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halfadoginatank · 8 months

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LIGHT A FIRE

Soap’s blood is extremely hot. Temperature-wise, but there's also something strange in it. He's nine when he has an open cut on his finger and doesn't pay attention to where his finger is, a drop of blood into the toaster, and. Boom.

So it functions more like a powerful conduit. When he's in his teens and his friends get their hands on some fireworks he finds out that opening one and adding some of his blood makes the explosion at least ten times more intense.

After that, Soap can admit he got a little obsessed. But his mother saw him reading and spending time in the shed a few meters away from the house and figured she didn't need to worry, as long as he was out of sight.

Soap doesn't exactly think about it too hard when he joins the military. His mother is, distant lately. Emptier, it was fun getting to do whatever he wanted when he was little with few expectations. It's not fun when he burns part of the shed he'd been staying in more frequently and his mother barely gives him a second glance.

He forged his mother's signature on the papers and didn't tell her where he was going. Just that he is. Then he spends two years trying not to look back.

They test his blood during physicals. He's tense the whole time, what if they put it in a machine and the shaking just makes it explode? Sure, it only ever exploded when mixed with extreme heat, and even then it wouldn't be too bad if there wasn't anything mixed with it.

It's not entirely unheard of for some humans to be weird. It's less like superpowers and more like a fancy mutation. Just, someone's parts may be different than a normal person's. The tests came back, and nothing exploded but there were odd chemicals in it. It's not undocumented by any means but they note it's a particularly weird thing to have in his blood and he can't exactly donate it, but it's not hurting him, and other than that he's O positive. They ask him if he's taking anything for his ADHD, and he tells them he doesnt need it, and then they let him leave.

His squadron notes the FNG is particularly good with explosives. He excels in it, he jokes that it's in his blood and no one else gets it. His uncanny ability to focus so hard on things lends itself well to sniping when he's properly trained, he likes that too. Lets himself learn more about the gun he uses, and what scopes are best, and although his math skills are lacking, he learns everything he needs to make the shot.

In year three he signs up for the S.A.S. He doesn't have his hopes up, but despite that he gets it. They have him on as a demolitions specialist. It's never made him happier, he gets access to a lot more than he had at his old base. More chemicals, he does his tests when he's allowed to, and doesn't spend much time as a private.

Then las almas. He considers that one of the most impressive things he's done explosion-wise. He blew up a tank and set charges expertly, using the blood from his scraped hands to cover the fuses and slather it on the C4. Every explosion was just as it always is, satisfying. Feels like the anticipation that builds is the perfect way to gather his anxieties, watching something go, those few seconds of nothingness, no sound just light. Then he watches the flames. Like he burnt that anxiety, burnt the anticipation. He's always loved explosions, but he's loved fire longer.

There is something else notable about Las Almas though. The first day he and the Marines set foot on the LZ he sees the tall man in a skull mask, having been told he’s his CO, and goes to talk to him. When he gets in range, just a few feet away. He shivers, it's less a shiver of cold and more like one of relaxation. The air around Ghost is cold, a chill that balances just how hot he really runs. When they ride in the back seat of Alejandro's car Soap tries to press himself closer to the man without Ghost noticing, it's just too comfortable. To finally not feel like he’s on fire.

Soap has been living comfortably ever since, he stays in Ghost's personal space, and he never seems to mind. somewhere in his head, he hopes his own heat brings the lieutenant some peace.

#mw2 2022 #cod modern warfare #call of duty mw2 #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soap x ghost #so yeah soap with adhd anyone?#johnny soap mactavish #ghoap #fanfiction #fanfic #soap mw2 #ghosts weird trait is just stolen from Kevin kaslana from honkai impact 3rd shhh

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seriouslycalamitous · 4 months

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I wrote a fic based off that one clip of Phil and Chayanne joking about Ramón being a matchmaker!!

Title: Rise to the Occasion (AO3, ENG)

4.7K Words

Cooking AU, Hideduo

Link

#using this to push my qFit in an apron agenda #but shhh don’t tell anyone #qsmp fanfic #qsmp #qsmp fanfiction #hideduo #fitpac #qsmp fitmc #qsmp pactw #cooking

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wormstacheangel · 24 days

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Dean and Cas in Motel6

The sun was shining through the motel window. Its glowing rays danced across Dean’s freckled back. A sight he never thought he would be privileged enough to see.

Dean asleep—drooling on the pillow even—naked and tangled up in motel sheets. Which was not the new part. No. The new and most amazing sight was that Cas was laying almost the same way. Except for the drooling since he did not sleep. And in this moment he thanked his lucky stars he didn’t.

He couldn’t imagine missing even a second of Dean’s peaceful breathing.

Oh, but he wanted to touch. His hands kept reaching over wanting to rake his fingers in soft brown hair or glide his hand down soft warm skin. His body ached to just be close to his best friend but he was still so hesitant. Dropping his hand between them but continued admiring the most beautiful man.

His lover.

Cas almost chuckled but didn’t want to shake the bed. Dean would have cringed at that.

But wasn’t that true now? After this night, shouldn’t Cas be able to call Dean his?

“Stay.” Dean had begged last night.

Cas remembered every detail, from the way Dean’s hands gripped to the way Dean panted his name. Even calling him Castiel once at some point. But he especially remembered Dean’s words.

“Fuck. I love you so much. Stay. Stay. Stay.”

Since being reunited they haven’t talked about his dying words or “The truth” as Sam likes to put it. Cas was brought back to resume business as usual. Except no Chuck and Jack was now the all-knowing. Which meant Cas was gone all the time with his son.

He has not had a second of alone time with Dean, but he got a phone call last night. It wasn't a drunk call that made him drop everything and leave heaven behind. No, this was Dean's prayer.

“Come get me.”

It was all a strange whirlwind after that.

He arrived at a motel, knocking once before being pulled in. He remembers the hesitant touching but the kissing was desperate for them both. Closing the gap between them so easily before falling into bed.

And now it’s the morning and here they both are.

He worried what Dean would say when he awoke. If this was all one big mistake. He wanted to prepare his heart for another goodbye and, even if this is all he gets, this wonderful night with Dean, then he will cherish it forever.

He will pretend it never happened for Dean’s sake. For their family’s sake.

But he knew he could never forget the warmth he felt finally being with the man he loves.

Maybe he should leave before Dean wakes up. Save them both the trouble of an awkward conversation.

He carefully scooted out of bed. Sitting at the edge of it, watching his bare feet on the filthy old carpet, debating whether or not to savor one last look at Dean before he left.

“Unless you’re getting up to get me some damn breakfast,” Cas's back straightened as he heard the raspy voice. “You better get back in bed, Sweetheart."

Cas turned his head to see Dean lift up the sheets just enough to let him scoot in but not let the cold creep in. He smiled his sleepy grin and motioned with his chin to come close. Cas couldn't help but let the worries melt away as he slipped into the bed. Their bodies were close, it was almost electric as they kept an eye on each other. Looking for answers neither wanted to ask the questions too.

“Beautiful.” Cas thought at the same time as Dean said the word out loud. Only a whisper but still so confidently said.

They both smiled as the tension faded. Their hands slowly crept between them before their pinkies hooked together.

Cas looked at their hands as he confessed. “I've been wanting this with you for so long. I…I never thought it was possible.” I never want to let go.

“Sorry it took me so long to get my head out of my ass.” He joked but his small smile was so sincere as he continued. “I was missing you like crazy. And I was trying to be patient and let you settle in with your whole new role as God's Dad and all but,” Dean slides his hand up Cas’s arm and gently places it on his cheek. Looking into his eyes, Cas saw no sadness. “I'm tired of wasting my time not being with you. You can…you have me, Cas. Always did.”

His eyes watered but he wouldn’t dare look away from the pretty face. He took Dean's hand and placed a kiss on his palm. He made sure Dean was listening to him before he let out a heavy breath. “I love you.”

He heard Dean's heart race and his breath hitched before he relaxed. Closing the space between them with a kiss. Long, sweet, and wonderful kiss.

“After we make up for so much damn time,” Dean pulled Cas almost on top of him. “Maybe we can get that breakfast we were talking about earlier.”

“I wasn't talking about breakfast.” Cas chuckled, bending down to let his lips trace warm freckled skin. “But I do love the idea.”

“Great.” Dean pulled Cas’s face away from his throat and let their eyes lock. “You know I love you too, right?”

Cas couldn't respond but he felt like the Grinch and his grace grew two sizes that moment—though he knew it wasn’t possible, he just felt so happy. His eyes finally shed those tears he was holding in while he tucked his face into Dean’s chest. Feeling big, strong, and—best of all— gentle hands rub mindless circles into his back.

Cas knew he was important. He knew he was wanted to some degree. But finally hearing those words, from someone he truly loves, felt healing in some way. How has he lived so long without being loved?

The motel room filled with a golden light of morning sun and soft humming from the man he loves. You could see every tear in the wallpaper, mold on the ceiling, and even how the carpet had different color stains but at this moment, it was the most beautiful place in the world.

In this moment, he was truly in heaven.

#destiel #dean #castiel #fanfic #fic #wormstachewrites #they're hopeless and awkward and desperate for love #touch starved i guess #shhh i just want them to be honest and make out

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solurae · 5 months

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four eyes! [TEASER FOR PART 2 HEHE]

A/N : hey!!! i’m currently writing an EXTRA LONG chapter for part 2 to make up for the long wait </3 I’M SO HAPPY YOU ALL LOVE THE SERIES!!! tysm for being so patient i hope this teaser will keep you waiting for more hehe :3

TAGS UNDER TAB!!! FEEL FREE TO COMMENT TO BE ADDED!

IF YOU’RE NEW HERE, HERE’S THE PROLOGUE!

[ 🩷 — TAGS! @angelicful @lilipads @zaunsin @m4dyy @okkotszn @rhythmloid @marvelofcourse @miauamy @coffee-winter-and-silence @from-the-stars-to-the-moon @cinnamonbambii @deputy-videogamer @loonalockley @spoonosu @number1gal @freeingrebels @iite-cool @prollyanvycchi @worriedcat55 @yaemikostan498 @pennachilles @mars-notavailable @bandaids-n-porcelain @iheartlinds @ahano @morilemochi @inkareds @thealleydog @cosmicbarstardust @thespaceinbetweennothing @cu1tvenus @huniedeux @oharasfilipinawife @ilovemuppets] GRRR THERE’S SOME PPL I FORGOT TO ADD TO THE FIRST ONE SO I’LL GO ADD THEM + SOME OF YOU AREN’T SHOWING UP FOR ME </333 THANKS AGAIN FOR ALL THE LOVE (I HOPE YOU DON’T MIND BEING TAGGED IN LEAKS IN THE FUTURE AS THE SERIES CONTINUES!)

CREDITS! @cafekitsune [DIVIDERS] these are so pretty omfg pls check out remi’s stuff!

#🥽 — four eyes!#🥼 <leaks.txt>#miguel o’hara #i love miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #atsv miguel #atsv x reader #spiderman #across the spiderverse #into the spider verse #miguel fanfic #<nerd!miguel3 #HAHA YES THE RUMOURS ARE SPREADING #yknow what that means #OF COURSE WE GO TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY! shhh if you read this no you didn’t #HAHA I’M SO EXCITED TO FINISH THIS

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tiredfox64 · 9 days

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Peaches and…Sausage?

Prior notes: Ehh, I don’t actually like him. Don’t jump me but I had the idea and I’m just putting it out there. Pineapples, cranberries, and okra water if ya know ya know.

Pairing: Kano (MK11) x Afab Reader

Warnings ‼️: NSFW, Oral sex (fem receive), creampie, orgasm denial

Now why would you do that? Going to the Black Dragon’s fight club and having confident that nothing would happen to you. News flash honey! Something did happen to you.

Something is happening to you

Cause you didn’t just end up on this table with barely of your clothes still on by yourself. You caught the eye of Kano. He was looking for a treat tonight. Something as sweet as a peach.

He’s been at it for hours…not really but still, he was down there for a while. Licking and sucking at your clit like it was candy. He was slobbering all over your pussy with little care about getting messy.

Kano had a nice grip on your thighs, trying to keep them in place so he can focus on your pussy. His tongue would take long drags up which made you shiver. He couldn’t get enough of your sweet pussy. He’d shove his tongue right into you and lick up whatever he could. He’s just some desperate dog.

Yet you were loving it. Moaning and squirming as you felt his tongue explore you. Since he was at it for so long you could cum at any moment. You couldn’t help yourself and you started to grind against his face. You heard him groaning as you did that while his tongue kept moving. Your moans grew louder and louder till you felt those delicious pulses of pleasure rip through you. You grabbed Kano’s hair as your thighs squeezed his head. You were shaking as Kano tasted your cum that came spilling onto his tongue. He doesn’t even care that he needs air right now this is amazing to him.

You finally let go of Kano, allowing him to fill his lungs with air. You watched as he got up and wiped his face of drool and wetness. He had a smug expression on his face. He knew he just made you cum with just his tongue. Now he gets to admire how you look all tired out just from that.

“Aw, don’t you just look peachy. Bet you think we’re done, eh? Sorry love, but now’s my turn.” He said before he started to unbuckle his belt.

This is Kano you are dealing with you should know he needs something in return. And since you’re all wet and prepared this will be easy. He slapped your clit with his tip for a little before plunging right into you.

You gasped as you felt him stretch you out. He was way bigger than you expected. You heard Kano grunt and curse under his breath.

“Now that’s exactly what I like.” He said before pounding into you.

For him there was no point in going slow. He just rammed into you. Your moaning started up again and the room filled with the sound of skin slapping together. You could hear the legs of the table scrap against the ground, that’s how much force Kano was putting into each thrust.

Kano pushed your shirt up until your bra was exposed to him. Immediately he yanked at your bra until your breasts came out. He just wanted to look at them jiggle and bounce every time he thrusted into you. Nasty bitch.

His hands grabbed onto your hips so he could pound away. He only cared about pleasing himself at this point, not that you weren’t having a good time. No edging or anything that man wanted to cum. Your warm pussy was begging to be filled.

You were getting close again. You were ready for that release again. Closer and closer…almost there…

Alright he’s done.

Yeah, Kano finished inside you. He groaned loudly as his cum started filling you up. He only stayed inside you for a few seconds more before pulling out. His cum came spilling out of you. But you didn’t get to cum again!

“Well, thanks for that, love. You should start cleaning yourself up now.” He said bluntly as he started putting his pants back on. You just stared at him in shock.

“Really? You couldn’t have kept going for a little bit longer.” You criticized him.

“I made you cum once and you made me cum as well. I say it’s a fair deal. Why should you get something extra? Now be a good girl and clean yourself up. Can’t go walking around like that.” He said before walking out of the room.

So there you are, tits out and cum leaking out of you. Do you finish yourself off here or just do it when you get home? You might be too tired to do it.

Whatever, just get your clothes back on and get yourself home. And check your pH balance. He probably fuck it up.

After notes: I don’t judge anyone who likes him. You do you pookie. Have the Australian man all you want. He just ain’t my type. But I had the idea and tbh I might not have taken it seriously. But you know what I bet he really does eat pussy good…who said that? Must have been that creature that keeps rolling into my den. Adiós!

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat 11 #mortal kombat x you #mortal kombat x reader #mk11 #mk x you #mk x reader #mk kano #mk11 kano #kano x reader #mk fanfic #mk smut #alright I lied the movie version is hot shhh don’t say anything

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temmtamm · 29 days

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Shhh….Something’s in the works 🤫

#this is for a fic #shhh #THE CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED RIGHT AFTER THIS #fanfic #art #x reader #teenage mutant ninja turtles 2012 #tmnt leo x reader #tmnt leo 2012 #leonardo 2012 #2012 leo #leo fanart #2012 leo x reader #fanfiction #temmtamm

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jujuberii · 3 days

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fic so good you pause every two sentences to giggle and rant at nobody

#ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #atla #archive of our own #zukka #shhh u didnt see that tag shh

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miradelletarot · 15 days

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Bit scared to ask, but I keep seeing so many posts about how there's so much more fem!Tav/Gale content compared to queer content... do you have any recommendations? Because ppl on my dash work extra hard to put queer content out and whenever I go into the tag I only ever see queer content even though I prefer female Tav content myself ;; I thought since you also focus on fem!Tav content, maybe you'd have some blogs and stuff that you can name that have that kind of content consistently?

I am so honored that you felt comfortable asking me about this ^^ I do hope I answer your question in a way that is satisfactory to what you are looking for! I have several amazing writer friends who have graciously allowed me to share their works on here. These people are truly talented so I know you will find some quality reads. Admittedly, I was at Job #1 this morning when I sent the reblog from @spellbooking so i wasn't in the headspace to even think about this as deeply as I would have liked so hopefully this will redeem my dismal excuse for helping earlier lol. Now, some of these might not be Queer!Tav specifically, but I promise you, you will have plenty of queer-focused, gale-themed pairings with these authors. You won't be disappointed. ALSO: These are varying degrees of SFW to NSFW. So, please explore any tags before indulging! **Minors DNI** First up is from @wixed! You can find their master list here! This will keep you well-read for hours.

Next, we have @likethelightfromorionabove! You won't regret visiting their AO3. I PROMISE.

Of course, no list would be complete without the fabulous @nicocoer! Find them on Tumblr or on AO3!

This next one is another writing buddy of mine! Elf does such a great job, and I highly suggest you give their AO3 a visit! I'm in the middle of (slowly) getting through Pray For Me. Working 7 days a week makes it hard to get any good reading in unfortunately, but this one has a tab pinned at all times. Google hates me for it.

Now, if you want some Bladeweave or Oakweave, here's an AO3 for you from fiveforchibis!

Lastly, (but absolutely not least,) here is a fic that was shared with me that features a transmasc character, written by trans author, Wings_of_Night!

Of course, for anyone who has any recommendations of your own please share! Until then, I do hope you enjoy all of this delicious work!

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shhh-secret-time · 3 months

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The Secret South Park Masterlist

One shots - (0/5 Slots Open!)

Stan Marsh

Kyle Broflovski

Kenny McCormick

Clyde Donovan

Leopold "Butters" Stotch

Bebe Stevens

Craig Tucker

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

Three's A Party

Longer Running Stories

Pomegranates and Honey - Ongoing, OC/Canon

Kingdom Come - Fantasy, Kyle x Fem!Reader

Rules, Guidelines, and a Secret Third Thing!

Request Guideline Please note this is subject to change as I see fit!

Wanna see what's to come? ☆☆☆

#reader insert #south park #sp fanfiction #requests fuel me!!#x reader #south park fanfiction #south park x reader #masterlist #shhh its a secret #fanfic vault

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quesadillayuri · 6 months

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you'll be screaming, demon!

From what he remembers, Cellbit’s always been a little more observant than other people. It’s not their fault and it doesn’t necessarily make him better, even though it does make him a slightly better investigator than most, rather, it’s just another trait he has. Because of this, Cellbit tries not to judge others on what should be obvious to them, because he never really knows if it’s actually obvious or if his standards for what is “obvious” are higher than the average person. Right now though, Cellbit thinks he might be going insane. (Cellbit figures out that Tina’s a demon. No one else seems to notice. Naturally, things get weird.)

local man figures out that estranged twin sisters new situationship is a demon sent from hell that (probably) has mind control powers, and nobody believes him despite his very reliable (100% anecdotal) evidence. no one is happy about this except for local demon, who is having a great time.

#bagina girls come get ur juice. also i love calling cellbit local man i think its so funny #actually its pretty qcellbit and qtina focused but shhh #cellbit #tinakitten #oibagi #bagi #qsmp #bagina #bagikitten #gatina #teaduo #fanfic #qsmp fanfic #my fics #.writing

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lookedlikethebins · 4 months

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holiday party (plus one)

surprise! have a (belated) holiday oneshot written on a whim because i was thinking about our producer george x TA matty this past break! just wanted to write something fun, something sweet, and see what came up! enjoy this little glimpse! [set ~4months since meeting each other] ~3k words xo

Technically, where Matty lived was considered student housing. He could have friends over for parties, could bring boyfriends back after dates—had brought quite a few boyfriends (and a few one-date-only boys) back—without issue. Matty just couldn’t bring George back after any of their dates. The new hire in the archeology department was more of a local celebrity—known for being the youngest professor on faculty, just a year older than Matty—and not the same as the international kind. Matty had assured George that it wasn’t particularly personal. Simply put (although few things Matty said were to George) if George wanted any bit of his private life to remain within his own control, be his story to tell, he couldn’t be seen wandering around campus, alone or with Matty.

With Matty’s flat off-limits, naturally, George never found it presumptuous when Matty would text George after his evening class to see if George would help grade papers that seemed to show a negative correlation between level of coherency and number of words. Actually, George sort of counted on it. He liked that Matty would invite himself over; never asking if it was okay if he spontaneously dropped by, instead wondering if George simply wanted to keep him company—to which the answer was always yes—then arriving an hour later and knocking on George's front door with said papers and a bottle of wine.

One night in mid-December, George was impatient waiting for Matty’s post-class text. He was nervous Matty would be too exhausted to come over and George would have to figure out another way, and fast, to ask Matty to join him his label event the following night. He didn't think he could face it alone—

But Matty texted, as he always did: last student just left. forgot something in my office but then i’ll be over? x

Matty arrived within the hour, standing outside his door with twice as many papers and wine bottles.

“Final essays.” Matty answered the question George hadn’t yet asked. He pecked George on the lips—George’s preferred form of hello, if he was being honest—and hurried inside from the cold.

Matty looked exhausted, as he had the past few weeks of the term, but at least he’d recently shaved. George was beginning to worry—not only about his general well-being, but Matty’s ability to grow the patchiest beard but the most solid moustache. Meanwhile, George had success with neither and was losing his own ability to grow hair on his head before thirty. Some guys just had all the luck: the looks, brains, sense of humor, charm—

“Which class is this for again? You had three of them.” George said, shutting and locking the door. He flicked off the porch lights, expecting and inviting no other visitors now that Matty was there. He followed after Matty.

Matty was back in his usual spot at George’s kitchen counter, placing one wine bottle down between the barstools before shouldering off his worn, nearly-beaten, leather briefcase onto his seat. Matty always claimed the stool closest to the wall. He began leaving—most likely forgetting—pencils and pens on the lip of the counter that extended up the wall. Even though they’d only been seeing each other for four months, George figured it wouldn’t be too much of a gesture to wordlessly replace his napkin holder with a pencil cup.

“This was the intro class. Other classes finished last week.”

“Right, right.” George nodded. This classifier helped him very little; every class Matty described to George felt introductory. Made him feel like he was sitting in the desks himself, green and confused, just trying to scramble together some foundational understanding.

“I told them: short and succinct. Six pages maximum. They don’t have to show off—I’ll know by how they write it if they are copying, bullshitting, or absolutely clueless. I took the same class—same professor—during my very first term. I know the subject and am their intended audience. I told them seven times last week the only person they were writing to was me. Not Dr. Wriley, not even each other; just me. And you know what they did?” Matty exclaimed. He threw his one empty hand up in exasperation as he looked at the top-most essay in his other hand. “They all wrote me dissertations on Euripides. Which means that I will have no time to work on my own. It’s like they heard I cancelled my trip home and thought I was just planning on fucking about.” Matty rolled his eyes. He paused, lifting his eyebrows in consideration before scowling again. “George, I swear, they gave me so much to read, I’m going to have to call my optometrist again by New Year’s. I'm going to be blind before I graduate."

“I’m sorry, love.” George said, trying to translate the regretful, apologetic look on his face into his voice; Matty hadn’t looked up at him since they greeted each other at the door. With every second that Matty stayed distracted and frazzled, George began to think his entire plan that evening was not a good idea. Not what Matty wanted to be asked after such a taxing day. "Is there anything I can do—”

“—and I know there’s no way you’ve studied the Murray and Woodruff translations so I can’t exactly ask you to read any of these for me so…” Matty paused and grumbled away alternatives to his sentence. “It’s just going to be a very long night. You can help by keeping me awake.”

“Do you have to read them all tonight? Pretty sure you can let yourself have an hour of sleep. Maybe actually have dinner with your boyfriend,” George said. “Think I can convince you of at least that?”

Matty let the full stack of essays thud onto the counter and sighed. His shoulders fell with his exhale as he finally looked back at George. Before he could respond with his usual, quick-witted quip his eyes fell from George’s face to his clothes: his pristine, pressed shirt and polished belt buckle visible just above the countertop; his necklace resting in the gap left by his intentionally neglected shirt buttons; his rings dressing the fingers wrapped around the two stemmed wine glasses; the silver earring George had accidentally taken from Matty’s spot at his bathroom sink—he only ever wore one of them anyway.

“Wait. You’re all dressed up.” Matty seemed startled by the realization. He looked down at his own clothes—a sweater, slacks, and polo combo he wore frequently when he was running on little sleep; comfort and professionalism without having to think too much—and looked back up at George with a look of panic and apology. “You’re all dressed up and I—”

“Look very handsome.” George assured him. He placed both glasses down before grabbing a bottle of wine. They were two different labels: end of term gifts from faculty or perhaps an older, friendlier student. “As you always do—usually I’m the one in slippers and joggers when you come over. Your jumper’s got buttons on it. That’s pretty sophisticated for this place, you know that.” George was hoping Matty would laugh, but concern kept his expression tight and furrowed.

“Are you supposed to be going out—am I interrupting something? Fuck! Oh, shit. Is your stupid little elbow-rubbing holiday party tonight?” Matty gasped as he looked at his watch—before gasping and swearing again. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s not stupid, George. I didn’t mean it like that—” His words began to gain speed and George held out a gentle hand to hopefully slow him back down.

“Don’t be sorry. Label holiday dinner parties are stupid little elbow-rubbing events. You’re completely right. Per usual.” George laughed. “But, if it makes you feel better, it’s tomorrow. I didn’t skip anything. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Oh. Okay.” Matty nodded.

George knew what Matty looked like when he understood something—his face relaxed and he slightly offset his jaw while he dipped his head in slow, steady nods, blinking each time. Standing in his kitchen, Matty’s eyebrows were still knitted together; his eyes were looking between his papers, his keys, his bag, and the door; and he was pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth so harshly George was afraid he’d draw blood.

“Let’s try another one: would you believe I was waiting for you?” George chose to focus on the corkscrew in his hands rather than Matty’s face as he spoke. George was being sincere and he had been waiting for Matty’s arrival since he’d texted him about his first class around noon that day, but George wasn’t sure he was ready for the look on Matty’s face when he admitted the gesture—or if he knew how to minimize the look on his own face in case the act was too much or too soppy when really Matty just wanted to come in and have a quick rant and a hasty glass or two of wine, before sinking deep into his work. George's only job then would be to make sure by midnight Matty was at least no longer in creased trousers and a belt, lounging next to George in bed while he continued to read.

“You didn’t have to do that, George. It was an exam day—and that’s always a crapshoot as to when the students all finish, you know that.”

“But exam day means end of the term, right? Well, minus the grading.” George winced as he waved the removed cork toward the stack of essays. “But that’s something to celebrate, right? You’re free—for at least a little while.”

“Oh, I see. Celebrate, huh?” Matty caught George’s attention again with a short, low laugh. He looked at George with lifted eyebrows. “You know, I’ll never understand your pretense to get dressed up when your main goal is to get undressed. You keep doing it, George. Just answer the door with about fifty percent of an outfit and I’ll get the idea a lot faster. I’m a smart man. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, because you come over after an exhausting day of teaching and dealing with end of year administrative hoop-jumping and the first thing you want to deal with is me practically steering you right to the couch.”

Matty seemed to mull the idea over. “You know, I wouldn’t hate that… But, I guess you’re right. Maybe answering the door fully clothed is a better idea. Perhaps you are sensible, George. I keep forgetting. Thank you.” Matty reached over to touch George’s forearm holding the wine bottle—and about to pour the contents all over the counter. Matty was looking at George with an expression that always took him by surprise. Made him freeze in place and thought. Made him feel in awe, for a split (hopefully) undetectable moment, of the life he’d found himself in.

Matty’s eyes were locked on George’s, not moving even as their moment of connection drug on into an extended silence while George scrambled for his next charming response—just trying to keep up. Matty’s smile was subtle, almost timid, compared to what George knew to be his full, squinted grin. It was all in Matty’s cheeks, in the subtle roundness at their peaks, just under his eyes. A small hint for George; the single location that was a giveaway to George, in an otherwise seemingly neutral expression to everyone else, he was being seen in a startling private and intimate way, even when they were alone.

George knew, once he handed over the full wine glass, he had a limited amount of time before his window of opportunity would close and the night would shift over to a blur of Matty growing chatty and trying to explain the faults of his students papers—and hopefully a few successes—while George gulped down his own wine and sounds of confusion; both of them giggling as the papers were forgotten and empty wine glasses nearly clattering to the floor as Matty climbed to sit on the edge of the counter, legs on either side of George and feet resting on the horizontal back rung of George’s chair; George only wanting to listen to the way his name sounded when being gasped and sucked in through clenched teeth—

“Actually," George began speaking before he could talk himself out of it. "there is a reason—there’s something I wanted to ask you.” George came around and sat down in his chair at the counter. Matty moved his bag and joined George, taking the other wine glass with a quiet thank you.

“Oh, yeah?” Matty kept the subtlety to his smile but let his eyes change from even and gentle to intense and direct. George was going to lose his courage—because he definitely didn’t have the will to resist Matty, sitting in his kitchen without any early classes the next morning, looking sharp and clever in his work clothes, freshly shaved, and looking at George like that without even a drop of wine in him. “What else is there you could ask me to do, George? If you’ve thought of it and I haven’t tried it, you’ll really surprise me.”

“Would you like to go with me tomorrow?” George said. He took a gulp of wine from his glass. “Be my date to my stupid little elbow-rubbing dinner.”

Matty’s confusion returned faster than before. “Wait—to the label holiday party? W-Work? You want me to go to a work function with you?”

“You asked me if I wanted to go to a faculty dinner the other week.”

“Yeah, because half the department is over sixty-five, doesn’t actually know my name, and hasn’t listened to any music that came out after the year they first started getting laid. They probably would’ve thought you taught there too! But your work… that’s a real dinner, George. Those are important people.”

“And so are you.” George said. He hated how immediate his response was, if only for how canned it sounded. He’d already thought of each of Matty’s arguments; he wanted to bring Matty to a party filled with people that pretended to know him best. If they were going to market him and his personal work (and personal life), they could at least know just who that involved. “My work is important to me, but you are too, equally so. I don’t see the issue. Sort of a natural combination, I’d think.”

“George,” Matty said with a quiet sigh of pity. “I barely knew who you were when we met. I-I should not be in a room with… with… pioneers of culture. I will make a fool out of myself, and worse, you.”

“You won’t make a fool out of me, Matty. You forget I’ve been attending these things for ten years. I used to bring ‘girlfriends’ with me. Absolutely no one has made me look more like an idiot than me at important, career-defining label functions, let me assure you.” George said with a laugh. He reached over to place a hand on Matty’s leg. “I know this is a big ask though, coming to something like this. But it’s a close-door dinner party—just, well, I guess they’re my co-workers. The boys will be there, definitely. But if you don’t want to—”

“I didn’t say that. Never said I didn’t want to go, but...” Matty placed his hand on top of George’s, his finger mindlessly tracing the ring on George’s pinky. “Am I really the person you want to bring along and introduce to... genuinely your entire social circle? Social and work circle? Talk about pissing where you eat, George.”

“Matty, I’m pretty sure everyone on the label being my friends is the example of pissing where I eat. Not bringing you to a party.” George said, shaking his head. “People asked me if you were coming, if you must know.”

“Probably because they don’t want me to be there—” Matty cut himself off with a long sip of wine.

“Matty,” With two fingers, George carefully grabbed the stem of his glass and eased it away from his mouth—without spilling it down the front of him. “First off, even if someone didn’t want you to be there—for whatever reason: you’re new, you’re not industry, you’re a man—I’d still like you to be there. Me. As my date. Not theirs... If you wanted, of course.”

Matty paused and began to bite his thumbnail. “Are you sure no one’s going to mind if I’m just… sitting there in the corner, awkward and quiet?”

“Babe, what do you think I do at these things?” George laughed. He waited for Matty to smile, his mouth preoccupied and unable to chew his cuticle, before using one finger to lower Matty's hand back down to his own lap, where George was holding his other hand. “It’ll be nice to finally have someone join me in the corner.”

Matty inhaled slowly, squeezing George’s hand before speaking again. “I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?” George’s relief—his joy—came out as incredulity. As the immediate questioning of Matty’s decision—and accidental chance to rescind his response. George held his breath but didn't have to wait very long.

“Yes! Yes, I want to go with you. Corner and all.” Matty managed to say before George kissed him.

In a breathless giggle, hands resting on George’s shoulders, Matty said he was very lucky there was a wall behind him.

#gatty #gatty fanfic #matty x george #george daniel x matty healy #producer george and TA matty fic #andfacedown fics #this isn't going on ao3 (yet) so shhh just for you guys #enjoy and thank you for indulging this au that happened bc of my stretch of listening to abiior interviews while copyediting #producer george oneshot

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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

Text

Till Death Do Us Part - SJMRW

Here is one of my contributions to @sjmromanceweek for Day 4: Feelings Realization.

Summary: Feyre is sick on Valentines Day, throwing her Grim Reaper husband's plan into disarray

Read on AO3 ・Till Death Do Us Part Masterlist

Feyre’s mouth was uncomfortably dry.

She groaned, rolling over onto her back with a wince. It felt as though someone had jammed a tambourine into her skull, the way it rattled as she moved. Her entire body felt stiff, a wrung-out towel left too long to dry in the sun. Absently, her hand sought the other side of the bed. She didn’t realize until her hand hit the cold fabric that she had been searching for someone. And that finding the space beside her empty left her feeling oddly disappointed.

Odd, because it wasn’t as though she shared a bed with her husband. He usually slept on the sofa—if he even slept at all. The life of a Death God was a busy one, though he’d explained to her once that he didn’t need to be present for every death.

“Then why do you bother?” She’d asked him, at a time when she’d still felt bitter about the ring cemented to her finger.

He’d had that look in his eye, that underlying sadness she’d identified on the day she met him. “Because so many innocent souls die every day, Feyre. And I don’t think they deserve to die alone.”

It was something she thought about often. How she had been brought back to life because the one thing the God of Death was willing to barter for was companionship. How he found loneliness so harrowing that he devoted his life to ensuring innocent mortals wouldn’t need to touch it in their final moments. Though he didn’t go to every death, he went to many. Particularly the most tragic. And sometimes he returned looking so burdened that Feyre could only imagine the things he’d witnessed.

Children, heroes, activists—so many good people died every day and she was the one the Grim Reaper had decided to bring back. Sometimes she felt so embarrassed about the days she gazed upon her ring with resentment.

Suffice to say, their marriage was complicated.

Today, she looked at the empty side of the bed and digested this strange, unexpected sadness. It was many things, she decided. Not all to do with wanting to share a bed with her husband. Today was Valentine's Day. A day that was supposed to be meaningful in a conventional marriage but to Feyre, was just another day. Another day where she felt like absolute shit.

Feyre shifted upwards, again jostling that tambourine in her head. The clamor was so intrusive that she had to clench her teeth while she raised her body through the pain. A glance at the clock showed she’d woken up an hour before her alarm, likely from the pressure threatening to burst behind her eyes. Feyre sniffed, finding the passageway blocked. Today was definitely going to be a sick day.

Except her phone was not on her bedside table where she usually kept it, which made it very difficult to call her boss. Feyre searched the floor, wondering if it had been knocked off the table in the night, but there was no sign of it.

With a huff, Feyre dragged her body out of bed and slung on a dressing gown. She felt remarkably fragile, her shoulders hunched as she walked into the kitchen like every step fell upon shattered glass.

Her husband was awake, back turned to her as he manned a crackling stove, his elbow angled in to flip the contents without a spatula. For some reason, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was an effort for Feyre not to pay that fact notice, particularly when she could track the way his muscles shifted with the movements of the pan.

Now her mouth felt dry for an entirely different reason.

“Rhys?” she croaked. “What are you doing?”

Rhysand turned, wide grin fading when he caught sight of her. Suddenly, he vanished from his place at the stove, causing Feyre to jump when he reappeared before her.

“You’re unwell,” he said, sounding dismayed. The cool back of his knuckles pressed against her forehead, assessing the severity of her condition. Rhysand frowned. “You have a fever.”

“I’ll live,” she said dismissively.

Rhysand’s lips twitched. “That’s not something I can typically assure mortals.”

“Would you let me die from a little fever?”

“And let you out of our bargain so soon? Of course not.” He grinned, leaning closer to whisper, “Though if you keep throwing yourself at my mercy, I’m going to begin to think you enjoy it.”

There was a sensual note to his voice that turned her insides molten. Feyre shivered, but she assured herself that was because of the fever and not the impact of his words. Rhysand, whose infinite flirtations were rarely successful, seemed to think so as well, because the amusement faded.

“C’mere,” he murmured, and then he was lifting her into his arms.

“Rhys!” Strong arms swept behind her legs, heaving her upwards so that she was bundled against him in a mockery of a bridal carry. She pounded her fists contemptuously against his hard chest. “Put me down!”

He didn’t listen. Each weak fist only spread his smile wider, so irritatingly endeared by her defiance that it only enraged Feyre more, until she was beating at his torso incessantly and Rhysand was tipping back his head in outright laughter. It was becoming another vicious cycle of their marriage.

“My legs work fine,” she grumbled once she was deposited on the couch. Rhysand ignored that too, in favor of producing a pile of blankets from God knows where to tuck them around her.

She wondered, once she was subdued in the makeshift cocoon of blankets, if it wasn’t so much an act of nurturing as it was a means of restraining her. Rhys was staring at her, head tilted to the side so that his black hair flopped every-so-slightly across his forehead.

“I don’t know how to look after sick mortals,” he admitted. “It’s usually too late by the time I have anything to do with them.”

“You don’t need to look after me.” Feyre craned her head back towards the stove, wary of the smoke rising from the pan he’d abandoned. “If you’re in need of something to look after, try the food you were cooking.”

Rhysand sighed, drawing Feyre’s attention back to his face. For a moment, she thought he looked truly disappointed. “I was trying to make you breakfast in bed.” His voice carried across the room as he returned to the sizzling pan. “According to the television, that’s something that a husband should do for his wife on Valentine's Day.”

“And your shirt?” She asked incredulously, craning her head to sneak another peak of his toned, brown skin while he wasn’t paying attention.

“The husbands are usually shirtless on the television. I thought it was customary.” He frowned thoughtfully. “It seems like a strange tradition. Human skin is so sensitive to hot oil, so I don't understand why they would expose so much of it while cooking.”

Feyre couldn’t help a small giggle at the realization that he was being serious. “Is the concept of eye candy unfamiliar to Death Gods?”

“Oh, certainly not,” Rhysand said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “I believe, being married to you, I am intimately familiar with the concept. But why should I be shirtless, if you are asleep and therefore not around to appreciate it?”

“Mortal television isn’t always… practical,” she admitted.

Rhysand chuckled. “Nor are mortals themselves.”

He came around the sofa then, balancing a bed tray that carried a plate of browned, richly seasoned vegetables topped with two eggs that had been fried in the shape of a heart. “Eggs and vegetable hash,” he declared proudly, setting the tray securely in her lap. “I learned it from an angry man on the food channel. Though, now I fear that I should have made you soup.”

Steam wafted from the tray, caressing Feyre’s cheek with its heat. She was certain it would smell incredible if her nose wasn’t stuffed. It certainly looked incredible. The eggs shaped in hearts… it was a detail he hadn’t needed to commit to. She’d never received breakfast in bed before, she would have been ecstatic with a piece of toast.

“Are you not feeling up to it?” He asked. If he was bothered by her reserved reaction, it was overridden by the concern drawn plainly on his face. “I can get you something else. I know your sister used to buy you ginger ale when you were unwell.”

Feyre made an odd sound in the back of her throat. He said that he had seen her life on the day she’d died, and now he had a knack for calling forth memories she was unprepared for. “That was for nausea,” she said. It was all that twelve year old Elain had been able to afford at the time.

“Humans experience such a variety of ailments,” he said, clearly displeased by how little he knew of the subject. “Do you not have an appetite? I could make you some tea—“

“This is perfect, Rhys.” Her voice was strained, spilling out of a crack in a dam she’d built long before she’d met the Grim Reaper. She hoped he would dismiss it as part of her illness. “Thank you.”

“I’ll make you some tea as well,” he decided, before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“Have you seen my phone?” She called, still staring at the breakfast he’d made for her. “I need to call in sick.”

“Already done.”

“Done?” she echoed, wary of what that meant.

“Yes,” he hummed, reappearing on the sofa beside her, her phone pinched between a pair of long, elegant fingers. She promptly took it from him, finding to her dismay that there had been an outgoing call an hour before she’d woken up. “I called your boss and informed her that your doting husband has a very romantic day planned. Unfortunately, now my plans might need to take a, how you say, rain check?”

Feyre could only imagine how his early morning phone call was perceived. As the Grim Reaper, he commanded an unsettling presence, and his unusual—and often subtly threatening—behavior hardly helped.

“Rhys.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath through her mouth. “You can’t just call my boss and demand I have the day off. There’s a process for these things, I need to get days off approved ahead of time.”

“She didn’t seem to mind,” he said, entirely unconcerned that he may have breached convention. Feyre thought hopelessly that the rules of human etiquette would never be able to confine her husband.

“She thinks you’re a crime lord.” Feyre shook her head, smothering her exasperation in an effort to recognize the intent behind it: he had planned them something special for Valentine’s Day. Had gone out of his way, and exerted far more effort than she’d ever been the recipient of. Her eyes swiveled, again, to the heart shaped eggs. “You really planned an entire day for us?”

“Of course I did.”

So simple, so absolute.

Feyre sniffed. Rhysand probably thought it was because of the congestion.

“I took the day off too,” he continued. “I booked us a private dining room at Searcys.” Feyre nearly choked. It was best for her blood pressure not to inquire as to how he’d managed that. Or what he’d paid. ”And I was going to—well, nevermind.” Rhys seemed to have only just gauged her expression. He assured her quietly, “We can do all of that another day.”

But her eyes weren’t stinging because they couldn’t go. It was that he’d even bothered. Without fully registering the motion, Feyre reached for his hand. Rhysand looked surprised that she was initiating touch, even moreso when she choked, “Thank you.”

Agitated by the sight of her tears, Rhysand squeezed her hand, almost pleading, “What can I do?”

Nothing. She caught herself before the words came out, taking a moment to reassess why she was so hell bent on pushing him away. It was true their marriage had been far from anything she’d planned. When they’d made their bargain, she hadn’t known it was what she was agreeing to. But even if he had stated his terms more plainly, would she have refused him?

He’d brought her back to life.

And on top of that, he had been nothing but loving and patient and kind.

Rhysand had tricked her, certainly, but she had gotten far more than she’d given. And maybe… Maybe he hadn’t been the only one suffering from loneliness all those years. Maybe he had chosen her because he’d stared into her soul and seen a kindred spirit.

“Come here,” she said, setting the tray on the armrest so she could unwrap the blankets from around her body, opening them up to make room for him.

Her husband stared, brows pressing together as he tried to dissect her meaning.

Feyre felt more than a little guilty that it was such a foreign gesture to him. Using their entwined hands, she tugged him forward, until he hesitantly climbed toward her.

“This… is what you want?”

She assured herself it was the fever making her face hot. “Mortals call it cuddling.”

“Cuddling,” he repeated. Feyre knew he was familiar with the word, just not the action. Despite how she had once promised to show him what she could do with her “pretty mouth”, she had so far treated him as nothing more than a platonic roommate. And despite his constant flirtations, he had let her.

Rhysand maneuvered himself on the couch until he was settled behind her and Feyre was practically sitting in his lap. “Like this?”

His warmth was somehow more soothing than the blanket, which had not possessed the scent of citrus and the sea. Even through her block nose, she could smell it, could feel it surrounding her. Who would have thought that the God of Death would smell like a stormy day on an Atlantic beachfront? She could almost close her eyes and imagine the seagulls overhead, hear the tide chopping against the shore, feel the wind stirring at her hair with gentle curiosity.

“You smell good,” she whispered.

A moment of awed silence. Then, “What do I smell like?”

“Holywell Bay, in Cornwall.”

His arm slid around her chest, pulling her tighter against the front of his body. “Yeah?”

“My aunt took my sisters and I there once, when we were kids.”

Rhysand hummed. “My scent is meant to be comforting to mortals. To remind them of their favorite memories.” He paused, then added, “Your scent evokes the same for me.”

“It does?”

His nose skimmed the curve of her neck. “You smell of lilac and pear. Of my wife. Every memory with her is my favorite.”

Sweet talker. It was nothing new, but somehow the words felt more intimate when she could feel his breath coast over her shoulder—warm, like he was truly a living being. Feyre shook her head. “Even though I have been so… so covered in thorns?”

“I do not mind thorns,” he said simply. Soft lips found the juncture between her neck and shoulder, testing. Waiting for reproach. When there was none, he kissed her skin again, so sweetly she thought she might burst into tears. “Though this memory, in particular, is my favorite. I like cuddling my wife.”

She liked cuddling him, too, but that seemed too far a step to admit to just yet. Rhysand readjusted the blankets around them, then pulled the tray of food back into Feyre’s lap, gently urging her to eat. It was an effort. The food was lovely, but every swallow scraped past her sore throat. She knew Rhysand noticed her wincing. Judging by the way his grip gradually tightened, each bite seemed to spiral him into increasing distress.

Feyre had made it about halfway through the meal before her husband and the tray disappeared entirely.

“Rhys?”

The kitchen was devoid of her fretting husband. Feyre frowned, uncertain where he could have gone so suddenly. She folded the blankets back around her shoulders, noting that she already missed his touch.

Soon he returned, materializing from thin air in the center of their living room. He clutched a brown paper bag in each of his hands, which he set down on the coffee table. “I went to New York City,” he said, fishing out large plastic containers. “I heard on the television that they have good soup there. I didn’t know which kind you’d like, so I got as many as I could. Chicken noodle. Lobster bisque. Chowder. Leak and potato—”

“Rhsyand.”

“I picked up some stuff from the pharmacy, too,” he said, retrieving a box of lozenges and paracetamol. He paused. “Why are you laughing?”

Shoulders shaking, Feyre held up her hand in response. She required a moment to catch her breath, especially once her laughter fizzled into a cough that had Rhysand looking miserable. Eventually, Feyre wheezed, “I didn’t realize I was married to such a mother hen.” He pouted. The God of Death actually pouted. “Give me the chicken noodle soup.”

At this, he perked up, handing Feyre the carton of soup and a biodegradable spoon. Because not only was the Grim Reaper a doting mother hen, he was also environmentally conscious. He watched with overbearing interest as she raised the first spoonful to her mouth, obnoxiously hopeful that he had pleased her.

The warm liquid was instantly soothing and like all the gestures that had come before, it softened her to him. “Thank you,” she said, meaning it more than she accurately knew how to express. “Why don’t you come sit with me? We can cuddle and watch movies together.”

“You want to cuddle again?” he asked, like he couldn’t believe it. Feyre nodded. “And… staying at home, watching television… this is an agreeable Valentine's Day to you?”

Feyre nodded again, moving aside on the couch to make room for him. “That is a perfect Valentine’s Day to me.”

The sofa shifted with her husband’s weight as he sat down beside her. They arranged themselves until she was against lounging upright in his lap, sipping on the soup from New York City while they watched romantic comedies together—which he found to be a fascinating study on human culture. His hands traced slow, lazy patterns over her skin, effective in making Feyre wonder why she’d denied his touch for so long.

At some point, she fell asleep with her face nestled into the nook of his neck and when he carried her into the bedroom to tuck her into bed, Feyre sleepily grabbed at his shirt and asked him to stay.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything,” she murmured. Her fever-ridden sleep had lowered her inhibitions, and now there was nothing to stop her from nuzzling into her husband's chest. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ear and imagined that it was his, though the God of Death did not have a heart. Not one that beat, anyhow.

“What do you mean?” His hands slid into her hair, cradling her head as his fingers provided slow, soothing strokes against her scalp. “You gave me everything I could possibly want.” Feyre muttered something unintelligible into his chest, and he laughed. “Happy Valentine’s Day, wife.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Rhys.”

#shhh I know the banner is very cheesy I was leaning into it #Grim!Rhys #Till Death Do Us Part #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #sjmromanceweek2023

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