#you’re like a big splotch of sunshine

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

OMG YOURE DOING BINGO? :3 💖💖💖💖💖 can i pls join :3

IOOOOO MY LOVELY OFC YOU CAN!!!!!!!! <3333 here is your bingo hehe :333 i’m tucking you into bed soso gently btw!!! pouring you chamomile tea n everything!!!!!!

[strawberrystepmom]

gojo x f!reader. cw: food mentions and suggestive theming. he refers to reader as sunshine.

this is a bit of a love language exploration. reader’s giving love language is acts of service (😔 never beating those allegations) and gojo’s is giving physical touch with a dose of words of affirmation. wc 1.3k

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune

There are times when the simple daily acts of taking care of Satoru feel like the sole thing you were put on earth to do.

Not in the fashion of the maids he was raised by, tutting over his wrinkled yukatas and forcing him to eat the slimy natto he’d swallow through a pout with eyes as watery as the oceans that color them, but as if you’re the well from which his energy springs. He wouldn’t think about little things like slowing down to eat, rest, drink, and enjoy without someone there to remind him to do it. The curse and blessing of being as close to otherworldly as one can be without entering the uncanny valley.

This realization came to you long before you admitted to anyone that you were enamored with him. Back when you were a pair of bratty teenagers and you’d only ever seen him munch on konpeito with a hand wrapped around a bottle of melon soda to wash the scratchy sugar crystals down. You were appalled at how little he cared about himself (you didn’t take excellent care of yourself either in those days, judgmental one…) but you took it upon yourself to start taking better care of yourself and him by proxy in the process. A small act of compassion for a friend would never hurt, you reasoned easily at 17.

At that point, your role was merely sharing bentos or onigiri you made for yourself with him, trading a bite of your tuna filled rice for a sip of his soda - the indirect kiss aspect of this ritual made him giddy for more years than he’d like to admit aloud - or some of the star shaped sugar crystals in his palm that he’d toss between your lips and teeth when you’d open your mouth wide enough to catch them.

(You’d stick your tongue out far enough to allow him to watch the sugar melt away and turn into a colorful splotch. His big eyes, animated as ever, widened further with each bright green and orange spot that appeared and washed away in a flash. This little ritual is also how both of you learned to French kiss but that’s a memory to reminisce upon another morning.)

The two of you experienced some terrible things your first year and his second year of high school. A certain part of you felt bad for how unapproachable and closed off he seemed after Suguru’s departure and you know now that the acts of kindness had a larger impact than intended. A stray cat that gets fed always returns, after all.

He keeps returning. You thank the stars above morning, noon, and night.

Now, caring for him is as steady and effortless as the click, click, click of the knob thay controls the flow of gas on your stove as a flame ignites beneath your rectangle shaped tamagoyaki pan. Oil sizzles and the sound of it mingles with the shower running across the apartment and Gojo’s singing that is somehow louder than both of these happenings.

No wonder the neighbors hate you.

Whatever off key song he has come up with at least makes you giggle while pouring enough egg into the pan to start the process of making breakfast. Some days you are both too busy to sit down and share these moments but you still make sure he eats, a bento always tucked into his bag that matches the one in yours. Thankfully you are both off today so you get to enjoy the process rather than rush through it.

“It smells amazing.”

You didn’t hear him shut off the shower, too busy pouring and positioning egg to notice wet footsteps across the floor and heading directly toward you. A towel is slung carelessly over his hips and you giggle when he drapes himself over your shoulder, his hands dangling down the front of you. Shifting your face, you meet his with a smile and pretend to frown when water droplets fall out of his hair and onto your shirt.

“Whatever happened to good morning?”

He looks up at you from the corner of his eye and then feigns a bright idea coming into his head, shaking it and making more droplets fall on you at the same time. Giggling, you try to simultaneously monitor your eggs and him at the same time.

“You’re so right, how could I forget!” He clears his throat dramatically and stands up, hands wrapping around your waist. He bends to whisper in your ear. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You glance up at him with a too fond smile. When did you become so soft? You’re no better than the sugar that used to melt on your tongue, more than charmed by his sweet words and tender touches. It may be written all over your face but you do your best to hide it, raising your brows and sighing dramatically.

“That’s better.”

Clicking off the heat and shooing him as much as you possibly can, you pull the hot pan off of the stove and deposit your eggs onto a cutting board. Even a few seconds of time apart makes Satoru antsy so he’s by your side long before you can miss him, an arm draped around your shoulder and a hand on his hip.

“Thank you for doing this. I know the sun makes you hiss before 10 so it means a lot.”

Rolling your eyes, you slice the tamagoyaki and he hums his approval immediately. Steam wafts through the air and you have to admit that it’s making your mouth water, too.

“You’re the only person I’d do it for,” you mutter under your breath and he laughs, leaning to kiss your cheek. “You’re a liar. You’d do this for anyone who needed it.”

You continue slicing and he removes his hand from his hip, reaching to grab one of the already cooling slices off of the cutting board and stuffing it into his mouth. It’s still too hot and whatever he was going to say next is lost completely when he burns his tongue. He breathes through his mouth for a second to cool the eggs down the rest of the way and you groan.

“Mouth closed. You’re an adult, I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”

Now that it has been sufficiently cooled down, he chews the mouthful and swallows. He knows you’re joking so there’s no hurt feelings, just a cheeky grin and a dramatic eye roll.

“I was going to say, before your breakfast tried to murder me, that I’m grateful you do it for me and not just because we live together.”

The way he beams down at you is all the thanks you need, his smile as big as he is, but the words make you squirm. You’ve never been good at accepting praise or compliments no matter the amount of them you’ve been given.

“Yeah, yeah. I did it willingly when I was just your late night call too, I know.” He scoffs and shakes his head, reaching for another piece of egg. You slap his hand away playfully. “You’ve never been just a late night call to me, you know that.”

This is true and you lean into his side, aware again that he’s naked except for that damn towel. Wrapping your arm around his waist, you tickle his side and he whines.

“Go get dressed. I’m feeding you natto this morning.”

Satoru Gojo, alleged grown man, whines again. Loudly, childishly, pathetically. You giggle at his dramatics and slump when he puts most of his weight on your shoulder, drooping.

“Really?” He asks and you shake your head. “No, we’re having salmon. Go get dressed.”

He shakes his hips and the towel wrapped around them threatens to fall right in the kitchen and you tap his side with a coy smile.

“Goooooo,” you urge. “The sooner you do the sooner we can eat and then our day can really begin.”

Raising your eyebrows suggestively, he picks up on your meaning immediately and holds the knot of the towel against him while he hurries to your room to pull on some sweatpants. They’re his favorite for easy access and he’s more than prepared to give you his thanks in the form of as many orgasms as you want as soon as you’ve both fueled up.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 28

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, car sex, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

How many times have you been awoken by this man? You resist the urge to elbow Lloyd as he jostles you again. He lets out a weak whimper in his struggle. You keep your eyes shut and your back to him as the bed shifts.

He stands, another pathetic noise escaping him. You listen to his uneven gait as he crosses the room. Is he trying to make a racket or is he really hurting that bad? You huff and stay as you are, you're so fucking tired.

He leaves the room and you hear him slowly trail down the hall. His feet thump on each stair as he descends and you growl. You’re wound tight, tighter than ever. Even after everything said, you just can’t ease the tension.

You open your eyes fully and push yourself up on resignation. You rub your lower back and reach for the thick support belt, wrapping it around your stomach as you stand and pulling it tight. It helps ease the pressure off your hips.

You move as slowly as he did but steadily. You cling to the railing with your other hand on your back as you take the stairs one by one. In the kitchen, Lloyd leans against the counter, fighting to load the coffee maker with one hand.

"I got it," you insist as you near him, "you're just going to get it everywhere."

You stop beside him and take the scoop, measuring coffee onto the basket filter. You sense him watching you as you slide the tank off the back and move to the sink to fill it, reaching past your belly to flip on the faucet. You glance over to find him staring at your stomach.

He looks awful. Dark circles under his eyes, ugly bruises splotched on his cheek, the cut in his brow inflamed, and his bare chest criss crossed with bandages. He still wore a healthy bristle of stubble on his jaw and cheeks. Christ, you suppose looking after him is good practice. 

You sidle past him and return the tank to the machine. You shut the lid and hit start. The smell of the grounds tempts you. God, you miss coffee. Real coffee. 

"You should go lay down," you say as you put your hand on your stomach, "you look like garbage."

He steps closer and puts his hand below yours. You wince as he feels your bump. Well, it's pretty big now.

He bends, sucking in air between clenched teeth as he groans, "how's my little girl?" He rubs your stomach, "I'm sorry I went away, sunshine, but I'm back now."

"What are you doing?" You glower at him.

"Checking in with my peach pit," he peers up at you with a grin, "you like that? I came up with that a few nights ago."

You roll your eyes and brush his hand away. The heat from his touch lingers, raising beads on the back of your neck. You miss it, the warmth of someone else, even him. So much so, that you got good use out of your array of toys in his absence.

He grunts and you pull on his arm until he’s somewhat straight. His forehead is lined with agony.

"You should lay down," you open the cupboard and stretch to grab a mug, belly against the counter.

"Take your own advice, sweet cheeks," he purrs, "god, you're so big."

"What?" You snap as you set the mug down loudly.

"No, no, babe, not… not in a bad way. I swear."

"Sure, please, go back to bed," you chide, "you're just gonna make it worse and I'm the one who's gotta listen to it."

“I’ll go on the couch,” he says, “see, I can compromise.”

“No, you don’t think you can’t make it back upstairs,” you cluck.

He opens his mouth but stops himself from whatever he was going to say, “you’re right, honey.” He brings his hand up behind your head, “always so wise.” He tilts your head and kisses your forehead. You frown at the doting gesture.

“Go. Lay down,” you turn away to watch the trickle of coffee, “I’ll bring you it.”

“What would I do without you, peaches?”

“Trust me, I wonder that more than you think,” you grumble as you grasp the edge of the counter.

He leaves you, reluctantly, more grunts and groans to denote his pain. It’s almost satisfying that he’s the one in agony. For once.

You fill a cup for him after a few minutes and shuffle across the kitchen. He’s on the couch as promised, one leg up as he’s angled against the armrest. You hand him the cup without a word and waddle away. You grab a cushion to shove behind him, forcing him to lean forward, a squeak escaping him, and unfold the throw blanket from across the back of the couch.

“Put something on,” you give him the remote.

“You’re leavin’ me?” He asks thinly.

“I’m tired,” you look at him, “you need anything else?”

“Well,” he smirks, “you know what I want but need?”

“Hm, Lloyd, you’re a fucking mess. You can barely sit up.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“It wasn’t a yes either.”

“But you’re thinking about it.”

“Oh shut up,” you shove his shoulder and he whines, falling back against the pillow.

You help push his other leg up onto the couch, an awkward struggle around your stomach, and you back away. He pouts at you and you huff, hands on your hips.

“Fine, I’ll stay,” you go to the chair and he whimpers, sending you a mope, “There’s no room for me over there, Lloyd.”

“I’ll make room,” he pleads, “come on, peaches, it’s chilly in here.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I hurt, baby,” he stretches out one arm, curling his fingers wantingly, “please, sweet cheeks.”

“Oh hush,” you push away from the chair and near him, “let’s just figure this out so I can sit down.”

You lay your head on your stomach again as he moves down the couch. He yelps as he shifts the wrong way and grabs his shoulder. He growls but holds back. He points behind him, “I’ll put my head in your lap.”

“I don’t got much of a lap left,” you cross your arms.

“We’ll make it work, I wanna be close to my baby girl,” he reaches to pat your stomach but recoils as a pang strikes him. “Fuck me!”

“Fine,” you turn and sit, falling the last little bit onto the cushion. 

You watch him in his effort to get himself down, his neck awkwardly bent to accommodate your stomach as he rests it in your lap. He manages to nestle onto his side and fishes the remote from beside him. He holds it up over his shoulder.

“You can put something on, baby, one of your trashy shows,” he wiggles it at you.

“Trashy,” you snatch the remote, “whatever.”

“I mean, we all know your taste, peaches, you’re with me–”

You grumble and point the remote at the TV. You skip over your recommendations for a new melodramatic reality romp and instead opt for a docuseries. Lloyd is not the height of your taste level, if anything, he’s the bottom. In more ways than one.

Jesus, he’s invading your head.

“You know, peaches, I let the other guy get a few good ones in, just for you,” he says.

“Sure.”

“Really, I was holding my punches,” he says as he wiggles and hisses as he tries to fix the blanket. You reach over to help him, pulling it up his arm, “and thinking of you. Maybe I shouldn’t have just fucked off. Maybe… Maybe these bruises should be from you.”

“No, you had to. I was gonna bash your head in.”

“Yes!” He cackles.

“What? What is wrong with you?”

“Peaches, if you were thinking of caving my skull in, it means you were thinking of me. You’re a woman of passion, you know that?”

“I’m a woman without patience,” you correct him, realising your hand lingers on his shoulder, a thoughtless act. You flinch but don’t pull away. “Now hush, I’m tryna listen.”

He’s quiet, just for a moment, slowly reaching up to squeeze your kneecap, “I like this, peaches.”

“Then stop ruining it,” you poke him.

He lets out another soft chuckle, “you like it too, don’t lie.”

“Can’t hear you, watching TV.”

“Peachy–”

“Lloyd, I’m about to tear every hair from your head if you don’t be quiet. It’s early and I’m exhausted,” you smack his shoulder and he winces, “and it’s all your fault. You and your damn daughter.”

“Daughter,” he chimes, “she’s gonna be just like you, peach, and I’m gonna be in big trouble.”

“Pfft, me? She’s gonna be a handful and that sure as shit isn’t from me,” you snip and feel a tweak, a subtle spasm, “speak of the devil.” You press your hand to your stomach as the movement continues, “oo, she’s… awake.”

Lloyd sits up, cursing under his breath as he wobbles a bit. He looks down at your stomach wide-eyed. “You can feel her.”

“Well, yeah,” you scoff, “here, she’s dancing–” You grab his hand and push it against your belly, moving it around until she kicks again, “she’s an early riser.”

“Dancing?” He keeps his hand against you, “we should get her into ballet.”

“We got some time for that,” you shake your head and the sharp squeeze in your bladder makes you jolt, “fuck, she’s on my bladder.” You grip the arm rest and struggle to stand, “shit, I gotta go.”

“Baby,” Lloyd does his best to help you up, “you okay?”

“Pause it,” you toss the remote and move as fast as you can, “fuck.”

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Feeling very intrigued about "love is shaped like cities burning"

Aka proposal fic! Named from this song, but I’m thinking I might change the name eventually. @rewritetheending @alyxmastershipper @butchdiaz and @anxieteandbiscuits tagged me for Fuck It Friday, so here is one of the first scenes I ever wrote in this fandom, though it takes place later in the fic (the morning after he’s finally told Maddie he’s getting married, with plans to tell everyone else that weekend)

Buck wakes up with a leg cramp and his toes turning pale and blue.

He can hear Eddie out in the kitchen with Christopher, eating breakfast and getting ready for school, so he lets himself have a private little cry. His eyes are dry and his breathing is steady by the time Eddie sticks his head in to see if Buck is awake. “Morning, sunshine,” he teases, happy and smiling. God. Buck takes another steady breath. “I’m gonna drop Chris off and then I don’t have to be at the station until tonight, so I thought we could go get lunch at that-“

“Eddie,” Buck says calmly. “After you drop Chris off I think you have to take me to the emergency room.”

There is a flurry of activity after this statement.

Eddie wants to take him now, Buck says he can wait (last time it took a few days for a clot to reach his lungs, it’s fine, it’s fine), Eddie examines Buck’s leg and finds a big red bruise-like splotch on his calf, Eddie calls Chim, Eddie calls Carla, Eddie says he’s going to take Buck now, Carla gets there first, and Chris tries to throw a mutiny.

“I want to go with Buck,” he demands, wedging himself into a corner of the kitchen and bracing a crutch against the opposite countertop to make himself immovable. Buck can just see the showdown from where he’s scooted over in bed. Eddie stands hovering in the door way, one hand extended towards Buck in a “stay the fuck down, please” gesture, and one reaching toward his son with a more placating movement.

“It’s alright,” Buck calls, “I’m okay, Chris, really, I’m okay. I just gotta go to the doctors to… make sure something doesn’t become a problem. But it’s not a problem yet! You can go to school, your dad’s gonna take real good care of me and I’ll see you tonight!”

Chris looks like he’s not going to let it go when Chim walks in. He leans against the counter next to the kid, casual and calm as anything. “Hey bud. Aren’t you gonna be late?” Chris glares and Chim throws up his hands. “Hey, hey! I know you’re worried. How about you come with me and we check Buck out before you go?”

So Buck gets examined a second time. Chim looks at his purple-y foot, wrinkling his nose which makes Chris laugh a little despite himself. He shows Chris the spot on the back of Buck’s leg, holds Chris’s hand over it to feel the heat it radiates. Eddie stands watching with his arms crossed until Buck reaches out a hand. Eddie takes it and sits next to him on the bed as Chim and Chris finish their examination.

“Alright. It’s good Buck was watching out! Now we can take him to get the medicine he needs to take care of this.”

“Do you have to have a surgery?" His voice is so quiet, so much younger than he is in this moment of fear, it twists right up in Buck's insides. "Do you have to stay there again?”

“No, Superman,” Buck says, ignoring Eddie’s protesting hand on his shoulder as he sits up a little and pulls Chris into a hug. “Just some regular medicine. I’ll go to the doctors for a few hours and see you tonight, like I said.”

Chris looks to Chimney for confirmation, and then man nods with a reassuring smile. “He’s gonna be just fine.”

Chris is still as he thinks it over before he finally nods into Buck’s shoulder. “I love you, Buck. I’ll see you later.”

Buck takes another deep breath so he doesn’t tear up and freak the kid out again. “Love you- I love you too. Learn a lot so you can tell me all about it.”

"I'm glad you called," Chimney says quietly, hand on Buck's knee in the car on the way to the hospital. They're both sitting in the back seat, and Eddie's shoulders are set in a stiff, unhappy line in the front of the car. "It could have been- it would have been bad if you'd thrown another clot, Buck. Your lungs… you've been through a lot. I don't know what it would have done to you." He smiles a little, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Our Buckaroo, all grown up and telling people about his problems before they nearly kill him. We should throw a party."

"Oh, perfect," Buck says, jostling his knee a little to bounce Chim's hand around. "Needed a place to cough up some blood."

Chimney coughs out a laugh and shakes his head. "You little shit."

"Ah, you love me." I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Chim squeezes his knee.

When they arrive he only sticks around long enough for Buck to get a bed. “Gotta go reassure your sister you haven’t spontaneously combusted somehow,” he says, grinning, though he hugs Buck a little tighter than usual.

And then they just gotta wait. It's a blood clot, of course it is, but clearly nothing's broken off yet and become anything worse so he just needs some anticoagulants and a few hours of observation. There’s an IV drip in Buck’s arm, a nurse comes by every hour or so to check on his progress, but mostly they’re just stuck there in a dim little curtained room.

“Sorry,” Buck sighs. “It would have been nice to get lunch.”

“You’re his father, too.” Eddie is holding Buck’s hand tight and staring at one of the curtains.

“Huh?” Buck says, elegantly.

“You said ‘Your dads gonna take care of me.’ You’re his dad too.”

Buck stares at him. “Look at me.” He always wants Eddie to look at him. Maybe he can put that in the nuptials, somehow. Keep your eyes on me, as long as we both shall live.

Eddie looks at him. “What? I already put you in the will, Buck, years ago.”

“But-“

“But what? You love him. You would do anything for him. You’re a part of our family. You’re his dad.” He says it like it’s simple and obvious and inarguable, like there is a Buck shaped hole in the world for him to slot perfectly into. "So don't… make yourself less. You don't have to make yourself smaller to fit anyplace." Eddie's gaze drifts again, like it's easier to say these things that are rattling Buck's bones around like Yahtzee dice if he's not making eye contact. "I like the space you take up. You can have as much as you want. I'd give you all of it."

"Look at me!" Buck is sure he sounds a little crazy and it's because he feels a little crazy. Eddie turns his head, startled, and huffs out a laugh at whatever he sees.

"What, Buck?" He asks it with his eyebrows crooked and a little smile on his face, and it's so nice to see after how worried he'd looked all day that Buck breaks out into a grin, which makes Eddie laugh again. "You're very weird."

"Well, you already said you'd marry me so you can't take that back."

"I wouldn't," Eddie says, so soft and fond and reassuring, smile lighting up his eyes. He tilts his head down and Buck claps his hands on his cheeks to pull his line of sight back up, and Eddie laughs so hard it shakes Buck's arms. "Okay, okay, oh my god!" He scoots his chair to face the bed. "I'm right here. I'm looking at you."

Buck’s mind feels like its going 100 miles an hour. "We have to get safety razors or he’ll be all patchy.”

Eddie looks baffled, which Buck really relates to. “What conversation are we having?”

“I don’t know!” Buck throws his hands in the air before quickly grabbing Eddie’s face again. Eddie purses his lips in a desperate attempt to not crack up again. “I just became a father! I have to teach him how to shave! And I was real bad at that at first! Cuts everywhere and I never got it all, there was always weirdly long hairs leftover and we can’t let Chris go out looking that dumb.”

“Okay,” Eddie nods earnestly, like anything that Buck has ever said is reasonable. “We’ll get safety razors, and I won’t stop looking at you.”

They stay like that until the next nurse check in, and though Buck has to move his arms Eddie never breaks eye contact.

[hanayumi]

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦

— childe x fem!reader || 1.7k wc.

contains porn w/ no plot 🍦🔞

the only problem bigger than the sweltering heat is your cheeky boyfriend.

tags: semi-public sex, toys, foodplay, sloppy sloppy licking, creampie, temperature play (kinda)

notes: wishing childe a very happy rerun as the only 5 star i wouldn’t mind getting constellations for <3

“Shh!! I’m trying to… to—”

“To what?” he grins lopsidedly, hand teasing at your hip. He leans in, presses you against the heat-baked wall of the cramped alleyway, cool, grape-flavoured breath tickling your nose— “To get yourself off, hm? What did I say? You can’t just yet, baby.”

“You’re the worst,” you huff, but there’s a searing heat pooling in your belly that rivals the brutal sunshine, forcing your thighs to squeeze and tremble and rub together in a feeble attempt to gain friction despite the sluggish heat. But it’s no good — your insides have been filled with a thick, mushy jelly, and the only thing stopping you from melting into a puddle right now is Childe’s firm grip on your waist, as if you could slip at any second.

The little vibe he slid onto your clit when you weren’t looking purrs softly, deviously, sending waves of pleasure shooting up your spine at every pulse, like slow torture ever since the moment he put the suggestion in your head to beat the heat with a refreshing dessert. Really, you should’ve known better than to trust him at face value. (Should’ve known that he had more than just fruit-flavoured ice cream on his mind.)

His free hand clutches at the ice cream cone; you barely made it past three licks before he snatched it from your hands, tugged you away from the crowd and dipped into a corner — which is how you’ve ended up here, with your head stuffed with hot cotton and your boyfriend breathing up your neck like some kind of starved animal.

“This is what you get,” he teases, “for looking so goddamn perfect with that stupid thing in your mouth.”

The ice cream melts like snow in the summer even in this shadowed corner of the alleyway, already dripping in big white splotches onto your chest — and you don’t have time to whine about the stickiness before his mouth is latching on, licking salaciously at the sweetened goodness, slurping loudly on purpose when you squeal in discomfort.

“Ahh! Be quiet,” he hushes you mid-lick, feigning urgency even as a trail of his saliva runs down your collarbone. “Someone might walk in and see us like this, cutie.”

Your face is aflame; the nerve!

“Y-you’re the one wh-who—eek!”

“It hurt, you know? Seeing you lap at it like it’s my cock.” Suddenly his voice is breathing straight into your ear, his mouth giving tiny nibbles and licks at the tender cartilage. “I—couldn’t—help—but—feel—a little… jealous~”

It’s hot. It’s so hot your head is spinning, and the little toy is only making it worse. He brings the ice cream (or what’s remained of it) to your lips, chuckling lightly and telling you to lick, slowly, hold your tongue out just like that, savour the taste, he whispers into your ear, hips starting to grind slow and steady against yours.

Your legs wobble, threaten to give out when you feel the outline of his cock press against your core, head dizzy with pleasure as you do as he says. The taste of ice-cold, creamy artificial grape diffuses on your tongue, some dribbling down the side of your lip — which he slurps up immediately, groaning a little as you pant through your mouth. More. You need more.

“Look, there’s still a little left. Let’s go half-half!”

“Wha’re you talking ab—mfh!”

In one fell swoop, the remnants of ice cream disappears into his mouth. The cone drops to the floor forgotten, and before you can protest his lips are slamming right into yours.

He groans into the kiss, tongue dancing with yours in a sloppy mix of saliva and chillness, evaporating quickly into warmth the longer he laps at the pink muscle, teases and suckles it as if he’s toying with you. His fingers reach downwards, brushing up against the heat of your soaked panties, shifting and pressing the little vibrator just the slightest bit harder against your throbbing clit.

Waves of heavy pleasure crash down on your body. A string of muffled cries and mewls leave your cream-coated lips as your hips buck up more and more into his touch with every dip of his fingertips into your folds, every stroke of his masterful fingers to your sensitive nub, all while an embarrassing amount of slick runs down your inner thighs.

The world is hazy, a mixture of shadows and yellow light — you break for air, breathless and desperate for oxygen, with a trail of spit connecting your lips. His face is flushed to a brilliant red and you’re sure that yours is too. He coos at the sight, licking stray hints of ice cream off his lips and then off your chin, through by now you’re both dripping with sticky sweat.

“Mm, you tasted so, so good. My girlfriend is fucking delicious.”

Sloppy kisses smelling faintly of grape trail down your neck, followed by his tongue running along every inch of sweat-slicked skin he can reach, sending shivers of pleasure racking up your spine. His middle and index finger dip teasingly into your drooling cunt just as your back curls against the rough wall. “Let’s do it right here,” he insists, voice muffled and warm against your neck. “There’s no way I can wait ‘til we get home.”

Trembling little fingers fly to his belt at his words, beginning to tug to no avail; you let out little pants and frustrated mewls until he gets it off himself. “So impatient,” he chuckles, lips quirked into a smug smirk. (Who’s the impatient one here?)

“Spread your thighs a little, cutie,” he instructs, before he tugs down your ruined panties, hoisting you up against the wall by your hips, letting the vibe clatter to the ground as he bunches up your little summer dress. Your legs cinch around his waist on instinct when he lines himself up, flushed tip rubbing at your syrupy folds, trying to coax him closer while he merely chuckles again at your desperation.

Ah, it’s warm. So, so warm, like red-hot fire piercing through your flesh. His cock fills you to the very brim, finally getting rid of that despicable emptiness. His hand cups the back of your head, cushioning it from the rough cement wall, fingers digging into your scalp as he thrusts and thrusts — slow and deep and hitting again and again the tiny, kiss-shaped opening of your womb, wrenching pathetic cries from you that you can only stifle by shoving your head into his shoulder.

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer and closer; as close as he can be when he’s towering over you, but closer is not nearly enough when you just can’t get enough of him. “H-hah… hurry up,” you plead, sniffling against his neck. “H-hurry up, deeper…”

“Impatient little girl,” he snarls, but picks up his pace anyway, hips slamming hard enough to bruise. “Greedy, greedy. Sucking me—ghh—whole.”

Your back digs into the wall, feeling every ridge and sharp edge through the fabric of your dress, but it’s too good — it’s too good, you can feel your mind slipping, as if you’re going stupid the longer he fucks into you, the harder he pistons into you, and though your legs are dangling off the fucking ground he has no problem keeping up this brutal pace, supporting your weight with a single arm hooked around your thigh.

“You take me so—damn, well, don’t you? I could have you any time anywhere, and you’d let me—wouldn’t you, princess?”

You shudder, biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep from screaming, feeling your spine tingle and your body going limp in his grip as he ruts into you like a rag doll. It’s about as hot as a frying pan out here but you’re shivering from head to toe, unable to muster any reply besides desperate and broken whimpers of his name, ones that he merely devours with a low, guttural chuckle.

He lets you cling to his body, clutching you against him in an iron grip, both your bodies radiating heat and smelling like sex and grape-flavoured ice cream, and familiar knot tightens like it’s about to snap in your belly, growing bigger and bigger with each passing second, drawing high-pitched cries as you start to claw at his neck. (Rough, but he likes to admire the marks you make on him.)

“That’s it, girlie—fuck—so warm and wet, you’re gonna cum aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my cock, let everyone see what a needy slut you are for your boyfriend?”

“Gonna cum, ‘m gonna cum gonna cum—”

A deep growl tears itself out of his chest; one last heavy thrust sends you teetering over the edge as he chokes on a broken whine, accompanied only by a symphony of your sweet cries, reality blurring just as you unravel, come undone, gush all over his cock as intense as an exploding burst of fire — and then you feel it, spurts of his warm seed spilling into your ruined hole, filling you up so much that it dribbles in splatters on the floor.

He’s breathing out a few curses, crooning what a pretty girl you are, adjusting his grip on your waist so you don’t slip from his arms, giving a few languid thrusts as you come down from your high. Sharp breaths tether through your chest; he grins in indulgence, beads of his sweat dripping onto your nape as he presses his forehead against yours.

“F-fuck, princess,” he breathes, “you’re fucking beautiful.”

“S-so much for beating the heat,” you pant, but you can’t bring yourself to frown with the way he’s looking at you, only mirror his expression with a giddy smile.

Minutes later, when your limbs have finally regained their sense of feel, he’s letting you onto the floor with a kiss to your cheek and a slap to your ass. “Now wasn’t that fun?” he purrs, wiping off the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. “We should do this more often, don’t you think?”

“Didn’t help at all!” you cry, pouting and squirming as you feel the sloppy juices running down your thighs. He snickers; an arm is thrown over your shoulders, before he’s pulling you close so he can nuzzle at your cheek, while you’re still struggling to fix yourself into a somewhat decent appearance.

(As decent as you can be when your boyfriend has just shoved his cock up your pussy in an alleyway, and his cum is still dripping from your spent hole.)

“Let’s hurry home then. I’ll make you an ice-cold bath, don’t worry.”

(You don’t have to ask to know what he’s hinting at with this one.)

[inkykeiji]

i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.

[lawluaficionado]

No Devil Fruit AU, where Law is part of a dangerous syndicate. He's feared by almost everyone. Except his fiance, Luffy. Not many have seen this mysterious boyfriend of the all powerful crime boss, Law, but those who have know that it's Luffy who should be feared.

Little snippet for inspiration! Might be a lil gross, so don't read if you're squeamish.

It had been a tedious night. Law pours himself another glass of bourbon as Penguin recounts the screams their ex-colleagues let out.

"Man! Next time I want to go in too!" Shachi laments.

Law sighs, "If Bepo had stayed home then you could've. But I asked you to watch him. You know how his fur gets nasty in humid areas."

Bepo, Law's five year old Great Pyrenees, whines at their feet.

"But you sure did miss a lot! Boss renoved their hearts one by one. I think the last one died before he even started from all the shock," Penguin is giddy in his seat.

"Make sure to send those out tomorrow," Law reminds him.

"Yes boss!" they both answer. The bag containing the hearts are in the passenger seat next to his driver.

"Almost home. Are we getting the young sir his order of food?" Jean Bart, ever the lifesaver, asks.

His sweetheart would love that, but he's not getting shit if he's acting this way.

His mood worsening by the minute. He's called Luffy five times already and the teen hasn't answered. Did he forget an anniversary? Birthday? No way. If anything it would be his beloved who would forget something, so why are his calls being ignored.

In the end he gives in, "Yes. Just go ahead and get him the usual."

"And mine!" Penguin states.

"Me too!" Shachi cheers.

Jean Bart grunts, "You can both get off and get your own shit."

Soon, his phone is ringing. Not his personal phone. His work phone.

"Speak," Law grumbles. Seriously, they just parted ways not too long ago. What in the world could've been so important that they needed to call him.

"Boss! Oh thank god I reached you, we just got to the house and the gates are run over!" Ikkaku gives him a brief statement of the mess his mansion is in.

Law calms down, 'Ahhh, no wonder his baby didn't answer him. He's having fun too,' he smiles to himself.

"-and we're pretty sure mister Luffy is still inside! It's Bellamy's gang and himself here! So far we've taken care of the stragglers outside. What do you want us to do?"

Law smirks, "Lock up any escape there is."

"This is Bellamy sir, are you sure you want that?" Ikkaku sounds worried.

"Lock it up, make sure whoever is inside the mansion STAYS inside with my sweetheart. We'll still be a while, I know Luffy will be starving." Law hangs up the phone and relaxes.

He should've known Luffy had a reason not to answer him. Of course he should think about getting him an extra portion...he's going to be so so hungry.

When Law's car finally gets to the mansion, Jean Bart opens up his door. Bepo is the first to run out. Next is Law in his midnight blue suit ruined with dark red splotches from earlier activities.

Jean Bart closes the door in Shachi's face. They can open it themselves, he smiles as he turns back to the task at hand which meant carefully taking the bag of once beating hearts.

His subordinates are all gathered in the driveway, a few bodies next to them. It's a good thing he's in the good graces of his neighbors. No one here is going to mention any of this to those pesky cops. Lest they also want to be removed.

"Alright, listen up I want this place spotless by the next morning. Someone call up Franky to get me a new gate."

Penguin and Shachi both carry those take out boxes from the car, almost dropping them when they hear a blood curling scream from the direction of the house. They both grin.

"Why, I almost feel bad for those poor motherfuckers," Penguin continues to snicker.

Bepo immediately runs to the doors, growling to be let in. Law calmly walks behind him.

Ikkaku comes with them too, "We did as you asked boss. A few of the gang members were thrown out of windows on the third floor. It's been cleaned up out here."

"Good, I want to see the mess my beloved has made," chuckles Law.

Ikkaku unlocks the main house entrance and removes the blockage.

Upon entering the mansion, he can feel the tell-tell sign of an incoming headache. There's blood smeared on those once pristine pearl white walls, broken glass, broken furniture, and a few people groaning in pain. All from what he can assume are Bellamy's men.

A snap of his fingers and Shachi has already put a bullet in their heads. Not as quick as he would usually, seeing as he had precious food in his other hand.

"Get someone to start cleaning here. After dinner of course." Law walks up the stairs then, only Bepo leading the way. Everyone else went to start eating. They've dined in worse places, they'll be fine.

The stairs are no better than the entrance to the house. There's blood on the rails, ripped hair strands, and broken glass. He swears he saw a finger on one of the steps. Thank heavens Bepo didn't eat it.

Another pained scream is heard and then the crackling sound stops everything altogether.

Law enters his bedroom to find a sniffling Luffy. Their room in complete chaos. One of the posts to their bed is completely cracked. The TV is in ruins and the mini fridge is making a concerning sound.

"Come here baby, what's wrong?" he worries something must've gone terribly wrong. Luffy hardly cries over something like a fight. Especially one where he just singlehandedly slaughtered more than a fifty people, including their leader.

Covered in blood, Luffy walks toward Law, holding something carefully in his arms.

"He broke it," he sniffles. "Please don't be mad."

In his hands is the first picture they took on their first anniversary. Of course it was only the frame that was shattered.

"Lu-ya, it's alright. I'll get another for our room," he gently cradles the teen's face in his hands.

Luffy smiles, practically beaming, "OKAY! Did you get dinner! I'm starving Torao!!" Just like that he's back to his normal state. He's skipping around, joyful and playful as ever.

"You know I did, couldn't leave my sunshine without his favorite take out," he brushes hair out of Luffy's face ojce he's gotten him to stop his movements. But he's still covered in blood, that's more than likely not his.

"Did you see how many I took out!? I took care of the house too!" Luffy laughs, so carelessly, innocent eyes looking up at his fiance.

"Lu-ya, all I ask is that next time you make sure you move the fight out of our bedroom," he stares at Bellamy on his bedroom floor. Bepo still growling at the dead man.

"I couldn't help it! It was a surprise attack!" he pouts.

And everyone knows that the big, bad boss can't resist a cute face. It's only a matter of time before his other enemies realize that too. But for their sake, they should also realize that Luffy isn't just a cute face for Law. No. Luffy is just as terrifying, if not more, than his psychopath boyfriend. What can you do though? I guess their enemies will just have to find out the hard way.

[charincharge]

AN: Here’s the fourth and final installment of the Actress AU. It was ready much sooner than I anticipated! If you haven’t read the first three parts, you can find them below. I hope this is a satisfying conclusion for you all! xo.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Aelin squinted against a harsh white light, making her head throb. She went to rub the mascara from her sticky lashes, but her hand tugged painfully. She struggled to focus, her brain slowly catching up with her vision as she took in her stark surroundings.

Her breathing increased as she realized where she was.

She tugged her hand again, wincing as the tube under her skin pulled at the tape covering it. Another tube ran into two smaller ones, inserted into her nose, pushing a steady stream of cold air down her throat.

Despite the tubes in her nose, the overwhelming smell of lemon antiseptic pervaded her senses, and she struggled to swallow down the pool of saliva that formed in her mouth as nausea swirled around her stomach.

It clenched hard, and before she knew what was happening, she was on her side, a thin yellow stream of bile pouring from her mouth into a light pink tub placed in front of her face seemingly out of nowhere. It splashed gently, and Aelin recoiled from the smell, her body sweating and shaking with the effort it took to expel the disgusting substance.

“That’s it,” a woman’s soft voice cooed, rubbing at her back. “You’re okay, darling,” it repeated. Despite being unable to see who was touching her, Aelin relaxed into the woman’s hand as she finished throwing up.

She wiped at her mouth, wanting to get rid of the sour taste in her mouth and graciously accepted a small paper cup of water from another mystery person.

Aelin wiped at her eyes again and rolled onto her back into the lumpy pillow behind her head and finally looked around. The hospital room’s curtains had been drawn, letting early morning sunshine filter in, but it was no match for the harsh fluorescents which shone down on Aelin, making her sweat. Two nurses bustled around her, their light green scrubs swishing as they switched out her IV bag and adjusted the oxygen tank beside her.

“You gave everyone quite a scare, sweetheart” the dark-haired nurse said, smoothing Aelin’s hair away from her face. It crunched beneath her touch, still coated in layers of hairspray.

“What happened?” Aelin croaked. The last thing she remembered was being at the premiere party. But judging by the amount of sunlight streaming through the windows, that was hours ago.

“I’m going to grab the doctor, and she’ll explain everything,” the woman said, her even voice attempting to calm Aelin’s racing heart.

Her head pounded agonizingly as she attempted to nod, and the nurse frowned in understanding.

She shushed Aelin, who hadn’t even realized she’d started crying softly as she readjusted her pillows behind her, trying to make her more comfortable. But it was impossible. Every part of Aelin ached with discomfort.

A beautiful woman with long chestnut curls and caramel skin swept into the room, her dark eyes immediately going to Aelin as she introduced herself.

“Aelin,” she said with a professional nod. “I’m Doctor Towers, and I’ve been treating you since you came in last night.” She paused, taking a step closer. “Do you remember what happened?”

Aelin winced as she shook her head again.

“That’s okay,” Dr. Towers assured her. “You had an accidental overdose.” Aelin’s mouth gaped, opened and closing as she struggled to find the words, but the doctor continued. “You came in with cocaine and fentanyl in your system, which is unfortunately something I’ve been seeing more and more of.”

“Fentanyl?” Aelin asked, confused. She had no idea what that even was, and she certainly had no knowledge of taking it.

Dr. Towers narrowed her eyes. “You are extremely lucky to be alive right now. When your friend brought you in, you were completely nonresponsive.”

Aelin gasped. Fear and shame crashed down on her. She was sure this would be all over the gossip sites. She’d be written off as a party girl, instead of a serious budding actress. Everything she’d endured with Arobynn would be for nothing. Another tear fell down her cheek as the doctor explained her treatment.

“We administered Narcan, which is used to treat opioid overdose and were able to get you breathing again.”

“Opioid?”

The doctor pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I’m going to assume you don’t know that your cocaine was cut with fentanyl. It’s been used more frequently as filler, but, as you experienced, it can have potentially fatal interactions.” She paused again. “As I said, you were extremely lucky.” Her face softened as Aelin wiped another tear away. “How are you feeling, physically?”

“Bad,” Aelin chuckled through her tears.

“I’ll bet.” Doctor Towers sighed and adjusted her clipboard. “You’re going to experience a lot of pain today. Your body is going through opioid withdrawal now, as well as cocaine. Plus, Narcan has a few side effects as well – stomach pain, nausea, vomiting, fever, body aches. All sound about right?” Aelin nodded. “We’re going to keep you here to monitor your recovery for the next twelve hours. If you feel shortness of breath or like someone is suddenly sitting on your chest, call for a nurse immediately.”

“Okay,” Aelin said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Because of the events that led you here, you’re required to talk to a psychiatrist. She’s fantastic. Her name is Dr. Ytger, and she can help you decide what your next course of action should be.” Dr. Towers smiled, her seriousness dissolving slightly as her eyes warmed with kindness. “In the meantime, there are quite a few worried people, who have been waiting for you to wake up. If you feel up to it, they can come see you one-by-one.”

Aelin’s chest pounded uncomfortably. “There are people here?”

Dr. Towers’ smile widened as she nodded. “The man who brought you in has asked that he be first to see you.”

“Man?” Aelin rasped. She’d been so sure Manon would have been the one to take her to the hospital, hopefully fielding press the whole time.

Her breath caught as Dr. Towers’s eyes narrowed. “Tall, striking eyes. Pacing a hole in the waiting room carpet?”

Her breath picked up, and she struggled to calm herself as Arobynn’s faux-worried face appeared in her minds eye. She could only imagine how mad he was if he was forced to leave his own premiere party in an ambulance. Just the thought of his angry face was enough to have her feeling nauseous again. She was sure he was only here to protect his image. Heaven forbid his muse died.

“Do you not want to see him?” the doctor asked. “Aelin, if you’re in danger you can tell me. I can have the police here, and I will happily kick that green-eyed man to the curb.”

“Green?” Aelin’s head swirled. “Rowan brought me in? Not a man with red hair?”

The doctor shook her head. “No. No red-headed man.”

As relief flooded her body, she must have nodded because before she knew it, the doctor was exiting her room and returning with Rowan in tow.

Despite the pain that surged through her body, Aelin’s chest warmed at the sight of him. His tux was rumpled beyond belief, his sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, and dark purple circles on his skin contrasted with his red-rimmed eyes. He must have been here all night.

He perched himself at the edge of the hospital bed, careful to not brush against Aelin beneath the thin blue blanket, and the night came rushing back to her. The carpet, Rowan’s girlfriend, cocaine in the closet with Archer… She felt awful. She’d absolutely ruined Rowan’s night.

“I’m so glad to see those eyes open again,” he whispered, and Aelin could feel a soft pressure build at her throat. For a second, she was concerned it was the shortness of breath she was supposed to be looking out for, but as she took a deep breath, she couldn’t control the sob that escaped her lips.

Tears poured from her eyes, dripping in steady rivulets down her cheeks, down her chin and dripping onto her hospital gown in dark grey splotches as they mixed with her makeup.

Rowan tentatively raised his hand to her face and wiped at her tears, his thumb caressing her cheek with such a softness that it did nothing to abate her crying. Gods, she had missed his touch. She leaned her head into his hand and sighed, her breath shaking with her tears as they stared at each other in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Aelin whispered finally. She had to apologize to him for ruining his night. For bringing him here, for making him stay in the hospital for hours when he should have been celebrating his feature success.

His green eyes hardened as he spoke, though the soft caress of his thumb never ceased. “None of this is your fault, Aelin. None.”

“But, I ruined your big night, and…”

Rowan paused as he leaned forward, his lips pursing as he examined her face. “Baby,” he said so reverently that it nearly knocked her out. “You almost died, and you think I care about some fucking party?”

His fingers slid to her hair, crunching beneath his touch as Aelin tried not to cringe. She was a complete mess. A stupid, selfish mess. But she couldn’t imagine not wanting this, not wanting him. And she would take whatever he gave her.

“I swear I’m not an addict, I just really like the way cocaine smells.” She attempted to smile as tears formed in Rowan’s eyes.

“That is the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” he said, though he chuckled softly regardless of her inappropriate words. “And I know you’re not an addict,” he sighed. “That’s what I was trying to talk to you about last night. Why I wanted you to meet my—”

“Girlfriend?” Aelin’s heart sank as she remembered the circumstances that led to her latest brush with white dust. But Rowan’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“What? No,” he said, shaking his head. “My cousin.”

“Your cousin?” Aelin’s head was reeling. She was in too much pain and too exhausted for this kind of information. She was confused. Yet again.

“Tall? Blonde? Bright green eyes just like every Whitethorn? Walked the carpet with me?”

“Your cousin,” Aelin repeated. She tried to remember the beautiful blonde draped on Rowan’s arm, but she was nothing more than a hazy memory of blonde smiles and hurt feelings.

“She’s a reporter for The Terrasen Times,” he began. “She’s being doing a series of exposes on abusers in the film industry, and Aelin, she has enough to take Arobynn down.” He breathed in deeply, his bright eyes shining as they filled with tears. “I knew as soon as you kicked me out of your trailer that something had happened. But I didn’t get confirmation until I saw you at that press junket. You’re just the latest in a long line of young actresses emotionally abused and threatened and hooked on drugs to control them. I kept my distance because I didn’t want him to use me against you. But… I didn’t think…” His lip quivered as he fought with his tears. “Baby, I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you.”

“I don’t understand,” Aelin said, her mind swimming with his words but not really processing any of them.

“Four women came forward and are pressing charges against him, Aelin. The article went live last night.” Rowan’s eyes pierced through her as she inhaled a sharp breath. “He’s going to jail. He can’t touch you anymore.”

Months of frustration and fear and anger and shame and guilt released at Rowan’s words, and a fresh wave of tears poured down Aelin’s cheeks. Her body shook, as she felt herself freed from Arobynn’s vindictive grasp. Free. She couldn’t even imagine it.

She reached forward and buried her face into Rowan’s shoulder, letting his arms cradle her and soothe her pain. She inhaled deeply, wanting to immerse herself his scent, but all she could smell was stale alcohol and faint traces of vomit. The smell made her dizzy with nausea, and she soon pulled away to vomit into the bucket next to her bed.

She wiped at her face, black smudging against her skin as she pulled her hands away. “Well, that was romantic,” she laughed, though her tone was anything but humorous.

“Aelin,” Rowan murmured her name with a quiet exuberance. “I don’t care that you’ve been throwing up for hours,” he said seriously. “I love you, have been in love with you, since the first time I laid eyes on you almost a year ago, and I need to kiss you right now.” He smiled sweetly, and as he leaned in, Aelin could feel her heart stutter. “Is this romantic enough for you?” he asked, his lips merely a breath away from hers.

“I love you, too,” she replied. Her confession warmed her from the inside out as their matching smiles met in a soft kiss. His hands stroked the back of her neck, soothing her quivering muscles.

His lips pressed against hers again, seemingly unable to pull back, but Aelin felt her exhaustion catching up with her heavily beating heart all too soon. A large yawn escaped her lips, and Rowan pulled back, his hand trailing down her arm to her tube-laden hand and squeezing it gently.

“Sleep,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She squeezed his hand in return and pulled him toward her. “Come cuddle,” she asked with wide eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere, Aelin,” he replied seriously. “Not ever again.”

But despite his words, he climbed into the small cot with her, arms wrapped around her shoulders. And despite the sweat and the nausea and stomach pain, Aelin fell sleep peacefully for the first time in months.

~*~

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[thephantomofthe-internet]

Chapter 6: A Room with a View

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 3,359

Warnings: Swearing, slut shaming, death mention, crying

Author’s Note: So, I already answered this, but just in case anyone missed it: I update this series weekly and I am still editing the vast majority of chapters! Sorry if it’s coming out slower than expected!

Tags: @divinity-deos @wolfish-willow​ @scoopsohboi​ @thecaptainsgingersnap​ @herre-gud-nej​ @clockworkballerina​ @maddie1504​ @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary​ @buckysarge​ @wildcvltre​ @stanleyyelnatsiii​ @n3wtscaseofniffler5​ @peterparxour @linkispink1995​ @a-big-ball-of-idk​ @used-avocado​ @mochminnie​ @sledgy14​ @the-creative-lie​ @yall-wildin-like-siriusly​ @ggclarissa​ @voidnarnia​ @anonymousonion23 

Steve had no idea what he’d done wrong. Not a clue. But you were ignoring him. You sat farther away from him in English the past two days, and you’d been blowing off plans with him. You’d say that you had other plans, but he’d see you sat on the bleachers after school, watching the girls soccer practise or drawing in that book again. He still didn’t know what you were doing in that book and he was irritated by the fact that he could see you sat in your room some days, caught in a lie without knowing it, your nose caught in the pages in front of you, pencil in between your teeth, focused but unaware of an audience. Steve could see right into your room from his when your curtains were open and you often sat at your desk, working in your pads.

On the day that Mr. Lawrence announced the start for the final essay, Steve had had enough. It had been a week of this behaviour and he felt as though he deserved an answer. And he was sick of watching through the window. Tommy and Carol were busy every damn day chasing Billy Hargrove, Vicki had gone back after him too after their awful date, and Tina wasn’t his friend. Sure, he could bug Dustin, but that made him feel like such a loser. His only friends were a rag tag group of preteens and a weird girl who wouldn’t even talk to him! This was getting pathetic.

The bell rang before Steve could make his move and you were out the door before he could even open his mouth. Tina rolled her eyes as she passed him by, grabbing Tina’s arm to whisper loudly “God, how tragic.” making Vicki cackle loudly.

Steve booked it out the door, scanning the halls for you, but you’d already disappeared from sight. He spotted Samantha, but she was on the retreat. He chose not to chase her down, they’d never even had a conversation before and using her to try to get her to spill on her friend felt a bit shitty. So he decided to just take a walk, no harm in a walk, it was a nice day anyway, out by the field. He wandered out the gym doors by the car park. He shoved his hands into his blue workman’s jacket. The weather was still a bit too chilly to go without a coat, but the sunshine made it easier.

He spotted you and Samantha at the top of the bleachers. You had your hair up that day and your lavender bomber jacket draped around your shoulders. Carol had something similar, or maybe it was Tina, he couldn’t remember which one the pair blurred into one being in his mind.

Samantha caught Steve’s eye before you did. She leaned over to you with a smirk “Lover boy’s watching.” She whispered cheekily, pointing slyly at him.

You turned immediately. Steve was standing in the car park, a few smattering of folks on car hoods, eating packed lunches and watching the scene go down. He waved, taking a step towards you. You turned your attention away.

Samantha was baffled. A week ago, you were telling her all about the weird fun you were having with him, all smiles and laughter, and now you wouldn’t even look at him for more than a second. You wouldn’t admit it, but Samantha knew that he was something more than a friend to you. Nobody was this upset when someone cancelled plans.

Steve turned away without a word. He wanted to scream at you, his mind demanding to know what he had done wrong. He made a plan that afternoon, one he was certain might ruin everything for him.  

As soon as the three o’clock bell rang, Steve made a mad dash for his car. He didn’t leave immediately; instead he waited to see an expected sight. Once he saw you huddled and headed for the bleachers, he was sure that the girl’s team was practising. Then he drove off towards home, parking in his own driveway. His mother was home, a shock to him, but he still headed upstairs. The next part was tricky. He’d time out that practise ended at four thirty, but that you usually left at four since the walk was so long. At four twenty, he headed across the street. As always, the yellow Volkswagen sat in the driveway. He’d rarely ever seen it leave the driveway, but it gave him hope that someone was inside the house. You couldn’t be living alone as a senior. He bounded up the front steps, knocking on the door twice. He was nervous, switching his weight from his toes to his heels in a rocking motion forward and back, forward and back.

An older man opened the door. He had to be in his eighties, with age spots speckling him around his eyes like a second pair of wide frames behind his tortoise shell glasses.  He seemed suspicious of Steve, although that was probably because he was staring.

“Hello,” he stuck out his hand for the man to shake “I’m Steve Harrington, I’m a friend of Y/N.” the man didn’t take his hand, staying silent as he looked him over.

Steve pressed on “I was wondering if she was home, we were supposed to study together today and she said that she’d call when she got home but I haven’t heard from her.” He chuckled awkwardly.

From behind the old man, a woman’s voice called “Harold, who’s there?”

“One of Y/N’s friends, she home yet?” he called back, opening the door wider. Steve could see the pale yellow walls, sun stained from the large three panel window at the front of their house.

Steve watched as an older woman hobbled into the scene, back hunched and skin thin. She looked frail, her hair dyed to what Steve assumed was its original shade, her grey roots visible from the top of her head. She greeted Steve with a warm smile. Steve was quick to offer his hand to shake, which she took carefully. “Hi, Steve Harrington, it’s nice to meet you both.” He said quickly, smiling brightly at the pair.

“Well hello there, I’m Maude and this is Y/N’s grandfather Harold, it’s lovely to meet you.” She said sweetly. “Why don’t you come inside, Y/N should be home any minute.”

Maude hit Harold’s arm roughly and he let go of the door, letting Steve into the house. He quickly kicked off his shoes, noting the pair’s socked feet. He looked around the house. Every house on the street was one of three standard box deals, with specified details. His parents hadn’t paid for the window seat like your family had, but you didn’t have the open kitchen that his did; an extra yellow wall separated the space. He looked to the fireplace, an exact copy of his family’s before their renovation last august. He missed the grey brick they used to have. You had a large family portrait on the mantle. You were sat in the centre in your Sunday best, your grandparents flanking the outside, two other adults stood closest to you. Steve assumed they were your parents. You looked like your father.

“You have a lovely home,” he said, turning his attention to the pair who were watching him intently.

“Thank you.” Maude smiled “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Sure.” Steve wasn’t much for tea, but he was taught not to refuse something offered by his host. Maude hurried off, leaving him and grumpy old Harold alone.

“Y/N doesn’t bring boys around.” Harold announced when his wife was out of the room. Steve didn’t really know what to say to that, luckily he continued “So what’re you trying to do with my girl?”

“Study,” Steve said with a shrug. The man scoffed, but Steve pressed on. “She’s my partner for our English final, we’re supposed to be working on it today, it’s due soon.”

Harold nodded gruffly “Alright…” he took a seat on the couch, turning the volume back on. The Love Boat was on, a rerun of the episode with guest stars the Captain and Tennille, and Steve was certain that they’d both seen it before.

Maude came in with a tray, handing her husband a mug. It was hand painted, thick script reading ‘Happy Father’s Day’ on the front, the year 1974 written in smaller script underneath in blue paint. She handed him a plain white mug.

“Well, Steve, you’re free to go and wait for Y/N upstairs, her room is two doors to the right of the stairs, you can’t miss it.” She said, gesturing to the stairwell. Steve bid his thanks and headed up the wide carpeted stairwell.

Harold mumbled something to his wife that Steve couldn’t hear, only catching her response. “He’s young, he doesn’t want to sit with us old folks.” She laughed at her own joke and Steve smiled at their friendly banter. They reminded him of his aunt and uncle, they always joked in that sort of way, laughing at themselves before anyone else. It made him feel as if he were at home in the house; he was comforted by the casualness of existence.

Maude was right that the room was impossible to miss. The door was covered in childlike butterflies painted in purple puffy paint. When he opened the bedroom door, he was transported into a small, private art gallery. The room was covered wall to wall in fabric canvases, canvas boards, and paper sketches. Your desk was covered in paint splotches and doodles carved into the wood, there were glow in the dark stars and moons on the blades of your ceiling fan. You’d painted your ceiling into a buttery sunset. It was as if for the first time, Steve was seeing all of you. And you were absolutely incandescent.

His hands went to roam your shelves, filled with sketchbooks and art books and worn copies of the classics. Greedily, he grabbed the first black sketchbook he found its pages heavy and curled. A piece of masking tape on the cover read ‘Still Life, 1980’ in black Sharpie. He flipped over the cover. Every page was the same bowl of fruit, some plain sketches, some painted in acrylics or water colours, but the fruit changed in shape and structure with every flip, rotting more with each sketch until the image switched to a vase of sunflowers, a prim and proper version of the Van Gogh he’d seen a print of in his freshman year art class. He wondered if you’d been there, silently making your own master pieces. He wondered how many masterpieces you had hidden away in your big black book.

The door opened behind him before he could put the sketch book away. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” you snapped, bounding towards him. When your grandmother told you that your friend from school was upstairs waiting for you, you had a sinking feeling that you knew who it was. And seeing him rifling through your things made your blood boil.

Steve turned slowly, unsure what to say. You snatched the pad out of his hands “And who the fuck gave you permission to look at my stuff, you pervert!” You knew that he hadn’t done anything actually perverted, but you still felt violated.

“I can’t get you to talk to me, I figured coming here would at least make you see me.” Steve laughed a bit, unable to even process what was happening. In the back of his mind, he thought that this would be an effortlessly cool way to go about a solution. Like you’d see him in your room and think ‘wow…what an effort that was…’ Instead, you were furious.

“So, you thought that coming into my house without telling me, lying to my grandparents, and touching my stuff would make it better.” You raised an eyebrow, shoving your sketchbook onto the shelf.

“What was I supposed to do? You won’t answer my calls, you won’t talk to me, I can’t get you to look at me for more than a second and all I want to know is what I did wrong so I can fix it!” Steve cried, words tumbling out of his mouth. You both stared at each other for a moment, surprised by each other, your mouth hanging silently ajar.

You closed it fast, swallowing before speaking “You…you hurt my feelings.” You said softly, pushing past him to put distance between you, standing next to your desk and the window.

“How did I hurt your feelings?” Steve asked quietly, watching you carefully even as you stared defiantly out the window.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest “You cancelled our plans. For Vicki.”

“So?” Steve asked.

“So, I don’t cancel on you. I never cancel on you, especially not the day of. It hurt my feelings.” You explained, picking at a bit of lint on your sweater.

“Yeah, but I…” he tried to catch himself before he said something terrible, but you already knew what filled in the blank.

“What? You have more friends than me? Is that it?” you snapped. It was Steve’s turn to look away, but you pressed on. “You’re right, you do have more friends than me. But don’t act like I don’t have a social life without you. I do. Do you know how many games of Samantha’s I’ve skipped out on to help you study? How many practises she’s asked me to come and watch that I’ve said no to because I already had plans with you?”

“I don’t know…” Steve muttered. Embarrassment crept up his face. He felt like such a dick. In truth he had forgotten about your plans that day in the excitement of a date with Vicki. With hindsight in full effect he could see that he would’ve had twice as much fun with you eating greasy burgers then he did with Vicki driving around Hawkins.

“Well, it’s been a lot. And it’s not the fact that you went out with Vicki that upset me, you are free to date whoever you want. But can you please at least tell me if you’re cancelling a little sooner than mere minutes before?” you asked, your voice cracking on the end.

“Sure, yeah of course. I should’ve been doing that before.” Steve stumbled over his words to apologize.

“Okay.” You nodded “Now, why are you going through my shit?”

“I wanted to see more. This whole room is incredible.” Steve breathed, plopping down on your mattress.

“You think?” you asked quietly. In truth, you didn’t think that you were that good of an artist. You loved art, but you didn’t think you were exactly talented.

“It’s so cool!” you couldn’t help but laugh, or else you’d cry. Nobody ever talked about your art with such enthusiasm. Teachers only criticized mistakes and your mother and grandparents saw it as clutter. Samantha liked some stuff but she didn’t talk about it much. Even a simple compliment from Steve made you want to cry. You covered your mouth to avoid the tears.

Steve didn’t seem to notice, wandering the room to point out pieces he thought were interesting. He pointed to a canvas depicting the quarry. You’d camped out there one night in the summer; drawing until the sun fades out of the sky and then painting it out once you had it exactly right. “This one is just insane I mean it looks like it’s going to eat you whole, like it has teeth or something.” He exclaimed.

“You can have it.” You replied quickly.

Steve shook his head “No, I couldn’t I mean don’t you want it? For college apps or something?” he couldn’t take it, he’d feel too guilty.

You shrugged “I have enough stuff for at least three portfolios, you should have that one if you like it so much. It’ll make your room cooler.”

“Hey, my room is cool.” Steve pouted, making you laugh harder. He liked your laugh, it split your whole face open into a smile. And your smile looked as if it sat on a bed of clouds. He wanted to float along with it forever.

“Oh yeah, your pee wee t-ball participation trophy is real slick, it gets you all the chicks.” You drawling, bouncing on your mattress.

“Hey, you didn’t run when you saw it.” Steve shrugged, sitting down next to you.

“Eh, your baby sports escapades don’t frighten me. It adds character to know that you suck at something.” You replied. Steve thought briefly of the bat in his trunk and the weight of it mid-swing, connecting with a heavy skull. Better with a bat now then he was as an elementary schooler.

You both lay back on the mattress, staring up at the slowly turning fan. Steve turned to you “What’d you think of Vicki anyway?” he asked.

“Honestly?” Steve nodded “I think she’s a bitch.” Steve laughed loudly but you pressed on “She is! She’s so mean for no reason!”

“Yeah, she’s not cool. She spent our whole date bitching about people, saying a lot of shit about you.” Steve murmured.

“What’d you…” you didn’t know if you could ask how he responded. You bit your tongue before finishing the sentence.

Steve understood anyway “I told her the truth. That you’re a really cool chick and that she shouldn’t be such a bitch about people she doesn’t know.” He said simply, turning his attention back to the slowly moving stars.

You didn’t necessarily believe that he actually defended you. Still, you didn’t feel like arguing. Steve continued on in your silence. “So, do you live with your grandparents’ full time? Or do your parents just work?” he asked.

“Both,” you sighed softly “My mom’s not home very much so they take care of me. She’s a fashion photographer, travels all over the world for different magazines.”

“What about your dad?” Steve asked. He’d seen a younger man in the photo; he assumed that it was some kind of father figure.

“He died.” You muttered.

“Oh…” Steve didn’t know how to react to that. He wasn’t sure if he should apologize.

“She killed him.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying that. Anger still stewed into your bones whenever you thought about your parents.

“What?” Steve to fully look at you, flabbergasted.

“She worked him to death. She always wanted more and farther away from us. Trips to Europe, designer things, this stupid house. She killed him.” You wiped hard at your face, trying to keep the hot tears from streaming down your face. Steve didn’t say anything, he simply pulled you into his chest, holding you tightly into him and letting you cry. He patted your hair gently, trying to soothe you as best he could. He didn’t think he was very good at helping people in their pain. But you grabbed onto his middle and clung to him like a life raft.

“My parents aren’t that great either.” He muttered, unsure if he was helping at all. “They ignore me.”

“I-I’m sorry they do that…” you muttered, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes. Steve melted. He absolutely melted. He was filled with the sudden urge to kiss you, which surprised him. He didn’t follow through with the urge; he didn’t know how you’d take it.

“I’m sorry he’s not here for you…” he replied, petting your hair softly. He stayed with you like that for what felt like hours, letting you cling to him and ruin his shirt with tears. He didn’t care. He needed to be there for you. He promised himself that he wouldn’t hurt you again. That he’d be more careful and pay more attention. He couldn’t bear to see you in this much pain again. He knew that you weren’t crying because of him, but if he could keep you from feeling even an ounce of this sort of pain again, he would.

He cared about you too much to ever let you suffer alone again.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

I’VE ALWAYS LOVED THE WAY YOU EAT ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; suguru is a morning person. he likes the serenity of it all; the quiet of the early hours, the expensive feel of his coffee pot. more than anything, he likes bringing you breakfast in bed.

word count; 4.9k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, just comfy morning vibes, fluff fluff fluff!!, suguru being a good soon-to-be husband, lots of petnames, reader is whipped (and so am i) but suguru is even worse, i need him biblically.

a/n; this is my personal essay on why suguru geto is the perfect man and wife. bon appetit !!

something smells good.

as your eyelids flutter open, and you gradually slip out of sleep’s fuzzy embrace, you are engulfed by that one thought. that one sensation.

there’s a sweet fragrance in the air, an unnamed something you can’t place. a force of love.

soft sunrays flit in through the haphazardly closed window blinds of your bedroom, cascading across the floorboards and bouncing off the walls. splotches of sunshine envelop you in a hazy kind of glow; gentle and coaxing, stirring you awake. it feels good on your skin.

indulging in a few more slow blinks, you shift to lie on your back, halfheartedly attempting to chase the sleepiness away. tangled up in silken sheets and fluffy blankets, you stare at the ceiling — but even such a mundane task feels so nice. just wallowing in the tantalizing scent drifting through the bedroom, the flurry of little kisses that the sun smothers you with. 

it’s still early, and you’re still sleepy. outside the walls of your apartment, the sun is rising to its feet, dyeing the world in warm colours; violets and blues melting into pinks and oranges, like an egg cracked open on the canvas of the sky. everything is quiet, not a sound to be heard except for the very distant chirping of cicadas from the trees outside your window. utter peace. like time isn’t even passing.

in the midst of such a precious moment, all you want is to laze around. it’s just that kind of pleasant, mellow morning; the kind that makes you wish the sun would never fully rise.

a satisfied little sigh slips from your lips. content to soak in the heavenly feeling until it passes, your eyes flutter shut — you’re just so sleepy, and the sun just feels so warm. soothing you, making it even harder to stay awake, cradling you in its hazy embrace. sunlit and saccharine.

with the morning fatigue clouding your senses, you don’t even notice the other presence in the room. 

suguru smiles, from his spot by the door — leaning against the wall and gazing at your relaxed expression, an immense fondness reflected in his eyes. taking a moment to silently admire you.

you look so content. tangled up in blankets and pillows, with your limbs outstretched and starfished across the mattress. your hair is a little messy, and you’re drooling just a smidge, wearing his shirt; it’s a couple sizes too big for you, slipping off your shoulder and exposing your sunkissed skin. as suguru’s eyes trail over your features, the fond smile on his face only grows, shifting into something honeyed and giddy. 

you’re perfect, he thinks. absolutely perfect.

a moment passes. then another. suguru continues to stare, as if trying to etch the image of you into his memory. trying to prolong the moment for as long as he can. 

until, finally, he’s had his fill. simply admiring you from afar isn’t enough — he needs to see you up close, needs to hear the sleepy little tilt of your voice. so he opts to make his presence known, voice gravelly and sweet, echoing softly throughout the room.

“good morning, sweetheart.”

softly, your eyes flicker open. the familiar voice sends a tremor of something running through your chest — and suddenly, it feels as if some of the sleep clinging to your skin has been washed away. it’s a little easier to make yourself move, shifting to your side to get a better look at the source of the sound.

and the warmth that blossoms in your chest when your eyes meet suguru’s is almost overwhelming.

(god, he’s pretty.)

suguru looks perfect, in the morning. he looks like the rest of your life. hair a little messy, tied up into a lazy half-done bun, silky black strands cascading down his neck. and wearing a pair of comfy sweatpants that hang a little low on his hips, but no shirt — showing off the curve of his tiny waist, the slight twitch of his arms when he indulges in an idle stretch. 

you try to restrain yourself from ogling his bare chest and arms too much, but it’s tough. frighteningly so. with the sunlight embracing his skin, muscles on full display, he looks a bit like a sculpture. a little too good to be real.

but he is. and he’s yours. and he’s smirking at you, lazily, affectionately — eyes half-lidded as he balances the tray that’s making the room smell so sweet. just standing there, looking so unfairly gorgeous. waiting for you to muster up the energy to respond to his greeting, more than happy to watch the way your eyes soften as they trail across his features in the meantime.

“morning,” is all you can rasp, eyes closing as your cheek sinks deeper into the mattress. a bit too tired to talk to him properly, and a bit too unguarded to look at him without feeling as if your heart is about to leap out of your throat. 

he’s a little too pretty, like this. framed by the hazy sunshine, like something out of a dream. all soft clouds and gentle caresses, the scent of dried lavender, the pitter patter of rain against a windowsill. all things kind and comforting. 

you’re afraid that your heart might give out, if you look at him for too long.

suguru doesn’t seem to mind. he only chuckles, voice deep and husky, sending shivers down your spine. his lips quirk up into a smooth kind of smile, and he’s quick to make his way to your side; crouching down to meet you at eye level after placing the tray on the nightstand.

a hand comes to caress your cheek. the rough pads of his fingers smooth down your jaw, gentle and doting, as if coaxing you out of hiding. as if you’re made of porcelain. suguru always treats you like you’re fragile, like you’re the most precious thing he has.

(because you are, he thinks. more precious than the expensive vanilla extract he used to make the waffles on the tray, more precious than the diamond-clad ring he’s hidden away in a drawer of the guest room. more precious than anything this world has to offer.)

a blissful little sigh slips from your lips, as you nuzzle into his palm. suguru leans forward to smear a kiss against your forehead, overcome with fondness; warm lips lingering on your skin.

the sensation strikes you as just a little heavenly. his touch is so tender, every caress so full of love. instinctual, the way his love bleeds into his touch, trickles down his veins to the tips of his fingers — smoothing along your skin. such a heavy thing, but he just makes it feel so light. 

“still sleepy?” he hums, a little teasing. eyes crinkling, voice bordering on a coo.

and it’s infuriating. the amusement that flickers through his eyes, the way you can tell he’s itching to tease you for being so groggy and tired.

between the two of you, suguru’s always been the one to get out of bed first, to your grave annoyance. and he’s so smug about it. you want to tell him that waking up so early on a saturday isn’t normal, that he’s the weird one for not being sleepy — 

but when he’s cupping your cheek so gently, all you manage is a meek little murmur of mm. one that has suguru stifling a coo, lips curling up into an adoring smile. 

look at you. his sleepy little baby, dyed in sunrays and tiny specks of dust. so effortlessly pretty, tangled up in fluffy blankets, an image so precious he almost feels like he shouldn’t be looking at it. yet he continues to do so, mesmerized.

(suguru doesn’t mind being a little greedy, when it comes to you.)

“i made you breakfast,” he continues, as you melt into his touch. an absentminded action, but almost brimming with trust; the trust you have in him to treat you well. one he’ll always, always affirm. “your favorite. wanna eat with me?”

breakfast.

something in your brain visibly reacts to the sound of the word, shooing away a little of the morning fatigue still clouding your senses. before you know it, you’ve forced yourself into a sitting position, with groggy movements and a soft groan. rubbing the skin beneath your eyes and kicking the blanket off your legs, a little clumsily.

suguru breathes out a soft bout of laughter, low and amused, as you lazily stretch and indulge in slow blinks. his hand goes to ruffle your hair, and all you do is lean into it.

“i’ll take that as a yes,” he teases, eyes full of fondness. you crack a sleepy smile at his amused tone of voice.

suguru’s hands are big, and a little rough, but still so very soft. you could spend hours tracing them — from the tips of his fingers down to the veins of his wrist, across his knuckles littered with small scratches and barely visible scars. stories of his childhood, that he loves telling you about, almost as much as you love hearing them.

you love his hands. they’re so pretty. so warm and grounding, as they smooth down your hair, unmistakably caring. the weight of them is a comfort, as his fingers card through your bedhead, scratching softly at your scalp. a sensation that makes you feel all fuzzy inside.

suguru is just so good to you.

and you’re only further reminded of that fact when your gaze trails over to the assortment of breakfast foods he’s prepared, neatly stacked on the nightstand. all your favorites, made with so much love; and it’s so evident, even just in the presentation. the freshness of the strawberry slices, the perfect amount of syrup spread over the waffles. the cup of coffee made just the way you like it.

maybe it’s the morning fatigue, or just the softness of the moment. the intimacy, so palpable you can almost reach out and touch it. or maybe it’s something else entirely — whatever the cause, you feel your eyes get somewhat glassy. 

a meek little sniffle leaves your lips, and it catches even you off guard.

suguru blinks. suddenly alert, his morning-fatigued brain trying to comprehend the sight of your teary eyes. brain spinning in circles, not sure if it should be telling him to panic just yet. something in him constricts, twists and turns, a desperate kind of yearning to protect you.

but before he can even reach out to wipe away the wetness with his thumb, you’ve latched yourself onto him.

arms snug around his waist, face tucked under his chin. fitting into him like a puzzle piece. breathing in the remnants of the cologne on his neck; a nice bergamot mix that you like, so he sprays on a little extra just for you. so close to him that you can feel the patter of his heart against you, as you soak in his body warmth. 

and his arms find their way around your form just as naturally, without him even having to think. like every bone in his body was born with a desire to cradle you close. like he was crafted in the image of someone made to soothe you. 

being in suguru’s arms is pure bliss. the most grounding sensation you know, one that never fails to calm you down, no matter how stressed or anxious you’re feeling. with his broad chest and strong arms, his bergamot-scented skin. so doting, pressing little kisses to your shoulder, trying to console you. his hair tickles your cheek a little, but it’s comforting.

”what’s wrong, honey?” he questions, voice set on a low, particularly soothing lilt. coaxing, almost cooing — a tone that buzzes with safety. his big hands go to rest on your head and back, smoothing down your spine.

”nothing,” you sniffle. feeling a little silly. ”you’re just too perfect. ‘s not fair.”

a pause. 

then, a chuckle bubbles up from suguru’s throat. something fond and delightful unfurls in his chest, a kind of relief; a feather-light amusement.

(you’re so ridiculous, he thinks.)

but you only nuzzle further into his neck, all sleepy and affectionate — and it stirs his heartstrings in a way that makes him feel rather helpless. crumbling beneath your touch. gazing at you with soft eyes, a happy little hum buzzing in his throat.

he takes you in, in all your clingy glory; so impossibly sweet. maybe he should have sprinkled some sugar on the strawberry slices, just to see if the taste could ever measure up.

”ah, is that so?” he drawls, a lazy amusement flickering through his eyes. playful. ”i’m sorry, baby. i should be the one saying that to you, though.”

but you just shake your head, arms tightening around his midriff. as if offended that he’d have the audacity to brush off your objectively correct statement, to even think to deny how perfect he is. 

and suguru raises a brow at you, in tandem, a mild protest resting on the tip of his tongue — offended at your blatant disrespect, shaking your head at his factually correct words, as if disagreeing with your own evident perfection. 

but before he can even begin to fight you on the topic, you part your lips to speak.

”thanks for breakfast, sugu,” you sleepily murmur, biting back a yawn. still a little meek, but oh so loving. ”i would die for you.”

he stills, once more. then another soft bout of laughter escapes his lungs, rumbling through his chest like a soothing thunderstorm. it makes you feel so terribly safe.

“there’s no need for that,” he assures you. ”don’t you wanna eat instead?”

to his surprise, he’s met with another soft shake of your head. so snug in his embrace that you could practically live there, only clinging to him a little tighter with a huff.

”just wanna hug you first…” you yawn, arms squeezing at his waist affectionately. shifting in his hold until your lips find their way to his neck.

”i love you,” you mumble, kissing down his jaw and collarbone. sleepy, open mouthed pecks, trailing over the expanse of his pretty skin. ”so much.”

it tickles, a little. suguru digs his teeth into his cheek, ever so slightly, just to hold back the giggle that threatens to break out from his throat.

and it’s maybe just a little too sweet, the sensation that blossoms in his chest, something honeyed and flowery; fluttering deep within his ribcage, like a dragonfly buzzing and trying to break free. it gets him a little weak in the knees.

to distract himself from the voice in his head urging him to go get the ring in the guest room drawer right this instant, suguru scoops you up. cradling you close, as he plops down on the mattress, legs crossed to give you space on his lap.

you don’t protest, only snuggling a little closer — as if yearning to tuck yourself away within his ribcage. 

and suguru chuckles, the deep tremor of his voice reverberating through his chest, echoing in your head as you listen to the rhythmic beating of his heart. rubbing your back with a teasing smile, pressing a kiss against the crown of your head.

“i should make breakfast more often if it’ll get you like this,” he grins, basking in the warmth of your body against his. 

a little whine falls from your lips. muffled into the curve of his shoulder, against his bare skin. “it’s not about the breakfast,” you pout, looping your arms around his neck. “it’s everything you do…”

a heat rises to your cheeks, a little embarrassed at the sappiness you’re exuding. but the sun feels so nice on your skin, and the bedroom smells so good, and the whole world feels so kind. 

inhaling the fragrance of bergamot and coffee, you can only fall apart at the intimacy of the moment. 

“i’m really grateful…” you murmur, resting your lips against his skin. buzzing with a warmth that has him shuddering. “‘m just bad at expressing it.”

suguru’s eyes soften. melting into a tender hue, like that of a creamsicle sunrise sky. a dreamy look smoothes over his features, and a fond hum buzzes in his throat.

“nah, you’re fine,” he drawls, squeezing at your hips affectionately. pulling away ever so slightly, just to plant a kiss on your forehead, brushing your bangs away with a certain bleeding tenderness. “you don’t need to say it out loud. i know, anyway.”

and he does. suguru understands you better than anyone; a point of immense pride, for him. knowing you so deeply that he can practically hear your thoughts before you speak them, knowing what you need at a single glance. just from a certain furrow of your brows, or the slight tilt of a smile you’re trying to hide. 

always one step ahead, folding your laundry on days you’re feeling particularly stressed out, or giving your hand a comforting squeeze when he notices that you’re nervous. always so attentive. it’s a little overwhelming, but also so comforting — to be so thoroughly understood.

his eyes are warm. full of pure affection, a devotion so heavy it makes your heart stutter in your chest. all you can do is glance down, shyly, slumping your forehead against his bare chest. 

your voice comes out a little strangled, still raspy. a little wobbly in the wake of your adoration.

“i wanna appreciate you…” is muffled against his skin, your lips curled down into a soft pout. and suguru breathes out a flustered little breath, amused — somewhat delighted.

“you can appreciate me by eating a hearty breakfast,” he suggests, a teasing tilt to his husky voice. cradling you just a little closer, as if even the miniscule distance between you is unbearable. as if he needs your hearts pressed together to keep himself intact. “how about that, hm? or would you rather give me a kiss?”

a moment passes, and a sleepy hum slips from your tongue. he feels your lips touch the soft skin of his neck, once more; then you muster up the strength to pull back from his embrace, slumping against his shoulder with your back against the headboard. it takes concentrated effort.

and suguru chuckles, again. odd, how a man who’s normally so put-together can’t seem to ever hide his joy whenever you’re around. but suguru is just a little too weak for you — he can’t help but let you strum his heartstrings along, however you want. any kind of melody you desire.

(it just so happens that no melody sounds prettier than a joyous one, when it’s falling from his lips.)

a lovesick smile painted on his face, suguru watches as you finally dig in. and he thinks it’s precious, the strawberry juice smearing your lips, the contentment in your features as your eyelids flutter shut. a mellow kind of pride swells in his chest with every satisfied hum that you grace him with, every giddy declaration of how delicious it all is. 

there’s something about it he can’t quite explain, can’t put his finger on. something almost otherworldly, in how fulfilled it makes him feel, like he’s lived his entire life just for this moment. just for the sake of making you breakfast and watching you wolf it all down.

suguru doesn’t think there's a single better way to show his love for you than this; cooking for you, putting every last drop of his love into everything he makes. from beverages to pastries, each of them carefully chosen to suit your tastes.

there’s an intensity to the labour, something that brings him great joy. the care and excitement in something as small as the flick of his wrist when he pours sugar into your coffee, or the weight he puts on the kitchen knife while cutting the fresh strawberries he spent four minutes picking out at the market.

there’s something about it that’s just so, so tender. that earnest wish to see you happy and healthy, to make sure you never go hungry. taking care of you. it's pure, domestic, love incarnate. he’s so weak for it, so sappy, but he just can’t help it — suguru loves watching you eat his cooking more than anything.

that, and your blissful little expression is a sight to behold. sunkissed by the morning rays flitting in through the window blinds, suguru thinks you look something like an angel, soft and fleeting and so beautiful it makes his heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. heavy thumps of blood; warmth trickling from his heart to his wrists to the pads of his fingers, as he rubs absentminded circles into the skin of your thighs.

and he thinks to himself that all the happiness he needs is right here in front of him. in this moment, with you tiredly munching on the breakfast he made, sipping slowly from your cup of coffee and savouring every last drop. smiling at him so sweetly, so positively precious that he simply can't resist leaning down to taste the caffeine off your lips. 

everything feels so wonderful, so completely and utterly right. the world feels so kind, like this. a world where all that exists is you, and him, and the sun. heaven on earth.

all of it sends a tremor running through his heart, every slight change of the scene reflected in his eyes. the soft smile on your lips, the way you lean your head against his shoulder and bite back a yawn, the expectant look in your eyes as you feed him pieces of your food with a giddy grin —

suguru thinks to himself that he’d sooner die than give it up. 

as much as he loves sleeping in, loves indulging in your warmth until the sun sits comfortably on the blue canvas of the sky, he loves this even more. loves dragging himself out of bed before the sun even has a chance to peek out beneath the horizon painted pink and purple, tired and groggy, and so disgruntled at the warmth that leaves him when he pulls away from your skin. loves making his way to the kitchen almost in a daze, moving around the open space so very naturally; fingers curling around the lid of the espresso machine, and the crinkled paper bag of pastries, and the carton of orange juice he bought just for you.

just watching the world wake up, basking in the peace and domesticity of it all. basking in the thought of you — you, with your messy bedhead and droopy eyes, always blinking up at him so sleepily when he returns to you in the morning. he loves it all.

the soft little frown that sometimes tugs at your lips when you’re still lost in dreamland, blindly and subconsciously reaching for the empty side of the bed when he gets up to stretch. the weight of your arms around his waist, hugging his back on the somewhat rare occasion that you make your way to him before he makes his way to you. the grumbles against his skin about how he always abandons you on your days off, even if he only does it so he can make you both coffee.

you, in all your glory — now resting against his shoulder as you plop the last strawberry into your mouth, closing your eyes with a blissful little sigh.

and suguru feels so lucky. so very honoured, to be the one you chose. the one and only person who gets to see you like this, when your voice is still raspy and your hair is still messy, and you have crumbs sticking to your soft lips that you're too sleepy to wipe away.

he does so, himself, with an amused little huff that’s really more of a sigh laced with adoration. thumb smoothing over your skin gently, a silent i love you hanging on the tip of his tongue. his fingers find their way to your skin so effortlessly. like they belong there, like they exist solely to trace the softness of your jaw and to cradle your cheek.

”thank you,” you beam up at him, grinning sweetly. 

and suguru knows that you mean it. he knows that you’re grateful, knows not a moment goes by when you don’t notice his affections, no matter how subtle. he thinks you're a little bit silly for worrying that he doesn't. but he thinks you're even sillier for not realizing that you deserve all of it and more, that just that sweet smile of yours alone is more than enough to make up for it.

more than anything, he hopes from the bottom of his heart that you know the opposite is true as well. that he appreciates every single thing you do, notices everything you do for him, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem to you.

you're so good to him. always have been. how could he ever bear to not repay you in tenfold?

”you’re welcome,” he smiles, soft and saccharine and genuine. his lips brush against your forehead with a soft peck, one that has your body melting into his just a little more.

breakfast passes you both by in a flurry of warmth, splotches of sunlight and content hums, until you’re lying side by side beneath the blankets once again. curled up close to each other, with you resting on suguru’s chest, cheek smooshed right over his heart. his arm rests on your back, cradling you closer.

”that was delicious,” you chirp, something soft buzzing in your voice as you bite back a yawn. stretching your limbs out lazily, a honeyed smile on your face. ”as always.”

suguru’s a little too tired to fully hide the soft grin that crawls up to rest on his lips, almost smug. awfully happy with himself, and your words of earnest praise.

“yeah? ’m glad,” he hums, looking at you with affection swimming in his eyes. ”i haven’t lost my touch yet, then.”

”of course not,” you exhale, somewhere in between a huff and a chirp. “you could start a whole breakfast diner with your skills!”

the words are teasing, a little much, but laced with a syrupy sweet sincerity that has suguru’s heart doing laps in his chest. thump, thump, thump — strumming his heartstrings along as you please, conducting the orchestra inside his ribcage. but he’d much prefer to think of you as his muse.

a low chuckle rumbles through his body, akin to a purr. buzzing right by your ear, as his fingers curl around yours, his thumb rubbing soft circles into the skin of your hand. ”you think so?” 

an eager nod, as you gaze up at him happily. the sight makes his lips twitch upward, and he can only hope you don’t catch the way his heart skips a beat.

smoothing a large palm over your head, he tousles your hair fondly. ”yeah?” he chuckles, again. “you'll be my first customer, then.”

the smile on your face widens. ”will i get a discount?” you ask, a fuzzy contentment in the way your eyes glimmer. ”since i’m your favorite.”

suguru grins. a husky puff of laughter seeps out of his throat, filling the air with a palpable fondness. it’s almost overwhelming, the affection that simmers in his chest, a cup overflowing. he wants to reach over and smother you in kisses, wants to coo at you. wants to tell you how irresistable you are, like this; so cute and sleepy that he thinks you could probably coax him into giving you every star in the sky.

but that can all wait for another time. he doesn’t want to break the peace of the mellow moment, the subtle intimacy that lingers in the air. the playfulness in your words.

”of course,” he simply says, indulging you with a sweet smile. ”you’ll get all the discounts you want, baby. nothing less for my favorite customer.”

suguru’s eyes crinkle, brimming with love when he hears the happy little giggle that tumbles from your pretty lips. so pretty that he can’t resist pulling you a little closer, to give you another kiss — relishing in the way you soften against him. like you could fall asleep just like this, so safe and comfortable. breathing him in.

sunlight shines in through the window blinds, engulfing you in that familiar heavenly hue. your bedroom almost seems to glow, like a hazy polaroid, a moment that feels too precious to put into words. 

you look stunning, he thinks, with your droopy eyes and sleepy yawns. absolutely breathtaking. soaked in a brightness rivaling that of the sun herself, the most precious thing this world has to offer.

and suguru thinks to himself that this might just be it. that this might be all that he needs, all that he’ll ever need — but he already knew that.

he thinks of sunrises. of soft embraces and fluffy blankets, of expensive coffee pots and diamond rings, of the way your lips curl up every time he kisses you. he thinks of the light of morning, how it always seems to devour everything else. how it makes every sliver of darkness seem so inconsequential.

he thinks of how your presence always seems to do the same. 

when suguru looks down, pulled out of his lovesick stupor by the sound of a little snore, you’ve fallen back asleep. cheek squished against his bare chest, drooling a smidge as you dream so prettily, your chest rising up and down in a rhythmic serenity.

his heart flutters. fleeting and giddy, a little dove trapped in his chest. with a sweet coo, he reaches over to caress your skin with the back of his hand, careful not to wake you — so gentle that he holds his breath, as if afraid that even a single exhale could disrupt your well-deserved rest. 

butterflies dance in his stomach, when he sees the way that makes you smile. a whirlwind of them, wings fluttering eagerly, as if attempting to fly out of his throat. he gulps them down again, but he can still feel them. just like he could when you first met.

butterflies that still haven't gone away, despite how long you’ve been together. butterflies that never will go away, as long as there are plates to fill and breakfasts to be made.

in other words, they're there to stay — forever and ever.

(suguru’s gaze falls on your ring finger. he thinks of the secret in the bottom of the drawer, and wonders what kind of breakfast he should make for you when it’s time to bring it out.)

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 5

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles​)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: Reading and responding to my fic are not a priority right now! If you have a moment or need the escape, by all means take a break and read. I will continue posting for this reason. I ask that when you have finished to please take another moment to contribute to the cause. If it's within your means, donate to a fund set up to post bail for protesters. If you don't (and even if you've already donated), take a few minutes to sign some petitions. Share information about organized protests. And LISTEN to the black people around you who are grieving and angry. Do not speak over them. Please, stay safe and healthy. Xx

“Yeah, she’s a heavy sleeper.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.”

Melody didn’t open her eyes as she awoke the next morning, her stretched-out legs aching from their angle against Harry’s bed and her neck cramped. She wound her fingers together beneath her blanket. Harry’s voice drifted from the top of the bed.

“That chair can’ be comfortable.”

“She's never complained.” Vanessa’s voice.

Harry hummed and Melody heard the rustle of his sheets. “She wouldn’.”

“I think Aiden should be ready for you soon. Should I wake her up?”

Another hum. Melody felt Vanessa’s hand grip her shoulder, shake her lightly. “Melody.”

She sighed, opening her eyes for the first time that day. She blinked against the sunlight glinting off of the floor tiles. Harry was watching her, sitting up on the edge of his bed. Vanessa must have helped him into a pair of pants, and Melody was surprised that he had even let her.

“Good morning, you sloth,” Vanessa said, tipping Melody a sly grin. “I swear you sleep more than anyone I know.”

Melody straightened out her neck, pulling her blanket up to her chin. She dropped her feet down from the bed and batted her tired eyes up at the nurse.

“Yeah, yeah,” Vanessa dismissed. “Get up and help Harry.”

“Do you need help?” Melody asked as Vanessa left the room.

Harry shook his head. He was staring at the wheelchair just a few feet from his legs, pulling his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. He looked lost in thought. Melody raised a brow.

“Are you sure?”

He ignored her question. He leaned forward, reaching toward the arms of the wheelchair, and Melody was on her feet in only a moment. She slipped her arm around his back before he could lean too far, catching the brunt of his weight. It reminded her of that awful night she’d had to walk him home from his fight, when his stomach had blossomed black and blue, when she’d feared he was concussed. When he’d kissed her for the very first time.

Melody helped him the couple of steps to his chair on his weak legs, turned to settle him down onto the seat, and then stood straight in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Didn’t need help, right?” she challenged.

“I didn’,” Harry insisted. He grabbed at the hem of Melody’s t-shirt and tugged her toward him. It was a moment before she realized he was lifting the end to peer at her hip.

“Harry, stop.” She tried to step back but was pulled forward again, smacking her knee into the front of his chair and rolling her eyes up to the ceiling as she bit back a wince.

Harry caught her opposite hip in his hand, fingers still wrapped around her shirt. His eyes lifted to her face, brows drawn low. “Yeh okay?” he asked.

“Mhmm.”

Harry watched Melody as she looked back down at him. He peeled her shirt up again, resting the end at the bottom of her ribcage. There was a purpling bruise just behind her hipbone, splotched and fanning out into the surrounding skin. Harry switched hands to hold up her shirt and turned her by her waist, examining the deepest shade at the center of her hip. He shook his head slowly.

“Yeh got this in a fight?”

“Spar,” Melody muttered.

“Are yeh jokin’?” Harry lifted his eyes away from her hip, and that divot had appeared between his brows again. “Someone gave this to yeh sparring?”

“It’s fine, Harry. It doesn’t even hurt, it just—”

Melody cut herself off with a gasp as Harry’s fingers fell to prod gently at the tender skin. She jerked away from his touch but he pulled her back once again, and she was frozen in surprise as he pressed his hand into the bottom of her spine, touching his lips to the middle of the bruise. His breath fell over her skin in a cloud.

“Know what would be a big help to me?” he asked as he sat back, dropping her shirt and pulling both of his hands back into his lap as though nothing had happened.

Melody inhaled quickly in an effort to recover her wits. She shook her head.

“‘F yeh got naked again.”

Melody didn’t even crack a smile. She still felt the weight of Harry’s kiss on her hip, beneath the cotton of her t-shirt. She didn’t know how he could shift so quickly, easing comedy into things that seemed so serious. And this strange dynamic wasn’t funny to her. She didn’t know how to navigate the space between them. This was the Harry that had explicitly broken up with her, claimed that he didn’t trust her. He might be kissing her and looking at her like he was preparing to sink his teeth into her skin, but she really didn’t know if that same energy connected them emotionally. Did he trust her now? Could he trust her again?

“‘M serious,” Harry said. “Can yeh get changed so we can get downstairs? Unless yeh wanna just meet me down there.”

“All right, speed racer. Chill out.”

“‘M chill. ‘M fuckin’ icy."

Melody shook her head as she turned to rifle through her bag for clothes. She slipped out of her sweatpants and into a pair of leggings, but just pulled a thick hoodie over her t-shirt instead of changing it. Harry’s disappointment was palpable.

“You are a child, Harry,” she said with a roll of her eyes as he frowned at her.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just go.”

Melody shook her head again. She slid her feet into her shoes and then wheeled Harry out of the room, through the hall, and to the elevator. By the time they reached the therapy room, Aiden was waiting by the entrance, posted up against the wall.

“Slow morning?” he asked by way of greeting.

“No, this one just never wakes up on her own,” Harry accused.

Melody huffed half-heartedly. “Can you please shut him up?”

“Gladly.” Aiden grinned at the two of them and followed as Melody pushed Harry through the doorway.

She was surprised by how empty the room was. There was an older woman against the far wall working on her left arm with a therapist, and that was it. Aiden flipped an extra row of lights on before they made their way to their first station. The rain still hadn’t let up. The windows weeped and the outdoors cast a gray gloom over the floor tiles. Melody hoped the weather wasn’t an omen.

Harry sighed as they approached the dumbbells. Melody knew that it was his least favorite activity. Not because it was hard—although he was frustrated that he couldn’t handle the weights he was used to lifting back when he trained with Sean—but because this wasn’t what his main area of focus was. Harry wanted to walk. He wanted to run. And everything else, his strength and flexibility and endurance, that could all wait until he was back on his feet for good. But Melody didn’t fail to appreciate his progress. At first, he’d lacked even the coordination to simply lift and roll a rubber ball.

Aiden helped Harry onto the nearest bench, laying him back, and Melody settled into his abandoned wheelchair. She watched silently as they began through a circuit, working his chest, his arms, his shoulders. She was anxious, jittery. Aiden would determine today whether or not Harry was ready to be discharged tomorrow. He didn’t have to be perfect and he wasn’t going to be completely independent. Melody knew that was going to bother him, but she hoped that if he just showed that he was making enough progress to be allowed home that the new setting would give him some more motivation.

And then there was that new environment that added to her worries. They needed to have a conversation and she wasn’t sure how it would go. Now, probably wasn’t the best time but she was sure if she held off any longer she’d lose all of her gall.

“Hey, Harry,” she began carefully. She glanced up at Aiden, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was hovering over Harry, hands positioned to catch a fallen weight if need be.

Harry huffed in response. He was pouring sweat. It slid along his forehead and dripped to the floor on either side of him. If he was sitting up, it would be stinging his eyes.

“I, uh—” Melody slid her lips back together and took a moment to steel herself. “You couldn’t keep your apartment. The landlord needed to rent it out.” Rip the bandaid right off.

His arms paused, the dumbbells straight above his chest. He was silent for that short moment and then he continued with the next rep, grunting as he pushed his muscles even harder than before. Melody didn’t think this was a good sign. And that idea was reinforced when he didn’t respond.

“Are you gonna say something?”

“What d’yeh want me to say, Mel?"

Aiden no longer looked as focused as before. His gaze flickered between the two of them, unsure of how to moderate if an argument were to ensue.

“I want you to tell me that it’s okay and you don’t mind, or I want you to tell me that you’re pissed off.”

“Well, fine then.” Harry huffed once more as he finished out a rep, nodding to Aiden so that he could catch Harry’s weights. “‘M pissed. But ‘s not your fault. And that doesn’ change anything, does it? Bein’ pissed doesn’ get me my flat back.”

Melody was surprised by his attitude. She’d expected a little bit of a fight, a little more anger, but even as he said he was pissed it was like his emotions were dissipating. She wondered if he had made a conscious decision to control himself. In easier situations he would have been ready to hit something.

“Are you okay living with me, then?” she asked, emboldened by his reaction.

Harry was silent as Aiden helped him shift up into a sitting position. He took the weights back and began with a new exercise, glaring at himself in the mirrored wall before him. Melody watched him grit his teeth with every rep.

“Do I have a choice?” he finally muttered.

Melody couldn’t help the wounded expression that found her face. She took in a sharp breath. Harry’s eyes met her reflection as she made to stand up.

“Mel,” Harry grunted, dropping the dumbbells to his sides. He looked like he was about to try standing himself before he thought better of it, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a short moment. “Tha’s not what I meant.”

“And what did you mean?”

“Nothing. I just—” He huffed, almost grunted, and shook his head. “Nothing.”

Aiden whistled under his breath. “Dude,” he mumbled.

“Fuck off, mate! I didn’ mean that, okay?” Harry stared hard at Melody through the mirror, muscles along his jaw straining. “‘Course I don’ mind stayin’ with yeh. Just would’ve liked if it wasn’ just because I have to, yeah?”

She blinked at him, very aware of the way Aiden was rocking back and forth on his feet. “You could live with Sean. I just thought...”

“Definitely don’ wanna live with fuckin’ Sean.” Harry tilted his head. “Will yeh sit back down, please? ‘M sorry.”

Melody shifted until she was looking across the room at the older woman and the other therapist before she sat back down. Her front teeth gnawed painfully at her lower lip and she could feel Harry’s gaze still on her, but she didn’t turn her head. She remained silent even when she finally reverted to watching Harry work, even when they moved onto his legs. She didn’t speak until Aiden did.

“Well, I think you can leave tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” Harry said at the same time Melody asked, “Really?”

Aiden smiled at them, although he looked like the decision had caused him some inner turmoil, like he was somehow condemning them. Melody, however, wasn’t paying him any mind. She was watching the way that Harry’s face had opened up. He was clutching the bars on the little walkway so tightly that his knuckles had whitened and she almost—almost—forgot the uncomfortable reaction he’d had to coming home with her. For now, she let her fingers sift through the hair at the side of his head and drank in the way that he grinned.

Chapter 6

[botherkupo]

written in the stars (chapter 3)

Summary: He was a god of chaos and destruction. She was a princess whose kingdom had been prophesied to fall. To save her people, she would become his wife. [AU]

AO3

3: Let’s Start Again

He did not come to collect her for meals. Not anymore. A note simply appeared on thin paper to notify her when it was time, no matter where she was in the palace, and her food would be there waiting for her in the dining hall.

His chair was always empty.

She prodded a potato with her fork, listened to the sound of her own chewing, tapped out aimless tunes with her cutlery against the wood. There wasn't even a clock.

Her gaze fixed on the ornate chair opposite hers. "Are you really going to stay away like this?"

Silence.

"What did you even expect? Of course I didn't want to marry someone I've never met, and you're a god, and you just … you …"

Had apologised.

Had given her space because he believed that was what would make her happiest.

A hissed curse escaped her lips and she stood up. "Alright, fine, fine. I'll do it."

Stupid, overly respectful god.

oOo

It took far too long to find him. The palace was a maze of towers and corridors, and he had never told her where his bedroom could be found. (Did gods even sleep or require a bedroom? She had no idea.)

But then she stumbled across an inner courtyard that opened up to the honey-coloured sky. He sat on one of the stone benches, still and quiet like a statue. He seemed transfixed by the tree in the centre. Not that she could understand why. It was dead—just a decaying thing of spindly branches that almost looked like claws grasping for lost leaves. A small hedge rimmed the tree in a circular border.

Well, at least the hedge wasn't dead. The shock of green was a much-needed touch of colour.

One of her husband's cat-like ears twitched and he twisted to look at her. All the words she'd planned to say got lost in a tangle the moment their eyes met. Creases formed on his brow. His head tilted, as if examining her from a different angle would help him figure out what was going on.

Right. She still needed to make words.

"Um, hello," she managed to get out.

"Hello," he said cautiously.

She bit her lip, her hands half-clasped near her chest, interlacing and unlacing her fingers. "Um, so I … I was thinking …"

"Yes?"

"This palace is really big and, um, we're the only ones here …"

He sat up straighter, his gaze fixed on her intensely. "What are you saying?"

She looked down at her hands, toeing the ground with the tip of her shoe. "Maybe … we could go back to having meals together." Her gaze darted to his. "Only if you want, of course."

His jaw went slack. He blinked once, twice, and then his lips curved into the purest, sweetest smile she had seen. It was like sunshine, untainted and bright. "I would like that."

Heat crawled up her cheeks. "Gr-great. Then that's settled."

She turned to leave.

"Wait," he said.

"Y-yes?"

"Do you … would you like to, um … I mean we could …"

Frowning, she turned to look at him. He had stood up and was rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced off to the side. Splotches of pink dusted his cheeks. He looked as shy and awkward as a prince at his first ball, fumbling through an attempt to ask her to dance.

Her expression softened. "What?" she asked gently.

"We don't just have to meet at mealtimes," he said in a rush, his gaze skittering to hers and then off again. "We could also … I mean only if you were okay with it, because I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything just to please me, but—"

"Yes."

He froze. "Wh-what?"

"Yes," she repeated, this time with a smile. "We can spend time together outside meals."

"You really mean that?"

She almost laughed. "Yes."

He grinned. Actually grinned. It was ridiculously adorable.

"I … thank you," he said.

She was tempted to say it was either talk to him or talk to no one, but he looked so cheerful and relieved that she didn't have the heart to burst his happy bubble. Besides, she actually was curious to get to know him more. He was much nicer than she'd expected. Much shyer too. So she simply smiled and asked him what they could do to pass the time together.

"I could give you a proper tour of the palace," he suggested. "That way you won't get lost."

A laugh slipped free of her. She was all too aware that she had no idea how to get back to her tower room from here. "That would actually be perfect."

[xhanisai]

Pretending To Say Goodbye

(My submission for the ML Guess Who challenge! If you’ve guess me right, congrats~)

AO3 / FFN

Summary: 

"We can always make another son, Gabriel. One that is actually fit to bear the mantle of destruction as well as be a sweet, obedient boy that listens to his parents- unlike him."

The consequences of a forbidden wish has never seemed so cruel.

~(x)~

 .

 .

 .

   "No...this isn't how it was supposed to go..."

 The corpse of the Eiffel Tower laid in ruins.  Phantom echoes of the metal groaning filled the air from time to time as the debris that coddled the tower's beams occasionally tumbled from the sharp wind. 

  "This didn't fix our mistake..."

 The Notre Dame continued to crumble bit by bit despite already being destroyed beyond comprehension. The ancient, stained glass windows were nothing but dust that could blind one's eyes if they were unlucky.   From time to time, the sound of the church's bell would haunt the awoken, a bass droll that would vibrate through the air followed by a higher pitched accent that would send shivers down one's spine. 

 "You were meant to just wake up so that you, I and our son could be family again..."

  The sky flickered from one hue to another ethereally, churning to a complexion of butchered meat, to darkening to the shade of blood and then rinse and repeat. The moon hung upside down, alarmingly closer to the earth's orbit and glowed like the eyes of a predator in the night. 

 The acute shaped clouds, almost like pitch black smoke, flared around the moon like the wings of a devil, only spreading across the sky like a plague. The copper scent of blood mingled with the sour stench of death and destruction in the air that mirrored the devastated city it was born in.

  "Son? You call that our son? Don't be silly Gabriel,"

 Two frail bodies, battered and dishevelled, lay side by side in a crater of what's left of the Agreste mansion. 

 Blood pooled from their bodies like a puddle and bloodied hands laid tightly entwined between them, glassy eyes peering ever so slightly under their unmoving lashes. The girl's vacant dead blues remained in contact with the boy's empty greens whilst the icy wind lightly blew against their hair and the blood from her ears and his finger kept on running.

 They didn't move.

 They didn't blink.

 They didn't even breathe.

 "How could you dismiss Adrien like that! Our little Adrien...your little sunshine...remember...? Please...bring him back!"

  Gabriel Agreste begged on his knees again and again, practically grovelling at the feet of the glowing figure that watched him apathetically. The tears that streamed down his weak, exhausted face didn't even make the figure flinch; instead, she stared him down as if he was a mere worm begging not be eaten by the crow.

 Raising a brow, she lifted Gabriel's chin up with her fingers, allowing her lips to stretch into a smile that seemed far too saccharine to be genuine.

 "We can always make another son, Gabriel. One that is actually fit to bear the mantle of destruction as well as be a sweet, obedient boy that listens to his parents- unlike him."

 .

.

.

 In a split second, her hand was smacked away and Gabriel scrambled backwards till he reached the corpses of the failed heroes, biting back a sob as his fingers sunk into the cooling pool of blood that seeped out of the duo. 

 His determined grimace countered her blank smile while they both stood up simultaneously. If anyone were alive nearby, witnessing the husband and wife, they'd have momentarily compared their synced movements to Ladybug and Chat Noir.

 Head bowed down, the man opened his arms like a barrier, as if he was trying to shield the children and took on a defensive stance. Exhaling sharply, he peered back up and gathered all of what remained of his energy to send a powerful, spine chilling glare.

 .

 "You're not my Emilie. My wife adored Adrien more than anything else in the world! She wouldn't have wanted this!" The broken miraculouses that he wore flared with life on his earlobes and finger, filling the deranged man with hope. The cracked gloss of the earrings swirled with a red light whilst the shattered steel of the ring glowed acidically. 

 Creation and destruction is not dead yet! There is a chance to set things right!

 "Ah, ah, ah," Emilie- the imposter tsked playfully, wagging her pointer finger at him and ventured closer despite Gabriel crouching animalistically. "Looks like you didn't know me all that well, Gabe. Quite ironic for someone who wielded the mantle of empathy." She purred but that only filled Gabriel with dread from head to toe.

 "How should I prove that I'm the real deal, dear? Should I..." She hummed exaggeratedly, tapping her finger against her cheek with nonchalance. "...recite our first date?" She was now trailing a hand up his arm. "Our first kiss?" Her hand curled behind his neck, cupping it as her fingers tangled with his shorter locks. "Our wedding night?" She was only a breath away now, melting away all of Gabriel's defenses, regardless of the way his mind was screaming to fight back. "Or when we discovered the miraculouses?"

 A tight slap was delivered across his face, whipping his face to the side, the inhuman strength behind it caused his body to lurch backwards like he's been whacked with a baseball bat. He crashed through numerous walls and buildings like a bullet until he was finally sprawled within the remnants of the Dupain-Cheng's boulangerie. 

 It hurt to move.

 It hurt to see.

 It hurt to breathe.

 "I...I-I...I'm s-sorry...Adrie-Adrien...Mar-Marinette...so...so sorry..." The words came out as dying whisper from his throat, followed by blood being coughed out horrendously. Gabriel's vision swirled into a fuzzy blur till all he could see was splotches of colour. 

 He was dying.

 He wasn't going to make it.

 "N-Nooroo..." He whispered, summoning the frenzied lilac kwami from the brooch under his torn tie, having hidden there for the time being. The little God fluttered anxiously, hand cupping his mouth as horror etched into his face when he had a quick glimpse of the world around him. Just the sight of the fallen Ladybug and Chat Noir in the distance and a blonde woman that began to float towards them not too far away was enough to make him heave.

 "Master...what have you done?" Nooroo sobbed, clutching what's left of Gabriel's tie. "Your wish got everyone killed...it got your son killed!" Big, fat tears rolled down the little butterfly's cheeks, internally berating himself for not trying hard enough to stop his charge from creating this dystopian world. 

 "Nooroo...no am-amount of apologies or r-regrets...from me...will salvage this..." With the last of his energy, Gabriel pulled the earrings out of his lobes and slipped the ring off, handing them to the distraught kwami. 

 Nooroo gasped at the jewels, tears only cascading furthur and then glanced back as Gabriel. For the first time in what seems like decades, a soft smile was present on the usually stoic man's lips. 

 "T-There are...survivors...there must be! Find them N-Nooroo...they can ch-change this timeline!" With another gasp, Gabriel slumped back into the debris and exhaled his last breath. Eyes that mirrored steel clouded into a murky grey as the head he always held up in pride finally lowered down.

 Nooroo awaited for a heartbeat, a breath, anything. Alas, acceptance settled in the ancient God's core and he respectfully bowed his head towards the now dead, ruthless man that deserved a fate much worse than what he was given. 

 Blinking back his tears, Nooroo darted away as fast as he could with the miraculouses of creation and destruction in hand. 

 "This isn't a goodbye...not yet!"

.

.

.

~(x)~

.

.

.

  The survivors lost the battle.

 .

[strato-viper-raven-blog]

Shoot-em-Up Drabbles and such

Reading the Hardcore 101 Shoot-em-Up Vol. 2 book inspired me to quickly dash off this short Battle Garegga hurt/comfort fic. Translating and reading Japanese Battle Garegga fics has inspired me to try my hand at one. It also inspired me to headcanon the Wayne Bros as being rather sensitive types or 'cute' in a way. ;)

Content Warnings: Mentions of Torture, Eye trauma, and PTSD/Panic Attacks.

Brian groaned as he tried to flex his bound wrists as he dangled from a hook attached to the roof beams. The Federation’s ‘Supreme Investigator and Judge’ De La Costa cleaned the needles with a gold embroidered handkerchief. Dabbing a bit of rubbing alcohol on the cloth before he did so. He smiled a genuinely affable smile.

“I find sewing needles much more effective for my work. Don’t you?”

Brian remained silent.

De La Costa rose up, a few needles in the palm of his hand and said, “Now wouldn’t it be much more effective for you to tell us where the Garegga Series planes are hidden?” He slowly walked up to Brian, until he was close enough to trace a needle down his cheek, “It would be a shame if a genius engineer such as yourself lost an eye.” He hissed with sweet venom, “A mechanical engineer without sight would be worse than useless, wouldn’t they?”

Brian jerked awake, clutching his chest. His heart beating a million miles per minute and as he breathed in short, ragged gasps. Fever sweat forming on his brow and sliding down his face. His bandaged right hand instinctively covering his managed, taped-up eye.

Dear lord, what punishment have the Federation done this time? Brian thought as he instinctively hunched over as his fever spread through his body.

“Brian? Brian! You got to calm down. You’re having another nightmare!”

Jay? No, it couldn’t be the surprisingly youthful voice of his younger brother. The only good thing that happened during their botched attack on the rebuilt Black Heart Mk II was that Jay had managed to escape while he caused a diversion. Did what remained of the Federation had managed to capture him too?

“Brian? I need you to breath for me.” Jay said eerily calm, “On the count of four I want you to take a breath.”

It could be a trick, Brian’s interrogator could have forced a gun behind Jay’s back and told him to say those words so he could get him to talk.

Still, it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter.

One…two…three…four. He took a deep breath. His heart slowed down as Jay said “Now hold for four more seconds.”

Brian slowly started to relax, the only thoughts in his mind was saving his little brother.

“Now exhale.”

His breath came out in a rush, followed by an ‘Uhhnn.” Jay’s voice saying “It’s ok, your safe now, far away from the Federation.”

Safe?

Never mind that, just focus.

“Okay, I need you to repeat. This is going to help you out a lot big brother.”

One, two, three, four, breathe in, hold, exhale, and repeat. A monotonous but soothing repetition which allowed him to settle down, his muscles sagging in relief. Then they started aching everywhere. Brian blinked his good eye several times before he opened it.

He sat in a small, sparsely decorated bedroom with sunshine pouring through the window next to his bed, warming him. The fresh, soft cotton sheets a cool and welcomed relief on his tortured body.

“Thank goodness I was able to help! You’ve scared me quite a bit Brian!” Jay said, wearing shirtsleeves with a few red-orange splotches on the front and a navy blue floppy hat with his flight googles on top of it.

“I’m really sorry Jay.” Brian managed to smile a little, “I must have scared you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it Brian. I was just glad I could do something for you.” He replied, beaming with joy. He grabbed the bowl of soup on top of drawers and gently handed it to Brian. The smell of tomato and spices hit his nose. He breathed deeply, smiling again as the thought of a comforting meal pushed the nightmares away.

Brian looked down to see a steaming, thick liquid as Jason said “It should still be hot.” He took a spoon, winching a little as he scooped up a mouthful. It tasted nice, warm, and chewy as he tasted the savory citrus tang of tomato mixed in with bread, eggs whisked into little clumps, and thick pieces of salty bacon.

“I know we don’t eat a lot of red meat, but you need to build up your strength after…” Jason stopped speaking. Trying to put words to the incident brought images of a small farm smelling of decay and manure which hid a bloodied brother hovering near death.

The brothers stayed silent. No need to mention the ordeal now.

“This soup is pretty good.” Brian said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh it was nothing, just a bunch of stuff I threw together.” Jay replied.

“No, I appreciate it, you’re a lot stronger than you think you are Jay.” Brian said. Jason broke down crying much to his amazement.

“Damn it Brian! Don’t do anything stupid like that again!” Jay said as he came up and gently hugged him, “Didn’t it ever occur to you that I still need my brother?!”

Brian lightly hugged him despite the painful throbbing, letting his brother sob out his relief. Jay was just so glad his brother wasn’t killed in revenge by a Federation that didn’t know they had already crumbled into irrelevancy.

“Don’t worry.” Brian said, lightly pinching Jay’s nose with his fingers, “My little brother is pretty good at pulling my fat out of the fire.”

Jay laughed through his tears as he said “Cut it out Brian.” In mock whining. Brian chuckle in return, even if he did had a spasm of pain. It was good to be back home.

The End

[babbushka]

Each Eye (3/8)

Kylo was the most feared boss in the entirety of New York City. They said that the crime families were no more, that they had disappeared with the end of an era. You knew it wasn’t true, you saw first hand. The families didn’t disappear, they simply went underground, adapted.

Lucky for you, your man, and your family, no one could ever get rid of crime. Not really.

Mob Boss!Kylo x Reader

Word count: 6.6k Warnings: N*FW, mostly fluff/domestic, mentions of violence/murder 

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

The next morning, you woke up with a smile on your face.

Yesterday had been stressful, but what was a little stress every now and then? It was late, much later than you expected – already nearing eight o’clock, and your husband was still snoring heavily next to you.

Your husband, you thought as your smile grew ever wider.

You stretched out as best you could, those arms of his tightening around you on instinct, still asleep and yet not wanting you anywhere else than right right right next to him. The two of you were facing one another, and he had wound his arms and legs around you in the middle of the night, after a full reheated dinner and a glass or two of wine.

You simply looked at him for a little while, admired him. 

God Kylo was so handsome, you couldn’t help but think. So incredibly, beautifully formed. From the slope of his nose to the plush fullness of his lips, even those thick eyebrows and big ears – all of it perfectly crafted. He mumbled to himself, low baritone in a register you couldn’t make out, hot breath on your face as he shifted against you, pressed his hard cock against your thigh.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes fondly, ever so in love, as you reached a hand up to trace the bridge of his nose again and again, back and forth, little strokes that had him snuffling awake.

“Honey,” You whispered, smooching the spot where his dimples were hidden by a morning scowl.

“Mhm?” Kylo asked, rolling you both over so you were propping your chin up on his chest, beaming up at him.

“Guess what day it is?” You grinned, and he smiled for you, quirked the shyest little smile that had you nearly giddy. 

He knew you loved to see him smile, was making more of an effort to do it for you, let himself do it for the both of you.

“I don’t have to guess.” He murmured, craning his neck to kiss you, loosening his hold just enough for you to shimmy down down down his body, settle yourself level with his cock.

“What are you doing all the way down there?” He asked with a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“Giving you a good morning.” You said simply, running your fingers through his unruly pubic hair, teasing that cock of his with just the barest ghost of your fingers.

He licked his lips, and you chuckled just a little at how easy it was to rile him up, how easy it was to get him going.

You gave him more – more friction, more pressure, more speed as you jerked him off. He flushed beautifully, handsome handsome handsome, cock thick and curved and twitching, the most beautiful noises slipping out from between Kylo’s lips at the touch of it. 

But that wasn’t enough, both of you knew it wouldn’t be, and you had to get yourself to stop smiling so you could suck him off, hollowing your cheeks around his length.

“Shit,” He groaned, a hand coming down to tangle with your hair, press you closer to the base of his cock, get your nose right up against his skin so you could smell the musk of him. “(Y/N), shit, yes.” He grunted and groaned at the feeling of you around him.

Sucking this dick had taken so long, so much time, so much practice to get right, but once you had, it was a skill you were immensely proud of. Kylo’s cock was huge, unfairly long and too wide, nearly too wide to get down your throat.

But you were nothing if not a champ, and over the years of fucking you figured it out, figured out how to make him cry, how to reduce him down to a babbling mess when you wanted.

You didn’t want that right now, just wanted to make him feel real good, so you gave the best blowjob you could, his fist tight in your hair, breathing heavy up the mattress.

“Stop, please – I want to come in you.” He whined, and you pulled off of him real slow as you gripped the base of his shaft so he wouldn’t accidentally blow it, let him watch his cock slide out of your mouth, seemingly never-ending.

It was flushed so red, cut tip flared beautifully – handsome, just like the rest of him. It oozed and dripped pre-come for you, steady and sticky and absolutely delicious. You just had to lick a broad stripe up the shaft, just had to make him moan for you.

With one fluid motion, you climbed back up the bed, straddled his hips. His hands immediately grasped your waist, dug into the flesh there with white-knuckle tension, bruising tension, held you as you sunk down on his length with lots of breathy little moans that had his chest flushing red in bright splotches of arousal.

Normally you would have liked some preparation for this, for this monster he had, fingering or eating you out or something because he was just too much to handle on a normal day. Somehow you got him all in you, and you had to brace yourself on his chest, huffing and puffing like you won the marathon, like you just climbed a mountain – mounting this man.

“Fuck, god you’re so fucking big, you know that?” You moaned, rolling your hips, back and forth like the steady rhythm of crashing waves in the ocean.

His hands traveled up and up and up your body, pushing and pulling at your tits, wrapping around your neck and holding you there, caressing you, as you fucked yourself on his cock, clenching tight around him, making him stutter out a big groan that you felt in his chest from where your hands were steadying yourself.

“Yeah – good?” He was fully awake now, big brown eyes wide open and glittering honey golden with the sunshine streaming in.

“Real good honey oh fuck – Kylo!” You yelped with a laugh when he wrestled with you suddenly, wrangling you on your back so he could plow into you.

He huffed a short laugh out too, before he started sucking on your neck, pinching your nipples, making you come and come and come on his cock. 

You moaned and sighed and gasped for him, eyes shutting tight as your whole body went electric, went on fire.

Kylo’s hips stilled against you after another couple of minutes, and he came, and you pinched his nose playfully.

“I didn’t say you could do that.” You teased, meaning the switching of positions.

“But it’s our anniversary.” He tried, and you conceded, shook your head with fondness and kissed him for a little bit.

You kissed until your breathing had both evened out, until all the relaxation and bliss had started to wear off, until the cramps and the full bladder and itchy cooling sweat started to kick in.

He pulled out of you, made sure none of his come leaked, and let you finally for the first time that morning, stretch.

“What do you want to do today?” He asked, watching you with somehow still hungry eyes, eyes that scanned down your body, eyes that told you you’d really be in for it today.

You thought about what you wanted while he drank in the sight of you. You knew he had something planned for that evening, he always had something planned. Even on a regular day, not an anniversary, just because he wanted to, had something planned.

But that wouldn’t be until tonight. He gave you free control of the day, on days like this. And as the sun shone through the huge open windows of the bedroom, you remembered your thought from a while back.

“Can we go swimming, please?” You asked, resting your head on his calf where he had his ankles crossed on the mattress, “The sun is out for the first time all month.”

“Are you going to wear a bathing suit?” He asked, making you laugh.

“I don’t have to.” You waggled an eyebrow, and you swore you saw his cock twitch.

“Let’s go swimming.” He said, as if it were the greatest idea he had ever heard, making you laugh again.

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

The apartment never failed to impress you. When you and Kylo had begun looking for a place to call home, a permanent residence in the city right after you married one another, he had been pretty hands-off for the whole thing. He trusted you, he loved you, and frankly he didn’t give a shit where he lived, as long as it was with you, which meant you got free reign for everything from the amenities to the furnishings.

One of the reasons you picked the huge three-story penthouse, was because of the roof-top terrace and pool that was private access, just for you and him.

In the summer-time the pool was kept nice and cool, and in the autumn the heater was turned on so it could still be enjoyed before the frigid winters shut the party down. And oh what a party you did have, just the two of you, all the time.

You had a custom-built cabana made for lounging, fucking, eating, whatever else you two wanted to do, in addition to a full kitchen and an entertainment system. Usually you just asked your smart home devices to play music soft enough that only you could hear, but it had the power to drown out all the noise of the city if you wanted it that loud. The skyline around you was stunning, and whenever the two of you came out there at night, it often felt like you were on top of the world with all the lights on display.

Kylo had just tugged a clean pair of boxers on, and you remained naked – albeit wiped down and cleaned up for the day – as you re-dressed his broken knuckles before going up your private elevator to the roof.

The weather was perfect, one of the very rare days in the city where it wasn’t blisteringly hot or freezing cold, wasn’t rainy or cloudy, just a perfect blue sky and shining sun, a soft breeze rippling the water of the deep blue pool.

“Put lotion on me?” You asked eagerly, not wanting to burn.

“Sit on my lap.” Kylo nodded, settled himself down on one of the comfortable lounge chairs.

You went happily, handed him the spf and let his hands work their magic.

In moments like this, you could feel how much he worshipped you, could feel the adoration and care he pressed into your skin with each pass of his big hands. He rubbed and massaged your skin, patiently and evenly applying the sunscreen – always so patient, so thorough.

He was silent as he did it, only tapping your shoulder to tell you to turn around when he had covered every square inch of your back and arms. His brow pinched in concentration as he rubbed your front down, taking extra care with your face, huge fingers trying their best to be delicate. 

How ironic, you thought, this gentleness, this delicacy, from a man who could snap you right in two.

It thrilled you, made your heart soar that you had the love and trust of this man, your man.  

“Want me to get you?” You asked quietly, but he just blushed right to the tips of his ears.

“No.” He murmured, swirling lotion to your thighs, to your stomach. Intense concentration, trying to hide his erection.

He was unbelievable, you thought with a big, knowing grin.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” You asked, arching into his touch, making a show of it.

“Not yet, I want to watch you a little bit first.” He swallowed hard, finally finishing and leaning back against the chaise.

“Ohh are you gonna jerk off?” You raised an eyebrow, let your fingers walk down his chest.

“Maybe.” He blushed, and bingo.

You hauled him up off the chaise, dragged him to the edge of the pool.

The water glistened and shone in bright sparkles from the sun, and you desperately wanted to see him soaking wet and tanned, such a rare treat that you didn’t get to often enjoy. You loved the way the light glinted off of the star around his neck, loved the way it brought out his freckles and darkened his beauty spots, loved the way it warmed his hair and enriched the chocolatey brown color you thought so striking.

“Maybe maybe maybe, hmm. I thought I was more inspiring than just a maybe.” You pouted, looped your arms around his shoulders, went dangerously close to his lips, nipples brushing his chest ever so slightly.

He groaned and his hands found themselves removing your arms, wanting nothing more than to kiss and kiss and kiss your palms, your knuckles, press them against his face adoringly with a quiet, smoldering gaze.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re trouble?” He asked, voice so so so deep, always so deep.

“Once or twice.” You winked, “They didn’t live very long afterwards.”

“Oh yeah? What happened to them?” Kylo’s teeth grazed the meat of your palm, and you shuddered under his touch.

“A ferocious villain by the name of Kylo killed them.” You mused, making him smile against your hands, making him collect you up in his arms, give you a smooch. “Are you taking me anywhere tonight?”

“Maybe.” He said playfully, with a great big shy smile, and you tugged on his ear.

“You give me one more ‘maybe’ and I won’t let you come for a week.” You teased, making him plant big wet sloppy kisses to your neck and cheek.

“It’s a surprise.” He conceded, and you immediately lit up.

“Are we going out of the country?” You searched his eyes, and he knew, he knew he couldn’t lie to you, there’s no way he’d get away with it, so he just rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Not tonight, but soon.” He admitted, and you squealed. You’d been dying to get out of the country for a little while, dying to visit your favorite of the vacation houses Kylo owned.

“Give me a kiss?” Kylo asked, and you complied happily, eagerly, let yourself get swept up in his arms and twirled around for a moment or two – 

Before he dropped you, dumped you right in the pool with a big hearty laugh that had you too in love to even be mad about.

“I’m going to kill you!” You righted yourself, laughed at the sudden feeling of being airborne, the heated water kissing your skin, at his cheeky fucking grin as he settled himself back down in the cabana.

“You can’t, I’m all the way over here.” He said simply, making you smack the water so it would be sure to splash him, even all the way over there.

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

You swam leisurely, alternating between laps and just floating, letting the sun warm and kiss your skin. You could feel Kylo watching you, feel his eyes on you as you went back and forth. At one point he did jerk off, lazily stroking his cock to the sight of your soaking wet curves, hair clinging to you, your teasing smile goading him on.

He got antsy, being away from you for too long.

Even though you were barely ten feet away from him, he still felt the need to be closer. Always close, needed to keep an eye on you, a hand on you. After he came and cleaned himself up, he laid down right on the tile of the edge of the pool, laid down and let one hand dangle over the edge, conscious of the bandages. You swam right up, half hidden beneath the water, and gently clasped his hand in your own, pressed a wet kiss to his wrist.

You could be mean and yank him into the pool, but he looked so good just lying there, looked like some Adonis with all the muscles in his back and shoulders, strong and sturdy and on display for you. You both simply enjoyed one another’s presence, you floating on your back, and him laying on his stomach.

You wondered what you’d look like, should a plane or a helicopter or an astronaut pass you by. Would they see a mob boss and his wife, would they see the scars and marks that littered your bodies? Would they see the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders, the body count that trailed him wherever he went?

Or would they see two lovers, floating in time and space, content to hold hands on the edge of a pool?

You smiled at him, and he blinked slowly at you, some big great cat. If he could, he probably would be purring.

“I’m fucking starving, can we order in food?” You whispered, just reveling in the closeness, the softness with him.

“No.” He joked, deadpan, leaned over to kiss the saltwater right off your lips.

“What do you want, French?” You asked, and he nodded, gears turning in his head for a minute or two.

“The crepes that are stuffed with that filling I like.” He decided, and you laughed.

“The chicken portabella?” It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, and he knew that.

“Yeah.” He said, humming as he kissed you some more.

“Honey that’s dinner, I don’t think they’ll serve them this early.” You splashed a little bit of water onto him, just the smallest bit that you watched evaporate right off his sun-drenched skin.

“They will for me.” He said, quirking an eyebrow in that smug way of his.

“Alright then, you call them, big shot.” You shook your head fondly, letting go of his hand to push yourself out of the pool. “I’m going to rinse off.”

“Wait I’ll come with you.” Kylo said suddenly, quiet desperation always in the back of his throat.

You padded over to the cabana, plucked a soft fluffy towel from the rack and used it to dry off enough so that you wouldn’t be dripping all over the apartment.

“You didn’t get in the water.” You pointed out, rubbing your hair dry, all exposed for him, only for him to see.

“I know.” He said, and his eyes darkened with lust that you wouldn’t, couldn’t deny.

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

After a quickie in the shower that left you both breathless, and wrapping yourselves up in robes that were soft and luxurious, you and Kylo found yourselves with growling stomachs in the living room, laying on top of one another comfortably on the grand sectional.

Kylo was scrolling through his contacts until he finally found the man he was looking for, and dialed it, holding it up to one of his big ears.

“Slip? Hey can you please do me a favor and run down to that bistro we like for me real quick…?” Kylo asked, making you smile.

He always did that, phrased things like that, when he was talking to his own guys. Could you, would you, Please and thank yous, ever the gentleman, ever the most polite. He had manners, and even though these guys had sworn a blood oath to Kylo, even though they pledged their lives to him, would never refuse him, he still asked.

“Hi Slip!” You called happily into the receiver.

“The missus says hi – he says hi back – oh did you get the numbers from Lenny? Good, go take some cash down to his place since you’ll be over there. Ask the bistro to make us some breakfast, tell them who it’s for, they’ll remember the order. Thanks.” Kylo listened when Slip spoke, talked when it was his turn, nodding to himself as the wheels went around and around in his head.

He didn’t like talking on the phone, but he hated texting more – said his fingers were too big for the buttons. He tossed the phone just out of arm’s reach, and you wriggled out of his grasp for a minute, walking over to the massive dvd collection that was stored in the theater room next door.  

“Can we re-watch the video while we wait?” You asked, already rifling through the personal home video section.

“Sure thing honey.” He said, fondness in those soulful eyes of his as you returned, waving a plastic case in your hand with a great big smile.

 Your wedding had been, in a word, legendary.

It was the largest wedding any of the families had ever seen, ever attended, ever held. Combining two of the largest crime families in New York City was bound to be spectacular, just by the sheer amount of people that had to be invited, but your parents really spared no expense. Your union had been something that the families had been looking forward to for years and years, finally getting the chance to celebrate.

Absolutely everyone was invited – it wouldn’t do to leave someone out and offend them. All the families got invitations, all the friends of the families, all the friends of the friends. You started to get teary eyed, reliving the beauty of the moment, watching Kylo stand with such a straight back, such squared shoulders, fists clenched in front of him from nerves, ears sticking out from where he had combed his hair back, kippah pinned in place.

“Three whole years, can you believe it?” You asked, watching yourself walk down the aisle to the chuppah, a train so long and heavy that three people had to lift it, and you smiled wetly, resting your head on Kylo’s shoulder as you took your place next to him.  

“No.” Kylo murmured, his hand giving yours an affectionate squeeze, “Feels like a lot longer than that.”

You smiled, because you felt the same.

“It kinda has been, hasn’t it?” You asked, not taking your eyes away from Uncle Luke, as he read out the long passages on screen, “It has for me, anyway.”

The Organa family had always been very good friends the Serenno family. Since the time of Kylo’s grandfather – back when the family still held the Skywalker name – and your grandfather came to America in search for freedom, for life, for opportunity. But it wasn’t just for business they forged a friendship over, it was for company, for being two sides of the same coin, in a way.

Anakin and Serenno, often referred to as Vader and The Count, built themselves up from nothing, built the strongest, biggest, most untouchable Jewish crime families the city had ever seen. They had friends and enemies all over, but everyone knew them, and they knew everyone. That was still true today, you found.

By the time you were born, all those decades later, the families had only grown stronger together. Every birthday, wedding, holiday, Friday night, everyone got together. You only hung out with each other, only went on vacation with each other. Growing up, you thought that there weren’t any other people in all of New York aside from your family and the Skywalkers, the Organas.

Serenno had four children, all boys. Each of those boys had four children as well, and you were the youngest, making you the absolute princess of the family. You were also one of only two girls, you and Gwen. While you had opted out from being a part of any business deals, you were always around, because of course you were. 

Always observant, always watching. 

Even from a young age you could spot a liar like no one in your family could, so you were often a valuable asset to just being in the room with rats or cheats.

Kylo was a few years older than you, and he was also always around. Growing up, the two of you often found yourselves sitting next to each other at the kid’s table, laughing and talking and eating together, dancing together. He was your friend, had always been your friend – your best friend.

“I’ve loved you since the first time I ever met you.” He said, breaking you out of your thoughts, as you watched a younger version of your husband stomp on a glass, eliciting a big round of applause.

“You were five, and I was an infant.” You pointed out, making him scowl at you.

“Don’t be a brat, you know what I mean.” He tucked you closer to him, rested his head on top of yours.

Kylo first met you at your simchat bat, when you were literally just a newborn. He had been dragged by his parents to come meet you and pay respects to the family so he was incredibly grumpy, but you had absolutely no recollection of the event, all things considered. You knew there were photographs in the family archives somewhere, and one of these days you planned on embarrassing the hell out of Kylo by finding them.

But as it was, you were feeling extra lovey-dovey, and you batted your eyelashes up at him, smooching the beauty spot on the underside of his chin.

“When was the first time you thought about marrying me?” You asked again, and Kylo surprised you by answering right away.

“When you danced with me at my bar mitzvah.” He hummed, and the doorbell rang.

You waited on the couch for Kylo to go to the door, grab the breakfast from Slip and then close the door again, waiting for him to put everything on display for you, the crepes, the pastries, the coffee in those fancy biodegradable to-go cups.

“Remember how I was as tall as you then?” You teased, “And stronger? And smarter?”

Kylo rolled his eyes, cut into his chicken and mushroom crepe that absolutely must have been a bitch to make.

“Not my fault you had your growth spurt before I had mine. And you were in tall shoes.” Kylo muttered around a mouthful of breakfast, and you laughed brightly at how he was still sore about it, twenty-two years later.

“You tower over everyone now, I hardly think it matters much.” You pointed out, digging into your own breakfast with a ravenous excitement.

“When you danced with me I thought about how it was so much like dancing at a wedding, but I don’t think I even really knew what that meant then, why I wanted to protect you so much, why I wanted to hang out with you all the time.” He said quietly, and you listened, listened with every fiber of your being. 

Declarations like these did not come frequently from Kylo.  

“You’ve always been so smart, so capable. That day you beat the shit out of those gutter kids for calling you a...well, I don’t have to tell you what they called you. But that was the moment I knew you were different from everyone else, anyone else I had ever met.” He continued, “I wanted you to like me, desperately, wanted you to laugh at my jokes and think I was cool. I wanted you to love me like I loved you.”

“I grew up loving you.” You said, when it felt like he was done. “I don’t know what it feels like to not be in love with you – even before I knew what being in love really was. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if you never left.”

 When the two of you grew up, you became closer than ever. Not quite dating, no feelings admitted yet, but the tension was undeniably there. Kylo, back before he had even been Kylo, back before Snoke and the shitshow and the fight and the murder – before all of it, he was some gangly kid with limbs too long, eyes too eager, eager to tell you about his day, eager to hear about yours on long walks and lunches.

But then Snoke did show up, and when Han went out on smuggling runs, Kylo would join Snoke on whatever adventures he offered, desperate to still be a part of something, to prove himself worthy to a family who had always feared him, always tried to prevent him from living to his full potential.

Kylo would bring you back something, from those trips with Snoke. He always brought you back something. It was a silent promise, something you could count on, something to make sure he’d return to you.

At first they were awkward gifts you didn’t know what to do with. Fresh pears and apples from out East that you would cook in every way you knew how, rocks and pebbles from rivers across the country that you lined up along your windowsill. Eventually he graduated to pieces of jewelry and fur coats, but you found those strange tokens were always your favorite, the smaller gestures just as valuable as the larger ones.

But then, more and more, Kylo got involved with things he maybe shouldn’t have. Smuggling stolen goods turned to smuggling drugs real quick, turned to weapons even quicker. He bulked up, became just as broad as he was tall, was used as an attack dog to kill and beat and maim those who went against Snoke, those who pissed him off.

You watched, watched as your best friend became something of a puppet, a toy to be manipulated and tossed aside. You watched as it tore his family apart, as they were split between wanting to help Kylo, and wanting to kill him. That’s when Kylo went away, had to go away, couldn’t handle dealing with those people any longer; a father who gave up on him, a mother and uncle who feared him, a sister who hated him.

He had no desire to change, no desire to return to the way things were. He was plotting, always plotting, and while it broke your heart to see him leave, you knew that when he came back he’d be stronger than he ever was, more powerful than he ever could have been.

He had gone away for years, gone without a trace.

Occasionally, you’d find a basket of pears on your front doorstep, and even though there was no note or card or hint or clue, you knew.

It wasn’t until that day after the fight, after the big murder, that you saw him again.

Moaning and groaning and bleeding out in a back alleyway, face split open and left for dead your best friend laid at your feet. You didn’t even cry, too shocked at the state of him, too terrified that he might kick the bucket at any minute, that you corralled him up into your arms and dragged him home, fixed him up, cleaned him up.

You smiled, thinking about how he confessed his feelings in a stupor, too out of his mind from pain and death and dying to hold back anymore.

And now here you were, years and years later, sitting on the couch eating crepes.

Wasn’t that something?

“It was the right decision.” Kylo said, making you nod. 

Because it had been, even if it was messy.

“I know, I just wish it hadn’t been such a painful one.” You replied, feeding him a fresh strawberry, making him chase it all the way to your lips. “Those years without you fucking sucked.”

He hummed against you, stole strawberry flavored kisses right from your hand, chuckled a little to himself.

“Yeah, they sucked for me too. What a load of bullshit that was.” He sighed, smiling against your lips – as the doorbell rang again.

You frowned, and Kylo immediately tensed, all playful atmosphere diminished.

You got up calmly – knowing that if it were someone here to kill either of you, they wouldn’t be so polite – wrapped your robe tight around your waist, and creeped over to the peephole, groaning to yourself when you saw the familiar blue uniforms.

You left them hanging, recognizing the officers and knowing that they wouldn’t go breaking the door down if left alone for a few minutes.

“Speaking of bullshit – pigs.” You rolled your eyes, pressing pause on the dvd player.

Kylo’s scowl returned, eyes darkening out of something altogether different from earlier, and he stood up too.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding?” Kylo groaned, making you shake your head empathetically.

“Nope, go put some pants on, I’ll deal with them.” You patted his exposed thigh from where his robe struggled to contain him, and he groaned again, not wanting to have to leave you.

You gave him a look and he sighed ever so dramatically, leaning down for one more kiss.

“Love you, be right back.” He grumbled, and you couldn’t help but pinch his ass as he walked past you.

 Once he was out of sight, you fixed your clothing and made sure none of your own skin was exposed, before going back to the front door and unlocking all the locks, swinging the door open with a calm smile on your face.

“Good morning officers, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” You asked, nothing but the picture perfect definition of civil.

Officers Poe and Finn were on the other side of your door, and you had dealt with them long enough to know that they would jump at absolutely any opportunity to get you, your husband, or any of the family for that matter, thrown in jail.

So, you didn’t give them any reason to. Where they could take an inch and turn it into a mile, you barely spared a millimeter.

Being that as it was, you stepped aside and let them into the apartment.

“Please take your shoes off, if you’d be so kind.” You said, pointedly waiting.

Finn and Poe looked at one another, and did as they were told. They were smarter than to fuck around with you.

“Morning Mrs. Ren, we have a warrant to search the place.” Finn handed you a signed warrant and you let out a breezy laugh.

“Is that all?” You joked, purposefully being playful before letting them wander around the foyer.

Poe immediately went into the living room, started rifling through side tables and wall unit shelves, looking for whatever it was he wasn’t going to find.  

“You having a party?” Finn asked, following you into the kitchen.

Finn was referring to the huge amount of flowers and balloons and bottles of champagne that practically filled the space, all gifts from people wanting to offer their congratulations at another happy year. You shook your head, not unkindly, and brewed yourself a big pot of coffee from the percolator that you had set up last night.

“No, it’s my wedding anniversary today.” You said with something of a mild satisfaction at watching realization of how rude and intrusive he and Poe were being crossing Finn’s face. “Can I offer you something to drink, coffee, tea? Poe?” You called out to wherever the other officer had gone.

“No, no thank you. We’ll be brief, sorry to interrupt.” Finn quickly declined for the both of them, and you shrugged, more for yourself, you figured.

You were never one to be rude to the police, not to their faces anyway. It was much easier to play along and just call the attorney later to figure out who screwed up in the courts to let officers show up at their door. It wasn’t like they were going to find anything anyway, everything carefully hid and placed in places they would never suspect.

You and Kylo weren’t stupid, after all.

Speaking of the devil, you thought with a smile, Kylo reappeared in one of his fine suits, another one of the vintage ones he liked to lounge around in because they were broken in, soft, comfortable. You’d never know that just by looking at him though, in his entirely altogether too imposing state.  

No one ever caught Kylo in a state of undress, aside from you.

“Finn.” Kylo gave the officer a clipped greeting.

“Hey Kylo, just need to do a sweep of the place.” Finn said, offering him the same warrant he had offered you.

Kylo took a look at it, read the judge’s name, remembered it for later.

“What for this time?” Kylo asked, voice dry, irritated.

Finn couldn’t help but gulp, he had heard the stories, he had seen what Kylo could do, knew what he was capable of.

He could never prove it, but he knew.

“There was a murder, not too far from here. Now I know I’m not going to find any guns in here because you’re smarter than that, but, the DA wants it done anyway.” Finn explained, making Kylo’s scowl only deepen.

“What do you mean there was a murder, there’s always a murder. It’s New York City.” He pointed out, to which you nodded in agreement, poured a mug of straight black coffee for your husband before dumping too much sugar into your own.

“Yeah you know we’ve been working on that, actually?” Poe finally reappeared, dusting his hands off on his trousers, empty handed, as predicted.

Kylo took a sip of his coffee, gave Poe a hard look.

“All due respect Officer Dameron, you ain’t been doing a pretty good job.” He said.

“How’s your mother?” Poe sneered, and you immediately stepped between them, literally, before Kylo’s trigger-happy finger sent them into a world of trouble.

“Would you like the search the top floor? Lots of fun dressers and closets to rifle through up there.” You offered, bright and cheery, diffusing a situation that could turn too ugly too quickly.

Luckily, Finn caught the tension as well, and he steered his partner away from a showdown that would land everyone dead or in jail.

“Thank you very much Mrs. Ren. We’ll just head up there now and then get out of your hair!” Finn called as he more or less shoved Poe up the staircase.

 When they were gone, you turned to Kylo, gave his hand a squeeze. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes were dark, and he looked entirely too handsome with how angry he was.

“Hey, you’re okay.” You reassured him, rubbed your thumb in circles on the back of his hand where the bandages were clean and minimal, easy to hide with hands in his pockets like Kylo so frequently liked to do. “Poe’s an asshole.”

“M’sorry.” Kylo said through clenched teeth, but you shook your head.

“Don’t be.” You replied sincerely, a steadying anchor for him, always. “They’ll be gone in a bit and then we can get back to our day.”

He nodded, and you cupped his scarred cheek, leading him back to the couch in the living room to resume watching the wedding video.

Neither of you were really paying much attention to it, least of all Kylo. He was acutely listening to the footsteps of the officers on the third floor of the apartment, could hear them opening and closing doors.

It was only about twenty more minutes until they came back down the stairs, once again empty handed.

“We’re all done, Mrs. Ren.” Finn said cheerfully, and you smiled pleasantly back at him, getting off the couch to walk them out, much to Kylo’s annoyance.

“Alright, you boys take care now.” You said as they stepped back into their shoes at the front door.

“Happy anniversary ma’am, again, we’re sorry about this.” Finn blushed, truly apologetic.

“No don’t be, a job’s a job, right?” You laughed, easy breezy beautiful.

You closed the door behind them, and immediately sighed, tension dropping from your shoulders.

“I hate when they touch all your shit like that.” Kylo glowered, rage simmering and smoldering under his skin, his fists clenching and unclenching.

“It’s easier to just let them do it than fighting them, you know that.” You replied sweetly, returning to the couch where he was practically grabbing for you.

“I know, but I don’t fucking like it.” He grumbled, voice deep deep deep, so deep it vibrated into your mouth when he kissed you hard. “You know what I was thinking?”

“What’s that?” You asked, already knowing the answer, knowing from the way his grip on you was too tight, how he was wound up, how he needed to get that pent up aggression out.

He splayed a big hand right on your pussy, ground the heel of his palm against your cunt, licked and sucked at your neck.

“I was thinking maybe I could fuck you really really hard and get you knocked up so we can have a summer baby like we’ve been talking about.” He growled, and you hummed in agreement.

“Oh now that sounds like a very good idea.” You nodded, “Kylo – hey!”

You were laughing at the way he picked you up suddenly, the way he practically tossed you over his shoulder, the way he went up the stairs two at a time with you in his arms. He wasn’t laughing though, he wouldn’t be for a long while, but that was alright.

As long as it was replaced with moans instead.

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

Tagging some pals! As always, if you’d like to be added or taken off the tag list, please just let me know :)  @adamsnackdriver @dreamboatdriver @kyloxfem @heldcaptivebychaos @kylo-renne @callmehopeless @solotriplets @formerly-anonhamster @lookinsidemyhead @candycanes19 @adamsnacc-kler @the-wayward-rose @taylovren-types  magikevalynn  tinyplanet-explorers @chelsjnov  romancedeldiablo 

[jarakrisafis]

I wrote a note on my phone while half asleep and autocorrect and spelling mistakes meant I was left with “plating in their snow after bowl” this morning. I honestly have no idea what I was trying to note down. Therefore after discussion with @musetta3 it is now “playing in the snow with a (snow)ball” and I’m going to pretend that’s what I meant all along. DA Inquisition, sfw.

Edric knew better than to open the balcony doors. He still went and fucking did it. Today was apparently going to be one of ‘those’ days. He frowned at the mini snow avalanche that had cascaded into his rooms and was now stopping him from closing the door again. He’ll have to call some poor sod up here to clean it unless he wants quarters colder than… Well, colder than the top of the Frostmark Mountains doesn’t really work anymore given that he is quite literally already there.

He adds several extra layers, including the lovely white fur hood he’d got a few weeks back and sets off down the stairs with a bounce in his step. After all, a huge snowstorm overnight will have kept ravens grounded and scouts heading for the little shelters that are on route for just this situation. If there’s no messages then there’s no work to do. Work for him. Snow isn’t going to stop everything. He deserves a respite though and this is just perfect.

“Good morning Varric.” The half hearted glare from his fellow dwarf at his enthusiasm makes him chuckle.

“It really is not.” Varric says, turning away from his contemplation of the now very white world.

There’s dark circles under his eyes and ink still splotched on his hands. Not hard to work out that he must have got trapped up here overnight. He likes using the big fire to write beside and I know exactly why; the heat feels really good on old bones that are starting to protest the current abuse he’s putting them through. “Get caught up here?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, “And then fell asleep in my chair.”

“Ouch.” Edric says, peering out of the doors. If anything it looks even thicker out there than it did on his balcony. “I’ve had an idea.”

“Consider me worried.” Varric looks back into the hall, “shouldn’t you be doing the morning counsel thing?”

“Probably,” he set off down the steps, “you coming?”

“Whatever this idea is, can it wait for me to get something warm?”

Edric slides down a couple of steps when he tries to turn round, “fuck. Of course. If we manage to make it there that is.” Varric makes no response, too busy following Edric’s tracks through the nearly thigh high snow until they’re off the stairway. One day he’s going to ask Josephine to get some sodding railings added to that death trap. No dwarf would make a raised pathway without at least a small edge so you can feel that you’re about to step over the edge before the only warning is the sensation of gravity.

They must be some of the first people out and about up this end. There’s faint voices echoing up from the other end of the keep. Probably Dennett and his assistants. Snow doesn’t stop horses from needing to be fed and watered.

He settles against a wall while Varric ducks into the building. Edric’s even quite proud of himself, he resisted the urge to dump a handful of snow down Varric’s open tunic. It was for a good cause though, he wants Varric on his side not against him. Always recruit the stealthy types and the archers for a snowball war. As long as the enemy doesn’t think to get shields and form up it’s a guaranteed win. Shieldwarriors often have the worst aim.

“So, going to tell me what the idea is now?” Edric raises an eyebrow at the obnoxiously coloured scarf Varric has on and picks up one end to peer at the uneven stitches. “Leave that alone, it was a gift.”

Edric holds up the end he’s holding, a small band of teal that switches mid row into a bright pink for a chunk before becoming a colour that reminds him of ground elfroot. There’s even a patch of sunshine yellow right next to a deep green and then a scarlet on the section wrapped round his chin. “Interesting friend,” he says, letting it go.

Varric chuckles, the sound lighter than Edric’s used to, a fond smile settling on his face as he picks up the end of his scarf, “Daisy is one of a kind.”

Edric has a feeling he should know the name, probably one of his Kirkwall friends, but it isn’t that important right now. “We’re going up there,” he says gesturing at the battlements, “it’s got a great view and is easily defended over staying down here.”

“Right.” Varric says, faithfully following him before abruptly stopping. “Defended?”

Edric’s smile is feral, “yes. Come on, we can get an ammo stash made before anybody else is up.”

“Ammo,” Varric repeats and Edric isn’t sure if it’s a question or not. Either way he seems to have gathered what the plan is and most importantly isn’t protesting.

The stairs here are just as full of snow, but the wall is a great help for pulling them up and they settle into their chosen spot to make snowballs.

“Think you’ve been noticed as missing.” Varric says after a while and they peer over the ledge to see Cullen gingerly making his way down the stairs.

“You’ve done this before.” Varric accuses as they wait, snowballs at the ready for Cullen to approach the tavern door. It was not a coincidence that Edric chose this spot, it has a great view of anyone approaching and a good angle for a throw.

“Not here,” He admits, narrowing his eyes against the snow glare, “but the grandchildren like to play, somebody has to indulge them.” And Edric’s Carta found it greatly amusing to fire snow off at him, which meant the kids got away free, so of course it was him they always wanted on their side. He looses his projectile and ducks down at the startled curse from below. “Score,” He mutters with glee.

Varric snickers and waits for Cullen to turn round before sending his own snowball off to join Edric’s.

“Whoever is doing that, I will have you sweeping shit in the stables if you don’t grow up.”

“Oooooooh,” Varric says through his laughter.

Edric peers over the stone edge, “Inquisitor’s orders. Loosen up and have some fun.” He follows his command with another snowball.

Cullen wipes snow from his face, shaking his head like a mabari to try and get it out of his hair. “Inquisitor.” Edric can’t quite see the expressions on his face from so far up, but in the end he’s sure he’s smiling, “As you wish.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Varric shouts down when Cullen turns and begins to walk away.

“To gather my troops.”

“Well shit.”