#but she will open her ribcage to hold ur heart if u find it too heavy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

comfortbucky · 3 years

Note

hey hey! can u do some fluffy bucky about having to share a hotel room w u and there’s only one bed!!!! and he’s trying to be respectful n stuff but man does he have the fattest crush on u! thank u <333

HEY HEY YES OMFGGG THE ONE BED TROPE (ur mind😌🤝)

i’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE I DIDN’T EXPECT IT TO COME SO SOON

𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗱, 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗼𝘁𝘀 ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ｡˚

pairing: bucky x fem!avenger!reader

tags: enemies(?) to lovers BABYYYY, angst, fluff

A/N: i almost always write about tfatws!bucky in mind but let me try and branch out by writing about avenger!bucky hehe

i hope u enjoy🥺💗i absolutely loved this prompt and loved writing this!!!! (it is almost 4am for me as i am posting this :) i’m insane :))

this oneshot will not be following the canon timeline!

word count: 2k

my masterlist!

completed requests!

“Stick to the plan, Y/N.” Steve’s voice came through over the intercom. She rolled her eyes at his warning. He always seemed to be extra cautious with her, making her feel like an unimportant member of the team, and this mission was no different.

“I got this,” she said, completely ignoring his request and charging headfirst at the enemy. Her brash decision resulted in her receiving a heavy beat down, ending up with a split lip and fractured ribs.

Needless to say, Steve was pissed. He and Y/N developed a close friendship over the years, during his search for Bucky. She was oftentimes the one who would stay up all night with him, looking for any trace of Bucky’s existence online. She’d become one of the closest people in his life, which is exactly why he was upset with her, endangering her own life.

After the mission, he confronted her at the base camp.

“You could’ve gotten killed!”

“But I didn’t,” she snapped back. “And the mission was a success anyways, so I don’t get why you’re so mad right now.”

Steve closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

“It’s reckless behavior like this that’s eventually going to get you killed, Y/N.”

Bucky walked into the room and immediately regretted his decision as soon as he laid his eyes on Y/N. He’d come to foster an animosity towards her, after seeing her close friendship with Steve. After Bucky joined the Avengers, he noticed how much time they spent together, and jealousy started to fester within him. Steve was the only person he felt comfortable being around in the tower and she constantly took him away from Bucky. Everyone else seemed to have an aversion to him, or so he assumed. He never gave anyone the chance to get to know him, locking himself up in his room most hours of the day. Bucky didn’t think anyone would want to get to know an ex-assassin, especially one that killed the Tony Stark’s parents. She was the one thing that kept Steve away from him and he despised it. So Bucky did what he did best and avoided any sort of interaction with her.

Steve looked at Bucky and suddenly, an idea popped in his head. He had noticed how closed-off Bucky had been since joining the Avengers and refused to let Y/N be alone, worried that she might make another brazen decision. He hatched a plan to kill 2 birds with 1 stone.

“Bucky,” Steve said, making his way over to him. “You and Y/N will be assigned to the same room tonight.”

Bucky choked on his own spit in response and Y/N began to protest.

“You’re not serious, right?” Steve turned to face her with a stern expression.

“You’re not giving me any reason to trust you to be alone.” She let out a defeated sigh and crossed her arms across her chest.

“Why me?” Bucky asked, trying to figure out how he ended up in this situation.

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. “Because I trust you, Buck. I need you to do this for me.”

Bucky could see the desperation in Steve’s eyes and reluctantly nodded.

Steve was able to obtain another key card to the hotel room that Y/N was assigned to for the mission. He forgot to take into account the logistics of the sleeping arrangements, leaving Bucky to find a single bed as he entered Y/N’s room.

Bucky froze, his right hand on the door handle, keeping it open, his left hand by his side, holding his duffel bag. He racked his brain, trying to figure out what to do, when Y/N’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Relax,” she started, motioning for him to come inside. “I’ll sleep on the floor, alright?”

Y/N knew that Bucky didn’t like her, despite Steve trying to convince her otherwise. It hurt her feelings a bit, especially after she’d learned so much about him through both Steve’s stories and the time she spent tracking him down. He was such an important person to Steve, her close friend, and Bucky hated her. At first, she figured he was shy and wasn’t ready to open up to anyone else, especially after all the trauma he endured. But she realized he actively disliked her over time, with Bucky always leaving the room when she entered or ignoring her offers to hang out with her and Steve. Eventually, she gave up on reaching out to Bucky, as she only seemed to upset him further, no matter what she did. She figured it was for the best.

Bucky stepped into the room and shook his head.

“Bed’s too soft for me anyways, I’ll take the floor,” he grumbled.

Y/N shrugged in response, knowing that Bucky would be too stubborn to try and argue against. She turned around and picked up the phone, calling the front desk to ask for extra blankets and pillows. When she hung up the phone, she turned back to Bucky to see him nod in thanks.

The rest of the night was silent, as they both prepared for bed, taking turns going into the bathroom to wash up and change. While Y/N was in the bathroom, Bucky arranged the extra blankets and pillows into a makeshift bed on the ground, something that he’d done countless times before. Y/N exited the bathroom in an oversized t-shirt that covered her shorts, and placed her toiletries bag in one of the hotel dresser drawers.

“Bathroom’s all yours.” Bucky grunted in response, grabbing some clothes and a bag headed for the bathroom.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he stated, just before shutting the door behind him. Y/N scoffed at his comment, gently climbing into bed, in an attempt to not further injure her ribs. She winced as she tried to get into a comfortable position before settling to sleep on the side of her unaffected ribs.

Bucky emerged from the bathroom to see Y/N lying on her left side, her back towards him. He assumed that she had already fallen asleep and quietly crawled into his makeshift bed.

Approximately 10 minutes had passed, when he heard her sniffling. At first, he thought the noise was coming from outside the window, but he traced it back to her. He remained lying on his back for a moment, deciding whether or not to say something. Bucky sighed before speaking.

“You okay?” Y/N immediately stiffened upon hearing Bucky’s voice. She was hoping that he wouldn’t hear her crying, despite his super soldier hearing abilities.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” she replied back, her voice wavering as she spoke. Y/N hated how weak and pathetic she sounded in that moment. Her fractured ribs made it hard for her to breathe and the adrenaline, that was previously shielding her from the pain, had faded, leaving her to lie there in agony. On top of that, she also felt that this mission solidified her belief that Steve had little faith in her ability to be an Avenger. The last thing she wanted to do right now, was to confess her insecurities to Bucky.

Bucky’s attitude softened, hearing Y/N’s voice crack when she spoke. He knew she’d gotten hurt due to her own, dumb, decision during the mission. Bucky quietly pulled his blankets off and stood up, leaving the room without saying another word. As soon as the door shut, Y/N burst into tears. Bucky did exactly as he’d done in the past many times before, leave. She wasn’t sure why this time upset her more than the rest. Probably because she knew that he was aware of her crying and he’d still chosen to abandon her completely.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, causing her to stop crying. Y/N listened to Bucky’s footsteps growing closer, and felt the bed dip under his weight as he sat on the edge she was facing towards. She peered over the blanket she was covering her face with, to see Bucky facing her, holding a bag of ice, wrapped in a towel. Bucky’s heart sank at the sight of her glossy eyes and tear stained cheeks in the moonlight.

“For your ribs,” he spoke softly, gesturing to the ice bag in his hands.

“Oh. Thank you.”

Y/N took the bag from him, attempting to slowly sit up. She closed her eyes as she grimaced, and suddenly felt a hand on her back, helping her up. Her eyes opened to reveal Bucky, with a soft smile on his lips. She silently thanked him again, placing the ice bag on the right side of her ribcage.

“Thought you hated me,” she mumbled, keeping her gaze down on her lap. He furrowed his brows, keeping his eyes on her.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Well, you definitely don’t like me.”

Bucky paused at her comment, thinking about his next words, before responding.

“I don’t like that you take up all of Steve’s free time,” he grumbled, causing Y/N to quickly look up at Bucky, his eyes averting her gaze. Her face fell, immediately realizing why Bucky had treated her so coldly all this time. He just missed his friend.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her in response. “I didn’t realize, I’m sorry.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t expecting her to be so kind and understanding, even coming up with multiple points to argue back at her. He realized then that he didn’t know her at all, but that he wanted to now. In an instant, she became an entirely different person. He studied her eyes and wondered if they had always sparkled like that, if her cheeks were naturally rosy, or if her lips had always been so pink and plump.

His expression softened and he cleared his throat. “It’s fine,” he muttered, tearing himself away from her gaze to look down at his lap. After a moment of silence, Bucky stood up to return back to the floor.

“Stay.” The words left Y/N’s mouth before she had time to process them. Bucky froze and turned to face her. “I mean, if you want to, of course. Just figured the floor must be super uncomfortable for you.” Y/N felt a blush creep up onto her cheeks and kicked herself mentally. She looked down at her hands, regretting the words she spoke, before feeling the bed dip again. She looked up to see Bucky. He smiled and she almost melted at the sight.

She shifted over, putting the ice bag on the nightstand, as Bucky crawled into bed next to her. The two rested on their backs, both staring at the ceiling in silence. Bucky remained at a respectful distance away, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. Y/N turned on her left side, her good side, to face him.

“I’m glad you don’t hate me.”

Bucky turned on his side to face her before responding.

“I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

A strand of her hair had fallen in front of her face and Bucky, instinctively, reached out a hand to tuck it behind her ear. Immediately, he regretted it, about to pull his hand back when Y/N took her hand and placed it on top of his, guiding it to rest on her cheek. He cupped her face in his hand and she leaned into his embrace. Bucky felt his heart rate increase as she moved her body closer to his, wrapping the arm she used to hold his hand on her face, across his side. He shifted towards her as well, wrapping his arm around her body, bringing her closer to him.

“Is this okay?” He whispered, nervous that he might have somehow misinterpreted the situation. He hadn’t been with a woman in such an intimate way in years and had no idea what he was doing. Y/N looked up at him and nodded, before snuggling her face into his chest and Bucky felt a wave of calm wash over him.

“Can you stay here tonight?” Y/N mumbled, her face pressed into his chest. He chuckled at the vibrations from her voice and kissed her temple, smoothing her hair back.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to, honey.”

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the-enamorando-deity · 4 years

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hii jaz i hope ur doing good and get enough sleep!!! may i request yelena x reader smut where yelena is the top pls make it soft but still dirty pls thank you 💕

MY FIRST YELENA x READER FIC FUCK YEAH, ABSOLUTELY I CAN PAULA MY DEAR (also thank u for ending my dry spell of requests, i love u)

also

fuck yeah

18+, childrens, turn your eyes away, this is Sinful

SHUT DOWN

Of course it was only the two of you trapped on the communal floor when the heating shut down, the rest of the building’s power not far behind. You knew Yelena wasn’t fond of close contact at the best of times, the few encounters where you’d touched any part of her being during spars or accidental brushes in crowded hallways.

But now, you held her tight against your body, unsure of how she came to be there. Trapped in the walk-in-fridge by sheer accident, the door sealing you both to your fate, the countdown to your need for rescue began.

You huddled as the air turned a crispy twist on freezing, lips and fingertips turning blue before long. You held her cold hands within yours, an attempt to create friction barely keeping the feeling in your extremities.

‘My hands are cold,’ she laughed, disbelief filling her voice, ‘I have never had cold hands like this.’

You said nothing, speeding up the rate of your hands, and holding hers just a little tighter. Although Russian by birth and heritage, Yelena was no friend of the cold. The soft way you trapped her hands between yours made you yearn for more contact, and when you met her usually distant eyes, you saw stars where before had only been a blank stare.

‘My lips are cold too,’ she mused, absentmindedly swiping her tongue across them as she glanced down to yours.

A breath hitched in your throat, you stared at her for too long without an answer. ‘Yelena, are you asking me to kiss you?’

She wasn’t asking, moving quickly to press her ice cold lips against your own. A heated sensation filled the pit of your stomach as you struggled for air, Yelena softly stealing every ounce you had left.

You pulled away only for a moment, enough to find her eyes and see panic flicker behind them. She could read the question before it left your lips, a soft yes falling from her now warm lips as she moved to kiss you again. You pulled her onto your lap and kissed across her jaw, down to her neck, latching onto her soft skin with gentle bites.

She grabbed your hips and pulled herself as close to you as she could get, the warmth between your bodies reversing the damage the ice cold air had done to you. Her breath heaved into the air beside your ear, small moans escaping her, causing your own in response.

Chilly fingertips teased at the hem of your shirt, swift hands moving slyly up your ribcage and leaving you shivering in two ways. She was gentle in every movement, something you hadn’t expected, but you shouldn’t have been surprised. There was obviously a reason for the control you knew she had, that she was exercising to the fullest extent.

You didn’t want her to keep control.

With a harsh yank, Yelena’s chest crashed into yours, grabbing your arms to steady herself as she looked into your eyes. It was only a brief moment before you started kissing down her chest, her head lolling back as her thighs clenched together.

You whispered sweet nothings against her skin, no longer feeling the cold as your fingers dipped below the band of her jeans. Thumbs teased at the pressure points on her hips, pressing them just right to make her fidget.

She knew you were in as deep as she was, leaning back as you slowly dragged down the zipper and popped open the button, your lips making soft noises in time with her heartbeat. Her body hitched as your fingers pulled at the edges of her underwear, not enough to pull them to the side, but enough to let her know you wanted to.

‘Святой ебать,’ she groaned, pushing her hips against you, ‘hurry up.’

You pulled her flush against you, sliding your legs out from beneath yourself and laying Yelena on her back. The ground was cold beneath her, but she didn’t notice, all her attention focused on you. Hovering over her, one hand beside her head and the other on her hip, sucking your way across her collarbone as you tugged her jeans down, Yelena was enamoured to say the least.

Her hands roamed your back under your shirt, her fingernails digging into your flesh as you lightly teased her clit with the tip of your fingers. A shiver ran up her body as you teased her again, each gentle touch drawing out the cold inside her.

She muttered under her breath as your lips disappeared from her skin, opening her eyes just long enough to see your head move down to kiss your thighs. You heard Yelena’s head hit the floor as it dropped back, your tongue teasing an S over her clit. Her hands fumbled to find something, anything, to grasp and hold onto.

The only thing she could find was your hair, your hands too busy elsewhere, and your shoulders just out of reach. She gripped you tight and dragged you closer, pushing herself against you as she did all but grind on your face, worked up faster than you would have expected.

She held you tight in every way, her thighs trying to press together, your strong arms barely able to stop her from crushing the same thing giving her joy. You had no idea how much longer she could hold out, the build-up from your swift movements making her body shudder against you, but never giving in.

The air between you was no longer cold, no longer freezing its way into your very bloodstream. Instead, Yelena’s racing heart was pumping blood faster than the cold could work, driving the killing grip of freezing to death far from where you lay.

It could be minutes before the team freed you, or hours, but it seemed like Yelena could keep up the pace long enough to stop you both from freezing to death. She came like no one you had ever seen before, all on her own terms, even if you were the one administering the blows.

She pulled you back up her body to kiss you after, holding you in once frozen limbs, now warm with nothing but you between them.

The cold tampered with your brain, and the only parts you could remember were with the help of the marks she left on your skin, and the ones you left on hers. Small marks from where her fingernails dug into your skin, small spots where your lips had been, and from where she had returned the favour.

You fell asleep against her, legs tangled beneath your clothes in case the team did find you before it was too late, but satiated with how you fell asleep if not.

taglist: @marvelfansince08love @mymarvelwomen @imnotasuperhero @natasha-danvers @veteranwerewolf95 @liziehaswritersblock @dynnealberto

#yelena belova #yelena x reader #yelena belova x reader #black widow #marvel #oopsies #request completed #fanfiction #my writing #asks #not anon #hi paula

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queenmorgawse · 4 years

Text

loving you is my gift tonight

missgoneril : there’s so much going on in that pic i don’t even know where to start fearthedeer : you gotta be more specific. is it dima? his parents in a two-person sweater?? the piglet in a fluffy hat they put on the armchair??? missgoneril : i missgoneril : the holy kingdom of faerghus has actually been on crack this whole time, in this essay i will -

or, some good old-fashioned holidays fluff ft. dimiclaude in modern fodlan.

READ ON AO3.

The envelope arrives a week or so before Saint Cichol’s Day. It’s made of creamy, off-white paper and sealed with an actual wax seal bearing the griffin knight of Faerghus, because royals apparently have to be extra even with something as mundane as sending holiday cards.

It’s actually addressed to Claude’s mother ( President Juliette von Riegan, the envelope reads in elegant, swirling script), but as First Son of the Leicester Alliance, Claude considers himself plenty qualified to snatch it up from the pile of holidays-related mail and whisk it off to his room.

He flops down onto his bed before breaking open the seal. The card inside is just as fancy as the exterior, done up in dark blue and silver highlights, and it’s the funniest thing Claude’s seen all week.

Now, the Faerghan royal family has been sending Saint Cichol’s cards to the von Riegans since the beginning of his mother’s presidency, so this is nothing out of the ordinary. It also doesn’t say anything special, besides Merry Saint Cichol’s day & best wishes from House Blaiddyd in embossed letters.

What is new, however, is that this time, it doesn’t have one of the Blaiddyds’ formal state portraits front and center. Sure enough, King Lambert and Queen Patricia are posing, flashing toothpaste-ad-worthy smiles at the camera, but there the resemblance comes to a brutal stop.

The photo features Dimitri, clad in possibly the gaudiest holiday sweater Claude’s ever seen. As per ugly sweater tradition, it sports an unholy amount of red and green, but nothing can dethrone the roaring lion’s head emblazoned over Dimitri’s torso, myriads of multicolored lights haphazardly sewn into its mane.

And he still manages to look like Prince Charming straight out of a collector’s edition of Fódlan’s Fables, because Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is unfairly photogenic like that.

Seiros, life is unfair. Or maybe it isn't, because it’s given him a boyfriend who miraculously still looks good while looking like he’s been hit and run over by a garlands-filled truck.

Because he’s the most loyal best friend anyone could ask for, Claude sits up, holds the card to the lamp on his bedside table, snaps a picture and sends it to Hilda. Her reply is almost instantaneous.

missgoneril : there’s so much going on in that pic i don’t even know where to start

fearthedeer : you gotta be more specific. is it dima? his parents in a two-person sweater?? the piglet in a fluffy hat they put on the armchair???

missgoneril : i

missgoneril : the holy kingdom of faerghus has actually been on crack this whole time, in this essay i will -

fearthedeer : LMAO

fearthedeer : fr tho i think it’s sweet

missgoneril : you have them rose-tinted glasses ON i see

fearthedeer : bold words coming from miss hilda ‘do you think dimitri’s hot blonde bodyguard will text me back?’ goneril

You can no longer send direct messages to this person.

Claude snorts and taps out of the conversation. Not a week goes by that Hilda doesn’t block him at least once. Whatever the reason - from posting their kindergarten playdates pictures on the Golden Deer group chat to that time he jokingly hit on her brother -, she always ends up unblocking him within the hour.

In the meantime, there’s someone else he wants to talk to. Claude flips to the second topmost conversation on his phone, lays back and starts typing.

fearthedeer : on ur way to light up all of fhirdiad by urself i see

hrhdima : I take it you’ve received our holidays well-wishes.

fearthedeer : it’s the BEST how did you not tell me about this before

hrhdima : Mother and Father wanted a ‘fun’ photo to go with our usual ones. I didn’t know they would actually use it for anything official.

fearthedeer : give whoever made that decision a raise bc they just made my entire week

hrhdima : You don’t think it’s silly?

fearthedeer : well.

fearthedeer : yes i do

fearthedeer : it’s definitely dorky

fearthedeer : but since it has you in it it’s dorky cute

fearthedeer : why are u not saying anything

fearthedeer : i told u u gotta learn to accept a compliment!!

hrhdima : Thank you, my dear. I had to take a few moments to compose myself.

fearthedeer : SEIROS

fearthedeer : HOW ARE YOU SO FUCKING ADORABLE 😭

hrhdima : 😳😳

fearthedeer : if i were here you BET i’d be kissing your cheeks

fearthedeer : but alas, the day’s just started for ur local first son

hrhdima : What’s the first thing on the list?

fearthedeer : visiting a kids’ hospital i’m pretty sure! hilda and i have some Clownery planned so i sure hope they’ll laugh

hrhdima : I’m sure they will. If you end up filming, I’d love to see it.

fearthedeer : eager to see me embarrass myself huh

hrhdima : Claude! Of course not!

fearthedeer : flames, i was kidding!! of course i’ll send u the vid!

hrhdima : Oh.

hrhdima : Good luck with...the clownery?

fearthedeer : thanks, good luck with what you have to do too <3

hrhdima : Thank you. Speaking of which, can I call you later? Ingrid’s banging down my door about the holidays address right now.

fearthedeer : sure!! have fun at rehearsal, romance that sweet sweet mic for me 😘😘

hrhdima : Claude, please.

fearthedeer : u love me

hrhdima : I do.

hrhdima : I wish we could see each other more, especially at this time of the year. I miss you a great deal.

fearthedeer : wtf you can’t just say stuff like that

hrhdima : We’re quite literally dating.

fearthedeer : STILL

fearthedeer : anyway don’t you worry your pretty royal head over it

fearthedeer : it’s time for a secret scheme >:)

hrhdima : Claude. What does this mean.

fearthedeer : ;)

hrhdima has sent a vocal message.

Hi Claude, this is Ingrid. Sorry for interrupting you guys, but Dimitri has an address to practice, so I had to take his phone away for the time being. Will give it back when he’s done. Say hello to Hilda for me!

fearthedeer : dedue wouldn’t do this to me

---

missgoneril : SWEET BABY SEIROS SHE SAID WHAT

---

“...And with that, my dear citizens, all that's left for me to do is wish you a Merry Saint Cichol's day. Hold your loved ones close, so that they might share the holidays' cheers with you. I know I will.”

Dimitri flashes the camera another bright smile before the operator signals to him that they're done filming. From the treshold, Sylvain gives him a thumbs-up, and Dedue an approving nod. Only then does Dimitri allow himself to relax, shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

It isn't the address that bothers him, nor the ever-present fear of slipping up in front of millions of Faerghus citizens on live television. He's been groomed in protocol for public appearances, virtual or not, since he was old enough to walk. No, it's the creeping realization that, year after year, he gives a little more time to the people, and keeps a little less to himself.

It's selfish, which is precisely why Dimitri's only vaguely mentioned it even to his closest friends. They'd whisk him off to some holiday destination at the speed of light if he asked, he knows, but it doesn't feel right to shirk his duties — even though Sylvain wouldn't call it shirking, only giving himself a well-deserved break.

After a few minutes of idle chatter with the camera crew - Dimitri's made it a habit to try and get to know everyone he works with, to the point he can now ask after some of the operators' children by name -, he finally steps out of the royal office requisitioned for the occasion. When he idly checks his phone, the screen flashes with half a dozen notifications : a picture of Felix and Ingrid on St Cichol's shopping (presumably for Glenn), some last minute recommendations from both his father and Duke Fraldarius, and…

fearthedeer : hey hey hey

fearthedeer : dima

fearthedeer : u should go get some fresh air 😜

fearthedeer : (front gate. hurry!!!)

fearthedeer : i see u typing. why don’t u walk faster instead

Dimitri picks up the pace, until he’s almost flying past the castle’s front gates and into the main courtyard. At first, nothing seems more out of the ordinary : the gatekeepers even shoot him perplexed looks as their crown prince stares out, half disheveled, at the snow-covered cobblestones.

Then a nondescript black cab pulls up, somehow unbothered by security checks, and everything suddenly pieces itself together.

Dimitri’s down the staircase before anyone can stop him, right as the cab’s door open and a silhouette clad in a vibrant yellow sweater steps out. Claude’s barely finished handing the driver a tip when Dimitri comes to a brutal stop just a few steps from him, heart beating wildly against his ribcage.

They exchange pictures pretty much everyday, but there’s an inherent brilliance to Claude a screen can’t capture. It’s something, Dimitri thinks, in the way his smile blooms first over his lips then reaches all the way to his eyes. Every time, it’s like watching the sun rise.

Claude opens his arms. Wordlessly, Dimitri lets himself be drawn into his embrace, curls around him and breathes in the fresh scent of pine needles.

Eventually, he finds it in himself to step back. His hands stay firmly planted on Claude’s shoulders, grounding himself in the other’s presence. “It really is you.”

Claude grins and tips an imaginary hat at him. “The one and only.”

“Flames, I—” Dimitri takes a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. “How...when did you get here?”

“On a plane this morning. And before you ask, it wasn't on taxpayers' money,” Claude quips.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted to see you, but why now?” Dimitri’s brain frantically cycles through their relationship milestones. Their anniversary’s in early summer, and Claude’s birthday isn’t for another few months, and⎯

Claude gently takes his face into his hands, tiptoeing a little to rest their foreheads together, and Dimitri’s mind comes to a standstill.

“Hey, calm down, okay? You’re overthinking everything again.” Claude pauses, breathes in, breathes out. “Would you believe me if I said I’m a little late for your birthday?”

Oh. It’s true. His birthday, a national holiday. How did it slip his mind again?

As if able to read his mind, Claude chuckles. “Really, I just wanted to see you again. In person. I already meant it to be a Saint Cichol’s surprise, and our texts the other day were just...additional motivation, if you will.”

“You’re amazing,” Dimitri says, as earnest as he’s ever been. This time, it’s Claude’s turn to blush, a rosy flush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. It offers a nice contrast to the paleness of the snowflakes that have started accumulating in his hair, dusting his dark curls with white.

It occurs to Dimitri that perhaps they should have had this conversation inside.

“Come,” he tells Claude, slinging an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders to steer him back towards the castle’s warmth. “You must be freezing.”

Claude snorts and tucks his chin down into the collar of his coat. “Only because your country considers negative temperature to be mild weather.”

“It’s only starting to get chilly, really⎯” Dimitri cuts himself off when Claude shoots him a half-exasperated, half-fond look.

Before he can fumble himself into another clumsy explanation, Claude tugs him down by the lapels of his jacket and presses a kiss to his lips. It courses through him like lightning, all the way down to the tips of his toes, and it lingers even after Claude pulls away.

“Well, you’re here to keep me warm, aren’t you? Lead the way.”

Like this, his love is bright and lovely, the great hall’s flickering hearth painting him in broad strokes of honey and gold.

Dimitri takes Claude’s hand, and follows.

#fe3h #dimiclaude #claumitri #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #claude von riegan #kim's fics

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beanplague-moved · 7 years

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Tell Me with any of ur ocs?

aa thank u for the request anon!! ilu.

also for future reference please send oc related asks to @underwaterpolitics, my oc blog. this oneshot is a longin and kinda rushed due to me being super in love with my ocs and shit.

Florence is good at keeping secrets. And maybe that’s because, for the most part, she has never had anyone to tell them to. There has never been a siren or a human so invested in what Florence has to say.

(Still, she is... hesitant to say that now, for whatever reason. She can’t exactly pinpoint it.)

Still, Florence likes keeping secrets. Secrets are small, valuable things. Like pearls, or the shiny, silver key that she swiped from Laila’s nightstand.

(She doesn’t know what it opens, but Florence was bored. Laila will probably look for it later, when she realizes it’s gone, and she knows Florence likes to take things.)

Secrets can be keys in their own right. They open doors to certain places, or people, even. They have a weight to them, coming from the most simple and the most complex places, opening the largest and smallest doors. Florence likes them a lot. Still, she never speaks of them. Any secret she has learned remains locked away, never to be spoken to someone.

Why is it, then, that this secret presses on, insistent that Florence speak it? Florence doesn’t even know what the secret is, let alone why she would tell anyone about it. Still, it continues gently tugging on her heartstrings and vocal cords. Florence doesn’t understand it at all, and she gains no clarity as it persists. She theorizes that it might be an illness.

Yes, an illness. It explains the symptoms, of course. The hammering in her chest when Laila―strong, intriguing Laila. Laila who defies siren curses and makes Florence’s face warm when she touches her hand―looks at her, sometimes. The contentment, and the little bit of excitement she feels when she looks at Troye for too long. She doesn’t understand it at all, so it must be a sickness.

She doesn’t even understand why it’s a secret. These are strange occurrences, outliers in Florence’s usual behavior. They should not make her nervous. She shouldn’t be scared of Laila or Troye finding out that she’s ill.

Yet still, when she thinks about them knowing... it makes her heart sink in her chest. Florence has never understood humans and their constant yammering about their hearts. Florence’s heart is just that, a heart. A heart that pumps her blood (very slowly, compared to humans. She’s lain upon a human’s chest and listened to their heartbeat. She couldn’t count all the times it pounded. One, two, did she miss one? she might have missed a small one.) and stops a bit when Troye smiles at her.

Maybe it’s a hex. Of course, Laila and Troye hexing someone is unlikely. They aren’t spellcasters, as far as Florence can tell, and she’s knows a lot about spellcasters. One of her victims was one, and unlike all the humans here, she spoke in a language Florence understood.

All these symptoms, this speeding of her heart and this fire that lights in her skin whenever one of them touches her, it only happens with Troye and Laila. The other one―the small, suspicious one who’s name fails to grace Florence’s memory―doesn’t do it. And Achilles―who reminds Florence of distant memories involving friendly smiles and a siren who looked like her, hunger included―doesn’t, either. (Nor does Andre, who is full of magic. Florence can tell. He smells like magic, which is hard to say, because most magic smells like an assortment of unscented flowers, but his smells like tea and the act of yearning.) So it must be a spell.

They wouldn’t do that, though. Laila and Troye don’t hate Florence. In fact, they seem charmed by her. They smile at her sometimes, when not distracted by something else, or each other. They seem so happy, when they look at each other. Florence doesn’t know why, but she wonders what that happiness must feel like. If it explains this phenomenon that has begun.

“Don’t play with your food.” Some familiar voice chimes in as Florence sorts through this explanation. She lies on the couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she might be feeling, if she is feeling. Sirens feel things. Things like hunger and lust and selfishness. They are creatures meant to feed on the selfishness of man. (And his flesh, but. The selfishness thing, too.) Florence knows those feelings. She’s as familiar with them as one is with a particularly good, if needy, friend. These... feelings, if that’s what they are, are foreign.

Florence keeps the secret deep in her chest, burying it beneath piles of loneliness and other sad memories (most of which involve that siren. It’s very odd. Florence doesn’t even remember their name. She knows that they looked like her. Red hair and pale skin, but it’s all blurry and smoothed out. No flaws or protruding details, still, each memory hurts just as much as the last) and closes her eyes, ready to let it drown in the lonely, memory-devouring ocean filling her ribcage.

And while she tosses and turns in her sleep, it claws its way to the shores of her mind and asks her, once again, if she would speak it.

Laila says something silly while they are eating. (Florence thinks it’s supposed to be silly. She doesn’t understand what’s being said, but Troye giggles when she says it, and he flashes a smile that makes Florence’s heart go almost as fast as a human’s does.)

She wonders if this hex has really gotten so bad, and yet she isn’t even convinced it could be a hex. It isn’t always... bad. Florence wants to smile when Troye or Laila smiles, and makes her laugh when they do. (Though she always laughs a little bit too loudly and for a little bit too long.)

It hurts, sometimes, though. When Florence things about telling them, there is this foreboding feeling that takes over her. This shipwreck in her chest that warns, do not. Yet when she thinks about not telling them, about going the entire time here without telling them, it still hurts. It pinches her heartstrings and begs her, please, do.

Florence doesn’t know what to do.

“Troye.” She whispers. They sit by the yard, on the deck. He’s so tall. Florence cranes her neck a bit to look up at him. Maybe he can keep secrets just as well as she can. “Troye.” She repeats. How could she tell him? She doesn’t know his words.

“Florence?” Troye always has this sort of sweet, gentle expression on his face. It reminds Florence of how squishy humans are. How she holds a lot of strength in her body. How she can’t bring herself to hurt either of the humans, for some reason.

“Troye.” She echoes herself again. “I...” she tries, “you.” She shakes her head a bit, and suddenly her thoughts dissolve into this cloud that blocks off all useful thought. Why can’t humans speak a better language? Why can’t Troye and Laila speak the one human language Florence knows? Why doesn’t she understand any of this? Why is it making her eyes wet?

The warm, salty fluid that runs down her cheeks isn’t apparent to Florence until Troye pulls her into a hug. It’s weird. Him touching her makes her skin heat up, and it makes her want to stop crying. Stop crying. She demands herself, but for some reason, her eyes don’t listen.

“Troye.” She murmurs into his shirt. Florence doesn’t understand why she didn’t know what Troye smelled like until now. She knows what Andre smelled like, and she knows that Achilles smells like pond, and fish. (All mermaids do.) And Laila―pretty Laila, who Florence kissed on the first day they met and didn’t feel this way then―smelled like ocean on the day Florence met her. Now she smells like soap and something familiar.

Troye smells like sweet things. He smells like sweet foods (the kind made of chocolate and some of mix. Florence has eaten them once or twice. She’s definitely seen Troye make them.)

All-consuming Troye, who wraps his arms around people who cry for no discernible reason and heals without knowing he is healing. Florence feels undeserving, but she’s not sure why. Troye is close to her, and maybe that is too much. Maybe Troye, a star brighter than others, should only stand near stars just as bright. He shouldn’t stay back and illuminate the dark, unknowing cave that inhibits Florence.

Still, Florence holds onto him tightly, because letting go would mean seeing only the dark again. She thinks he might have kissed her. Softly. On the top of her forehead, right before her hair.

“Heart.” She says, but she doesn’t think he knows what she means.

Laila is different. Laila is three weeks later, when all inopportune crying is forgotten and all sad-songs are already sung. When playfighting becomes something they do often.

Florence is strong, and so is Laila. They’re strong in different ways, however. Florence is strong in the siren way, where she has sharp nails that dig her way into more trouble and sharp teeth that aid her when she’s hungry.

(and when she is hungry, she is most definitely stronger than Laila.)

Laila is strong in the Laila way, where she swims constantly and runs when she isn’t swimming, and fights when she isn’t running. Laila is strong because she works to be, and somehow makes it look effortless.

They play in the yard, with Florence and Laila working to see who can pin the other down. That secret that Florence has keeps popping up every now and then, because Laila keeps touching Florence (which is kind of the point) and Florence’s skin keeps pricking up.

Laila manages to pin Florence down, and Florence is... confused.

Pretty girls have pinned Florence down several times before. This particular situation isn’t new. (Though Florence has a distinct feeling that this won’t end in sex, which is sad. She’s never been attracted to someone (is that what it is? attraction? it seems like more than that, somehow) like she is to Laila. Yet looking up at Laila is... nice.

Because Florence remembers, quite suddenly, that she’s kissed Laila before. Florence has never particularly cared about kissing. It’s not food, and it’s not sex, and those are two of Florence’s greatest pleasures in life.

(The list goes,1. food.2. sex.3. seashells and other trinkets. (they count as one item, and that item is “shiny things that can be found on a beach)4. kissing. (and that was because it usually led up to 2.)

Florence doesn’t really know the rules about kissing. When she did it the first time, with Laila, it seemed unwarranted. (She was doing it to transfer a curse. A curse that Laila already had, but still. It didn’t mean anything, so why does she think about it now?) She knows that Troye and Laila kiss, a lot. They talk and kiss and touch, for seemingly no other reason than enjoying it with each other. It’s incredibly strange, to Florence.

Yet Florence still really, really wants to kiss Laila. Not even for any implications to where it might lead, but so that she can kiss Laila. She examines Laila’s expression, which goes from joy at winning their playfight to a sort of curious look. And then,

And then Florence can’t say anymore, because Laila―pretty Laila, smart Laila, strong Laila, beautiful Laila―kisses her.

Florence barely has time to process it. She feels Laila’s fingers stroke the end of her red hair, and she holds on tightly to this. This moment and this warmth and this kiss.

“Yeah,” Laila says, when she pulls away. She looks at Florence with this sort of amazed look, and Florence is kind of impatient. Can’t there be more kissing? “Yeah. Troye was. Troye was right.” she knows Florence can’t understand her. Why is she talking when they could still be kissing?

They kiss again, and Florence gets the feeling that Laila is confessing to something in it. “Like you.” Laila whispers when they pull back again. “I like you.” And then she chuckles. “I’m really glad you can’t understand me.”

Heart, Florence thinks, I like you. It has to mean that. It has to.

this got way fuckin out of hand and. it needs work? like, not pictured: troye and laila having a talk about their mutual affection for florence. and this is like a weird au where they’ve known florence for longer. (their romance is a lot slower and less jarring from their specific perspectives, and they have a Good Honest Conversation about their feelings for her and their polyamory situation, should there be one.

also florence 100% cries with a completely blank expression. :’I. it florence.

these are my shitty ocs and you’re watching disney channel.

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