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theoldsports · 5 months

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Moody.

Coriolanus Snow x Reader | 3.3k words

depression, arguing, manipulation/toxic marriage, fucking each other over, possessiveness. it’s tamer than some of my others in an objective sense, but emphasizes dark thoughts and internal monologue.

requests always open! thanks for your kindnesses. i think this one is more experimental than the others. the objective here was to show how both of them mimic regular human feelings because they know they should, but it’s a poor pantomime. two sickos with nothing else but each other <3 i think i am going to call these works the Truculent series.

Coriolanus grew cold fast and did not tolerate heat well. He only slept only in his underclothes and wore heavy layers at the first sight of winter. His alarmingly fair complexion meant excessive sun wasn’t in the cards. In spite of his name, his scrappy build wasn’t meant to cut through harsh January terrain either. His nails chipped at labor, and his mind grew uneasy at laziness.

The world was tough on Coriolanus and he was tough right back on the word.

There was little Coriolanus was designed to do. Many people were strong, or smart, or wealthy, or drop-dead-gorgeous, or violent, or talented. There was something about every person Coriolanus could think of that made them stand out. He could easily categorized people by them. Here was the group of people known for their beautiful voices; here, those who could benchpress four-hundred pounds… Coriolanus could not be quantified like that.

Coriolanus Snow had to take what was left, like a runt. He was only good at two things: enduring and controlling. Since those were the only options leftover for him, Coriolanus became the best at them both. When, like Coriolanus, one has been gifted such shitty talents and nothing else, they have to figure out how to use them well enough to win against everyone with a better gift. Eventually, he realized his talents were not the ability to endure and the ability to control, but actually the ability to win. Eventually, he won so much, Coriolanus forgot there was ever a time when he lost (most days).

(The days he didn’t forget were the Bad Days).

Coriolanus felt like he couldn’t get out of bed on the Bad Days when the crushing weight of his failures and his ego landed across his chest. He told himself he was done with love after Lucy Gray. Disgusting Lucy Gray, a name he never wanted to even think again. He thought he would marry someone he hated and be done with love.

But junkies and addicts quit every Monday anyway.

Once he found [Y/N] again after their childhood together, there was no quitting. He knew it was bad for him, so he married what was bad for him to make sure he had an endless supply. How he hated that familiar feeling of obsession, the feeling of being so desperate that he had to rely on something other than himself. Somehow, he would have to sustain the feeling without losing his girl like an idiot. Marriage was likely the thing to steel their attempt at a bond.

Upon waking up to the alarm that morning, Coriolanus knew this was one of those Bad Days. Maybe it was the weather, the stress of Games. First year as head Gamemaker had almost driven Coriolanus mad under the pressure to succeed. He reached over to turn off the clock that buzzed painfully at six in the morning every day ending with a Y.

“Coryo…” [Y/N] mumbled, hearing him stir beside her. The sound must have woken her. She tossed an arm over his chest.

“‘Mornin’, Darling,” Coriolanus replied, wishing he were dead.

[Y/N] immediately picked up on the flatness of his tone, but she knew better than to push him too far. “All good?” She asked.

Coriolanus grumbled passively. He rarely did anything passively. Coriolanus grabbed the hand over his chest and dragged it up to the side of his face to rest it there, but only after he had kissed [Y/N] palm.

“You’re affectionate this morning.”

“I just missed you. I’ve been busy.” He said dismissively, pressing his face further into her hand.

“Well, thanks, dear, but don’t you have work?” [Y/N] asked. She propped her chin up on his shoulder to stare at him inquisitively. This attitude was odd. First thing in the morning during Games seasons, she got a kiss on the forehead and then Coriolanus was gone for a run and a shower and out til nightfall, barring special occasions.

“Don’t you?”

“Not til early evening today. Normally, you’re up and out of here first thing on a Tuesday morning,” [Y/N] told him, as she rubbed from his cheek to the side of his throat gently. She dragged her hand up his face to rest on his worried forehead. “You sick, or something?”

“No.” Coriolanus replied weakly. He closed his eyes again. He couldn’t face the legendary blunder he had made at work. Coriolanus had allowed his aides to code the program for the arena wrong. The open water was nowhere near as deep as was needed for the aquatic muttations. It was causing all sorts of trouble. The Games would end too fast if he didn’t do something, yet the stress of thinking of reaching across the nightstand for his Communicuff was paralyzing.

“You sure? You don’t feel feverish,” She confirmed. [Y/N] sat up to press her lips to his forehead just in case her cold hands had misread his temperature. “I can call the doctor, though.”

“[Y/N], stop. I’m fine.” Coriolanus lied harshly. He tried to sit up, but his psychological anguish made him feel like vomiting.

“Call in. Stay here.” She suggested, watching his weak movement to sit up.

“I’m head Gamemaker, I don’t get to call in. I need to go for a run’n I’ll be fine.”

[Y/N] raised an eyebrow. “So you aren’t currently fine? Because you said—“

“I know what the fuck I said, okay?” Coriolanus barked. “Wanna recap anything else, or can I go?”

Sharply, [Y/N] scooted away from him to the other side of the bed. His moods were hardly predictable. She sighed. “Fine,” She said, averting her eyes to her hands like a scolded girl. “I was merely concerned that you—“

Coriolanus scoffed at her and shakily stood up from the bed. He quickly stepped into the closet and stepped joggers and a wifebeater. [Y/N] hoped he would grab a jacket as well; the weather was much too cold for mid summer. The Capitol itself got disproportionately cold often. She didn’t say anything out loud, though. “Get off my ass. Can’t you sit there and be grateful for once? With all that I do for you?Fucking hell.” Coriolanus said. He did not so much as look back at her as he stormed out of the bedroom.

[Y/N] could not understand what she had done wrong. The only things she had were provided through Coriolanus or simply the man himself. Once Coriolanus was presumed out of earshot, [Y/N] dropped her head into her hands and cried. Not tears of frustration or anger, but tears of self-pity that her one lifeline had yelled at her like that.

—

By the time Coriolanus returned from his run, it appeared his wife had gone out for the day. Strange since she usually capitalized on the extra sleep if she was not working downtown with Capitol News until evening shift. Since their reckless young adulthood of media stunts, Coriolanus had watched [Y/N] grow a stifling love for spectacle. With his support and their shared deranged name recognition, she had quickly risen from an editor, to a correspondent (brief. He had helped her but her way up and out of that position) to Associate Head of Programming for Capitol News. It helped to have his wife steer both their media narratives from the inside.

Except for when she was mad at him.

Coriolanus wiped the sweat off his brow in the shower as he thought. There was no doubt in his mind that [Y/N] was going to run some sort of primetime bulletin that made him look a fool during his Games coverage that night. It was bad enough that Lucky Flickerman was beginning to look like botox had gotten better of him, in addition to Coriolanus’ own fuck up with the muttations. Fact of the matter was that viewership was down and [Y/N] was going to make it worse. She was going to make his Bad Day worse and he knew it.

He could feel his heart rate racing as he stood under the shower’s cold stream. His equally cold blue eyes glanced across the bathroom at the clock. Six-fifty AM. Realistically, he need to be into the Gameroom by no later than eight-thirty, but it frustrated him to be in later than eight. In roughly an hour, how could he perform the maximum amount of damage control? Coriolanus’ head began to ache at the thought.

She had never run that harsh of a piece on him before, but it was a Bad Day, and no doubt she was angry with him for his attitude. [Y/N] was capable of a great many horrible things. Wouldn’t Coriolanus himself want to sting somebody back who he had known was pissy with him?

When he exited the shower, Coriolanus rushed to dress himself. [Y/N] said she wasn’t working until late. But where, then, had she gone? With all the thinking about his own feelings, he hadn’t considered that conundrum.

—

Coriolanus called her secretary, a boring woman with a name neither man nor wife could recall. According to that woman, [Y/N] had not gone early to work. He rang Tigris. Tigris said [Y/N] had not been over unless she was lying which Coriolanus wouldn’t put past her. The Plinths swear they had not encountered her.

Coriolanus stared down at his datapad of phone numbers. He refrained from calling all of their friends because he didn’t want to to exude the panic he was starting to feel for letting his wife run away. None of her belongings seemed out of place. Her suitcase was present in the back of their closet. Still, Coriolanus was terrified in the back of his mind that his wife had finally left him. A year and half was a dreadful lifespan for a marriage in his opinion. [Y/N] was not getting away that easily.

However, his watch told him it was eight and the Games weren’t going to run themselves.

Throughout the day, Coriolanus could not get his heart rate to settle. It made him feel ill. So ill, in fact, that he couldn’t keep down most of breakfast, or all of lunch. He skipped dinner all together. Who was [Y/N] to up and leave him like that?

The slight rational segment of his brain told him to walk it back, but the rest of his brain paid no mind. Coriolanus had nothing going for him other than gut instincts and his gut instincts now were implying something was fundamentally wrong.

Coriolanus’ decision-making was way off of its game at work. Coriolanus, for ratings, could not allow the Hunger Games to end on a Tuesday night. Somehow, he would have to create obstacles to last the four remaining tributes til Friday. He didn’t much like those odds. He was going to cave and hand in his resignation before the end of the day, he was certain.

Though, at eight in the evening, the primetime announcement or chiron that Coriolanus was a shitty husband or a murderer never cut through his broadcast to make his Day irreparably Bad. Nor did it at eight-thirty, or even nine. Coriolanus felt shaky. Maybe with relief for his reputation, maybe because he had nothing in his system.

If nothing had aired at Coriolanus’ expense on TV, had something happened to [Y/N] while he was on his run, or later? Was this some rebel attempt to bring the head Gamemaker to his knees? An attempt from a bitter rival to play games with him? Coriolanus frowned. Many things could have happened to his wife between six in the morning and nine at night. Coriolanus could barely stand up as it was. He clocked out and summoned his driver as quick as he could.

The second Coriolanus’ key entered the lock, he started shouting with the energy he had left. The door had yet to even close behind him. “[Y/N]! [Y/N], my love! Are you here?” Coriolanus pushed open every cabinet and closet on his way to the bedroom. Empty. He checked the closet - her suitcase remained. Coriolanus had called her office on his way home. She had not shown up for work. Unheard of.

Coriolanus ran through every room of the townhouse shouting [Y/N]’s name over and over until he felt hoarse. He could only imagine what the neighbors thought. Then he saw the attic door open.

The door remained open, but the stairs to the attic had snapped back up halfway and gotten jammed. “Coryo!” He heard [Y/N] yell faintly from upstairs.

“Darling, are you… in the attic?” Coriolanus shouted back cautiously under the open door. He watched as [Y/N]’s tearstained face peered around the edges of the attic door. It was really her. Not a Jabberjay, not a setup. Coriolanus exhaled for what felt like the first time all day. “Let me come up. I’ll come to you. Hold on!” Coriolanus’ finally left behind the Bad Day as he leapt into action. Protecting his wife was his job before Gamemaker, or any other obligation. Anyone in the Capitol would remember their vows, or her smashing cake into his face much to his dismay. Marriage was socially his most binding contract of all. Coriolanus did not take contractional obligations lightly.

Coriolanus had not realized that his wife was so delicate and helpless as to get stuck in the attic. She needed him more than he thought. His heart swelled with pride. Coriolanus grabbed a broomstick and hooked the hinge in the stairs. He yanked with all his strength until the ladder descended. Quickly, he dropped a large sack of rice from the kitchen counter over the bottom step in hopes it would weight the stairs down and he took off up them.

“[Y/N], are you alright?” Coriolanus asked, popping his head through the attic door

There on the unfinished attic floor sat [Y/N], bundled up in her thin teddy she had been wearing when Coriolanus left. She had only that and a too-short blanket Tigris had crocheted as a child. There was very little in the attic at all. Some of the Grandma’am’s belongings in clear glass bins and whatever surviving relics had carried on from their post-war childhoods.

It was clear [Y/N] had been crying. “I thought you would come back.” She sniffled.

Coriolanus urgently climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and sat carefully down beside [Y/N], wrapping her in his long arms possessively. “I thought something happened to you,” Also, that you tried to leave me. “You’re freezing… How long have you been up here?”

“Since you went on your run.”

“Shit… All that time?”

[Y/N] thought her tears had long since stopped, but seeing Coriolanus appear upset about ignoring her all day made her want his attention more. She wanted him to feel bad.

The tears started flowing the second his arms were looped around her waist. [Y/N] rested her head on Coriolanus’s shoulder heavily. “Coryo, you just left. I come up here all the time to think and I didn’t think it would—“

The blonde man’s heart softened at the sight of her. “Darling, Darling, shh, don’t cry,” Coriolanus combed his hand through sobbing [Y/N]’s hair. “You’re okay. I’m here now.”

Coriolanus felt like he was able to play the role of comforter and protector nobly tonight in a way he had recently felt inadequate at. With ease, he draped her legs across his lap and adjusted her arms around his neck so that her body was completely supported by his. She clung to him like a desperate child. The skin-to-skin contact was most appreciated by Coriolanus after the Day he’d had. Coriolanus excitedly drew a breathe from her neck, taking in her scent.

[Y/N] sobbed dramatically into Coriolanus’ dress shirt, but he pretended not to care like a good husband. “I’m sorry. I c-couldn’t—couldn’t get down. I th-thought you would come get me. I shout-ted for you,” she played up her tears. [Y/N] played up everything for attention; they both knew that. But the situation was mutually beneficial for people that liked attention so damn much. “You didn’t hear me.” You never hear me.

“Oh, Princess…” Coriolanus rubbed his hands up and down her arms, hoping it would warm her up. He pulled away from her regrettably and stripped off his blazer. He wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled it carefully in front of her. He knew [Y/N] would like the gesture. Now, Coriolanus did not say I’m sorry. It was not his fault that [Y/N] had fled to the attic. He did instead try to make good from now forward. “I was so worried, I started to think something happened to you. I wanted to give you space, but then I didn’t hear from you all day. I’m relieved to know the only monster that got you was the attic,” Coriolanus leaned into her neck to kiss her in his favorite place. “You sat up here in all this junk and dust today; how are you still so stunning?”

[Y/N] laughed through a wet sniffle as Coriolanus searingly kissed her neck. “I didn’t know I’d worried you this much.” She muttered.

“I didn’t know I’d upset you this much,” Coriolanus agreed. That was as close to I’m sorry as she was going to get. “What did you do up here all day?”

“W-Went through some boxes. Found your old uniform.” [Y/N] smiled back.

“My Peacekeeper uniform?” Coriolanus asked in surprise. He hoped that she had not found anything else, if there was anything more scathing up in the attic.

“Mhm,” she affirmed. [Y/N] stood shakily from the floor, snot dripping from her nose. Snot, which she knew better than to wipe on the sleeve of his blazer. She followed where the beams were in the floor nimbly so she didn’t put her foot through the ceiling below her. [Y/N] collected a decently sized metal crate with a handle on it. PRIVATE SNOW, CORIOLANUS B. was stamped on top of the dusty, dented metal. She carried it back to Coriolanus and sat down with it in front of him.

“I didn’t go through everything in here, that felt intrusive, but I did pull this out,” they both knew that was a lie and that she had absolutely gone through every item, but Coriolanus let her keep going without cutting in. [Y/N] decided she would still let him explain the history behind every item he wanted to share anyway.

When she shook the long gray-blue jacket out of the box, something happened that hadn’t happened last time she took the jacket out. “Coriolanus, what’s this?” [Y/N] asked, plucking a bulky chain off the floor that had tumbled from the coat’s breast pocket.

“Ah, I’d forgotten where those went. Dog tags from my time in Twelve.” Coriolanus said.

“I still have my father’s. You were like a real soldier then, huh?”

“Peacekeeper.” Coriolanus corrected.

“Yes, Peacekeeper.” [Y/N] agreed quietly.

[Y/N] held the two identical pendants in her hands.

SNOW, CORIOLANUS

CITADEL, CAPITOL

4147769218S 12

O NEG

CREMATE

His entire identity all on two pieces of nickel. While she squinted at the embossed metal, Coriolanus leaned forward across the box that had once held his entire world and grabbed the chain she was holding as well as her hands. [Y/N]’s red weepy eyes met his crystal clear blue ones. “Would you like them?”

“You don’t want to keep them?”

“Certainly not. My name right there on your chest? That’s preferable to them sitting in a dusty box forever. People will know who you belong to if you wander off like this again. ‘Know you’re not, hm, like… up for finders-keepers.” Coriolanus shifted them out of [Y/N]’s hands and dropped the chain around her neck as if it were the finest gold necklace he had ever purchased her.

Coriolanus put that box up in the attic because he had not wanted to think about it ever again. Above all, though, Coriolanus Snow was an opportunistic man and he put those dog tags on [Y/N] just like he had Lucy Gray because he knew this move was flattering. If it worked once, it would work again. Sickeningly, he pulled out the same words he had used before too: “There. All mine.”

“All yours.” [Y/N] replied.

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#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #hunger games #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coryo snow #the hunger games

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girlgenius1111 · 5 months

Text

key to recovery

edit: young reader and platonic barca femeni + platonic leah

r wakes up from surgery, goes home, and is sad. she misses Leah but knows she can't come. her friends try to fix it.

The light of the room filtered through your eyelashes as you blinked your eyes open, just slightly. Everything around you was blurry, and you could just make out a few shapes sitting around you before your eyes drifted shut again. Your head felt heavy, and you weren't quite sure if you could move any part of your body. You tried anyway, shifting slightly, feeling a dull pang of pain in your arm. You got the feeling that the movement should have hurt a lot more, but the way your head was swirling, you were on some serious drugs.

Groaning slightly, incredibly confused, you worked harder to open your eyes, feeling someone release their grip on your hand. You brought what you assumed to be your good arm to rub at your eyes, but your movements were all thrown off and you ended up just wacking yourself in the face.

"Easy there, buddy," a voice came from farther away in the room, as someone else grabbed your hand, pulling it away from your face. You groaned again, and a few chuckles echoed their way through the room.

"Y/n, can you open your eyes for me?" a different voice asked, much closer than the previous voice. You opened them again, and this time they focused on the form sitting next to you. Alexia smiled when you looked at her, and she brought a cup of water up to your mouth, letting you sip from the straw.

The water did a lot to revive you, and the length of your blinks was growing shorter. Alexia took the cup and you looked around the room, seeing people scattered across many different chairs. Lucy was leaning up against the wall, next to a chair that Keira was asleep in. Mapi was asleep in a chair on the other side of the room, leaning heavily against Ingrid, who was smiling at you. All of them were still in their kits, and you were still pretty confused.

Your voice was gravelly when you tried to speak, and you cleared your throat, trying again.

"Why am I in the hospital?" you rasped, looking to Alexia.

"You don't remember?" she asked frowning slightly, and you shook your head. "You got pushed to the ground pretty hard during the game and dislocated your elbow. They had to put it back in place surgically."

You looked down at your arm, then, taking in the heavily wrapped limb. You could just barely see your fingers, and they looked swollen. It was resting on a pillow next to you, and you tried to pick it up, before crying out as a jolt of pain shot through your arm.

"No, no, don't move it, you've gotta keep it still," Lucy said, moving closer to you. She stood at the edge of the bed, crossing her arms, and she inexplicably reminded you of a dad at that moment, frowning at your arm. You nodded slowly, feeling like everything they were telling you was taking much longer than normal to process.

The sound you'd made had woken up Keira and Mapi. Now everyone was staring at you, as if waiting for you to speak. About what, you weren't sure.

A nurse entered then, asking you questions about your pain level, before asking you if you were hungry. Thinking for a few second, you nodded your head enthusiastically. She handed you a bag of animal crackers, before leaving the room. You stared at it for at least a full 60 seconds, before you began to tear up.

"What is it?" Alexia asked, leaning forward, concerned.

"I can't open it and now I don't get animal crackers," you murmured, valiantly fighting to hold back from crying. You really wanted them but you only had one arm.

Alexia laughed, and you looked up at her with wide eyes, confused. She took the bag out of your hands, and opened it before handing you the bag. A smile appeared on your face, and you began to eat the animal crackers. Everyone was still staring at you, and it was beginning to annoy you.

"Why is everyone looking at me," you grumbled, and everyone averted their eyes, almost comically.

"We were just worried about you, pequeña," Mapi said, staring out the window, but looking at you out of the corner of her eye.

For a minute, you were confused. Why were they worried about you? You couldn't remember. Then, glancing down, you did.

"Because my elbow fell off," you said knowingly, and this time the whole room erupted into laughter. They all looked back at you, only laughing harder at the perplexed expression on your face. You didn't think it was very funny that your elbow had fallen off.

"No, buddy, you dislocated your elbow, but I promise it's still attached," Lucy told you, trying to keep a straight face. She pointed at your arm, and you looked down.

"Oh. Right," you said. They must have reattached your elbow to your body. "Can I go home soon?" you asked, looking around. The girls all exchanged looks, before Lucy cleared her throat.

"You can leave the hospital pretty soon, but you can't go home by yourself. You're gonna stay with Mapi and Ingrid," she said hesitantly, not really sure how this information was going to go over.

They'd had a long debate about who you should stay with. Both Lucy and Keira were adamant that you come home with one of them, but neither of them had an extra bedroom. Alexia campaigned for custody of you too, but eventually she was overruled, as it made more sense for you to go with the couple. They had an extra bedroom, and there were 2 of them.

"That's cool," you replied, eyes suddenly starting to slide shut again. "Can I go back to sleep?"

"Si, nena, we'll wake you when it's time to go," Alexia stated.

-----

They tried to wake you. It didn't really work. Instead, they changed your half asleep form into the sweats that Ingrid had brought from your apartment, and all but carried you from the bed to the wheelchair. Mapi wheeled you to the car, until her privileges were revoked after pushing and letting go in the parking lot briefly. Alexia slapped her on the arm, and Ingrid took over pushing.

You don't really remember the car ride, or arriving at Mapi and Ingrid's. They gave you more painkillers before you left the hospital, and you were practically comatose as Ingrid gave up trying to get you to walk, carefully picking you up and carrying you into their house.

When you woke up again, you didn't feel like you were orbiting the earth anymore. Instead, your arm ached, you weren't at home, there was a black cat laying practically on your head, and you had realized you were going to be out of playing for a while. You looked around the room, not seeing your phone near you, wondering what time it was. The sun was filtering in through the window, lighting up the room with a warm glow. The bed you were in was incredibly comfortable, and you dreaded having to get up and out from under the cozy duvet.

You wanted coffee though. Unsteadily, you rose from the bed, already annoyed with the sling holding your arm close to your chest. You shuffled out into the hall and into the living room.

"Pequeña! You're awake!" Mapi called, standing up from her spot on the couch. You only frowned at her, looking around for Ingrid to make you coffee. "How are you feeling?" she asked, thinking you were grumpy because you were in pain.

"Like someone cut into my arm with a knife," you retorted, before sitting down on the couch and glaring at the coffee table. Mapi took in the look on your face for a minute, before deciding that she was not the best equipped person for grumpy y/n.

"INGRID!" she called, ignoring the look you gave her at her loud voice.

"Yes, mi amor?" Ingrid responded, walking into the room. Her face brightened at the sight of you. "Y/n! How are you feeling?"

"Can you make me coffee please?" you asked in a monotone. Ingrid and Mapi exchanged looks, and Mapi mouthed someone's grumpy at Ingrid, who made a face and nodded.

"I'm not grumpy." You grumbled. Ingrid rolled her eyes, walking into the kitchen to get you the aforementioned coffee. Mapi took a cautious seat on the couch next to you, and handed you your phone. You made no move to open it.

"Do you want to call Leah?" she suggested. An unreadable expression flashed across your face.

"No, I'll call her later," you said, and Mapi could have sworn your voice wavered slightly. Ingrid returned with your coffee, and sat down in one of the arm chairs across the room. Both girls were looking at you intently.

"When can I go home?" you asked, because your worst nightmare may have been being forced to impose upon your friends, stay at their house, and make them take care of you.

"Not for a while, nena. A couple weeks, until your stitches are out and you're out of the sling." Mapi replied. "Do you not want to stay here?

Your frosty exterior cracked slightly at that, never wanting your friends to feel like the problem was them.

"No, I just hate bothering you guys. I'd be fine on my own," you started, but Ingrid interrupted you.

"You're not bothering us, we want you here, and we want to make sure you're okay," she insisted, looking at you softly. You didn't reply.

Instead, you picked up your phone, and began scrolling through the many, many, messages you'd received from friends and teammates. Your heart panged when you saw several texts from Leah. You replied quickly, not giving her much information. The longer you thought about Leah, her cozy home in London, the room she still kept there for you, the closer you got to tears.

"Pequeña? Are you okay?" Mapi asked softly, and you turned your head to see her and Ingrid both looking at you.

"Yeah, I'm good. I think I'm gonna go take a nap though," you replied, even though you'd just gotten up. They didn't really know what to say as you rose and headed back to the guest bedroom.

You crawled under the covers, and into a little ball, as best you could with one arm in a sling, and let yourself cry into the pillow. You missed Leah. It had been a while since you'd been homesick, having settled well in Spain, and you talked to Leah so often, you didn't ever really have a chance to miss her. Now, though, you were in pain, you were sad about your stupid injury, and you just wanted Leah.

She'd been with you through it all, everything with your parents. She'd seen you at your worst, and maybe that's why you needed her so badly right now; because letting anyone else in would be too hard. You couldn't ask her to come though, not now, not while she was on the cusp of her return. You cried until you wore yourself out, eventually falling back asleep.

-----

In the living room, Mapi and Ingrid discussed your odd behavior. They'd frankly never seen you this grumpy before, and whatever you had been looking at on your phone had almost brought you to tears right in front of them. They weren't really sure what to do, as you didn't seem like you'd open up to them.

They were just deciding to call Lucy and Keira, and see if they would come try to talk to you, when they heard a cry of pain from the bedroom. They were off the couch and running down the hall in seconds, throwing the door open to find you on the bed, breathing deeply through tears, your one good fist balled tightly.

"What happened?" Mapi questioned, both girls moving closer to hover next to you.

"I rolled over in my sleep," you said through clenched teeth, waiting for the wave of pain to pass.

"I'll get you some ice, and some medicine. You're due for more anyway." Mapi said, heading out of the room. Ingrid took a seat next to you, on your good side, and wrapped her arm around your shoulder, pulling you into her. You let her, leaning in to her warmth as she rubbed your back softly. You took deep breaths, willing the pain away, resting your head on her shoulder.

"How does it feel now?" she asked, after a few minutes had passed.

"Better. I don't think I messed anything up in there." You pulled away from her suddenly, wiping at your eyes. You wanted Leah. You loved Ingrid, you really did, but you just wanted Leah.

Ingrid let her arm fall from around your shoulders, looking at you sympathetically. It was clear that something was really bothering you, more than the pain in your arm.

By the time Mapi returned, with ice, medicine, and a sandwich, you'd reverted back to the grouchy version of yourself, all evidence of tears wiped from your face. They didn't take it personally, the way you barely answered their questions, really only opening your mouth to thank them every time they did something for you, no matter how small it was. They knew it wasn't about them.

-----

Everyone was surprised when Keira and Lucy failed to get you to talk; in fact, it seemed like they'd only made you more upset. They came over later that day, and you wouldn't look at either of them. They tried for a while, getting very little in response. Lucy got fed up pretty fast.

"Kid, I don't understand. Are you upset about your arm? Does it hurt? Why are you acting like this?" she questioned, staring at you hard. She thought that perhaps being firm with you would work. She knew she'd picked the wrong path when you finally looked up, just to glare at her.

"Obviously my arm fucking hurts Lucy. I'm not upset about anything, and I'm not acting like anything. I don't understand why everyone can't just leave me alone," you spoke sharply. Lucy was rather shocked at being spoken to like that.

"Y/n, something is clearly going on. You've been in a bad mood all day. Just tell us what's up." Keira pushed, trying a softer approach.

"Nothing is up. I just want to be alone."

Neither Keira, nor Lucy were Leah. You just wanted Leah. Eventually, you knew, that feeling would pass, and being around other people would be easier. Until then, everyone just needed to leave you alone.

"Leah said you haven't called her yet..." Lucy started, only to be cut off by you.

"Please, for the love of god, just leave me alone Lucy." You interrupted. It seems they'd struck a nerve by bringing up Leah, which neither of them missed. Exchanging looks, both girls got up, each giving you as much of a hug as they could, without crushing your arm, whilst you completely ignored their movements.

They left the room, bumping right into Ingrid and Mapi, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping. They walked back into the living room, and Mapi sighed.

"We're gonna have to call in Alexia," she said, knowing that if anyone could get you to talk, it was your captain. The other girls agreed, and Lucy and Keira left, defeated, as Mapi called the blonde woman.

-----

You were in the living room when Alexia arrived, having been convinced by your hosts to come watch a movie with them. When she entered the house, they gave a random, flimsy excuse about going to get ice cream, before leaving you alone with Alexia. You stared at the TV, stony faced, even after she'd flicked it off, and taken a seat next to you on the couch.

"Nenaaaa," she said, poking your cheek. You shifted your gaze to scowl at her.

"Oye, don't look at me like that," she said sternly, and you dropped your gaze, but the frown didn't leave your lips.

"Are you going to tell me whats wrong, or am I gonna have to force it out of you?" She asked.

"Nothing is wrong, Alexia."

"Well I know that's not true. You've been snapping at everyone, you look like you want to cry constantly, and you've barely spoken. And you've refused to call Leah. So I know something's wrong, and I'm going to sit here until you tell me what it is." She said firmly, settling down into the couch for added effect.

"Fuck off Alexia," you mumbled, immediately regretting it. Alexia was staring at you, jaw dropped. You'd never spoken to her like that. She'd never heard you speak to ANYONE like that.

"Y/n, we've been patient, but we're just trying to help you, and there's no reason for you to be rude," she scolded, her tone very angry. You felt so guilty for being so rude, and you were so frustrated with yourself for being so pathetic. They were just trying to help, and because you missed Leah, you were acting like a brat. Tears, of frustration or sadness you weren't sure, began pooling in your eyes.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice cracking. Alexia watched you carefully, scooting closer when you began to cry, and rubbing her hand up on down your good arm.

"Nena, please talk to me," she pleaded, "maybe I can help."

"You can't help."

"Why not?"

"You just can't," you replied bitterly. "No one can help, there's nothing anyone can do, she can't come here, she has to focus on her recovery." You were too caught up in your emotions to realize you'd given it away.

"Is this about Leah, cariño?" Alexia asked carefully. You nodded, finally letting out a loud sob. Alexia moved forward, and you buried your face in her chest, sobs wracking your whole body. "Oh, nena, why didn't you say something? You don't need to be embarrassed about missing her, she's important to you, and she's always taken care of you," Alexia soothed.

You didn't respond, continuing to cry into Alexia's sweatshirt, and she held you tightly, but gently, careful not to jostle your elbow. "It's okay, y/n, it's okay to miss her, and want her when you're hurting," she reassured you, but you weren't showing any signs of calming down, and she knew she needed to do something before you started panicking.

She grabbed your phone off the couch, without you noticing, and called Leah, holding the phone up to her ear.

"Y/n? Why've you been ignoring me!" Leah complained as she answered. Your tears slowed at the sound of her voice, and you leaned back, shakily holding your hand out. Alexia handed you the phone, and you brought it to your ear.

"Lee?" you asked, voice sounding broken.

"Hey buddy, what's going on?" Leah asked, voice much gentler than it was before.

"I really miss you," you said, your voice almost a whisper.

"Oh, y/n, I miss you too. Are you having a hard night?" she asked.

'I guess. Since I got hurt, I just want to see you. It's stupid," you replied.

"No, it's not stupid. I want to be there more than anything, I really do. Is this why you've been ignoring my calls?" She asked, heart hurting for you.

"I didn't want to make you feel bad for not being able to come."

"Y/n, you should never worry about that. I want you to talk to me when you're sad, when you miss me, even when I can't come to you."

"Okay, I'll try."

"Good. Now tell me about your day. Is everyone taking good care of you?" She asked.

You settled back against Alexia, nuzzling close, trying to express your thanks to her. She simply wrapped you back up in her arms, and texted your friends, telling them you were doing better. She expected the call to take a while, but she didn't mind staying with you through it, as it was clearly what you needed. She did wonder, however, if she could manage to get you to England during your recovery; seeing Leah would definitely speed the process along.

-----

do we want a part 4? or perhaps a prequel?

#woso #woso imagine #woso x reader #barcelona femeni x reader #mapi leon #ingrid engen #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas #keira walsh #lucy bronze #leah williamson

720 notes · View notes

heavenlyvision · 4 months

Text

Bare II

Word count: 12.8k

Pairing: Liu Kang x F!Reader

Read part one ˗ˏˋhereˎˊ˗ first !

A/N: Part 2 is finally here !! I am sorry it took so long. I lost power at home due to bad storms that came through on Christmas night and have been staying elsewhere, it’s really messed with my writing schedule :((( hopefully the power will be back on at home soon <33 Anywhos, enjoy this creation of my insanity !!!

Summary: Liu Kang pushes you on his want to train you in self-defence and you get to the bottom of why it’s so important to him. Later that night, he wakes you up from his heat… he seems to be having a really good dream.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, angst but like not really, grinding, cockwarming, p in v sex, light edging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie, dirty talk, light burns, menace!Liu Kang, minor mention of creepy stranger

When you wake up you’re still in Liu Kang’s bed, it’s warm and comfortable but he isn’t in it. Dragging yourself up, you sit in his bed and look around the room, which is also devoid of his presence. Your limbs feel heavy as you move, the ground is cold on your feet as you get out of his bed.

The sound of your bare feet hitting the floorboards is filling the quiet house and once you’ve reached the kitchen you can smell something good. There’s a plate of food and a cup of tea sitting on the counter, left for you, Liu Kang is nowhere to be seen but he seems to have made you breakfast and left you a note.

Looking at the note you can see that he’s… stupid. Big fire God is stupid. You skim it but essentially it has the vibes of “I have to go… we will talk about last night later.” Why are men dumb? You sigh and shake your head at the note, already exasperated with him, you wish he’d have woken you up to talk, how long would the conversation have taken.

All this note does is bring you unease, how hard would it have been to write something that doesn’t induce the fight or flight response in you? Seriously? All he had to write instead was, “Stellar sex, I am a busy fire God and have fire God shit to do but I am looking forward to seeing you later”…just something less ominous would have done wonders for you and your anxiety.

Now, you are grumpy, resulting in you eating your breakfast and drinking your tea, stewing in your annoyance. He is allowed to have doubts or whatever his note is meant to get across but leaving a weird note is, well… stupid. Briefly, you wonder what would happen if he came back and you were still here, his note said he intends on speaking with you later but that also feels like an aversion tactic.

To be fair, last night was more of a heat of the moment thing, you haven’t even considered what you would want from him. If he has no feelings for you then maybe it would be better to chalk it up to a mistake, you aren’t stupid, you like him… a lot and being a casual hook up is something you wouldn’t survive. Not from him, it would hurt too much but he doesn’t come across as having no feelings for you. He also doesn’t seem the type to do casual hook-ups.

Leaving without communicating with you properly is irritating, now you’re having to sit here and think of all the what ifs. It’s a waste of time and energy, especially since only one outcome is going to occur anyways. Still, you can’t help but sit here and wonder about what might happen, what he might want, if he would even honestly tell you what he wants.

The note is too vague and mostly conveys doubt in himself and his actions, it’s not explicitly stated but you know him well enough now to read between the lines. If he had felt completely guilt free, he would have stayed or woken you up to say goodbye. He had time to make breakfast, which means he had time to talk to you about this and chose not to.

Sighing again, you get up and clean the dishes he used for you, this day is going to be exhausting, you can already tell. You put your pants from last night back on and grab the rest of your things, ready to head back to your quarters. At the last second you remember the book he gifted you and run back to the room to grab it, it’s still on the nightstand where you left it.

Picking it up, you look it over and take notice of the copy he got. It’s the same published copy you had, which must have taken a bit to find because you got your copy some years ago now. He used some sticky notes for thoughts that wouldn’t fit in the spaces between the words, you did the same thing with yours. He’s properly read it; you can tell by the way his annotations are well thought out and eloquent. It’s such a kind gesture and it displays care for you in a way you’ve never experienced before.

A memory you have with your ex is when you’d asked him if he’d ever read your favourite book and he all but laughed in your face. You just wanted to be able to talk with him about it but obviously he never cared all that much for you. Relationships are hard and messy and now you are wondering what exactly you want. Grabbing the book and everything else you came with, you leave. Ready to walk back.

With the daylight, the trip through the Fire Temple is significantly easier to make. Nothing is obscured and you know exactly where you are, though you know you had poor visibility last night, you still can’t help but feel silly over getting lost and showing up at Liu Kang’s door the way you did.

You also can’t help but feel a little miffed by his blatant avoidance of you this morning, he gave you great sex, great orgasms, and the best gift you’ve ever received only for him to duck you in the morning. What the hell is that? You think the note wouldn’t even be that bad if he had said something less vague.

The walk back is filled with you angry mumbling to yourself, trying to understand his motivation, trying to understand how you’re feeling. Reading yourself and how you feel at any one point is hard, it’s why it took you so long to realise that you weren’t happy in the relationship with your ex. You knew something was wrong, you just took a bit to pinpoint it and by the time you had, it didn’t matter anymore.

Leaving was too difficult and you were comfortable, well, maybe not comfortable but it was familiar. The effort of moving out or asking him to move out was a hard thought and it left you feeling trapped. Clearly, he did not feel the same, having no trouble kicking you out when he was done with you.

When you get back, the house is quiet and dark, the curtains are open but it’s still cloudy out after all the rain last night. It actually looks like you might get more. You decide to change out of the clothes you’re wearing into some fresh ones, finally wearing a pair of your own clean, dry underwear.

For a good chunk of the morning, you read the book gifted to you, reading over Liu Kang’s thoughts as you go. He has given well thought out insight into how the book has made him feel and why he thinks certain choices were made by the characters. A lot of the thoughts he had align with your own, he even picked up on a couple small things you hadn’t considered in all your read throughs.

It’s still one of the most thoughtful things someone has ever done for you and as you sit here reading how much thought he has put into his notes, you realise that being just his friend isn’t what you want, everything about him has captivated you. You aren’t sure what it is exactly you want from him but you don’t want things to go back to how they were before.

Before you lose your courage, you get up and leave to go looking for him. Waiting on him could take no time at all or too much time and you aren’t willing to wait right now. You aren’t exactly certain on what you’re going to say when you find him but if you don’t find him now, you might not ever tell him how you really feel.

Honesty is hard because it leaves you feeling exposed and open, honesty regarding how you feel is something you struggle with but you aren’t going to let your own hang ups get in the way. Not with him.

The first drops of rain start to spit onto the ground below you and you consider going back to get an umbrella before ultimately deciding against it. Right now, finding Liu Kang is urgent, you only hope you find him fairly quickly. Especially if it’s about to rain now like it did last night.

The first stops you make are all his usual hang outs but he isn’t at any of them and you’re starting to get wet, the rain isn’t harsh like last night but you certainly aren’t dry. The last place you check is where you usually meet for tea but he isn’t here either, how is it that you seem to have the worst luck when it comes to finding him.

By the time you decide to give up your search and go home, you’re thoroughly soaked, your stomping footsteps have the water flicking back up at you. It’s chilly, not freezing, due to the fact it’s about midday or early afternoon, you can’t be certain on the exact time but either way the water has a cool bite to it without freezing you to the bone.

When you stomp your way into your house, Liu Kang is already there, seemingly about to leave after not finding you. He’s the tiniest bit damp but nowhere near as wet as you, looking to his right hand you see he’s holding an umbrella. The thought of a Fire God using an umbrella is funny to you.

He speaks first, “You need to stop going out in the rain.”

“In my defence… it hadn’t been raining like this when I left,” you shrug at him with your hands slightly raised.

He retorts, “Was that not your last defence too?”

“Maybe,” you mumble, eyes averting his.

His tone is amused but also exasperated by you when he asks, “Why were you out there?”

“I was looking for you,” your eyes meet his again, “I wanted to talk with you.”

“I said I would talk with you later,” he seems confused.

You argue back, “No, you wrote a weird note that said you would talk with me later, which thanks for that by the way. Totally didn’t fill me with dread reading that first thing in the morning.”

“It was not my intention to worry you,” he steps closer as he speaks.

“Well… you did.” Your arms cross over your chest, still a bit cold. “How hard would it have been to wake me up and talk with me then.”

“I did not want to wake you.” He considers you for a moment, “You were sleeping so peacefully.”

You only scowl at him, it’s meant to be a kindness on his behalf but it felt cruel waking up to a weird letter from the man you slept with the night before. One that you have feelings for at that.

There’s quiet in the room for a moment, a quiet he breaks, “You should change out of your wet clothes.”

You hum at him and move across the room, slipping your shoes off first and leaving them at the front door. You’re only gone from the room for a minute, quickly changing out of your wet clothes into some dry ones, too many outfit changes for today.

Back in the living area, he’s moved to rest against the dining table, not sitting at it but waiting by it, for you. You stand in front of him and awkwardly shuffle your weight back and forth on both feet.

“What exactly about my note upset you?” He’s careful as he speaks, not wanting to upset you further.

“For starters, you left a note.” You look at him, brows raised a touch, “And secondly, your note displayed nothing but guilt or regret, it’s not a nice thing to read after a night that… after a night like that.” Your gaze avoids his again.

He takes in a breath, “My intention was not to make you feel bad…but I am not sure last night–”

“–I am gonna have to stop you right there, big guy.” You cut him off and talk before you’ve fully thought through exactly what you want to say, “I don’t want to hear about how you’ve talked yourself into thinking it was a bad idea. I liked it… I like you.” You’re internally screaming, you just admitted you liked him without thinking it through properly.

“You are making this difficult,” he sighs.

Your brows pinch at his statement, “I’m making what difficult?”

He gestures between the two of you, “Putting distance between us, this is not the most conventional situation, and I am not certain I am good for you.”

Of course, that is where his concerns lie, you tell him clearly, “I don’t want there to be distance between us.”

Initially, his voice is firm, eyes intense, “I do not have the luxury of being selfish…” And then he softens for you all at once, “…But you make me want to be.”

Your skin feels warm at his words, “You have a bad habit of saying things that make me incredibly happy.”

The beginnings of a smile are forming on his face, “Should I stop?”

“…No.”

He smiles full at your response; it’s tinged with a kind of smugness you would normally find unappealing but can’t help but enjoy on him.

You’re not going to let him know that though, “Don’t smile at me, I am still upset about your stupid note. Your pretty words haven’t changed that.”

“My note was… not well thought out. I apologise,” he seems sheepish, his apology genuine.

Keeping a straight face, you reply, “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I think so too,” his smile is so tender as he looks at you.

The way he’s looking at you makes you break, your mostly faux annoyance dropping from your face. You step closer and wrap your arms around him, hugging him. The action confuses him a bit, or at the very least catches him off guard. It takes him a second, but he hugs you back, pulling you closer to him and holding you firmly.

He’s warm and he smells nice, and you could stay here indefinitely, “Just to be clear, you like me too, right?” You feel embarrassed asking him, but you want clarity.

He pulls you back to look at you, both his hands reach up and hold either side of your face, his hands are gentle with you, “So much.”

The smile that breaks out across your face is large, beaming up at him. His eyes are bright, dazzled by your happiness. He leans down and kisses your cheek; you turn your face to the side slightly so you can kiss him on his lips. It’s quick, a small peck but he uses his hands on your face to adjust you, he leans down and takes your lips in his properly.

His kiss is full, heady. He moves his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you closer to him. Your arms move up to loop around his neck. The hands on your hips wander slightly, moving to your back, the back of your head before moving back down to your hips. He’s overwhelming you completely, his touch is everywhere, his lips are soft but firm, demanding in the way he kisses you.

Suddenly, you’re being lifted, he’s pulled you up and he sits you on your dining table, your legs open for him to stand between. His lips go from yours to the side of your face, pressing kisses to your cheek. He trails them down to your neck; his mouth is hot, and his kisses are wet. He lightly sucks at your neck, nipping you every now and again. He’s being careful not to leave any marks behind, but he very clearly wants to.

The gasps and small noises that he pulls from you can’t be helped, you’re sensitive, especially to his touch. He trails his kisses back up the length of your neck, ending right beside your ear. His breath against you makes you shiver and hold back a whine.

“You are such a reactive little thing,” he mumbles against your ear and he’s right; you are but you could’ve sworn you weren’t. It’s just him.

Fighting back another shiver, you go to reply to him, but he breathes on your ear and what would have been the beginnings of your sentence cut off into a small whimper. When he pulls back, he has a very pleased look on his face. You’re scowling back at him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

One of his hands reach up and grasp the side of your face, he angles you up slightly before leaning down and planting a full kiss on your lips. One you accept and return, despite your annoyance with him.

He moves back and hums, “As much as I would love to stay here and play with you, I have to go.”

“Cruel.” You comment, pouting at him.

He has a light smile on his lips, the rest of his features easy as he looks at you, “I will see you tomorrow, I’ll come get you.”

You can’t help but be sceptical of him, his tone is hiding something, “For what?”

“I am going to begin teaching you self-defence,” his expression holds steady, he’s not asking anymore. He’s being polite but his tone has an underlying dominance to it, not willing to argue with you on this.

So, you sigh at him, displaying that you’re still not completely on board, “Fine.”

“You will do great,” his hand holds onto yours, gripping it once in encouragement.

The concerns you have don’t have anything to do with how you might do performance wise, it’s more that you don’t really see it necessary and would rather avoid a fight it you could. Like you’ve told him previously, he keeps you separate from everything for the most part, so you don’t really understand why he wants this of you so badly.

The only reason you’ve continued to be so difficult about this is because it feels like he’s keeping something important from you and you’ve been trying to push it out of him. But as you’ve just witnessed, he is not entertaining conversation regarding this anymore. Not like that will stop you though, you just have to find a better opening.

“I am not worried about that,” your own hand grasps his once in response.

He knows what you mean, he’s been aware of the way you’ve been feeling him out every time the topic of ‘training’ comes up. He isn’t going to divulge anything though, instead he smiles politely at you and kisses you again. For the final time before he departs, his absence already felt the minute he’s out the door.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

In the morning, Liu Kang keeps his promise. Which is unfortunate for you, it’s early morning and quite frankly, it’s too early for you when he’s knocking on your door. You don’t even want to get up and let him in, but you do. Which is quite the effort for you, but you manage and potter over to the front door, pulling it open to reveal him in all his glory. He looks good, he looks ready for the day… you do not.

His eyes are alight with mirth when he sees the state you’re in, still in your pyjamas, completely unkempt and unready for the day, “You look lovely,” he comments.

You groan at him, “It’s too early.”

“It is early, I can make some tea for you?” He’s trying to butter you up, since you’ve finally caved into what he wants.

You step to the side so he can enter, “I would like that.”

He moves closer to you, leaning down to kiss your cheek before brushing past your frame. He’s familiar with your kitchen and puts the kettle on, “You can get changed, it will probably be done then.”

“I will be back,” you smile at him, having him in your kitchen making tea for you makes your chest bloom with happiness.

Your footsteps can be heard shuffling back down the hall towards your room, Liu Kang can be heard opening cupboards in the kitchen. The clinking of mugs can also be heard as he grabs a couple of them for the pair of you.

In your room, you move over to your set of drawers, considering what would be most comfortable for today. You assume he’s going to have you moving around quite a bit, so you’ll have to wear something light and easy to move in. The safest bet is a pair of pants and a simple shirt, basic but should get the job done.

Once you’ve changed, you walk back to the kitchen where Liu Kang is, he’s sat at your dining table waiting for you. A cup of tea sitting across from him, for you.

You sit down in front of him, “Thank you for the tea.”

“You are more than welcome,” he answers, watching you as you take your first sip.

It’s warm and made exactly how you like it; he always makes it perfectly for you. A man of many talents. The tea soothes you, making you feel better about starting the day so early.

Your words are mostly spoken into your cup, “You better not make this a habit, I am not a morning person.”

He hums at you, “I make no promises.”

Your eyes squint at him over the rim of your mug, annoyed at the possibility of him waking you up this early regularly. He just smiles graciously back at you.

After tea, he washes up your mugs, even though you protest. Then he’s leading you out of your house and to a quiet area of the temple you have never been. It’s secluded but open, the perfect area to have tea. Not to Liu Kang though, to him it’s the perfect area to teach you self-defence.

You haven’t told him, but you actually know self-defence to a certain extent. You were single and living by yourself in the city for some time, so you had taken up some classes on it. It went fine, you aren’t skilled or anything, it’s just the basics in case you get assaulted or mugged. You know enough for if you need to get someone off you long enough to get away.

Your experience in the classes is part of the reason why you didn’t want to do this in the first place, the teacher was sketchy. He never did anything to you, but he enjoyed teaching that class a little too much and his hands lingered for just a little too long sometimes. You don’t know if it was malicious or not, but you were uncomfortable enough to never go back and not enrol in any new classes.

The idea of doing this with a stranger was a hard no but having it be Liu Kang makes it easier, you’d still rather not do it but that’s more because he’s keeping something from you. Something you will find out today, he will be answering your questions because you aren’t going to keep doing this for no reason. And you know he has a reason; he isn’t doing this just for kicks.

“Are you listening?” He asks you suddenly.

Was he talking? “Yes?”

“What did I just say?” He looks at you pointedly, waiting for your wrong answer.

You look off to the side, trying to think hard about what he may have been saying, “…Something about how… this is important, and you want me to take it seriously?” you try, your face cringing as you finish your sentence.

He looks to you and sighs, “Essentially, yes.”

A proud smile breaks out across your face, “See? I was paying attention,” you tell him, nodding your head.

One of his brows raise at you slightly, he knows you didn’t hear a thing he was saying before. He comes up to you, both his hands reach up and hold your face between his hands, his eyes looking into your own intensely. “This is important, focus. Please?”

“I will… sorry,” you feel bad, his eyes are pleading with you to take this seriously, so you will.

He leans down and kisses your lips softly, “Thank you.”

You hum at him in acknowledgement, momentarily distracted by his kiss, wanting more of him.

“I just want you to know some self-defence, it will be basic, and I will help you,” he assures you.

You aren’t worried though, “Sounds good.”

He moves behind you, “Okay, I am going to grab you from behind, do what you think you should do and then I will show you the correct way to free yourself.”

“I am ready, just go for it,” you tell him, he’s obviously a bit nervous, he doesn’t want to upset you or make you uncomfortable.

His arms wrap around you, under your arms, normally you would try and slide down between his arms to get away but his hold under yours means you won’t get very far. Instead, you lean all the way down and pull his ankle forward, using your weight and his loss of balance to push him back. He goes down and you go with him. His hold on you lessens and you use the opportunity to get yourself free and stand back up, you’re looking down at him now.

He’s on the floor looking up to you, his eyes examining your own, “You have done this before.”

“I never said I hadn’t,” You reply, he squints at you, and you give him your hand to help him up, which he takes.

When he’s on his feet again he asks you, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why haven’t you told me why it’s so important I know self-defence?” You counter.

He sighs at you, “I want to know you can take care of yourself.”

“Yes but it’s one thing to be able to care of yourself and another to learn self-defence in case of bodily harm,” you emphasise, “This came out of left field, Liu and you know it. Something changed for you, and I want to know what it was.”

“My feelings for you changed, I want you near me, always. I want to be with you, to care for you, always… but I can’t be.” He’s frowning slightly.

You look at him dubiously, “And so your solution was teaching me how to defend myself in an attack?”

“No.” He answers quickly, “My solution is bringing you with me.”

“What?”

“The champions, will be gathered soon and I will be spending a lot of time at the academy… it’s selfish of me but I would like you to come with me, I would like to have you beside me and I would feel better about that if you could defend yourself.” He’s still frowning, clearly unimpressed with his own wants.

“I will go with you anywhere,” you tell him because you would, you would go anywhere, as long as he is beside you.

He reaches for you, both his hands resting on either of your shoulders, his expression charmed by you and your words, “I would like that.”

You smile tenderly at him, “You realise you’ve been kind of silly, keeping this from me?”

“Maybe but how long did you keep your feelings for me to yourself?” He retorts.

“Not the same,” you huff at him, “And you did the same thing,” you point out.

He hums at you, a hand lifting off your shoulder to hold the side of your face, gently cradling it, “I will fix it now then, I like you and would like you to stay by my side.”

“I suppose I will come with you,” you’re pretending to be apathetic, but his words make you so happy.

His eyes lift with his smile, “I need to know the extent of your self-defence training.”

“I know only the basics; I know how to evade an attacker and get myself free of a hold. I don’t know much else.”

“It is more than I thought,” he’s smiling brightly at you.

“What?” You are confused as to why he is so happy right now.

“It means I can teach you offensive attacks,” he informs.

You frown at him, “If I am going to be with you, do I really need to know how to attack someone?”

“It would make me feel better,” he replies, his thumb strokes your cheek.

Your tone is serious as you address him, “Liu, I don’t want to have to attack someone, I hope you know that.”

“I know and hopefully, you won’t but I’d like to know you could.” His expression is serious and so is his tone.

“You’re pushy,” you complain.

The side of his lips quirk up in a smile, “Only because I care.”

“You will not be teaching me any attacks today.” He opens his mouth to protest but you hold a finger up, “No, I have to think about it, attacking someone is different from defending yourself.” You’re looking at him firmly.

You aren’t one of his champions, you are not a fighter. You learnt self-defence out of concern for your own safety and well-being, learning to attack someone is something else entirely and you will have to think on whether or not you want to learn something like that.

“I would like you to consider it, but I understand,” he says before pulling you to him, holding you firmly. You can’t tell if he wants to comfort you or himself.

You sigh against him, “I will show you all I do know today, though.”

“I would like that,” he speaks into the top of your head.

So, you show him all you know. You spend a good amount of time showing him the different kinds of self-defence moves you know, and he helps you, teaching you better ways to do things or correcting your form. It is informative and you’re comfortable with him, his hands are warm, and they guide you.

His touch is innocent, his only intent is helping you show him what you know. He has no ulterior motives, and you realise that the teacher you had was definitely just creepy because this man you’ve slept with is holding you with the innocence of a man who has never seen you naked and has no desire to, his only desire is teaching you and seeing what you’re capable of.

“What is wrong?” Liu Kang asks.

Your face has betrayed your silent moment of realisation, a deep frown set in your eyebrows that you hadn’t noticed, “It’s nothing.” You smile at him, dropping the frown from your face.

He takes you in for a moment, determining if he should push you on this but lets it go, the both of you picking up where you left off. It isn’t until late morning, almost midday that you both stop.

“You know significantly more than I thought you would,” he says.

Looking to him, you reply, “I told you; I only know the basics.”

He makes a sound of amusement, “You know a bit more than the basics.”

You’re a tad shocked, “I do?”

“You do.” He confirms.

“How odd,” you comment.

“Come on, let’s walk back,” he grabs your hand and leads you back. The walk is quiet, and you enjoy the warmth of his large hand for most of it.

Beside you, he squeezes the hand he’s holding to get your attention, “Are you okay, with everything?”

“Yeah, I am okay.” You assure him.

He isn’t sure and tries to offer you an out, “I am being selfish by wanting you with me, you do not have to come.”

“I meant what I said, I would go anywhere with you,” you smile at him and lean into his side.

He hums from beside you, “Good.”

₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

He doesn’t stay long with you; he has to leave for the rest of the afternoon into the evening, but he said he would visit you later in the night if it isn’t too late. You had told him to come by even if it is late, but you don’t know if he will.

The tail end of the day is spent doing whatever you can, mostly though, you read the book Liu Kang gifted you. The notes he left are like reading his mind, they’re extensive and you’re wondering what you could do in return. Something kind that he’d like, something he can appreciate as much as you appreciate the book, but you don’t know what exactly that would be.

Looking to the clock on the wall, you can see the time has slipped by quickly, closer to midnight now. You peel yourself from your spot on the couch and move to lock the door before deciding against it, hoping Liu will stop by and let himself in.

Instead, you potter down the hall and slip into your bed, reflecting on things, head full of thoughts. The day had taken more out of you than you expected it to, you’re still a little stunned that you know self-defence well enough to impress Liu, though he didn’t think you knew any sort of defence, so his surprise is warranted.

You suppose you took those classes fairly regularly for a while and you enjoyed learning, so it shouldn’t shock you completely that you know it well. It’s a damn shame about that teacher though, you really hope he isn’t still teaching.

Thinking about that city fills you with a sense of melancholy, so many bad memories you left behind but also some good things too. You think, you’ll want to go back soon, to see the few friends you had there, maybe go back to that café with Liu.

The plushness of your bed is calling you, and you find yourself sinking back further into it, adjusting yourself so you’re completely content. The comfort of the bed has your eyes drooping, dozing off and drifting into a quiet slumber. Your dreams are empty, thoughts clear for once and you feel warm, comforted. It’s peaceful and you don’t remember the last time you’ve had such a tranquil sleep.

But then the warmth has you getting hot, body temperature rising uncomfortably. You can’t move and eventually your body wakes you up, startling yourself slightly. When you open your eyes, everything is dark and your mind is hazy from the sleep but with what little consciousness you do have, you realise what the cause of the heat was. Liu has crawled into bed behind you and pulled your body to his, his arms keeping you close but whatever he’s dreaming about has his powers a bit out of whack. You wonder how much time has passed and how long he’s been in bed next to you.

His skin is burning up and it’s unfortunately what woke you up, he was unintentionally overheating you while you both slept. Shuffling, you turn around in his hold and put a hand on his face, he’s very hot. He unconsciously pulls you closer to him, a hand wanders down to your hip and pulls you to him. Your front collides with his and, oh? You can see now why he’s burning up; his cock is solid against you.

A sigh leaves his mouth from slightly above you, his cock grinding into you lazily. The hand you have on his cheek quickly taps at his face to wake him; you’re surprised by his unconscious desperation, and you briefly wonder what he is dreaming about.

He wakes up at your touch on his face, his eyes bleary as he looks down to you, he hums in question at you; wordlessly asking why you woke him up.

“Uhm, you…” The words trail off, you can’t seem to find out how to phrase what you want to tell him and now your sleepy brain is needy for him.

Liu grunts at you, fully aware of his own situation now that he’s awake, “Did I wake you?” His words are mumbled, still half asleep.

Your brain is a few steps behind your mouth and your response is to mutter out, “You are hot.”

His eyes close again but his mouth rises into a lazy smile, “You think so?”

You take a second to think of your words first this time, “I mean, yes but you were literally hot, your heat woke me up.”

“You think I am hot,” he teases you, voice deep with sleep.

Sighing you ask him bluntly, “What were you dreaming of?”

One of his eyes open to look down at you, eyebrow raised, “Guess.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, you don’t like guessing games, “You sure you can’t just tell me?”

He doesn’t reply, his smile is sly.

He’s the one who was so worked up he almost burnt you in your sleep, “Are you sure you’re in a position to tease?” You enquire.

“And what do you mean by that?” You’ve caught his attention now.

“I mean, you are the needy one right now,” you observe.

“Hmmm, I may be needy,” He mocks your usage of the word, “but I will make you desperate,” his hand pulls your thigh over his hip, his hard cock pressing directly into your core; it makes you gasp. “Want me to show you what I was dreaming of?”

You fight the urge to grind yourself against his dick, not wanting to prove him right. You want to show that he is needier than you, at least tonight but with the way he holds your cunt firmly to his cock without so much as moving an inch, you think you might lose this battle. He’s so hard against you and you’re itching for him to move, to give you a fraction of relief but he’s only holding you, nothing more.

His gaze is unbothered, clearly, awake Liu Kang has far more control than asleep Liu Kang, “Answer me.”

You can feel yourself growing wetter the longer he holds you to him, you’re fighting against yourself. The urge to take what you need growing, but you doubt you would even get close to succeeding.

“Love your facial expression, do you know how desperate you already look for me?”

You look away and pout, “It’s not intentional…”

A finger hooks under your chin and makes your gaze meet his again, “It never is,” his tone is amused, “You wear all your thoughts on your face,” he comments.

“I want to know,” you answer his question from before, his brow raises and you clarify, “I want to know what you were dreaming about.”

“Are you sure?” He’s straight faced as he asks.

“Always.”

Suddenly, he rolls over and takes you with him, he sits you on his lap. You’re sitting on his cock and you’re trying so hard not to grind down into him, though you really would love nothing more than making him cum in his pants for you. He rips your underwear and sleep shorts off, the display of strength astounding to you. Instead of dropping them to the floor like a normal person though, he burns them, he burns your underwear and shorts to a crisp in front of you.

You’re shocked, “Wh– What the hell?”

“Next time, keep your bottom half bare,” he shrugs.

“Liu,” you’re still shocked, he might be a little bit more needier than he’s letting on.

“Yes?”

Your expression is stunned, “You could’ve just put them on the floor.”

“I could have, yes.” He confirms. “Can I stuff you full now? Or do you need another moment to scold me?”

You’re at a loss for words, torn between scolding him and wanting to be full of him. His face is unbothered, but his eyes are knowing, he knows what you will pick, and you really wish you were more spiteful, to teach him a lesson, but you want him inside you.

“Hmmm, I think…” his fingers slip to your pussy, sliding through your folds and spreading your slick all over yourself, “…You need me to fill you up right now,” his fingers are coated in your wetness when he removes them, he shows them to you before pushing them into your mouth.

Your lips wrap around his fingers and suck, cleaning them of yourself. Liu grunts at the feeling of your tongue licking at them, his eyes carefully watching the way your lips are engulfing his large fingers. His gaze is far away as he watches the way he pulls them out of your mouth, obsessing over your mouth, over your lips.

His focus comes back, and he frowns, his hands pull your shirt up and off you quickly; the action surprises you. Gathering yourself, you say, “Do not burn it!”

The expression he wears is amused and for a moment he looks like he’s considering burning it in front of you, just to see your reaction. He ultimately decides against it and chucks it on the floor, something he could have done to your shorts and underwear.

“Pleased?” He asks, raising a brow at you.

“As much as I can be after you’ve…” your retort trails off because he has completely ignored you, pulling his cock out of his pants as you were speaking.

And as you look at his big dick, you’re struck, completely wordless and salivating as you look at it and the way his hand grips himself. His thumb rubs over the tip of his cock, he must’ve been having one hell of a dream because he is incredibly hard and slick. His own precum dribbling from the head of his cock in thick globs, his thumb spreads it all over himself, hand dragging it down over his length.

His cock is shiny and coated in his own mess, you’re practically drooling, your cunt throbbing with your overwhelming need for him, “Liu,” your voice is breathy as you call out his name and it makes his cock jump in his hand.

Your hand reaches out to replace his own, holding him firmly but gently, you stroke up and down his length. Your movements spread more of his precum over his large cock, your thumb rubs at his tip, smearing it all over. His breaths are picking up, his hips twitching, holding back from fucking into your hand. His eyes are shut, savouring the feeling of your softer and smaller hand on him.

“Put. It. In,” he hisses out between clenched teeth, “Or I will.”

You hesitate, finding it an opportune time to tease him, “Why? Are you getting needy?” Your voice singsongs to him, full of mirth.

His eyes flick back open to look at you, his gaze dark and hungry and you feel like maybe, you did not have the upper hand you thought you had. Now, you think, he was maybe indulging you. His finger moves to your core, spreading your slick all over yourself again.

He avoids your clit and lightly pushes the tip of a finger into your pussy hole, only to drag it out and play with your cunt by smearing your arousal all over yourself. The action has your hand pulling back from his cock, grabbing at his wrist, holding onto him. He is working you up purposefully, not giving you any real pleasure. And it really does feel like a punishment because you already wanted him.

You go to ask him for more, “Can you–”

“–Shhh,” he cuts you off, not giving you the chance to request more from him, “You think I am needier than you?”

You don’t answer but your lack of a response is still a response.

“Hmmm, I will remind you of how fun you are to play with, how desperate you get for me,” his fingers still slide through your slick cunt. “How easy it is to have you cumming for me.”

Your pussy clenches down on emptiness, wanting so bad to be full of him. Wanting him to stop teasing you and force his cock inside your very wet cunt but you made a miss step, mistaking his directions for a moment of weakness. And while you were right about his need, he’s certainly not going to give up the control that easily.

God, you just need him to stop being so cruel, his cock is thick and heavy and slick, oozing precum still, but he’s not willing to give you the satisfaction, not now, not after your taunt.

“Liu, please– I… want you,” his fingers still avoid your clit, only really making a mess and not giving you any satisfactory pleasure, you feel like you might shed a tear.

He hums in thought at you, his gaze on your cunt and his fingers, “You want me?”

As you go to answer, his fingers slip over your clit, rubbing tight circles into it very suddenly. Your body collapses forward, hands coming out and landing on his chest to hold yourself up. He chuckles at your reaction, at the way you’re already borderline shaking on top of him. His fingers are relentless, and he was right because you’re already right on the edge and just as you think he might push you off it, he pulls his hand back. It lands on your hip, fingers wet and sticky from your cunt.

They drum against your skin, “You were saying?”

You glare at him, your voice shakes, “That was mean.”

He only smiles politely at you, his expression easy, unbothered by seemingly, everything. He’s waiting for you to speak, and you know exactly what he wants to hear but you only purse your lips and stare at him.

He tuts in response to your defiance, “Got to ask for the things you want, love.”

You pout, “I want you.”

“I am right here,” he retorts, the hand on your hip slides up the side of your body, landing on your tit.

His free hand comes up and grabs at your other tit, he fondles your chest, his hold firm. The way he’s groping you is driving you up a wall and his cock jumps against his abdomen at the way you whine for him. His index and middle fingers pinch your nipples between them as he grabs at you and another pitiful whine comes from you. He releases a mix between a sigh and groan at the sound, obviously struggling with his desire for you.

Your eyes are big and pitiful when you look to his, “Liu, please, I want you inside–”

“–Not what I want to hear,” he cuts you off, eyes stern as he looks at you.

Leaning forward, he presses his lips to your neck, your hands move from his chest to hold onto his shoulders, and you’re surprised at how hot he has gotten again. His body temperature increasing with the way he’s restraining himself; his mouth sucks a mark into your neck and his tongue is hot as it licks at your skin.

His hands grip your hips and pull you closer to him again, his mouth sucking marks into your neck, your chest. He’s working his way down, leaving hot and wet marks against your skin everywhere his lips go. Once he’s reached your breasts, he takes a nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking at it, the warmth of his mouth makes you twitch on top of him, a gasped whine exiting your lungs at his ministrations.

He pulls back but bites at your nipple lightly as he does, it makes you jump and gasp, “Liu, please…” He makes a noncommittal noise, still not hearing what he wants from you.

The grip he has on your hips moves to your thighs, he’s grabbing at your skin, enjoying the softness of your thighs, his hands are hot on your delicate skin, and you squirm in his lap. His gaze locks onto your thighs, and you think you know what he wants, probably wants to leave marks on them.

After he gets an eyeful, his eyes look to your cunt, your slick dripping down your thighs with how little he’s given you. So horny for him and he’s done nothing but edge you once and fondle you. One of his hands slips from your thigh to your pussy, fingers immediately massaging your clit, you’re so worked up that you moan at the slight touch. His other hand grips harshly at your thigh, grounding himself.

“You are so wet,” he observes, his fingers still rubbing your clit, “Why don’t you end your suffering and tell me what I want to hear?”

Your response isn’t much of a response at all, only a small broken whimper passing your lips. The pathetic sound has Liu’s abs tightening, his cock twitching, the heat he’s radiating increasing, obviously he’s torturing himself at the moment. He looks delicious and as much as you’d love to see how much it’d take to break him; you don’t think you would survive it.

“I need you, please,” you break for him, eyes pleading, wet and almost crying, so close to finishing and wanting him to let you. He doesn’t reply though, and it worries you, so you beg, “please, Liu –nngh– need you to– I–” You’re incoherent and your voice is whiney but when you look into his eyes, fuck. He looks… feral.

His hand speeds up for you, his grip on your thigh loosens just the smallest amount, enough so you can grind down onto him a bit. You’re leaking down his hand, down his wrist, your nails dig into his shoulders and right as you’re about to cum again, he pulls his hand away… again.

The sound you release is a borderline sob, your pussy is throbbing with need, and you’re so confused as to why he didn’t let you cum. Your eyes fill with unshed tears as you look at him, your voice is small when you ask, “Why?”

He wears a large smile on his face, eyes still feral but he seems to have found a new kind of resolve, “Something wrong?”

You’re speechless, are you still being punished? Why didn’t he let you cum, did you not give in to him? “What did I do wrong?” Your brows are pulled up, worried.

“Nothing, you have been perfect,” he smiles assuredly at you, but his expression has an underlying wicked hunger. He taps your thigh, so you hold yourself up, “I’m going to stuff you full now,” he informs you and at his words you hold yourself up for him.

You don’t want to get your hopes up, now feeling like his show of mercy will come with conditions but you are really hoping he will fill your cunt. He grips his cock in his hand, pulling you closer to him, when you’re in reach, he rubs the messy tip of himself through your folds. The pair of you already a mess in your own rights, the action mixing the two together.

“Take the tip,” he directs, voice firm, warning you to only take the tip of him.

“Yessir,” you murmur in response as a joke, but his dick twitches the smallest bit in his hold.

For your own sanity, you don’t tease him for it, fearing you may not survive anymore edging. You do as you’re told, lowering yourself onto his cock and taking only the tip of him, with how wet you both are, it’s an easy fit. You take his tip well, but you are slightly concerned with taking the rest of him; right now, you think, if he slammed up into you all at once, you’d cum on his dick alone.

Your thighs are burning slightly at how you’re having to hold yourself up, trying not to take anymore of him. He’s breathing heavily, his skin getting hotter again, his hands move to your thighs and grip them, pulling at the supple flesh. Your pussy is pulsing around the tip of him and he’s doing everything he can to hold back, having a specific plan for how he wants to fuck you tonight and doesn’t want to ruin it by losing control here.

His thumb slips to your clit and rubs into it, flicking at it, it makes you moan and has you itching to sit down on him. Wanting to feel completely stuffed full, “Liu, I want –nghh– I want all of you.”

“That’s too bad because I want you to do as I say,” he replies harshly, voice hissed between his clenched teeth. His commanding voice and the attention he’s giving your clit makes you clench down on him, he continues talking, “I want you to cum, that’s what I want.”

Something about him tonight is driving you crazy and you were already so close to cumming before he spoke but now, after hearing him tell you what he wants, you’re a split second away from cumming. The final straw is when you look down to where you’re taking just the tip of him, your own arousal sliding down the sides of his cock, the mess is obscene, and it makes you cry out.

Your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders again, needing the leverage as you cum on him. The feeling of your walls fluttering on the head of his cock makes him groan, loudly. His head falls back on the headboard and his eyes close, needing a moment to recover before making his next move.

The breaths you release are huffed; he’s finally let you cum and it makes your previously unshed tears slip down your cheeks. The relief you feel is euphoric, your head dizzy with how good it felt. He only edged you twice and you just about lost your mind, if he ever tries to do that properly, he might kill you. Or drive you actually insane.

He opens his eyes to look at you, “Crying over the tip of my cock?” His tone is cocky, knowing he’s pulling you apart so well.

“No,” you lie, a hand moving off him to wipe at your cheeks but one of his own hands stop you, grabbing your wrist.

“Leave it, you look cute, crying over my dick,” he muses aloud to you.

You look at him sceptically but don’t wipe your face all the same, letting him have his way. When he’s sure you won’t wipe your face, he drops your hand.

“Sit down,” he says, “Take it all, for me.”

You feel yourself flutter with excitement, looking forward to finally being full of him. You slide down his length, taking more of him, slowly as you do. The stretch of him is delicious and you think, even if it hurt, you wouldn’t stop, your need for him outweighing any pain. You want him in you, want his pelvis grinding into your clit, need, you need his pelvis grinding into your clit.

The both of you are so slick and sticky the sounds can already be heard in the room, a soft squelching as your cunt sinks down on him. His hands hold your hips, helping guide you down onto him fully, you’re taking your time, wanting to be careful. Your hands move to his pecs, open palms splayed on his chest, there’s heat radiating from him, hotter now than when he almost overheated you in your sleep.

“You’re –nngh– really h–hot, Liu,” you tell him, concerned by it.

He smiles at you suggestively, and if you weren’t still trying to take all of his cock, you would roll your eyes at him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he reassures you, knowing you are worrying for him and his wellbeing, even with his cock a few inches in you.

He’s getting impatient at how long it’s taking you to get all of him inside you, his frustration reaching a head. Instead, he takes control and shoves you down on him, filling you all at once, the shock of it, of being so full suddenly, the slap of his pelvis against your clit, it makes you cum on him very suddenly. Small whimpers falling from your lips, your hips unconsciously keep grinding into him, riding out the high. Your cunt clenching down on him, hard, with your orgasm.

A guttural groan comes from Liu, you can feel it rumble in his chest under your hands, “That’s it– mmph– love how easy you cum for me–” he sighs out, relishing in the way you’re gripping his fat cock.

Your hips come to halt, done grinding down into him but his hands on you keep moving you against him. Encouraging you to keep grinding, it makes your stomach do flips, barely even coming down from your high before he’s trying to get you to cum again.

“It’s too much–”

“–I thought you needed it,” he counters.

You shudder against him, already on the edge so quickly after your last orgasm. You try to tell him how it feels, how it’s so overwhelming. Having his cock grinding so deeply inside you, having your clit drag against his pelvis, it’s so much. But nothing leaves you, nothing but a few more tears and small whimpers.

His expression as he watches you is sure; he knows what he’s doing, and he knows what he wants from you. You play right into his hand, and nothing brings him more joy than that, “You want to know what I need?” He asks you.

You shake your head at him, not really paying attention.

“I need you to cum again,” he tells you and he’s serious, his hands grip you harder and drag you against him firmer.

The added pressure has you cumming on him again, your cunt squeezing him tightly as you cream around him, again. He moans pleasurably, overjoyed at you doing as he says and at the way your cunt cums messily around him. He twitches inside you, sensitive and needy for you but having too much fun playing with you to stop.

Even as your body jolts from overstimulation, he doesn’t stop dragging you against him, still forcing your hips to grind down, “Liu, I need a moment–”

“–No, you don’t.”

With the way he’s filling you completely and the stimulation on your clit, he’s going to kill you, or have you passing out on his cock. Your arms struggle to keep yourself up, shaking against his chest. One of his hands leave your hips to pull you to him, your bare chest pressed to his own. He’s so hot.

How he’s holding you now, he leans back slightly, feet planting on the bed. Using his leverage to grind up into you as he forces you down on him, it has you moaning into his skin. The hand on your back slides up and grabs at the back of your neck, holding you to him.

“I know you’re already close again,” his voice is breaking, holding back his own sounds of pleasure until they only come out as whiney breaths.

You whinge against him, “I can’t–”

“–You can, and you will.”

His skin is so warm, so firm, all his muscles moving against you. His large cock fills you so well and you want him to actually fuck you, but you’re concerned you might not be able to take it. You’re drooling on his skin now, just from his incessant grinding, the thought of him actually fucking you has your cunt clenching and brain short circuiting.

“Come on, love–” his words are cut off by his own gasp, you’ve cum at the sound of his voice. It’s low but pitched with need and he sounds so fucking good that you cum on the spot, your pussy choking his dick harshly.

He groans at the way you grip him; his hands stop dragging you down onto him, but his hips chase yours, his own desperation showing in the way he’s rutting against you. His arms wrap around you, holding you to him tightly. He keeps grinding up into you and it makes you whine into his neck.

He’s breathing heavily next to your ear, borderline whimpering at the way you wrap so tightly around him, at the way you came so nicely for him.

“Liu, you –hah– feel too good –mmph– too much,” you mumble against his skin, his shoulder wet from where you’ve been drooling against him.

“–Hah– I am not even close to done with you yet,” he huffs in response, his hips still grinding up into you. With how he’s holding you, you have no choice but to take what he gives and what he’s giving right now is desperate grinding, still not fucking into you properly.

He moves his face into your neck and licks at the length of it, it makes you shudder against him, "Last one, and then –mmm– I’ll fuck you.”

You’re dazed as you check with him, “Promise?”

He hums at you, “Promise.”

His hips keep grinding up into you, his hand on your hip encouraging you to do the same, wanting you to finish for him. Your body is tired, but you rut down against him, it makes him hiss and then he bites your neck. The sounds he would have made muffled by his teeth in your skin, the feeling has your cunt spasming on him.

He pulls his mouth back from you just to lick and suck at your skin and then he’s biting your shoulder. The small pain driving you up a wall, it makes your pussy leak for him, your breaths are stuttered and you’re going to cum again.

He mumbles against your skin before pulling back a bit so you can hear him, “The way you’re gripping me, fuck–” He’s about to moan but instead bites your neck again, harder this time. The shock of the pain goes straight to your cunt and you cum on him, again.

You’re lucky he’s already pressed you completely to him because you would’ve collapsed onto him. Whines and whimpers are pulled from your chest, more tears slip down your cheeks and you feel so far away from your body, you don’t even feel like you’re on Earth anymore.

Liu is groaning into your skin, he pulls back and lathes over his bite mark with his tongue and when he looks at it, he hums in contentment. Pleased with the impression of his teeth in your soft skin. His hips have stopped grinding up into you, giving you a needed break, you’re slumped against him, breathing heavily.

“Been doing so good for me,” he compliments. You can only hum in response to him, you’re out of it.

He lets you catch your breath; his hands stroke up and down your back, his lips press kisses into your skin, over the bite marks he’s left. He’s giving you a quiet moment to gather yourself and you really appreciate it because at this point, you don’t even know how many orgasms he’s given you, but your body does and you’re feeling fucked out.

Once your breathing is normal, you tell him, “You’re going to kill me.”

He chuckles at you lightly, amused, “No, I’m not.” He pulls your head back so he can press his lips to yours, taking away any chance of you disputing him.

The kiss is kind and tender and a stark difference to how he’s just pulled multiple orgasms from you. He kisses you softly, his tongue slips into your mouth, and you melt against him. Your thighs spreading open further on him unconsciously, it has his cock inching just the tiniest bit more inside you and it makes you moan into the kiss.

He grunts against you; his hands grip at your hips. His body heat is still hot, he’s itching to fuck you but being as patient as he can be. When he pulls back from the kiss, he nips your lip lightly and it makes you gasp. He only smiles easily at you when you glare at him for it.

“Need you to move, want you on your hands and knees for me,” he taps your thigh, and you start pulling up, it has you releasing gasped whines. Just as you’re at the tip of him, his hands hold you on him, “Look at the mess you’ve made on me,” he practically growls out the words.

When you look down, the mess is obscene, so much of your cum coats his cock. Creamy ring at the base of him, you look to Liu but he’s looking at his cock and how messy it is. His dick jerks at the image, his hands hot on your hips.

“You are such a messy little thing, love the way you cum for me, so fucking easy to have you creaming on me, fuck–” he closes his eyes for a moment, he’s working himself up. He takes a breath and looks at you, eyes dark, “Hands and knees.”

Taking the hint, you pull yourself off him completely and shuffle around on the bed. You face the headboard and sit back on your knees, feeling a bit embarrassed at arching your back for him and hesitating to do so. He gets off the bed and stands up, removing his pants properly. He moves to the foot of the bed and points in front of himself, giving you wordless instructions.

You do as he indicates and move in front of him, he tells you, “Hands, knees,” and makes a spinning motion with his hand, instructing you to turn your back to him.

Turning around, you lean onto your hands, you feel sheepish as you do. Liu’s hand pushes your upper back down until your chest is on the bed, his other hand pushes your thighs open for him. You arch your back for him, your ass and cunt on full display. When he pulls away to look at you, he groans.

His hands play with the globes of your ass, pulling them apart and staring at your pussy, “Perfect, stay like this.”

Faintly, you can hear shuffling from behind you, you aren’t sure what he’s doing. But it shocks you when Liu drives his cock into you all at once, your body jolts forward and you moan. Liu curses lowly at the feel of you around him again. His curses are hissed and breathy, and he holds his hips to your ass for a moment, collecting himself.

Once he’s taken a second, he pulls out of you and forces himself back in. His initial choice in pace is already so devastating, his thrusts are harsh, stuffing his cock into you with each one. All you can do is take it though, so you do, because as overstimulated as you are, the way he’s finally fucking you has you feeling so blissed out, you wouldn’t rather be doing anything else.

He fucks into you so deep the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, your moans are pitiful, almost whimpers from how well he fills you, from how well he fucks you. He has you seeing stars and you would be embarrassed at how close you are to cumming on him again, but it feels so good, and you’ve been far gone ever since he stuck his dick in you completely the first time.

Liu’s moans flow more freely from him like this, letting himself indulge after robbing himself of the pleasure he desperately wanted from you. He was torturing you before sure, but he was also balls deep in your tight cunt, not doing anything but grind into you, his self-restraint is godly, and he thanks all that is good for it because he really does love making you coat his dick in your cum. He loved having you cry for him, overstimulated and needy, he’s going to cum at just the thought of it if he’s not careful.

Your moans hit a higher pitch and his thrusts pick up pace, knowing you’re close and still wanting another couple orgasms from you before he finally fills you with his cum. His hands on your hips fuck you back onto him as he thrusts forwards and you’re clenching down on him, a small pathetic whimper exiting you as you cum on him.

If you hadn’t already been arched the way you are, your arms would have given out and had you face planting into the bed below. Instead, you whimper at your unknown numbered orgasm and drool into the sheets. Mind swimming with thoughts of him, of his large hands, how hot they are against your skin, about the thick drag of his heavy cock against your walls, how easily he pushes you off the edge, so sure in his actions, so sure you’ll cum for him when he wants it.

Your pussy throbs around him, he grunts but doesn’t stop fucking you, he own need overwhelming him, his spoken thoughts not all that coherent anymore, “G –hah– you feel so fucki– feel so divine –nngh– mm going t– hah– to fuck all my cum inside you, fill up your –nngh– tight little –fuck– cunt,” his breaths are whiney, and his head is lost in the feel of you.

His hand reaches around your front to rub at your clit, the stimulation has you shrieking and trying to crawl away from him, “Liu– I –hah– can’t please–”

You keep trying to crawl up the bed away from him, but he pulls you right back with no effort, “Yes you can– I need you to –hah– fuck–”

He holds you back easily, you have no chance to escape his punishing thrusts and relentless fingers. He’s still mumbling nonsense but not only is he barely coherent, but your thoughts are barely coherent, all the blood rushing to your head. You can’t understand what he’s saying but it’s a mix between praises and curses.

His fingers don’t stop and you cum on him, he’s effortlessly pulled another orgasm from you, and it makes your moan border on a yelp. Tears flow down your cheeks onto the bed sheets, you’re so sensitive now, your mind so far gone. He’s growling behind you at the way you pulse around him, the noises he makes barely human.

His hands are so hot on you, his skin burning up, he grabs both of your hands and pulls them back. Using you as leverage to fuck into you, he’s also making sure you can’t try and crawl away from him. His thrusts are wild, the wet noises in the room are so obscene, you think you’d die of shame if you had even half your wits about you.

You’ve heard the phrase fucked dumb and you thought you had been fucked dumb, last time Liu fucked you, but this is insane. He’s going to send you to an early grave, and you don’t even care, not with how delicious he sounds, the moans and grunts he’s letting out have you ascending to a higher plane.

His grip on your wrists are firm but he drops them and grabs your hips again, just to pull you back, your legs drop to the floor in front of him. Lucky he’s holding you up because you are not capable of it at the moment. Your front half is still pressed completely into the bed, Liu holds your lower half up, your tippy toes just barely grazing the floor. His dick is hitting everything inside you that has you folding in on yourself and insides twisting, he might make you cum again, you’re going to need some kind of higher being to take mercy on you because you are fucked.

He's animalistic behind you, focusing on his own high, at least you thought he was, but his hand reaches for your clit again and you try to squirm away from him. You are unsuccessful, you’re so weak and he’s got you in the palm of his hand and he knows it. You can’t even verbally protest, only wiggle and whine below him.

“Want you to –hah– fuck– I need you to squirt for me,” his voice is deep, laced with so much hunger.

You try to tell him, “I don –ah– ’t th –mmph– ink I–”

“You can.” He’s steadfast, certain you can and that he will make you.

His fingers slip over your clit, everything is so slick, both your lower halves slippery from all your orgasms. He’s not gentle, his thrusts are harsh, and his fingers are determined, his cock is bullying its way into your cunt, hitting so deeply inside you, you go cross eyed.

The build-up is making you crazy, everything he does is pulling you apart by the very fibre of your being. Your cunt is clenching down on him like a vice, the pleasure feels like too much and you squirm against him, trying to get away again. Nonsensical words fall from your lips trying to warn him, but he only laughs deeply at your attempts at evasion; he’s happy he’s getting what he wants. A particularly deep thrust sends you over the edge, you cum… everywhere.

Liu groans at the sight of you squirting for him, on him, his thrusts don’t slow, if anything, they speed up. Chasing his own high now, so ready to fill you to the brim with his cum. He’s trying very hard to keep his powers under control, not wanting to burn you but his hands are hot against you and the closer he gets to his high, the less control he has over himself.

You’re crying from the pleasure, it’s been so intense, you don’t even feel like a person anymore. You can’t even moan, the noises you make are small whines and cries. Liu is obsessing over how your cunt swallows his cock, how well you take him. He’s also enjoying the small sounds you’re making, his ego inflated hugely tonight.

Everything about you right now has Liu just about losing his mind, the sounds he lets out are wild and unrestrained. All you can do is take it and wait for him to finish, and you really want him to finish. You want to hear him cum, want to feel him twitch inside you as he finishes.

You clamp down on him harshly, the sudden tightness of your cunt has Liu keeling over slightly, moans breaking off into whimpers as he fucks his cum into you. His hands burn you and he fucks your hips down against the bed so it holds you up, wanting to remove his hands as quick as he can.

He grabs at the footboard of the bed, the wood smouldering under his hands, he’s burning his handprints into the wood. He humps into you for a while, riding out his high, rutting into you to keep his cum inside your pussy. You’re pressed to the bed, completely absent.

When he’s gathered some control back, he leans down over you, “Are you okay?”

“I– I think so,” you slur out, mouth mostly pressed into the mattress.

He hums and slowly pulls his cock from you, he takes a moment to watch his cum leak from you, wanting so badly to stuff it back in but knowing you’re already so sensitive and he doesn’t want to push you.

“Did I go too far?” He asks, scared he’s broken you.

“Mm good,” you singsong out, shakily giving him a thumbs up, “Worth it.”

He scoffs at you in amusement, eyes tracing over your fucked out body, landing on the light burns he’s left on your hips. Red handprints left behind; the sight has his ego inflating but he also feels guilty.

“Need to give you a cold shower,” he comments.

You murmur out to him, “Bit late for that.”

“For the burns,” he clarifies.

“Hmm?” You didn’t think they were that bad, you remember him being hot, not burning you. Getting up slowly and with Liu’s help, you twist to look at your hips, “Well, I’ll be.” You smile stupid at the burns, “I like ‘em.” You say before flopping back onto the bed.

“Need to run them under cool water,” he presses you.

You only groan at him, “Can’t move.”

He sighs at you and picks you up, carrying you to your bathroom. He has to hold you up in the shower but he’s happy to. Your legs are like jelly and you’re barely conscious.

You remember why this happened and ask him, “As good as your dream?”

“So much better,” he kisses your cheek, “In my dream, you only came a couple times, this was way better.”

You gape at him, “What?”

He just smiles happily at you, pleased with himself.

₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

A/N: THANK YOU FOR READING!!! I know it took me way longer than usual and I really appreciate all of you <33 As always, if you have any thoughts, questions, requests, my inbox is open ! P.S. the discord server got snippets of this way more and were updated more frequently, if you’d like to join send me a dm :))))

#liu kang x reader #liu kang x reader smut #liu kang x you smut #liu kang x you #mk1 smut #smut #fanfic #liu kang #liu kang smut

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moonstruckme · 6 months

Note

soft sirius x reader pleasee 🙏🙏 either established relationship or fwb/friends to lovers vibes you decide

Thanks for requesting!

modern au

fwb!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“You ought to start locking the door,” Sirius calls out as he enters your flat. You tug out one earbud to hear him better. “I could be a serial killer.”

“Right, sure,” you snark lightly, washing dishes double-time. “And you ought to start calling before you come by, but we both have our bad habits.”

“Like you’d pick up if I did.” He saunters into the kitchen, taking in the mess and then pretending not to notice. He leans against the counter beside where you’re working. “I just thought I’d drop in and see if you have a bit of free time.”

“A bit?” you laugh. “Looking for a quickie, Black?” You stack more dishes on the drying rack, jolting forward to steady them when a bowl on the top threatens to tumble. “Sorry, no time. The kitchen’s been a mess for days, I have to clean up before my flatmate gets home from class and murders me.”

“But she seems like such a nice girl,” Sirius muses, taking the precarious bowl and drying it with a towel. “Anyway, doesn’t your flatmate’s last class end at, like, six? It’s hardly three.”

“It’s weird that you know that.” It’s not, really. You know a freakish amount of details about his life, too, but it’s easier to keep up the casualness of this arrangement if you pretend you’re not quite as close as you are. You go into the living room, collecting dirty dishes and talking whilst you walk. “She does, but I have to revise my essay, and if I don’t get this done before I start on that, it won’t be finished before she gets home. I’ll forget, I know it.”

“Hm.” Sirius takes the kettle down from its cabinet, nudging you aside to fill it from the tap. “Why do you have to revise your essay tonight?”

“Because it’s due in three days,” you explain, taking his place at the sink as soon as he’s out of the way to dunk more dishes in the soapy water. “And I have another essay due in four days, so if I don’t work on this one now, I won’t have enough time to finish that one. And besides those, I’ve got my regular work to keep up with.”

Sirius is quiet for half a second, which is unusual enough that you look over to check that he’s still here. He’s giving you a look you know too well, one dark brow and one corner of his mouth quirked up suggestively. “Sounds like you need to blow off some steam,” he says.

You try to scoff, but it comes out a snort. “Oh, fuck off. And quit looking at me.”

You don’t look up from your task this time, a particularly stubborn piece of food requiring your attention, but you can tell Sirius is pouting at you from just his voice. “A cruel demand, and one I can’t abide by. Sorry, gorgeous.”

“Freak.” You continue scrubbing at the dish. Finally, you give in, using your fingernail to attack the crusted-on piece of mystery food and doing your best to ignore the grossness of it. It comes off, but your nail breaks. “Damn it!”

“Hey.” The teasing tone drops from Sirius’ voice. “Take it easy, dollface. You’ve got time.”

It doesn’t feel like you have time. There’s been alarm bells going off in your head since you’d woken up on Monday morning and realized all you had to do this week, and there’s no time for any of it. There’s a dangerous pressure building behind your eyes, but if there’s one thing you definitely don’t have time for, it’s a breakdown. You force a deep breath, trying to calm yourself.

“I know,” you tell Sirius. “Thanks.”

“Maybe you should take a break,” he suggests lightly.

You cut a knowing look his way. “I do not have time for a shag right now, Sirius.”

He grins, showing his teeth. “Not what I was thinking of, but as always, let me know if you change your mind.” You roll your eyes, and his smile drops. “Just, like, an actual break. You seem kind of stressed.”

“I am,” you say, like duh, “but I don’t have time for a break either. I’ll be less stressed when everything is done.” You just have to make it until then.

Sirius goes quiet again, but you don’t bother wondering about it this time. It’s fine if he’s worried about you. You want him to be, a little bit. You want someone to see how hard you’re trying, even if it doesn’t look like your efforts are producing much. You’ll wash the dishes, and your flatmate will still be annoyed you’d let them pile up in the first place. You’ll turn in your essays, and they’ll be just okay enough to pass. You can work all day, from the second you wake up until you fall dead asleep, and sometimes it feels like it’s for nothing. But what’s the alternative? Stop, and watch your barely-together life fall apart completely? No, you just have to get through this week. Just this week, and then you can rest until the next hard week.

You stack the last of the dishes on the drying rack, and your hand has barely left before the three on top slip off. You lunge forward on instinct, like you think you can catch them. You can’t. The crash is loud, but you barely hear it. You bring your hands to your face, cupping your mouth between your palms. Your horrified exhale blows hot air back onto your chin.

“Okay, it’s okay.” Sirius’ voice is soft, as is his touch on your shoulder, encouraging you back from the glass shards. “You’re alright, just be careful, yeah?”

“Fuck,” you say, and you try to laugh, but what comes out is a dry sob. “Oh my god, fuck me.”

“I think we’ve agreed now’s not a good time,” Sirius jokes, taking a dish towel and using it to scrape together the bigger pieces. “Do you have a broom, love?”

You shake yourself out of your stupor. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll grab it.”

You step over Sirius, and he makes a half-suppressed sound of alarm when you come too close to the glass but takes the dustpan when you hand it to him. You sweep up the glass, going farther than necessary from the site of the damage to ensure no one ends up with an impaled foot later on. Sirius dumps it in the trash.

“Thanks,” you tell him, trying to reorient. “Okay, I need to—”

“Oh, would you look at that,” Sirius cuts you off, going to the stove. “It appears I’ve put the kettle on. Must be habit. Sit and have a cup with me, doll?” You give him a look that says you know what he’s doing, and he shrugs like he doesn’t care. “Just for a few minutes. Please.”

You relent perhaps too easily, picking out mugs for the both of you and accompanying him to the living room. You curl up against the armrest of the couch, and Sirius settles in next to you, his thigh touching your hip. They’re your usual spots, but what’s not as routine is the arm he wraps around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You sip at your tea as if you don’t notice. The warmth is soothing as it goes down your throat and seeps into your insides. Sirius turns on the TV, and it’s obvious by now that you’ve been lied to, he doesn’t intend to let you go after a few minutes, but you’re losing the will to hold him to it anyway. You let your head lie on his arm as he begins to trace slow, smooth shapes into your shoulder.

And though it feels nice, you say, “I don’t need you to coddle me.”

You feel Sirius shift to look down at you, and you tilt your head to meet his eyes. “But you’ll let me,” he says, “won’t you?”

You don’t know how to answer that. Sirius doesn’t seem to be waiting for one, pressing a casual kiss to your head and then focussing back on the screen, his doodles on your shoulder never faltering. You rest your head on him again, and you suppose that’s answer enough.

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goldsbitch · 7 days

Text

Right? p8

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

epilogue - Lando's POV

summary: Y/N is a photographer for McLaren F1 team. Hard working, goal oriented professional who would never put her career in jeopardy for some stupid crush, right?

Challenge me. Make me question my past actions. Hold me on the edge, while we risk it all.

Watch me watch you walk around the paddock, as if there wasn't a bright red love bite underneath your turtleneck. One that only I know about and plan on refreshing. Knowing you have to cover those up makes me ecstatic, because I have seen you smile like a teenager while doing so.

We're our little secret, for now. It will come out eventually and we'll enter a new chapter. But for today, let me have our classified, not so modest photoshoots. Let me sneak around just to give you a little peck on the cheek. Walk just a little close to me so that our hands brush, ever so "accidentally".

The way how you're so good at passing me by, as if you hadn't woken up next to me. Like I have no idea about your birthmark little too low on your lower back. The one I'd touched in a way colleagues should not.

And I know you're having to fight smiling a little too obviously during our team meetings. Because I have to admit, sometimes I have to hide my smirk behind a coffee cup or a cough. I wonder if people noticed that you don't take official photos of me anymore.

I'm good at running around with a camera, but I think I was born to be your muse. To let you capture me in the way only lovers can. Energy and desire creeping through every frame. I trust you deeply that you won't sell my secrets - and I know you have to trust me too. Allow me to play an all-or-nothing game, while being ultimately raw with you.

I sometimes can't help my mouth from smiling at random times throughout the day, just knowing that we managed to play this game so effortlessly. Once I got you on board, it turned out you're quite good at this. I guess it's making you irresistible even more.

I think hiding it from everyone is working in our favor. Once the fan hurricane hits when the reveal day comes, we will have already spent many days of freedom. It won't be a va banque taken with a stranger. A companion, lover, muse and the capturer. I should not be looking forward to causing a scandal, right? But I do. Turns out I am bad at stopping myself when it comes to you.

I've already sunk so deep, so much at your mercy, I am unable to untangle myself. Please, promise you mean it when you said "I love you" so shyly the other night. It took me some time to admit that I do. But with you being so slick and smart, you must have already known. You're someone who does not like to be brave about this. You wouldn't have said it if deep down you were not sure about my response. And that's ok. You're the smart one, I'm the brave one. A perfect combination.

One day, you'll have to take a big risk with me. When you've finally moved on from McLaren photos and get yourself in fashion photography as you always wanted anyway. You'll have to get out of your shell and I am so here for it. But for now, we have our little secret life to enjoy.

There will come a day when we'll replace the thrill of a private affair with a strive for something serious. If it had been only my decision, I would have already shouted to the world that you are mine. Make your love bites visible and trackable to me. One day, we won't have to worry about hotel room walls being too thin. But I want you ready for the price that comes with my public company.

I'll drive us fast, maybe even recklessly, and you'll make sure we have something to remember it by.

_______________________

@i-wish-this-was-me @lqvesoph @ophcelia @noneofyourfbusinessworld @formulaal @chezmardybum @amberpanda99 @4-mula1

Short, but a proper goodbye to my first story. Thank you all for the support! Love you all.

#lando norris #lando norris x y/n #f1 smut #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #ln4 imagine #formula 1 #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #lando norris angst #mclaren #lando norris fanfic #smut #ln4 smut #lando norris fluff

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lemon-boy-stan · 6 months

Note

Helloooo. Do we leave requests here? I don’t know. I’m just a potato.

anyway, what about Genshin tall men waking up in the middle of the night and thoughts come tumbling in? Could be safe, nsfw, comedy, whatever you like. (But please make Zhongli’s disgustingly sweet because I am so in love with him). Thank you for listening to my ramblings

if this is the wrong method… I’m sorry >.<

Hii!! This is the right way to request!! I'm sure you're not a potato 😭😭 anyway here's your request!! Also I hope you dont mind but I turned it into a full one-shot with zhongli!!! Ummmm yes he has two cocks in this teehee

HERBAL TEA - Rex Lapis x Reader

SUMMARY: Zhongli can't sleep as it's mating season. It's been centuries with him as your husband, but there are still many secrets he has kept hidden from you, many insecurities. GENRE: Fluff, SMUT. Kinda ooc. MINORS DNI. WARNINGS: monsterfucking, breeding, use of the word "pet", "mate", penetration, p in v, unprotected sex, some blood, messy cum, zhongli has a forked tongue, zhongli has two cocks. It's also mentioned that zhongli makes the reader immortal with his icor (that's the ooc stuff). Really filthy smut 😭😭. Also, reader is female!

It was late at night; early morning. You'd woken up suddenly, hearing a loud thud. You looked to the left side of the bed, reaching out for your husband.

Zhongli's side of the bed was cold, and empty. You turned on the bedside lamp, bare chest cold, you scavenged from r the nearest piece of clothing you could find, one of your husband's massive button-down shirts, drowning in it like a dress. You got up, the moonlight shining on your skin.

"Zhongli," you called softly for him. You hugged yourself, walking out of the master bedroom. Zhongli stood at the kitchen table, making a pot of herbal tea. You smiled softly, walking over. He was in his half-dragon form, arms black and shimmering golden. He was growing more comfortable like this, every century since you'd been immortal.

"Morax," you bowed, walking over. He put the teapot down, smiling softly, "my dear, what are you doing awake?" He took your hand and kissed it before twirling you so he could wrap you in his arms. Last night had been one of the best of your life. Zhongli was possessive, but evidently, dragons did not share their treasure, as you had learnt from flirting with a man in the court of Fontaine.

"Your side of the bed was cold," you complained, "I missed you." Zhongli was a light sleeper. As if reading your mind, he hugged you tight, kissing the side of your neck, the texture of his forked tongue making you arch your back in pleasure.

Morax chuckled, "I couldn't sleep, so I wanted to make tea. Then I was reading, but I got distracted... I finished my tea, and I'm making another one... Then I was thinking... My love," he whispered softly, "I need to mate soon." Was that shame in his voice? Why was he ashamed? He bowed his head, "I am getting restless. And now that you are ready, now that I've fed you my ichor for centuries, I must reveal all of myself to you. I can't control it."

Ah. So this at least, explained his sudden change in behaviour. Yes, many years ago, before getting married to him, before becoming immortal, Zhongli had asked, if you were able to withstand so many years of being alive. Yes, you'd told him, he was the man you loved, and you'd gladly be by his side forever.

But he still had so many secrets, he'd said, secrets he wasn't ready to share yet. He was a god, after all. He was a god, yes, but he was also the love of your life. You'd told him this, that eternity with him would be a paradise.

"In order to fulfil the mating process," he explained softly, "I must go through a series of changes. My human form, is quie different to my half-god form, which is why I always make love to you in my human disguise. When I am like this, my body is different. You will notice my tongue is forked. I apologise for hiding it from you for so long, my dear. In order to complete the process... I must... I'm afraid I must... Mate you with both... Both of my cocks."

You gasped, shocked. He looked at you, fear in his golden eyes, which were bright and on the verge of tears. "I am sorry for hiding it for so long," he choked, shame in his voice. "I tried to conceal it, but my body... It's why I was so different last night. Your scent, even after all these years... I needed to mate with you. I understand if you don't want to. I am not sure what will happen. I have never done this before, with a human. I-" you kissed him.

He groaned into the kiss, tightening his grip around your body. You looked up into his big, yellow eyes. "Rex Lapis," you spoke, making his ichor run through him, "you do not understand, do you?" And he cocked his head as you smiled, "I am yours. You asked me all those years ago. I was so in love with you. I am so in love with you. I want nothing more than this. I want nothing more than you, always and forever, to be your wife, to be your mate."

And Zhongli growled. He picked you up, carrying you to the bedroom, throwing you softly onto the bed. "Are you sure you want this?" You nodded, looking up at him, "yes, Rex Lapis, please." And all he did was laugh, "my love, you won't be able to take them."

Zhongli crawled on you, growling and snorting animalistically, the sound of his belt being unbuckled and clattering echoing in the room. "I am not stopping until this cunt is full of my offspring. Do you consent, pet?" You nodded meekly. He was so powerful, even after centuries of drinking his ichor you still felt beneath him.

"I need to hear it, my love. Do you consent?" He kissed your neck, licking his forked tongue up and down your body, making your toes curl. "I consent," you breathed lustfully, "I consent." He let out a hot breath of air, "good." And with that, Zhongli thrust both of his cocks inside of you, no warning and no preparation.

You screamed loudly, pain washing over you at the foreign feeling of his second cock. Had they grown larger? They felt bigger than usual. You sobbed loudly, gripping onto the headboard behind you. Zhongli was only spurred on by the tears. It hurt, but felt so good. This was why he had been training you, you realised, to take both his cock and a crystal toy at the same time. But nothing prepared you for this.

You could feel all of him. All of his rage, his jealousy, his obsession, his greed, his love, his sadness, his happiness, flowing through you, golden waves surrounding both of your bodies in the bed. You moaned loudly, feeling all of his emotions, all of his strength, his power. It was so much. "Feel what I feel," he snarled, "understand what it's like to be in your prescence."

Nothing but his name left your lips, "Zhongli, Zhongli, Zhongli," feeling far too good to think, to even notice the gold blood leaking from your cunt as Morax dragged both of his cocks along your walls. "Do you know how much I've had to restrain my true form?" He roared, ignoring your sobs, thrusting harder each time. "Do you know how fucking insatiable you are? Do you know how weak you make me? You? A mere human? The only human I've ever fed my ichor, the only human I've given my offspring, the only human I've ever loved before?" Do you know how obsessed I am with you?!"

You shook your head, "more, Rex Lapis, more!" Babbling the words through tears, smelling his thoughts and emotions, too overwhelmed with power. Too fucked by both of his cocks. He snorted, slamming them back inside you. You screamed, a painful orgasm crashing down on you. "Yes," he hissed, "yes. Cum all over me, pet. Yes... Cum all around my cocks, just like that. Yes, yes, yes..." Zhongli's groans filled the room, the gold waves growing bigger and bigger.

You were shaking of an orgasm, panting for breath. Zhongli roared loudly, and you could sense it coming, tears streaming down his face, the black and gold of his arms engulfing his entire body as he came, roaring wordlessly through the night, the entire house shaking, drowned in a gold light, smelling of sex. His cum dripped down your legs, there was just so much.

Rex Lapis was still for a while, and you were afraid he was injured. Then he smiled fondly at you, the black and gold evaporating from his body, his half-dragon form morphing back into his human form, although you noticed some things were still in tact. He pulled out and looked at you, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Was I okay?" He was still hovering above you, cleaning your legs and the sheets. You pulled him close to you, kissing him. The tears fell from his face and you realised he was scared. Terrified. You smiled at him softly, "you were beautiful, Rex Lapis, beautiful." And for the first time in his life, the god let out a soft giggle.

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#zhongli #rex lapis #morax #zhongli smut #rex lapis smut #morax smut #zhongli x reader #rex lapis x reader #zhongli x you #rex lapis x you #morax x you #genshin #genshin impact #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #zhongli imagine #rex lapis imagine #morax imagine

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leclsrc · 1 year

Text

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum.

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you.

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while.

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.”

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same.

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more.

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along.

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?!

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat.

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook.

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch.

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered.

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily.

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully.

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic.

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again.

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him.

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something.

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing.

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code.

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement.

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite.

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language.

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now.

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles�� meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t.

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc angst #f1 x reader

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thenasoneshots · 3 months

Text

Lucifer/Alastor Oneshot - A Tale of Two Dads

Requested?: No

Prompt: None

Type of oneshot: Fluff/Angst

Reader's Relations: Alastor’s ex-girlfriend

Warnings: Spoilers for eps 7-8 of season 1! This was written the say those two came out

Other notes: Don’t ask how I thought of this…Somehow, my brain fixated on these two, and well oneshots is what happens when my brain gets fixated on characters.

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

“You absolute bastard, Alastor!” I shouted once he’d shown up at Charlie’s hotel, seven years after leaving, “You leave for seven years and all you have to say is ‘hi’?! Someone hold me back before I fuck his face up!”

“Hello, My Dear, it’s good to see you too.”

“Fuck you,” I retorted, making eye contact with him, in an easy feat due to the fact I was the same height as him. He just smirked at me, using his microphone to lift my chin, an unnecessary thing due to the fact I was already looking at him, “Now now, that’s not the right way to talk to me, is it, My Dear?” I didn’t respond, instead I just growled and tried to punch him continuously, him dodging every blow I attempted to make.

“You should know that’s not going to work, (Y/n).”

“Fuck. Off. Before. I. Kill. You. Myself. Bastard. I’ve had to deal with a child that you-”

“Mama? What’s going on?”

My head immediately shot around to see Alianna standing at the bottom of the stairs, the seven-year-old rubbing her eyes as if she’d just been woken up. I gave Alastor another glare before rushing over, “It’s okay, Sweetie. Nothing you need to worry about,” I spoke, ruffling her red hair.

“You always say that!”

“I say that because most of the time, you don’t need to worry ab-”

Alianna cut me off, asking the question I had wished she would never have to ask, “Is he my Papa?”

If I’d been drinking something, I would definitely have spat it out in shock, “Now now, Ali, that’s something you don’t need to worry about you. You can learn more about your father when you are older.”

She pouted for a few seconds before, “Okay, I’m older!”

I chuckled, “I meant in a few years, now back to bed with you.”

Alianna sighed and nodded, running off back upstairs towards our room in the hotel. I let out a sigh of relief and stood up, turning around, only to have Alastor directly in my face, “For fuck sake, stop doing that, you bastard,” I shouted, punching him in the arm.

“Why should I stop when I get-”

“Were you listening to our conversation?”

“It was kind of hard not to, (Y/n)... I think you owe some people an explanation, and I’d be happy to loosen up your strings a bit if you know what I mean,” I heard Angel’s voice saying before I saw one of his arms dangling in front of my face and, what I guessed was another, on my head.

I rolled my eyes, “How many times, Angel? I’m not interested in you. Stop trying,” I growled, shoving him off me, “But, I guess you’re right about the explanation. This Radio Demon Bastard here,” I paused and pointed over in Alastor’s direction, “Is Alianna’s father. She doesn’t know, so please keep it quiet. I’m begging you.”

“You can always beg more, (Y/n). If you catch me drift…”

“Angel, shut up for once. Not the time for your sexual fantasies.”

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

“Alianna. No. Get back here right now!” I shouted, running up and pulling her off Lucifer gently, “I am so sorry, Sir. She got out of my sight. I apologise again.”

“It’s alright. She’s cute anyway. Much like her mother.”

I felt my face turn red as I looked away, but before I could say anything, Alastor was in front of me, glaring down at the Short King of Hell, “She’s mine. Get away.”

“Oh really?” Lucifer questioned, before walking around the Radio Demon and up to me, taking my hand in his, “Because there’s nothing on her hand to show she belongs to anyone,” he finished, bringing my hand up with his and kissing it, “But if she really is ‘yours’, she has had ample opportunity to stop my advances, and isn’t so…”

“I do not belong to anyone. You,” I turned and glared at Alastor, “May be Alianna’s father, but it doesn’t mean that I am ‘yours’. As a matter of fact, you lost all rights to even seeing her when you left, so you can just go away and leave me alone!” I shouted.

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

A few days later, I found a(n) (F/c) rubber duck sitting on my bed, along with a note. “I wasn’t messing around when I said you were cute, I meant it. Call me? L.” there was a phone number at the bottom and I giggled. I knew it was probably wrong as he was Charlie’s dad, who was my best friend… But he’d made an impression on me. So I added the number to my phone under the nickname ‘Short King’, and sent a message, “I got your note. Thanks for the duck. How’d you know (F/c) is my favourite colour?”

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

I groaned in pain as I lay on the ruins of the hotel, after having come face to face with one of the angels, blood seeping from my side. It was just as I was losing consciousness, that I saw a flash of white in front of me, fighting off the angel.

LUCIFER’S POV

Once the angels had retreated, I turned back to (Y/n) to see her unconscious, with blood surrounding her. Immediately, I retracted my wings and knelt beside her, realising she’s been severely wounded, “(Y/n)? Please wake up. You have to. (Y/n), please. I- love you.”

“Dad?”

I looked up to see Charlie standing there, a saddened smile on her face, “You can’t bring her back.”

“Is there nothing?! No one can bring her back?” I asked, despair wreaking through my voice, as I felt tears cascading down my cheeks.

“I’ve got one idea… but it’s a long shot, so don’t get your hopes up,” Charlie replied, running off. She came back a few minutes later, dragging a girl behind her, who seemed to be complaining, “Charlie! I told you, I can heal, but I can’t combat the second death!”

“Just try. For me? Please?”

“I’m telling you, this isn’t going to work if she’s dead, Charlie!”

“Try though? Please, Brianna?”

“Fine, I’ll try, but no one get their hopes up,” the brunette replied as Charlie pulled her over. I noticed Brianna take a deep breath before kneeling on (Y/n)’s other side, cracking her knuckles, “I’ll say it again if she’s truly dead, then this isn’t going to work, but I’m going to need help,” she paused and turned her attention towards me, “May I ask for your help, Sir? This will only work if I have the help of someone she loves.”

“M-me? I-Isn’t there someone else that she loves? Like her daughter?”

The brown-haired demon just chuckled in response, “I mean it’s got to be romantic love, not platonic love.”

“Oh... Wait a minute, do you still want me to help? As much as I hate to say this, shouldn’t you be getting that Radio Demon to help? In the sense that he’s the father of her daughter, therefore she must love him.”

“As a matter of fact. I know she hates me. She lit-”

“Alastor’s right, Dad. You may not have realised, but that duck you gave her has pride of place in her room. Every day she makes a point of dusting it, and no one’s allowed near it. I’m surprised it’s not in a locked box that only she has access to. She wouldn’t have kept it if you didn’t mean anything to her. Plus you deserve to be happy as well,” Charlie spoke, placing a hand on my shoulder and kneeling beside me, “Trust me. You’re the one we need to bring (Y/n) back.”

“Well? Are you going to do this or not? We don’t have much time left.”

With a final boost of confidence from Charlie, I nodded, turning to Brianna, “Okay.”

She smiled, “Okay. In that case, I need you to place both your hands above where her heart is and keep your eyes closed. Can you do that?” I nodded, doing as she asked me, remembering to close my eyes.

YOUR POV

I woke up with a start, and I lifted my head in shock, but before I could say anything, I’d been wrapped in a hug, “(Y/n)!”

“O-oh.. hello, Mr Lucifer. I-It’s good to see you too,” I replied as he continued to squeeze the living Hell out of me, “C-can you let me go though? Personal space.”

“Sorry! I’m just glad you’re okay,” he started, letting me go as his face turned the same colour as his waistcoat, but before I could mention it, Charlie had spoken up, “See, Dad? Told you it was you that she loved.”

“CHARLIE!” I all but screamed, “HOW IN THE ACTUAL HELL DID YOU KNOW THAT?! You better start running. I don’t care if you’re the Princess of Hell, telling someone that your friend has a crush on them is not funny!” I continued, standing up and starting to chase after her, but before I could get too far I felt a gloved hand wrap around my wrist and pull me backwards, spinning me around, before I felt pressure on my lips. It took me a second to process, but once I did I wrapped my arms around the King of Hell’s neck and kissed him back.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, (Y/n).”

I grinned widely, “Still embarrassing that it took your daughter to get us together though.”

“I have something for you, (Y/n)...”

“Let me guess… is it another rubber duck?” I asked, my voice laden with sarcasm. Lucifer’s face turned red as he looked at me a shocked expression on his face before out of thin air, a small box appeared. Lucifer took it in his hands before handing it to me, “I-I’ve been working on them since I left you the first one… I hope you like them.” I smiled and took the lid off, my eyes widening with glee at the sight of the small family of ducks. Two adults, one a light yellow, the other a (H/c) colour with lashes painted around the eyes, with two baby ducks, one the same colour yellow as the adult, also with eyelashes, and the other a red colour. I giggled at the meaning behind the colours, the adult ducks supposed to represent me and Lucifer, and the two baby ones representing Charlie and Alianna, and hugged the blonde male in front of me, “I love them, thank you. I know exactly where these are going,” I spoke, pecking Lucifer on the cheek after leaning down to do so, whispering in his ear, “Short King.”

“I am not that short!”

“Hmmm. Compared to me, you are,” I smirked, “Now, who wants to rebuild this hotel?”

—------------------------------END OF ONESHOT

The ending was not how I imagined it, but at least it didn’t go over 2000 words… This was originally supposed to have more Alastor x Reader in too, but it didn’t fit with the plot I was going with.

#xreader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar

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octoberclidan · 4 months

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We Don't Really Do Christmas

Prompt: something like she wants to do something with them that they don't want to do, but for her birthday they make an exception and do it for/with her? Or putting up christmas decor with dean!!!!

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, also a bit of platonic Sam Winchester x Reader

Masterlist

Story:

"Hey, where do you keep the Christmas decorations?" [Y/N] asked as she walked into the bunker's kitchen to find Sam and Dean.

"What Christmas decorations?" Dean asked. He was lounging at the kitchen table with his afternoon coffee, while Sam was having a post-workout smoothie.

"You know... the decorations that you put up at Christmas? I had a look around but this place is so big I figured it would be quicker just to ask", she shrugged as she leaned against the doorway and waited for one of them to tell her. She'd only moved into the bunker a month ago, and with only one week left before Christmas, she was eager to get the place decorated so she could start to feel a bit more festive.

"[Y/N], we've told you what Chuck is like. You've met angels, you still want to celebrate Christmas?" Sam chuckled before he finished off the last of his smoothie.

"It's more of a nostalgia thing. I like the lights, and the music, the hot chocolate and the smell of the Christmas tree! I've already wrapped up your presents, I need a tree to put them under", she crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow as both Sam and Dean started to laugh quietly. "What is so funny?" She frowned at them.

"Nothing, just didn't know you were into all that", Sam shrugged. "I don't think we have any decorations".

"None?!"

"Monsters don't take Christmas off, Sweetheart. We could be miles away next week on a case. We don't really do Christmas", Dean knocked back the rest of his coffee and stood up to throw his mug into the sink. "You didn't have to get us presents either".

"Yeah, well, I did anyway". She tried to hide her disappointment at their lack of enthusiasm, but she never did have a good poker face.

"Hey, if it's that important to you, I can go look for a few decorations in town later", Sam smiled softly at her, but she sighed and shook her head at him.

"No it's okay, never mind". Before waiting for a response, she turned and left the kitchen, feeling a little bit childish at her reaction, but she'd never just not done Christmas before.

***

[Y/N] was woken up by a knock on her door. Not long after she'd asked the boys about decorations, Sam had found a case which had kept all of them on the road and occupied for almost a week. It was now Christmas Eve, and they'd only arrived back in the bunker the previous afternoon. [Y/N] had chosen not to set an alarm, and to just allow herself to wake up whenever her body decided that she'd had enough sleep, so she wasn't too surprised when she glanced at her clock and saw that it was already 11am. She rubbed her eyes when there was another knock on the door. "Yeah?" She called out. "You can come in".

"Happy Christmas Eve", Sam grinned at her as he stepped into her room, two mugs in his hands.

"Happy Christmas... Eve? What's going on?" She asked, still in the process of waking up. The thought of Christmas had been pushed to the back of her mind during the hunt in order to give her entire focus to the case, and coming home to a non-decorated bunker hadn't reminded her of what day she was going to wake up to. Sam walked over to her and handed her one of the mugs, and her nose was instantly met with the smell of chocolate. "Hot chocolate?"

"Yep, Dean's orders", he chuckled, and he used his now free hand to grab something that he had tucked under his arm, sitting it down on the bed.

"Dean's?" She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"Yeah", Sam laughed, and patted the package on the bed. "This is from him too. You have to drink your hot chocolate, put this on, then come out to the library", he smiled as he took a sip out of his own mug.

"I am so confused".

"I was too, but then I realised what this is all about and now it makes perfect sense", he winked at her. "It'll make sense to you too. Don't take too long!" Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned around and left her room, leaving her blinking after him. 'Put this on'? She thought as she took a sip from her mug, pleasantly surprised to find that the hot chocolate had been made with real melted chocolate, not powder. She reached over to the package and pulled it onto her lap, it was soft and squishy when she felt it. She ripped it open carefully and smiled as a familiar red and white snowflake-patterned material poked through the wrapping. It was a pair of fluffy pyjamas that she'd held up to have a look at when she had been on a supply run with Dean during the hunt earlier in the week. She'd wanted them, but she knew she wouldn't be able to wear them on hunts without being teased. She didn't even know that he'd seen them, but he must have been watching when she'd pulled them up to feel their softness against her cheek in the store. She felt a warmth spread through her as she considered his thoughtfulness.

***

Once she'd finished her drink and had put on the pyjamas, she strolled out to make her way to the bunker's library, but stopped in her tracks before she'd even closed her bedroom door behind her. The corridor had multicoloured lights strung up all along both walls, all the way down to the end. She smiled to herself and felt a rush of excitement as she walked down the corridor. The sound of Christmas music filled her ears as she got closer to the library, and the familiar scent of pine hit her just before she walked in. She stopped and took a deep breath, partially to take in the smell and sense of nostalgia, and partially to calm her nerves.

She wasn't exactly sure why she was feeling nervous, maybe because she still didn't really know what was going on, or maybe because Dean, someone who held a special place in her heart, was doing something so nice for her. She took one more breath before stepping into the library to find Dean sitting on one of the couches which had been pushed against one of the bookshelves. The tables and chairs had all been pushed aside too to make space for a large Christmas tree in the centre of the room, nearly as tall as the room itself. Her mouth dropped open as she looked around the room, it had been decorated with little snowflake and reindeer ornaments hung on the walls and shelves, there were more multicoloured lights hung along the ceiling, and there was a large variety of snacks and treats laid out on one of the tables. Finally, her eyes landed on Dean, who was beaming at her. She'd never seen him look so excited. The lights were twinkling in his eyes, he was wearing his warmest red flannel, and if the lighting was a bit brighter, she might have seen a light blush under his freckles.

"What is all of this?" She giggled as she stepped into the room.

"It's Christmas", he grinned at her, then looked around the room, admiring his own work.

"What happened to 'we don't really do Christmas'? She asked, mimicking his deep voice and making him chuckle.

"Well, this year we are", he shrugged, then slowly pushed himself up and walked over to her, looking down at her. "I uh, I saw how disappointed you were last week when we said we don't do Christmas. I couldn't get that look out of my head. I don't like seeing you like that, I want you to be happy, and I want you to have everything you want here".

She blushed and looked down at his words. No one had ever gone through this much trouble for her before, not just to make her happy. She felt heard, and she felt cared for. "Thank you", she muttered before looking back up at him. "This means a lot to me".

"Well, since it's Christmas I won't feel too embarrassed by being cheesy when I say this, but you mean a lot to me. You have for a long time now, long before you moved in here. You make a positive difference to my life, and I know Sam's too. If you're happy, I'm happy". He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and she took a shaky breath. "Look up", he whispered, and she looked at him in confusion before tilting her head back.

"Is that... mistletoe?"

"Yeah... Sam caught me putting that up, that's when he said this all made sense to him". She looked back at him and could now see his blush for herself. She smiled up at him and cautiously lifted her hands up to wrap around his neck, almost waiting for him to laugh and step away from her, but he didn't. Instead, at her lack of rejection, he smirked and placed his hands onto her hips, pulling her closer. He glanced between both of her eyes, admiring them, before she closed them. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, and they both sighed, the nerves making their way out. The kiss was soft, and gentle. There was no rush to it, no hurry, it was like it was just the two of them in the world and they had all the time they needed.

When they finally pulled away, they smiled at each other and Dean pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head and swaying slightly with the music. She dropped her hands to wrap around his waist, and they swayed with each other, just enjoying the atmosphere, as the music played through several songs.

"You two ready?" They finally pulled away from each other when Sam's voice broke through their bubble. They turned to face him, but Dean kept his arm wrapped around her.

"Ready?" She asked.

"For decorating the tree?" He asked, nodding down to the bags he had in each hand. She looked behind her to the tree and realised that it didn't have any decorations on it, apart from the same lights that lined the room. "Here", Sam said as he handed one of the bags to her. "Oh, and Dean, I got that photo you asked for", he said as he routed through his pocket, pulling out a photo that Cas had taken for his fake IDs.

"What's that for?" [Y/N] giggled as Sam passed it to Dean.

"Top of the tree", Dean stated matter-of-factly.

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree, taking regular breaks to eat through the snacks on the table, and listened as Dean explained exactly what he was going to cook for Christmas Dinner, and about how he'd invited all of their friends and nearly all of them were coming. It was going to be the best Christmas that any of them had ever had, and for the first time in a very long time, Dean was looking forward to Christmas Day.

The end

Dean Winchester taglist: @123passwort @janineb86 @k-slla @lyarr24 @candy-coated-misery0731 @jackles010378 @hobby27 @pizzagirlxnsfwx @itburnslikehelltobevega @queenie32

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tiredtxmblrvet · 2 months

Text

Fic Rec Friday #3!

If y'all want more fic rec fridays, check out @mediumgayitalian

Below are 5 fics I've enjoyed this past week/recently.

shake the glitter off your clothes now by @rosyredlipstick

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23373892

Summary:

Nico has just woken up hungover in a strange Vegas hotel room missing 3 things: - His phone and wallet, apparently. - His dignity, lost somewhere on the strip. - Any clear memory of the night before explaining the aforementioned situation. However, he has gained a few things—mainly, the ring on his finger and the man in this bathtub. - "Fucking Vegas," Nico said, rubbing at his face.

No, I will not stop rec'ing Rosy's fics, what can I say. Also I just copy and paste this post every week and it satisfies my autistic brain to keep authors in the same place. Anyways! This is a short one-shot where Solangelo end up married in Vegas, it's incredible cute and I eat this trope up every time.

third drawer down by summerset

https://archiveofourown.org/works/43030752

Summary:

After the battle, Nico needs a tether to the earth so he doesn’t fade to nothingness. Will volunteers.

Loved this take on the "3 days in the infirmary" trope !! This is a little one-shot where Will glows and "tethers" Nico to the physical world and they have to cuddle and it's just adorable.

can't you see, i'm losing my mind this time? by rabbit_soup

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38765766

Summary:

“You’ve got micro-pieces of glass in your skin, and I can’t in my right mind let that stuff just fester in there.”

“Glass…? Where—?” He racked his brain, slowly glancing up at Will. He didn’t remember breaking any glass on the quest.

“Strangest thing,” Will said, pulling an orange container out of the box. On its side, it read Arm and Hammer, Baking Soda in thick white lettering. “Both Annabeth and Percy swung by a few minutes ago, talking about the exact same thing—glass in their hands! The both of ‘em! Isn’t that interesting?”

The glass beaches in Tartarus...Nico thought.

Me, rec'ing two "3 days in the infirmary" fics in one post? It's more likely than you think.

I've read this fic multiple times, and I love it more every time I read it. Nico is disabled and uses a cane, and Will has hearing aids. How the two of them dance around each other is lovely to read, and I'm a sucker for a good "will calms Nico down from a panic attack" fic and boy does this deliver. Also once again Nico and Will are autistic in this which makes me very happy !! Also it's a series and I love the hurt/comfort in the following one-shots after this fic.

The Legacy of Jason Grace by HPbooks4life

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47979301

Summary:

Nico felt it when Jason died.

The problem is, he can't STOP feeling it.

But maybe, with a little help from his friends, he can learn to feel it less.

Short one-shot character study on how Nico reacted to Jason's death and his journey with dealing with that grief. As someone struggling with grief myself I really resonated with this portrayal. This is definitely more of a Nico character study than a solangelo fic though fyi.

cradle my heart in the palm of your hand by ghosttotheparty

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45734695

Summary:

“I can keep you warm,” he whispers. “If you want.”

Nico’s lips curve into a small smile.

“Yes, please.”

or; Nico wants to be touched, is scared of it. But he’s not scared of Will.

Once again, I am in love with how ghosttotheparty writes intimacy, and I have re-read this one-shot multiple times. It just fills my heart with warmth when I read it tbh.

Okay that's all! I'll probably keep doing this until I run out of fics to recommend. Have a good friday lovelies!

#percy jackson #solangelo #nico di angelo #percy jackon and the olympians #will solace #pjo #solangelo fic recs #fic rec #pjo hoo toa #hoo #jason grace #heroes of olympus

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miasmaghoul · 6 months

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Kinktober Day 1 - High Sex

Wow, I can't believe it's already October 1st! I can't WAIT to see what normal things this month holds. I certainly hope Swiss doesn't go absolutely insane in Australia and destroy us all!

(Look, just be thankful I'm trying. Huge shoutout to @kroas-adtam for putting together this year's prompts!)

Green is the Warmest Color

Rating: E Pairing: Aeon/Swiss Word Count: 2.2k Contains: stoned, sappy ghouls, shotgunning, cock warming, lazy sex, banter, body worship, the boys being Real Fucked Up and absolutely loving it

-----

“You’re staring,” Swiss lilts, eyes crinkling as he brings the smoldering end of their joint to his lips.

Aeon's sure he's right, but in fairness, how couldn’t he? Swiss is a vision, sitting pretty in his lap in a wide straddle with a hand planted on Aeon’s stomach. The setting sun throws every inch of the other ghoul into such sharp relief; everything from the chips in his curved horns and the strong line of his jaw, to the breadth of his shoulders and the slight softness of his stomach. From the swollen, stiff peaks of the nipples Aeon had spent ages teasing once they’d finally fallen back into bed, to the flushed length of Swiss’ cock where it sits heavy against Aeon’s pale belly. Dribbling sticky fluid into his happy trail with the occasional languid rock of those incredible hips.

"'Course I am," he replies, loose and relaxed, "you're real nice to look at."

-----

Read below, or on AO3!

Lazy.

That’s how Aeon would say his day with Swiss has been. Lazy, but in the best way.

He’d woken late, drenched in the early summer sunlight pouring through Swiss’ windows. Wrapped in a tangle of limbs and blankets that he hadn’t found himself particularly eager to escape. Swiss seemed to agree, when he eventually cracked an eye open to find Aeon staring at him with a sleepy, besotted smile on his face.

“Finally, jeez,” he’d teased, planting a kiss on Swiss’ bare shoulder and flashing him some fang. “Thought I was gonna have to watch you drool forever.”

“You love when I drool,” Swiss had countered, raspy and thick but still playful as ever. He’d threaded heavy fingers into Aeon’s mop of messy waves, scratching at the spot behind his ear that always makes his leg twitch.

“Maybe,” he’d purred, tipping his head into the touch, “but I think there’s better things for that mouth to be doing.”

Swiss hadn’t argued that point, a slow grin splitting his face as he hooked a finger under Aeon’s sharp chin. As he knocked their horns together and nuzzled his cheek. Brushing their lips together in the barest hint of what Aeon was asking for.

“You have eye boogers,” Swiss had informed him then, thumbing along his lashline with a crinkled nose, and Aeon hadn’t been able to hold back his laugh.

“And you have morning breath,” he’d chuckled, looping a long arm around Swiss’ shoulders. “Kiss me anyway.”

Swiss had, happily so, and to Aeon’s delight there was no urgency behind it. No rush, no invasive tongue, no gasping for breath. Just the scratch of Swiss’ stubble, the tickle of his mustache and the warmth of his mouth. A kiss they had both gotten lost in, drifting on nothing but the feel and taste of one another.

The rest of their day had been equally indulgent; a long, hot bath filled with more of those decadent kisses and wandering hands. Hours spent in their pajamas on the common room sofa, Aeon sitting between Swiss’ knees so the other ghoul could play with his hair. A late lunch at the lakeside, Swiss occasionally tossing a grape into Aeon’s mouth from the other side of the blanket they shared. An early evening stroll to the greenhouse spent talking about everything and nothing, their tails idly curling together along the way.

Aeon had busied himself visiting his favorite plants once they arrived, chatting with one of the lesser ghouls tending to the table of orchids. Admiring petals in all shades of purple, caressing stems and verdant leaves with gentle fingers while Swiss hunted down Mountain. It hadn’t taken him long - Swiss creeping up behind him a few minutes later, looping his arms around Aeon’s waist to nose behind his ear, asking if he was ready to head back. Aeon had hummed, but hadn’t made an effort to move. He’d leaned back into Swiss instead, fingers dancing along a bud that had yet to bloom. In no particular hurry to abandon the beauty laid out before him.

Then Swiss had held up a baggie of prerolls, had kissed his neck, and Aeon decided that stopping to smell the flowers could wait until tomorrow.

Besides, his current view is infinitely more enticing.

“You’re staring,” Swiss lilts, eyes crinkling as he brings the smoldering end of their joint to his lips.

"'Course I am," he replies, loose and relaxed, "you're real nice to look at."

Swiss smiles down at him, washed in warm light that perfectly matches his golden eyes. Eyes that are both blown dark and red rimmed, heavy in a way that makes Aeon throb. He knows Swiss feels it deep inside, can tell by the way his breath stutters and his lids droop.

Aeon can't stop touching him, talented hands drifting from Swiss' knees to his chest and everywhere in between. Right now he has one on a strong thigh, thumb tracing ticklish half circles that make the muscle there jump. The other sits on Swiss' stomach, kneading gently at the little bit of pudge Swiss holds there. Aeon's obsessed with it always, but high as he is, the feel of it right now is simply exquisite.

"Easy there, kitten," Swiss sighs, his own hand gliding from Aeon's belly up towards his narrow chest. "Don't go bruising the goods." He rubs over a tight pink nipple with a slow thumb and Aeon groans.

"Can't help it," he replies, offering up a stoned smirk. "You're just so…"

Aeon trails off into a sound of faux frustration, grabbing at Swiss' tummy with both hands, digging bony fingers into soft flesh. Swiss laughs, a rich, warm sound that melts into a pleasured moan when Aeon twitches inside him. Swiss moves his hips in a slow circle and they both hiss with it.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Aeon murmurs, tongue flicking out wet his lips, and Swiss’ only response is a rusty purr.

He’s been sitting like this for a while now, keeping Aeon’s dick nice and warm while they finish off their treat from Mountain. A comforting weight that perfectly complements the fuzziness in his skull and the floatiness of his limbs. Aeon has no complaints about the fact that Swiss hasn't so much as bounced on him, neither of them in any rush to do more than enjoy the slow, luxurious grind.

Aeon somehow manages to pry his hands from Swiss' belly, settling them on his hips instead and encouraging him to circle them again. Swiss clamps down around him and it sends a wave of warmth through his pelvis so intense that Aeon shudders. Swiss hums his amusement around the joint, sucking down the last of it in one long pull. It's far too much at once, his broad chest puffed up to full capacity by the time he's done, but then Swiss is looking at him with a glimmer on those gorgeous eyes and Aeon really can’t be bothered to worry.

Smoke's already curling from his nostrils when Swiss leans down, dropping the roach into his ashtray before getting both hands on Aeon's shoulders. Settling his weight onto his slight chest and pressing their foreheads together. Aeon's arms snake around him in an instant, and then Swiss' mouth is on his and Aeon's world becomes nothing but scratchy stubble, soft lips and herbal smoke.

He drinks down all he can, licking it from Swiss' mouth and filling his lungs with the sweetest kind of poison. Swiss' tongue against his is heavenly, warm and wet and perfect to suck on when he's too out of breath to continue the kiss. Aeon exhales slowly through his nose while they soak in it, Swiss' nose rubbing against his and his velvety walls quivering in the most delicious way.

It's a challenge to convince his eyes to open once he's done, but somehow Aeon manages. Cracks lavender eyes no doubt redder than his flushed cheeks. Cheeks that go two shades darker when Aeon finds the other ghoul already watching him with a gentle warmth in his gaze.

"Now who's starin'?" Aeon teases, voice honey thick, claws trailing over Swiss' back in nonsense patterns. Oh he is very fucked up.

"Is it me?"

Well, at least Swiss is too.

"'S okay," Aeon assures him, as though Swiss would ever think staring was a problem. "I like when you look at me like that."

"Hmm?" Swiss cocks his head, squeezing at his shoulders. "Like what, starshine?"

Aeon's lips curl into a smile, one he offers up in a quick peck to Swiss' cheek.

"Like you love me."

He says it with such ease that it can't be anything but the truth, and despite the glazed look in his eye Aeon can tell that Swiss hears it too. He feels Swiss' cock throb where it's trapped between them, and Aeon hopes that the sticky spot on his stomach has grown larger.

"Maybe I do." Swiss sounds so goofy, so pleased. "What're you gonna do about it?"

Aeon offers a shrug, looping one arm around Swiss' waist while the other travels south. Coasts over the curve of the other ghoul's ass - Aeon grabs a nice handful, tugs at Swiss' hole a little just to hear him gasp - before slipping over his hip. Fingertips wiggling into the space between their overwarm bodies.

"Dunno," he answers, his casual tone a stark contrast to the way his greedy fingers worm their way closer to their prIze. "Could make you cum, I guess."

Aeon finds the slick head of Swiss' cock and sneaks two fingers between it and his own stomach. Massages the frenulum the way he knows Swiss' likes best. He's rewarded with a deep, dark moan, one that sinks into his skin like a tangible thing.

"Guess so," Swiss says, just a touch more breathless than he was a minute ago. "If you wanted."

Oh, Aeon definitely wants. Stoned as he is, that much is still obvious. He hums, catching the larger ghoul in a kiss that leaves him breathing heavier too.

"Sit up for me," he speaks against Swiss' lips, half into his mustache. "Wanna see you."

Swiss complies with absolutely no urgency, unhurried in the way he pushes himself upright. Relinquishes his grip on Aeon's shoulders to stretch those long arms over his head with a low groan. Aeon could watch him do this for days - could study every line and curve of the other ghoul's body for the rest of his existence and still want more. His admiring gaze travels from the tips of Swiss' fingers, down his arms, his chest, his stomach. When it settles on the swollen length of his cock, flushed dark where it's caged in pale fingers, Aeon can't help the way his own pulses.

Swiss must be so slick inside by now. Aeon can’t help but wonder, if he pulled out right now, if the mess of pre he’s been leaking for the better part of the past half hour would drip right down Swiss’ balls.

Swiss finishes his stretch with a show, running his own large hands down his torso with another roll of his hips, and Aeon sucks air through his teeth. Swiss gives him a devilish grin, hands coming to rest on Aeon's pecs, rosy little nipples pebbled under rough palms. Swiss kneads at him then, but Aeon's the one that purrs.

"Didn’t you say no bruisin' the goods?" Aeon barely recognizes his own voice for how slurred it is.

"I'm exempt," Swiss tells him, happily pawing at him while his cock throbs in Aeon's grip. Aeon snorts, free hand moving to stroke Swiss' thigh.

"'S'at so?"

"Uh huh," Swiss confirms, catching Aeon's nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. He gives them a nice tweak and Aeon yips, an embarrassing little sound that sends a flash of heat through him.

"What a surprise," he tries to deadpan, but the giddiness supplied by the weed makes it come out a bit silly. Swiss sticks out his tongue, and Aeon bites at the air as though he could reach it.

"What wa'zat about makin' me cum?"

Lucifer, Swiss sounds good when he's high. Aeon hums like he’s considering the concept, adjusting his hold on Swiss' twitching length. Less of a grip, more of a flat palm pressing it to the finely muscled plane of his stomach. Swiss gasps when he does, rutting forward on instinct and spitting another blurt of pre by Aeon's navel.

"Think you have everything you need to make that happen," Aeon croons, tongue poking out between his fangs. "Go ahead, I'm not stoppin' you."

Swiss groans deep in his chest when his brain processes the words, and then he's grinding again. Hips working in achingly slow rocks and rounds, each one designed to put Aeon's cock exactly where he wants it. Aeon adores the way Swiss' brow creases every time he hits an extra good spot, a beautiful sight that goes straight to his balls.

"Gonna take a while like this," Swiss huffs, despite the way Aeon can already feel him starting to flutter inside. Not that that’s a problem, there’s already heat starting to coil low in his gut with every move Swiss makes.

"'S'okay," he coos, the hand on Swiss’ thigh wandering up to nestle in his chest hair. “Jus’ promise you won’t stop if I blow first."

Swiss gurgles, spurts more pre, and Aeon’s content to lose himself in the wet sound of Swiss taking what he needs. There’s nothing he’d rather hear.

#miasma's work #the band ghost fic #aeon ghoul #phantom ghoul #swiss ghoul #aeon/swiss #aeon x swiss #ghost kinktober 2023 #kinktober day 1 #kinktober starts in october and ends when it's done lmao #fight me

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luvring · 4 months

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vulnerable vere is!! such a concept!! I love the idea of him eventually shedding that front he puts up w the mc but I’m curious as to how…basically, could we get some more vere hcs? 🥺 I absolutely love how you characterize him (and all the touchstarved charas!)

VULNERABLE VERE HCS

gn!reader | (hypnotic/alluring voice) red spring studio drop more lore so i don't look like a loser when all of this is absurdly inaccurate

VULNERABLE VERE!! aahh... with so little information to work with. i will try my best to think of possible scenarios!

starting out with going on a 'mission' with him—'mission' because it might not necessarily be an actual hunt. he could totally just lie to see what you'll do. you're intriguing!

a scene where you have the option to leave him behind, use him, hurt him in some way, and simply not doing so. and he's distrustful and shocked—maybe he had just done something to piss you off earlier—but you tell him you'd never have let that happen. and he might not thank you, but he eases his remarks for the day

^ actually you might get a Little thanks. just a little one. dependent on how far along you've gotten with him

you finding vere after he's gotten injured on a hunt. and he tells you he'll be Fine but it's cute how much you care but sits and lets you examine him anyway. maybe if you weren't looking for any scars or blood you'd notice the way his tail twitched when your fingers almost touched his skin

i don't think finding out vere's history is going to be as easy as a deep conversation.. like i don't think it'll be something he reveals voluntarily in some safe place. unfortunately. though i could still be wrong! which would be soo awesome

but to me. it seems like something that'll be commented on/exposed by other characters, something you'll be witness to when he has to transform, etc etc. and then there's an awkward tension because well, you're not really sure what to do now. you know vere and that's why you're hesitant, but also he kinda fucking hates the hesitancy

because ! great ! you've seen him ! and of course you're fucking scared (even if you aren't), of course you're staring at him silently, trying to start a conversation that no, he does not want to have right now.

but i Am expecting a deep late night talk. come onnn come on!!! there has to be one where he opens up a little bit, maybe he's a little tipsy, or he was and actually, he's quite sober right now, but you don't point that out because you don't want him to stop talking.

and then you open up. and he's silent while you tell him your story, when you tell him you wish you could touch somebody without the fear of turning them into something else. and maybe he thinks about every single innuendo he's thrown around and wonders what you were really thinking. wonders about you're different but also the same

and of course. the highly awaited scene of him finally letting you touch his collar/chains. you don't realize you're holding your breath, and he's sitting oddly still while your hands hesitate. then your hands touch the metal for the first time, and really you're not even sure what you plan to do. you have to be careful not to touch him, after all

and i think he might try to be dismissive of it . what the collar means, what letting you touch it means. your fingers follow the chain down his chest and he says something about how it's "nothing special," about how you're so nervous—does he make you nervous?

one indicator that he's learned to trust you i think could be falling asleep around you... like, not even just going to sleep at the same time with you, but simply letting himself rest while you're nearby. not having to worry about being woken for a job, or you trying to do something terrible, etc. i think that could be very sweet!

vere's tail...not just brushing it, but he flicks it at you knowing you won't retaliate in any harmful way. it's playful and teasing as always, but something he wouldn't do with someone he didn't want his tail near

a time where you can Touch him. perhaps the first time you think it's safe to try and he can tell you're freaking out so he moves into your touch before you can retract your hand

vere who is just like...a little calmer? he teases, but unlike the first meeting where he's dropping innuendos with every sentence, he doesn't really feel the need to do that? like vere's first meeting was definitely building up a character not just for us but for MC themself like...scratches head. anyway. vere in the morning where you've been in a relationship for a while and he's just. he comes up from behind while you're making a drink, and he might run his fingers along your back to send a chill down your spine, but then he's sitting down and holding a regular conversation about your plans for the day. yeah

i really want to know about vulnerable vere because right now . that one blushing sprite when you ask about ais at the end of the demo ... ??? like i Cannot imagine a scenario when else we could elicit that response. it is such a loving flustered gaze it's baffling because not a single story plot point i can think of right now for a character like vere would. ... well! it'll happen! it's a sprite for a reason! waauww...

#touchstarved #touchstarved game #touchstarved vere #vere x reader #so much vere in my drafts...sorry vere....#im actually being so fr about the lore. my crumbs..please...#i have a little pile and im rationing them eating them one by one...

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sequinsmile-x · 10 days

Text

Early Hours

She was sure she hadn't slept properly in years, but she wouldn't change her life for anything.

Emily and Aaron are woken up in the middle of the night by their children.

-x-

Hi friends,

I know four days isn't a long time in the grand scheme of things for someone not to post but it is a long time for me so am sorry about that. Not to be 'one of those' fic writers, but I have the mumps and up until today it was fully melting my brain and face, and now it's just slightly melting my face. So I can write again!

This is a belated birthday fic for the lovely @whitecrossgirl. So sorry this is a few days late, but I hope you like it. Thanks for always being such a hype woman and always being happy for me to write things that make you yell. Here's to another year of unhinged fics and yelling <3

Let me know what you think!

-x-

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: none

Read over on AO3, or below the cut

Emily wakes up slowly, a luxury she hadn’t been afforded very often lately.

She rolls from her side onto her back and sighs contentedly, arching her back as she stretches. It’s only when she winces at the ache in her breasts, the fullness of them, that her eyes fly open as she sits up, switching on the lamp on the nightstand as she desperately looks for the reason she’d barely slept recently - her two-week-old son.

“Look, Elliot, Mommy is awake,” Aaron says quietly, and Emily turns to look at him, the momentary panic she’d felt over not having been woken up by her son’s hungry cries gone as soon as she lays eyes on them. Aaron is sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard, with Elliot lying against his chest, his palm wider than the baby’s back as he kept him securely against him. Elliot was awake, his eyes wide as he looked around, content in his father’s embrace.

“Hi sweet boy,” she says, leaning in to kiss Elliot’s head, taking a moment to breathe him in, before she kisses her husband, her lips catching the corner of his before he turns his head to kiss her properly. She smiles as she pulls back and pushes some of his hair from his forehead, her smile getting wider as he flops back down. He looked impossibly handsome like this, deliciously rumbled from sleep, relaxed in a way she would have once thought wasn’t possible for him, “Morning honey.”

He kisses her again, the action lost as he presses a smile against her lips, “Morning,” he looks at the clock on the nightstand and smiles when he sees it’s 3 am, “It’s technically morning anyway.”

She hums and kisses him one more time before she pulls back, placing her hand over his on their son’s back, “Is he okay? You could have woken me up.”

Aaron can’t help it when his smile gets wider, her love for their children something that never fails to make him fall impossibly more in love with her.

It was something that had started before they got together as he watched her with Jack, the little boy who would one day transition from calling her Emily to Mom. She was attentive with him, talked to him on his level, and never made him feel like he had less than all of her attention when he needed it. Jack had told Emily that he loved her before Aaron had, beating his father to the punch, and Aaron still felt guilty even all these years later about the flash of jealousy he’d felt leaning against his son’s bedroom doorframe as Emily repeated it back to him.

It was that same evening when Aaron asked her out on a date, nerves bubbling in his belly in a way they hadn’t since high school and he’d asked Haley out. Emily had barely let him finish his question, pulling him into a hug and a soft kiss before she told him she’d been waiting for him to ask.

She still made fun of him even now by bringing up the fact he’d asked her if that was a yes, as if the way she was pressed against him, the taste of her lips still lingering on his, wasn’t an answer in itself.

His love of watching her be a mother, something he’d always known she’d excel at, only increased when she was pregnant with Lucas. She’d spent the entire pregnancy worried she wouldn’t be any good at it, that her mother’s lack of maternal instinct was genetic, and he’d constantly reassured her that she’d be amazing, that she already was with Jack. The moment she’d held Lucas against her chest for the first time, her hands shaking as adrenaline and hormones washed through her, he’d seen the unrelenting love on her face as she memorised the now two-year-old’s features, her knuckles trailing down his soft skin as she soothed him with nothing more than her quiet reassurances and touch.

When they found out Elliot was going to be a boy too, he’d asked her if she was disappointed that they weren’t having a girl, both of them aware of the fact this would be their last baby. She’d simply smiled and ran her fingers through his hair, tears shining in her eyes as she told him it was clearly her lot to be surrounded by Hotchner boys, a fate she wouldn’t change for anything.

“We were okay sweetheart,” he says, turning his attention to his youngest son, pressing a kiss to his dark hair, “Right buddy?” He looks back up at his wife and passes Elliot over, knowing from her demeanour, the way her fingers twitch at her sides, that she wanted him in her arms, “I think he just wanted to snuggle, and you needed some sleep.”

She holds Elliot against her and kisses his head, “Daddy gives the best snuggles, huh Eli?” She says smiling as he immediately presses his face into her breasts, “Okay, I get it. You’re hungry.”

She adjusts her hold on the newborn and undoes the top few buttons of her shirt, the one that used to belong to Aaron, and unclips one of the cups of her maternity bra. She winces a little as Elliot latches on, scrunching her nose up as she holds him to her.

“It’s still hurting?”

She hums gently and runs her hand over the back of Elliot’s head, “Less than before his tongue-tie procedure yesterday,” she says, blowing out a slow breath as she looks up at Aaron, her lips pressed together as she takes a second to try and regulate her emotions, “At least he won’t remember it.”

Aaron wraps his arm around her shoulders and shifts closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead before he looks down at their son.

It had been clear since the day Elliot was born that something was different than when she’d had Lucas. He didn’t ever seem to eat enough, he barely latched and would fall asleep the moment he did, and nursing hurt in a way Emily didn’t remember it hurting the first time around. It was only when he was a week and a half old that the paediatrician told them Elliot had a tongue tie. Emily had insisted on being in the room whilst it happened, not wanting to be away from her baby for any real period of time, and whilst Aaron thought it would be best to take the doctor’s advice to step out into the hallway he let her take the lead. He’d held her tightly against his chest, his arms firm around her middle as the doctor did the procedure in front of them. Elliot had cried, something they were reassured was more of an automatic reaction than a reaction to pain, and then he’d passed right over to Emily, only calming down when he was in his mother’s arms.

“You both did really good yesterday,” he says, kissing her forehead again and she pulls back, her eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“We both know if you hadn’t been there literally holding me back I would have knocked that doctor out,” she says, looking down at her son, sighing contentedly as he continues to feed, “Even though it seems to have helped.”

“That’s because you’re his mom, sweetheart,” he says, hooking a finger under her chin to make her look up at him, stamping his lips against hers, “I’d call you a mama bear but, after you glared at Dave the one time he did, I won’t.”

She chuckles, “That’s smart.”

“I know,” he replies, his smile only getting bigger when hers does. Elliot grunts as he pulls away and both of his parents look down at him, his eyes drifting shut now he is done, “Looks like he’s full.”

Emily lifts Elliot and kisses his cheek before she settles him over her shoulder, rubbing her hand on his back, “Soon enough he’ll have the same appetite as his brothers,” she quips, “Good thing we have my trust fund otherwise we’d be screwed by the time they are teenagers.”

He laughs as he leans in and clips the cup of her bra back into place before he buttons her shirt up for her. She smiles at the gesture, the quiet way he always looked after her. At first, she’d found it suffocating. She’d struggled in the early days of their relationship with the unrelenting way he loved her, acts of service she’d never experienced from a partner before something she’d mistaken for control. She loved it now, loved how he looked after her, how he looked after their boys, and she couldn’t imagine life without it.

Elliot breaks the silence by burping and it makes them both chuckle. Emily kisses his temple, “Good boy.”

Aaron is about to offer to put him into his bassinet when the bedroom door opens, they both look over to see Lucas stepping into the room. He’s sleepy, his pjyamas rumbled and his dark hair a mess. His favourite toy, a stuffed frog that Penelope had given him, his hanging from his hand.

“Mama? Daddy?”

“Luke,” Aaron says quietly, “What’s wrong? You should be sleeping.”

“I woke up,” he says, stepping closer to the bed, his gaze shifting to his younger brother half asleep on Emily, “I sleep here?”

Aaron sighs and turns to look at his wife, his eyebrow raised as she smiles and shrugs. It had been a difficult transition for Lucas when it came to being a big brother. He’d found it hard to split his parent’s attention, especially Emily’s, with the baby and whilst they’d done everything they could to prepare him for his new sibling it was still an adjustment for all of them.

More often than not these days he would find a reason to sneak into their bed in the middle of the night, and whilst Aaron was sure it was something they should discourage he was too tired to try and have that conversation with his wife.

“Come on buddy,” he says, pulling the covers back so Lucas can join them in bed. The toddler runs over and climbs over Aaron to sit in between them, his attention immediately on his mother.

“Hi Mama,” Lucas says, resting his head on the opposite shoulder to where Elliot was lying, “Was Eli hungry?”

“Yes he was, sweet boy,” she replies, turning her head to kiss his cheek, doing it again when he giggles, “Once he’s asleep we’ll all try to get some sleep too.”

Lucas nods and leans in closer to Elliot, his nose pressed against his, “We have fun later Eli, sleep now,” he says, kissing his brother’s forehead like he’d seen both his parents do countless times.

Emily presses her lips together to stop herself from crying, the tenderness of the gesture enough to make tears press at the back of her eyes.

“That’s so sweet, Lukey,” she says, exchanging a glance with her husband before she wraps an arm around the 2-year-old and pulls him closer, “You’re such a good big brother.”

Lucas beams at her, his smile the one she hopes Elliot will have too, and he leans into her, “Need to be like Jack.”

Emily kisses his head one more time and she tilts her head to look down at Elliot, sighing gratefully when he’s asleep, “Looks like it worked, baby, he’s asleep now.”

“I’ll set him down,” Aaron says, already climbing out of bed and rounding it to gently ease the baby out of her arms, “You two stay there and settle down.”

She doesn’t argue with him, she simply nods before kissing her son’s head before she relinquishes her hold on him, “Night, Eli.”

“Night Eli,” Lucas repeats, slipping further into Emily’s embrace as she shifts to lay down, content to wrap himself around her as he rests his head on her chest, “Love you, Mama.”

She pulls him closer and rubs her hand up and down his back. She never got used to how it felt when her children told her that they loved her. It was something she never wanted to take for granted, something she knew she never would take for granted.

“Love you too, sweetie,” she says, pressing her face into his hair to breathe him in. She smiles at Aaron as he climbs back into his side and he lays down next to them, hooking his arm over the both of them. Emily’s smile gets wider and she leans into Lucas, the little boy already getting sleepy, “We love Daddy too, huh?”

Lucas nods and turns over to look at Aaron, reaching over and patting his cheek, giggling as Aaron makes a show of turning his head and kissing his palm, “Love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, Lukey.”

Emily feels warmth spread through her chest at the sight of them together. Every single thing she’d been through was worth it for this, for the simple ordinary life she never thought she’d get. She wouldn’t change it for anything, and wouldn’t want to miss a moment of any of it.

Even the long early hours of the morning when sleep seemed like an impossibility.

“We should get some sleep,” Aaron says, as if reading her mind as he reaches over and ruffles Lucas’s hair, “Elliot will probably wake us all up again in an hour or so.”

Lucas’s response is cut off as the bedroom door opens again and Jack walks in, tears shining on his face as he scratches his head as he shuffles further into the room.

“Everything okay, Jack?” Emily asks softly, sitting up and resting her elbow on the bed. He shakes his head and sniffs.

“I had a bad dream,” he says, almost seeming embarrassed that he had, as if being almost 9 years old meant he should have outgrown it.

Aaron immediately shifts further away from Lucas and Emily, making space between them as he pulls back the covers, “Come on, buddy. We have room for one more.”

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice, and he climbs into the bed with his parents and his little brother, contently sighing as he snuggles up against his father.

“You ‘kay Jack?” Lucas asks, patting his cheek gently, and Jack nods.

“I’m okay, Luke,” he assures him, laying his arm over him and Emily, smiling when Emily holds his hand.

“We need sleep,” Lucas says seriously, “Eli will wake up soon.”

They all chuckle and Aaron reaches over to switch the lamp off, laying his arm over his family as he holds them close. He falls asleep content in the knowledge that they were safe and happy, and that he’d lived up to the promise he’d made to Haley.

Elliot wakes them all up just over an hour later, and Emily feeds him again, content as she sits surrounded by her Hotchner boys.

-x-

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