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ioniansunsets · 4 months

Note

heartsteel christmas dinner 👉👈 who brings what? i can picture Sett staying in the kitchen to prepare ham/turkey 🥰🥰

✖ Heartsteel Celebrating Christmas with You ✖

✖ Word Count: 1.1k

✖ Tags: Established R/S

✖ A/N: You host a Xmas party with your partner uwu (posting this early so maybe if you guys like this I’ll write another quick one for the afterparty and gift opening?)

----

Sett was the best person to celebrate with. Mama taught him well, he was there early in the morning, hells, he stayed over the night before. Up before the sun even rose, the two of you spent time lovingly together in the kitchen. Waking up early with Sett kissing the tip of your nose and carrying you to the toilet to freshen up. Trying to keep you awake as he holds your hand and leads you to the kitchen right after. Cooking up a mad delicious Christmas dinner, baking cookies and frosting them together, laughing as he held you close, face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, giggling together as frosting gets on his nose and his ears twitch in frustration. It was cold out, but with the oven heated up, his arms around your body and the two of you in sweaters Sett’s mom knitted. Maybe winter was even warmer than summer sometimes.

Kayn was a surprisingly thoughtful guy. He knows he can’t cook, he knows he can’t do any cute little handicrafts, he knows his limits. So he does what he does best, help out however he can. Sneaking into stores and buy whatever things you need last minute. Almost a challenge to him finding somewhere selling Christmas Cake and Turkey the day of and somehow still making it to the party early. Staying by your side and trying his best to do exactly as he’s told, you need dishes washed? Its your Christmas gift today, he’s on it. You need someone to decorate the tree? Easy, Rhaast is a surprisingly good at hanging ornaments on trees. You need motivation? Kayn has it covered. A cheeky smile, a soft kiss, loving words of support. He is there. (Hide the presents though, the one thing he doesn’t have is too much self control, Rhaast wants to know, Rhaast has to know, Rhaast found his gift hidden in the locked closet-)

K'Sante straight up tells you to take it easy today. He has friends and connections. You two have a private reservation to the best dinner spot at the roof of an expensive hotel. Sure having a Christmas party at home is sweet and humble but you’re his precious lover! And there was other opportunities to enjoy a warm homely holiday dinner together after you two get married. He was making sure you enjoyed all the glitz and glamor now, friends and family around the two of you, soft music playing in the background as the hotel staff handle all the food and drinks. He holds you close as the two of you overlook the city, lights sparkling both in the stars of the sky and across the ground as the lights in buildings, it was a sight to behold only emphasized by the soft kisses on the back of your neck and the warm hand wrapped around you.

Ezreal was known for holding the wildest of parties, everyone he knows was invited. So nothing was new when he said he would plan things, you just needed to show up and love him. It was a trademark Ezreal party alright. The largest and brightest tree you’ve ever seen set up by the fireplace, a potluck filled with all sorts of dishes from all his friends, decorations strewn across the room and gifts piled up so high in a corner it was almost its own tree, music so loud you heard it before you even stepped in. And when you did step in, eyes meeting his, he immediately blinks to your side, throwing himself at you in the tightest hug he’s given you in a while. A bright smile and a sparkle in his eyes before his lips meet yours, still almost embarrassing to be loved so brightly in front of everyone but at the same time so endearing to know how much he loves you to show you off like this. As everyone else talks loudly all around you, Ezreal sits by your side, one hand firmly clasped in yours under the table as he eats with the other.

Yone was more of a, “ I just want to spend time alone with you this weekend.” kind of guy. Something sweet and different about going out with him on a Christmas date, laughing together as you two go to ice skate (he tries and is graceful most of the time but when he trips and stumbles it is so cute), hands in yours as you two walk around in the evening, enjoying the lights as other sickly sweet couples walk past you. As the night comes and the air gets colder, he would hold you close, wrapping a scarf around you, hands wrapped around yours as he drives you to a dinner reservation in the heart of the city. Nothing too expensive but nothing to cheap either, it was a nice restaurant that he has brought you many times before, just that tonight there was a Christmas special menu, cute decor seen throughout the establishment as you two walk in. There was really just something nice about spending the whole day alone with each other for company. Maybe he was just old or sentimental, but he wouldn’t trade all this for anything.

Aphelios wants to be alone with you but at the same time, he loves his sister and band. So as a compromise, you two celebrate with Heartsteel at night but spend the morning in each others arms as he stays over the night before. Cold weather meant that snuggling up together as you wake up late, soft smiles and softer kisses in the warmth of the bed. Lazy mornings as Aphelios slowly gets up to get the two of you breakfast. With hot chocolate in one hand and some cute pastries in the other, soft music playing in the background, and your partner laying lovingly on your shoulder, this was truly the epitome of winter romance. Getting dressed together, adjusting each other’s hair and outfits, excitedly walking out of your place back to Heartsteel dorms to spend time with his family (both blood and non-blood related). Sure it was noisy with the other boys around, but when you two quietly sit on the couch, Aphelios could secretly admire you as your eyes light up, talking and interacting with everyone important to him. There was a soft of comforting silence enveloping his daydreams around you.

#Anon Answer #Shieda Kayn #Ezreal #K'Sante #Sett #Yone #Aphelios #Heartsteel x Reader #Heartsteel Kayn x Reader #Heartsteel Ezreal x Reader #Heartsteel K'Sante x Redaer #Heartsteel Aphelios x Reader #Heartsteel Yone x Reader #Heartsteel #DRABBLE #Merry Christmas with League Boys #i hope its not too weird lmfao i dont actually celebrate christmas past exchanging gifts sometimes HAHAHSODHAOD

247 notes · View notes

amalia-uwu · 2 months

Note

Hmm.

What are you two up to? 💜💙

Where are you carrying the sleepy boy?

What is he dreaming of?

What's on your mind?

Is he heavy?

Is he a squishy, soft teddy bear?

So many questions.

Drabble :

“Carry you in my embrace”

Notes comments:

Thank you so much for this! I love the whole piece so much!

Sans's expression is so soft, serene and beautiful! I love the way you drew him wrapped around me!

I love how I'm holding him!

I love the hair etc.

The colors are also so soft and a beautiful combination.

I love it thank you so much! It gives a soft, beautiful, cozy aura.

As always this is one more beautiful piece of art, that I receive from you!

Each drawing has its own story to tell!

You are an amazing artist and great inspiration! Fudgie! 💙

Thank you so much! 💙

Now unto the Drabble!

💜💙💜💙💜💙💜💙💜💙

We were sitting on the couch watching TV.

At some point I noticed Sans dozing off.

He couldn't stay awake. I saw his eye sockets closing. His head falling forwards.

I chuckled. Hehe!

How can he be so adorable? He was such an adorable baby boy. A baby girl. A cutie pie! I wanted to squish him mercilessly in my embrace!

He just looks so cute when sleepy.

Okay, he looked masculine and adorable anyway. But even in sleep he looks handsome and adorable!

I shuffled closer and wrapped him in my embrace. He smiled in his sleep.

His cheek bone on my shoulder. I brushed my hair at my back, so they won't bother his face.

We stayed there for some time. Just cuddling.

There were many thoughts on my mind.

One thing is sure tho; that, I loved him so much.

I didn't know what he was dreaming but, I could tell he was happy.

There was a soft shade of blue hue on his cheekbones and a relaxed genuine smile on his face.

As much as I loved cuddling him. I knew, that the couch wasn't comfortable.

I was thinking how to carry him. «Will he wake up? Be scared? How will I lift a well build skeleton man?

... He is all bones. He can't be that heavy. I'll try to lift him. Worse case scenario.. Is that he falls on the couch and me on top of him. I am quite heavy. He doesn't have organs like me. He doesn't have skin like me.. How heavy can he be? Well... Let's find out»

I picked him up softly. He wrapped his bones around me.

Hm.. He wasn't as heavy as I was expecting him to be. Heh! He was a bearable comfortable weight.

I could carry him as I carry a child.

I was surprised I could carry him around with so much ease. Truly fascinating. Heh!

Another thing I loved; is how soft he is. How squishy.

Despite him being made of bones; he was pleasant to touch, hug. Physical contact with him felt incredible.

He was warm, soft, squishy. A teddy bear. I could feel his warm breath on my neck.

I could feel some of my hair touching his face. Heh, our souls were close to each other.

He was content and calm.

I walked upstairs to his room carrying him in my embrace.

Heh, he was doing an effort to keep it as clean as possible.

I laid him in his bed carefully. As I attempted to untangle him.

He took a hold of my clothes and refused to let go.

A soft whine left his teeth.

Welp, okay then. So be it.

I laid next to him and cuddled him closer. I could smell his clothes amd bedsheets. So, his bedsheets smelled like green apple. While his clothes smelled like green soap. It wasn't bad. I.. liked it!

Soon enough I covered ourselves with the weighted blanket he had.

I kissed his mandible and got comfortable next to him. He hummed softly.

I closed my eyes too and joined him for a nap.

"I love you sans!" I whispered.

He smiled and mumbled "i love you too".

The end 😘

Thank you for reading! 💙

142 notes · View notes

waddingham · 24 days

Note

oH Ted as the 'someone coming every week to cook and stock her fridge with meals'!! your brain does so much good work and I am so thankful we get to reap the benefits <33

yeah!!!!!! and i couldn't think straight until I got rid of it!!! here take this it's killing me!!

She begs Phillip to keep her on. She begs him, tries to double his fee even, to keep him from total retirement, but he's steadfast in his decision.

The thought of hunting down another chef is horrific. But he gives her no choice.

She blows through them like tissues for three months, suffering over-complicated meals, over-powering flavors, chefs clearly trying to impress as if she wants a Michelin star meal every night. She doesn't – if that was what she wanted she knows exactly where to get it.

When she's at home she just wants good food, that's easy to reheat and easy to eat. Which is how she ends up finally succumbing to Leslie's repeated insistence that she give his man a chance.

“He comes over once a month,” he tells her, more than once. “Puts together some things we can freeze and just pop in the oven. Simple enough for the boys to do it, so Julie and I can have at least a couple evenings where they can feed themselves.”

He brightens when she gives and asks for his info, and when she gives him a call, she's struck dumb hearing his American accent.

She's running out of options, so she takes a chance on him.

She taps her fingers on the counter, waiting for the doorbell, checking her watch when she finally hears it. He's perfectly on time, but she feels like she's already searching for a reason to be disappointed with him.

He has a pleasant smile for her, though, and a friendly demeanor and a firm handshake and a handsome face – none of which she can immediately find fault in as they introduce themselves.

“I'm sure you're busy,” he says as she leads him to the kitchen. “So I appreciate you taking the time to let me peek at the kitchen and ask you a couple questions.”

“Of course,” she says, used to the procedure by now. Most of them have some kind of sheet they have her fill out, usually via email, but she doesn't mind taking a moment to meet the person who's going to be cooking her food.

“Oh, this is nice,” he compliments, looking around the kitchen, as he sets down the backpack hooked on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, gesturing for him to claim a stool. “Though you can probably infer from your presence that it gets little use.”

“That's okay, I'll go easy on it,” he chuckles, pulling a binder from his bag and opening it up on the counter. “First, though, I wanna make sure I know what I'm cooking.”

He doesn't have a questionnaire or the like, it seems. The lined paper in front of him is blank before he scrawls her name at the top.

“How many people am I cooking for, first of all?” he says without looking up.

She licks her lips, her gaze shifting.

“Just me.” She keeps her tone matter-of-fact. She hopes.

The way he glances up makes her doubt whether she managed it.

“Makin’ it easy on me already,” he says with a soft smile, adding a 1 to the corner of his sheet. “You have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”

“No,” she says, then adds, “Though, I do have the tendency to drop meat for a while every so often.”

“A part-time vegetarian?”

She cracks half a smile. “Sure.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “What kinda meals are you after? Breakfast, lunch, dinner?”

“Dinner, mostly, though I won't say no to the occasional breakfast. Mostly out of curiosity.”

She doesn't think any of the chefs she's hired have offered to make breakfasts.

“I make a mean frittata,” he grins. “What do you like, then? What are some of your favorites, so I can get a feel for what you want?”

“When I eat at home, I want quick and easy,” she says. “The less steps for me, the better. I don't want extravagant, elaborate meals. Shepherd's pie, any kind of pasta, soups, salads. Fish, chicken, red meat on occasion, not every week preferably. Anything veg heavy will probably be a hit with me.”

He nods, taking rapid notes in what must be a very familiar format to him. He fires off a few more questions for her, elaborating a bit further on what she likes before switching gears.

“Anything you absolutely don't want?”

“Not especially,” she says. “I don't like to limit a new chef too soon. I'd rather you make me your best and I'll let you know.”

“Uh oh,” he smiles.

He does that a lot.

“Am I on trial?”

She opens her hands up, giving him a small smile and he chuckles.

“I've had six chefs in ten weeks,” she tells him. “So yes, maybe a little bit.”

“Why didn't they fit the bill?” he asks curiously. “So I can avoid a similar fate.”

“I don't think they quite believed me when I told them how simple I wanted things,” she says. “Too many sauces and sides and heat this up separately and put this on this. If I want a five course meal, I know where to get one. When I get home from work, I want to throw something in the oven or dump it on a plate and microwave it, not anything glamorous.”

He looks pleased to hear it – he seems to actually relax slightly, as if he'd been uncertain he could deliver on what she wanted.

“Well, I can guarantee you that going too fancy will not be a problem with me,” he says, writing a few more things down. “I'm used to basic.”

“Good.”

“I've got Tuesday afternoons free, if we're doing every week.”

She nods.

“Between noon and four, if that works for you.”

“I'll be at work, so you'll have free reign,” she says, opening a drawer on the island and pulling a house key from it. “Make yourself at home.”

“Alrighty,” he says, taking it from her. She watches him pull a roll of masking tape and a ring of maybe half a dozen keys from his bag. He rips off a piece of tape and labels it with an RW before adding it to the keyring.

“If you ever have any requests, that number you have is my cell. Shoot me a text before Tuesday if you want it that week, or you can leave me a note.”

“Okay.”

“And let me know if you think of anything else you want me to know,” he says, starting to pack everything away again. “If you hate olives or can't stand Bleu cheese.”

“I love olives,” she says emphatically. “And there's no kind of cheese I will refuse.”

“Cheese is the best, right?” he remarks. “They're all good. Yellow, white, hard, soft. Even stinky, moldy…still good.”

She snorts a bit, but fully agrees.

“I'm pretty much always stocked with fresh mozzarella to nibble on so feel free to help yourself.”

“Oh, don't tell me that,” he says, shaking his head. “I'll clean you out every week.”

She chuckles as he throws his backpack over his shoulder.

She sees him out, intrigued now to see what he cooks up for her.

When she gets home on Tuesday, there's a delicate cacophony of smells hanging in the air and she remembers for the first time today – after a long, trying weekend – that Ted was meant to come.

And apparently did.

The kitchen is spotless (thank God – chef number two had a tendency to slack on the cleaning up bit) and she eagerly makes her way to the fridge.

Each covered pan has a strip or two of tape on top – 35 minutes @ 175° the small square one requests. Thank God. One singular step.

If it tastes like shit, she's going to cry.

It reveals itself to be a lasagna and she flips the oven on, lets it get hot while she peeks at the rest of what he's made, then pops it in the oven while she goes upstairs and gets comfortable.

She notices the extra pan by the kettle when she comes back down, this one without a lid, left on a trivet.

Three neat rows of shortbread lie within it, a note flat on the counter in front of it.

A little extra treat – maybe a bribe so I don't end up being Disappointing Chef Number 7 – and a thanks for giving me a shot. I'm told these are a winner with a cup of tea.

He's signed it with a mustached smiley face that makes her chuckle.

They smell divine. She can't resist prying one up and taking a bite.

“Oh, fuck me,” she mutters to herself, looking at the biscuit with a bit of wonder as it melts on her tongue, perfectly sweet and salty.

Oh, wow. She glances at the oven, then the pan in front of her.

She might have struck gold.

Everything is delicious. He's clearly not a professional five star chef, but every bite has her in disbelief.

It's just so good. She was skeptical, but he even nails a shepherd's pie for her, dumping cheese on top without her even requesting it. Nothing is unpleasant or poorly made, nothing has her thinking to text him and tell him she didn't love it. His portions are more than enough for her and she frequently takes what's left to the office with her. She has never taken lunch with her to work. Ever.

His cooking tastes like dining at a friend's house, like family made it, like he loves cooking for people and puts it in every bite.

And the biscuits. She finished the pan before the week was even out, unable to help herself.

She's a little bit devastated when there are none on the following Tuesday.

She leaves a note the next time she expects him.

Any chance for biscuits again?

She's ecstatic to find a fresh pan when she gets home.

She's nursing her last three by the weekend, determined to make them last long enough to request more.

I hope no notes is a good thing?

She's been meaning to text him, tell him how pleased she is with everything he's made, but it continued to slip her mind.

How am I doing?

No notes is a very good thing, she sends back. Everything has been absolutely delicious.

Oh good :)

I love to hear it

The biscuits have become a problem though

No biscuits next week then?

God no

I'm hooked on them

Don't do that to me

You got it boss

She almost laughs at herself when she gets home.

She's turning down dinner dates and good-looking men in favor of a date with the container labeled prosciutto stuffed chicken breast in her fridge that she's been thinking about all day.

He'd probably get a kick out of the fact that his food is so good it's ruining her dating prospects, but that's most definitely not something she'll be telling him.

She gets herself a little bit of this week's salad while she waits on the oven – romaine with candied walnuts, dried cranberries, gorgonzola, sliced green apple with a deliciously sharp vinaigrette. She peruses the fridge in her typical Wednesday fashion – on Tuesday evenings she's made a habit of grabbing the first thing she sees and letting him surprise her – looking for the small container of sauce that the lid of the chicken makes mention of.

She chuckles when she sees it. Some of his notes on things have gotten more elaborate, sometimes teasing, sometimes with a wine pairing suggestion, sometimes just with a little smiley face. The lid for the sauce only says creamy pesto, but there's masking tape wrapped in a spiral over its sides, covered with writing.

I know, I'm gonna get in trouble for making a separate sauce for something but all you gotta do is dump it on when it's done! It's worth the extra step I promise!

She snickers around her salad, setting it on the counter.

It's well, well worth the extra step.

When she gets home on Tuesday, she's unexpectedly greeted by a strong, delicious smell and noise from the kitchen. She leaves her heels and her coat before turning into the kitchen.

Ted's at the stove, looking almost mortified as he immediately starts apologizing.

“I'm sorry, Rebecca, I'm so behind today, but this is my last one and then I'll clean up and get out of here–” he rambles, but she's taking him in more than listening. Namely, she's taking in his tired bloodshot eyes and his disheveled hair and the way his hands shake as he gestures to the mess of the kitchen.

“I'm sorry–”

“No, Ted, it's alright,” she insists. “It's not a problem.”

“I'm almost done.”

“Are you okay?” she asks gently.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I just need to finish this…”

She frowns and rounds the island, unconvinced and unsettled – he's almost frantic with energy.

“Come here.”

He frowns as she pulls him away from the stove.

“No, it'll burn–”

“In which case I'll survive with one less meal,” she says firmly, pushing him to the dining table. “Sit.”

He does – reluctantly – and she gets him a glass of water.

“Take a deep breath. Relax,” she insists before stepping to the stove. The pan there has a sauce in the making, a plate of meatballs next to it, as well as a pot of water getting hot.

“What needs done here?” she asks.

“I can–”

“Stop,” she commands, lifting a brow at him before he can rise. “Sit. Just tell me.”

“The, the cream needs to go in,” he says. “Give it a second, then the other two little bowls there, the Dijon and the Worcestershire and then the spices.”

“Okay,” she says, keeping her voice steady, hoping it'll relax him, show him she's far from upset that he's still here.

She follows his instructions, pouring the measuring cup of cream in and mixing it with the little whisk that's already there. She lets it get hot, then adds the rest, stirring it in.

“What am I making?” she asks with a small smile.

“Swedish meatballs,” he supplies, sounding distracted. “One of my favorites.”

“Swedish, hmm?”

“Well, I can't speak to them being authentic,” he says. “Recipe was my mom's. And she's definitely not Swedish.”

It smells delicious – whatever spices she just added were warm and aromatic and it makes her mouth water.

“What next?”

“Uh, turn the heat down and let it simmer,” he says. “Needs to thicken.”

She dutifully turns the stove down and then joins him, taking a seat next to him.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he deflects, “I'm fine. Just…didn't sleep so good and then this morning was…I'm fine.”

She doesn't push, seeing how much effort he's putting into forcing a smile and changes course.

“Do you have anywhere else to be today?” she asks.

“No, no, you're my last client on Tuesdays.”

“Then stay,” she insists, gesturing to the stove. “Looks like enough for two.”

“I shouldn't,” he tries, shaking his head. “I should get out of your hair.”

“You're not in my hair,” she asserts. “I would enjoy the company and I'm most certainly not complaining about getting a meal fresh off the stove.”

He looks her over for a moment, presumably looking for any hint of falsehood before he nods a bit haltingly.

She smiles.

“Should, uh, should put the meatballs back in to finish ‘em,” he murmurs. “And get the noodles on.”

“Yes, chef,” she says, giving him a wink when he finally smiles.

“I'll do it,” he says, and she lets him this time for how much calmer he seems. She occupies herself by offering him a drink and pouring herself a glass of wine. He accepts a couple fingers of a scotch he's apparently had his eye on for the last few weeks and she watches with interest as he takes a sip.

“Oh, that's nice,” he mutters.

“The only one I buy anymore.”

“You have excellent taste, I have to say,” he remarks. “Thank you.”

She helps him get the rest of the dinner together and is glad to see him relax more and more, until he's smiling easy as they both sit at the island with bowls of noodles and meatballs.

“Well, it smells fantastic,” she says, eagerly stabbing a forkful of noodles and half a meatball.

It's delicious. Creamy and warm and truly everything about it screams comfort food.

“Oh, Christ,” she mumbles around it.

“Yeah? That one a winner?”

She nods emphatically, eyeing him as she chews.

“Nothing you make is bad,” she mumbles, watching him take his own bite.

“That's ‘cause I only make what I know I can make good for you,” he chuckles.

“Why's that?” she asks. He can take a chance on her – he's built up plenty of faith in him already. One bad meal isn't going to have her canning him.

“Oh, to impress of course,” he says with a crooked smile that she returns.

“You've already done so,” she says. “I haven't had a single thing I didn't like.”

“I'm very happy to hear it,” he says, sounding very genuine about it.

They eat slowly because conversation comes very easily. Whether it's the drink or the distraction of her company, he's light-years away from the frazzled ball of anxiety she was met with.

“Safe to assume you don't enjoy cooking much, huh?” he asks her as they both scrape their bowls.

“I don't think I would mind it if I had ever learned,” she muses. “But I've had a cook for most of my life and learning how now just to feed myself seems more trouble than it's worth.”

“You've had a cook most of your life?”

“My parents kept one when I was a kid, and then when I was married, my ex-husband insisted on a cook,” she says, half rolling her eyes. “Thank you, by the way, for not inundating me with pork pies and sausage rolls and roasts and dousing everything in gravy.”

“I enjoy a good gravy, but, oof, that's heavy eatin’ right there.”

“Too heavy,” she agrees. “Though my tastes were rarely taken into account.”

He hums as he wipes his mouth and she finds understanding in his eyes.

“How long were you married?” he inquires.

“Twelve years,” she says slowly.

“That's a lot of gravy,” he says more seriously than the words might call for. She hears his meaning plain enough.

“Yes. It was.”

“Well,” his tone brightens a bit, “now you got me to make whatever you please.”

“Too right,” she chuckles, sipping her wine. “And it's always spectacular. I don't know how you do it, what you're lacing everything with…”

“Oh, I just make sure I put a little love in everything, that's all,” he grins.

She takes in the sight of him, smiling and content, his creased eyes warm, and she likes this. She's enjoying this. She likes him.

It's so hard to know though, even as his eyes move over her face, the quiet stretching long, if she likes him or if she's simply missed enjoying a comfortable meal at home without having to do it alone.

Her eyes drop, aware of how intensely she’s looking at him. She's not sure when it happened but they're both turned completely towards each other on their stools, leaning on the counter, and his fingertips are right there at the edge of hers – the mere straightening of her fingers would bring them into contact.

“I appreciate you letting me stay and have some of your dinner,” he says softly.

“You made it,” she offers with a grin.

“You paid for it,” he returns.

“It's not a problem at all,” she says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “It's nice to have some company.”

“I'm gonna be honest with you, Rebecca, you don't seem like a woman who would have any problem finding company.”

Her brows lift alongside the corners of her mouth, a little internally delighted by his boldness.

“I think I'll take that as a compliment,” she grins.

“As it was meant,” he assures.

“In which case…I'll amend to say it's nice to have such comfortable and easy company.”

His cheeks round, his gaze dropping in something akin to bashfulness and she thinks it really might just be him that's growing on her.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, her smile slanting crookedly. “Even if I pretty much made you.”

“I didn't wanna impose. You were very kind to give me a second to…calm down.”

She's not sure if it's embarrassment, exactly, or shame that has him toying with his glass instead of looking at her.

“Felt like I was trying to catch up to myself all day,” he admits.

“I know the feeling,” she sympathizes.

He's quiet for a moment before he responds.

“My ex-wife was supposed to come out with our son in the next couple weeks here, but she called and they pushed it back until the summer.”

His frown is back and his gaze is faraway, but she doesn't speak.

“Been here for almost a year now and they still seem to be getting on just fine without me.” He sounds like he wishes he could say it with detachment, but it comes out rather devastated.

“They're in the States?” she asks gently, pulling him back to here and now as he shakes himself a bit.

“Yes.”

“Why don't you go see them?” she tries, though she's very aware she's got the bare minimum of facts.

“‘Cause I'm still stinging from her snapping that she just needs some goddamn space,” he says, giving her a twisted, wry little grin.

She frowns but he shrugs, lifting his drink to his lips.

“S’pose it's about time to just get over it,” he mumbles.

“That's not easy to get over,” she says kindly. “Especially from someone you love.”

“No, it's not,” he agrees. “Ain't much love to lose these days, though. You're probably right, should just take matters into my own hands, hop over the pond.”

“Don't go too long,” she says, only half teasing. “I shouldn't be left to feed myself for a prolonged period of time.”

He smiles again and the sight has warm satisfaction melting in her.

“Oh, if I go anywhere I'll set you up, don't you worry,” he assures her.

“Thank goodness.”

It's odd how difficult she finds it when she rises and steps away. A part of her wants her to stay put, keep the space between them minimal, but she writes it off as a result of just how long it's been since she had sex.

“Now, I don't see any biscuits,” she says. “But I suppose I'll give you a pass this week.”

He rises with a soft chuckle, following her with his own dish to the sink.

“No, no, I'll do it,” he says as he starts to clean up from dinner. “Unless you need your kitchen back.”

She starts gathering dishes – he must clean as he goes, because it's not nearly the mess she'd imagine would come from cooking four whole dinners.

“Oh, for what? You think I have a chef on the side coming over tonight?”

He turns, expression scandalized, a hand landing on his chest as if he's been shot.

“Tell me you'd never.”

She chuckles, joining him at the sink, hands full.

They clean up together and then she pours them both another drink before she claims a stool, content to watch as he puts together a batch of biscuits. She watches him move comfortably around the kitchen, chatting easily with her, and it's making an impression, one she's blatantly ignoring.

She half expects him to try to leave her once they're in the oven and has her excuses for him to stay at the ready, but he sits again, waiting the half hour they need to bake at the island with her. He asks her about her job, how she came to own the club, and conversation wanders to and fro.

“I'm intrigued to see what you've cooked up for me this week, chef,” she remarks at one point.

“You know I ain't really a professional chef, right?” he chuckles. “I dropped out of culinary school actually.”

“Really? Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I wasn't having fun. I love cooking, I love making food and feeding people, but I didn't wanna do it the way they train you to, you know, cooking in a restaurant or joining the race to be the next big something. I like doing it this way. Getting to know people and cooking what they like. Feels like I'm paying the bills by cooking for friends and that's…” He clicks his tongue with a nod. “That's just perfect for me.”

“Well,” she says, smiling at how clearly he loves what he does. “You're still a chef. Definitely to me at least.”

He rises when the oven chimes, giving her a smile.

“That's enough for me.”

The biscuits have filled the kitchen with the warm scent of vanilla – the same scent that's usually still barely lingering when she gets home.

He stays long enough to let them cool slightly and cut them and she watches as he arranges them on the trivet by the kettle, just as he always does. He packs his things up then and she sees him out, exchanging smiles and goodbyes.

She's still smiling when she finally goes upstairs to change for the evening and it takes her a while to identify the feeling.

She feels like she just got home from a really, really good date.

It wasn't a date, so she doesn't know why she's disappointed when she doesn't hear from him again over the week. She doesn't contact him either, trying to recategorize the evening in her mind.

She's very pleasantly surprised, in that case, when she comes home the following Tuesday and he's still there. She knows by the smell of something sweet and nutty filling the air before she even gets to the kitchen.

It's spotless this time. He's not all anxious energy this time either – he smiles when she peeks in, looking rather uncertain about his welcome, but it still makes something deep in her chest ache.

It's rather nice. To come home to a smile from someone.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello.” She lets her smile ease his uncertainty and her tone ask her questions for her.

“I, uh, wanted to say thank you,” he explains. “For last week, when I was…when I wasn't feeling so great, for being so kind, letting me hang out for a while.”

She starts to wave it off again, but he continues.

“I made a little something special for ya. Something I can't really leave for you to reheat later,” he says, gesturing to the ovens. “If you want a little snack?”

She nods eagerly, kicking her heels off toward the stairs before she joins him.

He pulls a dish from the oven and sets it on the counter. He fiddles with something there, but she doesn't see what until her turns, sliding a round plate to the center of the island between them.

Whatever it is is perfectly golden brown, looks delicious and smells heavenly.

“Honey baked brie,” he informs her. “With some walnuts and some fig jam, tiny bit of rosemary.”

“Oh my god,” she almost moans. “And it's what, wrapped in pastry?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he smiles. “Thought it might be something you like.”

“I can tell you already you're correct,” she says, rounding the island to find them some forks. “I can't wait to taste it.”

“Let me know how you like it.” She frowns, but he's got a small smile when she looks up. “I'll let you…”

“You think I'm going to eat that entire thing myself?” she asks, lifting her brows as she pulls two forks from the drawer.

“Well, I know how much you like cheese,” he chuckles.

“I'll share,” she says, handing him a fork. “With you.”

She doesn't even have the patience to sit down – she slices her fork through the pastry and creamy brie begins to ooze out. She scoops it up with some pastry, catching a nut and a bit of fig and shoves it in her mouth.

“Careful, it's hot–”

“Fuck me,” she mutters without thought.

It's delicious. Creamy and sweet and savory, the pastry flaky and buttery. It's rich and indulgent but not sickeningly so and she’s in love.

She's bringing another bite to her mouth when she realizes he's just smiling at her, pleased as punch.

“Please eat some,” she begs around her bite. “Because I can not eat all of this and I will if you leave me alone with it.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, cutting off a bite for himself.

He hums, pleased with his handiwork. “Mm. Not to toot my own horn, but that's good.”

“Mm!” she hums, getting an idea. She steps away to the wine cooler, squatting down to look for one of her less frequent whites. She comes back with a pair of glasses and an off-dry Riesling.

“This was a bit too bright and citrus-y for me, but it might be gorgeous with this.”

“Okay. You’re the sommelier here, not me,” he says as she pours, then slides a glass to him.

“Oh, please, your pairings are always spot on.”

It does go nicely, complimenting every bite.

“God, this is lovely,” she tells him.

“I'm glad you like it,” he mumbles around his own bite.

“Did you make the pastry?”

He shakes his head. “No. Normally I would, but I didn't decide on this until I was shopping today and that takes some time.”

“How long did this take?”

She listens with interest as he explains how he made it, amazed at how straightforward it sounds.

“Christ, it sounds like I could make it.”

“Uh oh,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I talking myself out of a job?”

“Oh, hardly. Even if I figured out how to make everything you cook for me, I'd still keep you around,” she admits. “You’re good company.”

“Well, that's nice to know,” he smiles, eyes soft.

“Also, knowing how to definitely doesn't mean I actually have any desire to cook any of it myself,” she chuckles. “So you still have plenty of use.”

She winks with her teasing as his warm laugh has him tucking his chin, his crows feet deepening.

“I see how it is.”

She can't help but take him in, delighted by how carefree he is today. God help her, she really does like him – she wants to know him better. He's so genuine, so unselfish and generous, and she wants to keep him smiling.

“Thank you,” she says when she finally really can't eat any more, maybe a quarter of the round of brie left on the plate. “That was very kind of you.”

“No, thank you,” he echoes. “It was nice last week, to sit and eat with someone and I needed it.”

She nods get agreement, leaning her hip against the counter.

“I won't, uh, make a habit of just hanging out here, though,” he says, presumably to reassure her.

Her brows tip, eyes on his as she lets out a disappointed, “No?”

His lips part, but he doesn't manage to form a response. It hardly matters – they're communicating plenty in their gazes, trading glances at each other's lips. The moment stretches, and stretches, her breath changing to suit the surplus beats of her heart at the intensity in his warm eyes.

He leans closer, tipping his head, and something jolts through the center of her when he kisses her. She returns the gentle pressure, daring to part her lips to close them against his. Her fingers curl into her hand at her hip with restraint, fighting the urge to sink into his hair or pull him closer.

It's too delicate, this lovely feeling, and draws a tenderness up through her she hasn't been able to find for months.

He eases back slowly and she catches the breath he stole. Her eyes open, finding his still closed and she watches his parted lips begin to tighten as he fights a smile. The sight inspires one of her own, pulling at her cheeks as he opens his eyes, the smile winning and straightening his mustache out.

“I, um…”

She rolls her lips into her mouth, not even trying for words. She has none.

He can't find any either.

She drives forward again, prepared this time with a little extra breath in her lungs, a little more confidence. He kisses her back with a little more something too and she can't restrain her hands anymore from rising to hold his face. She tries to imbue the motion of her lips with plenty of invitation, but it's not until she pulls back and he follows, wavering toward her, that he steadies himself with a hand on her hip. Her attention goes straight to the heat of it through her dress as it slides to a more respectable height on her waist.

“You are very welcome to linger here as much as you like actually,” she exhales.

“Oh, I feel welcome,” he says, voice low.

She grins, pulling him in again. “Do you?”

“I sure do.”

He barely gets the words out before they're kissing again. She opens to him, tastes the brie and honey and the dry sweetness of the wine and finds it appropriate that he should be so indulgent. His hands finally make their way around her, narrowing the space between them even more. She's not sure when her arms found their way around his neck but they tighten there in response.

He doesn't let her go far when they part again, dropping a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her cheek. Her eyes close with the sensation, the scratch of his mustache and his warm lips.

“I really like cooking for you,” he murmurs.

The way he says it makes it sound like a deep confession and she feels silly for how fluttery it makes her to hear. She smiles against his lips and discovers this isn't new information to her. It's in every bite.

“I know you do,” she says low in his ear. “I can taste it.”

“Can you?” He sounds surprised and pleased.

“Yes.” She guides him back to her lips. “I can.”

#i don't know how you accidentally write five thousand words of fanfiction but it happened to me...#a gift for you anon. just cause 💌#also sorry the formatting sucks here but i don't feel like titling and tagging and summarizing and posting on ao3 rn #anon #tl drabbles

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motelofmermaids · 3 days

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clay beresford loves to bend you over his desk.

“clay… oh!” a large hand snakes up to your face, clamping it over your whiny mouth. you muffle needy, pathetic moans against his hand, eyes rolling back. “shhh,” his lips ghost against your ear, your body responding in a shudder. “c’mon, baby. you don’t want people hearing, no?” his cock teases your entrance once more, his tip running through your glistening folds.

your pencil skirt rests above the curve of your ass, and clay bites down on his lip at the sight. “wouldn’t want anyone else to see you like this, baby. my heart might give out.” and your eyebrows knit together, a moan slipping past your smothered lips as he slides back in. his other hand grips your hip tightly, pulling you closer to his cock, giving you no choice to move as he indulges in your sweet, tight heat. “fuck…” low and deep, he whispers, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.

“does this excite you, my love? my considerate secretary… always such a dirty girl for me.” he punctuates his words with his deep thrusts, driving you nearly delirious as you take it. your weak attempts at moaning were no use, and clay couldn’t help the smile that adorned his lips as he watched you claw at his desk—the rustle of documents scattering from their original, neatly stacked piles. “leaving me a mess?” he leans down closer, his breath fanning across the back of your neck. you whimper, clenching around his twitching cock. “i’m treating you well, baby… and you’re leaving me a mess to clean up?” he taunts with a grin, his hips moving painfully slow.

he moves his hand, instead letting his fingers play at your lips before slipping two digits in. you suck softly, drool dripping down his long fingers as you force yourself into silence. “good girl, baby—fuck, you’re always so, so good… taking it well.”

he knows exactly how to push you, leaving you a disheveled mess, bent over his desk. it’s a ritual, one that always leaves your soaked underwear filled with his come—needing to run to the bathroom before it drips down your thighs. and clay… he’s addicted to it. addicted to the intense pounding of his heart, the high that comes with treating you so, so well.

#kel’s concepts ♡︎#clay beresford #clay beresford x reader #clay beresford x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x you #james kelly x reader #james kelly x you #my little gift to y’all #a quick drabble instead of worrying about finals!!

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arcielee · 10 months

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Our moonlight drive.

Summary: A night drive with your boyfriend. Paring: Modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 700+ Warnings: Modern Aemond fluff to soothe the soul. Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the lovely, the talented @babygirlyofthevale 💜 This is a drabble, sweet piece inspired by the masterpiece in motion Comet Donati by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew (chapter2, oh my goodness). A big thank you to my darling beta readers for your help! Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii

Night is coming with its amber smear of burnt oranges and yellows overwhelmed with the purple hue swallowing the last of the day’s light. The route is familiar, a routine drive towards your favorite sweet spot, and the windows are down, letting the cool air knot your hair.

It isn’t far and Aemond parks further back, quickly out and moving to grab your door; you smile with the gesture as he shows that he is firstmost a gentleman, especially when it comes to you. You follow his steps and he reaches for your hand without looking back, knowing fully well that you will take his hand, enlacing your fingers with his own, a perfect fit.

The ice cream parlor is a town antique, with a window opened for the late night crowd to come by. You order first and he leans against your backside, over your shoulder with the shimmer silver curtain of his locks spilling forward.

You feel the warm rumble when he adds, “She also would like sprinkles on top,” and reaches to take napkins from the dispenser.

You peer up at him, a warm glow of pleasure that he remembered, that he knows your simple pleasures.

There is a stone bench that you both straddle, facing one another with your treats in hand; he offers you a spoonful of his ice cream and leans forward to lick your waffle cone. The napkins he grabbed come in handy, helping the failing battle against the muggy night, the sweet spill of sprinkles over the cone’s edge.

Once done, more napkins are needed to clean up and he takes your hand again, leading you back to the car.

This is the only time you willingly place yourself in his blindspot, whenever he would drive but Aemond does not seem to mind it. He likes how you play the role of reconnoiter during daylight, but tonight the roads are empty and this allows you to sink comfortably into the passenger’s seat, enveloped in his scent of leather and his cologne, with a hint of smoke, and you enjoy the press of his large palm into the softness of your thighs, his thumb drawing small circles on the outside.

His vehicle is an imported stick shift, sleek and meticulous, allowing him the control he strives for in every aspect of his life. Aemond is careful, calculated, and you see this in the mirrors added, an extension and a reminder to his half vision; he always turns his head fully to check before a lane change, and this allows him a moment to look at you.

And you are looking back, ever watchful, ever aware of him. In this moment, the blue lumination from the dash gives an iridescent shimmer to the sapphire stone set in his scarred socket, an ethereal glow to the sharp contours of his face.

You feel the warmth return to your cheeks when you see the curl of his lips into a smile that only belongs to you.

“Do you trust me?” the low timbre of his voice asks.

And you do, with everything you have to offer, with every molecule wrapped within you thrumming with a loyalty that began from the moment you met. You remember the play of his perpetual smirk, both inviting and enticing, and what you felt bloom with the first kiss shared, sparked from the touch of his soft lips against your own. It is a feeling that grows still, a sense of comfort and safety with his intimate touches, igniting something that you were not aware existed within your heart.

You keep this to yourself though, and hum your acknowledgement, your grin gleeful. “Where you go, I go,” you remind him.

He does not turn homewards, but instead his long fingers curl around the wheel to rotate, to follow the vacant weave of road lit by his headlights and the settling nightglow. Aemond looks forward and you can see the dimples that line his cheek; only after he settles into gear does he reach for your hand, bringing it up to his lips for a gentle kiss and nestles the hold onto his thigh.

Your fingers curl around in response, a perfect fit.

arcie’s masterlist

#modern aemond targaryen #is a soothing vibe #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd au #aemond targaryen drabble #this is just fluff #a gift for brit and for better days to come

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twola · 1 year

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Yo yo yo! I have a request. Do Arthur x f!reader where he's teaching her to fish because Hosea/Dutch has found out shes weirdly squirmy about fish but she's being a reluctant brat about things and Arthur loses his temper 'GODDAMMIT wOmAn!' Style. Make its as unhinged smutty as you please (so a LOT 😏) Thank you! 😘😘😘

Ooh. Well now - I do not like fish that much, so this isn’t a stretch for me 😂 This was super fun!! I hope you enjoy.

Gone Fishin'

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

As Arthur reaches the end of his convalescence after his run-in with Colm O’Driscoll, Hosea has a task for him - teach one of the girls how to fish. The task, he finds out, is a little harder than he imagined. Also, he’s a little harder than he imagined.

Lemoyne was warm. Warm and humid, buggy, and miserable. Arthur’s work shirt stuck to his skin, even after shedding his full union suit underneath his clothes, he’s still too damn hot.

He’s hot and bored.

The pain in his shoulder is just a niggle at this point, but Grimshaw refused to let him go work again, even though the wound has closed up, scabbed over, and is scarred with new pink skin.

Three more days, Grimshaw pointed at him, and with that tone that he knew he would catch hell from her if he disobeyed.

But he’s past languishing under the shade of his tent. Idleness may suit a drunk like Uncle - but not a man like him. He is a man of action.

He needs to do something. Or he is going to go crazy.

“Oh, come on, dear. It’s relaxing.”

“Hosea, I don’t do fish. I don’t like eatin’ them, and I sure as hell wouldn’t like catching them.” You huff, standing at the end of the dock.

Hosea sits next to you, a fishing pole in his hand as his feet dangle over the side of the dock. You fiddle with your skirts as you gaze out at the lake, the water glinting in the afternoon sun.

“It’s an art, dear girl.”

You scowl down at him, “Fish are disgusting.”

He laughs, “Oh, you. We’re on a lake, you’re gonna have to get used to fish real soon, missy.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s hot, and you wear just a simple white chemise top tucked into your cotton skirt, baring your arms and decolletage to the sun, a welcome opportunity after almost freezing to death in the Grizzlies.

Hosea looks back toward the camp, where he sees Arthur mulling about. An idea strikes him, genius, as his ideas often are. He stands up, and waves over to the recovering gunslinger, “Arthur, c’mere! Got somethin’ for you to do!”

“No- Hosea,” you whisper harshly, clenching your fists in your skirts, “What are you doing?”

Arthur approaches the end of the dock, running his hand through his long beard, not having shaved in weeks at this point. “Hosea,” He grunts, then looks to you, “Miss.”

“Dear, you need to learn the fine art of fishing. And Arthur over here? He needs somethin’ to do other than sit around pissin’ off Grimshaw.” Hosea waves his free hand toward the camp,

Hosea claps Arthur’s back with his free hand, then turning and tugging you toward the gunslinger on the dock.

“Now you kids take the boat and get on out there, it’ll do both of you some good.”

“Wait wait, wasn’t it you and Dutch makin’ fun of me for the trout incident? I shouldn’t be teaching anyone how to fish.” Arthur shakes his head.

“Nonsense, boy. You caught plenty last time we went out. Besides, it’ll get you out of camp.”

“Fine.” Arthur groans, grabbing the fishing rod from the older man’s outstretched hand.

“Hosea-” You whine, but your benefactor nods his head, cutting you off.

“Go on.”

You roll your eyes, following Arthur as he steps into the rowboat moored at the dock, taking his outstretched hand, and helping you step into the small boat.

“You kids have fun now.” Hosea waves, a smile on his face.

Arthur grunts, picking up the oars and pushing off from the dock. You sit in the bow of the rowboat, scowling, as Arthur rows away from the camp, scanning the horizon. A hushed quiet falls as he guides the boat southbound, the camp becoming smaller and smaller as he rows deeper out into the lake.

“Why do you want to learn how to fish?”

“I don’t.” You huff, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Then why the hell are we out here?” Arthur stops rowing, a scowl also settling in on his face.

“Cause you can’t say no to Hosea.”

“Looks like neither can you.”

An awkward silence settles in between you.

“Well, we’re out here now. Might as well make the best of it.” Arthur says, pulling the oars into the hull of the boat and picking up the fishing rod. He holds it out to you.

You let out an exasperated sigh, refusing to uncross your arms.

Arthur grumbles, adjusting the hat on his head, before drawing the rod back and pulling a feathered lure from his pocket, placing it on the hook. He casts the line further out into the lake.

“Didn’t really plan on fishin’ today, otherwise I’d have some live bait - worms or crickets or whatnot.” He turns back to you, tugging on the rod slightly, glancing back as the lure bobs in the water.

You glower, scrunching your nose at the mention of live bait.

“I hate fish.” You grit out.

“Oh, hush.” Arthur chides. The line pulls, and he feels something bite.

“Here ya go!” He pulls back the line, the fish hanging in the air. With a grin, he swings the pole in your direction, the bluegill flopping on the line, getting closer to your head.

You scream, standing up in the boat and batting the fish away from your face, causing Arthur to jerk to the side, dropping the fishing pole in surprise. The boat violently bobs side to side with your movement.

“Goddamnit, woman!” Arthur yells, nearly falling over the side of the boat as he tries to catch the pole that you batted away from him.

“I told you I don’t like fish!” You screech, sitting back down slowly as the boat bucks.

“That’s it, Christ; you’re such a goddamn brat!” Arthur throws the pole within the hull of the boat and grabs the oars, thrusting them into the water forcefully. He heaves the oars, forcing the boat forward as he angrily pulls and pushes back toward the shore, breathing heavily as he propels the boat through the water.

“Arthur - wait-”

“Waste of my goddamn time,” He continues, fuming. It actually feels good to work his muscles like this.

“Arthur!”

By then, it’s too late. The boat hits a sandbar and beaches itself, and the speed at which Arthur was rowing causes the boat to lurch violently, sending you flying forward into his body, and you both tumble to the hull of the boat, a jumble of limbs and your skirts.

Arthur pushes you up, and you nearly fall backward with the force of his shove.

He swears as you get your footing, sitting up and looking for the oars as he pulls himself back up to his seat.

The oars are nowhere to be found. He probably dropped them when he beached the damn boat. Actually, as he squints, he sees one floating away from the sandbar, back toward the middle of the lake.

“Shit.” He curses.

“You idiot.” You sneer at him, lifting your boot to find it wet with lakewater, a hole having sprung in the bottom of the hull, the wood splintered as water rushes in. You hike up your skirts as the level of water rises within the boat.

Arthur jumps out of the boat, grumbling, looking this way and that as you climb out as well. The sandbar the boat is beached upon is on one of the small islands off the shore of the lake, a good fifty feet to the mainland. He curses to himself as he looks back into the boat, the hull filling with water.

“Now what?” You ask critically as you let your skirts down, following him as he stalks along the island’s shore.

He doesn’t answer, looking around at the sandy ground beneath his boots.

“Watch out for the snake.” He points at the ground next to you, and your eyes dart downward as a brown water moccasin slithers by.

You scream, jumping toward him in fear away from the snake as it glides away into the water, and in a jumble of limbs, you’re somehow climbing the man as he stumbles backward.

“Get me out of here!”

Arthur tries to have some sort of propriety as he tries to regain his balance, but it’s hard when the only hold on you he can get is to loop his hands under the backs of your thighs. You’re clutching at his shoulders, trying to get yourself off of the ground, and end up finding purchase on him by wrapping your legs around his hips, your skirts askew as you pant in terror.

“Fuckin’ stop-” Arthur grunts, stumbling backwards, finally losing his battle with gravity as you and he tumble into a sand dune. His hat flies off, rolling on its rim in a circle, finally settling a few feet away.

Of course, of course, it couldn’t suit him to land in any kind of proper or decent way. No, no, he had to land completely on top of you, slotted between your hips, your skirts creeping up while his traitorous, immature, villainous cock swells at the pressure of his weight against your clothed cunt.

The air has been knocked out of your lungs, but beneath him, you gasp as he tries to move. Your knees frame him, skirts fallen to your hips to show your skin. Your arms are still thrown around his shoulders as he tries to push himself up, his hands slipping in the sand, causing him to crumble down on you, his hips fully pressing down on yours.

Shit. Shit.

He’s trying to think of anything - rotten meat, Uncle’s laundry - anything to stave off the growing erection tenting within his pants. But alas, he is a slave to his own biology, as his cock stiffens and his blood rushes into his groin.

You stare up at him. His eyes dart away in embarrassment, a blush deepening on his cheeks.

Then, you do something that throws him even further into this pit of arousal he finds himself in.

You slowly roll your hips against him and he cannot help but to let out a low moan in response and press his swollen cock against you harder.

Christ, your hair has fallen from its bun, spread out on the sandy soil of this island like some sort of halo.

Two minutes ago he wanted to throttle you. Now, underneath him, he wants to make you gasp and cry and oh, to say his name in a high whine-

“Fuck-” he curses, but before he can go any further, your hands move from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and you pull downward gently - not enough to move him, but enough to give him permission.

He waits for a moment, searching your wide eyes, your open, wet lips, and in that moment, he throws caution to the wind and leans down to slot his lips against yours. You continue to roll your hips against him, crossing your ankles over his back in a surefire sign of what you wanted, whining into his mouth.

And fuck, if he wasn’t going to give it to you.

As he leans back on his knees, sliding his arms from around your waist, he paws his suspenders down and starts unbuttoning his pants, desperate to free his swollen cock. He grunts with a hint of satisfaction as he pulls his length from his pants, closing his eyes as he strokes himself several times. He faintly recognizes your squirming beneath him, and when he’s opened his eyes again, hand still on his cock, he’s struck by what he sees. You’ve shimmied down your bloomers, skirts flipped up and over your hips, pooling across your waist.

Your folds glisten with moisture, and his hips jut forward near uncontrollably, his cock seeking out your warmth, his body yearning to bury itself within your hips.

“Y- you sure-?” One last chance - one more opportunity to back away from the precipice - to realize that you are both being ridiculous - one second ready to kill each other, the next…

“Arthur please.”

Well, there goes his reservations.

One of his large hands spreads out over your hip, the other around the base of his cock, and he presses the swollen, dripping head of his cock against your folds, trailing downwards as he parts them to your opening, groaning in pleasure as he slips in half an inch.

His hand leaves his cock as he leans back over you, arm landing next to your shoulder, as he gently presses his hips forward, sliding in as you shut your eyes in overstimulation. By the time his hips press against your own and he’s sheathed in you to the hilt, your eyes flutter open as you let out a breath you were holding. Arthur’s other arm comes up to bracket you in, his mouth hanging open as a strand of his honeyed-brown hair falls forward between his eyes.

He lowers himself down to his elbows to press himself completely against you, seeking out your lips again as he bucks his hips forward, causing you to mewl into his mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck, one hand cupping the back of his head, fingers threading into his long hair, grasping it tightly as he settles into a rhythm of rolling his hips back and forth.

You pull on his hair and he groans, thrusting hard into you in response. Seems like you aren’t over your surly mood. He finds a hard and punishing rhythm, again feeling good to work his muscles after his convalescence. It had been much longer than that since he’s worked these particular muscles.

“A-Arthur-” You moan loudly as he continually strokes that spot within you. He grunts in response, pulling his cock nearly out of your cunt before slamming his hips back into you.

You shriek in pleasure, and for a moment he’s thankful he’s marooned the two of you on this island yards away from the shore of the lake.

“Y’gonna come for me?” He harshly whispers into your ear, “Y’gonna come on my cock?”

That does it.

You cry out, back arching against him, head thrown back into the grassy dune, a high keening sound that makes him moan helplessly in response, gyrating his hips as your cunt clenches hard around his length, warm and wet and perfect.

“Fuck - fuck - woman…” He groans, rutting forward as you come down from your high, his cock pulsing and covered in your warm slick, and he is forced to pull himself from you, gliding out as he sits back on his knees and starts to pump himself.

You look up and god, is he a sight. His hips buck forward as he strokes his length, his mouth hanging open and muscles of his abdomen clenching under his shirt tails. A low moan escapes him as his other hand flies to cover the head of his cock, and he comes with his eyes screwed shut, looming over you.

He pants, for several moments, before opening his eyes. You sit up, needing, needing more, and you loop your hands around his neck again and pull his lips to yours, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He grunts in surprise, but leans into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours.

You pull back, a smile creeping across your face, and as he opens his eyes, he cannot help the same.

“Is that how your lessons always end?” You laugh as he tucks himself away with his clean hand, leaning to the side to wipe his other hand in the grass as a half a smile creeps across his face.

“Only when the student is difficult.” He rumbles, tucking his shirt back into his pants as you start to pull your skirts down over your thighs.

“Mm.. I do remember you offering to teach me to shoot before Blackwater.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow as he rebuttons his pants and slides his suspenders back up. “Y’gonna be a brat about it?”

“Of course.”

He smirks, reaching for his hat on his knees. You push yourself up to stand, shaking your skirt free of sand and grass as you look for where you tossed your bloomers in your fit of passion.

“Arthur.”

“Mhm?” He replies, running his hand through his long hair before placing his hat back on his head.

“How are we going to get back to shore?”

Hosea smokes a cigarette sitting by the scout fire, the sun having gone down some time ago.

He’s starting to feel a niggle of concern that the two of you aren’t back. The both of you can certainly take care of yourselves.

You’re stalking back toward your tent, your clothes soaking wet, hair plastered down your neck. You refuse to give Hosea even a passing glance as you head back to the women’s tent.

Hosea arches an eyebrow as Arthur walks closer, also fuming. Also soaking wet. The gunslinger looks at Hosea briefly before carrying on.

“Lesson didn’t go as planned.”

#rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fanfic #red dead smut #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #tumblr prompt #drabble #twolafic #gift fic

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dottores · 8 months

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YOU GUYS MUST LOOK AT WHAT TEE GOT ME FOR MY BDAY!!!! SHE GAVE IT TO ME EARLY FOR CONGRATULATIONS ON FINISHING MY FIRST WEEK OF LAW SCHOOL

#i’m going to explain why it’s so special and you all will listen #ONE this is literally based off a little drabble she wrote for me while i was sad and the drabble was my favorite thing ever and it #literally made me cry sobs #TWO look at the DRESS!!!!!! it fits in with all of my other comms and i’m so happy because i love having consistency with my comms it makes #so happy #THREE #she got it from my FAVORITE ARTIST EVER ??? SOBS THATS SO SPECIAL TO ME I LOVE THIS ARTIST SO MUCH SHES MY GO TO ARTIST #and my face looks so pretty and even the couch and the background matches my other comms and i’m sniffling cuz i love it sm 🥹#quite literally the best way to finish off my first week of school 🥹#sobs this is so special to me i’m literally making it the new background on my watch so i can stare at it during class forever #this is the bestest birthday gift ever sobs i cry so hard it’s so thoughtful & in depth with my ss AND my fav artist ever i’m sobbing #— selfships

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blenselche · 23 days

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familiar.

@unicornmachine the brainworms!!!! aaaaa!

She begins to remember things, like how his cracked molar would catch on the tip of her tongue, or the oddly musical pattern of his wake-up joint pops… how he only gentles when you're lathering strawberry scented shampoo into his scalp, how his hands grab with a jarringly insecure hunger. Fi isn't a homewrecker, but her insides twist up with a ferocious, venom coated jealousy upon the dawning realization that magic wasn't the only thing stolen away from their world, pinching herself and digging her knuckles into a dark green bruise she's worked into her thigh at the sight of him happy with someone else. A small, shameful part of her comes alive in the back of her brain, whispering hopefully that he'll remember, too, when his eyes stutter over her face.

#this is a reminder that i will draw your ships and write a little drabble for them so hmu #fiolee #fionna campbell #marshall lee #we've traded ship brainworms lmfao #gift art #i gave him pointed bodymod ears fight me #adventure time with fionna and cake

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xiaosonlybeloved · 1 year

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Arguments- Ayato

featuring:- Kamisato Ayato, fem!Y/N warnings:- angst, fluff, a small argument a/n:- and this, is my birthday gift to @kazuuaki , happy birthday bestie! <3 Enjoy your day! (Was originally gonna make this a breakup but changed my mind~) It's short, I know- but it's all i managed to do

masterlist

“You should take a break, ‘Yato. You’ve been working for hours nonstop.” You said, concerned about your boyfriend. He seemed like he’d had enough, the expression on his face anything but pleasant. Wanting him to unwind for a bit, you suggested, “Maybe we could go for a short walk along the beach? That would surely freshen you up a bit.”

“Get out.” he said coldly, eyes never leaving the countless papers scattered around his desk. “You’re disturbing me. These papers have to reach the Shogun by nightfall, I don’t have to time to rest, and you’re suggesting a walk? Idiot. Can you not see how busy I am?” He hadn’t had a break in ages, was completely sleep deprived (like me), big bags under his eyes and incredibly pissed off in general, increasing your worry for him. You tried again. “‘Yato, that’s why I’m saying you should relax for a bit. Some fresh air would do you good, you’re very agitated right now.” “Of course I am!” He snapped, slamming his hands on his cluttered desk as he stood to look at you. ��You’ve been such a nuisance recently, you know that? Always nagging me, ‘Yato do this, ‘Yato do that. Can’t you take a hint and leave me alone?”

He missed the hurt that flashed in your eyes as you swiveled around. “Alright, Ayato, I’ll leave you alone.” You immediately left and banged the door shut behind you. And leave him alone you certainly did.

~⟬◍⟭~

It was early dawn, and the cold grey light filtered through the windows of Ayato’s dark office. He’d been there the entire night, and had just managed to dispatch that set of papers to Inazuma City. Leaning back in his chair, he thought of how you’d scold him for his unhealthy habits, before he remembered the way he’d snapped at you, and the hurtful things he’d said. Shit, he didn’t mean any of that, if anything, it touched him how you always looked out for him. He really owed you an apology, big time. He walked out of the office for the first time since yesterday’s lunch, and went straight to your quarters, knocking on the door. “Love, are you there? Can I talk to you?” He received no response. “Love?” He tried again.

Just then Thoma passed by, confused on seeing Ayato knocking fruitlessly on your door. “Milord, [Y/N] isn’t here. I believe she mentioned yesterday night that she was going out for a bit, somewhere around Watatsumi Island? It was weird, but she was also acting weird so I let her be. She also added that she had some urgent business there.”

“Oh..” Ayato murmured. “Alright.” But his heart did not calm down, the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach increasing. You two were dating. Surely you’d come back, right? Right?

~⟬◍⟭~

Wrong. It had been days, yet you still hadn’t returned. Ayato grew more and more worried with every passing hour. Were you safe? You hadn’t been ambushed or anything, had you? Were you upset? Were you angry with him? Had he really messed up that bad? Surely he didnt…

A week passed, and Ayato couldn’t take it anymore. He handed over the duties of the Yashiro Commission to Ayaka for a while, and set off for Watatsumi Island on a waverider in the dead of night. It took him an entire day to reach there, frantically searching for his beloved along the way. The moment he docked on the shores of Watatsumi Island, he immediately started searching around for your whereabouts, not even caring about hunger or thirst. Fear was the only thing he felt, a fear of you leaving him. The soldiers looked so confused on seeing the Yashiro Commissioner running around, but did not question it. One helpful recruit told him that she was wandering near the Sangonomiya Shrine, and off he was.

“[Y/N]!” He exclaimed, on finally, finally, catching sight of you sitting beneath a tree, a butterfly perched on your finger. The loud sound he made startled away the butterfly, and you looked up at him, before getting up and walking away without a word. “[Y/N], wait please, can I talk to you, please?” He pleaded, catching up to you. You merely shook off his hand and continued walking. “Why are you here, Kamisato Ayato.” You said coldly. “Your wish was for me to leave you alone, and I did that. Why are you following me then?” “[Y/N], I messed up, I know, can you please hear me out? I never meant any of that, I really didn’t, I swear. I was just really anxious and irritated and worried, and I let it out on you. I swear, I’ve been regretting it with every fibre of my being. I love you, you know that, I love you so much, you can never be a nuisance to me, in fact, you’re my saving grace. If I could take back everything I said, if I could turn back time, I would. [Y/N], please, could you forgive me? Please come back to me? I can’t live without you…”

Your eyes involuntarily softened as you stepped back a bit to observe him. He seemed even more tired and upset than the last time you’d seen him, if that was even possible. But this time, there was desperation painted on his features. “Ayato, you really hurt me, you know that right? I was worried for you, all I was trying to do was help you out. So when you snapped at me, I felt really terrible.” You told him quietly. He instantly said, “I know, I realised that. You have no idea how much I appreciate you always looking out for me. I never ever wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry… I’m really, really sorry [Y/N].” He whispered.

You sighed, extending your arms, hugging him tightly. “Come here, ‘Yato.” , and his heart nearly burst on hearing that nickname again after more than a week. He buried his face in your neck, relishing that warm and soft embrace of yours after so long. You gently ran your hands through his hair. “Apology accepted. But you better not do it again, or else-” “I won’t.” He quickly said. “Did I tell you how much I love that nickname?”

You returned with him to the Yashiro Estate, and ever since then, Ayato had been so much sweeter, always minding his words, and spoiling you rotten, despite your protests. But you accepted it, happy to be with your caring boyfriend again.

hehe kazu, i hoped you liked it, even tho its not much :)

#skylia's works #genshin impact #genshin #genshin angst #genshin fluff #genshin hurt/comfort #genshin ayato #kamisato ayato #ayato #ayato x reader #genshin oneshots #genshin scenarios #genshin drabbles #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #birthday gift for:- kazu #happy birthday kazu!

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storyofmychoices · 8 months

Note

You deserve a nice ask and all the good and beautiful things. I hope you have the best of days and the best of weekends. You are marvelous!! I wrote you a little gift <3

The amber liquid sparkles as I twirl the cut glass tumbler delicately between the fingers. The firelight glows golden when filtered through the bourbon. Somehow the flames make the drink burn hotter and taste smokier than they would normally be.

Or maybe that’s just the quality of the bottle, I think to myself as I glance at the worn label beside my dark green leather chair.

Whatever the case may be, liberating this bottle from the side table in some long forgotten corner of this godforsaken palace had been the best idea and one that still draws a smile to my lips.

I’m beginning to think it’s the tiny jabs and small victories that will be the only thing to see me through this investigation.

I watch, mesmerizing by the refracted light.

It would be easy to find myself disappeared or poisoned in this country.

I look at the liquor again. This is how I’d hide poison. No one would smell death over the pain. Who knew death smelled of almonds and entitlement?

How did I find myself here? I wonder.

How’s that film saying go?

Of all the gin joints…

I sigh. This line of thought ain’t entirely healthy. But fuck if it ain’t true.

Of all the cases to come across my desk, of all the penthouse I could’ve walked into, of all the rich royalty I could have crossed paths with, it had to be him.

Why the fuck did it have to be him?

I finish off the bourbon. It’s a bit of a not all together unpleasant burn. Reminds me I’m alive somehow and, even more so, reminds me just how easily this could be my last case.

Our last case.

I look up to find him still studying the lab report Ruby dropped off. Countless medical books and, I chuckle, a pharmaceutical dictionary laid open as well.

“I just don’t know about this?” he says still concentrating on the report.

“I imagine you don’t know a lot about anything,” I tease. “You probably had your bread buttered on both sides since the day you were born.”

He looks up surprised, but grins when he sees my smirk.

“Why, Lilah, are you messing with me?”

“Me? Never, doll,” I wink.

lksjdf I absolutely love love love this! (even if it's a bit angsty) AHHH

^^^ totally mean when I opened this and started reading, knowing fully well the wonderful person behind the words and the lovely vibe you brought me.

Me to you always ^^^^

I will reblog again in the morning with a proper reblog because I have lots that I need to share about this! (but for now, my puppy has decided that I don't need time for myself to reply to this appropriately!... at least he's cute! ) I didn't want to not reply today so here is my initial thank you post! With many more thoughts coming soon!

Thank you my wonderful friend for always being so lovely and generous!

#crimes of passion #trystan thorne x mc #lilah rose #trystan x lilah #trylah #lovely things #save #keep #gift #drabble gift #gift drabble #lovealexhunt #lilyoffandoms

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steddieas-shegoes · 8 months

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didn't even need a plan

THIS IS A BIG BIG HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR @messessentialist WHO I HAVE HAD IN MY LIFE FOR TWO MINUTES AND IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO HER I WOULD DIE. Short Queens rise up (on a stepladder because that's what we need to reach things)!!! I am kissin you on the mouth rn.

Rated T | 1,315 words | tags: meddling, good uncle Wayne, secret established relationship

“How do they not see it?” Dustin asked, turning away from the scene in front of them to look at Wayne.

“I don’t know, son. Sometimes smart people are dumb,” Wayne shrugged.

Their plan was in place for weeks: get Steve and Eddie in the trailer alone together, cut the power, and hope they don’t leave.

Step one was easy. All they had to do was lie to Steve about Dustin needing a ride.

Step two was a little more difficult, but only because they forgot the trailer next door was on the same breaker. Wayne bribed the owners with enough cash to go get dinner somewhere, glad that they didn’t even ask for an explanation when money was being shoved into their hands.

Step three was the problem.

Steve and Eddie hung out all the time. The problem was they never hung out alone.

Dustin watched as they walked from the living room to the kitchen, then Eddie walked down the hall to his room before rejoining Steve by the couch.

“It’s just us I think,” Eddie said.

Dustin had rigged the walkie talkie so it stayed on, his own sitting between him and Wayne on the lowest possible volume so they could hear.

“So not Upside Down, then,” Steve said, sounding relieved.

“Nope, just good old fashioned unreliable power,” Eddie sighed. “We could probably try to flip the breaker. Maybe it was just a short.”

“Yeah. Maybe we give it a few minutes first?”

Dustin smacked at Wayne’s arm, smiling.

“They’re gonna sit down!” Dustin whispered excitedly.

“Calm down. Could be that nothin’ happens,” Wayne whispered back, though he could feel his own hopes rising.

It was hard to see them through the window, but they could see shadows moving to sit on the couch.

“Something will happen. There’s no way it won’t. They almost kissed yesterday and that was with all of us around,” Dustin insisted.

“That’s what you keep sayin’,” Wayne squinted to watch.

“I really can’t believe Dustin didn’t radio to let me know he found another ride,” Steve didn’t sound angry, but he definitely didn’t sound happy.

“I didn’t even know he needed a ride.”

“Do you know who picked him up?”

“Shit,” Dustin said.

“Didn’t think that through did ya?” Wayne asked, smirk audible.

“Nah, he just left. Didn’t really question it. He does a lot of crazy shit,” Eddie explained.

“Right.”

A minute of somewhat awkward silence followed and then someone slapped their knees.

“I’ll go check the breaker? It’s the one right outside to the left?” Steve asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Dammit,” Wayne said, slowly moving away from the window and sitting down against the side of the trailer.

“Maybe he won’t be able to figure it out,” Dustin said, joining him on the ground.

“He’s definitely gonna figure it out. He’s a smart guy.”

“Who? Steve?”

Wayne looked over at Dustin, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, Steve. Why’re you surprised?”

Dustin shrugged.

“Gonna be honest, it doesn’t sound like you think much of Steve’s intelligence, son.”

Dustin’s eyes widened.

“It’s not that! He just isn’t usually quick to fix stuff.”

Wayne’s brow raised, waiting for Dustin to realize how that sounded.

They were interrupted by Eddie’s voice on the walkie.

“No luck?”

“Nope. Maybe we should try to call someone at one of the neighbor’s?” Steve responded, the sound of him sitting back on the couch barely audible.

“Maybe in a bit. Kind of nice just sitting here,” Eddie said.

“Yeah. Kinda tired,” Steve admitted, the sound of cloth shifting on the couch.

Wayne stood and looked through the window, small smile taking over his face before he sat back down.

“What is it?” Dustin asked, just a bit louder than he probably should have.

“Might get what we wanted after all,” Wayne replied with a smirk.

“Really?”

“Take a look,” Wayne waved up at the window.

Dustin looked in, barely containing a childish squeal when he saw what was happening.

Steve was leaning his head on Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie’s arm around him, running his fingers up and down his bicep, rings glinting off the little bit of light shining through the window.

“Wayne’s out for the night if you wanna stick around,” Eddie said, softer than he had been all night, softer than he’d been to anyone else maybe ever.

“Are you asking if I’ll stay the night, Eds?” Steve’s voice filtered through the walkie, a bit crackly as if he was barely speaking above a whisper.

Dustin turned to Wayne, eyes comically wide.

Wayne just shook his head.

He had an idea of where this was going.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Been too long,” Eddie just managed to say before Wayne snapped the walkie off.

“Why’d you do that?” Dustin hissed.

“Because we’ve been played and you’re too young to be listening to what’s about to happen,” Wayne said as he stood up. “C’mon, I’ll drive ya home.”

“What?! No! We had a plan!”

“We didn’t even need the plan, bud. C’mon.”

Dustin crossed his arms over his chest and started to argue when the window above them opened and Eddie spoke.

“Mind turning on the power before you go?” He asked, teeth bright white in the darkness surrounding them as he grinned.

“How did you know we were out here?” Dustin asked.

“I could hear the echo of the walkie. Plus, you think Steve didn’t already see you when he walked outside?”

“Don’t sound so smug, Ed,” Wayne laughed.

“What exactly was the grand plan?” Eddie crossed his arms over the sill. “Hope we got bored enough to make out on the couch? Maybe if we thought it was dark enough, we wouldn’t think about who we were kissing?”

“Yes!” Dustin exclaimed, though Wayne remained completely silent.

“And you didn’t think that we do that with the lights on already? Like, for months?”

Dustin sputtered out his best attempt at words, but failed miserably.

“You broke him,” Steve said from behind Eddie, smiling over his shoulder at Dustin and Wayne.

“So. Months?” Wayne asked as Dustin continued muttering incoherently to himself.

“Officially only two. But we first kissed when I was still in the hospital,” Eddie admitted, turning his head to place a kiss on Steve’s cheek.

“But. But. That was five months ago!” Dustin was pacing, kicking up dirt under his feet as he tried to figure out the timing of everything and how he could have missed the most obvious signs. “You’re never even alone that much!”

“We find ways,” Eddie said.

“I work a lot of nights still,” Wayne said to Dustin. “Why didn’t ya say anything?”

“We just wanted something for ourselves for a bit. We’re in this for the long haul and if everyone knew, we’d never find peace to just be together,” Steve said.

“But-”

“Alright, son, let’s get the power on and I’ll take ya home. These two probably want some privacy,” Wayne interrupted, squeezing his shoulder once to get his attention.

Dustin sighed.

“Fine. But you have to tell everyone soon. I can’t keep this a secret for that long.”

“Sure thing, bud,” Steve agreed before turning away from the window.

“You sure you can take him home?” Eddie asked Wayne.

“That’s the only part of the plan that’s workin’ so far, so yeah,” Wayne laughed.

Eddie nodded and waved before closing the window and following Steve.

Wayne walked over to the breaker box and flipped the switch, turning to Dustin and waving him over.

“C’mon. Don’t think we wanna be here in the next five minutes.”

“Gross. They’re like…my dads or something. That’s disgusting,” Dustin gagged as he walked to Wayne’s truck.

“Yeah, well. Maybe you’ll get a new sibling.”

“That isn’t how science works.”

“Yeah, well. We got a whole other world under our feet, kid. I think science is far out of our understanding.”

Dustin didn’t respond.

He didn’t want to even consider Wayne being right.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #drabble #ficlet #gift fic

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plant-acts · 3 months

Text

After the success of the first QSMP Gift Exchange, I am proud to announce that we are back for round two!

This months theme will be ❤️VALENTINE'S DAY!!!❤️

Starting now, if you are not a writer, you will be able to gift artwork instead!

Be sure to fill out the form below if you are interested in joining, OR checking out the Discord server for future projects!

❤️(An A03 account is not needed for fic's!)

⚠️We DO NOT allow proshippers at all!⚠️

⚠️No NSFW in gift submissions.⚠️

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rookthorne · 1 year

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭

Fae folk had lived on this land since time immemorial, but for all the time you had lived in your little nook of the woodland, you had only seen one man brave the trail. And for his kindness to all who lay in his path, creature and legend alike, you wanted to give the hunter a gift.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ⇁ Viking!Bucky Barnes x Fae!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ⇁ 500

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ⇁ Fluff

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ⇁ I loved writing this.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ⇁ Algir — Tognatale by Warduna

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ⇁ @the-slumberparty One Word Drabble — Masterlist

𝑾𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺 ⇁ 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐨𝐠𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Viking had unknowingly visited your home many times before, though it seemed he did not know, nor see you, watching from the protection of a bush.

Intricately braided dark hair adorned his head, woven amongst the ink decorating his scalp and neck - a warrior’s signet, you knew. Many men who had discovered your home bore the same intricacies, but never had you seen one like him.

The pelt of a bear covered his broad shoulders, while a flowing black cape covered the leather of his armour. Your people had been forbidden to interact with such men many, many centuries ago, you knew this, but it did nothing to abate the temptation.

His mount, a fiery steed with four strong legs and a thick neck, snorted proudly as the man urged him towards your creek; the loud hoofbeats echoed on the rocks like claps of thunder.

“Easy, easy,” the man soothed. His voice sounded honeyed and rich. “Not long now, boy.”

The steed turned and stomped his hoof as the man dismounted swiftly, with grace and an elegance that you had seen only in fae folk. Bloodied pelts littered the steed’s back, as well as cuts of meat - no doubt the spoils of the man’s hunt to take back to his people.

You watched curiously when he neared a wide part of the creek, deep enough for rocks to litter the bed, as well as your gift; a pristine animal skull, white as ivory and bleached by the power of Sol.

The man knelt on to the grassy bank of the creek, and he paused suddenly. “What is this?”

A strong inked hand reached forward from the cloak and into the flowing water of the creek, retrieving your gift with intrigue. His eyes were as bright and blue as the sky, crisper than ice, as they roved over the skull.

You gasped quietly when his focus turned to his surroundings, his dark hair flowing from his shoulders as he peered around. “Thank you,” he said, loud enough for his voice to echo through the trees.

The steed snorted and knickered loudly, and your gaze flickered from the man’s face to his horse, only to see the horse staring right at you, its ears twitching back and forth.

“What is it, boy?” The man pondered, standing from the bank to soothe his steed. “We will be home soon.” You breathed a small sigh of relief as you watched the man gather the steed’s reins in his hand and mount up, but it was short lived, for the horse did not look away when the reins were pulled taut.

“Koma, boy,” the man insisted, scratching at the twitching ears of his horse. “What are you looking at?” He followed his horse’s gaze and found you, peering at him through a gap in the bush.

“Ah, there you are, little mouse. Thank you, for the gift,” he said softly.

At the Viking’s retreat, you couldn’t help but hope you would see him again.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes drabble #viking bucky #fae reader #rookthorne's works #The Gift

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cthulhusstepmom · 9 months

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Fae!Soap Superstitious Bastard! Ghost: Gifts

(Just a heads up this got way more intense than I meant it to but that’s kind of the Fae for you.)

TW: mentions of torture, human remains

Soap is a collector, though not of any one thing that Ghost can discern. He’s seen the man pick up anything from an abandoned rolex to a nondescript piece of broken glass. It doesn’t seem to be about size, it’s not shape and definitely not value; Ghost had thought he’d pinned it down as things that caught the light a certain way but was swiftly proven wrong when Soap went on a spree of collecting pebbles and sticks. He’d glared sullenly at the first jagged gray rock when Soap had picked it up before swiftly changing the subject when he was noticed. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to any of it… well not quite. There was one singular pattern that stood out in his mind, a single thread that held firm no matter how much he rearranged or plucked at it.

Anything that Ghost gave him, Johnny kept.

The first had been a bit of pretty blue ribbon that was a close enough approximation to Soap’s eyes. It’d snagged on a bramble bordering the clearing where Ghost had set up for overwatch. Without even thinking he’d snagged it on his way to RV down the hill, offering it to Johnny in the armored car taking them back to base. Soap hadn’t said a thing. It was then that Ghost realized maybe giving your subordinate a piece of trash you’d found in a bush perhaps wasn’t the most well adjusted way to express affection. He’d been about to play it off with a quip, beginning to retract his fingers ever so slightly, when Johnny snatched it lightning quick from the palm of his hand, holding it close to his chest for a moment before stuffing it into his chest pocket next to his journal. Soap had given him a small strangled “Thank you” as they sat the rest of the ride in an awkward but warm silence. Johnny disappeared almost immediately after they got back to base but Ghost could see light in the space under his door so he wasn’t too worried that he’d done permanent damage to their relationship.

After that his eyes just seemed to catch on things that he assumed Johnny would like. He couldn’t help it. Little glass marbles, a river stone with an interesting marking, a large brown feather; Somehow it all made its way into the hands of his Sergeant. Usually with a gruff “Here”, barely waiting for Johnny to hold out his hands before he dropped his small offering into his gloved palms. Soap has also gotten over whatever his episode of silence had been, responding with a blinding smile and enthusiastic gratitude and a happy quip. (“Thanks Lt!” a piece of antler, Montana “Y’ shouldn’t have!” an old toy car, Finland “Find this on sale?” a scrap of pink fabric, Brazil “Ghost you’re spoiling me.” green river stone, India etc.(no he didn’t catalog all of them that would be creepy. He only wrote down his favorites.))

The next time Ghost thinks he’s permanently damaged their relationship and scared Soap off for good comes after an operation sweeping out an AQ base in Afghanistan.

It’s stuffy and dark, the blistering heat of the day beginning to fade into the bitter chill of the night. The compound has long since been abandoned by all but the stubbornest of rats, slowly being reclaimed by the wild desert it carved its blackness into. They roll into the courtyard through the open front gate, the outer walls have seen multiple breacher charges and calling them walls at this point is more out of respect than any dedication to accuracy. The whole place has already been swept by drone and Laswell has had satellite eyes on it for months confirming just how fucking dead it is. They’re here for information, the drone identified documents left behind as well as at least two hard drives.

The 141 has split off, each clearing their own section and radioing in at even intervals, they’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to be safe than sorry. Beyond extra caution, the whole place has an eerie, black aura that drags forth memories of scorpion stings and dull knives biting at his flesh. Assisting in his nightmarish stroll down memory lane, Ghost is assigned the lower levels of the compound. Each room is another scene from a past he tries to forget, filled with rusted over implements of pain and brown stains no one cared to clean.

Something in the last room makes him pause.

A small barred window allows light from a waning moon to pool into the room, catching on something on the table. Small, most no bigger than his fingernail, a collection of about five objects sits in a tray on the corner of the table. Brilliant white patches shine in stark opposition to the bed of rust brown they lay on.

Teeth. Human teeth.

His mind is acting on autopilot when grabs them and stuffs them in a pocket, so similar but so different to his first experience with the ribbon months ago. He finishes his sweep of the room, conveying his findings back on comms (“Seems like we’re late for the party.” “If only you didn’t take so long to get ready.”-Soap “Shut the fuck up the both of you I just saw a rat the size of a terrier.”-Gaz “I’ve got the hard drives if any of you fuckers remember why we’re here.”-Price), and turns back to rendezvous, his mind now firmly on finding his comrades and getting the hell out.

As they start readying themselves to duck into the humvees they arrived in, Ghost’s muscle memory kicks in to complete his self assigned mission objective. He turns to where Soap stands almost expectantly at his side. It’s not every mission that he has something he’s decided is a worthy offering but it has become more often than not. Mind already halfway back to base, a gloved hand chases down each tooth where they’ve burrowed themselves in the pocket of his tac vest, collecting them and dropping them in Soap’s proffered hand with a grunt. His brain turns back on when the bloody bones hit his Sergeant’s glove, panicking because what the fuck did he just do? What kind of fucking sociopath gives his friend(more?) human fucking teeth as a souvenir. Much less human fucking teeth that were pulled forcibly out of some poor bastard’s skull during a bygone torture session.

His hand is trembling.

Ghost forces himself to look down and meet Soap’s assuredly outraged and disgusted gaze.

Only he doesn’t.

Johnny is staring down at the teeth in his palm with a look of fucking reverence. His pupils are dilated beyond just the darkness surrounding them and Ghost’s detail oriented eyes catch the slight flare of his nostrils on every inhale. Soap slowly tilts his head up to meet Ghost’s eyes and a gasp lives and dies in his throat.

“Oh Simon, you treat me so well.” His voice is gravelly and thrumming with an emotion that Ghost doesn’t know the name of. But, god if this is the look he gets after bringing Johnny desiccated human remains?

He’ll rip the teeth out of some unworthy son of a bitch himself.

#Soap may be the one who is inherently Other but Ghost is fucked up too #I adore deeeply fucked up Ghost™#almost as much as soft Ghost #Soap is one lucky man #he's just sitting here happily obsessed with his human and then Ghost just up and gives him a courting gift #in folklore giving fairies gifts is a 50/50 chance to get them to go away #i however would like to introduce you to a secret third option: love #Also I'm like 60% certain I'm going to do sort of a mix of snippets here leading up to like a three shot culmination posted on Ao3 #would yall like that? would you prefer all on tumblr? do you even want story or just more little drabbles?#Fae!Soap #superstitious bastard!Ghost #cod mw2 #soapghost #tw torture #tw human dentition

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