comfort you like nothing else could.  Smoke, leather, and rain filled your senses, making you limp in his arms.  Sirius clutched you to him, not entirely believing that he was really home, that his beloved Omega was in his arms.  But he was home, and you were here, pawing at his arms, needing him closer.

But Sirius’ joy, his elation at having you with him faded when he scented you.  The familiar scent of freshly laundered sheets, the sweet scent that had haunted his dreams while he was away was gone.  Now, you smelled of chocolate and old parchment, a scent that was decisively not yours.  Sirius wrinkled his nose, failing to hide his discontent.  “What’s wrong?” you asked, lifting your face from his chest.  You sensed your Alpha’s discomfort at once, and wanted to soothe him.  “Your scent,” he said, brows furrowed.  “It’s changed.”

While Sirius was in Azkaban, you’d lived with Remus in his small home.  It was Sirius’ last wish before he was taken, screamed over a crowd of people, all gathered to see the destruction and bloodshed he’d supposedly caused.  “Take care of her!” he’d screamed at Remus, who was bodily holding you back from running to Sirius, who was being dragged away by a squad of Aurors.  “Protect my Omega, take care of her!”  Remus had only nodded, unable to speak for fear of breaking down.  But he needed to stay strong for you, for his best friend’s Omega.

The first year had been impossibly hard: you’d craved an Alpha’s comfort, but Remus simply wasn’t your Alpha.  Everything in you screamed wrong when he’d put his arms around you, when he’d try to comfort you.  And when your heat rolled around, Remus did what Sirius had asked of him and took care of you.  Through the haze of lust you felt, you’d cried that it was wrong, whimpering “Not my Alpha.”  It hurt Remus to do so, but he knew it was necessary.  After a while, you both fell into a sort of routine, growing more comfortable with Remus acting as your Alpha.  But the mating mark on your shoulder twinged with every heat, and tears fell every time.

You both knew it would happen, but it shocked you nonetheless.  When the scent of clean bedsheets and lemons faded to chocolate and books.  It was to be expected, living with another Alpha when yours wasn’t around.  But now that Sirius was here, that you were in his arms after 12 long, hard years, you couldn’t help but feel guilty.  “I’m sorry,” were the first words out of your mouth, though you really had nothing to apologize for.  This wasn’t something you could control, it would happen to any Omega in such close proximity to another Alpha.

Sirius shook his head, pulling you back against his chest.  “No, Omega, you have nothing to apologize for.  This isn't something you could have controlled.”  Of course Sirius knew that, but unbidden, the image of Remus fucking you entered his head, and he growled, tugging you closer.  “I’m yours,” you whispered, both for yourself and for him.  “Remus did what he had to, Siri, we both know that.  We tried scent blockers and heat suppressants, but they didn’t work.  It had to be done.”

Your Alpha tipped your head back and kissed you, deep and passionate, leaving no questions as to whose you were.  “I know,” he said, voice almost a snarl.  “But that doesn't mean I have to like it.”  You were completely limp in Sirius’ arms now, relying on him to keep you upright.  “My scent will change back,” you said.  “We just have to be close to each other.”  Sirius grinned at that, lifting you off your feet and into his arms.  “Then it’s a good thing I don’t plan on letting you out of my sight for at least the next few weeks.”

Sirius carried you up the stairs and into your bedroom, following the scent that was yours but wasn’t.  He set you on the bed, hastily stripping out of his filthy clothes before removing your pajamas.  Despite how it looked, there was an innocent intent behind his actions, and when Sirius sat down on the mattress, you burrowed your way into his arms.  He turned you to face him, and brought his nose to your neck, scenting you intently.  His wrists against yours, his neck against yours, all in an attempt to bring your normal scent back.

You scented him as well, drunk on the feeling of your Alpha’s arms around you, his scent in your nose.  After an hour, the aroma or chocolate was fading and Sirius could just pick up a hint of leather.  He smiled, lying down, pulling your blankets over the two of you.  “I love you, Omega,” he whispered.  “I missed you so much.”  “I missed you too, Alpha.”  “I’m not going anywhere ever again, Y/N, I’m here.”  You let yourself nod, breathing in his scent, which slowly lulled you to sleep.  Sirius wasn’t leaving again, even if he had to kill every Auror he saw, he wasn’t leaving you again.

[amerrierworld]

You’ve Caught Me

for the request: Can you do an Au where Debbie flirts and seduces reader with witty and bratty banter, but then becomes a softy and takes care of the reader?

Summary: Everything is going perfectly until Debbie encounters you on a bad day.

Characters: Debbie x gn!reader, mentions of other friends and the crew

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: moping/uncertainty in the second half~

A drink appeared in front of you from the bartender. It was brightly coloured with a slice of fruit on top. Ice clinked as it was set down on the bar. You frowned in confusion.

“I’m sorry, but I didn't order this.”

“It’s from the lady by the window seat.”

You looked over and saw a brunette making eye contact with you. She sent you a bright smile, and toasted you with her glass. There was a small party of women sitting by the window with her, a few of them eyeing your interaction with the brunette. A blonde next to her nudged her with her elbow.

Then your own friends that you were with whistled and nudged you as well once you had all seen what the lady looks like. You took a sip of the freshly delivered drink, feeling the burn of alcohol and a sweet aftertaste. It was quite delicious, honestly.

You turned back to the brunette who looked at you expectantly, and you smiled and nodded, with a toast of the drink. She winked back, and then the both of you focused back on your respective friend groups, feeling giddiness crowd your emotions from the fleeting glance you had just shared.

-

“Hey, doll. You nearly forgot your purse.”

You looked to see the smokey-eyed brunette standing behind you, with your purse in her hand. You must have left it at your bar seat when you got up to leave to meet your friends at the door.

“Oh,” you frowned, the alcohol you already had making you a bit drowsy. “Thanks.”

You checked everything in your purse, confident that nothing was missing, and all your change was still there. The brunette hadn’t moved from her spot.

“What, do you want a reward or something?” you asked. She smirked a little.

“No, I’ve already got one.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that then?”

“An excuse to talk to you.”

Well alright, you weren’t expecting that. You allowed yourself to look the woman up and down as you thought about your reply. She was dressed very stylishly, with long brown hair that curled and fell in all the right places. Her nails were short, which was a very welcomed discovery. 

“Okay then, now you have the chance to talk to me,” you said, alcohol making you bolder than usual. “What do you have to say?”

She fully grinned this time and looked back around the bar as she spoke, “I would ask you to join me for a drink but I think you’ve already had your fill. How about some late take-out instead? On me.”

You contemplated, before saying, “I’d take the chance to go out with a hot stranger any day if I wasn’t a bit too drunk right now. Sorry.”

“Fair enough,” she replied. Then, “You think I’m hot?”

Oh, crap. Did you say that?

“Hmm.. I suppose I get very honest when I’m tipsy,” you answered. She chuckled this time, and you felt warm, and not because of the alcohol in your blood. 

“Yes, quite. Should I call you a cab?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got my friends here, and one of them is the DD. We’re headed to a small party, if you’d like to come?”

She quirked an eyebrow, not expecting another offer from your end. She looked at the front doors, where your gaggle of friends were eyeing you and whispering with gleeful smirks on their faces.

The stranger leaned forward, so much so that her perfume filled your senses and wisps of brown hair brushed your face,

“A bit early to go introducing me to your friends, don’t you think?”

You barked out a laugh as she pulled back again. “Oh, you wish. None of them would probably remember you by the time the hangover hits.”

She looked down at her phone for a moment and then back at you, as if she was waiting to put in her own passcode.

“What’s your code, honey?”

You frowned. Your code? But... wait. 

She was holding your phone, having nicked it from your pocket when she was so close.

“Hey!”

“Just wanna make sure you have my number. Don’t worry, I don’t steal from people I like.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Well, I said I liked you, didn’t I?”

You wordlessly put in your code for her, and she added herself to your contacts list as Hot Stranger. She smiled successfully as she handed you your phone, but a slight blush had creeped up on her cheeks.

“Careful with that. You never know who might steal it.”

You grinned and had a fleeting thought if she meant your phone or your heart. You pushed the sickeningly romantic thought away and quickly waved goodbye before hurrying back to your entourage.

-

Turns out Debbie was an unwavering flirt, in the beginning. She always managed to catch you off guard, and didn’t hesitate to compliment you when she felt like it. 

“You know other people would think you’re being way too forward, you know?”

“Does it bother you, doll?”

You sheepishly shook your head. You liked the devotion and attention, honestly. Who wouldn't? Debbie was incredible to you. On dates, through text and, yes, in bed as well. 

It all seemed like paradise. 

And then there was a shift. The expected but dreaded shift in any relationship.

One night, the both of you were put to the test. There was a knock on your door, and you grumbled under your breath, preparing to yell at whoever was stupid enough to show up at your place. It was super late, you had been busy, and if anything else came up now you’d blow your top off.

“Hey?” Debbie said, her chipper expression fading away at your stormy gaze when you opened the door. 

“Oh, it’s you,” you said, turning around and leaving the door open without another word. Startled, Debbie carefully stepped inside, watching you disappear into the kitchen.

“Why are you here?”

Debbie scoffed a little, “do you not want me here all of a sudden? How flattering.”

“No, of course not,” you grumbled as you grabbed a bottle of wine. Debbie came to stand just outside the kitchen, watching you as she took off her coat. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey, now. Don’t lie to me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you snapped. “Have some alcohol and just leave it, okay?”

You lifted one of the wine glasses to your mouth and were prepared to drink a mouthful. Then a firm hand gripped the base of it and pulled it down, spilling a bit of wine down your hand and on the kitchen floor.

Debbie’s eyes were glittering dangerously at you, and you relented in letting here take the glass away. She set it down on the counter.

“Don’t I even get a hello?”

Your eyes cast down to the floor and you muttered an apology. Debbie grasped your hand and squeezed your fingers reassuringly. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked again. Your shoulders slumped this time, and you glanced at your intertwined hands.

“I’ve had a shit day,” you grumbled. You hadn’t encountered a bad mood like this with your girlfriend yet, and in the back of your mind you worried about her reaction. “I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep properly. There’s so much crap to do. It’s been so busy and I hate it.”

Debbie nodded slowly as you talked on for a bit about the things that were irritating you and how annoyed you were by everything. She noticed the bags under your eyes and the firmness of your upper lip.

“Have you eaten?” she asked after you had finished. You half-shrugged. You had some take-out, that counts right? The last full meal you had was when she took you to that restaurant last weekend. 

She tutted at your non verbal response. The next few moments she rummaged through your fridge and whatever food you had lying around. 

Almost immediately after there was a plate of food under your nose.

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” you commented.

“You learn to fend for yourself,” she replied, grabbing your wine glass from earlier and taking a swig.

“Hey, that was mine.” She blew you a kiss. It calmed you somewhat.

“Want me to stay the night?” she asked as she cleaned up your kitchen and washed the dishes. This was the first time that she asked, because usually she would stay the night regardless of anything else.

“Do you not want to?” you asked, interpreting her question as uncertainty on her end.

“What? No, of course not, baby. I’m asking because I want to make sure you want me around.”

“Of course I want you around. I always want you around,” you confessed. 

Debbie helped in tidying up your place, which mostly just consisted of her doing the work and you sitting at the table, still numb. She eventually pulled you up to your feet to get you in pj’s and then to crash immediately on the couch, curled around you. 

“You can turn on the tv if you need some white noise,” she suggested. It was a good idea, but the bright lights were distracting you from sleeping. So instead you turned over and burrowed into Debbie’s hold, her skin warm and soft. Now it really was paradise.

A/N: finally getting through super ancient requests yes i am here and yes i am slow :)

[nationalharryleague]

Acts of Service

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: FLUFF

Word count: 2K

A/N: This is a fluffy love letter to Harry’s love language definitely being acts of service. Feedback is always appreciated and loved! More of my work can be found in my masterlist! 

***

You hadn’t wanted to go out in the first place.

The club was hot and sticky and the pounding of the music was giving you a headache between your eyes. Blisters had begun to form from the rubbing of your heels and your boob prison of a push up bra was beginning to pinch in all the wrong places. You wanted to go home.

At home, you knew the green-eyed, curly-haired god of a man you had somehow trapped in your own spell was waiting up for you. You pictured him curled up on your couch in your apartment, where you had begged him to stay so he would be there whenever you were released from Girls Night. You smiled at the thought of him fighting off sleep with your dog burrowed into his side and your kitten curled up on his chest. A smile pulled it’s way to your lips thinking of how you would collapse next to him and be enveloped by the smell that could be described only as Harry that filled your apartment whenever he was there. You hadn’t been with him for long, but you knew you never wanted to be without him again.

Miss you. Be home soon :), you typed out to him and pressed send before your phone was ripped out of your hands by familiarly manicured fingertips. Your objections were met with laughter and playful scolding from your friend, Sarah.

“No more phone!” she giggled, slipping your device into her own back pocket. “More dancing and drinking,” she insisted, grabbing your arm and pulling you from the depths of the red velvet booth. She held her iron grip on your hand as you were dragged through the cramped dance floor to the long bar. Soon shots were placed in your hands of some clear foul smelling liquid that Sarah assured you ‘didn’t burn too bad.’ On the count of three, you found out your friend was a dirty good-for-nothing liar and the fiery alcohol slid it’s way down your throat, feeling it’s intoxicating effects only minutes later.

Dancing didn’t sound too bad anymore. Dancing actually sounded great. And dance you did. You felt your normally self conscious and slightly awkward self melt away as it always did when you had a couple drinks in you and you had the time of your life. When the club turned its lights up, the universal sign of ‘get the fuck out,’ your friends piled into the back of your designated driver’s car. You were usually DD, but you were glad you passed up the opportunity for once.

“There’s my man!” you shouted out the back window as you pulled up to the apartment building, finding Harry waiting for you, leaning against the front doors. He loved it when you called him ‘your man;’ letting out a light chuckle but fighting a blush from finding its way to his face in front of the gaggle of girls. He looked sleepy, understandable since it was nearly 3am, but a smile didn’t leave his lips as he gently rubbed his eyes.

“Hi my girl,” his voice graveled back, thick with the sound of sleep. Clumsily climbing out of the back seat, you wobbled your way to his waiting arms, finally feeling steady supported by his firm hold on your waist.

“I missed you,” you whispered, only stumbling over your words a little and puckering your lips slightly, silently asking for a kiss. You watched his eyes flicker quickly up at the watching car full of your closest friends before giving into your request. When your lips met, you were cheered on by a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs,’ your girlfriends determined to embarrass you both. You pressed your now pink cheek to his chest as you waved your friends off into the night, saying your goodbyes and feeling a light peck to the top of your head.

“Come on, let's get you upstairs party girl,” Harry spoke softly, his hand securely wrapped around you and a finger hooked into your jeans’ belt loop, steadying your slightly swaying body. The elevator ride up to your apartment was short, filled with your drunken blabbering about whatever came to mind; topics varying from how soft your kitten was to how bad you wanted to eat the tub of cookie dough in the back of your fridge. Your thoughts were met with sleepy chuckles and his adoring gaze.

Walking inside your home, after a considerable fight with your key, you surveyed the sleeping animals curled up into their beds and raised their heads for only a moment before they deemed sleep more important than their mother. Looking around your cramped living room, you were greeted with a spotless apartment, far cleaner than when you left it for your night of mayhem. “Oh, you didn’t,” you accused as your shocked face met his smug one.

“I got a little bored and I thought it would be nice for you to come home to a clean house,” he smiled. Throw pillows were set on the couch in perfect alignment, tops and bottoms of potential outfits you had chosen from had long been folded and put away, and your carpet looked fluffier like it was freshly vacuumed. “There's also something for you in the kitchen.”

A whisper of ‘oh my goodness’ left your lips when you saw the plate of chocolate chip cookies sitting on your counter in the tiny kitchen. You were an emotional drunk and you didn’t even know you were crying until Harry wiped your tears away.

“You didn't have to do all of this for me,” you whimpered as he pulled you into another hug, leaning up against his warm frame to balance your own.

“I wanted too,” he assured you tenderly. “You know my love language is acts of service, or at least that’s what you told me it was,” he said, your head vibrating from the laugher in his chest.

Harry made you feel loved more than anything else in your relationship. You had only been together for a few months and they had been some of the happiest of your life. You two had met in a bookstore, however chiche it was, and had gotten coffee together. It was your treat (gift giving was your own love language) and very soon after you decided you never wanted to live a life without him in it. You loved him and you knew it, but you had not reached the point in your relationship where you were ready to tell him that. You hoped the gifts you brought nearly every time you saw him were already doing that for you.

You had never been in a relationship that you saw a clear future in. Sure, there were a few people here and there but you had always been known as the single friend. The friend that would always lend an ear, give unfounded relationship advice, and curse exes until they evenvitabily got back together.

Everything about Harry was different. You had met your match. You could spend days on end curled in each other's arms, only leaving your bed to grab snacks, and never run out of topics to discuss or want some time apart. You talked about your careers (he was a middle school music teacher and you were a law student), the meaning of life, childhood memories, your favorite colors, and so on. It was all just so easy with him.

He was also the first man you had ever been fully comfortable with. Overtime, your walls came down (or he knocked out a couple bricks and stuck in), and your usually self conscious demeanor began to twist into this new and improved version of yourself. Even if down the line you and Harry went your separate ways, you knew you would be better for knowing him.

You were brought out of your adoring haze when Harry asked if you needed help getting into pajamas. You agreed, knowing that getting you out of those jeans was going to be a two person job.  

Soon you were laying back on your (now perfectly made) bed, naked from the waist up; both of you fighting with the skin tight fabric, your inebriated hands being absolutely no help to the efforts. Your body shook with giggles watching your saint of a boyfriend tug on each leg of your pants, willing them to move, as he swore about how he was going to have to cut you out of them.

“Your neighbors are going to think we're going to town on each other,” he grumbled as he inched them down your legs.

“Nothing out of the ordinary then,” you laughed and wiggled your legs when you were finally free from their hold.

“I’m assuming you want this?” he asked, moving to take off his large tshirt, revealing first his ferns, then his butterfly, and then your favorite little swallows. After a feverish nod, you lifted your hands up and he slipped his shirt onto your smaller frame, enveloping you in the soft fabric and your favorite smell in the world.

“Smells like home,” you mumble while burying your nose in the fabric, unsure if he heard you.

“Oi, you’re going to stain it with your makeup,” he scolded. “Let’s get all that off.”

Sitting you down on the edge of the tub, you watched as he shuffled around the bathroom, frequently looking back to your face to examine his task. He looked at you like your face of makeup was a puzzle to be solved or a mountain to scale.

“I can just sleep in it and deal with it in the morning,” you said in between bites of the chocolate chip cookie you had stolen off the kitchen counter.

“We both know I’ll get in trouble if I let you sleep in it.”

“Probably,” you shrugged without paying much attention to him, mainly enamored by the cookie that was beginning to disappear.

Kneeling down in front of you, wielding a wash cloth soaked in makeup remover, Harry began to softly rub at your makeup. His touch was delicate and tender, careful not to get any in your eyes or hair line. He took his time, moving in soft circles, cleaning away the mask you had put on for the occasion. His breath handed softly on your face and you scanned his face, appreciating this time to take him in.

He was so beautiful. His eyebrows were gently brought together and his tongue would swipe over his lips every so often in focus. His eyes were deep and green, flecked with brown and blue, and framed by long black eyelashes you would kill for. Your eyes swiped around his face connecting his constellation of freckles and you reached up to brush your hands against the light stubble that had begun to show against his jaw line. You let your hand fall to his bare shoulder, stabilizing yourself against his strong build. His skin was soft and tan and perfect.

Your lips had a mind of your own when you said it. A verbalized moment of sheer honesty and adoration. You didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out.

“I love you, H.”

You could take it back, but that would be lying and probably hurt his feelings. You could double down and keep talking, but your hazy thoughts couldn’t come up with anything else to say at the moment. Your third option was saying nothing. You picked the third.

He paused for a moment when he processed what you said, his eyebrows shooting up and giving you an amused look. A closed lipped grin played on his lips and he continued on with his task, wringing out the towel over the tub and going back in to dry your face.

If you had been sober, you would have absolutely panicked. You would have run out of the bathroom and buried yourself under your sheets, embarrassed of what you just did. But you were hanging on for dear life to your buzz, pretending like everything was perfectly peachy and you didn’t just accidentally tell your boyfriend of only a few months that you loved him.

“That’s good. Because I love you too,” he beamed, all exhaustion gone from his voice.

Hope you liked it as much as I loved writing it :) My ask box is open with any feedback you may have! 

[angelicyoongie]

desolate (4)

— summary: you just wanted a cute little normal cat to keep you company. so, you're not really sure how you ended up with the grumpiest hybrid on earth that seems hellbent on making your life difficult.

— pairing: cat hybrid yoongi x  reader

— genre: angst, fluff, eventual smut

— word count: 3.9k

— tag list: @mrcleanheichou​ @ladymidnightt​ @cheese123344​ @xanny91​ @dinorahrodriguez​ @best-space-boy​ @dulcaet​​ @moccahobi​ @keijaycreates​ @staytrillswag​ @xsmilebitesx​ @serendipityoreuphoria​ @jiminot7​ @beyond-the-swag​ @nananaum1​ @mult1wh0re​ @ditttiii​ @faithsummers11​ @twomilkmen-gocomedy​ @theonewholovestoread​ @karissassirak​ @veryuniquenamegoeshere​ @yourlipssoirresistible​ @ayoo-bangtan​ @murderyoursoul​ @btsxdoll​ @see3milyblog​ @gukiyi​

Part one Part two Part three Part five Part six Part seven Part eight Part nine Part ten (M) Part eleven Part twelve Part thirteen Part fourteen (M)

Yoongi.

You study your cat using the little slivers of sunlight spilling into your bedroom through your curtains. You look at the soft rise and fall of your cat’s chest, the fluffy tail that’s almost covering up his face completely, and the hint of pink toe beans you can see under his paws.

You don’t think he looks like a Yoongi. The name is too .. human. Your cat takes a deep breath, a soft sigh escaping him as he burrows down even deeper beneath his tail. He doesn’t look like a Yoongi, but you haven’t been able to shake the name ever since you woke up.

You watch him sleep for another minute, a smile spreading across your lips at the fuzzy feeling you get in your chest. Even though the meeting between your cat and Sana didn’t go as well as you had hoped, it still made your cat warm up to you a little, and so you suppose that’s a victory in itself.

You slowly get up from bed, trying your best not to move it too much and wake him up. You snatch up some comfortable clothes, and find yourself freshly showered and comfortable with a full tummy at your kitchen counter a little while later. You’re cooking up the chicken breast as a peace offering for when your cat wakes up, just in case he decides he’s gone back to not liking you anymore. The moment you deem the chicken cool enough, your cat comes running into the kitchen, eyes wider than usual until they land on you. If you didn’t know better, you would almost think he was looking for you. But considering how fast he starts walking between your legs to make you give him his breakfast quicker, you think it’s probably more reasonable to think that he was looking for the chicken. You almost trip five times on the short walk to the living room, your cat stopping every few steps to make sure you’re still following him.

“I’m coming kitty,” You snort when he jumps up on the table, an impatient meow signalling you to move faster. You place the plate down on the floor, but your cat stays on top of the table, silently watching you.

“Your food is on the floor,” You bend down to tap on the plate, confused as to why he doesn’t react. It takes a few more seconds of him silently watching you until it clicks, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“You’re not supposed to eat on the table, kitty. You’re not really supposed to sit on there either,” He tilts his head, golden eyes narrowed in on you as he stares you down. You need to set boundaries, but at the same time he’s just started to be more friendly ..

“Just this once,” You sigh as you push aside the snacks from last night, placing the dish on top of the table. Your cat lets out a soft chirp, something that sounds vaguely as an agreement, but also like he has no plans of actually listening to you. You busy yourself with cleaning off the table as he eats, and while you feel a little annoyed at the sassy attitude, you can’t help find it endearing that he has so much personality.

You plop down on the couch with a huff when you’re done cleaning up. You’re ready to spend the day on the couch just catching up on all of your favourite TV shows. “Thank god for the weekend, huh kitty? Two full days of relaxing is the best thing ever,” You mumble as you watch him finish eating his food.

He does a small stretch, but instead of jumping off and hiding under the couch as you expected him to, he surprises you by jumping straight onto your lap instead. You don’t think he’s fully comfortable with you petting him yet – you can still feel how his body tenses as you run your fingers through his fur, but he seems to enjoy it more and more with each second that passes.

“I guess I should stop calling you kitty,” You give a small laugh as he bumps his head against your fingers when you stop. You gently scratch under his chin, the name you haven’t been able to shake off still haunting you in the back of your mind.

“Yoongi?” You test it out. Your cat snaps his head up to look at you so fast that he almost topples over at the sound of the name, but it feels a little heavy rolling of your tongue.

“I don’t know .. I don’t think it fits you,” You chew on your lip as you try to think of other possible names. Your cat’s tail swishes irritably, the same motion as when you take too long to get his food ready. You think he would rather fit being called something cute, like ..

“Smoky! That works, don’t you think?” You grin, the name falling from your lips easily. You feel confident that you’ve found a good name, but the moment you meet your cats golden eyes, you feel claws digging into your thighs.

“Fuck!” You hiss, desperately trying to pry your legs away from those vicious claws, but they only seem to dig in even deeper as you try to get away.

“Okay fine, fine! Not Smoky then,” Your cat stares at you for another second before he retreats his claws just a little. You can still feel the pinpricks of them resting against your skin through your sweats. It seems to be a silent warning to not choose any other goofy names.

“What about Ji–“ You feel the claws start to dig in again, and you cut yourself off quickly. You can tell your cat is slowly starting to get angry based on the harsh flicks of his tail.  And so even though you don’t think it fits him, you decide to give the first name another go.

“Yoongi?” You try again. Your cat immediately lets a broken purr, head butting against your fingers as if he gives his approval. He doesn’t waste any time in curling up in your lap as you resume petting him, eyes slowly blinking up at you.

“Of course you would act cute when you get your will,” You grumble. Your cat, no Yoongi,

only lets out a louder purr in response. You’re still not sold on it, but if he likes it then it seems like you don’t have much say on it.

You stay on the couch watching TV for a few hours, Yoongi having moved to rest of the couch besides you after a while. He’s still pressed up against your thigh though, and you think it’s cute how he seems to want contact even if petting gets a little too much.

Around noon you decide it’s time to grab some lunch. Yoongi lets out a disgruntled noise as you move, his eyes barely open as he watches you get up. Something black peaking out from under the couch grabs your attention as you stand, and you kneel down on the floor in confusion as you go to grab whatever it is. You figure maybe Jihyo or Sana dropped something when they came over, but as you pull it out, you realize it’s the hoodie you couldn’t find yesterday.

You shake it out a little to get a few dust balls off it, but what surprises you even more are all the small black hairs that seem to fly off it as well.

“Kitty? Did you take this?” As you look back up at him, Yoongi closes his eyes, tail swishing up to cover them from view.

“Alright then,” You shake your head with a snort, more amused than anything else.

You gently run your fingers over his head a few times before you get up and head to the kitchen, dropping off the hoodie in your laundry hamper along the way.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, you honestly don’t do much except for watching TV, scrolling through your social media and eating. In other words; your definition of a perfect Saturday. And it’s even more enjoyable now that you have a cat to keep you company.

Your phone lights up as you lay down in bed, Yoongi already sleeping soundly on one side. You’re thankful he at least gave you some more space today. You open the message as you snuggle down under your covers. The cold has really started to set in the past week, and you begrudgingly realized you couldn’t hold off turning on the heat any longer this morning. You like keeping your bedroom a little colder however, so that your bed feels even toastier once you warm it up. You frown as you scan over the message from your boss. He’s asking you all to come in to work tomorrow, apparently even more computers have been hacked, and you’re all needed to go through your files to see if anything is missing. A message trickles in from Jihyo, and you end up screaming at your boss through texts for a little while, until you decide you need to go to sleep if you’re going to be able to wake up early enough to make it there on time.

“Must be nice to not have any responsibilities,” You stare longingly at your cat with a pout as you shuffle down deeper under your covers. So much for a relaxing Sunday.

You miraculously wake up just before your alarm, but then again, you’ve been sleeping poorly all night. The sudden call in to work made you anxious, and you aren’t sure what to expect when you get there. You silently slip out of bed, throwing a quick glance at Yoongi as you watch him sleep peacefully. You get ready as fast as possible, making sure that Yoongi’s breakfast is done and waiting for him when he wakes up.

You consider running into your room and saying goodbye before you leave, but the thought almost makes you roll your eyes at yourself. He’s a cat. He won’t care if you leave or if you say goodbye as long as he has food to wake up to. You shake your head as you slip on your shoes and grab your keys, throwing an extra look at the bedroom door to make sure you left it open. You’re sure he’ll be fine.

“Finally!” Jihyo mumbles under her breath as you slip into your seat, out of breath and a little red in the face. Turns out the bus you normally take to work don’t run on Sundays, and so you had no choice but to walk the entire way in those godforsaken heels. “Did I miss anything?” You whisper back as you log into your computer. Jihyo shakes her head, eyes flying back to her own screen as you hear a loud voice echoing down the hallway. You quickly shrug off your jacket and get comfortable in your chair, trying to at least pretend that you didn’t just sprint the whole way there.

“Is everyone here? Good,” Your boss suddenly walks into the open space, arms crossed over his chest as he scans over faces looking at him.

“Yesterday we had another breach in our systems,” Low murmurs suddenly travel through the room, and your boss raises his hand to silence it.

“You all know how important it is for our documents to stay classified, especially considering the sensitive nature of many of our cases,” You nod along to his words, hand automatically reaching out for your favourite pen to note down anything important. You frown as you only grasp air, sneaking a look down to see that it isn’t where you left it on Friday. That’s weird. “I’ll need all of you to go through your cases and double check against our lists to see if anything is missing. While it’s unconventional for me to drag you in on a weekend, it cannot be held off until tomorrow. I assume you understand that,” You see Jihyo let out an inaudible sigh. Yes, you do understand that this is a uncommon occurrence and that your work is important, but you were also tired after a long week, and those two short days are the only thing standing between you and a breakdown.

“You cannot leave until you’re done, but you’ll get paid double for every hour you spend here as a compensation,” Your boss almost seems more angry about the fact that he’ll have to pay you overtime, than he is that his company was breached.

“What are you waiting for? Get to work,” He barks, and then there’s a flurry of motion as everyone start pulling out their case file lists, the sound of papers being flipped over filling the open space. You unlock your drawer and pull out your long, long, long list of all the cases you’ve covered. You curse under your breath. So this is what you get for being hardworking, huh? You crack your neck as you click into the system, scanning the pages for the most recent name on your list first.

Revisiting all of your old cases makes a knot form in your stomach. All the injustice and horrible scenarios you have had to deal with is awful, and it’s honestly probably why you’re so hesitant to get a hybrid. You’ve seen the worst of the worst working on cases for mistreated hybrids, and you’re terrified of doing anything wrong that might unintentionally hurt someone. You know you’re not the same as the abusers you’ve created cases against, but still; the fear never seems to leave you alone. Jihyo motions for you to follow her after a few hours, and you’re thankful for a quick escape to the bathrooms to take a break.

“I can’t believe he called us in on a Sunday!” Jihyo hisses as she leans against the sink, displeasure written all over her face. “I know, this week was rough enough without the extra work,” You sigh. “Tell me about it,” Jihyo rolls her eyes. You turn around and look in the mirror, trying to untangle a knot that must’ve formed in your hair in your hurry earlier. You can see Jihyo’s eyes flickering over to you every few seconds, teeth biting down on her lower lip as she seems to be deep in thought. “Spill it,” You say with a chuckle as Jihyo jumps at the sound of your voice. “I just .. about Friday?” Jihyo looks uncertain as she turns to face you.

“Sana is a really chill hybrid, and she wouldn’t act like that without reason,” You nod along to her words, not really sure where she’s going.

“She told me after we left that your cat smelled off ..” She frowns. “What, like he needs a bath?” You try to lessen the tense air between you with a light joke, but Jihyo shakes her head, lips pressed together tightly. “No. She said it smelled like it wasn’t fully an animal. That it smelled like it was a .. hybrid,” You can only stare at her dumbly, mouth a little agape as you try to process her words.

Your kitty is a hybrid? No way. Wouldn’t he have had to shift? You know they can’t stay in their animal forms for too long without it hurting them, and your cat has been with you for two weeks already. You’re certain you’ve never seen anything weird in your apartment while he’s been staying there but then again, you are gone most of the day when you’re at work. “There’s no way he’s is a hybrid! When I found him he was in a small cage at the shelter with other animals, I’m pretty sure they would’ve known if he was one,” You say firmly. You can’t wrap your head around him being anything else but an actual cat. Sure, he’s got a big personality and sometimes seem to spookily understand a lot of what you’re saying but .. a hybrid? Impossible. “I’m sure Sana just smelled wrong. Maybe there’s an hybrid in the apartment under mine?” You try to reason, but Jihyo just snorts. “She’s a dog hybrid Y/N, she knows better than us what she’s smelling and where she’s smelling it,” Jihyo sounds a little offended that you would question Sana’s instincts, but the thought of your cat being a hybrid is just too ridiculous.

“I’m not saying she’s doesn’t know what she’s doing, just that she maybe got it mixed up,” You find your own irritation growing as Jihyo keeps insisting that Sana isn’t wrong, but you’re too tired to fight with her.

“Let’s just .. go back, I’m sure we’ve been away for too long,” You turn on your heel and leave the bathroom before Jihyo can say anything else.

The idea of you owning a hybrid and not knowing about it is ridiculous, but what you dislike even more is how it makes you start to second guess everything your cat has been doing for the last few weeks. Sure, there have been a few instances of him doing things that made you do a double take, but you’re pretty sure that at least seventy percent of his behaviour is just what any normal cat would do.

You huff as you sit down in your seat, the long list in front of you daunting. You’ve made up your mind that there’s no way that Yoongi being a hybrid is true, but Jihyo’s comment refuses to leave your mind the rest of the day.

You’re finally down to the last ten cases on your file, the first cases you ever dealt with after you got hired at the firm. You type in the information of the tenth, watching as the details start to load up. You let your eyes wander around the mostly empty office landscape, only a few people left beside yourself. Jihyo had clocked out a few hours ago with a sympathetic smile, but that doesn’t do much to help you get home faster. You’ve been working as hard as you can to finish up quickly, knowing that your kitty must be terribly hungry by now. You left the apartment before eight am, and it’s getting close to nine pm by now. Thankfully you gave him an extra big breakfast, but still, you feel awful. You’re about to look down on your screen when something catches your eye.

You’re positioned so that you can just peak around out into the hallway that leads to your boss’ office, and while it normally is a little distracting, you realize that it might prove to be something useful after all.

You watch as the same guy you recognized from the IT department last week seems to be stalling outside of your boss’ office, posture tense and awkward as he tries to look into the half-closed blinds covering the windows. You know your boss left earlier in the day, so there’s no way he’s there to talk to anyone.

You shift back in your chair to get a better look, but the movement causes the chair to squeak. The man whips around, big eyes catching yours as you get caught looking. You advert your eyes quickly, but not before you see him practically running off in the opposite direction, face red and nervous. You don’t really know what to make of it, but you decide to file it into the back of your mind in case you see him do something weird later. The moment you scroll through the last file and double check that nothing is missing, you’re out of there. You tap your feet impatiently as you wait for your computer to log out, coat already on. Itching to get back home, you decide to take a taxi instead of walking. Normally you wouldn’t have bothered, but it’s almost eleven at night, and you don’t think some of the more sketchy neighbourhoods you walk through during the day are all that safe at night. So, taxi it is.

.

You sprint up the flights of stairs up to your apartment, barely stopping to catch your breath and unlock your door before you hurry inside. “Yoongi?” You call out as you step out of your shoes, back facing the hallway as you turn around to close the door. There’s a loud thud that suddenly comes from your bedroom, and it sounds way too loud for it just being your cat jumping down from your bed.

You feel your body freeze up as you hear heavy footsteps slipping against the floor behind you, the sound barely lasting for a second before a body slams into yours. The only thing that keeps you from banging into the door is the pair of arms wrapped tightly around your waist, and you choke on the scream that tries to escape your throat. “I didn’t think you would come back,” A deep voice says, and you feel your legs shake at the timbre of his voice. It’s definitely a man. You’re so fucking screwed. You feel your body slipping into panic mode the longer the man keeps you locked against him. You’re pretty sure you can hear a low grumble from the man against your coat over the loud rushing of blood in your ears.

He must have broken in while you were gone, and you returned before he had a chance to leave. You know your kitty doesn’t take kindly to strangers so what if ..

It feels like someone has poured a bucket of ice-cold water down your back, the thought leaving you numb. What if he’s hurt him?

“You can take anything you want j-just don’t hurt my cat. Is he okay? W-Where is he?” You feel hot tears pricking against your eyes as the arms around you loosen slightly. You should probably try to run or turn around and fight, but you feel too terrified to even move.

“Your cat?” There’s an element of amusement in his tone. A cold nose suddenly bumps into the back of your neck, where a sliver of skin is exposed just above your coat. The contact makes you feel ill, thoughts racing off everything bad this man could’ve done to hurt your kitty. “Y-yes, my cat. Y-Yoongi. Is he okay?” You try to hold back the hysteria that’s bubbling up in your chest the best you can.

You hear a snort, the arms around your waist disappearing momentarily before there’s a pressure on your shoulders, and you’re turned around.

You already feel a little lightheaded, but the sight before you definitely knocks whatever breath you had left straight out of your chest. Your eyes fly over the feline-like eyes, the button nose, pouty lips and slightly puffy cheeks. Your gaze automatically moves up the pale skin to the black long-ish hair on his head, the big fluffy cat ears poking out from underneath it, the – You collapse against the door, the man’s hands on your shoulders being the only thing keeping you standing. Cat ears? You see them twitch at the sound of your back hitting the door.

“I’m okay,” The corner of the man’s lips hint at a smirk, and you swear you see a golden hue passing quickly through the dark eyes watching you so intently.

The realization hits you like a train going at full speed. Fuck. It can’t be.

“Yoongi?” You whisper, the name feeling like lead on your tongue.  

The man lets out a sharp chuckle, eyes narrowing in on your face as he takes a step closer. He leans in until you can feel his hot breath spill across your ear, the action leaving you with a strange feeling of deja vu.

“Took you long enough, owner.”

- - - - Hello! Hope you enjoyed the fourth chapter of desolate! Oop, there we have it, Yoongi has finally made himself known! P.s. In case you haven't seen it yet, I've posted the first chapter of Abundance, which is the ot7 version of this fic, you can read it here!

My inbox is always open if you want to chat about the story or just fics or life in general! See you all soon!

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mission of Mercy: Thirty-Six

“Sam,” you call, as he walked through the house from the bathroom, “Make sure none of those knuckle heads throw their back out trying to set up that tripod.”

“On it,” he said, glancing out the Cabin’s screen door to see Joe and Cooksy having a very animated argument about how to set up the aforementioned piece of equipment.

Natasha and Sharon watched him go and Natasha turned back towards you, “Jesus Christ.” You were sweating and Natasha was fairly certain you’d started cooking some time around 5am and hadn’t stopped since. “How?”

You shrug and wipe the sweat out of your eyes with a towel slung over your shoulder, “It used to be my mom, my grandma and I. Then Grandma died and mom stopped coming so…Here we are.”

You’d like to cry. You’re tired and your back hurts and you can feel the muscle cramps from standing in one spot for so long trying to get everything done. But you don’t, you just resume chopping to try and get things on the stove so you can finish things over the fire. Camping is work. Something no one else really seemed to understand.

Sharon drifted out to go be with Sam and you take a deep breath, tossing your knife into the sink with more force than was probably strictly necessary before adding the onions, tomato, and garlic into your waiting, perfectly seasoned cast iron pot.

Natasha squeezed behind you to get to the sink and started washing. She wasn’t entirely sure if you wanted help but. She didn’t blame you for being irritated by the male voices outside bellowing laughter while you were stuck inside trying to feed everyone you’d planned to feed AND the people that had decided to come along.

She couldn’t feel the tension in the air but she’d worked with you long enough to see it ratcheting down on you. It was like someone was twisting a corkscrew down your neck. And she’d be lying if she said it didn’t break her heart a little. She wondered, in the back of her mind, how long it had been like this on these little excursions. And if it was always like this or just the added pressure of having to also feed gods, supersoldiers, and other sundry heros.

______

You stood on the porch watching the goings on for a minute and sighed. There was still cornbread to be made but at least that you could do outside. It was hotter than hell in the kitchen and the breeze off the lake felt like heaven as it cooled the sweat on your forehead. You hefted the pot slightly closer to your body and started down the steps carefully.

“Move,” you snap. You’re hot and this pot is heavy and you really don’t have the patience to be polite and wait for someone to listen to you.

Sam started and pulled Sharon out of your way quickly to let you through and you sigh, starting across the grass to adjust your fire and get the chili on properly. You can feel people watching you and it rankles. Honestly with all the strong ass men that have been drinking and laying around all day, you’d appreciate it if someone would have at least ASKED if you wanted the extra set of hands.

You wrestle the cauldron sized pot into place and wipe your forehead on your forearm, swaying slightly on your feet. “Can someone-” you start the sentence but. You can’t really seem to find the rest of the words. No one’s looking at you. They’ve all gone back to doing… whatever. And all you want to do is cry. There’s still so much left to do. And you realize that if you wanted to work this hard all weekend you could have just stayed home holed up in your office.

But. Your boys like corn bread. And it isn’t their fault that Tony rented out what feels like half the lake. So. You turn and go to get the things you need to make it. Just the way your grandma did. Because she learned from her mom. And so on and so forth. It was the only thing Joe ever asked for and you were going to make sure he got it.

Bucky watched you disappear back into the house and frowned. He’d not seen you all day. Not since you slipped out of bed to make sure Cooksy got his pancakes and there was breakfast waiting on everyone else. But even from a distance, you looked wrecked. And he didn’t miss that you were limping just a little. He wasn’t sure if it was your old injuries or a new one. But he whistled to Lucy all the same and started back up the beach.

_____

He stopped at the kitchen door and watched you for a minute, watching you mix batter and talk to the dog who was sitting very patiently to have her ears rubbed just like she liked.

“Are you having fun?” you ask, kneeling for just a minute to lavish attention on her, “Out there exploring? I’m gonna have to check you for ticks tonight before bed.”

“You okay?” Bucky watched you look up and his stomach twists. You look hot and tired. And even Lucy seems to know that all is not right. Her tail, which usually wags nonstop when you talk to her is still and she’s frantically burrowing into your chest like she can will you into feeling better if she wipes enough eye boogers on your shirt.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, catching yourself on the counter as you waver on your feet trying to stand up straight.

“Now say that and don’t fall over,” he said folding his arms.

“I’m not arguing with you, I’ve got too much to do,” you tell him, pouring batter very carefully into your freshly greased pan.

“Sweetheart,” he started.

He wanted to put an arm around you and make you sit down but when you brush past him, pan in hand, he had no choice but to follow you. And watch as you knelt by your fire to make sure everything was exactly how you wanted it to be.

“Something smells good, kid,” Joe said, lowering himself into a camp chair with a groan

You make a soft sound but otherwise, you don’t answer. It’s still hot, this close to the fire but at least you can feel some of the breeze of the lake at your back. And you’re not standing up. That’s good. Standing hurts. Kneeling like this hurts too but at least it hurts new muscles.

“Cornbread is an art,” you explain to Lucy, scritching her neck.

“Damn straight,” Joe agreed, chuckling when the little dog waddled her way over to investigate her pop up dish for treats.

Bucky came and took a spot on your other side and leaned over to kiss your head. Your hair is damp with sweat and he can see the tremors in your hands when you reach out to carefully adjust pans. “Thirsty?” he asked softly.

“And hot. And hungry. And tired.” you answer.

“Baby-” Bucky starts. But he stops when you shake your head. You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want anything. You just want to be done. And you want to go home. Bucky gets to his feet and kisses your head again, going to get dishes and find an ice pack to put on your back when you decide to stop being grumpy and let him help you.

By the time the corn bread is all done and the chili has simmered into it’s perfect state, fireflies are drifting over the grass. You straighten up slowly and set the last pan on the wooden table with a clang.

And that’s the last thing you remember.

At least until you roll over and dry heave into the grass for about a minute.

_________

Bucky saw you waver for a second and he’d never been more thankful to be fast in his life. He didn’t quite manage to catch you, but he did manage to keep you from smacking your head on the concrete right behind you.

He isn’t sure who handed him a cold cloth and he honestly doesn’t really care. All he knows is that he’s kicking himself for not sticking closer to the house. And that there are several team mates he’d personally like to strangle.

“Easy,” he cautioned, wiping tears and snot off your face with a clean handkerchief and putting an arm behind your back to help you sit up.

“ ‘m okay,” you protest weakly.

“Get her inside,” Nat said quietly, nudging Bucky. Most of the party hadn’t really seen what happened. And Nat figured you’d probably like it to stay that way.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Bucky murmured, nodding.

You did. Too disoriented and tired to do anything else. And Bucky carried you carefully into the bedroom that you were sharing, laying you on the cot. You whimper just slightly and Bucky takes a second to run practiced hands over your limbs feeling for anything broken.

“Easy,” he repeated, putting a hand on your chest to keep you still. “Someone bring me some cold water. And rags.”

Your skin was the wrong temperature. You were too hot and too cold all at the same time. Heat exhaustion then, not heat stroke, he decided and pressed a kiss against your forehead. “You gotta take it easy,” he scolded gently, taking the ice water and a stack of wash cloths from Joe and Natasha before shooing them out.

__________

Bucky sat on the floor by the bed and watched you sleep, stroking your hair. He was afraid to sleep next to you, worried that you’d get too hot. He hadn’t even wanted to let Lucy sleep with you but the poor puppy had cried like someone was killing her when he shut the bedroom door.

“You’re not doing anything tomorrow,” he muttered. “All you’re gonna do is lay in the shade and watch those chuckle fucks figure out how to feed everyone.”

[pressedinthepages]

Delicate

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Reader, Lambert/Reader, Eskel/Reader

Word Count:

Rating: E (kinda)

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request [So I had this idea for a drabble: aftercare with the witchers boys. I think Eskel would be so soft 😭] i am so sorry this took so freakin long it has been a MOMENT.

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: discussion of smutty things, softe aftercare for the boys

Each of the three Witchers need something different, and you are more than happy to provide.

Geralt 

    Geralt has taken you apart and pieced you back together over the course of the night with a vigor that could rival the diligence of the sun in its quest to drench the earth in light. Now, as he finally softens within you, his hands relax from where they had previously been digging into the meat of your hips. He is slotted up behind you, his breath still coming in warm gasps against the back of your neck.

    You shift to get up and clean yourself, but Geralt only wraps his arm more firmly around your waist, holding you tight to him. You exhale a short whine as his length slips from the snug velvet of your core, already missing the exorbitant fullness that he offers. 

    “Geralt?” you murmur, tracing your finger lightly up his forearm, watching the muscles jump and twitch under his skin. “Please love, I’m gonna be all sticky in the morning.”

    Geralt hums, pressing his lips against your shoulder. “Can’t have that, can we?”

    He unwinds his arm from around you, leaving an unyielding void of warmth when he pushes himself off of the bed. You watch as a few candles suddenly flicker with life as Geralt passes by them, marveling at how the light dances down his back and over his hips. 

    As if sensing your eyes on him Geralt turns around, catching your gaze with a crook of his brow. Not a single word spills from his lips, but you have learned how to read the detailed language of his expressions, no matter how minute. 

    “Just admiring the view, darling.” Geralt smirks just the teeniest bit, turning back to his task. He pulls a clean cloth from a drawer and dips it in the jug of water that you keep on the dresser. Geralt returns to your side, kneeling on the bed as he reverently runs the rag over your skin. You run your own hand up the length of his thigh, brushing past the nasty scar on the inside of his leg. You relish these moments when you can feel him under your skin, even your bones sighing into the relief that having him here brings.

    The rag is draped over the back of a chair to dry and Geralt not-necessarily gracefully flops onto the bed on his stomach. You chuckle, sidling up to him and running your fingers up his spine. Your nails scratch lightly up the base of his skull, threading into his hair. The two of you lay in silence for who knows how long as you carefully undo the tangles in the shiny silver threads atop his head. 

    “What is on your mind, little magpie?” Geralt’s voice is husky and low with exhaustion, his eyes still closed and his face the picture of relaxation. 

    You take a deep breath, only allowing a moment to collect your thoughts. “Will you stay long this time?”

    Geralt sighs, shifting only a bit to burrow further into his pillow. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll be leaving as the sun rises, the Path calls.”

    You hum, wrapping your arm around his waist. “Come, then, let me linger in this a while longer.”

    Geralt turns away from you, pressing his hips back into yours. You fit your nose to sit right at the nape of his neck as your hand reaches up to rest above his heart. Geralt’s own hand joins yours, twining your fingers together as the both of you relax into each other. You can feel the slow, steady beating of his heart with every rise and fall of his breath. 

    “I will miss you.” His chest rumbles with the words, clearly only moments away from slipping into sleep.

    “And I you, my dear. And I will be here, waiting for your return.”

Lambert 

    “Fuck, Lambert,” you gasp, sagging heavily into the pillows around your head, “that was amazing.”

    Said Witcher laughs heartily, falling to your side and laying on his back. The muscles of his arm swell as it is thrown over his forehead, his chest heaving with every deep breath he takes. “Hmm, you can say that again swee-what the fuck are you doing?”

    You meet his eyes, golden orbs swirling with incredulity as you nestle into his side, lightly scratching your fingers through the dark thatch of hair on his chest. You take his arm and wrap it around your back, resting your head over his heart. “I’m cuddling with you? Is this ok?”

    Lambert blinks owlishly, his hand stiff where it sits on your waist. “I-I just never really get this part. Most women can’t wait to get me out of their beds.”

    “Well,” you whisper, “it’s a good thing that I am not most women.”

    Lambert’s thumb moves hesitantly along the soft skin on your hip, gaining confidence when you nuzzle into him and wrap yourself around him tighter. You can feel him relax into you ever so slowly, not quite sure how to let himself fully give in to your affection. 

    “Please, Lambert,” you press your lips against his skin, feeling the course of life tingling just beneath the surface, “allow yourself this.”

    Lambert huffs, moving his hand from your waist up to your head, smoothing his fingers through your hair and down your shoulder. Your eyes begin to droop as your focus is pulled to the gentle movements, so different from how he typically carries himself. 

    He won’t settle like this, he never does. And when you wake in the morning, Lambert will still be in bed, but he will have rolled onto his side facing away from you with a veritable ocean of space between the two of you. And he will have stolen all of the blankets. 

Eskel

    Eskel’s teeth release from the tender skin of your neck as his cock softens within you, his lips soothing the bite mark. He whispers praises where he lays atop you, crowding you into the bedroll over the forest floor.

    You turn your head, catching his lips for a kiss. It is slow, languid, dripping with the sweetness of freshly harvested honey. Your hands rove over Eskel’s form, up his arms and into the soft waves of his hair, down his neck and over the rough skin of the scar on his cheek. You cheekily lick over where the scar notches into his lip, knowing the skin there is extra sensitive. Eskel growls, his hands tightening where they rest on your hips.

    He returns to your neck, nosing to the spot right behind your ear and breathing deeply. “Gods, you smell so nice. I could stay here forever,” he hums, his chest rumbling with what could be compared to a purr. 

    “While I think that sounds lovely in practice, dear,” you whisper, squeezing his shoulders lightly, “you are squishing me.”

    ‘Mmm, but I’m terribly comfortable, I can’t even begin to imagine moving…”

    “Eskel!” you laugh, pushing half-heartedly against him. It is like gently shoving a mountain, but he relents, rolling over to lay next to you on his side. He pulls you with him, tangling his legs with yours and pressing his lips to the crown of your head. You wrap your arm around his waist and snuggle into his chest, your nose brushing over the cool medallion that hangs around his neck. 

    “The stars are beautiful tonight…” Eskel murmurs, trailing his fingers along your back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You hum in response, allowing your body to meld into his as you drift lazily on the edge of consciousness.

    “The love I have for you burns with a light that not a single one of those stars could dare to rival.” Eskel’s voice is small, a timid thing fighting to breach his lips. You tilt your head up to look deep into those golden eyes that shine even in the blackest night, finding them already gazing down at you. 

    “Hmm, fancy yourself a poet now?” You smile, leaning up and pressing your lips to his. Eskel sighs into it, a release of tension that allows him to finally relax into your arms. The two of you move slowly, the flight of petals on a breeze that carries them far and wide. 

    “You make me want to write poetry,” Eskel replies, nuzzling you back into his chest with his fingers in your hair. The sound of his heart, a low thud every four seconds, lulls you into a peaceful sleep, surrounded by your poetic Witcher.

[vercopaanir]

Who You Are

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 5

Masterlist for this series

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: Just when things begin to settle, a dogfight between the Mandalorian and another bounty hunter leaves you injured, stranded on Tatooine, and in need of money.

Rating, Warnings: None. I honestly don’t think I’ve needed to warn for anything so far, but if I miss something, please let me know!

Notes: This chapter contains some Mando’a that I found via the internet. Translations are at the bottom, and inspired by @themandjalorian​’s “i imagine how your name would sound.” It was the first story I read from this universe, so I dedicate this part to her! Go read her things! This is also on AO3. Also, I did write in a part directly from the show. I’ll try not to do this too much in the future, but let me know what you think!

Ever since your argument on Quanera, you and the Mandalorian fall into a comfortable, if not an easy rhythm.

It goes something like this.

In the mornings, you take the baby outside and let him run through the grass, which is almost too tall for him to see over. He often chases insects and climbs on top of small rocks. One afternoon, just before it started to rain, he picks every blue flower he can find, and when you both return to the Razor Crest as the heavens open up, he waddles up to the Mandalorian to present the drooping bouquet.

The bounty hunter kneels on the floor of the hull, using a soldering iron to fix the wiring of one of the ship’s consoles, but he sets it carefully aside to take the wilting flowers from the child. “Thank you,” he whispers, resting his gloved hand on the baby’s head with gentle affection. You see, later that evening before you retire to bed, the pale blue flowers resting in a clay cup of water on the control panel of the cockpit.

After a little exercise, you feed the baby mashed fruit, and he tends to try to feed his stuffed bantha toy some, too. You have already washed it more times than you thought possible, sure it will fall apart any day, now.

Then, in the afternoons as the child sleeps, you find things to keep yourself occupied. One day, you walk up behind the Mandalorian while he cleans one of his many weapons. The noises of scrubbing and tinkering draw you over, but you cannot tell what weapon he’s disassembled. The small table is absolutely littered with different parts, gears, and oiled cloths. It would look the same to you whether you were blind or not. But it’s the bit of light shining through the holes of his cloak that cause you to frown.  

“This isn’t the one you lent me,” you say, picking up the hem. You feel with your fingers the holes and tatters. One portion of fabric is nearly worn away entirely.

He turns his helmet towards you, pausing his ministrations of scrubbing off the carbon of the barrel of a gun. “No.”

“Why don’t you wear the other?”

There is a heavy pause where he grows very still, and you have the distinct impression he isn’t actually looking at you.

“Because you’re wearing it.”

A blush blooms in both your cheeks, and you flex your fingers over the fabric that you still hold between your hands. You have taken to wearing the cloak whenever you go outside, since Quanera’s air is still cooler than what you were accustomed to. It does not seem to phase the Mandalorian at all, and he hasn’t asked for his cloak back. You use it as a lap blanket when you join him in the cockpit, either perched in the pilot’s chair to practice your landing and take-off, or nodding off in the co-pilot’s seat. You prefer it to the hull, since there’s more light, and the three of you are together.

“That’s ridiculous,” you finally insist, ignoring how weak your voice sounds. With a frown, you step closer behind him, and you rest both hands on his pauldrons. “Here, take it off.”

Immediately, he grows so tense you can taste it in the air. You tilt your head, trying to gauge what the problem is. “I have a needle and thread,” you say after a moment, fingering the fabric where his shoulder and neck meet. “I may be blind, but I can sew a hole or two.”

You see the moment his shoulders drop by inches, and for a moment, he continues to remain still. You don’t think he is actually going to acquiesce from how long he hesitates, but then he turns back to the gun he is cleaning and mutters, “Suit yourself.”

With a short sigh, you begin removing the pauldrons that secure the cloak beneath, your fingers working beneath the beskar to locate the leather straps that keep them secure. The armor itself draws your attention as you lift one shoulder guard between your hands, and you form an idea. He appears distracted enough, so you remove the other before taking the cloak and both pieces of beskar with you.

The Mandalorian finds you that evening sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, one leg crossed over the other as you feel with your fingers every stitch you made, careful not to prick yourself and bleed all over it. In the pilot’s chair, his pauldrons shone like beacons, freshly polished and his thicker cloak you’d been borrowing folded nicely underneath.

“I gave this one to you,” he had said, sounding tired and petulant. His voice was thick with another emotion you can’t put your finger on, and you lift your chin up and set your sewing in your lap, the well-worn cloak resembling a black banner against your legs.

“And now I’m giving it back. It’s terribly heavy,” you insist with a wave of your hand, looking back down at the seams you’ve created on the thinner one you were mending.

“Then-then I’ll get you another one,” the Mandalorian huffs, sounding endearingly irritated. He begins to put the armor back on, thorough and precise with every movement. “That thing isn’t worth the thread you’re using on it.”

“You were wearing it.” It’s an accusation, and you mean it that way. His armor is beautiful, but what should keep him warm is so thin even you can see through it. “Besides, I don’t intend to wear it.”

And you don’t. What you do is reline the child’s cradle, using the older, thinner blankets as padding and attaching the newly mended cloak on top. You notice the little one burrow under the blankets more than once, and one evening when you pick him up, his ears feel near to freezing off. This project takes you several days to complete, your penchant for a well-done job motivating you to perfect the cushion of the cradle and securing the lining in neat, hemmed rows.

When the baby finally crawls in, he practically bounces from the soft stuffing, cooing in wonder. You cannot keep from beaming with pride at your work, your fingers a bit more stiff and sore than before, but it is worth it to see the child fall asleep so quickly. You wonder if he is comforted by the scent of his father.

The Mandalorian says nothing of it. He finds some work collecting a renegade mechanic who had stolen a ship from Cantonica, and when he returns-wearing the cloak you’d forced back onto him-he seems too tired to even hold a conversation. You manage to take off without needing his supervision, and you assure him you would let him know if you needed help.

Returning to your own bunk that night, you find bolts of fabric that have your mouth falling open. The different textures feel as silky as water against your fingers, softer than anything you’ve ever worn before, in shades of the sea. Blues, greens, greys, darker but rich in a quality you could never afford. Your eyes sting at the kind gesture, unsure what to make of such a gift.

You stay up that night until the sun appears on the horizon, sewing and hemming until your fingers are too raw to even pick the child up, but you know the Mandalorian sees the midnight blue dress that replaces the old threadbare clothing you wore before. He even helps secure the cloak you’ve sewn for yourself, his leather gloves whispering over the pewter material when he fastens it at your shoulders before going out with the child.

That was this morning, before you took off. Now, you’ve set course to a planet called Nevarro, where the Mandalorian says he needs to speak with a business associate from the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. You have plenty of curiosity for the venture, but now you are distracted.

There are few sounds in the world that make you as happy as listening to the child laugh. The burbling squeal, thick with joy, makes your face crease with a helpless grin as you lounge in the pilot’s seat in the Razor Crest’s cockpit. The ship is currently cruising on autopilot, and you are facing the co-pilot seats where the child is propped up in his cradle in one, flailing his arms and hiccupping with laughter as the Mandalorian sits across from him, attempting to speak sternly in Mando’a.

“Ori’skraan,” the Mandalorian is saying, holding out a small bite of a herb encrusted bread to the child. When the child simply giggles so hard his ears fluttered up, you can’t keep from laughing either, covering your mouth. The Mandalorian chokes on his own chuckle, dropping his helmet forward and shaking his head side to side. “Epar, verd’ika!” he insists, wagging the bit of food at the small green creature.

The baby falls back into his cradle, giggling and kicking his little feet in joy at the Mandalorian’s fruitless language lesson, and you throw your own head back with laughter.

“He’ll starve at this rate,” the bounty hunter snorts, dropping the small slice of bread onto the plate he’d brought for the child.

“Oh, I doubt that,” you snicker, missing the way the gleaming helmet with it’s sharpened visor tilts towards you. “And I have a feeling that he’s taking in every single thing you’re saying. One day he’ll just simply start speaking full sentences.”

The Mandalorian glances from you to the child, then back again, radiating skepticism. The baby still wobbles from his laughter, toddling back upwards to grin with all his teeth. When the bounty hunter looks down at him, the child tilts his head as if daring the armored warrior to continue.

“Duraani, burc’ya?”

Immediately, the child squeals laughing, and you have the rare pleasure of listening to a true belly laugh modulate from the Mandalorian’s helmet, his armor nearly shaking with laughter. He leans forward in the co-pilot’s seat and lifts the baby out of the makeshift cradle, setting him in his lap. Your eyes slip closed as you savor the sweet sounds of receding laughter echoing off the metal walls of the ship, a small smile on your face.

When the Mandalorian speaks again, his voice is soft, almost too quiet for even the modulator to pick up. “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad,” he murmurs to the child, and you open your eyes in time to see him do something you find incredibly strange. He bows his head and taps the smooth beskar crown of his helmet to the child’s little wrinkled forehead. The tiny three fingered hands reach up to pat just beneath the visor, and the baby coos in response.

It is one of the most tender sights you’ve ever witnessed, and you’re compelled to turn your eyes away.

“Mesh’la,” whispers the Mandalorian, and when you turn back, you find that both the bounty hunter and the child are gazing at you. The child coos in his arms, looking up at the armored guardian before blinking back at you. If you didn’t know better, he seemed to understand.

“What are you telling him?” you ask with a soft smile, raising your eyebrows when the beskar helmet looks away from you. Amused suspicion lingers in your voice, not trusting the conspiratorial tone of the hunter or the curious ear perk of the little one he holds.

“I am telling him who you are.”

The quiet, reverent way he says the simple words stirs something in your heart, and your mouth goes dry as bones. You certainly do not speak Mando’a, which he’s certainly exploiting in the moment, but you suddenly desire fluency from the gentle, beautiful language from the way he speaks it alone.

And then, everything falls apart.

A thundering explosion throws everyone and everything in the cockpit forward, the Razor Crest lurching from the hit of enemy fire. You’re thrown to the side right out of the chair and land half sprawled across the control panel. A sudden impact to your side from a gear shift radiates pain all the way from your hip to your shoulder, and you can’t muffle the painful cry that bursts from your mouth.

The Mandalorian hits the wall of the cockpit, turning his body just in time so he absorbs the fall and the child in his arms doesn’t smash into the metal siding. You shove yourself up, scrabbling for the controls, and you pull the ship up, every instruction and piece of advice the Mandalorian had instilled in you falling into place. The whole right side of your body is burning with discomfort, and when the bounty hunter grabs your shoulders and pulls you out of the seat, you can’t help the dry sob that tumbles from your throat.

“Move!”

You change places, stumbling quickly to the co-pilot’s chair and struggle with the buckles. They click in place not a moment too soon, because all of the sudden the ship is crashing into a high speed, and you shut your eyes from dizziness.

A voice breaks the silence over the communications link. “Gotcha, Mando!”

The vocoder is all static when the Mandalorian growls with annoyance, gloved hands conducting a symphony over the controls to push the Razor Crest into flying maneuvers that leave your stomach somewhere down in the hull of the ship. With the thrusters fully engaged, the ship is flying faster than you’ve ever experienced, and it seems the child feels the same terrifying tension you do.

You reach over as best you can, lifting him from his cradle and wrapping your arms around him, focusing on how he nuzzles beneath your neck and coos at the attention rather than the pain radiating in your side.

“Hand over the child, Mando,” a voice hums over the communications link, and you realize belatedly what’s actually happening. He had told you the Empire was after the little one, that there was danger hanging over his head wherever he went. Your heart begins to pound in your breast, and you know the child can feel it, because he whimpers and clutches at your clothing.

Instinctively, you hold the baby closer to your body, feeling the Razor Crest dip before tilting back and up to gain speed. Another hit on the back of the ship causes it to lurch forward, and you and the child would’ve gone careening into the floor had you not been buckled in.

“I might let you live,” comes the voice again, half a threat and half a taunt.

More impact from enemy fire sends the ship shuddering, and alarms begin to go off, blaring in the cockpit. Something off to the left side of the ship implodes, and the crackling of fire on metal resounds in the walls. The baby whimpers and begins to fuss against you, and you’re only dimly aware that the Mandalorian responds to the threat by flipping several switches all the while ignoring the blaring alarms.

“Hold on.”

You slip your arms tighter around the baby, pressing your face between his ears, and you feel the ship turn quickly in a move that dodges excess fire. The red glow of the alarms distorts the cockpit, and all you can see is the gleam of the beskar helmet as he leans forward over the controls. It occurs to you in that moment that there is a certain thrill in something like this, a horrifying adrenaline rush that dangles you between safety and risk.

“Come on,” the Mandalorian mutters, angling the ship back and forth to avoid the shots.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” the pilot says over the radio, and those words sink into your stomach like a stone.

You don’t have time to consider the ramifications of the threat because the Mandalorian suddenly grabs the controls and rips them back, causing the ship to thrust backward in space. The starfighter flies past, directly overhead, and you suck in a breath when the ship clips one of the Razor Crest’s engines.

“That’s my line.”

The starfighter is in view one moment, and the next it’s a brilliant shower of sparkling vermillion clouds. The communications link dies, and the engines are shut off, allowing the Razor Crest to list in space silently.

For a long, horrible moment, the alarms going off feel like they’ll never stop, and you’re afraid you’ve forgotten how to breathe in the midst of the chaos. The Mandalorian tests a few gauges, flicking a switch or two before saying, “Losing fuel.”

With a few more quiet clicks and punches, the alarms are swallowed by the quiet and darkness of the engines powering down. The child giggles in the dark, his ears perking up and down curiously, and you’re glad he’s having fun, at least. When the Mandalorian turns in the pilot’s chair, he seems to remember the both of you and leans forward, putting his gloved hand on the baby’s head. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes are closed, head bowed to try and breathe. The panic from such jeopardy would have been one thing to deal with, but the hot pain spreading up your side from landing on the control panel is becoming harder to ignore. You bite your lip and jerk your head side to side, and there’s a shift of fabric in the darkness, followed by a quiet clink of metal on metal when the Mandalorian kneels in front of you. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think I hurt myself when...earlier,” you frowned, trying to remember how it even happened. Everything was a blur, both mentally and physically, and it seemed like years ago now when the two of you were laughing at the child’s giggle fit. You shifted and swallowed a painful groan building in your throat. It came out as a muffled noise. “It’s hard to breathe.”

Without missing a beat, the bounty hunter takes the child from your arms and places him in the cradle in the opposite co-pilot’s chair. Turning back to you, he places a hand on your shoulder, and you suppose he must see how you’re favoring one side, holding your right arm across your abdomen.

His hand gently squeezes your shoulder, and he rumbles from behind the helmet before nodding.

He’s got a stubborn urgency about him now, leaning over you and pressing several controls. A switch clicks, and the engines power back up. He retakes his seat in the pilot’s chair, and you let out a shaky breath, the pain growing from your side like a hug-around your back and up to your chest. You listen to the beeps of the console and the radio static that hums back to life.

“This is Mos Eisley Tower.  We are tracking you. Head for bay three-five, over.”

“Copy that. Locked in for three-five.”

You lean your head back against the headrest and try to ignore your heart palpitations when the engines sputter and pop, closing your eyes. When the Razor Crest lands, you are surprised at how gentle of a landing it is considering all the damage it’s taken. When you open your eyes again, it’s just as the Mandalorian is turning in his seat to look at you, and you wonder what he must see. You certainly don’t feel your best, and you think you must look it because he murmurs, “Stay here.”

The child fell asleep once the ship entered the landing program, and the bounty hunter gathers him in a blanket before disappearing down the ladder and into the hull. When he returns, you feel your throat begin to tighten at the worry of being able to breathe. It’s hurting worse now, and the pain is sharper. He says your name, but when you don’t respond, his hands are unbuckling you from the seat. Gloved fingers ghost over your temple, and your eyes lift open.

“Can you walk?”

You consider it, and the very idea of anyone lifting you up makes your entire body viscerally react with dread. You nod but add, “I need help standing-and going down the ladder.”

He nods and gives you his hand, his other resting behind your shoulder. You bite your lip on a noise building from your chest, feeling weak and useless. Surely he’s nearly come close to dying, and here you are, hardly unable to stand all because you fell. Hot tears of shame prick your eyes, and you hold onto his offered hand as he helps you down the ladder. When you start to walk the length of the hull, your head drops to the side until it’s propped up against his shoulder. His arm naturally curves around your back, but you hiss when he touches your side.

You adjust his fingers and shift them up beneath your arm, muttering a quiet thanks as he helps you walk down the ramp.

The sun is hot and the air is dry on Tatooine, and you shut your eyes against the bright light when you both step out from the shadow of the Razor Crest. So when three pit droids begin chittering and ambling toward the ship, you nearly jump out of your skin when the Mandalorian unholsters his blaster pistol and shoots with smooth fluency.

“Hey!” a shriek from within the bay makes you wince. “ Hey! ”

“You won’t make friends with warning shots,” you whisper under your breath, leaning into him as he walks with you off the ramp, still tucked under his arm. He ignores you.

“You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” A woman strides out from the operating booth, and her fiery, direct attitude is a refreshing change from the quiet and stoic atmosphere of the ship. If you had full possession of yourself, you would appreciate it more, you think.

“Just keep them away from my ship,” the Mandalorian warns, adjusting his arm behind you so that you lean more of your weight on him. Though his tone is usually the same reserved, level baritone, you notice his voice takes on a more unflinching edge when he mentions the droids.

“Yeah? You think that’s a good idea, do ya?” the woman asks, her own unflappable and direct voice a match for the bounty hunter’s. She puts one hand on her utility belt before gesturing with the other. “What’s wrong with her?”

You’ve closed your eyes again, sweat beginning to prickle your brow in the heat, or perhaps it’s from the strain of keeping yourself upright. The beskar helmet tilts down towards you before regarding the mechanic again. With no answer, and you are almost thankful for it, the mechanic gives a short sigh. “Needs a doctor? There’s one down the road.”

When both of you hesitate-, it’s easier to hear your pained breathing. The woman shifts uncomfortably, glancing between both of you before huffing. “Well why are you just standing here? Get her to the doctor!”

“But the ship-”

“Oh, it’ll be here when you get back,” she says with another huff. “And don’t think I’m not charging you every minute for it!”

The two of you set off down the sand trekked street, and you feel the Mandalorian take a deep breath. “I could carry you, and we would be there faster.” It might have been a complaint, you think, if his voice wasn’t suddenly so tender and quiet.

“If you even try, I think I’ll pass out,” you whisper, unable to fathom your body bending with the pain in your side. Underneath the armor, you wonder if he’s rolling his eyes. Surely he didn’t prepare for this contingency, and you bite your lip on the feeling of guilt remembering the baby is alone on the ship. “If I can get to the medic, you can go back. The child shouldn’t be alone.”

“I can’t just leave you,” the Mandalorian shoots quickly, his tone full of surprise.

“I’ve survived without you this long,” you murmur with a small smile, and he’s quiet at that until you reach the medical service center. The name itself is a bit too grand for the small dusty building with sand on the floor and aged equipment. You suppose your face must be washed pale from the pain, because there are several on staff who rush forward to help you when the Mandalorian shoulders you through the doors. They all ask questions and begin to escort you to the back, but the bounty hunter speaks up before they get too far.

“Wait.” Everyone freezes, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Standing and breathing are becoming two things you aren’t sure you can handle at the same time, swaying between two physicians who keep you propped up. “Be careful with her. Please.”

You don’t turn your head to look back at him, but you wonder if he remains until you’re out of sight.

-

Mando’a Translations:

Ori’skraan - a delicacy, a real treat in terms of food

Epar - eat

Verd’ika - “little soldier”

Duraani, burc'ya? - You looking funny at me, pal?

Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad - an adoption vow, literally translated “I know your name as my child.”

Mesh’la - beautiful

-

Taglist: @lavenderl3mons​, @itzagoodthing​ @letaliabane @yodaswrinkles @rzrcrst​ @kateb013

[heart-of-flames]

Lauren SFW Alphabet

I thought this would be a fun thing to do for you all.. I hope you like it 😄.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Lauren shows emotion through her facial expressions and the light touches she bestows onto you. Whether it be a small quirking of her lips accompanied by a tender brush of her fingertips along your arm— showing her silent adoration of you. To the almost molten touch of her hand against your lower back and the slight smirk to show how much she desires you. Lauren may not be as open with her affection as some may expect, but everything you would ever need to know can be told by one simple glance into her eyes. Or one brief instance of seeing her smile.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend?)

Lauren is a very caring individual to people she doesn’t know. Giving as much as she can towards them even if it won’t always be reciprocated. So to the ones she loves? To the people who actually try in return? She gives her all and then some. She’s the type of best friend that will always offer you a shoulder to cry on. Always be your silent guardian amidst anything. Someone who would always try to make you laugh if you needed, but tell you it’s okay to cry. She wouldn’t judge you. She wouldn’t badger you for things you weren’t ready to tell her. She would be patient and warm. Knowing that sometimes a gentle touch and a willing ear was all that was needed.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Lauren doesn’t mind cuddling. If it’s something you wish to do with her then she would be more than happy to do it, but if you didn’t? Then she’s alright with that also. If you wished to then Lauren would be fine with being the big spoon or little spoon. If she was the big spoon she would wrap her arms around you and pull you against her. Gently pressing kisses into your hair and against your temple if you weren’t facing her. Or gazing into your eyes and gently threading her fingers through your hair if you were. A gentle smile being present the entire time. If she were to be the little spoon she would burrow into you. Her nose nuzzling against the crook of your neck and a contented sigh falling from her lips.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Lauren would love to settle down one day. She knows that her demanding schedule can impede on quality time with her loved ones but she would always be willing to run the extra mile to ensure that everyone was happy.

Lauren is a phenomenal cook and baker— it being a practice she picked up from her grandmother. She loves to cook for people, because she knows that home-cooked meals can soothe many ailing souls. Lauren doesn’t mind cleaning, but it’s a task that she would like help with. If it’s her own mess she has no problem cleaning it up. Making sure that the mess isn’t there longer than necessary— meaning no one would know it was a mess in the first place. If it’s a shared living space? She would clean up her half but leave you to pick up the rest. Unless people were coming over.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Lauren would sit you down gently in front of her. A pained expression painted across her elegant features. The gold standing out in her eyes because of her unshed tears. An almost bittersweet silence stretching between the two of you. She would try to be as calm as she possibly could be— wanting to end on as good of terms as she could. Even if you were to get angry, she would try to remain calm and resolute. Only cracking in the most extreme of circumstances. She never wishes to inflict pain on anyone if it could be avoided, but she has always prided herself on not deluding herself into falsehood. She would hope that you both would come out if it on the other side still being friends, but would be agreeable if you wished not to.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Lauren takes commitment very seriously. She would be as committed to you as she is to her patients. Never wavering in her belief of you. Her love being an immovable force of nature. Even still, it may take a bit for Lauren to actually get married. Of course, she would wish to but it may take her a while to work up to that.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Lauren has always prided herself on how gentle she can be. After all you have to be when in the practice that she was. Whether it be with touchy toddlers or grouchy adults. Lauren has an aura around her that pulls people in. Makes them trust her. Her touch like a gentle breeze against their skin. It would be even softer when in regards to you. Having an almost reverent undertone. The same can be said for the emotional aspect of her as well. As she has to connect with her patients and the people she works with. Some social cues may allude to her, but Lauren can read body language like a children’s book. Causing her to be tactile when in regards to things like that.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Lauren adores hugs to an extent. To her it’s the easiest way to show someone you care without going overboard, but she also knows how suffocating it can be. So she tries her best to only dish them out when they’re absolutely needed or warranted.

Her hugs are gentle— like her. She would slowly draw you into her arms and simply hold you. Allowing you to set the pace of the hug. On whether or not you wished for a stronger hold. Always giving you a way to escape if you ever chose to do so.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Lauren is very self conscious about admitting things like this. So she may get close to admitting it before chickening out the last minute. Not because she doubts that you love her, but because she wasn’t sure if you were ready for her to say those words. The moment you say them to her, however, she wouldn’t hesitate in reciprocating.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Lauren isn’t a jealous person. On a base level she understands that she wasn’t the only being to find you attractive. Nor does she believe that every person would respect the boundaries of a person clearly in a relationship. The only time she ever gets truly jealous is when she’s had a bad few days— when she’s truly tired, and her brain doesn’t work like it normally does. Allowing her to act out of character… without inhibitions. If that were to ever occur she would become icy and put the person flirting with you in their place.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Lauren kisses with a clear intent. Whether that be her simply showing you that you’re amusing her. Or with a deeper passion that quickly turns into more. Lauren takes physical touch and emotional connections seriously. So she doesn’t do anything without reason. In each one of her kisses there’s an undercurrent of love. Even if she were mad at you and you kissed her you would be able to tell that. Kissing her is like safety and warmth all wrapped into one. The feeling of coming home.

Lauren loves to kiss your cheeks or hands. As they’re usually the easiest to quickly get to, but if she has time? She loves to kiss you on the lips. To get reacquainted with you. To show you how much she has missed you while being apart.

Lauren on the other hand? She has always been a sucker for forehead kisses. It’s just something that reminds her of simpler times. And it never fails to bring a smile to her lips.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Lauren is around children a lot because of her job. She has utmost patience with them, but there’s an underlying sternness that shows that if they were to misbehave she wouldn’t take it lightly (depending on how bad it was). Even still there’s always a warm feeling that suffuses everyone she speaks with. Showing them that she cared.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Lauren wakes up early so she can start her day. There are only rare instances where she’ll be asleep when you awaken. Because of this Lauren usually has breakfast prepared by the time you pull yourself out of bed. Or coffee (or tea depending on your preference) freshly poured into a cup and put into your waiting hands as you stumble into the kitchen. A bright smile on her face as she presses a brief kiss to your cheek. There are times where she’ll have to go to her office early in the morning, but she’ll usually have something for you to eat when you wake up. Even though nothing can beat her meals.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Lauren can work long hours into the night— so you would have to keep track of her so she doesn’t over extend herself. Once Lauren has either been coerced into coming home or going on her own, she goes through a simple night routine and falls into bed with you. Gentle laughter flowing between the both of you as you settle into bed for the night.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Lauren keeps her past close to her chest. She doesn’t share more than she deems appropriate. So she would start to open up to you bit-by-bit. Not that she doesn’t trust you, but she has a lot of things that she needs to work through before she’s prepared to bare her soul to you like that. Even if she wanted nothing more than to do so.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Lauren is a very patient person. You would have to truly fuck up to get her genuinely angry. She can get irritated but nothing remotely similar to true anger. Even still, when she gets irritated she quickly gets through and tries to talk everything out before it got to the point of legitimate rage.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Lauren would remember everything you told her about yourself. Whether it be a pet beetle you “had” when you were five to your favorite meal. She remembers everything you’ve shared because she knows it’s important to you. That you had deemed her worthy enough to share such things with her.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Probably your first kiss. The first true connection she has ever had with you. The first way to turn something emotional into a physical connection. Where she was able to show you everything she couldn’t put into words. Show you how much you meant to her. How much she needed you. It would be a moment that she would forever cherish in her heart.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Lauren is protective but not to an overbearing degree. Of course she wishes for you to be safe, but she also knows more than most that accidents do happen. She would try to help you avoid such things if she can. Whether it be by giving you information on the situation that you were about to find yourself in to simply taking the injury herself— if she could. And if she couldn’t she would take care of you and help get you back to normal.

Lauren would just ask for you to do the same for her. Be there for her in her time of need. That’s all she could ever ask for.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Lauren would put her all into those things. Being with you made her feel so cherished and loved. She would want to show you her appreciation through those tasks. Wanting to show you that she was listening when you spoke to her and that she did care. She knows what it’s like to get a gift that was simply picked out. Or go to something that was simply done for it to be done. She would never want you to go through that. And she would make damn sure you didn’t.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

When she has a stressful case or is overloaded with work she doesn’t take care of herself. Whether that be by not eating or sleeping. She becomes a husk of what she normally is… even though she tries to play it off like it’s nothing. She would work herself to the bone if she could.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

She is concerned with her looks to a practical degree. She wants to make sure she looks presentable to her patients and other doctors, but she knows that depending on how long she’s been working that meticulous care can start to slip.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes. You’re what makes Lauren feel whole. You’re what she has been waiting for. You are the other half of of her soul, and Asa is the other half to her heart.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

I could see Lauren cooking dinner for Yule for all of your friends and family. Your children running around the house with laughter permeating the air. Your eldest son, being a spitting image of her, helping his mother as she cooked. With flour and other various ingredients splattered across their aprons. A companionable silence between them both as they focused on their task— until you came in and swept her into your arms. Causing a surprised laugh to erupt from her lips and your son to look at you both in surprise.. before his own smile appeared. Soon enough all of your children were joining in on the group hug— smothering Lauren with kisses while doing so. And the yams may have been a little different than usual, but it was worth it.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Disloyalty and arrogance. Lauren takes loyalty very seriously and wouldn’t be able to be around someone who didn’t hold it to the same regard— or were willing to betray their loved ones. She also hates arrogant people because of how they make others feel. It’s something that causes her blood to boil.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Lauren has sporadic sleeping habits depending on her work schedule, but if it’s a normal day? Then she’ll usually turn in within a suitable time period. Not too late but not too early either. Bundling herself in blankets and burrowing into her pillows as she did so. She wasn’t a heavy sleeper so if you needed her for anything she would be able to tell.

[quillsareswords]

Smoke: VII | Stay Awhile

SUMMARY: After vanishing for four years, you return to the place you once called home, to the people you once called family. We all carry our baggage in different ways, using different techniques to hide it. You just happen to hide it in cigarette smoke.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: While the antique book shop on Fifth Avenue may have burned down long  before your return, the owner you never forgot is still making an  impact on your life, and she doesn’t even know it.

SERIES WARNINGS: cigarette smoking; underage drinking; gang activity; violence; swearing; blood; self-hate

MASTER LISTS in BIO

    The air is warmer now, than it was a few hours ago. Your windows are open, floors freshly swept, dishes freshly washed, bed freshly made. Outside is crisp and clean, and you've decided the inside should be too.

    Only a lamp illuminates the room, the setting sun does the rest, leaving the corners of the room bathed in comforting shadows.

   You’re in the middle of sorting out the good food in your refrigerator from the bad when he arrives.

   Three knocks exactly, no particular rhythm. You leave the decidedly shamefully rotted takeout in the trash and close the heavy white door before you answer the door. “Hey,” you greet fluidly, welcoming him inside without a second thought.

   “Hello,” he replies, stepping past you to escape the chill in your building’s halls, only to be sorely disappointed in your home. “Is your heating out?” he asks pointedly. You note his coat is buttoned, behind the stack of five books he holds in his arms.

   You stare blankly for a moment, before you shut and lock the door behind him. “No,” you answer slowly. “I thought it was pretty warm out, so I opened the windows. Are you cold?”

   He doesn’t answer verbally, just rolls his eyes. He makes his way to your ratty leather couch. “Anyway, I brought your books.” He sets the the stack of literature in the coffee table as he sits down.

   You nod. “Thanks. For driving all the way over, I mean.” You pick up an empty white mug from the end table by your recliner. “Can I get you anything? I can put the kettle on, if you want tea.”

   He declines, and watches you pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee. Then, you take your seat in the recliner.

   You pull the stack of books across the table, curiously skimming the titles on the spines. Griffin’s Castle, The Dragon Queen, Catcher in the Rye, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. An odd group of books, you think. At the top, you open the cover of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

   “Where were you today?” Damian barked from the bottom the tree. You peered down at him from your claimed branch, marking your page with a finger. He looked angry, messenger bag still slung across his torso, glaring up at you with his hands on his hips.

   You rolled your eyes and stubbed out a cigarette, flick it away so he doesn’t catch it. “Jesus, you sound like Nick,” you gruffed. “I’ve been here, mostly. What’s it to you?”

   He threw you an incredulous look. “You were supposed to cover for me in Lit, remember?”

   You heaved a heavy breath. “No, actually, I forgot.” The edge of annoyance to your voice is gone. “Sorry.”

   You heard him grumble something about you never listening, as he started climbing up to his branch, next to yours. He situated himself there, and hung his bag on the chopped stub above him. “So, what? You spent your whole day up in this tree?”

   “Yeah, pretty much.”

   “What are you reading?” He reached over and pushes your book one way, to read the cover. “The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland?”

   You nodded, rough bark of the tree scraping against your scalp and probably knotting your hair. “Yeah, Granny Crockett loaned it to me. She said it’s a crime that I haven’t read it already.”

    “Sorry about the dust. They’ve been sitting in a box in my closet for some time.”

   You gaze shoots up to meet his. “The dust-? Oh, yeah. It’s fine.” You brush off the thin gray film from the title.

   “Alfred sent this, as well,” he adds, pulling a piece of paper from the inner pocket in his jacket. “He thought you’d want it, for whatever reason. Found it when he was dusting, apparently.”

   You accept the thin paper and turn it over. It isn’t a piece of paper at all, actually. It’s a photograph, of you, and Damian, and Nick, all dressed up and ready for the Freshman Dance.

   You smile down at it, shaking your head at the bright purple, sequin speckled dress your past self wears. “I can’t believe you let me go out in that thing.”

   “I did no such thing,” he argues. “I told you the sequins were too much, but you wouldn’t listen. You never did, anyway.”

   You laughed. “I’m the one who doesn’t listen? Which one of us took Rebecca Tacks?”

  He shook his head. “You encouraged the whole ordeal. I would have much preferred to stay home and beat you at checkers until you flipped the board,” he countered, leaning back against the cracked leather.

   “I told you to get a date, not ask out the rudest person you could find!” you defended. “I told you the night would end in tears, now didn’t I?”

   “Maybe you were in tears, but I sure wasn’t,” he chuckled.

   “Only because you didn’t think the junior class president dumping green punch all over the pageant girl was as funny as I did!”

   You left it at that. A long moment stretched on, both of you lost in quiet laughter and memories of screaming teenage girls and a howling student body.

   You stare fondly at the photo still pinched between your fingers. You wonder what prom was like. You wonder who he took.

   “On second thought,” Damian says suddenly, retaking your attention, “I’d appreciate a cup of tea.”

   You blink. You don’t just hear the request, but the ask lying between the lines.

   Can I stay awhile?

   “Really?”

   He nods. “If it isn’t a problem.”

   You smile. “Of course it isn’t.”

   The corners of his lips tilt. “Do you have any-?”

   “Earl Gray,” you say confidently, practically jumping out of your chair, “two scoops of sugar and fresh lemon.”

   When you look back at him from across your kitchen island, he’s staring at you like he’s seen a ghost.

   You grin teasingly. “Do you know how many times I had to make it for you when we were younger? It’s practically ingrained into my memory.” You turn away to get a mug down from the cabinet. You don’t dare mention the number of times you made an extra cup because the smell reminded you of home that first year you were gone.

   While you stand in the kitchen, your back to him, as you wait for the kettle to reheat, he steals the moment to look around your apartment. He hadn’t really gotten the chance last time.

   It isn’t a place he ever imagined you to live.

    It’s nothing like the place you dreamed about growing up. You always spoke of a big balcony, high ceilings. Big windows, but some that could be left open in the spring and the fall to flood the place with fresh air. You wanted large rooms, an open floor plan, and pictures of friends and family on every wall. You wanted a place that felt like home, with soft furniture and plenty of places for visitors to sit. Somewhere big, but not so big that it felt lonely when no one was there with you. Somewhere to go after a long day where you could relax. Somewhere warm, where your family would come to visit for the holidays, wasn’t so close to home that they’d visit too often.

   This is not that place. This place is dark, the wallpaper is peeling in patches, the ceiling is cracked in sport. It smells vaguely of must, beneath the air freshener. Your furniture, while sentimental, is old and warn and falling apart. There’s no room for entertainment, the ceilings are low, the windows are small, the kitchen is dingy. Worst of all, it doesn’t feel like a home.

   With a quick glance, yes, the place has a specific feel that he can only attribute to you, but upon further inspection, it tells an entirely different story. It reminds him more of a safehouse than a home. Somewhere Jason would store space weaponry in a neighboring city. He can count the number of personally decorations on one hand. The more he looks around, the deeper dread burrows beneath his skin. Anything sentimental could be cleared out and packed up in less than an hour.

   Your words from the cafe echo in his mind. When you said you were thinking about leaving, he didn’t think you meant at the drop of a hat.

   Thick glass hitting wood jerks him from his thoughts. Your warm smile is familiar in a way he can’t ignore.

   “It’s hot, so give it a minute,“ you warn. “I know my interior design skills aren’t the greatest, but I didn’t think it looked that bad, all things considered,” you try sparking a conversation, but you look a little nervous. You must have caught him staring.

   He shakes his head. “It looks fine.” He feels as though he’s about to choke on words he isn’t ready for you to hear, so he looks around in a tempered frenzy for something to divert your attention. A framed picture on the wall between your windows is just what he needs. “Who is that?”

   You don’t have to look at the picture to know which one it is. You’d debated on hanging that one. You smile sadly, eyeing it anyway. You swallow thickly, and to stall for a little time, you get up to get it.

   You take the flimsy wooden frame down, gently, as if your afraid it will break under your gaze. You hold out the 7x10 photograph to him.

   He takes it, gingerly staring it down while you find your seat again. It’s an image of you and a man, standing together in front of a grand fountain. His arm is hooked around your shoulders, both of you grinning happily. Something stirs in his chest- he doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen you smile like that. The man his tall, dark skin, black hair, kind eyes. A tattoo is peeking out beneath the sleeve of a denim jacket.

   “His name was Kennedy,” you finally relay. “Kennedy Walter. I always called him Kenny.” You sniffle, and decide to stall a little longer. “I was living in Detroit when we met. I was working as a bouncer at a club. Had a nice little apartment with massive windows on one wall and a loft bedroom on the other. There was this nice little theater down the street from me. They had a theme for every night of the week, and sometimes they’d run these marathons of classics where you could buy one ticket and sit for the whole day.”

   You’re rambling, and he knows it. It’s something you used to do when you were upset: talk about the good things before the bad. He glaces at you. Your voice sounds strained. You’re staring at the coffee table, but he knows you aren’t really looking at the wood. “Were you and he . . ?”

   “Engaged,” you smile. “We were engaged. But, um, a little over a year ago, I was, uh- I got a call while I was at work.” Your voice breaks, eyes dropping to your lap. You pick up your tea and take a few gulps to relieve he tension of grief. “There had been a car accident.”

   He nods morosely, staring down at the man in the image. He must have been something, to have caught your eye. You barely dated through high school. “I’m sure he was a good man.”

   You nod. “He was. I had to leave all my furniture when I moved, because of him,” you laugh, and it doesn’t sound forced, but it’s dying. “I had this ugly orange couch, you see. God, it was such an ugly color. It was only thirty dollars at Goodwill, which is why I got it. It didn’t match anything else in the house, literally. But it grew on me, so I never replaced it. It was like that, um- what was it? That stupid stuffed cat I got from Amusement Mile, remember? On Spring Break?”

   He nods. You’d enlisted him to help you get it. It was quite possibly the ugliest toy he’d ever seen in his life, but it had a place on your bed for the following two years.

   “Yeah, it was like that. He always teased me about it, but after awhile it grew on him too. We named it Fungus, because it grew on people.” You laugh again, a little looser this time. “God that couch was hideous.”

   He smiles. It falters though, because he understands now that you weren’t just gone. You weren’t away from Gotham. All this time, you’d been building a new life. You’d been living, not running. But none of it had anything to do with him.

   “If you don’t mind,” he starts, quietly, “why did you leave Detroit? You talk about living there as if it were a fairy tale.”

   You take another gulp of tea. “Because that’s what it was,” you answer hoarsely. “It was too perfect. And then Kenny was gone. And my apartment was too big for me.” You stare down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. “And I missed home.”

   His chest feels tight. He doesn’t really know why. Or maybe it’s more than he isn’t willing to admit how much it hurts to see you so pained over this. He swallows it. “Home?”

   You nod hesitantly. “Gotham. I grew up here, ya know? You and I owned these streets back in the day,” you chuckle. You steal a look at his face, but he isn’t smiling. “I missed you. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

   When you look again, he looks somewhere between stricken and conflicted.  His face is pinched as he stared through your picture. “No. You didn’t.”

   “Well, I did. I missed you a lot. And your family. And mine. I didn’t want to leave you, Damian. You have to know that.”

   His body tenses, and you feel his energy shift. “No, I don’t. You left me in a burning building-”

   “I know,” you interrupt quietly. “And I shouldn’t have. I should have kept a better hold of your hand, I should have drove you home, I should have told you everything that night. I should have done a lot of things. But I didn’t, and I’m trying to apologize for them before I lose the chance.”

   That stops him. He relaxes into your couch again. “Before what?”

   You blink slowly, turning your gaze toward the window across from you, which connects to the fire escape. “There’s a reason I had to leave, Damian. Shit happens.”

   His eyes soften. His mind races, realizations dawning. He opens his mouth to reply, but the sharp beeping of his phone cuts him off.

   He answers it without moving from the couch. “Hello?”

   Your apartment is so quiet that you hear Bruce on the other end. “We have an emergency. We need you home. Now.”

   His eyes meet yours. He seems remorseful. “I’m on my way.”

   You divert your attention, excusing yourself to the kitchen with your half empty mug. You hear him pocket his phone and the remaining leather of your couch groan as he stands.

   “I’m sorry,” he says. “If I could-”

   “I know,” you assure. “Probably best anyway,” you brush off, “I'd probably be a blubbering mess of runny mascara and tears if we kept talking about this any longer.” You’re only partly joking.

   He looks at you for a few moments. Standing in your ratty apartment, between your living room and your front door, staring. His eyebrows are slouched together as he works his jaw.

   You turn around at the sound of approaching footsteps, but you’re just a hair too late. You collide with a broad chest, long, warm arms wrapping around you tightly. You’re overhwelmed by he wonderful smell of leathery cologne and bourbon shampoo. Your brain short circuits and crashes like a 2007 laptop trying to run The Sims.

   “I’m glad you’re home,” he says slowly, genuinely, surely.

   He’s gone before you can react. By the time you’re ready to hug him back, your front door is already clapping shut.

   With your apartment once again left in silence and you to your own devices, you brace yourself against the counter, mind whirling thoughts a million miles a minute and heart hammering so hard that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

TAGS: @howcanibreathewithnozaire @avis-writeshq @mello-10 @ukuleleatnight @chikorita-stuff @idkmanicantenglish

[decayandfanfics]

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

____________________________________________________________

Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.

“I need your laptop.” Shigaraki states like it’s the most natural thing to say after some moments of him watching you clean some dishes.

The apartment is full of take-out packaging over the counter and the tables. The smell of food still lingering in the living room where Toga, Magne and Twice watch some Netflix, while Mr. Compress uses the shower. Spinner and Dabi smoke outside in the balcony.

You shake your hands trying to get rid of the water on them, before turning yourself to him.

“are you going to dust it?” you ask hoping he doesn’t do it, because you can’t afford buying another one.

“It is call decaying, and no. I need to make some research.”

It was definitely the hands you think looking at his face. He’s young, maybe a year or two younger than you, maybe older. You cannot truly tell. Now that the disgusting hand lies hidden in his pocket, you feel more at ease in his company, yet you cannot stop your brain from analyzing the dry patches in his face with clinical curiosity.

You dry your hands before heading to your room, taking the laptop with you, a pencil, and a little notebook, before presenting the items to him.

“I didn’t ask you for a pencil or a notebook.” He shots you a suspicious glare.

“No, but…i assumed you could need one.” You sound unsure, but every bit trying not to cross him “I mean…I thought maybe you’ll need to write down something or…if you are doing…some research…of the sorts.” You voice dies slowly on your throat not sure if you offended him in some way. He just looks at you before inspecting the little pages, just to find some old grocery shopping list scattered inside.

“hmm…I guess you are smart.”

You take a look to your now invaded home.

This is weird in so many levels. What would you do If some hero or the police caught a bunch of villains living in your house? Would you be labeled as an accomplice?

“Are you okay?” Jin asks you to get your attention. “You look sick.”

“I’m…I…I’m just a little…surprised. That’s all.”

“She just let a bunch of murderers into her home, Twice. It’s not that difficult.” Dabi answers entering the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t be scared of us, big sister! This is going to be fun!” Toga claims from the couch.

You shrug with a sigh, trying no to read too deep on it, but you need to speak about this. Grasping all the courage you have left; you direct your attention to the leader of the merry band.

“Shigaraki-san.”

“San? Well, that’s new.” he doesn’t look at you, focus on something in the screen with a smirk plastered on his face.

You ignore his comment and try again.

"Shigaraki-san"

“hmm?”

“I-i have no problem with all of you staying. I assume this is something neither of you had planned, and I really, really don’t want to get in trouble with any of you, but…If you are going to stay, I need to stablish some…rules.”

That’s it. You are going to die now. At least you died standing your ground.

Dabi lest out a mocking sound and Spinner winces ready to see you become a pile of dust.

Shigaraki looks at you like you just said something utterly fascinating, not sure if he should laugh at your bravado, just kill you or to respect you for it, his hand already scratching softly over his neck as an amused smile curve his dry lips upward.

There was a time when he would had just lashed out at you, but since his master and Kurogiri went gone, something in him just went…calmer. It was difficult to explain, and he was barely aware of his own change, but he knew he needed to be smarter now. For his sake and everyone’s sake…

Besides, you were cooperating. Maybe you could be useful in more than one way. A valuable asset.

“…okay. Let’s say I want to hear these rules of yours.” He speaks and you can hear the danger in his tone. He’s allowing you to speak at the same time he’s threatening you indirectly. “C´mon…I’m not getting any younger.”

But you are still alive somehow, so you better spit it out soon.

“My home is clean” you begin swallowing hard “it should stay that way, that includes no smoking inside the house. I’m not asking you to clean, but to keep it like it is.”

He looks unimpressed arching a brow “that’s it? Sounds fair.”

“Second” You continue “I’ve worked hard for everything I own. Who breaks pays and I don’t want anyone taking anything from this house without my permission or prying into my stuff.”

“So, no stealing nor breaking.”

“Exactly. Third, no fights nor insults. Fourth, I’m by no means rich, so the eating must be kept in check.”

“well…aren’t you a demanding little thing?”

He stands and circles around you like a predator watching a little bunny, measuring you like you are some rarity, waiting for you to wince or retreat, but you are none the wiser. You won’t give him, any of them, the satisfaction. So, you stay put, weirdly proud in your stand, your eyes fixed in the wall in front of you.

“Tsk. Lucky you I’m not interested in taking hostages, so i guess we have a deal.”

“You seriously are going to take what she says like she’s calling the shots?” Dabi snorts.

“No. I will agree on her terms in exchange of food, bed and bathroom. Besides, her knowledge in medicine will be useful. We are trading something and she’s not asking for anything extraordinary.”

“and she’s my friend.” Twice adds merrily.

“yeah…that too.” Shigaraki states rolling his eyes, siting again in front of the laptop.

“Well. I just want you to know I don’t give a flaying fuck about your rules.”  Dabi spits boringly, before storming out, a cigarette in his lips.

“Excuse Dabi, dear. He’s kinda…rough around the edges” Compress admits leaving the bathroom, freshly showered, wearing some old t-shirt and some joggers.

“Why do you have clothes that big again?” Spinner asks suspicious.

“My dad died two years ago. I still have his clothes.”

“ow…I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“My turn! I’m dying for a bath.”

“Hey, Toga-chan…here...” you revolt one drawer in the bathroom looking for something. “I always have some spare toothbrushes. You can have one too, Compress.”

“My dear…aren’t you sweet. Thank you very much.” He winks at you.

“it’s nothing. Make yourselves comfortable, I guess… I’ll leave you the big bedroom, you’ll have to share, there are more blankets in the closet. I’m calling it for the night.”

“Leave your door open.” Shigaraki ordered.

“Shigaraki that’s inapro-“

“she could try to scape through the window.” Shigaraki cuts Toga midsentence.

Your eyes met his gaze. It made sense, really and you couldn’t blame him. Neither of you could actually trust the other, so you just nodded and retire to the spare room, thinking that if they tried to kill you, you were too tired to care. After all, is not like you would know it once you were dead.

Chapter 4

[noncorporealboyatamitskiconcert]

a west facing window (by me)

an old house, on the corner. painted white, with brown trim. two stories and an attic. an ancient, deranged wizard of an apricot tree standing in the front yard, waving his wiry limbs about – shouting his insanities for the whole neighborhood, for the clouds, for time herself to hear. the neighborhood shoots scornful glances, the clouds retaliate with a downpour. time responds with disease and frost damage, and so starts a conversation in which the tree bears no fruit.

come in, come in! no need to wait outside, getting soaked. put your coat here, your boots there. try not to track too much mud in. go up the stairs; be careful, they twist and turn, slanting a bit. catch the railing before you slip. take a left, then down the hall. it’s the last one on the right. no, not that one. that’s the bathroom – although, feel free if you need it.

yeah, there. with the wood cookie from that old, beloved summer camp still hanging from the doorknob. the sense of familiarity, a muscle memory of sorts. that’s how you know it’s the right place.

go on, open it. the door doesn’t care much for formalities – introductions and shaking hands and all. she’s grown friendly in her old age; even opens up for the ghosts whenever they please, creaking hello as they pass through. she’ll open up for you, too – just give her a nudge with your shoulder.

there, in front of you. a west-facing window. and a motherly mattress sitting under it, her blanket-laden limbs welcoming you into the room. cross the carpet (don’t mind the mess, i’ve been meaning to clean up in here but haven’t quite gotten around to it), climb into the bed. let her hold you. she doesn’t mind giving you what you need. we’ve got time.

my mom came in and closed the window at some point – she can’t stand the draft.

open it. make sure it’s unlocked first – the steel bit in the middle there. then push the bottom pane upwards (you have to put your back into it). the wooden frame is worn, soft, almost alive; a kitten taking a nap in a warm patch of sun. the glass is frigid, and shrouded in condensation, so your fingertips and palms leave signatures of their time there.

an evening breeze wraps her hands around you, coldly caresses your skin. burrow deeper under the covers – two duvets, one mine, one my brother’s. mine is softer, his smells better.

breathe. catch the scent of trees and freshly mown lawn and the neighbors’ dinners. this is the best smell in the world. the honey locusts in the parking strip dance – glissade, pas de chat, tombé, pas de valse. their branches scrape against the siding on the house. songbirds serenade the night. the wind hushes you, the rain plays a lullaby on the pavement. time makes a kaleidoscope of the light – shifting through dusky indigo and blank page and fluorescent midday and instagram worthy golden hour and blackberry juice stain and the blue-silver of a sci-fi movie full moon. 

do whatever you please with your time here; whatever makes you happiest. grab a book from my shelf and start reading, unpause whatever I’d been playing on my speaker. although she may be persistent, don’t waste yourself on the enormity of time. what if we stopped counting the years, stopped naming the days? they will come either way. just remember to enjoy them, when they do; enjoy the parts you usually forget to notice. turn the alarm clock on the windowsill to face the other way, and remember to live.

[051093]

let’s make another | v

words: 2534

pairing: jihyun “v” kim x reader

genre: dad!v, fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, i destroyed myself writing this, implied sexual content, just cute shit tbh

description: in which seven and yoosung visit their favorite baby girl — and you and your husband celebrate your fourth anniversary.

my masterlist.

“Lucy!”

You squint at the house, waiting for her head of haphazard hazel hair to appear any second, but it’s so silent that you can hear the summer breeze threading through your hair. Cicadas chirp in the distance.

“Lucy Kim!” You try again, raising your volume to a shout that bounces around the courtyard. “Get down here! Your uncles are here to see you!”

More silence. A laugh sounds from behind you.

“Well, Yoosung,” Seven quips. “I think it’s time we headed back. It was great seeing you, Y/N.”

You give him a stern look and he puts his hands in the air.

“Or not. Wow. I’ve forgotten how well you mastered the motherly glare.”

“If only it worked on my daughter,” you mutter, drumming your fingers against your hips. “Where in the world could she be?”

“Is she playing hide and seek again?” Yoosung laughs. “Do you remember last time I visited? When you couldn’t find her for the longest time and she was in your closet all along?”

“The day I nearly lost my mind, you mean? How could I forget?” You shake your head. “I would’ve called the police if Zen hadn’t heard her evil cackling while he was in the restroom upstairs.”

Seven sighs fondly. “She takes after me so well.”

“Come on. Let’s go inside for now. I’m sure she’ll turn up.” You drape an arm around each of the boys’ shoulders. “I missed you both.”

“We missed you too,” Yoosung hums. “How are you? How’s V?”

“We’re good.” The three of you walk up the porch stairs. “I‘m working from home to take care of the little maniac, and he’s been going on photography trips regularly again.”

“That’s right. I heard about that. Doesn’t the Korean Museum of Modern Art—” He stops mid-sentence, amber eyes widening. “—you angel. Is that Ph.D Pepper I see?”

You’ve stepped into your living room, an open, modern space with floor-to-ceiling windows bathing the area in sunlight. Indeed, the table in the center has been laid out with cans of Seven’s go-to beverage, side by side with freshly baked buns for Yoosung. The boys’ faces brighten upon seeing the refreshments.

“Oh, yes. I ran to the grocery store an hour before you got here.” You gesture. “For Saeyoung, the soda he loves far too much for his own good, and for Yoosung…you like the red bean ones, right? Did I remember correctly?”

Yoosung gives you an elated hug. “Yes! You’re amazing. I complained to Seven the entire way here about being hungry. Thank you thank you thank you.”

They sink into the couch and dig in, satisfied.

“Anyway, what was I saying?” Seven says, now with a Ph.D Pepper in hand. “Oh, right. I heard the Korean Museum of Modern Art wants to open an exhibit just for his photographs.”

“Yes. He’s working on that right now,” you say. “The new collection is absolutely beautiful. He thinks it might be his best work yet, and I completely agree.”

“Aw, look at her proud smile,” Yoosung teases through a mouthful of bread, then pouts. “You guys are so cute. It’s been almost four years and I’m still jealous.”

“Hey, what do you mean, jealous?” Seven says, nudging Yoosung with a foot. “Have you forgotten about that girl from the internet cafe already?”

“What?” You say, swiveling towards Yoosung, who’s turned beet red and stopped mid-chew. “There’s a girl, Yoosung?”

“N-no,” he stutters.

“Yes there is!” Seven sings gleefully. “There’s a girl!”

“Oh, I expect to hear all about this,” you say, but you know by the sound of thunderous footsteps that you’re about to be interrupted.

Bright eyes, far too big for her tiny face, appear around the corner. Things you notice: she’s covered in paint. She’s barefoot. Her hair is a mess. And all three and a half feet of her are now hurtling in your direction.

“SEVENY! YOOSUNG!”

“LUCY!” They shout in perfect unison. Both boys immediately forget about the food in hand and jump to their feet.

She barrels into Seven’s arms first, the redhead sweeping her tiny frame into a tight embrace, then leaps into Yoosung’s lap next, small arms thrown around his neck. Her eyes crinkle from her grin and her mouth splits in a delighted shriek as Yoosung gives her sides an affectionate tickle.

You can’t help but mirror her grin. The girl has always had a knack for making those around her smile a little wider, and the members are no exception. She’s close to them all, due to their frequent visits and unwavering affection towards her, but she once whispered to you that Seven and Yoosung were her favorites. You’re not surprised — there’s playful and hilarious Seven who makes her laugh like no other, and there’s Yoosung who’s so sweet and kind that he’s essentially her big brother.

“Mommy!” Lucy says brightly, looking at you from her seat on Yoosung’s lap. “Hi!”

“Hi, sweetie.” You cradle her hair and press a kiss to her forehead. “Where’s your dad?”

As if on cue, a second set of footsteps come down the stairs. You lift your head and a fond smile tugs at your lips.

Everything about your husband is familiar by now, from his cerulean eyes to sharp jaw, tall frame and lean build, but you’ll never get tired of the way he looks after spending time with Lucy, that aura of tired bliss. Happiness looks good on him, you think to yourself as he walks towards you. So does that shirt.

“Hey,” you murmur as he curls an arm around your waist.

He dips his head and kisses you in lieu of hello, one that’s short but sweet. The taste of coffee and mint lingers behind on your tongue when he pulls away.

“Sorry we’re late, darling,” he says. “Lucy made a bit of a mess.”

“That’s okay. Painting again?”

“Mhm. It’s all she wants to do recently. I think I’ve created a monster.”

Now that he’s closer, you see that the material of his linen shirt has fallen victim to the paint as well, tiny polka dots of color spattered here and there. “She’s good at it, clearly. I like what she’s done to your shirt.”

“Ah, you do?”

“Yes. You look absolutely dashing.”

He leans in to kiss you once more, this time smiling against your mouth, his voice a deep whisper. “Thank you, my lovely wife.”

“EWW!” Seven shouts from the other end of the room. “Cover your eyes, Lucy. Your parents are being gross.”

You begin to pull away, your face flushed. V presses one last kiss to your cheek before letting you go.

“Hi, hyung!” Yoosung says cheerily.

“Yoosung. Saeyoung,” V greets warmly. “You’re both well, I hope? Thanks for coming all this way to visit us.”

“Lucy,” Yoosung corrects, his arms wound tightly around the little girl. You can’t tell who of the two looks happier. “Came here to visit Lucy.”

“Of course,” V laughs. “Then you’re both staying for dinner. For Lucy.”

“Wheeeeee!” Lucy squeals. “Stay for dinner! Stay for dinner!”

“You know, I actually had a bit of work left…” Seven’s voice trails off into a smile. “But alright. Anything for you, little Luc.”

“Great,” you say. “I’ll be off to cook soon, since it’s almost dinnertime. Care to help, Yoosung?”

“Yes, of course! I’ll be right there.”

The two of you head off for the kitchen, and you hear Saeyoung’s bright plea as you walk away.

“Oh, right, V! Will you show me your new collection?”

“It’s not ready — ”

“I don’t care. I want to see!”

“I WANT TO SEE!” Lucy echoes emphatically.

You open the fridge to conceal your smile. It’s like you and V have two kids instead of one.

....

“Mommy, I think I ruined daddy’s shirt today.”

You can’t help but laugh at Lucy’s sudden revelation, lifting the blanket for her. “You got a little paint on it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Lucy crawls into bed, lying down and resting her cheek on the pillow. “But I didn’t mean to!”

“I know you didn’t.”

“It was pretty,” Lucy murmurs sadly. “Can we clean it up again?”

“Yes. Here, I’ll tell you what.” You tug the covers up until they cover her shoulders, then smooth them down so you can see her face. “We’ll clean it off together tomorrow.”

She looks up at you. “We will?”

Even four years later, it blows your mind at times how your adopted daughter could easily pass for your biological child, with long locks the same color as yours and V’s eyes, and your heart swells affectionately at the sight of her glimmering blue irises, suddenly bright with anticipation.

“Yes, my dearest.” You nudge the apple of her cheek with a gentle knuckle. “I promise. But stop worrying about daddy’s shirt and first get a good night’s sleep, okay?”

A smile tugs at her lips, and she allows her eyes to fall shut. “Okay.”

“Sweet dreams, little one.” You crouch and lean forward to press a quick kiss to her nose. “I love you so so much.”

“I love you more more more.”

“Nuh-uh. Mommy loves you most.”

“Well, I love you…mostest!” She erupts into a fit of giggles and you can’t help but laugh with her. 

“Good night, silly girl.”

You turn off the lights on your way out, looking over your shoulder; in the glow of the nearby night light, Lucy burrows deeper until she’s reduced to a head of hair and a tiny lump beneath the sheets. There’s a small, loving smile on your face when you leave the room and close the door behind you.

Your room is similarly dimly lit. The source of light is coming from the bathroom and accompanied by the gentle sound of swishing water. You crack the door open. V stands shirtless in front of the mirror, bent over and washing something white in the sink.

“Oh, no,” you lament, and he looks your reflection in the mirror as you walk up behind him. “Lucy wanted to wash that out for you.”

His hands freeze in the sink. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You gently wrap your arms around his waist, nuzzling your face against the toned muscle of his back. “She just told me how bad she felt about getting paint on it.”

He chuckles. “Did she mention her own clothes? They were essentially her makeshift paint palette.”

“No. I was thinking about that, too,” you laugh. “It’s a weird, selfless girl we have.”

“Like mother like daughter.”

He turns around to face you. “You promised her she’d wash the shirt?” You nod. “Maybe we should mess it up again then.”

The sudden proximity (and the planes of golden muscle, the dip of his collarbones, the definition of his arms and neck) leaves you breathless. You run your fingers down his chest, your voice softening. 

“I could think of a few other things we could mess up, handsome.”

The last thing you see is a boyish grin that only appears when you’ve said something suggestive and then his lips are on yours. He movies with the comfort and confidence of someone who knows your lips all too well; in no time, there’s a tongue brushing against your lower lip and an arm snaking around your waist, pulling you taut against him.

The next thing you know, you’re being lowered onto the mattress. Your head hits the pillow and V is on top of you, arms flexing as he holds himself above you, kissing you languidly, heatedly. You groan into his mouth, threading your fingers through his silky locks and tangling them at the nape of his neck, hooking a leg over his hip, wanting him closer, closer —

Through the open window comes the first chime of midnight. 

There’s a church not far away that has a bell tower and sounds off the day’s hours. It’s become a commonality, but there’s something different about it tonight, something that causes you both to hesitate. V breaks the kiss, labored breath tickling your skin as the two of you listen.

Twelve chimes. Midnight.

You turn your head back to V. When you meet his gaze, his eyes are barely visible, but the small amount of moonlight that seeps through the curtains allows you to see how his face has changed entirely. His pupils are still dilated from lust, but his expression has softened. His lips have parted, unspoken words on the tip of his tongue, the beautiful aqua of his irises swimming with something you know well. Love. Adoration.

“Is it…?” He breathes.

You lift a hand to his cheek, a weak smile appearing on your lips.

“Happy anniversary, Jihyun,” you whisper.

Though he’s been living contentedly for a long time now, he’s always been quite serious. You know this is due to the ghost of his past that trails him wherever he goes; he still dreams of his mother, and often reminisces on the deep depression he fell into after Rika’s alleged suicide. The memories have undoubtedly taken their toll on him, even after all this time.

But there are rare moments when he actually looks his age, and this is one of them: when the smile that breaks across his face is, in one word, happy, so happy.

His arms wind around your waist as he leans in, dusting a kiss to your jaw, then your collarbone, where he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Four, is it?” He whispers.

“Four,” you say.

A few moments pass, the only sounds being his gentle breathing and the rhythmic beat of your pulse in your ears. And the shift of fabric as he lowers himself onto the mattress beside you, his arms circling around your waist.

“Four years,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your skin. “You know, I’m glad I have photography in my life again, as well as the friendship and trust of the RFA members, and there’s no doubt those things make me happy, but I have to be honest with myself here…you’re the reason. For all the happiness, all the love. My heart and my soul have been so at peace for so long because I’ve had you by my side.

“You and Lucy have made me the luckiest man in the world.” His voice drops, his words so quiet you only just make them out. “Thank you for coming into my life four years ago, my angel. I love you endlessly.”

You graze a finger beneath his chin, tilting his head up so you can kiss him. This time is sweet, deep, and grateful, if the grin etched on your lips is any indication.

“And I,” you say, pulling back to wrap your hands around the nape of his neck, to rest your forehead against his, “love you too, Jihyun. To the ends of the solar system and back.”

He gazes into your eyes a few moments more, and then the devilish smile is back and he’s leaning in to press a trail of kisses down your neck. You arch into him, barely hearing him over the sound of your own moan.

“Fuck it,” are his words. “Let’s make Lucy a baby sibling.”