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nsharks · 4 months

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part sixteen —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.2k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

"I can't believe I woke up early for this."

You loosen your muscles, turning to dead weight in Ghost's arms, before using the awkward position to slip away.

"No one said you had to be here," Ghost throws over his shoulder before his gaze fleets back to yours. "Good. Again."

Blue groans as you reposition yourself for the basic defense maneuver. You can see why she'd find this boring— Ghost started you off with a move so basic it was almost insulting when he explained it. But you quickly realized his reasoning. Each time you do it, your pulse tampers down less and less while in his arms. He's had to remind you a few times to "Breathe, Twix"— the order so quietly uttered into the shell of your ear that Blue likely didn't even notice. Perhaps you have grown used to taking orders from him, or maybe having Blue close by is helping, because you've been able to ward off the threat of panic so far.

"Fine, I'm out of here," Blue rolls her eyes the second you've finished the move again. "Let me know when you—" she jabs a finger at Ghost, "—decide to make things more interesting." As she leaps off the log she'd been perched upon, she adds: "Oh, and don't get too close, Ghost. She might bite."

"So I've heard."

Heat rises to your cheeks. And then— you're alone with him. You take a swig of water from the canister Blue lent you to ignore the awkward feeling in your chest. "Again?" You wipe your mouth. "Or have I passed your test?"

"Test?" he repeats, the gravel in his voice rolling over the word as his brow lifts in question.

"Well, I haven't... had a repeat of last time, and it's been an hour. I think I've proved that I'm ready for something a little more..."

"More what?"

More interesting.

"Hand-to-hand, I guess. Something harder."

He rubs his jaw, as if to feign consideration. "Right, then. Let's try another one."

The next one he shows you is still simple, except you fail every other time. Basically, he gets behind you and you have to sidestep to avoid the trap of his arms. Somehow, Ghost's movements are light as a feather even though he's built like a rock.

But then you get better at it. The next two days pass in much the same manner until you start to react a bit faster. He teaches you a few more basic tactics. How to wriggle your wrist out of someone's hold. How to avoid being grabbed from the front by rolling to the ground. All defense. After hours spent with him, he doesn't even have to remind you to breathe anymore. Chopping wood in the evenings helps, too. You go to bed exhausted and wake up ready to practice before Ghost even touches your shoulder.

On the third day, he gets you up even earlier. You cram your wool-covered toes into boots, confine your hair in a hasty bun, and follow him to the clearing that has become your makeshift training ground. It takes you a moment to register that some things are different: his boots have been replaced by sneakers, and his jeans by loose, black gym shorts. The exposed skin is strange, making your eyes widen. If Blue were awake, she'd certainly comment.

His calves mirror the strength of the rest of him, and on the left leg, swirling ink catches your eye, reminiscent of the tattoos you discovered when tending to his wound. Skulls and a dagger; perhaps corny, but fitting for him.

"Have you tried it?" His voice cuts through your thoughts.

"Tried what?"

"The bow."

A white cloud forms around your mouth as you nod. "Needed some getting used to, like you said."

Yesterday you had a hard time shooting a chipmunk you wanted for lunch, so you spent the early afternoon firing arrows at oaks until the new bow started to feel like an extension of your limbs again.

"Let me know if I need to adjust the string."

"Will do," you say, almost mumbling.

When you reach the familiar circle of trees, you bounce once on your toes and crack your knuckles. Ghost retrieves something from his pocket. A roll of gauze. It is tossed at you without warning, and your hands fumble to grab it.

"Wrap up," he commands. "Your hands will thank you for it."

You look up at him, brows raised, but begin covering your palms and knuckles. When you're done, you throw the roll back to him. Ghost stretches his arms above his head and splays his feet into a firm stance, jerking his chin at you in a go-ahead motion. Your brows furrow as you try to understand what the fuck he's doing.

"Go on. Get ready."

"Um. Ready for what?"

"A little hand-to-hand."

Your mouth falls open. "What?"

He shrugs. "That's what you wanted, right? I think you're ready for it."

"That's not what I meant," you almost laugh, shaking your head. "I didn't mean I want to— to fight you. I just meant we don't have to stick to the basics."

"We won't." There is the slightest trace of amusement in his voice, so faint you wonder if it's even there. "You have ten seconds to get ready, Twix."

"I don't even—" you sputter, eyes flying open. If you weren't awake before, you are now. He seems completely serious, his hands in fists and his shoulders squared.

"Five."

"Oh, fuck me," you exhale, balling up your bandaged hands. Did he get you up at this hour so there was no chance of Blue joining? He didn't want her to watch him finally annihilate you? You don't think he would seriously hurt you, not after everything, but that doesn't mean your heart doesn't begin to thump wildly when the seconds are up. Neither of you makes the first move; you are focused on keeping yourself distant, and he is circling you like a predator, flicking his eyes along the length of you.

"What the fuck is that stance? I could just tap you and you'd fall over." His amusement has faded. "Is that how I showed you to stand when chopping wood?"

You shake your head, teeth gritted, and fix it, spreading your boots against the soil.

"Better."

Then, he's lunging. You forget everything about your stance and prance to the side like a skittish deer. There is a moment of relief when you successfully dodge him, only for it to abruptly end when he darts around your back and hooks an arm around your neck. Your heart skips over a beat. Holy shit is he fast.

"Be aware of your surroundings at all times," he chastises against the top of your hair. His hold is not aiming to fully restrain you, so when you claw your nails into his arm, it loosens and you slip away, staggering three strides before facing him with your fists up.

"What's the point of raising your fists if you're not going to hit me?" Ghost circles you again, and you have to shift your feet to keep up with him. "Come on, nurse. Where should you aim?"

"You're too tall." Your chest heaves. "I... I can't reach your face or neck without you blocking."

"Use the height difference to your advantage. Reach places that I can't."

You pause to think about it, studying him.

Ghost almost growls. "Stop hesitating. I could have killed you by now."

A mix of annoyance and determination makes you leap forward, jabbing your knuckles at the part of him where you know his liver would be. He captures you by the elbow before the blow can land, and sends you stumbling to the side, a few wisps of hair cascading over your face.

"Liver. Not bad. I might've let you have it if you moved quicker."

A hiss leaves your lips as you whirl around and punch directly into his core this time. He allows the hit, but your knuckles ram into solid muscle instead of the vulnerable stomach you hoped for, and you recoil with a wave of your hand, cussing under your breath.

"You hurt yourself more than you hurt me."

"Well, should I just kick you in the dick then?" you retort without thinking, flexing your fingers. Luckily, the gauze absorbed most of the damage.

"That's always an option."

His tone is serious, to the point that you almost give it a try, but then he's closing in on you again, sending you back to the defensive. He doesn't hold back. You run in circles and duck frantically, earning a few hits to your ribs. He doesn't use enough force to send you down to the ground, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Rapid breaths fire through your lungs and beads of sweat percolate your hairline. Ghost, on the other hand, appears unaffected.

"Fight back," he says in a mild voice; almost bored.

You nearly throw your arms up. "I would if you'd give me a fucking chance."

"You said not to coddle you."

"I'm aware. That doesn't mean you have to—"

Your spine suddenly meets something hard. A tree. He's backed you into it without you even realizing. When Ghost takes another swipe, you dip your head down and then use his recovery time to grab onto a branch and hoist yourself up.

You're barely perched upon it when a hand grips your ankle and drags you back down, an audible gasp reverberating in your chest as you land flat on your back with Ghost on top. His hand quickly cradles the back of your skull before it can crack on a hard tree root, while his other hand captures both of your wrists.

"You good?" Although he is the one who has you effectively pinned, his tone seems sincere. He scans your face from your forehead to your parted lips.

"Just... peachy."

His brows furrow. "What was your plan once you got up there?"

Labored breathing splinters your voice. "I didn't have much of a plan, really."

He speaks flatly. "I can tell."

"You had me cornered," you point out.

"You should have been—"

"Aware of my surroundings," you finish for him, exhaling deep through your nose. "I know."

Your eyes shift around, from his covered face to where his chest just barely presses into yours. It's all so close. Uncomfortably close. You can feel the steady pace of his heart against your sternum, and make out the faintest flecks of green in his eyes.

An ounce of fear and something else you can't quite discern balls up in your stomach, making you swallow. You've been pinned like this before and nearly had your face eaten. Ghost simply stares at you, as if waiting for you to make a move, but when you tug on your wrists, his grip doesn't relent.

"Could you... could you maybe get off of me?"

He shifts some weight off you, if only by a little. "Relax and think," he murmurs. "What are your options here?" The curve of his lips tightens before he adds, "Besides biting my nose off. I'd like to keep that for now."

With a sigh, your eyes slide up to the awakening sky. Hues of violet and orange stare down at you. "Do I... do I even have any options? You must weigh like a ton." The words are past your lips before you can shut your mouth.

"You always have options."

"Doesn't mean any of them will be effective," you say.

His eyes darken, and the green disappears. "Why do you do that?"

"Um... do what?"

"Doubt yourself. After all that you have survived." He sounds irritated.

"As if you haven't doubted me?" You can't help it; you scoff. "You told her I wouldn't come back that time I went on my own. I mean, I'm still weak, remember? No amount of chopping wood will make me as strong as you or those men who almost killed us."

"It's not about strength," he replies.

"That's easy for you to say," you wiggle your wrists for emphasis. "You have nothing to be afraid of. You were cut out for this shit from the start."

"I have everything to be afraid of." His eyes narrow, but his voice softens. "And so were you."

"Me?" Your voice slightly elevates, and a lick of anger curls within you. "I should be in grad school right now, or maybe I would've quit nursing and gone into something useless and hate my life, but I was never meant to kill anyone, let alone fight them. I was meant to be young and stupid and make mistakes. Now, if I make a fucking mistake, it will cost me my life." Your nostrils flare as you huff, sending a piece of hair flying up into his face, and you writhe beneath him. "Get off of me, Ghost."

But he doesn't.

Beats of silence linger in the small gap between your bodies.

You should feel embarrassed for saying all those things, but instead, you think about what he said:

Don't hesitate.

The ball inside you is a fiery mix of emotions that you usually try your damn hardest to ignore and break and shove away.

But now you let it spread through your body like a sizzling tide, from the tips of your fingers down to your toes and... to your knee. Before you can change your mind, you slam it upward as hard as you can into the apex of his groin.

"Fuck," Ghost mutters, the only sign of any pain aside from the brief moment that he closes his eyes.

His hold loosens only by a little, but it's enough for you to slip out from under him and find your way back to your feet, your chest rising and falling.

He clears his throat after a moment and rises.

"Good." The two of you share a stare-off for a few seconds before he shakes his head, saying again: "Good, Twix. More of that."

You rip your gaze away from him, cheeks hot, and say nothing as you snatch the canister and bring it to your lips, but the water does little to cool you down.

You shiver in the bitterness of twilight, your fingers red and numb, wishing for a pair of gloves. The fireflies are coming out, dots of luminescence darting around you. You swing the axe down again, throat raw as you grunt, and then you add the broken logs to the growing stack. Sudden light footsteps announce the end of your alone time.

"It's me," Blue greets kindly.

You drop the axe, hands feeling stiff, and turn to face her with a breathless smile. "Hey. What are you doing out here?"

"Checking on you. Ghost went hard on you this morning, huh?" she says with a sigh. "I could hear you guys. You were a bit... loud. Made it hard to sleep."

"Not too hard. I'm… I'm good."

If she is unconvinced, she doesn't comment on it. Rather, she hugs you. A warm one. You return the embrace before she pulls away.

"I also came because I wanted to invite you to a bonfire."

"Bonfire?"

"Well, with all your..." her eyes flicker to the pile of logs you've conjured over the past hour. "...special workouts, we have a lot of wood now. I told Ghost to make a big fire outside and we can cook dinner over it. It'll be fun, come on. Ghost is making tea, too."

Soon enough, your sore fingers are tingling, holding a warm, ceramic mug of tea. Ghost chucks another bundle of wood into the fire, spitting out smoke and embers, and sits on a tree stump while Blue takes the folding chair. Your hair is down, tucked behind your ears, and a patchwork quilt Blue grabbed from her room lays across your lap. The mug burns pleasantly against your lips when you take a sip, the herbal taste sliding down your throat. Whatever plants he used to make it work together perfectly. It reminds you of the tea your mom used to make when you were sick.

"Do you like it more well-done or is this okay?" Blue asks, meticulously spinning the skewered squirrel meat over the fire.

"That's good, thank you."

Ghost cooks their dinner, and the three of you eat and sip in a comforting silence. You avoid looking at him, opting for the starry sky above your head, where bold stars beam even brighter than the fireflies. It's quite nice. When you're done, you toss the bones into the fire and listen to them splinter.

Blue breaks the silence. "Would you rather be burned alive or be attacked by a bunch of squirrels with rabies?"

You take another sip of tea. "How many squirrels, exactly?"

She taps her chin. "One hundred."

"I think if it were fifty, I could handle them. One hundred, probably not. I'll choose being burned."

She makes a face. "That is a terrible death."

"Most deaths are terrible."

"Fair enough. Ghost?"

For the first time since this morning, you steal a glance. His elbows rest upon his splayed knees, and the orange flames reflect in his eyes as if they were twin black, mirrors. "I could handle the squirrels."

She snorts a laugh. "Even you can't survive rabies, though."

He shrugs. "Takes some time to kill you."

"Let's play a different game," you interject. "Maybe something a little less... morbid tonight."

"Like what?" Blue chimes.

You shrug indifferently. "What other ones do you know?"

"Not that many. You tell us one, Twix."

"Well, I know one good one. You have to act something out and then we'll guess what it is. But you can't talk."

"Oh, that's easy."

"Try it, then," you nod at her.

She leaps up from the chair, nearly spilling her tea in the process. Without hesitation, she puts on a stoic expression and begins shooting finger guns. Quiet laughter shakes your shoulders.

"Are you, um... Ghost?" you guess, making her throw her arms up.

"How did you guess so quickly?"

"It was a bit obvious."

"Not to me," Ghost murmurs. "Terrible impression, kid."

Across the fire, you glance at him again, and his eyes meet yours, reminding you of the events that took place and the words that you spat. Emotions pulse against your ribs, like a swarm of flickering fireflies, but you fail to catch and examine any of them.

A tug on your arm ends the shared look. Tea splatters around the rim of your mug as Blue ushers you up. "Your turn now."

"Alright, alright."

You decide not to feel humiliated with both pairs of eyes on you. They've both seen much stranger things than you act out a squirrel, which must be a good impression because Ghost guesses it right away.

A sudden crack of lightning in the distance puts an end to the game before Ghost can have a turn, which you suspect he is pleased about. He puts out the fire just before clouds roll in, blocking out the stars, and a drizzle of rain begins. Back inside, you kick off your boots and sink to the sofa as Blue says goodnight. Once she’s in her room, Ghost pauses in the threshold of the hall and speaks over his shoulder.

"Get some sleep. You'll need it for tomorrow, even if it's raining.”

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #fanfiction #cod #zombie apocolypse au

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muertawrites · 1 year

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Inked (Eddie x Reader x Punk!Steve) [18+]

Summary: tattoos hurt. thankfully your artist is chill about the way you distract yourself from the pain.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, oral (fem receiving), vouyerism, exhibitionism, male masturbation, explicit descriptions of sex and pain

Read Time: 7 mins

This is possibly the most painful thing you've ever felt. It stings, it burns, and the tip of the gun feels like it's digging under your skin and against the bone beneath. Eddie hisses.

"You're holding me too tight, baby."

You look over to where your hand is gripped around his wrist, fingers white as they curl into his flesh. You release your hold and there are little moon-shaped grooves etched in his skin, blooming red and threatening to bleed.

Steve stops tattooing.

You're laying on the bench in his home studio, having offered yourself as a guinea pig to help him practice working on people for his apprenticeship. He's doing a sternum piece for you, sprawled out over your naked chest while Eddie sits on your other side, one hand massaging your breast while the other gets itself impaled by your clawing grip. It hurts way more than you expected it to. You're lightheaded and nauseous, and your whole body is clammy and feverish. You feel like you might faint.

Steve nervously bites his lip, his gloved thumb stroking over some of the excess ink.

"... It looks really good already," he attempts to console you. "Do you need to take a break?"

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Eddie's hand that cups your breast gives it a gentle squeeze, rolling your nipple between two of his fingers. You moan softly, and all at once you're inspired.

You turn to Steve, asking the question before you can psych yourself out.

"Do you mind if Eddie fucks me?"

The men blink at each other, bewildered. Neither of them says anything for a moment.

"Please," you beg. "It hurts so fucking much and I'm already topless. I think it'll help. I don't want to faint."

Steve stares at Eddie, who stares back at Steve. After a tense pause, Steve shrugs.

"Listen, man, if she's cool with it, I'm cool with it. Just don't move her too much."

Eddie looks down at you, his hand moving to stroke through your hair.

"Is that really what you want, sweetheart?"

He sounds concerned, but the brightness in his eyes and the growing stiffness in his jeans give him away. He's eager. Excited. He gets to bring his favorite pornos to life, and all because it was your idea. This is like Christmas.

You nod, giggling softly.

"Yes, Eddie, just do it. Before I change my mind."

He wastes no time, springing up from his chair and positioning himself at the end of the bench, his hands finding the waistband of your leggings and rolling them down. Steve watches, letting out a soft breath when Eddie exposes your hips, your thighs, the luscious patch of pubic hair between your legs. You grin up at him, gently tapping a finger against his chin.

"Stevie," you remind him. "My tattoo."

He gives you a suave, easy smile as he meets your eyes, a feature left over from his time as a high school womanizer. His cheeks are pink, his pupils consuming his pretty brown irises.

"Right," he chuckles. "Sorry."

He starts up the gun again, and Eddie's tongue finds your clit, pressing flat against you as Steve resumes his work on your chest, the needle stabbing its way back into your skin. The pain is eclipsed by the swirling of Eddie's tongue, the pucker of his lips as he dives in and starts sucking. You moan, focusing on the tingling between your thighs.

"That better?" Steve asks, smirking.

You nod.

"Way better."

Eddie grips your thighs, slinging your legs over his shoulders as he laps and sucks at you, the lewd, wet noises echoing off the walls. You can feel your wetness dripping down your buttocks as he works you towards orgasm. He gazes up at you through his lashes, his cock twitching when he doesn't meet your eyes or your breasts but instead sees Steve leaned over you, glancing his way. Eddie grins.

"How much longer, Harrington?" he wonders.

His lips and chin are glossy. Steve swallows heavily.

"About halfway," he answers.

Eddie nods. He stands, making quick work of his button and zipper and freeing his cock, running his shaft teasingly up the length of your pussy. Steve pauses to watch, his mouth slack at the way you coat Eddie's shaft, how easily it glides against you. Eddie grins as he taps the head of his cock against your clit.

"Her pussy's divine, man," he boasts. "Maybe instead of a tip she'll let you have a taste."

He winks at Steve, his hands moving to your hips as he eases inside of you, letting out a quiet moan. His features contort with the pleasure, succumbing to the heat of your slick walls. He starts to thrust, slow and deep, taking care not to shift you at all so Steve has a stable canvas; his palm presses to your stomach for support.

Steve stares, his cock pressing painfully against the leg of his jeans. After a moment he snaps himself out of it and goes back to work, painfully aware of how close he is to your breasts.

You whimper as Eddie fucks you, gripping the sides of the bench to keep yourself still. Eddie's cock pressing deep inside you, Steve's hot breath fanning over your nipple, the depravity of letting him see you naked and vulnerable has you panting, whining, crying for more. The pain of your sternum tattoo is easily forgotten.

Eddie fucks you for half an hour. Steve fills out the lines of your tattoo, then goes back over them again where they're not dark enough, pausing every so often to watch Eddie plow into you. At one point, you reach your hand between Steve's thighs and palm at him, feeling a rush as he bites his lip to keep from moaning. He whispers that you can take him out if you want. You do, and you haphazardly stroke his cock as he finishes the piece, surprisingly concentrated despite rolling his hips into your palm.

When the tattoo is finished, Steve steps away and lets you and Eddie finish as well. He leans against the counter as Eddie bends over you, his mouth latched to your neck as he rails you with unrelenting force until you cum around him, clenching him tightly and moaning as pleasure shakes your body; he follows close behind. You turn your head and watch as Steve touches himself, pulling on his cock until he reaches his own orgasm, spilling creamy ropes all over his stomach, thighs, and the floor. The skin between your legs is soaked.

Eddie helps Steve clean up while you come to your senses, laying on the bench in a dreamy, fucked out haze as Steve dresses your new tattoo and Eddie wipes the residue of sex off of you, himself, and the furniture. When you finally sit up, you look at Steve and laugh breathlessly, thanking him for a good time.

"How much do I owe you?" you ask.

He shakes his head.

"On the house," he says. He grins. "The private show was payment enough."

🎸eddie masterlist🎸

#eddie munson #steve harrington smut #steve harrington #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader smut #punk!steve #punk!steve harrington #punk!steve harrington x reader #steddie x reader #steddie x reader smut #muerta's works

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super-clearlysaltybouquet · 3 months

Text

The One With the Blouse (2/2)

Part 2/2

Wolfstar x reader Sirius Black x reader Remus Lupin x reader Sirius Black x Remus Lupin Sirius Black x reader x Remus Lupin

Established couple (throuple)

Summary: Sirius apologises, Lily and Remus help

Warnings:

Minor angst

Hurt/comfort

Fluff

Word count: 1.5k

You trudge up the steps of the girl’s dormitory. Tonight at least you know you’ll have an empty room. After a party, Marlene and Mary tend to fall asleep on the couches by the fire. Always the last to leave, and the first to insist on helping clean up. Lily will be with James, recently endowed with prefect duties and a single room, you have no doubt he’ll be taking advantage of the privacy.

You sit in bed and hold yourself tight, calming your rushing heart, and trying desperately to cease the tears that just keep falling. Hours pass, and the loud sounds of youthful jubilance from the party below do too.

You want to believe that Sirius didn’t mean any of it. He seemed almost just as upset as you were when you left the dorm. He has a habit of self-sabotage when things start going too well, Remus did warn you about that. But you aren’t a fan of wishful thinking. It’s far easier to let yourself wallow in the believe that you three just aren’t meant to be, and that they’ll do better without your imposition.

A soft knock on the door startles you, “Y/N, can I come in?”, Lily, that can’t be right. You respond in a daze, and she steps in wordlessly, looking far too sympathetic for your liking.

“Remus said you might need some company”, she smiles.

“Did they enjoy the party?”, you ask, entirely genuine.

“They never came down”.

She moves to sit across from you on the red sheets, her fingers lost in her pockets as she pulls something out. A paper crane.

“Sirius made it for you”, she says, and your fragile heart summersaults.

You extend your hand out, and Lily drops the paper to your open palm. The moment it touches your skin the bird begins to fly. It flutters around you in circles first, then flaps its wings in place between the two of you. It’s beautiful magic, Sirius’s touch is unmistakable. The paper rearranges itself back into its basic form, a flat sheet of parchment with writing on one side.

It reads quite simply:

I’m an idiot. I’m so, so sorry. Will do better. not your fault. Sirius,

It’s not exactly poetic, or even particularly romantic, but you appreciate the sincerity. The spreading, watery ink bleeding between letters - and dark raised tearstains affirms the earnestness of the apology. Lily seems hesitant before she speaks again, but her tone is reassuring, “You know, with him these things are never personal, he used to get like this with Remus when they first started out too”, and that shocks you. They seem like a complete unit now, reading each other’s minds and silent cues in a way you haven’t mastered yet. It seems almost unbelievable to imagine the two of them at each other’s throats.

“I should go talk to them”, you sigh. Despite Sirius’s apology, you've resigned yourself to your fate. Re-playing the events of earlier tonight again and again in your mind, you can’t help but feel shameful. Maybe you overreacted, or you didn’t pay close enough attention to Sirius’s frustrations early enough. As if reading your mind:

“I understand why you’re upset; he told me what he said to you” Lily says, “If James said anything like that I don’t think I’d ever speak to him again”,

“You don’t think I should forgive him?” you ask, eyes looking back to the paper crane. The charmed parchment has re-folded itself perfectly and continues to fly.

Lily shrugs, “Sirius isn’t James, he doesn’t always mean what he says”, and somehow you find that incredibly comforting.

You walk to their dorm, paper crane in hand. Your stomach turns when you knock. There’s a rustle and a small shout from inside before the door creeks open, quicker than you’re prepared for. Remus steps out. His eyes are bright red and puffy, and looking at his hands on the wooden door you can tell he’s been picking at his fingers again. You hate to think that you might've been the cause of any of his pain. “Lily gave you the crane”, he says, half smiling now, and you think things might just be okay.

He cracks the door open further, welcoming you inside with his hand at the small of your back.

“Are you okay?”, you worry, glimpsing between his eyes and his scratched fingers,

Remus nods.

“All better now”, he says, half smile growing into nearly a grin, you believe him.

“Where’s Sirius?”, you ask.

Remus motions his head to the bathroom, and you cast him a bewildered look,

“I cast a silencing charm”, he explains, as if that really explains anything at all, “He needed to calm down”, he adds.

“So, he’s taking a bath?”,

Remus shakes his head and waves his wand. The sound of sniffling and quiet crying finds it’s way through the dorm room, slightly muffled by something indistinguishable.

“He’s got his head in the sink”, Remus says, and you really have nothing to say in response, “We had it filled with ice to keep the muggle beer right, I thought the cold would calm him down”, he elaborates, like an adoringly patient parent talking about a particularly affected toddler. Remus’s tenderness towards Sirius fills you with something light, and warm. You don’t miss the unspoken detail; Remus couldn’t bear to listen to your lover cry.

“He was in the wrong, and he really is sorry”, he says, and you don’t need to be convinced. You wonder how many times they’ve been through this, the arguments and reconciliation you’re only just learning to navigate.

Remus opens the bathroom door for you, and low and behold Sirius’s head is in the sink. Three bottles of beer are parked haphazardly in the corner of the porcelain to make up for the space a human head takes up. He’s still wearing the same blouse. His shoulder are shaking, and his hands are so white gripping the sides of the sink that they’re almost luminescent.

Remus walks up behind him, rubbing circles up and down his back. He gives you a quick encouraging glance before he’s leaning down, speaking softly into Sirius’s ear, “Sweetheart, Y/N is here to talk to you, Lily gave her your crane”.

His head shoots up from the ice, pale and wild looking, like a corpse brought to life. Hair completely drenched, and ice water dribbling off the tip of his nose. He turns to you with wide eyes, looking entirely panicked.

“I’m so, so sorry darling, I’m such bloody idiot”, he spills out, “I didn’t mean any of it, I’m not sure why I said it anyway, and then you were so upset, fuck sweetheart”, his words come out at a million miles a minute, you’re sure he’s taken your time apart to ruminate intently on his misdeeds. He takes a second to breathe, “-then Moony was upset with me too, Walburga sent me a howler yesterday and it got my mood all mixed up, I should have just talked to you, such a bloody idiot”, he pants out.

Remus hasn’t stopped circling his gentle hands up and down Sirius’s shoulders, providing a much-needed salve to the other boy’s anxiety.

“I shouldn’t have left”, You say with regret “I should’ve stayed to talk to you”,

Sirius shakes his head, sprinkles of sink water flicking off the ends of his hair, “I upset you, you had every right to take a minute to yourself”, you nod in response, grateful he isn’t holding your flightiness against you. He seems much calmer now, the ice water, Remus’s touch, and your return serving as the perfect trifecta. It’s all slightly awkward, you’re both unsure how to proceed, stuck just for now in that fumbly post-argument stage. Remus spares you a slightly desperate glance, begging silently for you to say something.

“Thank you for the crane, and the note”, you oblige.

“I meant what I wrote, I’ll do better”, he says it with conviction, and you appreciate the affirmation. “I'll do whatever you want, I’ll strip and flog myself all the way to Holyhead if-”, you interrupt him in haste, you’re not even sure he’s joking.

“-no no Sirius I forgive you, really”, his tense shoulders relax like mountains relieved of their own weight, and in the corner of your eye you think Remus’s do too.

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”, he questions,

“No, I mean it, honest”, and you lift your hand up beside your face, mimicking the action of taking some sort of oath. It puts a slight smile on Sirius’s face. “Come here”, you say, and he collapses into you, initiating the tightest hug of your life. He’s wet and cold, but you couldn’t care less, glad to have him back in your arms.

“Next time, please just tell me if I’m being too fussy, and I’ll give you a bit of space”, you say, muffled practically inside Sirius’s armpit. You feel him nod emphatically, “I promise”.

A warmth has returned to the dorm, and the red and gold accents of the room are suddenly more vibrant. The three of you stay up for a while, just holding one another, and talking softly into each other’s skin.

#wolfstar x reader #sirius black x reader #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x remus lupin #poly!wolfstar x reader #marauders #poly!wolfstar

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sunshinescribes · 7 months

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Heyy sunny, i just read the story about Law with his head bury on s/o chest and i was like: damn, that's hot. And i kinda think Law need more pampering like pat in his head, caressing his knuckles or something. So, since your request is open, can we get Trafalgar Law get pampered by his s/o?

If you didn't wanna write it, you can skip this one :0

TENDER

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x GN!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, comfort, Law is whipped but also bad at feelings

Sometimes Law thinks he dreamed you.

When you thread your fingers through his hair after a long day, massaging his scalp while whispering sweet praise, or absentmindedly caress his knuckles, leaving phantom kisses against his inked skin—he doesn’t think you’re real.

You come to him when he needs you most, as if you know he desires a comforting hand, a friendly word, and he melts into you every single time. His defenses shatter—the wall he’s constructed all this life comes tumbling down, and you hold him through the carnage.

You’re everything his heart secretly craves—so tender-hearted and caring, and wonderful—everything he feels he’s not.

And God, does he wonder what you see in him. Wonders how he manages to attract the kindest people when all he has to offer is practiced indifference. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, doesn’t voice the things he feels, but it doesn’t deter you, and despite how brilliant he is, Law can’t make sense of it. He could spend a lifetime trying to figure you out and would never even come close.

“What is going on in that pretty head of yours?” You inquire, your brow raised playfully as you stare down at him. “Can hear the gears in your head movin’.”

His head is in your lap, your soft fingers brush back mutinous strands of hair from his forehead, and he blinks up at you dumbly. It’s one of those rare peaceful evenings where the crew unwinds and breathes a sigh of relief as the Polar Tang slips through the sea, pushing you all towards your next destination with ease.

It takes a moment for your compliment to register—that pretty head of yours—and Law hates how his heart flutters. You say the most…outlandish things without considering their effect—flattery he never expected to like, but they always sound so lovely coming from you. The urge to look at anything but your pretty face almost overtakes him, but he fights his urges, keeps his dark eyes trained on you.

Instead, he arches a sharp brow at you and attempts to sound mildly offended, even though he’s certain you see right through him. “Pretty?”

You purse your lips, feigning thought.

“Would you prefer beautiful? Gorgeous?”

He rolls his eyes, but your soft teasing does little to calm the rapid beat of his unruly heart. When has anyone ever thought him pretty? Beautiful?

You say it as if it’s one of life’s simple truths, but he feels you’re much more deserving of such compliments, and he would shower you with them if he knew how to stop himself from biting his tongue.

Your free hand moves from its spot on his exposed chest, trailing upward until you’re softly cradling his jaw. You dip down, placing a tender kiss on his supple lips.

“Brains and beauty,” you murmur against his lips. “How lucky am I?”

I’m the lucky one, he thinks. To be cared for like this—to be treated like something worthy of being cherished and loved.

And maybe it’s the fear that makes the words catch in his throat, stops him from ripping out his bleeding heart and handing it to you.

He’s never had a good thing that lasted. Only fleeting moments of happiness, ripped right from under him just when he thinks tragedy can never reach him again. He’s lost so much already, and yet there’s always more to lose.

But you continue to smile at him, kiss years of self-loathing away, share your warmth and affection for as long as he accepts it, and Law allows himself to become a little hopeful—thinks maybe you’ll be the first good thing he gets to keep.

A/N: I feel like this kinda got away from me, but not in the "I wrote too much" way and more so the "I feel I deviated too far from the original prompt and am almost certain I was possessed while writing this" way. Despite that, I hope you enjoyed! I love love LOVE writing soft love for Law so this is a PSA to flood my requests with fluffy prompts!!!

Divider credit: @/cafekitsune

#sunny.fic #sunny.reqs #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law x you #trafalgar law x y/n #x reader #trafalgar law fluff #If Law listens to ONE Hoizer song he will feel so seen

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deathbecomesthem · 5 months

Text

Eddie Munson x Best friend!reader | ~1K

Summary: It's the perfect solution. You need a place to stay, he needs someone to help with the rent.

*There be some male masturbation below.

A/N: I don't know. I was supposed to be writing something else. I just think they're neat. Will there be more? Who fucking knows, I certainly don't.

---

It was a stupid idea born out of necessity. All of the most memorable things in life begin that way. You needed somewhere cheap and immediately available and his roommate ran off with the bartender he met less than a month ago. These are the days to remember - early 20s when life can change at the flick of a zippo in a dark alleyway. That’s what got Gareth, the girl that lit his cigarette. He never stopped seeing her in the soft glow of that low flame, and it left Eddie without someone to pay the other half of the rent.

And there you were, broken hearted and bleeding in front of him. In need. And he could push away those thoughts that linger in his quiet and empty bedroom in the privacy of the night. He could make a space for you, he could help you. So he did. It all came together over the hashbrowns and pancakes seasoned by your tears. Your best friend, Eddie, made a proposal that would save the day and be perfect for both of you.

Eddie Munson - your hero with a spare room and the promise of an escape from that motherfucking dickhead that stained your sheets with that girl from his office.

—

It’s the first full day, and Eddie is standing in his own kitchen with his cock pressed painfully hard against his fly at the sight of you bending down to fish the griddle out from the low cupboard next to the oven. He bites the inside of his cheek until the taste of metal hits the tip of his tongue. He adjusts himself and clears his throat while he watches your hips jiggle. The blue and purple wings of the butterfly on the soft love handle above your left him seem to flap with the movement of your arms.

“Uh, when the fuck did you get that?” Eddie’s question startles you. Your head bangs against the shelf in the cupboard your elbow deep into. “Oh shit, are you ok?”

“Yeah,” you back out of the small space and stand with your hand on the top of your head, “I think I’ll make it.”

The first thing you notice when you look at Eddie is the red at the top of his ears. This is something you rarely get to see because of the way his shaggy curls hang around his face. This morning his hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail at the base of his neck, and those hot ears are on full display. You think, I wonder what they would feel like against my tongue,

These are the kinds of thoughts that you’ve been having for Eddie for a long time. Months. Years maybe. These are the kinds of thoughts that make this entire arraignment the worst idea. These are the kinds of thoughts that keep you company in the dark when you chase after secret pleasure in the privacy of your own touch.

“So.” Eddie’s hands are gripping the back of the vinyl chair on the opposite side of the small kitchen table from where you're standing. “So, when did you get that tattoo?”

Your eyebrows pinch together in thought, but your hand travels back to touch the marked skin before your mind catches up. It feels hot at the thought of his gaze scanning across it. You can practically feel the inked skin dancing against your fingers.

“Oh! God, I forget it’s there.” You smile and can feel heat creep across your skin at not only the question, but also in the way his eyes look black. The way he shifts from foot to foot. You can’t help but let your own eyes scan across the inked skin of his arm while you think of how to answer. “I got it a few months ago. It’s stupid. A butterfly? It’s embarrassing.”

Eddie sighs and smiles. He turns his head a little. It’s a shy kind of gesture you’ve seen him do before, but without his hair to obscure his lips you can see that secret lift of his lips. It makes your knees feel weak to see it, and you think about running your fingers across his cheek. You think about his eyes fluttering at your soft touch.

“It suits you. You shouldn’t be embarrassed.” Eddie clears his throat again and turns his head to look out of the small window above the kitchen sink. He doesn’t know that this gives you the perfect view of his long neck. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

“Oh, ok. I’m making some homefries,” at your words, Eddie meets your gaze again and it knocks the breath out of you for a beat. Your next words come out on an exhale, and you want to shrink to the size of a grain of salt so he’ll stop looking at you, “how do you like your eggs?”

“However you make them, Sweetheart. I’ll be back soon.” You watch Eddie spin on his heels and walk awkwardly down the hallway before returning to the task at hand. Coffee, homefries, and eggs as a thank you to Eddie for letting you move in so quickly. You laugh at the shake in your hands and think about how stupid you are for letting your imagination run wild like this. This is Eddie, your Eddie. These foolish fantasies need to chill out. You can’t live like this.

—

Eddie’s head is pressed against the tile in the shower, warm water flows down his body in rivulets. He thinks about the way the purples and blues danced on your skin. The way those pretty lined stretch marks bracket around it. He thinks about the way his fingers would feel pressed into that skin, and squeezes his aching cock the way he wants to squeeze you.

The water runs down his face. Warm water runs into and out of his open mouth while he imagines the way those purple and blue marks dance under him. The way his fingers feel holding your hips still as his cock reaches deeper and deeper inside of you.

This was the worst idea he’s ever had, but he can’t care right now.

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson blurb

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myosotisa · 1 year

Text

The trailer is dark, the park quiet as snow when you finally manage to drag yourself from the warmth of the blankets and the smell of Eddie that they encase you in. He'd slipped out of them 10 minutes earlier -- a kiss on the crown of your head and a sleepy mumble in your ear as he carefully extracted himself from your embrace. You'd been too close to sleep to hear what he'd told you in that low voice; you felt it in vibrations from where you were pressed to his chest more than you had heard it. So you went searching.

Padding down the hall in a pair of thick socks, boxers, and a sweatshirt (all belonging to Eddie), you navigate toward the soft, orange light diffusing across the linoleum beyond the wooden arch that cut off the bedroom and bathroom from the rest of the trailer. You could hear a slight scrape of plastic against metal and the baritone hum that came from your boyfriend, the sweetest siren's call that would guide you through even the darkest nights.

Eddie stands in the kitchen with his bare back to you. The light from above the stove, the only light in the entire place, filters out around him in a golden glow. His hair is down and messy from sleep, shoulders rising and falling in easy breaths, black sweatpants hung low on his hips, the feathery wings of black ink that span across his shoulder blades shifting as his arms adjust whatever he has on the burner.

He is always pretty, unfairly so, but there is something so absolutely striking about him like this. At night he's softer, calmer, warmer -- less sharp grins and more loving smiles, less restless adjusting and more relaxed lounging. His doe eyes are still big and brown as ever, but they blink slower, simmer deeper. And while you love both sides of Eddie, you treasure this one. The one only you get to see, the gentle side of him that rises with the moon and lives within the familiar walls of your home and within your arms. You so often find yourself thanking the universe for giving you this, giving you him. This is definitely one of those moments.

After taking several peaceful seconds to appreciate the view, you travel silently forward, unable to resist the urge to feel his skin on yours again. He jumps a bit in surprise when your cold fingers skate past his narrow waist, his body relaxing again by the time you wrap both arms around him and mold yourself to the planes of his back.

"What are you doing out of bed, sweet girl?" The softly spoken question comes out almost scolding, but the timber of his voice bleeds out warmth and comfort, a smile evident despite you being unable to see his face.

Lips pressed to his bare skin, eyes falling closed, you answer honestly and with a little bit of embarrassment. "Missed you, didn't know where you went."

His torso rumbles in a quiet laugh, his back widening against your chest as he intakes air. "I told you before I left."

"Didn't hear you, was too sleepy." He lets out an understanding hum as his non-dominant arm drapes across your own, his palm warm even through the thick fabric of your sweatshirt. "What're you making?"

"Had a craving for a grilled cheese. You want one?"

"Mmmmmmm, I do love cheese," you murmur, delighting as his skin erupts in goosebumps when you hum against him.

"And I do love you, sweet girl. So I think we might be able to work something out."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #myos ideas #i blame hailey for this #she made me all soft and gooey

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thedreamlessnights · 4 months

Text

Distraction

Gale x F!Reader - NSFW

Summary: Gale is working in his study. You have half a mind to distract him.

Warnings: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough). Established relationship, blowjob, oral sex (male receiving). Sappy Gale. Mystra hate. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 2.1k

Gale Dekarios is easily distracted.

It’s something you’d noticed not long after meeting him: his long, informative tangents, excited bursts of information, trails of thought that faded away when he saw you. Anything that came to mind was bound to pull him away from the current time and setting.

Now, after knowing him as long as you have, you’re more than familiar with that tendency for distraction. It’s endearing, in fact. You don't like to be complacent, but you have noticed that his distraction always seems to be most prominent when he’s around you. His sharp wit dulls, and his clean train of thoughts turns into slips of the tongue.

Your mother had given you plenty of advice when you were young, but one strain sticks with you the most: that there is nothing more attractive than a man who wants you, and has no qualms with showing it.

Given your relationship with Gale, you’ll have to agree. Long after the two of you have settled into his tower in Waterdeep, it’s the thing you like to play with most. A stroke of your ego, perhaps, but you never grow tired seeing just how much Gale desires you. Physically, emotionally. Spiritually.

That want isn't always in your head, but it often plays through your thoughts, especially when Mystra comes to mind. How many different ways has he professed his love for you? Moreover, how many times has he internally not felt enough for you - and as the result of a goddess who used him then discarded him like he was nothing?

Time and time again, it’s the subject that irks you: that he has no idea how much you want him. You’re married, yet he still has no clue how much you mean to him. You can never say it enough. Lately, you’ve taken to trying to show him.

He’s never told you specifically, but you know that Mystra had made him feel unworthy, and that he still feels that way now and then. You can practically see the scars she’d left on him, written into his anxious words. Little by little, those scars are fading - but if you have anything to say about it, Gale will never feel unwanted again.

Which is what brings you to the study, looking for your husband. You find him sitting at his desk, scribbling away at a loose paper like he usually does. Something important, judging by the look of it.

His shoulders are scrunched together, his brows are pinched, and the back of his hand is black with smudged ink when he bats a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. It’s perhaps cruel to interrupt him, but something tells you he won’t mind.

You step further in, settling at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He gives you a smile when he sees you, some of his tension bleeding out of him. “My love,” he says brightly, taking your free hand in his. “I trust your day’s been well?”

“It’s been alright,” you say. Mostly, you’ve been missing him - he often coops himself down here for his research, and you and Tara are the only ones able to pull him away. You trail your fingers further down his arm, locking at the elbow, and his breath audibly hitches.

Oh, you think. You know very, very well what that means.

You lean in a little closer, giving him a soft smile. “What about yours?”

“Good,” he says, suddenly breathless. “Very good. Just wait until you see the research I’m doing. It’s astounding.”

You love listening to him talk. The way he delivers information is charming, to say the least. The way his eyes light up. The way his tangents can spin on for hours, and yet only seem like a few moments. The passion that tinges his voice, his gestures, his words. It’s one of your favorite things about him.

And yet.

You keep your eyes fixed on his as you lift his palm to your lips, and pink dusts over his cheeks. “By the weave,” he mutters, swallowing hard. “You’ll be the end of me - do you know that?”

His hand brushes over his papers, and you glance over at them - the ones he had just been so aptly working on before you interrupted.

You’ve known Gale enough to know the difference between work that’s important, and work that can wait. The eagerness in his eyes, the airiness to his voice, and the way his pupils dilate all spell out one thing: this work can wait.

You experimentally trail your fingers over his thigh. He squirms a little, his breath catching again. Warmth starts to simmer under your skin, and you can't help chasing after the feeling.

“Gods,” Gale murmurs, swallowing hard.

You lean in until your lips are next to his ear. The scent of him is warm and tempting on his skin: something woodsy and sharp, mixed with the smell of old books.

“I’ve missed you,” you tell him, moving your fingers just a little bit upward. Enough to have his breathing jagged and strained, but not high enough to be where you know he’d like them to be.

“If I wasn't working…” he says. And yet, he’s completely dropped his quill. His eyes are on you, not his papers.

Your mind forms a plan.

“By all means, don’t stop on my account,” you tease, nipping at his ear. When you pull away, his pupils are blown out - brown irises nearly drowned out by black - and his eyes only dilate further when you get on your knees in front of him.

For a moment, you simply sit, waiting for a protest. He gives none. In fact, when you start unlacing his trousers, he leans back, giving you more access to touch him.

The heaviness of his breath makes him impossible not to tease. Gale is always incredibly obvious in the things he wants, and you love to see the way he wants you. You want to hear it. Physical proof of it, tangible in the air.

“Go on,” you urge. “Keep working.”

Gale murmurs something under his breath, and your ears only catch the faintest breath of it: your name, said as a plea.

You start by taking him into your hand, belly fluttering at the sight of him. He’s already half-hard, silky and warm in your grip. He inhales sharply when you touch him and shudders when you stroke along his length, placing a kiss to his still-clothed thigh. You halt, and after a moment, you hear a curse. Then, what you’re listening for.

The scribble of his quill.

It halts ever so briefly when you trail your tongue along the head of his cock, teasing at the sensitive skin the way you know he likes. Then it resumes - albeit, erratically - and you take him further into your mouth.

The taste of him is subtle, but you know it like the back of your hand. Something salty, vaguely sweet. You moan around him, planting a hand on his thigh, and enjoy the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you.

He lets out a soft groan, and the quill pauses again. Are his hands shaking, you wonder? Are his sentences coherent? When this is all over, you’ll glance at his paper and find out. If you’ve ruined it enough, you might even keep it.

You want this to last, so your rhythm starts off slow. You want to please him. To pleasure him beyond belief. The goddess of magic may be his old lover, but can she hold a candle to your fervor? You doubt it.

With you I forget my goddess, he’d said. Just the memory of that has arousal simmering under your skin.

Once he’s writing at a normal pace again, you continue, drawing out the drag of your tongue along his length. Then you take him into your mouth once more, gently sucking down the shaft.

In response to your actions, Gale makes an assortment of sounds you’d like to bottle up and keep forever - a soft, seeking noise when you suck a little harder, a long groan when you take him down to the base. His quill is almost certainly shaking by now.

You pull away, and glance up at him - and gods, the sight of him. His cheeks flushed, his brows pinched in pleasure. His attempts to keep his breathing even, and his concentration somewhat on his paper. He’s clearly failing.

You’re suddenly all too aware of how clothed he is. How clothed you are. Arousal floods down your back, hot, wanting more. Wanting to take him back into your mouth and finish him.

Instead, you pull his shirt away from his abdomen and tug it up his torso. Kneeling, you aren’t able to pull it up very far. Gale, ever perceptive, finishes the job for you.

“It seems distracting me wasn’t enough?” he asks lightly, his tone teasing but airy. “Now you want me to remove my clothes as well?”

You let out a soft laugh and work the rest of his clothes off of him, admiring the view.

Gods, he’s handsome. Miles of warm skin under your touch. Soft, dark hair under your fingers. A shudder that you follow down his abdomen. You look over him - the clear desire in his face, his lips parted - and heat floods between your legs. “Well,” you reply, playing coy, “I can stop if you’d like. Let you get back to your work.

He lets out a shaky exhale. “Don’t,” he requests softly.

You press your lips to his navel, trailing feather-light kisses downward, and your name crosses his lips again, half-pleading.

You pause to look up at him, and he gives you a brief smile when you meet his eyes.

“Darling,” he says, his voice strained. “Not that I’m not enjoying what you’re doing, but - surely, you don't mean for me to be the only one this… scantily clad?”

As a matter of fact, you do. Or, at least, you had. You’re impatient. You want him close. Shuddering to his climax, coming on your tongue, groaning your name as his hand fixes tightly in your hair.

But you know he wants to see you, and you’re eager to give him what he wants. After a moment of internal debate, your hands begrudgingly part from him to undo the buttons of your top, exposing yourself to him as his eyes drink you in like the finest wine.

His thumb comes down to brush over your cheek. “I could live a thousand lifetimes,” he says, suddenly tender, “and never find anything as beautiful as you are.”

In response, you lift his palm from your cheek and place a kiss to it - a kiss which you can only hope gets across the thousands of words you’d like to say to him. Then, you gently move that hand into your hair.

Gale hesitates for a moment, then flexes his fingers, grip loose and careful.

When you put your tongue on him again, that grip tightens - not painful, but firm. You let out a soft moan around him and he curses, clearly trying to restrain himself from rolling his hips into your warm, waiting mouth.

In response, you plant a hand on his waist and take him further, encouraging him to take what he so clearly wants to. He curses again, breathing heavily, and chases after his climax, following the rhythm you’re so diligently setting.

If it weren't for the distant ache in your jaw, you’d be content to stay like this forever. Hearing the sinful noises he’s making as he gets closer. Feeling the muscles of his thigh flex under your hand. Listening to his panting, and the sound of your name uttered in warning as his pleasure builds ever higher.

He jerks his hips into you, once, twice - and then the taste of him is filling your mouth, hot and sweet, and he’s groaning your name like the sound has been punched out of him.

You keep sucking at him long after he’s come, until he’s jerking in sensitivity. He gently eases your head away from him with the hand that’s still in your hair.

“You really will be the end of me,” he says breathlessly. “You're wonderful. Now, come here, will you?”

You rise from your sore knees and meet him in a messy, wanting kiss, his lips soft and warm, his hand cradling your jaw.

He nudges his nose against yours, and as his hands tug at your waistband, you realize that you’re positively soaked. His pleasure had come first when he was in your mouth, but now, it’s white-hot and will not be ignored any longer.

“You’ve taken care of me. Allow me to return the favor?” he asks, eagerness spilling into his words.

And how could you ever say no to him?

#gale x reader #gale x tav #gale x you #gale dekarios #baldurs gate 3 x reader #gale dekarios x you #mywriting

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klausinamarink · 2 months

Text

He Want Kiss

rating: G | cw: none | wc: 630 | tags: post s4, getting together, first kiss, Steve is down bad | prompt: Love is when you look at his lips for half the conversation because you can’t stop thinking about kissing him

written for @steddielovemonth

Steve is obsessed with Eddie’s lips.

Like completely to the point that he might actually start going to therapy.

But Steve is just a simple man. He sees a pair of well-rounded lips that can make a perfect smile with dimples and he’s a goner. For example, look at Eddie. They’re so plump looking that Steve cannot believe it’s legal. And the way they move whenever Eddie speaks-

“-ink I should go for this one?”

Steve snaps his gaze up, barely surviving from the combination of head whiplash and the pointed attack of Eddie’s eyes, Jesus Christ, look at them Bambi eyes.

“Oh yeah, man.” How Steve manages not to stutter is both a mystery and a blessing.

“Yeah?” Eddie looks at him, his expression mixed with expectation and nervousness.

“Yeah.” Steve repeats confidently. He’s already forgetting what exactly they were talking about but he knows it has to do with Eddie trying to get a job, hence why he called Steve over to help him out with the few applications that believe in Eddie’s innocence. “Like, yeah, go for that.”

Christ, he might as well bash his head again. Steve really doesn’t want to come off as a douche again, but it’s not his fault that Eddie’s lips are just right there. They’re just begging to be kissed.

Thankfully, Eddie seems pleased by his answer. He smiles, dimples and all - oh lord please have mercy on Steve’s soul because he cannot handle the adorableness any longer - as he says, “Well, if Steve Harrington says so, then I will do it.” Then Eddie starts biting his lip, glancing down at the resume they’ve polished together.

Steve digs his fingernails through the jeans over his thighs, but it’s not enough to bat away the growing temptation to reach forward and brush his fingers over Eddie so the other man wouldn’t abuse his lips anymore. The skin had already been cracked and bleeding in the past few months and it’s always so devastating to see Eddie hurt a part of himself like this.

Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, Steve should kiss him.

Eddie is right there. While there will be lots of opportunities to have him at Steve’s side, there’ll never be another perfect chance like this.

Steve leans forward a bit but stops himself. Has Eddie ever been kissed before? If he did, does he like the faint touch of lips brushing together? Like smashed together? Full-on make-out sessions that lead to something more passionate?

Okay, Steve could work on the slow route. He’s done it before with his previous girlfriends. He could lean in at a snail’s pace so Eddie has enough time to register what’s happening and-

“Steve?”

Suddenly, Eddie’s face is much closer than Steve remembers. He feels a heat of breath against his lips. Then the rush of realization comes over Steve because he was about to kiss Eddie.

Yet despite this, Steve barely feels a sense of embarrassment. He stays in place, staring into Eddie’s wide eyes as they flicker over his face, lingering on Steve’s lips every few seconds.

Finally, Eddie huffs out a nervous little laugh, “You, uh, listened to what I just said?”

“Hm-mm.” Steve shakes his head. He feels like he’s on cloud nine and whatever Eddie does next, he’s going to scream at the heavens anyway.

Eddie’s lips form the briefest of smirks, but it’s gone in a blink. They part open slightly.

Steve can’t hold it anymore. He closes the space between them and meets Eddie’s lips at last. It’s more rough and desperate than he plans it to be and tries to dial it back. But when Eddie kisses him with a similar force, Steve goes screw it and kisses back like it’s their last chance.

#klaus writes #steddie #steddielovemonth

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kechiwrites · 1 year

Text

what’s in a name?

simon “ghost” riley x medic!reader

synopsis: ‘It’s not his fault.’ He reasons. ‘It’s not his fault you’re a brat.’

wc: 1.1k

cw: fem!reader, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk, light brat taming, spanking, pet names (princess, darling), no use of y/n ever.

an: yes, i know i should be posting kinktober IN NOVEMBER, but my god does this man make me wanna [redacted] his [data expunged]. enjoy!

He’s your most stubborn patient, in fact, his entire squad is a pain in your ass, but Ghost takes the cake. Always grunting and scoffing as you administer care, as if this is all a frivolity and not you saving him from gangrene or tetanus or whatever other peril has found its way into his blood that week. And that’s if he even deigns to be seen to at all.

It’s another one of those days, marshalled out of your bed at the crack of dawn because there are wounds to dress and blood to take. It makes you irritable, just short of bitchy really, and you’ll be damned if you have to work this early in the morning for a couple of jarheads who can barely string together decent conversation.

Ghost is the first person you see. Naturally. And it’s much of the same. Groans and impatient huffs while you snip gauze and sanitize abrasions. It’s rapidly turning you from irate to downright incensed.

“What’s your name anyway?” You murmur, while you fold up his shirt sleeve, baring a muscled, veiny forearm, covered in ink and dried blood, courtesy of a deep gash that’d only ceased bleeding thanks to a field tourniquet applied in the nick of time.

“No.” He mutters. As if that’s an answer. You scoff, turning in your swivel chair to grab more cotton wool from your desk. When you return he has you pinned with what little of his face you can see, dark, long lashed eyes peering out from the mask and face paint. As though he can see through you.

"You can tell me your actual name, or you can bleed out." It’s unnecessary, really. Probably even dangerous to ask, but it’s always bothered you that his medical record has those black marks where a Christian name should be. And you’re nosy. Nosy enough to pry it out of the soldier himself.

You stare at each other, neither daring to back down. Your threat is horse shit and you both know it, you're obligated to give the best care possible. He could wait you out. If he wanted to.

Apparently, he doesn’t want to.

"Simon."

You give him a smile in return, cartoonishly big and saccharine sweet. You begin cleaning the wound, humming happily with yourself. Satisfied.

For the next two months, it's relentless. Everytime he sees you, it's;

"And do you know your blood type, Simon?"

"It's lovely to see you again Simon."

"There are easier ways to stop bleeding, Simon."

It irks him, makes his skin feel like it's not sitting right. Makes him feel like his teeth are stopping his tongue from laying in his mouth comfortably. Makes his blood hum in his veins.

Eventually it's too much.

"Would you come off it?" He asks, voice rougher than he means it to be, but maybe that's what you need to end this little joke of yours.

You keep reading the charts on the clipboard in your hand, as if he hasn't spoken at all.

"Come off what, Simon?" You purse your lips at whatever you're reading, but he suspects you’re trying not to laugh.

"Saying my name like that." He flexes open the fingers of one hand, keeping the other balled in a fist on his thigh.

"Like what?" You finally look at him, head tilted to the side, the picture of innocence.

What a lark.

"Like you want something from me." He stands, looming above you, jostling himself into your personal space.

"It's your name." Now you are smiling, a confident, amused thing that transforms the look of your face, makes him forget the bags under your eyes and the familiar bone-tiredness of his body when it’s been pushed too far.

And these days, it’s always too far.

“We have code names for a reason, darling.”

“Darling? I was beginning to think my name was ‘Ugh’.” You drop the timbre of your voice to mimic him, though he doesn’t look very flattered by the imitation. At least, that’s what you get from the very little of his face you can see.

“It’s Ghost from now on.” He ignores you. It’s necessary, really. To block out the things you say. The things you do. The songs you hum cheerfully when you do inventory, the way your medical uniform stretches over the curve of your ass when you need something from the bottom cabinet.

“Sure, Simon. Whatever you say.”

‘It’s not his fault.’ He reasons. ‘It’s not his fault you’re a brat.’

It’s not his fault when he pushes you over to the examination bed. It’s not his fault when he fists his hands in the waistband of your scrub bottoms and yanks them down, it’s not his fault you’re wearing a thong, for christ’s sake. It’s not his fault that you giggle and sigh and beg so goddamn pretty.

It’s certainly not his fault that your cunt feels like a fucking dream.

He takes you like you deserve for all the teasing, brings the weight of his hand down on your ass when you moan something that sounds suspiciously like “About time.” Ghost gropes at your tits while he has you bent in half, in for a penny, as they say. His fingers pull and flick at your nipples, and you wish he’d put his mouth on you, fucking anywhere, and you don’t care what it does, bite, suck, kiss, what-fucking-ever. When you say as much in between the gasps he fucks out of you, he responds immediately, voice subdued under his mask.

“Maybe next time.”

Your eyes nearly roll out of your head at the idea of next time.

When you come it feels like your pussy is buzzing, stretched over the length of his dick and he tunnels into you, fucking into you deep before he grinds the head of cock into you, scrambling any thought you could’ve had.

It’s a battle for him to not come inside you, to resist covering the sweet, soft walls of your cunt in his seed, but he prides himself on what little control he has left, and pulls out, doing you a favour by letting his come shoot onto the floor rather than stain the baby blue fabric of your scrubs.

"Now, I think we can both agree to you saving that name for when you want me to spread you open, yes?" His voice is gruffer somehow, covering your overheated skin in the rasp and cadence of it.

"Fuck off." You moan miserably in response, your forehead sticking to the paper covering the examination bed below you.

"I want an affirmative, princess."

"Yes." You hiss from between your teeth, your head still spinning from your orgasm. “Yes, Ghost, I agree.”

“That’s better. Don’t worry about getting up.” He pats your exposed lower back, and when his hand withdraws you can hear him zip his fatigues back up. “I’ll see myself out.”

endotes: hehe...i love him. my mask kink is in full effect y’all. support content creators + city girls, reblog. find part 2 here.

#ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #ghost x black reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #simon ghost riley smut #kechiwrites #cod mw2 smut #cod fic

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houserautha · 1 day

Text

These Destined Ends

Part Eleven

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: you stabbed him and now you handcuff him, blood play, wound play, the events in this part are probably not hygienic or realistic but my thots took over, you both cry, mentions of killing/death, brief depiction of killing

A/N: I would like to add that reader and Feyd have such a toxic relationship but god do I love it so much (also the writing god possessed me and made it possible for this to be published now instead of tonight, god bless)

You push the dagger in to its handle.

It comes back slick with blood.

You use it to quickly unlatch your bindings, then shift aside as Feyd falls onto the bed beside you. Without thinking, you place a knee on either side of his waist and set to inspecting your work — the cut is deep, weeping ink-colored blood. A depraved part of you wants him to suffer, to feel pain as unimaginably deep as you did. And you do not want him to clot quickly.

Feyd’s hand ghosts over the wound. Blood spills onto his alabaster skin, the bedsheets, on the leg of your pant nestled into his side. And all the while he gazes up at you endearingly, face noticeably paler, blood coming to gather at the corner of his lips. You lean forward to kiss him and lap up the droplets of blood, he groans; you’re pressing your entire weight into him, into the wound.

“I want you to hurt,” you whisper against his mouth. You put your fingers to the wound, Feyd shifting uncomfortably as your nails bite into the recently torn flesh. Beneath you, his cock stirs, and in response you dig your fingers in deeper.

His flesh is warm. Wet.

“Fuck,” Feyd mutters.

“I want to hurt you and you’re enjoying it,” you sneer at him, “perhaps I should just stop. Chain you up to the bed, see how you like it. Leave you to bleed out alone.”

He doesn’t reply. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes — he knows that he’s supposed to atone for his family’s crime, play his part in your twisted battle of wits, but there’s no denying his swelling, twitching cock, eager to make contact between your legs. He grimaces as you remove your hand, breath expelling in shaky bursts.

Feyd watches you reclaim the cuff, hook it around his wrist and then do the same with the cuff on the other side of the bed that Wyn hadn’t bothered to attach. You secure both cuffs so that his hands are pinned above his head. He looks infuriatingly gorgeous like this, blood wetting his skin and your hands, muscles tensed and pain spasming his handsome features.

You grind against him and his hips buck.

“Fuck,” he says again.

You lose yourself, slightly, at the sight of him like this, and you’re entangled between vengeance and desire. The urge to maim him paired with the dreadful urge you have to ride him.

Why couldn’t you do both?

You rake your nails down his chest, creating trails of angry welts from sternum to navel. His breath quickens. Blood pools near the site of the wound and you drag your fingers through it.

“Interesting. You bleed just like the rest of us, Feyd-Rautha.”

“Do you want another taste?”

He inhales sharply. You’ve angrily pressed your palm into the wound, resenting him for reminding you of your transgressions. You growl, “You won’t find humor in this when I’m done with you.”

Fingers bloodied, you put them to his plush bottom lip — fuck, his lips drove you wild — and down his chin, the column of his throat, over the welts you’ve created. He writhes. You unbuckle his pants and, without any trace of kindness, tear them from his narrow hips. Feyd whimpers as the sudden movement prompts a gush of blood, and you grin at the reaping of your effort. He glares.

You scoop more blood like a painter from its palette. His cock is standing to attention, arched backward slightly, flushed and threaded with pulsing veins. Starting at his swollen head, you trace your fingers up and down, coating him thoroughly with his own blood. It takes several applications before you’re satisfied. An entirely addictive sounds escapes him when you fist the base of his shaft and start pumping, the slickness of the blood easing your work.

You stroke him over and over, varying your pace as not to guide him to orgasm. He rallies against you, straining at the cuffs. Although you can’t see it, you feel him dig his heels into the mattress in an effort to gain purchase, anything to channel the desire unfurling inside him. And all the while you watch him, fascinated, bleeding profusely yet so eager for your touch.

The mighty Feyd-Rautha, champion of Giedi Prime, shuddering and moaning beneath you, pre-cum leaking from the slit of his cock. It draws heat to your core. With his hands over his head, his mobility is limited, and you use this to your advantage: maintaining a steady pace on his cock with one hand while the other explores his body, dipping down to cup his balls, trace his thighs, then back up to tease his taunt nipples and the wound in his side. Feyd cries out, eyes rolling back and hips snapping.

You revoke your hand. He’s practically shivering now, undoubtedly torn between pain and pleasure. You climb carefully off his lap. Feyd’s gaze burns into you as you strip off your clothes until you’re standing only in your panties.

“This should only hurt a little,” you tell him. The muscles in his stomach jump and flicker as you resume your kneeling position, this time decidedly higher.

Your clit is aching for friction, so much so that you grind your center into him, right over the wound. He grunts in pain with each roll of your pelvis, seeking out your pleasure while you aggravate the place where the dagger had slid in, breasts pushing outwards. You can see it on his face, what he would do if he could use his mouth on you, his hands, but the pain is too great. Tears spring to his eyes as he fights the crashing waves of agony while you ride his wound.

“It’s not enough,” you utter, mostly to yourself, “it’s not enough.” Not enough pain.

You slide back down his body, reclaim his cock, then notch its head at your entrance. You’re slick with your own desire, and his blood, and you have to fend off his bucking hips to prevent him from penetrating you. The sensation of him gives you shivers, racing up and down your body.

You brace your quivering thighs and sink down on top of him. Feyd howls as your walls clamp down, taking him in one swift movement. You can’t help it — your head lulls back and your body bows, gripped by a wave of unbelievable pleasure. He fills you up so neatly, so fully, that you’re in despair when you pull away, then plunge back down with even more force. It reminds you of the throne room, how you had wrested the power from him. But you were na-Baron and na-Baroness before, this equates to something much more primal, raw, two blood-soaked fighters in an arena of your own making.

You ride him to completion, cuming on his cock twice before he finally musters the words, “Enough. You’ve got your punishment. Now let me fuck my wife.”

You pause with him still seated deep inside you.

“I don’t think I’ve yet reached the depths of your pain,” you tell him in reply.

Feyd’s eyes flash. “No weapons can maim me as entirely as having you naked in front of me and without the use of my hands to touch you. There will be no show of blood for how you’ve tormented me. No physical measure. Let me fuck you now so that we may be equals again.”

Seconds after you unlatch the cuffs, Feyd is on you. He all but attacks you, mouth hungrily searching yours, hands grabbing at your body. Effortlessly he flips you onto your back, blood gushing from him. He wavers, probably from loss of blood, before burying himself inside you. You cry out, wringing pleasure from him with each thrust, the feel of his hands more rewarding than anything without them. He’s on every surface of you — pressing kisses down your neck, your breasts, pulling each nipple into his mouth and giving them a lewd suckle. His hands grab the backs of your thighs, your ass, pin your hips to the bed so that you can’t move.

“You. Are. Mine,” he grunts with each thrust. His voice is wreathed with anger. Possession.

Heartache.

You can’t even begin to examine this before he spears you even faster, with more vigor, words slurring together with impassion. “You are mine, jewel. I thought you dead. I thought you taken from me. But no one can take you from me. No one. You don’t even possess that ability. I am the keeper of your life.”

He’s becoming more and more incensed, his pace growing sloppy and unpredictable. You feel a wetness by your neck and you realize that it’s not blood causing it but rather a furious outpouring of tears from your husband, his jaw clenched and brows furrowed in concentration.

“Mine.” Thrust. “Mine.” Thrust. “Mine.”

You cling to him, hold him the only way you know how, with your legs wrapped around his waist and your nails down his back. It’s as if you’re trying to merge into one being, take this man as part of your own flesh and, in addition, make his sorrows and pain yours. You taste the salt of your own tears as you both rise and crest like waves against one another, finally not opponents in a war that you can’t win but allies in a surmountable battle.

Feyd cums first, but you follow quickly after. Pulsing and shuddering, he cries into your neck as he fills you with his seed, clutching your body to him just as tightly. Both of you are gasping for air from the exertion, the tears, the culmination of your pleasures being chased down in such a heightened state. Feyd withdraws from you. He allows one hand to press against his wound protectively, but then surprises you by placing his bloodied handprint on your breast.

Above your heart.

“You are mine,” he says, “and I am yours.”

Hot water pours down you in rivulets, interrupted only by Feyd’s hands as he washes your body. Crimson water swirls down the drain. You take turns silently scrubbing the blood from each other and swapping stolen kisses, Feyd wincing each time the water makes contact with the wound. You start to form some semblance of an apology but Feyd silences you with a formidable look. “It was necessary,” he tells you.

The bloodied sheets and discarded clothes are much harder to rid of. And there’s no saying what Doctor Wyn was thinking when you told her that Feyd now demanded her attention, what she thought when she saw the horrible wound etched into his side. But, to her credit, she never asked any questions, and you never gave her any answers.

You could see why Feyd hired her.

And when someone wasn’t aggravating the wound, it healed much faster. Feyd refused any ointment that would erase the scar, however, which you knew he would. He kept every scar from every fight like badges of honor. You knew most of them well by now, and had your fair amount of contributions. And although you never explicitly discussed what happened between you two that day, you felt it between you like a tether, binding you together in a way that even you had no words to describe.

And that’s why you stall the Baron’s wish to seek an audience with you. You won’t go without Feyd.

He’s stubbornly vague about everything, too, claiming that it would make more sense to wait to hear everything unfold at once. You’ve missed too much while self-contained and now feel eager to return, to start the plot against Feyd’s uncle.

“I have my ideas,” he says one day when you’re begging him incessantly, “but first hear what the Baron says, make your own judgements. Revenge does not happen overnight.”

This irritates you, but you ultimately oblige.

Finally the day comes for your visit with the Baron, and you make sure to wear your best dress. Instead of the usual monochrome Harkonnen colors you’ve chosen a bright red, a thin fabric that clings to your figure. Feyd’s lips twitch when he sees you.

“You wear red to invoke the ire of the bull.”

“The Baron is no bull,” you retort. You think back to your grandfather’s legacy, of the dark eyes of the bull staring at you while you sat at the table on Arrakis. And while the Baron was not a bull, you were determined to have his head anyway.

Feyd grabs your hand, feathers his lips over your knuckles. “You look exceptional.”

You smile at him. “Let’s see what your uncle has to say.”

You made it a condition of the meeting not to be held in the throne room — you didn’t like the imbalance of power. Besides, you weren’t a lowly citizen come to collect their stipend, you were the na-Baroness, bound to the na-Baron in a bond that transcended the intricacies of power. You were no longer two beings but one, a formidable union. And as you sneak a glimpse of Feyd before you enter the dining room, you’re only emboldened by the resolve you see in his face; he is a fine partner to have in battle, indeed.

The doors open and his hand brushes yours once, a subtle indication of his fealty to you.

Your chin is raised and your stride confident as you approach the table. “A meal then, between family,” the Baron had said when you declined his offer to meet at the throne room. You notice that neither the Baron nor Rabban stand when you enter, which digs under your skin like a splinter.

“Don’t spare your na-Baroness with your pleasantries,” Feyd rasps darkly.

“This is not a political endeavor,” the Baron replies. If he realizes just how agitated his nephew is, he doesn’t show it. “Sit, sit. We dine together finally. I am only too glad to…catch up.”

It’s difficult to keep your composure neutral. Here before you is the man who orchestrated your family’s deaths, the one who carried them out. Hatred burns inside you.

You take your seat, Feyd beside you.

“We’ve already had our catching up, haven’t we, brother?” Rabban’s gaze is cutting.

Feyd just stares evenly back at him. “I remember.”

Rabban grins triumphantly. “And I’m glad to see that you’re healing well.” Before you can inquire about this — was Rabban the cause of the scar across his face? — the former turns his attention to you. “It is my dear sister-in-law that I need to reunite with. Isn’t that right?”

“Need is a strong word,” you retort. “I was under the impression I didn’t have much choice.”

“Oh, how you wound with your words as well as the blade,” Rabban replies, feigning insult.

“You seem to know quite a lot about blades, Rabban. Is that how you dealt the deaths of my family?”

Rabban sneers. The Baron holds up a large hand, his voice punishing, “That’s enough.”

“I’ve only just started,” you bite back.

“Brother, temper your wife,” Rabban says. “She speculates that which she has no knowledge of.”

You open your mouth to reply, outraged, but Feyd beats you to the punch. “My wife will do and say as she pleases. You should just be grateful that she hasn’t slit your throat yet.”

“There will be no deaths today,” the Baron warns.

“Because you’ve had your fill of them?” You counter. Under the table, your fingers form claws.

“Let me give you the truth, na-Baroness, so that you might stop leveling accusations,” the Baron replies coolly. “You are new to the Harkonnen so I may forgive you this once. You were not born as we were. That being said, we were the original defenders of Arrakis. It is our planet. And as you know we will do whatever it takes to defend our own.”

You can’t help it. You snort. Is that what he was doing when he cajoled his young nephew? Put more darkness in him than necessary?

“With the help of the Emperor, we were able to reclaim Arrakis. We tried to give House Atreides the option of conceding but they staunchly refused. We did only what we had to do.”

Your eyes narrow. “The Emperor aided you?”

This, you knew, but you wanted to hear an explanation from his own mouth.

“We both had certain…lofty aspirations…that the other could provide. It was a rational exchange,” the Baron says, as if talking about expanding trade routes instead of lives. “The Emperor was fearful of your father and his power. Now he has to worry no more.”

Conversation subsides as servants place food in front of you, some kind of bird drenched in a sickly colored sauce. The only person to touch it is the Baron, who savagely devours it without any use of utensils.

“You lie,” you finally say. “My father had no intentions of usurping the Emperor as you claim.”

“The Emperor is a…fickle man. He knows his own weaknesses. I cannot blame him for his fear.”

“And why did he partner with you?” You ask. “What did you gain from this?”

“Arrakis,” the Baron answers simply.

“You said that you both had aspirations that the other could provide,” Feyd presses, taking the words from your mouth. “You eliminate the House Atreides for the Emperor, but you are not the sole benefactor of Arrakis. You must know that I would rather perish than take orders from you.”

The Baron wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I suppose the news will come out sooner or later. Rabban?”

News? What news?

Rabban grins at you and Feyd. “The princess Irulan and I are engaged to be married.”

Shock seizes you and keeps you from forming any sort of response. The Emperor gave his eldest daughter to Rabban? Thoughts race through your mind. Not only did that mean the Baron had his influence in Arrakis but now the entire Known Universe as well. Dread fills you. How had anyone allowed this to happen?

“That’s not the congratulations I was expecting,” Rabban continues, clearly pleased with himself.

Feyd’s fist strikes the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “You gave me Arrakis over my brother, but now you secure him as Emperor? What are you playing at, uncle?”

“Your brother is willing to…follow my orders, as you so eloquently said. His loyalty deserves recognition.”

“This is a grave error,” Feyd snarls.

“Jealous, are we?” Rabban asks, drawing the attention back to him. “This could’ve all been avoided if you’d only accepted my offer,” he says to you, then Feyd, “and then you could’ve been in my position, heir apparent to the Empire.”

Feyd shoots to his feet. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

“Boys,” the Baron snaps, intervening what you are certain would’ve been a death match, “everything is now in place. Feyd-Rautha will rule Arrakis and its coveted spice; Rabban, the Empire. Instead of fighting you should be celebrating the fortune of the Harkonnens.”

Silence descends.

This was worse than you imagined. The Baron had manipulated everyone here to get what he wanted. It was he who would profit from the marriages he forged for his nephews.

“Now, Feyd-Rautha, you must put aside your envy. You and the na-Baroness are required to return to Arrakis in a fortnight.”

It feels as if someone has poured ice water down your spine. “What?”

“You think you can rule from Giedi Prime?” The Baron asks, bemused.

“Fine.” Feyd looks to you but no one else. “We are done here.”

You want to challenge him, to remain where you are and root out more truth, but to do so would to humiliate him. You avoid the eyes of the Baron and Rabban as you pick up the skirt of your dress and follow after him dutifully.

The doors slam shut behind you with a resounding thud.

As you search for something to say, Feyd screams, visceral and terrifying. In a blind fury, he cuts down the two closest servants with his dagger, their blood splattering the ground as their bodies slump to the floor. His shoulders heave, dagger gripped tightly in his grasp, and he whirls on you wildly as you approach.

“Do not give them the satisfaction,” you whisper urgently to him, grabbing his face. Your touch soothes him ever so slightly. “Their time will come but first we must consider how to proceed, formulate a plan that will leave them in their graves. They will not go unpunished.”

The dagger clatters to the ground as Feyd finally releases it.

“I will not rest until then,” he swears.

You rock up on your toes and press your forehead to his, holding him to you. “Neither shall I.”

Taglist:

@moonsoulk @heartarianagran @torchbearerkyle @unicoreads @taleah @mamawiggers1980 @jovialeggsbailiffsoul @harkonnin @avidreader73 @unicorntrooper @beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @m-indkiller @kpopnstarwars @dacreshoney @stopeatread @the-na-baroness @therealslimshady-1

#dune #feyd x reader #feyd x you #fanfic writing #feyd smut #writers on tumblr #feyd rautha harkonnen #writing #fanfic #these destined ends #feyd rautha

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starrystevie · 1 year

Text

au where steve is a pop star and eddie is someone who one would assume wouldn't be caught dead at one of his concerts, yet is also slightly obsessed with the steve harrington. if you weren't a fan like he is, you'd see his tattoos and think, "yeah, that checks out." no one looks at a metal head with tattoos and thinks twice. but if you look closer, the bird halfway in a cage on his shin is most definitely a nod to a steve harrington song, just like the bleeding rose on his forearm and the crown behind his ear and the swirling script of lyrics over his heart and the-

eddie's a sound tech, tuning guitars for the concert at the venue where he works when he finds out that steve is the one who's playing that night. he fluffs his hair in the staff bathroom, rolls his sleeves and puffs out his chest, hands steve a microphone at soundcheck and lets their fingers brush. he watches honey brown eyes flick over his arm and learns up close what steve looks like when he blushes and eddie wishes he could get that tattooed, too.

after the show, he gets unexpectedly stopped by a sweaty steve harrington whose grin is so wide and bright, it could have powered the stage lights. fingers wrap around eddie's wrist until his arm is brought up and fingertips tickle over the ink there.

"you have my rose," steve says and it's breathless and hoarse and perfect. "you have my-"

"got it right after 'thorn in your side' was released," eddie says back, and he's breathless, too.

"please tell me you aren't busy tonight." steve is chalk full of charisma and charm and it dances in his eyes, makes him look younger than they both know he is. eddie has half a mind to pinch himself and make sure it's all real. "i don't do this often, or well ever, but you..."

eddie chuckles, "i have your rose, i get it. i umm, i have more? i mean, it's not just the rose, i have the crown from your first album and i have birdie on my shin, and let me tell you, that one hurt like a bitch-"

they don't talk much more after that outside of eddie breaking away from steve's mouth to tell him his name while they're glued together in a very uncoordinated walk to steve's tour bus. he shows steve his other tattoos, the ones he got for him and the ones he got because of him and lets steve trace over them with fingers, kisses, the tip of his tongue.

it's not much, it's just one night. but then the next album comes out and steve sends eddie a signed copy with a bright red circle around the dagger on the front cover with his perfect handwriting next to it.

for the empty spot on your ribs. let me see it when it's done. xo steve

#dont ask where this came from because i do not have an answer for you #steddie #steddie headcanon #steve harrington #eddie munson #my writing #steddie fic #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #1k

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 9 months

Text

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested.

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights.

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly.

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort.

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly.

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it.

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty.

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside.

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him.

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant.

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?”

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm.

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time.

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet.

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :)

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email.

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection.

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out.

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely.

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner.

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table.

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair.

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you.

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve.

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up.

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction.

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning.

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk.

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily.

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where.

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly.

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly.

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious.

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root.

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you.

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine.

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it.

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing.

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement.

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you.

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.”

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you.

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh.

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod.

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest.

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.��

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response.

“Yes.”

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right.

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.”

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

“You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly.

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him.

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you.

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another.

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 5 months

Text

Pretty like the wind

Previous chapter /Next chapter

a/n fourteenth part! You guys we are nearing the end and this one... This one was tough. I will only be able to accept complaints via email. Enjoy! 😉🤍🫧

warning: kids, blood, torture, intoxication, drugs, dark magic, pain, deaths, Illyrian torture mmm... I'm trying to think if I haven't missed anything. Ah... wounds.

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There was one thing Azriel was certain about: he was never going to get used to the sensation of holding you. The way his body ignited. It felt as if only then all of his senses were in tune with the rest of his body. The sweetest taste of perfection filled him. This was what finally feeling whole felt like. So was he pissed off when Rhys's gentle knocking on his mental shields woke him up? Yes. Was untangling his limbs from you the hardest thing Azriel had ever done? Absolutely. Did he linger just a bit longer, slowly brushing your hair as he watched you take in breath after breath? yes. Azriel smiled to himself because this was it. This was his forever. His other half lay in his bed. Peacefully sleeping. So his. Only his.

"I'll let you punch me raw", Rhys had caught up with Azriel in no time, "But you also know I wouldn't have asked if this wasn't serious". Azriel knew his duties. He took them seriously, too. So even if his heart was bleeding for his mate, he knew his people also needed him. "Fill me in," Azriel said firmly, tightening the straps holding his knives. "Cass is finishing the last interrogations, and nothing fucking adds up." Rhys was frustrated, which was always a sign of something going extremely wrong. All he was told before Azriel had winnowed into the south side of Velaris was that the border had been breached. An attack had occurred, but the moment the soldiers were sent, it all vanished. In Azriel's 500 years of life, shit didn't just disappear. "Memories?", Azriel said as he scanned the place. Weavers were already patching up the wards, but none of them looked seriously torn apart or damaged in general. "Ink black," Rhys said and Aziel halted at the sound of it, an odd chill running through his back. "And a freezing one. I could push, but...", Rhys ran a hand through his hair. Azriel recognized that worry now. Worry for the family. A mate, children. He was in the same boat now. "You could push, but let me guess, you would fry their brains in the process," Azriel unleashed, his shadow scattering around the place. He was going to fix this. And fix this quickly. Maybe he will even be able to come back before you have woken up.

Cold. Cold. Cold. So cold. So dark. It was so painful and numb at the same time. There were hands. Cold fingers. Echoes of something familiar. How could one feel so heavy and light as a fever at the same time? It felt as if you were blinking for a moment, desperately trying to wake up, only to be plunged back into the same darkness. Someone was holding your head down as you trashed. before Your body had grown frail once more. Slumping.

"I'm telling you they came with torches; everything was on fire," the man said, and Azriel would have believed him, but he knew the farmer. Had gotten multiple reports from him about younglings messing up his sheep fence. He heard him speak before, and something deep within Azriel screamed that this man wasn't talking on his behalf. "Look, if you got the whole village in on this because of that damn fence..." Cassian huffed; he too was losing his patience. Nesta was pregnant. Nothing had been confirmed, but Azriel could smell it on Cass, and so could Rhys; the two had shared a look but chosen to not test Cassian's boundaries. The man was desperate for her. Out of the three of them, Cassian was the one whose patient was extremely thin today. Not to mention the heightened need to protect that coursed through his body.

Azrie shot his brother a look before motioning for the door. Cassian was halfway through the door when the man spoke again, "What fence?" There was a glimmer of relief in the man's eyes before it all glazed over again, and this time that same odd tone was back: "Torches all of them." Azriel turned to Rhys, whose face bore the same realization. They were all under something. Herbs. Magic. Mother only knew.

"Billy, your goat. How is he doing?", the man practically seized at Azriel's voice. "Bill...", the male breathed. "Yeah, one who chewed up your farm shoes," Azriel continued, the same glistening light running through the male's eyes. As if he was clawing at himself from within. It was as if someone was barging to be let out. But it was Rhys who delivered the last blow. "What about your wife? Huh, how's she been doing? She's still knitting you scarves." The male coughed, clawing at his neck. Panic set in as he moved towards the door, but Cassian was still standing there, his broad shoulders blocking any chance at escaping. "Billy and your wife, how are they?", Cass said it in a demanding tone. The man stilled, and then, thick like lava, liquid trickled down his nose.

"Rhys...", Cassian growled. The male staggered back slightly but gained his stance pretty quickly. And the terror that set in now was of a new kind. "My lord...", he breathed out, pulling his hat off his head, only then reaching to feel the dampness on his lip. Dread pooled in Azriel's stomach. "Fuck," the high lord breathed, "This is set up." Rhys's darkness swallowed the place as he winnowed. Azriel reached for the older male and said, "Go home; I'll be back, but you have nothing to worry about." With that, he snatched Cassian's hand as they both winnowed.

It was the cold that seeped into you that had pulled your eyes open. Your fingers grazed the surface beneath you. They felt numb as if they no longer belonged to you, but enough to still somewhat identify your surroundings. The surface you were lying on was damp. That would explain the sounds of droplets hitting the puddles somewhere. You tried to dig into your mind. Tried to think. Where were you? What was happening? You forced your eyes to fully open. A gray stone was what greeted you. You frowned instantly. Nothing seemed to add up. It was sniffling that you picked up on next. But the moment you turned your head to the side, you were met with something you thought you would never see again.

"No", your voice was barely a whimper. "No", you tried to pull yourself up, crawling towards the painfully familiar bars. You didn't feel a single ounce of magic within yourself. It was as if it had all fizzled out. But this couldn't be true. Absolutely couldn't. You have escaped. You... your hands touched the bars as you pulled yourself up. And for a heartbeat, you wished you hadn't.

In the cell opposite of yours lay two figures that clawed through every bit of sedative running through your system. "Zofie, Axel...", the words were barely a whisper as your knees threatened to buck any minute. "Zo, Ax," you breathed louder, trying to move the cell doors, but for nothing. It all came rushing back then. The strange vision. The dinner prep. Elain. Your thoughts halted - Azriel. Your hand rested on your chest. You couldn't feel him. You couldn't... "No," you breathed. He couldn't be dead. You wouldn't be standing here if he was. Your eyes darted back toward the kids. Zofie was pale. Too pale. Axel's wings were bent awkwardly. They couldn't be. They couldn't... It was enough for the thought to simply swirl there and within seconds you were turning to the side as bile rose in your throat.

No matter how much panic Azriel felt coming from both Rhys and Cassian, he refused to let it settle in. You were fine. You had to be. They were all just panicked. Nothing like that has happened since Amarantha. So it was more than understandable that everyone would be ticked off. Azriel unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt as he winnowed back to his apartment. Rhys was meeting him there the moment both Nesta and Feyre were in the safety of the house of wind.

Just the moment his foot hit the wood floor in his apartment, Azriel knew that something was off. The place seemed ice-cold. The burning smell filled his nose. No. No. No. Not happening. "Y/n," he called out as he stepped deeper into the place. Bile rose in Azriel's throat as his eyes scanned the kitchen. Flowers were scattered on the floor, with a smashed vase to accompany them. Fresh goods were still in the bags by the little kitchen counter. A burnt-out pot—whatever had been cooking there had turned into a chard mess. At least now he knew where the smell was coming from. Azriel's eyes fell onto the colorful drawing that now lay upon all the filth that filled the floor. A card. He hesitated. He knew whatever was in... Azriel folded the paper open. Messy's scribbled writing in two different colors greeted him.

We wanted to ask you a big question. Written with a k instead of a q, that's been crossed out and corrected. Azriel wanted that to warm his heart, but all it did was cause more ache. Yet nothing prepared him for the next line. Can you please be our dad? We'd love that, Zo and Ax. The world in front of Azriel shifted. His vision went out for a second. Their dad. A father figure. Azriel gripped the kitchen counter. His kids. They were already his kids. But to know that they both wanted that and that they had all of this set-out... All of this was supposed to be a surprise for him, and now...

Azriel heard rustling outside his apartment door that he only now realized was slightly ajar. "Elain?", a muffled voice that belonged to Rhys called out. Azriel crossed the distance in a couple of steps as he yanked the door open. His anger was boiling even hotter. He saw her, hiding in the corner of the hallway. That same black liquid trickled down her nose. "I couldn't. I tried", she managed to muffle between sobs, but Azriel turned away from her. "Tell Lucien that she's here. I don't need a territorial male running around causing trouble", Azriel said bluntly to Rhys.

"Azriel, please," Elain shifted, trying to reach for any part of the shadow singer she could get her hands on. "Elain, unless you have something useful to...", Azriel batted her hand away as he scowled at her. She probably didn't deserve it. It wasn't her fault that she had gotten herself under that spell, yet knowing that she was the one who had seen you last didn't sit well with Azriel. "They know you'll come; she wants that," Elain muttered, making Azriel frown. "Who?", the female shook her head, and Azriel moved to step away instantly. "A lady in white, she... I don't know, like a priestess."

And within a beat of a heart, it was all crystal clear. The threats and the unwillingness to cooperate—Rhys said it had all been done and taken care of. A new wave of anger rushed through Azriel as he reached for Rhys's neck, bending most of his body over the sixth-floor railing. "I should have burned that place down," Azriel hissed. "Azriel," Rhys said, pushing against his brother's hold. "If my mate and my kids get hurt because you stalled, I swear on everything holy to me. You will never see me again, Rhys", and with a final shove, Azriel let go. Rhys managed to keep himself upright, but before he could turn to the spymaster, he was already gone.

The next time your eyes snapped open, you scrambled to your feet almost immediately. Reaching for the bars, you cast your gaze upon the cell opposite yours. A breath hitched in your throat. They had shifted. Axel was leaning against the wall. All you could see was his face; his wings were messily draped over his chest, he no doubt had to be holding Zofie. "Axel," you called out softly, not wanting to startle him even more. Mother knew these kids were through hell just because of you. "Sweetheart, Ax," you called out again, knees buckling as those golden eyes gazed straight at you. "Y/n," he breathed in return, trying to move closer, but you quickly shook your head.

"It's okay; stay where you are. Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?", you looked him over the best you could. The boy only shook his head. "But Zofie is cold," he muttered, pealing one of his wings to reveal a sickly pale girl with no color in her skin. You sank to the floor. "Is she...", the ringing in your ears grew louder. Axel quickly shook his head once more. "I think it's the empathy thing," he said softly. "I've been thinking all the happy thoughts, and pa-Azriel," Axel stated. Your eyes softened. "You don't have to correct yourself, Ax; you can call him your papa." You wished they hadn't taken this evening away from them. Why this one out of them all? "Will he come to get us?", there was doubt in the boy's tone, but you met his eyes with your blazing gaze. "He will. He will always come for us. No matter where we end up, Azriel will always find a way to bring us back home. You want to know why?", you asked him, and Axel instantly nodded, "Because he loves us, and we love him."

Azriel's shadows were swirling all around the sanctuary as he watched from the mountain peaks. He knew that you were there. The last bits of mating bond practically screamed at him while he ran over ways he was going to slather everyone stupid enough to get in his way. He gritted his teeth together.

"You know... I was never afraid of your darkness," you had muted to him as you two had laid in bed together. Your hand was extended up in the air as his shadows swirled all around, tattering your skin with kisses. "You should be; most are," Azriel breathed. "Why would I? It's a part of you, and it's beautiful to me." Azriel had shifted slightly from the words—loving you is the easiest thing I have to do in my life, he had thought but he didn't say it. too afraid that it was all moving too fast. too afraid to scare you away. And now, more than ever, Azriel wished he would have spoken those words. Would have told you about the house on the very side of Velaris. He had bought it decades ago for his family. For his mate and for his kids. And he had just that—all of it—but it was slipping past his fingers.

A handful of papers slapped against Azriel's chest as Rhys winnowed right in front of him. "Padme wants you apart because you two were a profit in some ancient scroll," Azriel snatched the report, taking his eyes off the building just for a heartbeat so he could look it over. "You two are the opposite of the spectrum; your union can... You'd become more powerful than most high lords", Rhys said firmly, knowing that at any moment the words he spoke could be his last, " So this whole thing could be set up by one or multiple of the other high lords, or someone desperate to save the world".

Azriel had to give Rhys credit. The stuff he pulled out in such a short time was impressive, and it would explain the level of magic used to possess others. But if he could do it in such a short time, he could have given him the papers with this information weeks ago. As if reading his mind, Rhys spoke, "Let us help you get her and the kids back, and then you're free to step away from your position as my spymaster." The words drilled holes in Azriel's already bleeding heart, "I should have taken action sooner. I failed you and your family." Azriel lifted his hand, silencing his high lord. "Two entrances are unguarded. Your job is to get the kids and take them away from that place", the cold tone Azriel used felt wrong, but he couldn't do this now. Azriel's priorities no longer lay with Rhys. No longer lay with his court.

You were humming an old Illyrian lullaby when the doors to the dungeon creaked open and in strolled Padme, accompanied by at least four guards. "I hope you're enjoying your fantasy now," she said with that same cold smile on her lips. "You bitch," you spat her way, throwing all of your weight at the iron bars. "Pick your words wisely, child. I have power over you", she said, standing right in front of you now, looking you over as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt beneath her shoes. "I trusted you," you said through gritted teeth, "You said...", "That I cared? That I will keep you safe," Padme cut you off, "The same thing your supposed lover is saying to you now. Look where my love brought you; want to see where he will take you?" She stepped over so quickly you didn't even notice when her claws had dug in the hack of your scalp, that same demonic face flashing right in front of you.

Then flames erupted all around you. All of the Velaris was up in flames. Houses falling. People were trying to crawl from beneath the debris. You ran forward, trying to help a woman free her leg, but the moment you approached, she screamed out in panic, trying to move away from you. You shook your head. "Do you want this?", Padme's voice rang all around you. "You are going to be so selfish and end so many lives just because you think someone can finally love you," her laugh echoed, chipping even more of your already frozen-over heart. "I kept you safe. It is I who truly knows how to love a creature like you". Your head fell back as the priestess pulled her blood-coated nails away from you, licking the very tips, "You always belonged with me." Your eyes locked on her dark orbs. You've never seen them in their true colors before.

"That's a lie! Azriel loves us; we're a family," Axel's voice rang out, making you blink, "Tell her, YN, we'll always be together." Padme turned to the boy, yanking the cell door open as she stepped in. "No," you breathed out, reaching for them. "Say that again, boy," her hand wrapped around his neck as she lifted him from the ground, Zofie's frail body slipping out of his hand, awkwardly filling the cold floor. "No, Padme, let him go," you pleaded. You were not letting them go through the same torture you had already endured. "He loves her," Axel said firmly, even if he was slowly losing oxygen. "I'll do whatever you want, but you have to promise you will not hurt them, Pad," you said so quickly that you could barely make out your own words.

The priestess's head turned toward you, a vicious smile spreading across her face. "Return them safely to Azriel, and I will do whatever you want," you pleaded. Padem simply let go of Axel. "Very well," she said happily. "I'll drop them off at that old lady's house," You nodded along with her words. Cordelia will look after them for now. She'll explain it all to them. Take good care of Zofie until she can once again lay in Azriel's arms. "But you, my dear," Padme mustered, "You owe me your heart, especially the part of it that belongs to the shadowsinger." Your vision blurred as her words settled in. A part. There wasn't just a part. All of it was Azriel's. You had given it to him that night outside his mother's house. He had it ever since.

Azriel had his finger pressed to his lips as he once again came into contact with a small group of terrified females, slowly gesturing for them to exit the place. Knowing well that Rhys would guide them out of the building. One of them had already told them how to get to the lower floors of the sanctuary. Azriel would find you. He'll take you home. He rounded the familiar corner. He was trying to be as quiet as he possibly could. It was strange to think that he had lived here for a bit. He had met his other missing part between these walls, which made him nothing but sick now.

Down the corridor. Into the main communal hall, and then right on the left corner, Azriel stopped. There was no way. No, there was no way this couldn't be it. His eyes instantly darted up, looking for anyone planning an attack from up above, but he saw no one, and his shadows sensed nothing.

"Y/n," he breathed out, and you instantly turned around. Your dress was dirty and damp, and there was blood running down the back of your neck, mixing in with your light hair. Blood. Azriel crossed the distance between the two of you in a couple of steps. "Why are you here? Did you kill her?", he carefully cupped your face as he looked you over. Your lip trembled. "Love," Azriel breathed. "The kids are at your mother's. I got them out, but you need to leave," the last word was choked out, and you quickly covered your mouth. Trying to fight your emotions. Azriel pulled at your hand, but you quickly pulled back. "You need to leave me behind," you whispered. "That will never happen," the spymaster said firmly.

"Azriel, I will lose control again. I will burn the city down. I saw it", you shook your head, trying to chase the images away. "I will burn it for you if you give up on us," Azriel said harshly, but his touch still stayed nothing but soft.

"I'm not giving up on us," you whispered so quietly. You promised to push him away. Make him leave you so the kids will be safe. Be safe with him. They didn't need you. But you couldn't lie to him. You'll make him leave you behind in some other way. But Azriel cupped your face with both hands and said, "I waited for you my whole life. You are everything I ever wanted and more. I can only breathe when I'm with you, Y/n. You are my everything. If you are not with me, I don't want to live." His honest words pulled a light sob from your lips. "Azriel, I...", you breathed right as an arrow pierced Azriel's shoulder. The spymaster hissed as he turned back, trying to find the source of the attack.

"No," you shouted, but Azriel was already shielding you while an arrow after an arrow pierced his skin and wings. A roar slipped past his lips, but he stood unmoving, using his body like a shield. "No, let me," you breathed out as you tried to pull him away but... The room died down quickly, and you watched as Azriel slowly sank to his knees.

"Azriel," you followed suit, cupping his face in your hands. His lips were tinted red. No, they couldn't be. No, this couldn't be happening. Azriel moved one of his hands up as he grasped your forearm firmly. "You belong to no one," he said, pausing to take a breath between each word, "Don't let them control you any longer." His grip loosened, and his hazy eyes only focused on you. "No, Az. Azriel! Look at me, Azriel", you bagged, tapping his face lightly, trying to keep him awake.

"And so the story ends," Padme said, moving from behind one of the columns with a pleased smile on her lips. "What did you do? What did you do?", you shouted at her. "I saved the world, child," she said, raising her hands in delight. Her laughter filled the space, but your eyes were already back on your mate. "Azriel, look at me," you pressed your hands against him, trying to flicker at least some of your magic on, but you couldn't seem to get a hold of it. The spymaster smiled slightly, grasping your hand in his. "I'll see you on the other side," he muttered. You choked out a cry. "No, no, you will not," you said angrily. "Azriel," his name was like a prayer on your lips. You felt the last bits of the bond slowly flicker out as an overwhelming pain crawled all over you. Time slowed as you watched Azriel's eyes slowly droop.

But then your deathly glare rose to meet Padme's satisfied gaze. "What did you do?", the scream ripped through. Ignited even more by the pain of feeling Azriel slipping away, the cry seemed never-ending. You heard glass breaking. The cracking of the chipping stone. You saw nothing but white rage. Pulling one of the arrows out of Azriel's body, you pointed it at Padem. "I will be your worst nightmare," you said through gritted teeth. Your body didn't feel like your own as you logged the arrow. And it hit Padme straight in her heart with the speed you'd never thought you could muster.

That same itching feeling in your throat started once more. The same one you felt when they ripped your wings off. The sanctuary was slowly falling apart. The females rushed to get out, but you couldn't bring yourself to care anymore as you pulled Azriel's head over your lap. There was so much blood everywhere. Too much blood. The tears fell freely down your face in a never-ending stream.

You moved your hands over Azriel's heart, watching as your hands disappeared within the light you possessed. But it didn't seem to work. "Y/n," you heard Rhys's shaky voice. "Get out," you barked out. The high lord still tried to step closer, but you hissed at him, "Get out, Rhys, and take the ones you can with you." You felt the last bits of your self-control failing. He only held your gaze for a moment before he winnowed away.

A sob slipped past your lips as you cupped Azriel's face, leaning over to kiss his cold lips. Time slowed once more. The static felt unbearable. One heartbeat. Two. Three. Four. And it all erupts with a sob like no other. You felt blood trickling down your ears as all of your being clawed at your fragile body. The light was blinding. So was the warmth that followed it. It felt like forever. The sizzling of your skin eased as the snow slowly fell upon you two. You blinked a couple of times. Pouring whatever was left into Azriel until your hands slipped off his chest and your body sagged on top of his.

The first thing he felt was coldness. Then the snowflakes fell on his face. His body also felt heavy. Like it had never felt before. The gray sky was all around him as he opened his eyes. His mind felt numb. For a moment, he had no idea why he was lying there in the first place. Until it all came tumbling down. One image after the other. The sanctuary. You. Arrows. Was this what the other side looked like because, shit, it was grim. Azriel shifted slightly, halting when his hand hit something. Something that was sprawled out across him.

He sat up so fast that your body rolled down to his lap. No. "Y/n," he said, wrapping his arms around your body and hissing at the coldness of it. "My love," he muttered, flexing his stiff wings. They had to be torn. Azriel turned. Not a single cut was on them. Not a single arrow was in his flesh. You've melted it away and healed him. "Love," he called out desperately, "Open your eyes." You couldn't die. He couldn't have just been here, lying unconscious, while you slowly faded from this world.

Azriel's eyes darted across the fallen sanctuary walls. Blood on the white stone. Padme's body was not far away from where you two were. Only the outskirts of the city looked burned to the ground, but there was no doubt that Rhys knew that something like this was coming. Azriel shook his head as he pressed his forehead to yours. "You promised me forever, love," he said softly, "I'm calling in my bargain now." Azriel carefully brushed his lips over yours, and the faintest of thuds echoed in your hallowed-out chest.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Taglist: @naturakaashi @hoemadegrace @just-m-2 @thereadinggremlin @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @stressed-reader

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x oc #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel acotar x reader #azriel acotar imagine #azriel acotar #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x oc

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229zmi · 3 months

Text

DO YOU THINK WE’RE LOVERS IN EVERY UNIVERSE?

Kuroo Tetsurō/Reader | 2.5k words, lots of description and run-on sentences and like 3 lines of dialogue, brief mention of kuroo’s parents separating

It��s simple. At only seven years old, Kuroo decides that love is always going to be a hair out of his reach.

Perhaps it’s foolish of him to make such a finite conclusion at a young age and to already determine so early on in his life that yes, love is a finish line he is never going to make it to — that love may be something he can only observe in his surroundings but never truly hold as his own. But this has been his observation for years, so he can’t help himself from thinking of it in this forever-unattainable sort of way, that is: if love is something like a narrow world — one where he can see where it starts and ends, what it encompasses, and what it lacks all at once — then Kuroo Tetsurō is stuck idling along the edge, perpetually on the outside looking in.

And you know, most people don’t remember the first few years of their life. Yet somehow, he remembers the first time he looked in and caught a glimpse of the parents who lifted their kids up, twirled them around, held their hands, kissed the crown of their heads, asked them about their day. He saw the sunlight pool onto their smiling faces, heard their laughter bleed into the afternoon, and felt the breeze of their light-hearted chatter brush over his head, so close that he swore he could almost touch it himself.

Then, he blinked and time inched forward, slowly unveiling a version of love that was much quieter than the one he witnessed in the vicinity of an elementary school, so subtle yet ardent — so incredibly mundane yet human all the same.

On the train he took to his grandparents’ place, he admired the shy looks exchanged among two young lovers sitting across from him. He yearned for the experience shared between an elderly couple a few empty seats away, shoulders connected and timeworn fingers intertwined as if the two were one; listened in carefully on a phone call from the woman beside him, who seemed to be speaking to her mother with the amount of delicate I miss yous and promises of visiting home soon; and found a warm feeling bubbling his chest at the sight of a person waving at their friend through the window until their fingers turned red and numb from the wind and the train began to depart from the station.

(By then, the friend had already turned back around, yet Kuroo still watched the other person grow smaller in the distance, wiping away at their cheeks and sort of curling into themselves as if the loneliness was suddenly too cold to bear.)

Even in the love-laced tunes that spilled out through the overhead speakers at the grocery store, love was there. Certainly, it was there and alive and flooding his mind with convoluted melodies and sentimental lyrics. It lived, too, in the old-timey romance show his grandfather loved to watch on full volume at seven-thirty every evening and in the memory box his grandmother said she had kept under her bed for decades.

It was a matter as indisputable as the moon orbiting the earth: love was… everywhere. Suspended in the frosty air after a long day at school, dancing through the crowd on the train to Ibaraki Station, and lingering above him as he wandered through the cereal aisle. Even if it wasn’t quite his — wasn’t really for him — love was all around him, ever-prevalent in the nooks of his life and taking the form of bits and pieces that seemed to make up a larger mosaic.

So, when such intricacies were rare in his childhood for him to keep, Tetsurō, who loved love for what it was the moment he could echo the word in his mind, made sure to hold on to each memory as tight as his hands would allow, lodging every fragment in between the crevices of his palms as if it was the ink of an invisible tattoo embedded permanently into his skin.

The two lovers on the train lived in the uppermost line across his right palm. The elderly couple resided in the one below it, among other connections he witnessed along the way. Romantic ballads he overheard at stores and on the radio took up most of his left hand; and in the finer lines, between rough callouses and bruises too tender to touch, there were his grandfather’s show and his grandmother’s old shoebox of memories.

It was so simple before. Kuroo used to like it that way.

But then summertime hits, and suddenly he’s eight-turning-nine with sunkissed cheeks and scuffed knees, when terse conversations throughout the day and wrathful voices at night aren’t supposed to be thing in his life anymore, apparently, because home isn’t with his mother and father and sister in a small apartment in the prefecture of Nagano anymore.

Instead, home is in Nerima City now, and it stands right before his eyes in the form of an old, visibly timeworn door. With the sky as barren as a pond completely frozen over and his mind muddled with a wide range of emotions, there’s an ache in his chest as the door opens, revealing two elderly faces who, as unfamiliar as they appear to Tetsurō, welcome him and his dad with wide open arms.

(Later, he learns that they are his grandparents, his father’s parents. Even later, he discovers that neither of them like watching television very much and that the space beneath their bed is less a place to keep tangible items of nostalgia than it is a haven for cobwebs and dust.)

Still, he doesn’t let go of the past. There’s a craving in his heart that is as fiery as the sun against his back on a hot summer’s day, and back at his old home and in the old routine of things, he had found a way to live with it through filling the empty spaces in his palms. Now, it’s telling him to keep going — to keep on collecting the mosaic tiles that other people had left behind on the ground and add new to the old, fuel to the flame.

So, he does.

Kuroo blinks again. It’s still summer, just nearing the end of it, except he’s fifteen-going-on-sixteen this time around, no longer navigating the daunting hallways of Nekoma Grade School but instead partway through his first year of high school.

(Where did time go?)

Perhaps it is because he’s bigger than he was at five and seven and almost-nine, evident in the way his hands have already grown too large for last year’s pair of winter gloves, but he sees more of the world than he has ever before — sees more, holds more, loves more with a newfound ease that most likely would’ve put younger him into shock.

With that being said, some of the new people he meets — they don’t stay forever, despite his tendency to hold on and never let go.

Actually, none of them do because forever is, well… way beyond his lifetime. However, the point is, people come and go. There are those whom he was never meant to see again after the first time, colliding once and then heading in opposite directions like two perpendicular lines. Others pull out of his orbit after a couple of months, a few years, or however long it takes for them to drift apart because their interests had grown less aligned with time or because something else had happened and there was no saving the relationship from it.

(He thinks of it like this: a scene of ambivalence, in which he is not a bystander on the train to Ibaraki. Rather, he is the one standing out at Nagano Station, waving at familiar faces through the window until his wrists hurt and the smoke begins to billow out above him, twisting and turning like the rotten feeling in his gut. He’s the one watching them leave, but no one will be there to see him if he cries.)

Nonetheless, there are still the people who stay a while longer, weaving themselves back into his life time and time again. It’s never going to be forever — he knows that, and maybe it would hurt less if he didn’t — but they’re with them in the present and that’s what matters.

And, maybe, if he squints closely enough, he’ll see that an unshakeable mosaic of his own has started to form, of the memories he’s created over the past several years instead of strangers’ fleeting moments he picked up from the threshold.

Somewhere along the line, the strangers from the train had moved to smaller crevices in favour of the family who lived next-door to the Kuroos’ house. Further in time, all the lyrics he used to keep locked away in the many lines of his left palm for so many years had begun to fade away as inside jokes, pick-up lines, sincere compliments, and the like occupied the spaces.

Then, in the creases along his fingers: the way a volleyball feels against his hand right before a victory, how the air smells the morning right after a rainstorm, the resolution of a book he managed to read in one sitting, the late night conversations that took place on the phone between him and Kenma whenever he couldn’t sleep, and finally the playful banter he exchanged with his lab partner during class, who didn’t seem to mind whenever he said something corny about the two of you having chemistry together, even if — from the deepest depths of his heart, where lay the secrets he was too afraid to admit — he wasn’t really meaning it as a joke.

It’s still summer, by the way, although it’s been seven years since he moved— just nearing the end of it with shorter days on the horizon and auburn leaves turning brittle beneath his feet. And all of a sudden, he finds that his world seems to have grown a little wider and love feels heavier in his hands these days.

So yes, perhaps it was foolish of him to make such a finite conclusion at seven years old, to think of love as something so unattainable and out of reach. Because twenty years later, at twenty-seven, Kuroo Tetsurō has it right in the centre of his palms, no longer the outsider looking in on a scene he thought he wasn’t meant to be a part of.

It must be sometime after midnight when his name falls upon his ears in the form of a tentative whisper, sweet like the peppermint melting on his tongue as his fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen at the sound of your voice. Coming from his lab partner turned friend, then lover— it’s a stark contrast to the way you used to say his name back in high school, during the painfully long two years of pining before the day he finally insisted, with sweaty palms and his heart pounding in his chest, that you use his given name instead. Tetsurō, instead of Kuroo, or Rooster Head and Annoying Bastard and Shithead, which you used interchangeably with his surname until a teacher overheard and assigned you cleaning duty in the restrooms for a week.

(Of course, that didn’t stop you from calling him those epithets still, even today. If he provokes you just enough and presses all the right buttons, he’s sure to hear the same string of offensive names from you again, although there’ll certainly be less venom behind it now compared to when you were teenagers, thinking the other was the most irritating person in the whole wide world.

…Where did time go? he wonders again.)

You should’ve fallen asleep long ago. Not only had he thought the sound of his typing would’ve at least lulled you to sleep, there isn’t anything particularly riveting about watching someone type up a report on their laptop. Nevertheless, you insisted on staying up anyway, fighting through the drowsiness that threatened to wrap around your neck and yank you into dreamland.

His eyes sweep over the planes of your face, down the slant of your nose, and along the curvature of your Cupid’s bow before flitting back up to meet your gaze at last as he shuts his laptop, stands up, and pads over to the side of the bed in one quick stride, where you currently lay with one side of your face smushed against the pillow, blinking up at him tiredly.

Tenderly, as if you’re a fragile illusion that could shatter beneath the slightest touch, a hand — his hand — settles against the side of your face, pulling the fat of your cheek between his forefinger and thumb in a playful manner. The action rouses you awake somewhat, and you suddenly remember the reason why you called his name.

“Tetsu,” you say again, barely louder than the clock that ticks on the wall. “Do you think we’re lovers in every universe?”

Despite your lethargy, a sly grin strews across your face like you’re trying to play it off as some inane joke, a frivolous thing rotting away in your brain until you can find the answer. And Tetsurō can only chuckle, shaking his head at your question, yet he indulges anyway, letting the matter soak in his mind for a moment longer as he pretends to think.

Truth is, the answer is simple. He doesn’t have to spend much time mulling over it because even if love didn’t come easy to him in the first decade of his life, loving you comes easy to him enough; he’d do it over and over again in every universe and in every lifetime if it were possible to make up for the lost time he’d spent in this one before he crossed paths with you.

So, Tetsurō answers the only way he knows how— teasingly. Leaning down to land a kiss upon your forehead, he murmurs against your skin, “God, I hope not.”

(You know he’s lying. He’s never been too good at it, with his telltale signs appearing in the form of reddened ears and him avoiding eye contact as much as possible. However, you know it especially this time from the softness in his voice. It’s a tone that you know he’s only ever reserved for you.)

He feels your eyebrows furrow together, and your response comes quick: “Shithead. I hate you.”

(He knows you’re lying, too, when you turn your head to press your lips against the palm of his hand, against the creases that now hold thousands of snapshots of you and many more to come.

The way that you laugh and the way that you smile. How you twist the shiny ring around your left ring finger whenever you’re deep in thought. The times you keep insisting you don’t snore in your sleep despite the multiple years’ worth of evidence on his phone that speaks otherwise.

And most importantly, he thinks, the way that you love him.)

notes: in my kuroo phase tbh…. something abt him Man 😍…. idk if any of this makes sense but the first part of this has been marinating. in my drafts since july so i wanted 2 finish this as quickly as possible 〠 Kisses n hugs 2 whoever reads this

#kuroo x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #kuroo fluff #kuroo x you #kuroo tetsuro x reader #229ZMI

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