#not me being bitter before noon

[woewriting]

𝗮𝗺𝗮𝗲 (𝗶𝗶) | 𝖼𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 & 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

cairo's actions continue to frustrate you, but when unspoken words are finally said out loud, you understand her.

tags. mdni! jumpscare: mr. miller, sexual tension, a bit of angst, jealous cairo, small reader x winnie situation, scisorring, face riding (cairo receiving), language, smut in general, brief softness. | word count. 4619

part 1 . part 2 | masterlist

Apparently, college parties were a bit different in Tennessee, which was a sweet surprise to you. Different from the ones you were used to back in your hometown, this one was hosted at the English professor’s house  — you noticed as soon as you opened the front door, a picture of him with his wife near the entrance.

You raised your eyebrows when you bumped into your professor, an apologetic smile on his face.

“I didn't see you there, I'm sorry.” He touched your arm in a weak squeeze before placing his hand back in his pocket, the other holding a red mug.

“It's okay, Mr. Miller. I didn't know you would be here.” 

“I always host this reading before the actual party. My wife and I will go on a weekend trip and Winnie asked if she could host a ‘small’ gathering; apparently, the house they usually go to for the party is unavailable. Beatrice left after noon. Smart decision of hers.” You laughed at his expression, knowing damn well it would be anything but small. You could tell by the faces around you that you never saw in any of his classes or readings before. They didn’t exactly fit the ‘tortured-poet’ profile “Are you joining us for the reading? It started a few minutes ago, I just came to the kitchen to get some more coffee. Cairo should start at any moment.”

At the mention of her name, you felt a bitter taste in your mouth and you took a deep breath. 

A week had passed since the girl sat on your lap, kissed you, allowed you to touch her and then started acting as if nothing happened. During classes, you could feel her eyes on you, that uncomfortable feeling of being watched taking over your senses every five minutes, as if she was waiting for you to turn around and smile at her.

But you didn't. You avoided her like the plague. As soon as the class ended, you gathered your materials, plugged in your earphones and left without looking back. 

Winnie complained a few times about your sudden avoidance of her and Cairo, asking non stop what had happened, if she did something that got you upset, but all you could do was apologize and say you had a lot on your mind with finals and assignments with a short deadline. It wasn't a full lie, but the girl could see the change in your expressions.

And now, all that hard work to avoid the brunette would go downhill as she was waiting a couple steps away from where you were standing, waiting for Mr. Miller's returnal so she could read what she had prepared for tonight.

“Cairo and I aren't in the best place right now, if I'm being honest. I didn't know she would be here.” 

“Oh…” The man scratched his chin. “I didn't know that, I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do to help, don't hesitate in asking. I know Cairo, she can be… stubborn.”

You bit the inside of your cheeks at the statement. During your first days in Mr. Miller's class, Winnie kept you updated on the strange relationship Cairo had with your now professor; on how starstruck the young writer was at being close to someone she admires and looks up to. It was uncomfortable seeing how close he would be to her, making your stomach twist inside you with anxiety, yet there was nothing you could do as she seemed happy to be noticed by him. 

When you asked about this whole situation to Cairo, trying to disguise your reactions, she told you: “he is someone I admire and I know he can help me with my writing. I look forward to our meetings as I have his attention all to myself.” You gave her a small smile that nearly made your eyes shake. Just like now.

You blinked a few times, pursing your lips together. 

“We'll be fine.” You decided to answer, not truly believing in that. “But I appreciate the offering, Mr. Miller.”

“Anytime.” 

“Does your wife know that soon her house will have drunk people stumbling against the walls?” You asked in an attempt to ease the sudden awkward silence.

“God, no.” He laughed.

“I’ll try to keep the glass decoration in one piece.” Once again his hand rested on your arm for a few seconds in a silent ‘thank you’ before he checked the silvery watch on his wrist. 

“The reading is almost finished. Walk with me?”

Unable to deny the request, you simply nodded, walking in front of the professor as he motioned to you. 

The second you arrived in the living room, your eyes landed on her like a magnet. It might be because she was standing in the improvised stage by the window, or because of the deadly stare she locked on you when you walked in with Mr. Miller by your side. If she had a laser in her eyes, you'd be a sieve by now with thick blood covering the dark wood floor. 

A hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you to the corner. Winnie smiled at you, saying she saved you a seat by her side on the couch even though she wasn’t sure you'd be here for the reading. The childish side of yours screamed for you to answer her with: “if I knew she would be here, I wouldn't have come” in a very annoying voice, but you only smiled at her, squirming in the leather couch. 

The room was in complete silence, waiting for the girl staring at you to start her reading. Cairo took a deep breath, licking her dry lips to start. The sun was starting to descend on the window behind her, transforming that whole scene into a beautiful portrait that your mind would keep for as long as you could remember.

“And as I witness her most intense intentions through dark eyes, with hands marking mine own peachy skin in a bruising grasp, I fall asunder above her. My body; weak, begging, pleading for her merciless touch as I watch her slam the door shut. The smell of something burning fills the walls, yet it's not the smoke that leaves my lungs, it's the fog that fills as I turn, fated to fall and fated to fail, and wish for her gaze, my resolute resistance scrawled in sand, tumbling through her open hands just as through the neck of our hourglass.

From the high, the grayness takes form; thick, lascivious, dangerous. The unsureness of faith buries words that one day I aim to say. Miserable thing, watching with tearful eyes as she leaves. The tree branches knock on the window, witnessing the whole pitiful scene engraved in my memory.”

You paid attention to every word she enunciated with a strong, determined voice, it felt like she was trying to open your skull and carve each one onto your brain matter. You felt dizzy at them, heart beating fast against your ribcage. While everyone applauded the young writer, you clenched your jaw, swallowing nothing that would help your sudden dry mouth. 

Cairo smiled, the type of smile that would make anyone drop to their knees and pray for her. Winnie was excited by your side, the subtle scent of alcohol you smelled on her made you laugh. The girl was loud and, at the moment, when all eyes turned to you two, you regretted sitting by her side. From across the living room, your eyes met hers again, now sat beside Mr. Miller while he whispered something in her ear to which she smiled wide, turning to him. 

As another student took over the stage, you couldn’t absorb any words that were said, disappearing into thin air. All you could focus on was Cairo’s hand occasionally touching his forearm when she leaned to say something in his ear, earning a quiet laugh from the professor, the urge to stand up and drag her away from that bothering situation, instead you walked to the kitchen in hopes to find a single drop of alcohol that would make that tension vanish from your body. Soon, Winnie joined you. 

“This is so boring, my God!” She whined, sitting up on the kitchen island while eyeing you up and down in the bright light for the first time. “You’re  overdressed as usual, I see.”

“Your underwear as usual, I see.” Winnie spread her legs as long as the short leather skirt allowed her to, giving you the high quality view of a lacy underwear as she takes the vodka bottle from your hands, taking a long sip, feeling the burning spreading over her chest with a satisfied hum.

“You like?”

You let out a huff, looking away. “You wish.”

“I will kiss you one day.” She said more to herself than to you, like a secret promise that escaped due to the lack of inhibition — not that she had any, even in her sober moments that word didn't exist in her vocabulary.

Shaking your head at her statement, you pulled the sleeves of your sweater, taking the half empty bottle from her hands and getting ready to prepare yourself a drink that didn’t taste like a slow death. 

The reading kept on until the sun was completely set in the horizon, turning the living room into a dark scenario, lit only by the yellowish color from the table lamps. Slowly, the students started leaving while others arrived, walking in the house with bottles and bottles of alcohol, storing them in the kitchen’s fridge.

While you paid attention to the cup in your hands, wondering how long it would take for you to detach from the reality that was drowning you, you felt a bump on your shoulder.

“What is it?” 

Winnie signalized with her head, making you look over your shoulder, witnessing Cairo and Mr. Miller talking near the stairwell that would lead to the second floor of the house. 

“I think he wants to take her upstairs.”

“She can do whatever she wants, Winnie.” You mumbled, trying not to squeeze the cup in your hand when taking a sip. The bitterness making you frown. “Cairo is a big girl.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“What do you mean?” Turning back to her, your eyebrows sewn together in confusion.

“Because she won’t stop looking at us.” You shrugged, finishing your drink in one long sip. You felt your stomach complain at the big wave of alcohol. 

“She can disappear with him for all I care.”

Winnie tilted her head, still looking at the two of them with narrowed eyes. “Oh, so I shouldn’t say they’re going upstairs and she seems pretty excited about it?”

“Yup, not a single thought about it is on my mind right now.” Grabbing the bottle again from her hands, less subtle and emptier than the first time, you poured yourself a very generous sip on your cup, drowsy smiling to Winnie when you handed over the, now completely empty, bottle. 

As the minutes went by and the alcohol went in, your control over your senses were slowly losing its grip and you started to worry about Cairo against your will. Controlling the impulse to run upstairs as you weren’t drunk enough to blame on the booze, you shook your head, leaning your body against Winnie’s while the girl talked excitedly to a random boy from the football team, your mind too caught up analyzing the things the young writer said earlier to pay attention to any conversation around you. 

The music wasn't loud enough as the professor still hadn't left, but you could feel every beat of it synchronized with the beat of your heart. 

Your fingers found the skin of Winnie's thigh, starting to draw random lines out of boredom. Other than the girl, and Cairo, you weren't familiar with the faces that kept on surging from the front door every five minutes.

“If you keep doing that, I'll drag you upstairs too.” Black whispered, making you tilt your chin up at her.

“Maybe you should.” 

Winnie was beautiful, you couldn't deny that. From the hazel eyes to the plump lips that looked so attractive at that moment, getting closer and closer, making a tingling feeling crawl over your legs like a spider. You wanted to kiss her, and you would have, if it weren't for the footsteps coming from behind you, making Black pull away. You knew it was Mr. Miller, the strong perfume making your nose burn. 

The older man stood in front of you, looking at Winnie who was still seated on the marble island, an innocent glow in her eyes that almost made you laugh, but a hand wrapping around your wrist pulled you away from that situation. All you could hear as you were being dragged to the — now empty — living room was Mr. Miller asking the girl to behave and to not destroy his house or he would fail her. You laughed to yourself.

“Did you seriously allowed Mr. Miller to take me upstairs?” Cairo asked, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater like a spoiled kid when you refused to look at her, waving at the professor when he turned around to leave, leaving the house and a bunch of teenagers and new-adults unsupervised.

Your eyes were dark and your body a little soft when you stared at her, yet you still were in control of your actions, the drinks just diminished the worry of doing or saying something wrong. At that point, you didn't care about what left your mouth. You wanted to curse the young writer.

“He's our English teacher, not a serial killer.”

“He could've forced me to do something!”

“You seemed pretty excited to go with him. Now, excuse me, I'm gonna find Winnie so we can finish what we were about to start.” Before you could walk past a furious Cairo, her hand, once again, glued to your chest.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You blew me off, Cairo. What did you expect? That I would run after you and beg for your attention?"

"Yes!"

You let out a breathy sigh, the corner of your lips up in disbelief. "You really are so self-centered, you don't care about anyone other than yourself. You're a fucking bitch!"

"And you're dying to fuck this self-centered bitch."

"Not after Mr. Miller, thank you." You scolf sarcastically.

"He didn't fuck me, you idiot.” The hand in your chest grabbed the fabric of your sweater, pulling you down to her so she could whisper with lips nearly pressing on yours. “He wasn't you." 

Her eyes softened as well as the fist that held you in place, moving it to the back of your head. 

Staring at her eyes, you didn't know what to find. You didn't even know what you wanted to find. Maybe a sincere answer.

“Cairo…” You started, sighing against her lips, closing your eyes for a brief moment, trying to gather cohesive words to form a sentence. You blamed the alcohol for this pathetic lack of senses. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to care. I want you to show how desperate you are to have me, how you crave my body in your hands.” You swallowed hard, carefully listening to the whispery confession, the soft motion of her lips grabbing your attention. Once again, you wanted to steal that small freckle from her upper lip. “I want you to burn my skin with your fingers and bruise me with your mouth. And if you really wanted me to be yours, you would've turned around, thrown me on that fucking bed and taken me.” The strong pronunciation of that last part got your body heating up, the urge in your chest spreading in your veins and mixing with the existing alcohol. 

“You’re not very clear in your intentions, Cairo. You’re good at saying everything and nothing.”

Taking your hand, the writer pressed it against her chest. She took a deep breath, goosebumps covering her body at the warm feeling of having your hand touching her again.

“Can you feel that?” You nodded, letting your forehead gently fall against hers. “Do you understand now or do I have to draw it for you?”

Suddenly, your brain became fogged and you were getting lost again. You saw dark brown eyes. You felt a strong bumping in your hands. You smelled woody cologne and cinnamon. Yet, you didn't know where to go. 

“I want you to draw for me.” You said, desperately trying to find the right path.

Cairo nodded her head, pulling you with her once again, but this time, with her fingers intertwined on yours and more gentle than the first time. You trailed behind, careful to not trip on the stairs as she led the both of you somewhere you didn't know, the lights were off on the second floor, making impossible for you to see anything that wasn't right in front of you.

You heard the sound of a door opening and being locked once closed. The moonlight was invading the room through the open curtains. Blinking a few times to adjust the blurred vision, you felt your body being pushed against a soft mattress and a lightweight on top of you.

“I'll draw it for you.” Cairo whispered, pressing her lips on yours in a chaste kiss. “Do you have any idea of what you do to me?” She asked while kissing down your neck, your hands squeezing her waist over the cotton fabric. You shook your head, licking your dry lips, still tasting her lip balm on them. “Here, let me show it to you.” 

Cairo sat on your hips, guiding one of your hands under the white dress, in between her legs. Flashbacks returned and your heart stopped beating for a second while she moved herself on your fingertips, eyes locked on yours, a smirk surging in the darkness. When you moaned at the warmth that embraced your fingers, she did the same.

You breathed out the air that was stuck in your lungs, affected by the scene that unwrapped in front of your eyes. It was a erotic, alluring view, slowly burning itself into your brain like a polaroid. A flash of smile drew on Cairo’s face, satisfied with the reactions coming from you, with the way your eyes stared at her with a dark, flame of desire, lips parted as you struggled to breath.

The cold touch of her rings sent shivers down your spine when her hand wrapped itself around your neck, pressing the sides of it, feeling the pulsating vein under her fingertips. A sob escaping her throat when your fingers easily slipped into her, burying themselves in the warmth of her velvety walls, clenching around you, while the heel of your hand pressed against her swollen clit.

A vile glow shining in the dark brown eyes when she leaned down, squeezing the sides of neck harder as she felt the knot inside her getting tighter. That feeling of desperation growing impatient in her chest.

“Have I lost myself, or have I gained you?” You asked in a soft voice, following a steady pace with your fingers as she moved herself on you. Even when you were the one carrying her in your hands, it was hers that controlled the air in your lungs. 

You’ve always seen Cairo as a spoiled girl that grew up in a big house, having all her wishes wrapped in a pretty paper waiting for her on her bed when she came home from school. But now, as she falls apart in your hands, saying your name like a sacred mantra, you saw beyond words and actions, you saw the urge to be held and cared for, like a little girl that didn’t get a hug after they wake up.  

Staring at her in awe, you felt tears coming to the brim of your eyes, the squeeze cutting every small space for the air to bring you life, but you didn't care, not when you saw the vision of what heaven must be like; the curly brown hair falling over her right shoulder, the soft strands tickling the skin of your neck as she fell over you, hiding on your chest.

Coming down from her high, Cairo carried a sly smile when she looked at you. Her kiss tasted like ashes, bitter, against your tongue. 

“You taste sweet.” The writer whispered in between kisses, sucking your tongue into her mouth over and over, sighing in pleasure at the fingers that slid off of her. Carefully bringing your coated fingers to your mouth, you wrapped your lips around them, being watched with full blown eyes every movement of yours.

“And you taste divine.” 

It only took a millisecond for her lips to meet yours once again, the softness of the act long forgotten as she bit your lower lip, tasting the iron in her tongue with a sadistic smile at the painful cry you let out, squeezing her ass in your hands; burning the peachy skin with your fingertips. The words of her writing echoing inside your brain, spreading it on your blood flow. 

“I like this sweater, you look charming in dark blue.” Her hand found the collar of it, tip of her fingers tracing the skin underneath, making the fabric itch around your neck. “Take it off.” Despite the sweet tone in her voice, you obeyed the breathy order, pulling it over your head and tossing it somewhere in the unknown bedroom. Cairo stood up, removing the brown leather boots and her own dress, the white lacey set that remained on her body making you gulp. 

The writer stood in between your legs, her hands on your hair while yours held her by her waist, goosebumps all over her body as you kissed the toned abs, softly biting the skin.

Cairo looked down at you with curious eyes, the tip of her tongue trapped between her teeth, admiring the small galaxies your mouth left all over her like she was an empty canvas that needed some color. And you were doing the perfect job, painting an universe on her skin as you knelt down, bringing her underwear along with it. The writer kicked the useless cloth, putting her leg over your shoulder and hooking it behind your head; you salivated at the view of her cunt glistening in front of you. 

One of her hands caressed your face with gentleness, her thumb sliding over your bottom lip before she made you open your mouth, pushing her hips closer to your lips. She was dripping on your tongue, the taste of her filling your mouth as you hummed in pleasure, licking what escaped your agape mouth. 

The big brown eyes stared at you in flames, burning your skin into a bright scarlet crimson. You nudge your nose closer to her, inhaling the intoxicating smell; everything about Cairo was sweet, from her last name, to her voice that could recite the most beautiful poem by core, to the honey flavor slick that dripped from her aching hole, running down her thighs at the view of you ready to worship her, and when your tongue slid in between her folds in a long, slow lick, her head fell back and a shiver went down her spine. 

Pressing your tongue flat over her hardened nub, you closed your eyes, the grip on your hair pulling you impossibly closer. You circled her clit with the tip of your tongue, drawing random patterns with precision on the sensitive nerve, earning yourself a praise that came with a smile when she looked down on you. 

Moving your hands up her thigh, you squeezed the muscle, making her ride on your tongue, aggressively and delicious. The sounds escaping your open mouth reverberated all over her sensitive flesh. 

Cairo was an exhibitionist, she adored having eyes on her all the time, paying attention to every admirable detail that was attached to her. And having you on your knees praying against her cunt was filthy, enticing and agonizing, that heat wave scorching her insides and melting on your tongue, and you made sure to swallow it with a gratifying smile.

You could suffocate in between her legs and it would be a heavenly death. 

Kissing your way up, you brought her body closer, circling her waist as she hooked both legs around you, sliding her tongue over your shiny lips before you dropped her on the bed. Cairo was about to complain at the lack of care, but she soon shut her mouth, watching you kick your converse to the side and unbuttoning the tailored pants that hugged your curves in the right places.

Taking a deep breath, you slid the fabric down, taking your underwear with you, the shyness taking over you once you were free from any cloth covering your body; all this being watched with lustful eyes. 

The young writer’s eyes pierced your soul, engraving in her brain every mole you had around your shoulders, silently choosing her favorite one to add to the list of small details of your body she loved and kept fresh in her memories, always making sure to add ‘em in her writing. It amazes her how you never noticed the importance you had in her work, you were her muse. 

“Come to me.”

She didn’t have to ask twice, at the sound of her sweet voice your feet led your body closer to hers, moving according to her words, your knees sinking in the mattress only to find balance on top of her.  Her hands on your back brought you closer and you fell, once again, into that piquant feeling where it felt like you were about to drown, but her lips on your neck got you breathing in fervor. 

It was easy for the brunette to take control, reversing positions and sitting atop your abdomen, gripping one of your legs and casting one of hers in between them, fitting herself against you. 

“Fuck, Cairo.” You mewl, closing your eyes at the aggressive way she pressed herself down, easily gliding on you. One of your hands found her thigh, squeezing the flesh until it blemished under your fingertips, moving your hips according to the pace she set. It was cruel, desperate, the dark brown eyes fluttering closed. 

The bed slammed against the wall, the old wood-frame fated to snap at any moment; you didn’t care, it was impossible to focus on anything that wasn’t the girl in between your legs, rubbing herself on you with an inner desire to split you in half. You dazed at her, the angelical aura surrounding her like an armor, preventing the sins from escaping the walls of the still unknown bedroom like the squelching noises were, the lewd sounds from the both of you echoing around the hallway for anyone that dared to come closer and press their ears against the locked door. 

When the impetuous climax hit you like a jolt of electricity spreading in your veins, Cairo fell on top of you, exhaustion taking over her senses as well as the tired muscles complaining from all the spasms. 

The writer looked at you, tearful eyes as you soothed her bare back with an equally pleasured expression. Your bodies were weak, relying on each other at such a delicate and overwhelming moment, marked in black and blue by your hands and mouth, a greedy memory that will last. And if it ever vanishes, like the galaxies made out of bruises, all you needed to do is knock on her window.

#✍️ #cairo sweet #woewriting #amae #basorexia #cairo sweet x reader #cairo sweet x female reader #cairo sweet x fem reader #cairo sweet x gn reader #cairo sweet x gender neutral reader #cairo sweet x you #cairo sweet x y/n #wlw #miller's girl #cairo x reader #cairo x female reader #cairo x fem reader #cairo x gn reader #cairo x gender neutral reader #cairo x you #cairo x y/n #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x female reader #jenna ortega x fem reader #jenna ortega x gender neutral reader #jenna ortega x gn reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #fem reader

[onlyswan]

summary: in which sour and salt could be so sweet when jungkook’s existence reminds you that there is still good in the world.

> fluff, a pinch of angst, suggestive / wc: 3.1k

> warnings: mention of the doctor bc oc missed their period >:(, allusion to s/x, making out, jungkook doing pull ups must be a warning for the faint hearted like me

note: we’re going through the seasons?! partly inspired by #that live and jungkook for calvin klein <3 we’ve all seen those pictures right… right… i hope the onlyswan prophecy continues with this drabble i need to see jungkook do pull ups at the beach <3 + reblogs & feedback are always appreciated :D

—

jungkook is a sunkissed daydream and a shirtless adonis. his tender hands are on your bare thighs, keeping himself steady on the light brown sand while you sit still and look pretty on a log.

“baby, are you pregnant?”

when a man spits out this question, it usually sounds a little bit something like an anxious and insensitive ‘you’re not pregnant, are you?’ your starry-eyed boyfriend is asking you in a calm tone, joking for the most part, yet genuine wonder is painted on his face as if you’re just supposed to tell him what day of the week it is.

you stare at him with a blank expression, silent for a moment as the fierce waves crash on the shore, finding it difficult to take him seriously. “i don’t know. did you break a condom?”

he breaks eye-contact to space out, pursing his lips as he pretends to be immersed in deep thought.

“uhh, not to my knowledge.”

“then i’m not.” you shrug your shoulders with a cheeky grin, scrunching your nose. “will you steal some mangoes for me now, please?”

“is my baby craving for them that bad?” he coos at you softly, inching closer to press a kiss on your lips. “no but why do you always ask me to steal mangoes for you?”

“what do you mean ‘always’? this is only the second time.” you scoff, offended by the accusation, shoving him lightly but he quickly takes a hold of your arms to save himself from falling.

he chuckles lightheartedly, recounting the first time you visited his hometown and you took a walk around his neighborhood together. you looked at the mango tree with so much longing, and he had so much love for you, it was untameable.

nothing much has changed.

except for the color of the mangoes, perhaps. they were yellow back then, ripe and soft. you ripped off the fragile skin with your bare hands as you devoured the nectar-filled fruit, and the both of you came home to his parents’ house sticky and satiated like little kids who played under the sun from noon to afternoon. today, they’re green and plump, and truthfully, his mouth is watering for a taste.

“you know, since the tree is directly infront of our villa-” he tilts his head to the side, briefly looking at your temporary private residence. “it’s technically ours, so it’s not stealing.”

your eyes are glitter with mischief, and they communicate without words before you burst into a fit of revitalizing giggles, filling your empty tummy with a childlike joy.

—

for a while before jungkook, you’d forgotten people are kind. you chose to live for yourself, and yourself only, because you thought that if you lose sight of your plans for the future because of a impetuous slip within the thrill of temptation, you would also lose the essence of your being that you’re actively fighting so hard to get a good grasp of. you’re in a never-ending, excruciating process of picking apart your identity; detaching yourself from what you learned in the past to make room for growth; and swallowing bitter pills of hard-taught lessons. but when you’re in a relationship, every decision goes through a filter, a need for an answer to the question of how would this make my partner feel?

your friends still ask from time to time, what it is about jungkook that made you bend this principle and compromise your plans when those were the reasons you impulsively ended relationships in the past.

you’d forgotten people are kind.

jungkook is messy. he always leaves behind a fragment of his heart, and you shake your head and you pick up each one to stuff it in the shallow pocket of your understanding of love… until the weight of them destroyed said pocket, and all of a sudden, you have awoken. he opened your eyes to the underlying implication of that filter, how having something sacred to protect is also what makes life more worth living after all.

more than two hours ago, at seven in the morning, he held back your hair while you emptied your guts in the toilet bowl. a week ago, he held your hand in the doctor’s waiting room and didn’t let go until your name was called. that same night, you sulked about the doctor concluding that the reason you didn’t get your period last month was stress again and he teared up when you said i eat well, and i exercise regularly. but in the end it’s all useless because stress is messing up my body and i can’t control it. what do i do? the next day, he cheerfully asked you if you wanted to go see the ocean with him. right now, he’s hanging on a thick branch of a tree, enthusiastically doing pull ups while you peel the raw mangoes he picked out for you.

the familiar sounds of moans and grunts convince you to move the log you’re sitting on, abandoning the view of the majestic blue sky kissing the sparkling ocean in favor of facing your gorgeous boyfriend. he moves on to doing hanging knee tucks, pulling his knees to his chest and gradually increasing his speed and range of motion after gathering enough leverage.

“ah, this is tiring!” his yell ripples across the near-empty beach. he squeezes his eyes shut, laughing through the pain that hurts so good.

you set aside the paring knife on the plain white porcelain plate, dipping a piece of mango in the hill of salt before taking a bite (you played rock-paper-scissors to decide who would call the front desk for salt and you won after jungkook said he lost because his rock was made of paper). this, it’s just what you needed to cure the lethargy that’s been eating away at you. the combination of sour and salty explodes in your taste buds, remedying your awful loss of taste and appetite.

you shudder in sheer delight, smiling sweetly at the man brazenly showcasing his strength infront of you. “i like this a lot. i can feel my stress melting away… like ice cream under the sun.”

“i’m happy you’re enjoying yourself while i-” he cuts off his sentence, letting himself fall on the sand before jumping again to adjust his grip on the rough wood. once again, he hauls his legs upward repeatedly, reaching higher and higher each time. he releases loud huffs of air, grunting raspily with every exertion of force.

you stifle a scandalous gasp when his knees touch his wrists, covering your mouth as you grind the food with your teeth. okay, you know damn well he is flexible and a human-shaped vessel of physical strength, but you mostly witness their irrefutable testaments during intense moments of love and lust… the blissful memories can be kind of hazy.

he heaves a deep sigh, taking a rest as he hangs motionless on the branch. picture-perfect, center-frame for your adoring eyes to feast upon. his honey skin is glazed with a fine sheen of sweat, further accentuating the well-defined muscles of his torso. you only get a tease of his v-line. it hides beneath the exposed white band of his calvin klein underwear peeking above his black swimming shorts. his stomach rises and falls with each breath, and you can’t help but to marvel at his abs with appreciation. beautifully prominent, sculpted not too much. you love that when you touch them, you still feel the tenderness of his flesh, so rawly and so uniquely jungkook.

“you like what you see?” he grins when your eyes meet, winking at you flirtatiously.

“i do.” you sheepishly admit, scrunching your nose before putting another slice of mango on top of your tongue. “keep going. i want to see more.”

“more? you want more?! aish- so demanding.” he complains, thick satoori accent dripping from his voice but still, he gives you more.

you giggle in satisfaction, closely observing the flexing of his muscles and the veins along his arms popping out. one must think you’re used to his tattoos by now, but you’re definitely not. you just learn how to act unaffected, like you can’t write a book of poems about how his body art never seizes to bring you in absolute awe. his eyebrows knit as he pulls himself up, face crumpling with the amount of force and strength he utilizes with every manuever. it’s a seductive scene, but then the dimples on his cheeks make fondness bloom in your heart.

for the love of god, it’s not compromising your plans, but making jungkook a part of your plans. you no longer fantasize about a perfect life. you just want to keep waking up somewhere safe— to be here, standing on the tips of your toes, planting a delicate kiss on the mole at the lower right side of his ribcage. your lips have made one too many sharp mistakes, but they ghost over his skin and he laughs. laughs so joyfully, a majestic string of musical notes from his mouth no other instrument on earth can recreate. it’s a good mistake, the best mistake you could ever possibly make.

“here, drink.“ you offer him a bottle of cold water.

“i’m so tired. oh, fuck-” he does one final pull up before letting go, deliberately falling on the sand and bumping against your feet when he rolls over.

he sits up, warm body vibrating with giggles as he looks up at you.

“did you pack a first aid kit?“

you put a hand over your hip, raising an eyebrow. “what happened now?”

“my hands-” he stares at his palms, sand coating half of the area, before showing them to you. “they sting like hell! seriously!” his little lisp slips out as he rants.

”then why did you keep going?!” you exclaim, grabbing his tattooed wrist to assess the damage. there’s no blood in sight, but his skin has turned a very bright shade of red.

“because it was fun.” he simply answers, and you can’t argue with that.

of course you brought a first aid kit. it’s a necessity, especially when you’re on vacation with your gym bunny boyfriend, apparently. while you grab the ointment in the bedroom, jungkook decides to clean himself up under the outdoor shower situated in a corner beside the swimming pool.

“what’s wrong with this? why are they going at the same time?” he scratches his head in confusion, looking up at the spraying shower head and down at the gushing faucet. he fiddles with the handle in hopes of fixing his problematic water consumption, unintentionally pushing it up higher as he does so. this causes the water pressure to become stronger, sending thin needles to crash down and pierce his fragile skin.

“aw shit-” he reflexively runs away from the rude attack of the silver device. “yah, you punk! what did i to you, huh?! how dare you-”

he clicks his tongue in irritation, resting his hands on his hips. after glaring one more time, he extends his tattooed arm to push the handle all the way down, turning it off. he proceeds to experiment, tilting it to the left, which turns on the faucet only, and then to the right for the shower.

he laughs sarcastically at his discovery, going back under the water. “ahhh, was i the stupid one?”

—

“i missed you!” he declares loudly as soon as you step out of the sliding door.

“me too, babe.” you hum as you walk towards him, standing a considerable distance from the shower.

he wipes his face with his hands to unblur his vision before pushing back his wet hair, droplets of water endlessly rushing down his body.

“why are you so far?” he protests. “come here.”

“but i already took a shower.”

“so what? you’ll get wet again when we ride the jet ski later.”

you pout at him. “i told you i’m scared.”

“i’d be jack if i have to, i won’t let you drown! don’t you trust your boyfriend, hm?” he attempts to persuade you again after failing last night, knowing well that you’d enjoy yourself only if you overcome your fear of the deep waters. “it will be fun, i promise.”

“ugh, fine. only because you promised.” you weakly succumb to his wishes, setting down the small jar of ointment on the ground.

he happily pulls you in for an embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck while your arms wrap around his waist. the only barrier between your chests is the thin and small fabric of your red bikini, thoroughly soaked by the cold water combatting the rising heat of the approaching noon. you can feel the rough grains of sand that were washed away from his skin under the soles of your feet, contrasting the feather-light kisses being scattered on your neck. and this feels so utterly liberating, you refuse for it to end, allowing yourself to be hastily pinned against the wall when his supple lips meet yours.

he cups the back of your head and his long and slender fingers dig into your hair, protecting you from accidentally hitting the hard cement. the small thoughtful gesture makes you smile into the kiss. he is not real, he can’t be. if this is a dream, you’re begging the sun to never rise. his gentle hands slowly travel down the expanse of your back, until they reach your hips, teasingly tugging past the side straps of your bikini bottoms before kneading the soft flesh of your ass. he swallows the strangled whine that escapes you, slipping his tongue past your parted lips. he’s addicted to how your body language speaks to him when you get intimate, how you lovingly caress his face and his arms, slow and sensual, but then unconsciously dig your nails to mark crescent moons on his skin when you begin getting lost in your combined passion.

he wants this. he wants you. he wants to spend the rest of his life kissing you and wringing the water from your hair.

—

you’ve deserted the log to comfortably sit cross-legged with jungkook on the lounge chair, under the shade of the brown umbrella rooted in the soil.

“mhmmm! it’s so delicious!” jungkook carefully dips the slice of mango in the salt once more, wary of the ointment from his hand smearing on the food, before muching on it eagerly. “so crunchy!”

you pause from tending to his left hand, looking at the plate between the two of you to learn that he is nearly finished with the second mango. you only have one left.

“damn!” he dramatically curses with his eyes squeezed shut, punching the salt air. without context, a stranger would probably guess that he tragically lost a bet or remembered an embarrassing memory from highschool. but really, he’s just enjoying some pretty good food. this is the fourth time in the past five minutes that he precisely did the same thing, and yes, you’ve been counting.

“is it that yummy?” you chuckle, extremely endeared and contented when he looks this excited around food. he is the only person in the world who can make you say i’m full just by watching you eat and mean it.

“it was your idea!” he bobs his head while energetically rocking from side to side, cheeks round and full as he chews. “i haven’t eaten something new in a long time. i love it… i should give the resort five stars for my review. just for this. i’ll say i’ll come back again for the mango tree.”

“or i don’t know, we can just plant one ourselves.” you propose before lightly blowing on his inflamed palm.

“but, baby, that would take years!” he interjects. “we need to buy another house, one with a backyard, and wait at least five years for it to grow. i’ll be thirty-two by then. are you hearing that?!”

the disgusted look on his face elicits a burst of amused laughter from you, stomach hurting with a reason miles better than earlier’s. he winces at the thought of entering his 30’s in the very near future. it feels odd to think about, but it’s a little less daunting with the tree added to the picture.

he picks up the final slice on the plate, smothering it with a thin layer of salt before devouring it entirely. he whimpers, high-pitched and wide-eyed, clasping his hand over his mouth before the other one you’re holding slips away from the solace of your care. he free falls from the chair, limply collapsing on the sand. and just like that, he’s covered in them again, from his damp hair down to his wiggly toes.

you move closer to look at him, dangling your legs on the edge. “darling, you’re still alive, aren’t you?”

he spreads out his limbs like a starfish, dreamily peering into the vast cloudy sky. “oh? i think this is exactly what it means to be alive.”

beyond his words, it’s the way he said them. without shyness, without qualms, without pondering. it makes him sound purely sincere, his mellifluous voice gracefully echoing louder than the nihilistic thoughts in your head, and you believe him.

he abruptly sits up, crawling on his knees to reach you. “baby! it’s too good! i want more!” he cries out, feigning desperate sobs as he hugs your legs. “i want more. let’s eat the third one, please.”

“fuck, okay. calm down. we’ll have it.” you cackle, stroking his hair while he rests his head on your lap.

you drag the plate to your side, slicing the last mango with practiced precision and skill. he, then, closes his eyes and bathes in your presence, his warm breath fanning you. it’s peacefully silent for a while, only the sounds of the knife dragging across the fruit and the waves chasing each other to the edge of the sea can be heard. that is until your boyfriend grows bored. he puckers his lips to brush against your soft skin, insatiable, climbing higher and higher until he’s peppering your inner thigh with kisses.

tingling sensations inevitably spark in your lower region, and you click your tongue to rebuke him. “jungkook, behave. i might cut myself if you keep that up.”

his lips curve into a naughty smirk, shifting a bit further down. “sorry.”

“do you want to get sunburnt? get back up here, on the chair.” you bounce your legs to shake him off, but your efforts prove to be fruitless.

he groans, stubbornly holding on to you tighter. “no, i don’t want to.”

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask / dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook drabble #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook one shot #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook au #bts fluff #bts reaction #jungkook angst #jungkook smut

[profound-imagination]

Flightless - Azriel

A/N: Guess who's back??? I promise there will be a part two of Matching Wounds eventually! Pronouns used in this is she/her. There could be a potential part two to this if people want it and I can figure out where to go with it.

T/W: Very brief mention of S/A it isn't talked about in detail, the R word isn't used but please keep yourselves safe and don't read if at all triggering for you. Talks of violence.

Word Count: 2.9k

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Swallowing the lump in your throat, you took a deep breath, steeled yourself against the biting cold, and approached. You wanted to do this, wanted to learn. "Excuse me, Lord Devlon?" He took his sweet time before he looked at you, before he acknowledged you. "What is it girl?" He asked, no malice in his voice, but it wasn't kind either. "I was wondering if it would be acceptable for me to join training with the other girls in the mornings?" The two warriors next to him snorted, the third sneered, "What use would you be girl? Your wings weren't even clipped, they were removed." A shudder ran through you at the memory, the agony, the heartbreak of never being able to feel the wind again.

Devlon paled slightly as he looked past you and snapped at the three warriors with him to get back to work, the third still sneering at you as he went. "I survived sir." You told Devlon quietly, "I survived having my wings removed, I'm strong enough to train like an Illryian." He ran a hand down his face and you felt three people approach behind you, you didn't turn. "You'll get yourself killed, you'll be thrown into the Rite, just like the others, besides, we start training as children, your age is against you." You looked up at him and met his eyes, "I'm already adjusting to not having my wings at all, everyone else's will be bound, I'd say I'm already at an advantage." He opened his mouth to reply but another voice came from behind you. "Why do you want to train so badly?" You turned slowly only to be met by the Lord of Bloodshed himself.

"They took my wings, my Lord, I couldn't fight them off, I was no use in the war, I don't ever want to feel helpless again." You could've sworn the air sky darkened as the Shadowsinger and the High Lord himself approached. "Who took your wings?" Cassian's rage was palpable, mixing with the bitter winds of the camps, "The clan in Ironcrest, Lord Devlon has been good to me." The High Lord smiled at you kindly and repeated Cassian's question. "Who took your wings? You'll be given no trouble for telling us." Your eyes darted between the three of them and then to Devlon, who gave you a slight nod. "The son of the Lord at Ironcrest, I rejected his advances so he made sure I'd never feel the sky again and he took what he wanted as I was bleeding out in the snow." The silence from the three males was deafening and shadows skittered around the four of you, pulsing with anger. "She trains with me, personally." The Shadowsinger told Devlon, the first time he'd spoken. "Someone will collect her every morning at dawn and bring her back at noon." If he had other duties he was shirking to do this, the High Lord didn't protest. You beamed at the Spymaster, "Thank you, my Lord!" He gave you a half smile in return, "Azriel, call me Azriel."

Azriel

"He made sure I'd never feel the sky again and he took what he wanted as I was bleeding out in the snow." Those words had been playing over and over again in his head since you'd uttered them to his brother mere hours ago. His very blood roared at the thought of what they did to you. It took both Rhys and Cassian to keep him from flying straight to Ironcrest to deal with the lordling. "We'll deal with it, carefully." Rhys had said to him. "When the time comes the blow is yours, if she doesn't want it." Azriel pummeled the dummy in front of him harder.

"I hear we'll have a guest joining us for training in the mornings?" Nesta's teasing voice pulled him from his anger, only slightly. He met her eyes, "No. I'll be having a guest, you and Cassian will leave her alone." Nesta sighed at him, "It was nice of you to offer to help her, Az." She patted his shoulder, "Cassian told me what they did to her." Azriel shrugged, "It's what they do." He told her, and watched the rage flicker through Nesta's eyes. "But her wings Az, they didn't clip them, Cassian said they removed them entirely." He nodded "They did, Madja is going to check her over tomorrow when she arrives for training." Nesta nodded. "She can train with us, she doesn't have to train alone." He gave her a gentle smile, "I'll let her know the offer is there, but let's get her up to speed first."

As promised, Rhys winnowed her to the House of Wind and flew her down to the terrace the next morning, despite the flight only lasting mere moments, he could see the smile on her face before Rhys had even landed. "Good Morning, Azriel." She smiled up at him gently. Azriel simply inclined his head in response and watched as Rhys lead her into the house where Madja was waiting.

Y/N

The healer behind you sighed as she inspected what was left of your wings, touching here, prodding there, all of it still tender. Phantom pain shooting through wings that were no longer there. Once she'd wrapped them tightly and helped you redress in the leathers you'd been given upon arrival for training in, she called the High Lord back in who had been politely waiting outside. You both ignored the shadow that had followed him in.

"Do they not have healers, Rhysand?" Was the first thing Madja said as soon as the door closed behind him. You winced, you hadn't seen your back yet, couldn't face it. It must be bad. "They do, but I imagine the male responsible for this forbade them from helping." You nodded, "He did, one of the younger girls, she found me and dragged me back to my tent, packed snow on my back and sat with me all night, I never saw a healer." Madja sighed again. "You're lucky to be alive girl, you've got a nasty infection that I'll give you something for but long term? We'll need to remove what's left." You paled and Rhys put a comforting hand on your shoulder, "You mean, cut them out?" You could barely get the words out and Madja nodded somberly, "It's the only way your back will heal properly." Rhys squeezed your shoulder, "When?" He asked his healer. "When the infection has fully cleared and she's gained some weight, I won't lie to you girl, it'll be long and it'll be painful, I need you to be conscious so I can ensure we don't damage your spine." You nodded dumbly as tears threatened to fall.

You followed Rhys into his office rather than back to start training. "Do you want to go back?" He asked after he finished making you a cup of tea. "Back?" You questioned him, "To the camp, do you want to go back? You don't have to, you can stay here, train, get stronger, Nesta Archeron stays here with Cassian and sometimes Az when he's not away. She works in the library some levels down in the afternoons, I'm sure she wouldn't mind the company." You blinked at him several times, "You'd really allow me to do that?" He nodded, "What happened to you, should never have happened, and it happened under my watch, so if you want to stay here, you are welcome." You gave him a watery smile, "Thank you, My Lord."

It had been three months since you'd moved into the House of Wind, Nesta had become a quick friend to you, as had Emerie and Gwyn. Cassian had taken over the role of protective older brother and Azriel flirted between the lines of friendship and something more. He'd found a twin flame in you as you had found in him and more than once Nesta had commented on how well the two of you complimented each other. You missed him dearly when he was away, your companion, your best friend.

He chased away the nightmares when they came. He always knew. Azriel would climb into your bed at the first sound of distress from your mouth. He'd lift you gently and slide underneath you so he could lie you on top of him and brush a scarred finger down your spine until you were soothed or if you had woken, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth and you were lulled back to sleep and he'd stay there, all night, just holding you. Shadows and wings cocooning you in safety and warmth.

But you were aware of Elain, lovely Elain. Of how he felt for her, three sisters for three brothers. You saw how he looked at her, how his cold, hard face softened around her, how his shadows retreated around her. You'd smell her on him sometimes, when he came to comfort you in the dead of night, too terrified and tired to be upset about the mixed signals the Shadowsinger gave you constantly.

The operation to remove what was left of your wings had been scheduled and was happening in a few days but you were yet to see your back, so there you stood, Nesta by your side as you slid your top over your head and nodded to Nesta to hold the mirror up behind you, facing the one you were looking into. Your heart caved, your face crumpled and tears escaped your eyes. You hadn't been sure what you were expecting but this was far worse. Nesta quickly placed the mirror back down and pulled you into her as you cried and cried and cried. You heard the door open and close and footsteps pad towards you. You knew it was him from his scent alone as he pulled you gently from Nesta's arms into his. "I've got her, Nesta." He told her gently, a dismissal. Nesta placed a gentle kiss to the top of your head and left you with the one person she knew you needed right now.

"They're gone Az, they're really gone." You sobbed into his neck. He ran his hand down your spine, carefully avoiding where your wings would've come out of your back, "I know sweet girl, I know." He told you gently, "I just want to fly." You repeated over and over and over again. Azriel had no words, nothing he could offer you to make this better, so instead he held you until you'd run out of tears. "I'm sorry they did this to you, they will pay, as soon as Rhys allows it they will all suffer for what they did." He told you. Your watery stare met his shining eyes and you gasped. "Azriel! I'm not wearing a top!" He smirked. "I know." You slapped his arm lightly as he reached behind you and went rustling through one of your draws, "Here, put this on." He said as he handed you a t-shirt that definitely belonged to him, how it had ended up here you weren't sure but you slipped it on over your head anyway.

Azriel stood, still cradling you in his arms as he started to make his way through the house, you were content not to ask questions so you simply wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your head on his shoulder. As you passed through the dining room Cassian opened his mouth to tease you both but was cut off by Azriel, "Not now, Cass, we're busy." He told his brother as he walked past, Cassian looked down at his Mate who was curled in his lap and shrugged as she laughed. You waved at them both as you went.

The cold air hit you like you'd been plunged into ice water and you tighten your grip around Azriel's neck in an attempt to steal his warmth. "Why are we out here, Az?" You mumbled into his neck, you felt his arms tighten around you, heard his wings unfurl as he said "Flying." Before he shot into the stars.

Azriel

Azriel couldn't think of anything but her at that moment. He watched her eyes open from his sudden take off and light up. He watched her face split into a grin as he flew. "Do you trust me?" He shouted to her over the sound of the wind, she nodded at him without hesitation. Azriel let go of her legs and had both hands under her arms in less than a second, the sight of them must've been ridiculous and he could already hear his brothers teasing remarks if they were to see them. She was laughing now as she hung from his hands, full, beautiful, melodic laughter and a piece of that icy rage that had engulfed him for centuries thawed at the sound and he allowed a rare laugh in response.

He'd flown with her for hours before landing on a grassy hilltop. She threw her arms around his neck and he breathed her in. She was still grinning and Azriel decided at that moment, he would do anything to keep that smile on her face. He was pulled from his thoughts as she tugged at his hands, "Dance with me Az?" He raised an eyebrow at her, "There's no music." Her grin turned wicked, "It's a good job I'm with a Shadowsinger who likes to sing then isn't it?" Azriel shook his head, "Nope, no, absolutely not." Her grin turned into a pout, "Please Az?" He shook his head again but began to dance with her anyway.

"When is your operation scheduled for?" He asked her sometime later as they were sitting together in the grass watching the sun rise over the ocean. "The day after tomorrow." She told him quietly and he instantly picked up on the fear in her voice but she kept talking and answered his unasked question as she spoke. "Madja says I have to be awake and conscious, that it's going to be long and painful." He ran a hand through her hair, "I'll be there with you, if you want me to be." He offered, unaware of how close the two of them were leaning towards each other, "You'd do that? Sit there and hold my hand?" She whispered practically onto his lips. "I'd do anything for you." He whispered back, flicking his eyes between her own eyes and her lips, watched as she ran her tongue along the bottom one and he decided to seize the moment.

Y/N

You watched Azriel's eyes flick from your own to your lips and back again. Watched the internal debate he raged in his head before he finally closed the gap. His kisses were addictive and your whole world span as something came alive in your chest. You knew Azriel felt it too as he pulled away, only slightly and blinked at you twice. He gave you a smile you'd never seen before, one that set your entire world on fire. "There you are, I've been looking for you for so long." He muttered against your lips. "My mate." The words sent a shiver down your spine as you smiled up at him.

You had stayed like that for a while, smiling at each other, sharing kisses and reveling in the feeling of the mating bond snapping into place. It was funny how fast things had changed as you now sat and watched Rhys and Azriel argue about Azriel being there when Madja performed the operation. "Azriel, listen to me, it is because she is your mate that you can't be there, she will be awake, probably screaming and in a lot of pain, your instincts will drive you to protect, to kill anyone or anything that is causing her pain and that will be Madja and Feyre and that is why I can't allow it." Rhys spoke calmly but his tone was dripping in authority. You watched Azriel fight it, the urge to obey his High Lord. "I'll be there instead of you Az, I'll hold her mind, if she'll let me, I won't let her feel it, I promise. Rhys added more gently.

Azriel still wasn't overly onboard with this plan as he kissed you outside of the clinic, he could obviously feel the nervous energy that you couldn't stop from flowing down the bond and it was making him antsy. "I'll be right out here, Rhys will look after you, Feyre will look after you." He told you softly. "And when it's done, you best believe I won't be leaving your side while you heal, work be damned, Rhys can send someone else." You gave him a chuckle, "Az, we both know you wouldn't trust anyone else." He smiled down at you, and his thumbs ran in circles over your cheeks as he held your face, "Please come back to me?" You fought the tears that welled up in your eyes, "I promise." The door to the clinic opened and Rhys stood in the doorway, a hand extended to you. Cassian, Mor and Nesta appeared behind Azriel, it was clearly their job to keep him calm and outside. "Are you ready?" Rhys asked, you nodded, kissed Azriel one last time and followed the High Lord into the clinic.

#acotar #acomaf #acosf #acowar #a court of mist and fury #a court of silver flames #a court of wings and ruin #acofas #a court of thorns and roses #a court of frost and starlight #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel

[oblooga]

It's you and I

Synopsis: (fem!reader) best friends to lovers with a hint of fake/misunderstood dating :)))

Characters: Kazuha, Al-Haitham

Author's note: SPOILERS FOR 3.4 STORY QUEST (Alhaitham's part!! though now Fontaine is released idk if anyone still hasn't done Sumeru but I'm putting this here just in case^^)

This is a gift for @kazumist for the @solarisfortuneia Summer Santa event!! This was supremely fun to write, I have no idea how to write Alhaitham though, so forgive me if he's a little OOC. I hope you like it :))))

P.S. lyrics is from "poster boy" by Lyn Lapid-- I was looping the song while writing this

Kaedehara Kazuha

The vision hunt decree is finally over, and with it ends the bloodshed and violence that has lingered on your doorstep for years. With a brand new day free of bitter purple lighting comes new beginnings, new futures, and new-old friends returning to their homeland. 

One such friend is Kaedehara Kazuha.

You’ve known each other since you were little— dressed in nappies, sharing childhoods, summers spent racing in fields of gold and exploring caves filled with shimmering blue flowers. He had to flee when the vision hunt decree bore down his back– you still remember sending him away on a night dark as the loneliest shadows, holding back your tears as you watch the solidarity boat sail away from the harbor. 

(away from you.)

But ages have past, regimes have changed, and he can finally return home. Your family has agreed to house him, on account of his precious abode being completely destroyed in the Vision Hunt Decree.

And…also due to a big misunderstanding, as you were about to find out. 

“Y/n, where’s that boyfriend of yours? Didn’t you say he’d be here by noon?” Your mother calls from the kitchen, bustling around as she prepares lunch. 

You spit out the tea you’d been sipping, “I—I’m sorry, what boyfriend?”

“You know? That white haired boy with the red streak that lived next door? Kazuha?”

“Mom,” you groan, “he’s not—“

“Did someone say my name?” A voice calls from the doorway, gentle as the breeze sweeping through golden fields, fondness and amusement settling in its tone like leaves falling in autumn. 

In the doorway of your home stands Kaedehara Kazuha, looking every bit the same as you’d last seen him, just a bit taller and a bit more weary of the world. But he brightens up and chuckles when you leap into his embrace and cling onto him like an overzealous Bake-Danuki. 

“I missed you!! It’s been boring without you, Inazuma has changed so much and everyone’s talking about how—“

“Hello to you too, Y/n, how have you been? It’s been quite a while hasn’t it,” he mumbles into your hair as you continue to yammer on animatedly about the things he's missed.

“Y/n,” your mom calls from the kitchen, exasperated, “why don’t you let the poor boy into the house before you talk his ear off? Lunch is almost ready, please can you help set the table?” 

“Of course,” Kazuha cuts in smoothly before you’ve even had a chance to reply, patting your head and letting you down gently before sauntering into the kitchen. 

"How can I help you, Ma'am?" He smiles at your mom, helping hold the oven door open as she shoves a giant seasoned chicken inside.

“Oh, you’re a man after my heart,” your mom titters, smiling good naturedly at him, “just as how you’ve captured Y/n’s heart, hmm?” She turns and winks at you, and Kazuha smiles. 

“Well, I’m not quite sure about that just yet,” he says, glancing at you and raking his eyes over your flushed and confused face. “But I most certainly would like for it to be true," he murmurs, as he sends you a shy but sure smile, raising his brows at your reddened cheeks. 

“Ka-Kazuha,” you start flusteredly, “wh— you’re– w–wh–"

"Ah, young love," your mom sighs dramatically, and shoos the both of you out of the kitchen. "Nevermind helping me out, the both of you are so besotted with each other it'll be hard to get any work down. Off you go!" 

And so Kazuha easily gets out of the kitchen work that you've been subjected to for the many years you've lived in this house. You can't even be surprised– there's just something about the boy that is so soothing, so silently charming, that draws one in as unnoticeably as the autumn wind that comes every September.

"Kazuha, should we talk about this? We're not… you're… what are you doing?" You ask him hesitantly, trailing behind as he leads you out of the house and into the gardens. 

"Well– it'd be rude to ruin your mom's fantasies, right?" He grins, turning to a stop in front of you. "She seems so happy to have me around that…I'd feel slightly guilty if we tell her we're just friends and ruin whatever extravagant wedding she'd hold in the future." 

"You–!" You blush immediately, mind wandering to satin gowns and lavish kimonos and Kazuha in draped in silks and– "--married???"

"I mean, it wouldn't be so bad would it," his voice quiets to a hush, something unreadable in his smile as he leans over you and gently removes a leaf from your hair. "Well, maybe not getting married just yet," he says, making a face, "but maybe-- you dating me. As besotted with each other as your mom thinks we are," he chuckles, and turns away before you can fully decipher the feelings on his face.

And it's not…it's not as if you haven't thought of it before. Young as you were when you first met, a large part of your life was spent with Kazuha. You didn't know when your relationship developed from neighbours to best friends, but you'd never trade for anything the long nights spent dashing through starlight-fields, swimming in the salty ocean and chasing each other through the winding streets of town. He'd grown from a chubby boy into a lean man, the carefree, easy smile on his face never failing to cause butterflies in your stomach, ones that you've dismissed to be teenage hormones, before you realized said hormones were specifically centered around him. They say distance makes the heart fonder, and perhaps it's true, for both of you, because he's come back and seemed to have changed his mind about you. Changed his heart about you. (centered his heart around you.)

And… perhaps you had too. 

"Alright," you say slowly, unable to resist grinning at the full-blown smile that breaks across his face like the sun rising after a cold, lonely night. "We can try…this, whatever this is, out. No more faking though, for real this time, except we don't tell my mom it was ever fake because I don't want to sit through another of her lectures."

"Deal," Kazuha laughs, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, something in his eyes sparkling with an intensity that promises of a bright future. "I promise I won't breathe a word of your deceit–" he gets a snack on the shoulder for that– "to your mom, if you let me eat your caramel pudding."

"Hey!" You exclaim, wrinkling your nose at him, "just because you're now my boyfriend does not mean you get dessert rights-- get back here this instant Kazuha--!"

And so, in the season of autumn, in spite of the things that wither and fall and fade away, a brilliant and steadfast relationship begins to bloom.

2. Alhaitham

“Date me.”

You push your head up from where you’ve been laying on the table, turning bleary eyes to an ash-haired scholar standing next to your desk. “Hmm—?” you yawn, your brain too foggy from sleep to process his words. 

“Date me,” Alhaitham, academic-rivals-turned-study-partners-turned (begrudging)-best-friend, repeats impatiently.

You finally process his words and frown, blinking the sleep out of your eyes to sit up properly and stare at him. “Are you— are you alright? Did you eat breakfast? Did you ingest something Kaveh oh Archons above Kaveh better not have—“ 

“The Akademiya has proposed a “Day of Love”,” he cuts in, ignoring your spew of genuine concern, “to celebrate the passion and affection shared between romantic lovers. And also as an excuse to take a day off from their work I suppose,” he tsks, “which in any case brings me back to the question I’ve had the misfortune to ask for the third time— will you go on a date with me?” He crosses his arms and stares more intensely at you.

“…Aren’t you the Acting Grand Sage? Can’t you just get them to cancel this "Day of Love"?” you question, and he turns surprisingly defensive and brushes you off immediately. “No can do. It’s central to the welfare of the people of Sumeru.” Your suspicion deepens. You're not sure how… celebrating love and passion can increase the happiness of people of a country that had just experienced a never ending time-loop– okay, maybe you can see the point. 

"I mean…sure I guess…?" You shrug and agree, seeing how Alhaitham doesn't seem to be willing to let this go so easily. 

Which leads to your Saturday being spent on a date with someone you'd once thought didn't even have the word love in their vocabulary. 

Sumeru City was decorated to the nines, pink fairy lights stringed across branches of lush greenery that sprawled across the city, couples everywhere sharing giggles and smiles and kisses. It is all horribly romantic and a part of your heart can't help but flutter in anticipation, for what– exactly, you're not sure, but there is definitely a sense of love in the air. 

Not that the man besides you seems to notice any of it. Al walks at his usual brisk pace, dragging you through stalls of street foods and tiny trinkets, offering his (entirely unasked for) professional opinion on every item you land your sight on. It feels less like a date and more like…a research trip, if you were being honest. You've learnt more about the symbols of love than you'd ever asked for, and you can feel the romantic bones in your body draining of calcium by the minute. 

Although that isn't to say you aren't enjoying yourself. Al follows patiently behind you when you wander off to coo at some shiny necklace (which he purchased behind your back and sneaked into your purse), does not laugh at you when you stuff your mouth full of shawarma warp (although you can see the curl on his lips that belies his seriousness), and only sighs when you make him climb to the very top of the city to watch the sunset with you.

"What a day," you sigh contentedly, turning a fond smile at him. "Did you enjoy the date, Al?" You tease, leaning forward to poke at his nose as his blank expression develops into a scowl. 

"I have procured a valuable amount of information and experience that will be quite useful to me in writing my… future endeavors," he replies, returning your poke with a pinch of your cheeks. 

"Aha!" You exclaim, eyes widening and pointing at him. "I knew there was more to this! No way the Acting Grand Sage would ask me out on a date with no ulterior motive. Be honest, will you? Did you assign yourself a research on the topic of love because your life lacks so much of it?" You tease, watching him cross his arms and avoid your gaze entirely.

He remains silent for far too long, and your attention returns back to the scenery in front of you. Clouds laze across a purple pink sky, the sun had long set and only left behind ghosts of its golden rays that haze over Sumeru like a shimmering fairy, dancing betweens people lounging on benches and sprawled out on grass, enjoying the final moments of a beautiful day.

"...It was my idea."

"Hm?" You turn back to face the scholar, who's still looking resolutely ahead. Belated realization hits you, and you give him a smile of fond exasperation. "I knew it, Al, it was for a paper wasn't it? You could've just asked me to help, instead of only now revealing your big, evil intention. You know, I wouldn't have minded–"

"But I would," he cuts in, finally turning to face you. Those teal green eyes stare intensely into yours, red irises blazing as bright as the sun that sank low over the horizon. 

"You would…?" You trail off in confusion.

"I would've minded," he continues, leaning close enough that you could smell the scent of tattered book and dried ink that clings to his sleeves, "if you thought I had a big, evil intention in mind. Because you see," he says, hints of amusement coloring his features as you flusteredly back away from his advances, "I absolutely could've canceled the "Day of Love"."

"I was the one who proposed the idea after all."

He smirks at you with self-satisfaction, that hint of arrogance and unbeatable intelligence showing through before he schools his features back into nonchalance. Not without a new-found assumed tilt to his lips, of course. 

"Wh–huh?" Your mind was whirring at extremely high speeds, brain unable process the implications his words offer. 

The pink skies hold no candle to the pink staining your cheeks– as the clouds gather speed and the golden rays depart you finally realize what his words mean. 

"So you– you basically forced this "Day of Love" onto Sumeru to ask me out??" You say incredulously, turning a look of equal disbelief and hysteria on him. 

"I wouldn't say forced– it really is central to the welfare of the people of Sumeru," he mutters, once again avoiding your eye, trying to affect complete nonchalance again. 

"Oh Al," you giggle, and lay your head on his shoulder. He tenses, but then you feel his body relax as he gingerly settles an arm on yours. 

"All you had to do was ask."

thanks for reading!

#genshin impact #fanfic #genshin fanfic #imagines #fluff #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #kazuha x reader #kaeya x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #fiction #best friend to lovers

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of Child SA, allusions to the witch trials

Words: 3.1k

[A/N: Sorry for making the bishop so annoying I made myself angry proof-reading this lmao (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

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II.

Noon had started to crack, and Viktor sat still at the edge of his bed, his left leg throbbing with a persistent ache and guilt consuming him as he grappled with the weight of his recent actions. His mind swirled in a tumult of self-condemnation and regret as the looming certainty of facing Father Isidore when he would eventually be called up to the kitchen for lunch weighed over him.

How could he, entrusted with the guidance of others, find himself so lost in the labyrinth of his own sin? It was so easy, too, to feel like the absolutions he offered were hollow, his own inability to forgive himself casting a shadow over the sanctity of his role. And amidst this turmoil, the relentless ache in his left leg—probably due to kneeling for a prolonged stretch of time, but that in the wake of what he had just done felt more akin to divine punishment—served as a reminder of his frailty, both physical and spiritual. 

But pain is purification, suffering gives way to redemption, and penitence is salvation, so isn’t pleasure the correct response after all? If martyrdom is the ultimate act of love, then why shouldn’t agony be met with enjoyment? That was the lie Viktor soothed himself with before deciding to be a step ahead of the altar boys and make his way to the kitchen. 

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

His leg protested with each step, but it seemed insignificant compared to the stinging feeling on his back now that he had the rough fabric rubbing against it. What lingered wasn’t nearly as pleasant as before; however, he felt undeserving of making a fuss about it, it being a punishment—ironically—for a self-inflicted punishment that he shouldn’t have delighted in. 

As he entered, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that clung to his robes and clashing with the uninviting presence of Father Isidore, who sat at the table, steaming cup in hand. 

“Viktor, my son,” he exclaimed in a voice that sounded sweet and as sticky and treacherous as molasses, “I trust you have...repented.”

Viktor clenched his jaw, a wave of trepidation washing over him as he felt his judgmental gaze on him. Viktor severely disliked the special way Father Isidore enunciated; emphasis on certain words never seemed like enough for him; he always made it a point to hiss and spit; his lips thinned out and tense like he was holding in a growl. It didn’t match his childlike guise, and this made Viktor weary of him ever since he was a kid. 

“I have,” he replied tersely, taking a seat opposite his superior’s robust presence. 

"It seems, however, that some of us struggle more than others with the concept of self-control," he remarked, his words dripping with a subtle veil of aggression.

Viktor's stomach churned with resentment. "I am aware of my shortcomings, Father," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness. 

“Don’t misunderstand me, son. It is never my intention to prohibit your studies or peg your enthusiasm for learning; you know our monastery has always valued knowledge of the great arts.”

“Until it challenges one of your universal truths, that is.”

“Precisely, are you trying to imply we should challenge the dogma?” 

Viktor stayed silent. 

“Tell me, do you think you are above us all?” 

“Of course I don’t, father.” but he did, and this whole lecture was starting to get old. 

“Then you must clearly think you are above sin. So holy and pure that you are able to read such heretic words and not be tempted by them?” He said this as he got closer to Viktor, his face slowly turning beet red: “unde et corda filiorum hominum implentur malitia et contemptu in vita sua et post haec ad inferos deducentur.”

And then he did the same eyebrow raise he used to do when Viktor was a child, and he was testing his knowledge of the scripture. Viktor sighed, partly in defeat but mostly in annoyance. 

“‘Hence the hearts of the sons of men are filled with malice and contempt in their lives, and after this they are brought down to hell’,” he answered as he instinctively leaned back on the chair, the scorching sensation reminding him why it was a terrible idea. 

“I can tell you are in pain; why must you still be so stubborn, even when you are enduring your penitence on the flesh?” 

“I see no malice in curiosity.���

“Even when you intentionally seek the words of miscreants, knowing full well the danger it presents?”

“I don’t seek dangerous ideals; the universe is, and I simply try to understand it.”

“You are lost, Viktor.” Father Isidore’s lips curled up into a grin of contempt, a show of mockery that made it clear his concern for Viktor’s soul came from a place of scorn. 

“Temptatio vos non adprehendat nisi humana, something something, and God will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear and, eh, I forgot what comes after,” Viktor recited, quiet but defiant. 

“To me, you are nothing but a test of resilience, Viktor. If I have to tear you down myself to build you back up as a God-honoring servant, I will.” He said this as he visibly struggled to disguise his frustration. “Come, I would like you to meet someone.”

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

As they made their way through the narrow streets of the small town, the bustling activity of the market greeted them. Vibrant stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their displays of fresh produce and handmade goods drawing Viktor’s attention. All the while, he wondered who this mysterious person and possible weapon of torture would be. 

Father Isidore walked with an air of authority, his presence commanding respect as he exchanged warm greetings with anyone who crossed their path. Soon they came upon an elderly woman sitting by a small table, adorned with a meager assortment of goods. Her weathered face bore the deep lines of a life well-lived, yet her eyes sparkled with a warmth that belied her frailty. She smiled weakly as they approached, her gnarled hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Good morning, Father!" called out an elderly woman, her face lighting up with a smile as she approached. "Blessings be upon you." 

He gave back a smile that could've fooled anyone, but Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that there was something calculated in his demeanor. "And to you as well, my dear," Father Isidore replied, his tone tinged with a hint of forced sincerity. "How are you faring today?"

"Oh, just getting by as best I can, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Times have been hard, but the Lord provides."

"Indeed, He does, and speaking of such, have you been able to fulfill your tithe to the church this month?”

The elderly woman's smile faltered slightly, her gaze dropping to her lap as she fidgeted with the worn fabric of her apron. "I... I'm afraid not, Father," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Things have been tight lately, with the harvest being poor and all."

His expression hardened imperceptibly, though his tone remained gentle as he pressed the issue. "I understand, my dear," he continued. "But you must remember the importance of supporting the church, especially in these trying times. Perhaps there is something else you could sacrifice to ensure your tithe is met."

Viktor watched in silent anger as the elderly woman's shoulders slumped in resignation, her eyes downcast as she nodded in reluctant agreement. Despite his own discomfort, he couldn't help but feel a surge of rage at the ease with which Father Isidore exploited the vulnerability of this woman for the sake of the church's coffers.

“If I may, Lucida,” Viktor interjected. Different from his superior, he knew the members of their community; he had taken time to know them and had offered his friendship along with his guidance. “You must be forgetting; your daughter has already come to offer lithe on behalf of your family.”

This was a lie, but be it because Lucida’s age was betraying her memory or because she had taken the hint of what Viktor was doing, it didn’t matter. Her mouth shaped into a round O as she nodded at both of them. Father Isidor looked at Viktor with suspicion but did not press the issue any further either, simply dragging Viktor by his free arm to continue on their way. 

A modest house was nestled along the path. Father Isidore announced himself with a drawn-out knock on the solid wood of the door, and the figure of a weary woman appeared as the door peered open. When she saw the men, her feeble demeanor swiftly morphed into visible uneasiness. 

Viktor knew her; she had been at the cathedral at least once, and multiple times she had made herself present at Viktor’s masses in the small town parish. She had never reacted this way to him before, so Viktor knew it was the man beside him who was causing this woman concern. 

“Father Isidore, I’m sorry; I did not expect to see you here,” she cried out, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. 

“Fret not, dear; I haven’t come to collect her yet; I simply wanted Viktor to meet her.” He scrutinized the inside of the house from where he stood before gently pushing the woman aside to enter the house, uninvited. Viktor gave her quiet apologies and small awkward smiles, following close behind him when she gave him a sign to invite him in. 

The woman took them to the other side of the small house; there, the threshold of what seemed to have been a door in the past separated this expanse from the rest of the house. In the dimly lit chamber, a young teenage girl sat on the edge of her bed, her long black twin braids cascading down her shoulders like a dark veil, so dark that if you looked at it under the right light, it might even look blue.

Her posture was slumped, and her slender frame seemed to wilt under an invisible weight. The room around her felt heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of her shallow breaths. She looked up to look at them as the three entered, but her once vibrant eyes, now dulled and distant, gazed blankly ahead, unfocused and unseeing. 

“Darling, Father Isidore has come to see you; will you say hi to him and his friend?” Her mother asked delicately as she sat down on the bed next to her. Viktor was stumped; he didn’t remember seeing this girl at any of the functions before or around the town as he ran errands. The girl’s hands lay limply in her lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the faded bedspread as she looked at Father Isidore. 

And very subtly, her once empty gaze welled up with noticeable rage. 

“What do you want, sheep?” Her voice sounded so sweet, yet her words were so filled with venom.

“Careful now; I’m not here to take you yet, but I might change my mind if you decide to get nervy with me.” 

She squinted slightly before giving Father Isidore an empty smirk and snapping her head quickly to look directly at Viktor. “Are you in trouble too? I’m only ever used as an example.” 

“I-eh, I’m not sure.” Viktor pondered her words for a short second: “An example?”

“For what not to do.” She scoffed; she now seemed unaffected by their presence, giggling at Viktor’s confused expression, like he had told her a joke. “What did you do? Illegal medicine?” she asked, and she continued when she received no response. “You’re a priest; did you lay with a woman? Oh, oh, oh, a man, perhaps?”

The amusement in her tone was not enough to cut the tension in the air. Viktor wondered why no one seemed to care about what she was saying, but he figured Father Isidore was attempting to make a point out of this, and her mother was too afraid to do anything that might upset the bishop. 

“I would ask you if you touched a child, but they care considerably less about that than they do about banned...That’s it, isn’t it? You—” She said, now wiggling her feet like she had reverted to an earlier stage of her life. “—are a man of science; I can see in your eyes that you know what heliocentrism is.” She giggled her way through those words and looked at Viktor with wide eyes, awaiting a response. 

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft shuffle of feet on the worn floorboards as the mother stood by the door, her expression wrought with fear, while Father Isidore's features were etched with thinly veiled frustration.

Suddenly, the girl spoke, her voice soft but tinged with defiance. "You can't stop me, fawner," she said, her words cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. "I won't let you."

Father Isidore's eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he shot the girl a warning glare. "Enough," he admonished. "You know the consequences of disobedience, and you know what awaits you; don’t make an effort to rush your departure."

With a sense of urgency, the mother hurriedly ushered them toward the door, pleading and apologizing on her daughter’s behalf, and in the onslaught of their departure, Viktor felt a small object slip into his hand. Startled, he glanced down only to see the girl’s swift fingers pressing something into his palm and a pair of brazen eyes that quickly snuck back onto the bed, unnoticed. 

He didn’t dare to look, not as long as he had eyes on him, so he clenched his fist around it, as if something told him he ought not to lose it. Viktor's mind raced with questions, his confusion mounting with each hurried step as they silently walked the path back to the parish. As they climbed the small steps to go inside the building, the bishop spoke. 

“She is being taken to undergo a trial for witchcraft, but I’m sure what you saw made that evident.”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.”

“What do witches look like, son?”

“Wretched, evil, hateful...”

“And is it not evil to go against the dogma of our faith? Is it not wretched to seek deranged ideals like ‘heliocentrism’ and ‘geokinesis’, mad, truly mad things for someone who is fearful of God to believe, and especially wicked for a woman to believe?”

Viktor did not answer. 

“God has great plans for you, Viktor. Do not stray from your path, and you’ll be able to avoid an end like hers” He said, punctuating the last word with a hefty—and ignobly intentional—pat on his back. 

The wounds, still fresh and tender, protested vehemently against the sudden contact, each movement a reminder of the agony that plagued him. He visibly winced and took a sharp breath through gritted teeth, doing his best to suppress the urge to cry out in pain. But it wasn't just the physical discomfort that gnawed at him. Beneath the surface, a simmering anger had been bubbling. 

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

Alone again in the confines of his quarters, Viktor sank to his knees in front of the small wooden crucifix that adorned the wall. His hands trembled as he clasped them together in prayer, his lips moving silently in fervent entreaty. 

“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…” He began automatically, but he didn’t know what he had prayed for. 

When the prayer ended, there was silence.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…” He started once again, perhaps a mother would pity him.

Silence. 

Anger burned within him like a smoldering ember. The rotund face of Father Isidore plagued his inner thoughts. How could a man of God, a shepherd of the faithful, wield his power with such callous disregard?

But beneath the anger lay a deeper, more insidious emotion: guilt. Guilt for his own weakness, for his depravity, for his inability to rise above the turmoil and find solace in his faith. With a frustrated sigh, Viktor bowed his head lower, his hands clenching into fists as he fought to contain the tempest raging within him. 

"Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. "Why do I pray, day after day, only to be met with silence? Have I been forsaken, abandoned by the very God I serve?"

But as the echoes of his words faded into the darkness, there came no answer, and in that moment of profound solitude, Viktor felt more alone than ever before, until he remembered the small object he had managed to slip into his robes. 

A brass coin, small and thin enough that he could break it with his bare hands if he was not careful. It appeared to have worn off with time, the original color having faded into a dark green, corroded shade. As he held it up to the dim candlelight, the symbol etched into its surface seemed to shimmer—a circle with small letters around its circumference that he couldn’t read. In it there was a smaller circle, and inside of it, even smaller, a strange swirly shape with five triangles on its flat top and a cross in the very center. 

He knew, deep inside, that he recognized what he knew to be the symbol of a creature of darkness and forbidden knowledge. His instincts screamed at him to cast it aside, to rid himself of its tainted influence, but a curious fascination held him captive. In a surge of frustration and desperation, Viktor closed his eyes and clasped the coin tightly in his hands, his lips moving in silent prayer.

“God has failed me; let this be the time I am acknowledged.” For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft whisper of his own breath. But then, just as Viktor's hope began to wane, he felt a strange warmth emanating from the coin, spreading through his fingertips. 

Like a heavy shroud enveloping the room, suffusing the air with palpable tension, the atmosphere shifted, thickening with an otherworldly energy that seemed to hum with ancient power. A chill ran down Viktor's spine when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. As he summoned the courage to gaze upon the figure behind him, he found himself confronted by a sight that defied all comprehension.

The figure of a woman, alluring and terrible but terrifyingly familiar, stood before him. A surge of primal terror mixed with a morbid fascination compelled him to stand his ground, and then he heard her voice. 

“Curious, very curious.” She whispered. 

#viktor #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane #arcane au #legion

[writing-whump]

The reveal

The long awaited reveal of the truth. Hector and Arnie find out about Isaiah from their father. Hector stress sick as hell.

"Are you entirely sure you don't want to come?"

Arnie shook his head for what felt like the billionth time. "I'm sure. I told you, I'm sick."

Hector gave him a sceptical look. "Sure you are not just pretending to get out of the meeting with dad?"

Arnie sighed dramatically. "No. I have a fever, my nose feels all clogged up. I'm gonna take an easy day. You have fun."

Technically speaking, Arnie didn't feel any desire to meet their father. It was an annual internal Wolfson pack meeting, but this was the first time in 6 years their father would be attending.

Hector was admittedly excited. Arnie didn't know what about, a guy who didn't think of them for 6 years and ignored Arnie specially for another 6 years before didn't seem much worthy of attention.

There were two people to choose from to blame for the whole of their family falling apart. Arnie would choose their father where Hector would Isaiah.

It was 50:50. One of them was certainly right. Maybe both.

Hector glared at him, which would look a lot scarier if Arnie didn't know it was out out frustration. "You know 37.5 is barely a fever."

Arnie shrugged. "Excuse me, for not waiting for my brain to be half-fried before taking a break, like some people."

They both knew that wasn't what they were arguing about.

Hector sighed, then gave up. "Fine. Whatever. See you."

Arnie smirked, leaning against the wall. "You will tell me all about it anyway."

Hector rolled his eyes. "Don't count on it." But his tone was lighter, which Arnie counted as a win.

Once the door closed behind him, Arnie relaxed. He wasn't lying, he really wanted a day off. Taking some vitamins, he got into PJs and a comfy bathrobe so he wasn't cold and promptly passed out on the sofa with Friends rerun in the backround.

Arnie woke up when twilight was falling through the windows, which meant he had a good sleep, all the way from noon.

Was there a coughing sound or did he imagine it?

Arnie lifted himself up, rubbing the back of his head. His hair got all tangled, he would have to recomb it all over. He wasn't feeling worse, but neither quite okay per se, limbs heavy and his shirt all sweaty.

He blinked around, wondering what woke him up. When he couldn't find any source of the noise or light, he fell back onto the cushion. When was Hector coming back? Likely not before midnight if he didn't decide to spend the night.

The image of Hector bonding with their father after his long absence left a bitter taste in Arnie's mouth. In theory, Isaiah left them too, at about the same time.

But Isaiah always cared for him, cooked and sat with him when he was sick and taught him to play chess. He never made Arnie feel less special for not being a wolf.

Maybe Arnie was just petty. Just because father didn't care for him, didn't mean he wouldn't be nice to Hector, right?

In a way, Hector couldn't help being exicted. Role models were very important to wolves. Fathers, uncles or older brothers, it didn't matter as long as it was an older wolf who could show the proper behavior and control to pups.

Especially in puberty, when most pups struggled the most with their shadows. Wolves lived longer than humans and were nearly indestructible, if they survived their teen years.

There was that weird coughing noise again, bordering on a gag that had Arnie shooting up again. He felt a bit dizzy as he stumbled upright and out of the living room.

Did Hector come back and he didn't notice?

He found their second bathroom alight, although the door was shut. Without thinking, Arnie barged in.

Hector was on his knees in front of the toilet, both elbows planted on the toilet seat. His breathing was ragged, choked at the end.

He lifted his spikey blond head up at Arnie, turning his palm up. "Hi."

"What the hell happened to you?" The sleepiness left Arnie in a rush as he skidded to his knees next to Hector. "When did you come back? What's going on?"

Hector waved him off, but turned back against the toilet, burping loudly against the water. It was still clear though, so he haven't vomited yet. "I'm fine, I'm fine..."

"Hex, for real. Did you catch some kind of flu? Do you have a fever?" If so, he had it worse than Arnie? Or was Hector sick before but pushed himself?

Arnie slapped a hand to his older brother's sweaty forhead, but his skin was cool and clammy. "What's wrong with you?"

Hector gave a whole-bodied shudder that was so out of character it had Arnie scrambling up to shake off his thick woolen bathrobe and throw it over his shoulders. "Are you cold? Hey. Talk to me."

Hector spat into the toilet, squeezing his eyes shut as he rode out a wave of nausea, but nothing else happened. He swiped a hand over his mouth and leaned back against the wall, panting.

Arnie went with him as if glued, wrapping his hands around Hector's arm, trying to coax him into talking with the contact.

"I met father today," Hector said into the silence.

"That's the most important thing right now? I was asking-"

"Just shut up for a second." Hector put the side of his fist to his mouth, muffling a weak gag, before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Arnie frowned, unsease pooling into his stomach.

"Rolled my shadow down."

An icy cold feeling crawled up Arnie's spine. That would explain why Hector was so distraught and shivering. Rolling down someone's shadow was always unpleasant and painful, but it was worse with big shadows. And it was worse for Hector, who had nobody roll it for him for years. He was too powerful, too invincible and too controlled to let the happen.

"Why?" Arnie stammered.

"Said that he was testing me. That I was too weak, because nobody trained me the right way. Not like Isaiah." Hector shivered again, huddling deeper into the bathrobe.

Arnie stayed silent, feeling like there was more coming.

After a beat of hesitation, Hector continued. "He said this is why he trained Isaiah with silver. In fighting. Beat him bloody. Rolled his shadow. That that was the best kind of training that would have made me powerful." Hector swallowed heavily.

"But he didn't?" Arnie wanted to make it sound like a statement, but it swang into a question at the end. He wanted to make sure nothing like that happened, cause surely he would have noticed if Hector went through something like that.

"He couldn't. Isaiah wouldn't allow it."

Arnie's eyes widened and he crooked his neck to look at Hector properly. Hector's eyes were open to slits, amber brown, almost yellow in the bathroom light.

"Can you imagine that? Rolling his shadow, not every day, but several times a day?" A distressed choked edge came into Hector's voice as he met Arnie's eyes. "To teach him how to call it back faster? Taught him how to stand silver injuries by cutting him with silver knives, to get him used to pain? So he would be unbeatable by simply ignoring-" Hector's voice broke, his breathing speaing up like he couldn't get enough air.

Arnie went deadly still at his side, realizing with some kind of horrified detachment father might just have confessed to them the pack's biggest secret.

The reason behind Isaiah's behavior during his executioner training and work. Why he would lock himself up in his room. Why he would disappear for days. Why his expression closed up, why he stopped talking.

Why Isaiah left.

"I didn't know. I swear I didn't," Hector said in the most broken voice Arnie ever heard from him, his own lungs constricting. "Why didn't he say anything? We could have- I could have-"

Arnie held his arm tighter, wrapped around Hector like a monkey. "You wouldn't have been able to do anything."

"No!" Hector's hands shot up into his hair, pulling at them desperately. "Probably not, I guess not, but I should have known! I could have- I could have helped him! He didn't have to be alone, he didn't have to keep it secret, he didn't have to take the blame-" This time Hector gagged, body heaving violently.

Arnie tugged at his arm to direct him over the toilet, Hector barely making it over it as he heaved and heaved, until a splash of sick hit the rim and then the water.

Arnie patted his back, feeling it arch with the heaves. "Breathe, Hex. Just breathe," he managed to whisper, throat all closed up, tears pressing into his eyes.

Hector retched, then made a horrible choking sound and coughed.

Arnie thumbed the middle of his back harder. Hector's breathing hitched, dislocating a loud burp that brought another wave of chunky brown vomit into the bowl.

Hector kept heaving over it for what felt like an eternity, groaning and burping. Arnie wasn't sure if he was crying or if his eyes watered from the strain.

He could understand what Hector was feeling very well, his own stomach in knots. But he had no time to panic himself with Hector struggling to breathe and expelling everything he had eaten that week violently into the toilet.

Arnie pressed his face between Hector's shoulder blades, out of comforting things to say. It felt like he could feel the earth turning, spinning with them, how it sped up and them raced into the opposite direction with the revelation.

Hector moaned loudly, shoulders slumping as he cushioned his head on his arms. He was folded over the toilet seat, still panting and sweaty.

Arnie reached behind him to flush the toilet, the air sticky and smelling of stomach acid. Then he resumed his position, face pressed against Hector's back. A steady diligent presence, joined with him in suffering.

Hector's throat bobbed and he shuddered again. Arnie wrapped his hands around his waist, slow to let Hector react if he wanted to shake him off.

Now that he knew what was wrong he understood why Hector seemed so subdued, so lost and cold and small without the presence of his shadow, the faithful intimidating force always radiating from him.

Hector didn't feel complete without it and Arnie hated it. He hated this is what one rolling did to Hector.

He hated the idea what so many did to Isaiah.

Hector groaned again, the sound somewhere between an angry growl and a pained sob.

Arnie rested his hands gently on Hector's stomach, feeling it suck inside and then blow up again with his harsh breathing. He could feel when it spasmmed under his palms, shooting pressure up his brother's ribcage that has Hector burying his head between his arms into the bowl with a loud productive heave.

Arnie gently stroked the upset heaving organ, feeling the gurgling and clenching under Hector's sweaty shirt.

Hector winced at the movement of Arnie's hands, then relaxed, slumping forward against his arms. His breathing was still fast, but it was slowing, becoming more regular.

Arnie turned his face to the side, so he could breathe better, but not letting go for a second.

"You know what's going to be really important right now?" Arnie whispered into the silence.

Hector turned his head too, looking up at the ceiling with one eye. "What?"

"Don't shut him out right now. You guys...we have to talk about this with him. If this is the reason...maybe we should call Isaiah right now-"

"Fuck, no," Hector protested, straightening up. It would have looked more intimidating if he didn't have bile hanging from the corner of his lips. "I'm not-...I can't-"

"Yes you can," Arnie interrupted sternly. "You have to. Or this is never going to get solved. He needs to know we know and that we are on his side."

Hector looked down, eyes shiny and watery. "I don't know how I'm supposed to look him in the eye." His voice trailed off to whisper. "I told him so many horrible things. I blamed him so many years...I was so wrong..." he blubbered, confirming Arnie's suspicions.

"Yes, it was a mistake. Doesn't mean you should keep making it," Arnie protested, untangling himself to get a good look at Hector.

"Okay," Hector quaked. "Okay. Just...not right now."

"Hex-"

"Please." Hector turned to rest his forehead against the meat of his wrist.

Arnie sighed, a sinking sensation in his chest at the sight. He couldn't make Hector do anything in this state.

But he was afraid this would only be more painful, if it dragged on.

#emeto #sickfic #angst #emetophilia #hurt/comfort #whump #werewolf wip #my writing #and there it is #Hector

[curtsycream]

Anything For You, Beautiful

Hermione Granger x F!Reader

warning: not proofread, my take on a James x Lily trope for Golden Era, snapshots of Hermione x F!Reader, slightly James coded (father like daughter)

“There she is! The brilliant beauty after my own heart,” she called out.

Hermione frowned the second she stepping into the Great Hall. She had a feeling it was coming it always did as Y/N Potter called out to her. The bespectacled girl had been doing so since their first year at Hogwarts.

“Quiet Potter,” Hermione uttered when she sat down between Harry and Ron. Y/N could only raise her hands in defense as her smile widened.

“Whatever the Misses wants,” she mused before eating a piece of toast.

As Hermione moved her hand to grab some food Y/N pushed her hand away. She rolled her eyes at the Potter when she noticed the plate in front of her. “How do you even know I want this for breakfast?”

“Silly question from a brilliant girl, you eat the same thing every morning, noon, and night. We’ve been over this many times before, beautiful.”

Hermione wanted to be upset but she couldn’t, Y/N knew her like the back of her hand. Rolling her eyes she went ahead and ate what Y/N prepared on her plate.

“I’ll be taking that,” Y/N said grabbing Hermione’s books with a smile.

“I thought I got rid of you already,” Hermione commented. She held no bitterness in her tone as she watched the spectacled girl carry her things.

“Did you really think a wall of first years would keep me from you? My heart yearns for you, Granger.”

The loud declaration from Y/N caused Hermione to place a hand over her mouth. Her eyes wide as she looked around noticing a few people staring. Those used to Y/N’s antics simply shrugged it off. “What did I say about doing that?” Hermione hissed out.

Y/N’s words were muffled by Hermione’s as she spoke leading her to remove her hand. With a wink in Hermione’s direction she shrugged, “you tell me lots of things that I don’t listen to. We both know I’ll always do what I want in the end.”

“You’re so insufferable!”

Y/N watched the curly haired girl storm off to her next class without looking back. Keeping her hold on the girl’s books she shook her head, “and you’ll be the death of me..” she muttered to herself.

“Where is she?”

Y/N was frantic as she walked into the Gryffindor common room. Her eyes soon landing on Hermione being consoled by Luna and Ginny. She didn’t waste time making her way over to them. She got down on her knees as she sat in front of Hermione who was curled up on the recliner.

“Hey..hey look at me, you know he’s just a loose mouthed twat,” she whispered softly.

“But it doesn’t hurt any less knowing that he’s-“

“If you say he’s right I’m going to loose my mind.”

“But he is, I’m a-“

“Wonderful, brilliant, and beautiful woman who is beyond Malfoy in every way, shape, and form. That much is simple,” Y/N had a smile on her face as she spoke Hermione’s praise.

Sitting up Hermione began to smile herself before she noticed Y/N’s hands. “What the hell happened?”

“I gave him a piece of my mind though it seems I think with my fists,” she chuckled as Hermione started to fuss over her. But she didn’t mind anything for her.

“POTTER!”

Hermione turns to a chuckling Y/N beside her who couldn’t take her eyes off of the now green haired Malfoy. “I just thought he could use a change, he’s a Slytherin I thought they liked green?”

When Draco set his eyes on Y/N he made his way towards her. He was quick but Y/N was quicker was she stood from the table. Placing her hands on Hermione’s shoulders she pecks her cheek, “eat all of it.” She said before dashing off around the table and out of the Great Hall a furious Draco right on her tail.

“You’d think after the first five years she would learn to stop,” Ron said as he ate.

“Trust me, if it involves Hermione stopping is something she simply can not do,” Harry said speaking up for his sister.

Hermione drowned out their words as a blush spread across her face. Her eyes on her plate of food Y/N handed her moments before Draco entered the Great Hall. Maybe it was the genuine care Y/N had for her or the idea that she was slowly falling in love. Either way she was hooked…

Can you tell I have a crush on Hermione? Also I wanted to replicate the way James was for Lily with Y/N. I think it’s cute

#hermione granger #hermione x reader #harry potter #golden era #wlw #wlw fanfic #wlw post #xreader #x reader #fluff

[under-the-aspen-tree]

A Moth To You (Chapter 14 - Tides a-Turning) Aegon II Targaryen x (Bastard Velaryon) Reader

Series Summary: After a year travelling abroad, you have been called home to Kingslanding by your mother, Rhaenyra. Turns out your family has grown in your time apart.

Word Count: 3.7k

The memory only came to you in passing dreams, though perhaps that was the only time you let it. On any usual day, you would simply push it to the side, and find something else to debate upon. In dreams, you had not the opportunity, and it always left a sour taste in your mouth when you woke.

It always started in the yard, never before, with you strapped to the chest in ill-fitting leather. Your boots belonged to Jace originally and were a size or so too big, filled out with an old pair of stockings to keep you from tripping so easily. Your hair was braided and pushed back into your tunic, and you knew you looked entirely ridiculous, you just simply did not care. All morning, you hadn’t been able to wipe the grin from your face, for your brother had finally agreed to spar. It wasn’t as though you were entirely new to the art of swordplay. Daemon had taught you well enough on Dragonstone and you had practiced a little in the safety of your old chambers, but you wanted something more than a tutor. You wanted an ally, a friend, to be able to play and spar as your brothers so often did.

Convincing Jace hadn’t been easy, the boy having been mortified at the idea of sparring with a girl, let alone his sister, but he did have a soft spot for you. It took some time, and many pleas, but he came around, nervously biting the inside of his cheek at the idea.

“What if people see?” He had asked, lowering his voice as though you were already at risk of being caught.

“I care not for the eyes of bitter chickens wishing for a larger hutch. I wish to play, will you entertain me?”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes but laughed. “You shall be the death of me, or at least my reputation.”

“You have sullied your reputation with no help of mine, brother. Perhaps I’ll give you the opportunity to finally win a battle, then you might start at rebuilding it.”

He had given you a look then that suggested you would regret speaking so callously when rivalled in the yard, but you only grinned.

The pitch was empty, just as you had planned, the hour growing quickly late. The boys typically strained from morn to noon when the day was at its coolest and brightest, but you preferred the secrecy that came with dusk. Less were around to bother, which would mean less would be around to question.

The evening was tinged with summer's warmth, though you did not let that deter you, taking the occasion very seriously with a wooden sword in hand. Jace had been using blunted steel for years, but he dutifully took to the basics for your sake, his expression torn between hesitant and amused. It took a while for Jace to strike any true blows, ever hesitant of hurting a girl, and it took you demanding he at least try to defeat you for him to put in any true effort. Once the real sparring had begun, and you had delivered a few rather cruel raps to his ankles, however, he lost all concern for true chivalry. The air was filled with the smell of smoke and dirt and sweat, the dimming sun setting a dull orange glow about the courtyard that went a soft russet as you kicked up flumes of dry soil. 

The fun didn't last long. Jace had just sent a particularly painful blow to your ribs, knocking the wind from you even despite your leather armour, when a bemused laugh had you both whipping around, panting. Aegon Targaryen stood at the bottom of the spiral staircase leading to the balcony, his arms crossed and a grin on his pale face. He was less broad in the memory, his face a little more angular, his silver hair reaching past his shoulders.

“Oh, you have to be playing me,” Your uncle called once he had your attention, shaking his head. “Jace, is that you?”

Jace's face fell, and you could see his throat bobbing as he swallowed, looking nervously between you and Aegon. 

“I’d say I could recognise that mop anywhere, but it is truly indifferent to the masses," The older boy continued in your shared silence, the grin never leaving his pointed face. “What are you doing out here?”

Jace took the opportunity to square his shoulders, trying to appear a little more formidable with his wooden sword. His voice rang clear across the pitch. “Little to do with you, Uncle.”

“Aww, no need to be so brazen, Jace. Perhaps I wished to spar,” Aegon chuckled, a look of cruel delight upon his face at the sight of you both before him. “Though upon seeing this farce, I’d almost feel bad. It would be an injustice to set you against me.”

That set you off finally. Gritting your teeth, you spoke up yourself, your sword pointed to the ground. “It is only for my benefit, uncle. Jace said it well enough. This has little to do with you.”

Aegon guffawed, taking a few steps across the pitch, circling you from the sidelines. “I’m beginning to think this has all to do with me. (Y/N), is that you, under all the garb?”

He grinned wickedly. “Seven hells, you truly are a sight.”

“Leave, Aegon," You flushed, knowing his words rung quite true. You were a mess in strange clothing, your hair unkempt and sticking to your face and neck with sweat. You certainly didn't look a lady. It seemed your words only spurred your uncle on.

“And if I don’t want to? I’ve quite liked the show so far. Go on, show me what you’re made of. It can’t be difficult to do better than your brother.”

You could practically hear Jace's teeth grinding together. “My sister asked you quite kindly to go."

“And I stated I wish to remain.” Aegon's grin slowly turned to a sly smile, a grim cruelty behind his eyes that hinted at his amusement. He had come upon the chest of weaponry still left out on the sidelines of the yard and he was running a finger along the side of the table. “How about a demonstration for the princess? Show her how real men fight, hm?”

Quicker than a snake's bite, his hand lashed out upon the handle of a bastard sword, the dulled steel glinting in the tawny light of the evening. He turned on you both instantly, his eyes set upon Jace's slowly retreating form as he approached. From this angle, you could see how his lips were stained with wine.

“This isn’t about real fighting, Aegon. This is a spar between us," You protested, a knot forming in your stomach. Jace was ill-equipped, wielding but a wooden sword still, and Aegon was growing more menacing as he advanced, a grin on his face.

“And yet I see it as a perfect opportunity to teach, do you not?” He raised the sword to point at your brother, tilting his head as you watched on in horror. “Sparring a girl, Jace, that’s low, even by your standards. Can you not fight a man, or do you take enjoyment out of hitting a woman?”

“That’s not-“ Jace blurted, blanching.

“Stand properly. At least take this moment to show the princess how it is really done.”

Jace was doing his utmost to appear bold, but even he was cowering slightly in the face of the older boy. Aegon was practically a man-grown, Jace a few years his younger. Your hot breaths were short and quick, your mouth dry as you protested yourself, approaching as closely as you dared. “I asked him to join me, Aegon. This isn’t about him.”

It was as though your uncle hadn't heard a word you said. Despite wearing no armour, he took to sparring with all the confidence of a warrior, rapping his blade against Jace's toy sword so quickly your brother could scarcely raise it to defend himself

“I have not a proper sword!” He gasped, earning a scoff from the older boy as he advanced once more, this time sending a blow to Jace's hip that he barely dodged.

“You chose it, did you not?”

“It is not a fair fight!”

“And your one against the princess is?” Your uncle sneered, though you knew he had no true concern for your wellbeing; only your brothers torment. “Come now Jace, I at least thought you half a man. Even with the bastard blood, you have a dragon's ancestry and... rather strong roots. Can’t you-“

The words angered your brother into action, swinging down with a cry and cutting a grinning Aegon off. You cringed as he deflected it with a twist of his wrist, sending his own blow that almost knocked his nephew clean off his feet. Your pleads filled the evening air as Aegon sent blow after blow, half of which landed quite painfully, and the others serving to snap at Jace's wooden sword, quite quickly reducing it in size. 

He had no chance, though he never had one to begin with truly. Jace could only defend himself, and that in and of itself was a losing battle. Even you could see the tears stinging your brother's eyes in the face of Aegon's childish cruelty, each rap of the sword stinging enough to flinch back.

You didn't notice how your hand tightened around the leather of your handle, the grip slick and hot with sweat. All you heard was the pounding in your ears, the dull whimper that sounded from your brother as Aegon dealt a particularly harsh blow, and then you were upon him. 

Any knowledge learned from your training fled your mind in an instant, and you returned to your base instincts. Approaching quickly from behind, you snapped your sword hard against Aegon's back, earning a sharp cry as his hand impulsively dropped his blade. Your sword was but a toy, but the polished wood landed hard a second time, and then a third, sending your uncle to the ground as Jace watched on in absolute shock. 

A scream tore from your throat as you hit him while he was down, the sword coming upon his shoulder and his hip and his knee as he curled up in an attempt to defend himself, his arms wrapping around his head to protect them from your barrage of attacks. You didn't need to be doing this. This was growing cruel and unnecessary. You had only meant to stop him, perhaps disarm him if you possibly could, but you couldn't help yourself. Each whack of your sword filled your veins with catharsis, each cry from the older boy a deep and heavy justice in the face of every cruel taunt and jab and leer he had ever sent your way. He looked pathetic on the ground, and it made you happy to see it. You relished in the sound of wood whipping leather, the flash of silver hair as he cowered beneath you.

You didn't notice the calls, the shouts, not over the roaring in your ears. You only came to when a pair of strong arms wrapped around your rips, tugging you back so harshly your feet came off the ground and you dropped your wooden sword.

"What in seven hells is going on?"

You could only pant in response to the voice in your ear, one you recognised to be Ser Criston Cole, the queen's sworn protector. Ser Erryk was at the prince's side, pulling him to his feet.

Aegon was a mess, spitting on the ground as he tried to hide the tears in his eyes. His silver hair was stained with dirt that turned dully russet in the dying sun, his breaths short and panted as he pushed the knight's arms away furiously.

"Don't touch me!" He cried.

It was then that you noticed the tinge of shame in his cheeks, his eyes surveying the crowd that had gathered around you, likely drawn by the commotion. Jace was protesting something, swearing and yelling words that didn't quite reach your ears. A hundred eyes looked upon you with shock, upon Aegon with something close to amusement. The prince, trained from youth, was bested by his niece. What a sorry sight. It filled you with as much pride as it did shame to know you had humiliated him. He deserved it, he had attacked Jace.

The arms holding you shifted to grab at the back of your leather tunic, pulling you away from the scene.

That was when you awoke with a start, your mouth dry and your breaths short and panted. Your bed was uncomfortably warm, the late afternoon sun streaming through the open windows and straight onto your sheets, bathing you in a warm glow. You winced against the brightness, pressing a hand over your eyes as you swallowed, attempting to catch your breath.

"Princess?" The knock came from the other side of your door, likely the one that awoke you in the first place, and it shocked you back into the present, pushing the sheets from your body haphazardly as you staggered to the door.

"Sorry," You mumbled, still slightly disoriented as you unlocked the latch on your door and pulled open the heavy wood, revealing a bemused Kaira, your personal maidservant, holding a heavy-looking box.

"At which point did you start locking your door?"

You stared at her blearily. "The point in which a sellsword tried to cut my throat open."

Kaira tutted, weaving her way into the room and fixing your crumbled sheets with a single, impressive pull. "I doubt that sellsword will be doing you harm any time soon, princess."

You could only hum in response. Kaira's company was usually enough to brighten your mood, but the dream always left you sullen, brooding on days long passed. It had been coming more regularly since the night in the Kingswood, and it only drove you further from speaking to Aegon again. You couldn't face him after seeing it, his youthful face crumpled in shame and pain. You always forgot the sneer he wore before, only the shameful wave of pride you felt in besting him. You were no less guilt-ridden since formally apologising to the man, and he had avoided you entirely in the days since, only adding to the tension you were sure to feel tonight. 

Spring had officially ended, and despite the winter being short and quite comfortable, the beginning of summer was always celebrated quite thoroughly. The royal family had decided to mark the changing of the seasons with seven days of jousting, a sport you took little interest in and therefore avoided well enough. You hadn't enjoyed the sight of blood before that night in the Kingswood, you hadn't since you watched Aemond lose his eye on Driftmark, but you now grew sick at just the sight of it. It reminded you of Boras' dull eyes glinting in the moonlight, of your sticky hands burning as something wet and hot beat against your chest and neck in thick waves.

Your mother didn't mind your absence so long as you attended the more formal occasions; a princess was scarcely missed from such violent events and you knew Helaena had always abstained herself. But tonight was important and, in all honesty, you didn't much mind the idea of a feast. You had scarcely been able to speak to anybody since Jace's name day celebrations, only being allowed to leave the safety of the Red Keep on the days you went flying, and you were actually looking forward to doing something interesting.

The jousting has been cut short for the day in order for the lords and ladies to prepare for the evening, and you had taken the free afternoon to regretfully nap. By the way Kaira was setting the box down on your bed and pulling out sheets of fabric, you assumed the feast was vastly approaching.

"I do hope you're feeling advantageous, princess," Kaira said with a smile, her auburn hair glowing gold in the light from the window like a soft halo around her curls. In her hands was a dress more beautiful than you had been given in a long time. You raised your brows, forgetting the dream for the moment to approach and run your hands down the silk.

"Seven hells. Is this what my mother commissioned?" You had been sent to the tailors for measurements a week or so past, but you had never expected this. 

"The dressmakers finished it just this morning," Kaira grinned, unclasping the ornate metalwork of the dress before dragging you to your wardrobe and upon your step. After waiting for you to remove your gown, she shimmied the garment with extreme care up your body, gently clicking the belt and collar shut and positioning the looking glass with a smile.

The dress was more than impressive, it was extravagant. Made of a rich, sea-green silk, the garment began in a thick collar that hung around the throat and flowed into a rounded neckline just over your breasts. The sleeves were soft and billowing, staring not at the shoulder but instead spilling from the bodice to the centre of your bicep. Ornate carvings of gold made up a heavy belt that cinched your waist, while silver embroidery so beautiful you could only marvel in wonder lined the hems and sides of your ribs down to the thigh. You ran your fingers absentmindedly over the beaded thread, entranced by its watery texture. It had to be one of the most awe-striking dresses you had seen in your life.

"The Velaryon colourings," You hummed, staring at yourself in the looking glass. You looked a stranger.

"A show of strength, I believe."

Kaira sat you down then and began the process of readying you. A princess must always look proper, but a court-hosted celebration is a whole new game to play. Your hair had already been carefully brushed and oiled and curled until it shone, and Kaira spent what must have been an hour carefully weaving it into a tangle of braids and twists that fell in layers down your back. She pressed golden pins resembling flowers into the delicate nest and rubbed cream blush into your cheekbones and lips so that you had a rosy glow about you. She mixed wheaten flower and rosewater in a little glass dish to pat against your forehead and nose until your very skin seemed to possess an unearthly radiance, then dabbed pearlescent powder here and there until you shone faintly in the candlelight. Only then did she permit you leave with a grin and a promise of early courtship, which only earned an eye roll and a faint blush upon your painted cheeks.

The beginning of the feast was as dull an affair, as they typically were. After finding your seat beside your mother and Jacaerys, you sat and watched as each noble family entered the great hall and bowed their respects. There were the Arryns in cornflower blue, the Celtigars in red and white, the Lannisters in gold and crimson, the Tyrells in yellow and teal, and even the Tullys in their sullen greys made an appearance. Names were called and pleasantries exchanged until you were tapping your hands upon the table, fighting the urge to fidget in your seat with your mother so close by. One or twice, Jace turned to you with a lewd comment about some lord or lady that had you fighting the urge to giggle. You quickly found yourself and your brothers matched the rest of the Velaryon family in colourings when your grandmother and grandfather approached the dais to sit, all bearing incredible fabrics of teal and gold and silver. A show of strength, truly.

It was in the height of boredom that you saw him, late enough into the festivities that you had already begun to eat. He emerged from the shadows of the hall to join his family, a dreadful swipe of purple and red against his left cheekbone that bloomed with a near-beautiful quality considering its harrowing appearance. Eyes locked on yours, eyes that reminded you of a fresh spring pond. Gentle eyes. His hair was oiled in an attempt at grooming, but those dark curls still layered about his face, now grown to his shoulders.

You blushed when you caught Colren Tully's attention, and suddenly the feast wasn't so dull. You could scarcely keep your eyes from your plate as your family ate and drank, and had barely made it around the as when the dancing arose when you came upon an open palm, a gentlemanly smile upon full lips.

"Princess, it has been so long."

Colren looked even more dashing in his finery than he had at Jacaerys' name day celebrations, and you found yourself quite grateful for Kaira's concoction of flour and rose to dampen your natural blush as you took his hand delicately. It was warm in yours.

"Too long. I am glad to see you well, my lord."

"I consider myself more grateful, your grace. I was wondering, after all this time apart, if you would do me the honour of a dance?"

You looked down on the charming man from the height of the dais, the festivities a wash of colour in contrast with his fine features, and fought the urge to grin.

"The honour would be mine."

Feeling his hand in yours, so large in comparison that he practically overwhelmed you, you let him lead you from the stage of the iron throne to the dance floor. You had turned your head to send a wry smile in Helaena's direction, whom you knew to have been seated at the other end of the table to yourself, but it was not her eyes you met. 

You bowed your head quickly, flushing, as Aegon Targaryen stared back, a silver cup in hand and an unreadable expression on his face, and dared not so much as glance upon the table again as Colren Tully led you into the crowd.

#Aegon #Aegon Targaryen #Aegon II Targaryen #Aegon x reader #Aegon Targaryen x Reader #Aegon II Targaryen x Reader #Aegon II x Reader #reader insert #HOTD #hotd fanfic #asoiaf #game of thrones #Aegon x you #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x you

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine King growing attached to you

Kaido: go find King and give him this note.

You: *new to the crew* okay, who is King

Kaido: he... He's the one dressed head to toe in leather, you'll know him when you see him.

After wandering around Onigashima

You: *after asking for directions from Sasaki, you spot him* I take it you're King?

King: yeah, who's asking?

You: I have a note from Kaido for you.

King: that's Kaido-sama to you... This says you're the new assistant I requested. I need to go talk to him. *Storms off leaving you behind*

You: sir? *Can't keep up, so you sit and wait for him to come back*

In Kaido's room

King: you made a human my assistant, I don't want them. You know how I feel about humans.

Kaido: yes, I know, but I need you to look after that one though, I have a gut feeling they'll be useful later. They're also a non-combatant, so you need to also guard them, I figured I'd make them useful to you while you do that, by making them your assistant. Where is (y/n) by the way?

King: *wasn't aware you didn't follow him* I don't know?

Kaido: better go find them then, they're your responsibility.

King: ugh! *Runs off to go find you only to find you sitting on the floor where he left you* why didn't you follow me!

You: I couldn't keep up with you.

King: why didn't you try and find me?

You: I don't know my way around yet, and I was already lost. I was always told if you're lost in a building to stay put and wait for someone to find you.

King: *exasperated, but is glad you were easy to find* alright come with me.

Over the next few months

You: *proves yourself a very capable and attentive assistant and pleasant company*

King: *still vaguely bitter about having a human assistant but has reluctantly accepted your occupation of space in his life* we're going on an expedition next week.

You: *has pneumonia* hopefully I will be better by then.

A week later

You: *still sick* alright, I have prepared everything for you, your bags are packed and waiting for you in your cabin. I was told that sometimes it's difficult to get a decent meal the first day out, because of double-checking stuff, so there are some rice balls waiting for you as well. I made sure you have plenty of blank treasury reports for the haul. Is there anything else you'll need?

King: my assistant

You: the doctor didn't clear me for active duty, so I'm afraid I'll have to stay here. Plus someone has to hold down the fort. Although I can't promise it'll be in one piece when you get back. Yamato is a lot stronger than I am.

King: ugh, fine see you in a few months.

That afternoon

Queen: I'm starving

King: *munching on the food you left him*

Kaido: where'd you get those?

King: (y/n) left them for me in my room.

Jack: so that is why they were making in the kitchens this morning.

Queen: those look so good, what flavor are they?

King: spicy tuna, and I think there's a shiso one in here. (Y/n) is always trying to get me to eat more vegetables.

Kaido: I bet you're glad I assigned them to you to look after.

Jack: *mutters* looks like they look after him more.

King: *punches him*

Two days into the voyage

Kaido: *going over scouting reports in the ship's office*

King: *making arrangements for which ships take what supplies*hey, (y/n) get a load of this, Queen wants to take any gold we find as cargo on his ship. The audacity

Kaido: ... Who are you talking to?

King: (y/n), * points in the direction your desk usually is back on Onigashima*

Kaido: they're back at base

King: ... Oh right

Over the course of the trip

King: *realizes he doesn't like you being so far away from him* damn it

Kaido: is it just me or is King grumpier than normal? He snarled at me earlier for drinking before noon.

Queen: he's been more aggressive, and morose lately.

Jack: I think he misses (y/n).

Kaido: I'm not going to lie, I kind of miss them too. I'm tempted to fly back home, to see if they have recovered.

Queen: I already called, doc Bloomington said they're still on bed rest, but they should be fully recovered by next week.

When the crew returns home

King: *spots you in the crowd, waiting at the docks, so he flies over and scoops you up, and finally feels complete and at ease*

You: how did the expedition go?

King: well enough, have you recovered from that puny illness?

You: yes sir

King: good, you're not allowed to get sick for that long again.

You: I have flying fish sashimi and a bath prepared for you in your room for you, sir. We can get to sorting the treasure tomorrow morning.

King: *has missed this* good idea, remind me to let you pick something nice from the haul tomorrow.

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#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #king the conflagration #king the wildfire #king the conflagration x reader #king the wildfire x reader #animal kingdom pirates #one piece queen #beast pirates #one piece kaido #one piece jack #from the depths of the dragon's hoard #tma original #no beta we die like men #9/30/22

[arteastica]

early in the morning, especially when it rains, and a little before noon. (13)

erwin x fem!reader

chapters: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) | (5) | (6) | (7) | (8) | (9) | (10) | (11) | (12) | (14) | (15) | (16) | (17) | (18) | (19) | (20) | (21) | (22) | (23) | (24) | (25) | (26)

summary: I basically took Isayama’s work, forced it into a romance story, and made Erwin the love interest. Commander meets cadet and they fall in love (not instantly though)

notes: very berry canonverse (but some events were modified to fit my narrative), wasn’t intended to be this long, but it all is in the details right?

content warnings: smut where it fits (or where I make it fit. Also, reader is NOT underage, so likewise, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, please.) slow burn (I really mean it. I’m not olympic diving into any form of smut for the first chapters.) no angst. I dislike angst. I would never. I could never. (Although angst can be somewhat subjective so take it with a grain of salt?)

wc: 2.7k

“I mean, if that’s something you’re comfortable talking about.” You rushed to add, fearing your question might open old wounds. “We don’t have to talk about it if-”

“No, it’s fine. You told me about your family, it’s only fair that I tell you about mine.” His eyes scanned the ceiling, as if trying to find the starting paragraph to a really long, complex story. He then took a deep breath and said: “My father, his beard was always unkempt and so was his mustache.” You chuckled lightly, tickled by the unexpected and rather random beginning he chose for his story. “He disliked loneliness. Not only when it came to people, but also objects. He didn’t like it when things looked lonely. If he passed by a bakery and there was only one loaf of bread left at the end of the day, he would buy it even though we had enough at home. If there was a book alone on a table, he would place it in a group with the others.” If your eyes hadn’t been glued to him the way they were, scanning every inch of his face, trying to read all the sentences you knew he was purposely leaving out of his story, you would have missed the way his lips twitched as they tried but failed to compose a smile.

“He rarely got drunk, but when he did, his habit of bringing lonely things home would only worsen. One time, I woke up in the middle of the night, startled by a noise that to my sleepy 8-year-old self sounded like a woman crying.” He said, as you shuffled against him, having no clue where this story was going. “Scared, I looked out the window only to see my father trying to push a cow inside the house.” You opened your mouth in disbelief. “He said the poor animal was all alone in a field, looking like it could use a friend. The next day, he had a hard time explaining to our neighbors that he wasn’t trying to steal their cow.”

“Well, that alone tells me a lot about him.” You said, the thought of a perplexed, golden-haired boy in his pajamas, and an equally confused thousand-pound cow being forced through a small door in the middle of the night making you chuckle. “What did he do for a living?”

“He was teacher.”

“Let me guess, History.” His eyes widened, head tilted to the side, asking you to explain your deduction as well as the conviction present in your voice. “I mean, that would explain a lot of things, including your love for History as well as all these books.” You said, pointing at the shelves that covered the walls of his room.

“These are not books. The ones in my office are. But these… these are just things I write.”

“All of them? You mean as in journals?”

He nodded before explaining: “Writing helps me clear my head, especially after expeditions. When we come back from a mission, time moves on and so does life, at least for those who survive. But what about those who don’t?” The question seemed to be directed at the air and not particularly at you. “What about those who never make it back home?” He paused for a moment, seemingly letting the taste of those words linger on his tongue like bitter lemon, before continuing. “When my men die out there, they are not really left behind. They are forever immortalized in the pages of these journals. It’s my way of remembering them, of making sure their sacrifice doesn’t go to waste.” Your eyes paced around his room, things slowly taking on a whole new meaning, and you wondered how much anguish and sorrow were trapped in the pages of those journals. “They stay behind and trust us, the living, to go on and find meaning in their deaths.”

You stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace without speaking, but simply, quietly understanding. Understanding that writing was his way of finding meaning, of making sense of it all. Understanding that a scout’s life was never easy, you knew that from the get go, but it was then and there where you finally and fully comprehended the dimensions of the position you held, the implications of the path you had chosen. And, when your vision started to get blurry, and your mind, to wonder if one day you would become a character in one of those dreadful entries, you decided it was time to change the topic.

“So! Your father was a teacher.”

“Yes, and I was in his class.” He paused for a moment, the space he decided to leave between each word, as well as the calmness in his voice, reminding you of trees after a violent rainstorm, battered and partially uprooted, but still standing somehow, or at least trying to. “One day, he was talking about how humanity was forced to take refuge within the walls to protect themselves from the Titans, and how that bought them 100 years of peace.” There was something about his voice that took you back to a rainy day, ten or fifteen years ago, sitting by the classroom window, only that this time your head wasn’t propped on your hand, your pencil wasn’t tapping on the desk, and your mind wasn’t lost somewhere far away, wondering when you would be able to go home. Because this time, the commander was the one speaking, and his voice, while monotonous and gentle, had the spark required to narrate the longest of stories without losing the audience’s interest in the process. A rare skill you had known only one more person to have: Hitch. That, paired with his ability to explain complex things, made you think he would make a great History professor; and you couldn’t help but wonder how different his life would have looked like had he chosen to follow his father’s footsteps.

“In doing so, any records of our earlier past were lost for all of time.” His voice pulled you back to the present, and you nodded, both to signal you were following his story, and to shake the vivid pictures that had started flooding your imagination, vivid pictures of him coming home after work to a warm dinner on the table, to his family, to a beautiful house in some small village or to a cozy cabin in the middle of some quiet forest, instead of this lonely office trapped between walls of cold stone. An alternate reality where he wouldn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, startled by nightmares of titans tailing behind him, trying to devour him and his men.

“At least, that’s what we’re all taught.” You looked at him, your brow furrowing in suspicion, sensing there was more to this story. He seemed to be trying to decide what he would say next. Or whether to say it at all. And before you could tell him it was okay if he didn’t want to say more, he decided to continue. “I… having doubts of my own, asked my father a question. At first, he evaded answering and ended class as normal. But after we got home, he answered my doubts. He said the history books given by the government were full of contradictions and mysteries.” Something about that last line reminded you of a conversation you had with your own father a while ago, about those government conspiracy theories he was so intrigued by. But you didn’t want to interrupt, so you just nodded and let the commander go on.

“My father continued to tell me more, and even as a child, I was astounded. You see, there’s a reason he didn’t tell that story to the entire class, but I wasn’t smart enough to know.”

“You told the story to someone else.”

He nodded. “To other neighborhood kids. And one day, the Military Police came to question me.” He was looking straight into the fireplace, as if having a staring contest with the flames. Almost as if someone was standing in the middle of the flames, staring back at him, and he wasn’t allowed to break eye contact. You thought about the scenery reflected in his eyes. The blue in his eyes mirroring the bright, red fire, as well as glimpses of an emotion he had never displayed in front of you before. Slight anger, maybe. “My father didn’t come home that day… And I haven’t seen him ever since. He died in some accident in a faraway town. Or so I was told.” He added, sadness scattered around his eyes like stars in the dark night sky.

His words reverberated inside the silent room, spreading across the available space, reaching every corner, and stabbing every inch of your heart in the process. You had somehow deducted his father wasn’t around anymore, so when he started narrating the story you hadn’t expected it to have a happy ending. This, however, was way beyond your imagination. This was downright traumatizing, another level of disturbing for sure. And you felt horrible for asking him to pick at a wound that had barely even scabbed at all. But you also knew that his father hadn’t died in an ��accident’. “Based on what I knew-”

“The government. He was silenced by the government.” You concluded, words leaving your mouth at the exact same time the thought was born.

He nodded again before continuing his story. “One hundred and seven years ago, humanity that fled into these walls… The king had altered their memories to make them easy to rule. That was my father’s theory.” You had never listened to this part of the story before. It was as if important pages had been ripped off the history books you studied at school. And the whole sensation was very odd. It left your mouth dry and your skin shivering. It was like finding there was an alternate ending to a book you had read a hundred times. One you never knew existed. A darker one.

He didn’t say anything, and you felt he was giving you time to process everything and reach your own conclusions.

“Because if he hadn’t done that, civilization within the walls could never succeed.” You finally said.

“Exactly. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been thinking… Why did my father have to die for nothing more than getting close to the truth?” He asked, and you knew this time he wasn’t talking to the air nor to you, but to himself, his voice and the emotions behind it raising like water reaching its boiling point. “Even those in the government would believe what they’re doing is just. However, I realized one thing about them: What they’re trying to protect is not humanity.”

“It’s their gardens, houses, and land.” You completed the sentence before he could, having lived far too many years around them to know what their most precious possessions are.

“If anyone dares threaten their authority, they’ll be silenced, whoever they are.” The hand that was intertwined with yours tightened its grip on your fingers. “In the end, there was nothing to justify my father’s death. In the end, my father was killed by human greed.” His knuckles went ghost-white. “And by the foolishness of his own son.” Still staring into the dancing flames before him, you noticed he had the eyes of a man whose future resembled a dead-end street. The eyes of someone who was tired of seeing seasons die one after another, knowing that his father would never come home. The eyes of someone who was tired of seeing tomorrow die even before it came. The eyes of someone who spent a whole life dreaming upon days that would never return, dreaming of a person he would never see again. And you wondered if it was his father whom he saw in the flames, or was it a younger version of himself? Or maybe, he saw memories of happier days. Memories of a past he would never be able to go back to, along with scenes of a future he would never be able to move on to. Because his legs remained forever trapped in the heavy muds of regret.

“Before I knew it, my father’s theory became true inside my heart. Now, my mission in life. It’s to prove my father’s theory once and for all.”

You wanted to string together the right words, one by one, until they formed a bridge that would lead you closer to him, so he wouldn’t feel so alone. Because, even though your bodies were pressed so closed together, you could tell his soul was lost somewhere far away, somewhere dark, somewhere lonely. And you knew his father would have hated it for him to feel that way.

You stayed still, silent, and slightly mad at yourself for not being able to say something to him. The night is always dark if no one holds the light, so you wanted to hold it for him. You really wanted to. But you were astounded and overwhelmed by all the information, both about his past and about the reality you all lived in. His father’s theory, if true, would change the world as you knew it. As everyone knew it. A possibility that, if true, would change everything.

In the end you made peace with the fact that you weren’t wise enough to know what to say, and opted for gently wrapping your arms around him instead, pulling him closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck, hugging him as tightly as you could. If you couldn’t tell him, you would show him. If words were beyond your ability, you would make sure actions weren’t. He immediately responded by tightening his arms around you and pressing his nose against the top of your head, where you could feel him breathing heavily. He took such a deep breath that, for a moment, you thought he was going to cry. But no, you knew he wouldn’t, that would be nearly impossible. Because at this point, given the rate of pain he had been enduring for years, at that rate your eyes would run out of tears before your heart could let go of the pain.

As your head rested against his chest, in such proximity to his heart, and as its beating told you more about the pain he had been living with for all those years since his father’s passing, a question popped up in your mind.

“The basement. In Eren’s house. It has something to do with this. Doesn’t it?” You spoke after a few minutes of silence.

“Intel suggests that the basement of Eren Yeager’s home in Shiganshina holds a vital secret regarding our enemy. That’s our destination. By getting there, I can prove my father’s theory. I know it.” He held your hand tighter. “I just know it.”

His words carried the exact same conviction they did during meetings when planning strategies or during expeditions when giving commands in the field. Only that this time they were infused with something else, a certain vulnerability. A vulnerability that, along with the violent beating of his heart against your ear, explained to you why he was so committed to the cause. Why he had decided to give his entire life to the Survey Corps. It all made sense now. You understood that it had less to do with freeing humanity from the walls, and more to do with his late father.

As his heartbeat lulled you to sleep that night, your mind became flooded with thoughts of the basement and the secrets that could be hidden there. If there was something hidden at all, in the first place.

-

next chapter

taglist: @elnyrae @angelaevangelion @depitaangeline @ynackerman9499 @afatalheat @pumpkin-toffee @velouria17 @gassytritis @goddessinsweats @nube55 @jeanboyjean

#arteastica writes #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #shingeki no kyojin erwin #attack on titan erwin #erwin smith #commander erwin #erwin x reader #snk erwin #aot erwin #erwin smut #erwin smith x reader #erwin snk #erwin smith x y/n #erwin x y/n #erwin smith x you #erwin x you #erwin fanfic #erwin smith fanfiction #erwin smith fluff #aot x reader #aot x female reader #aot x you #aot x y/n

[cutephlegm]

Something red

III - Bitter kisses

Pairing: Gortash x reader

CW: NSFW

Read on Ao3

Summary: Gortash invites you to discuss your proposition, things get heated.

You felt your head spin, standing at the foot of Gortash’s office. Adrenaline coursed and pumped through your shivering body. A strange nausea writhed in your gut… The anticipation was killing you.

You thought back to just a few hours earlier- when you felt as if you could say anything, without Gortash’s judgement- Alcohol was a formidable thing. The many conversations you’d exchanged had brought you closer… and likewise driven you mad with lust, lips desperate, craving a certain dark-haired gentleman. You fool.

The banquet was supposed to be a crucial step in progressing your career, yet you’d surely made a fool out of yourself in front of the soon to be archduke of Baldur’s Gate. Although, in your drunken stupor you couldn’t quite remember exactly what you’d said… perhaps for the best.

Truthfully though, although you were a nervous wreck at the prospect of the tyrant inviting you to his office, for a personal meeting, a tiny part of you was excited. Perhaps Gortash would even take you up on the silly offer you’d suggested. It wasn’t the worst idea you could’ve proposed… surely, he had at least found it entertaining. Perhaps he had invited you here to let you down softly- although that didn’t seem very in character for the infamous lord Enver Gortash.

You braced yourself and took a final breath of air. It was noon and you weren’t about to keep him waiting. Your hand hovered over the door handle; this could possibly destroy your career if not handled well…

Before you could even knock, the door swung open. You found yourself stood face to face before a familiar man. You stiffened. His shocked expression quickly shifted to a calm bemusement as he took a step back from you, his eyes darting between the floor and your embarrassed expression. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so eager to see me…” His voice was unapologetically smug, your heart couldn’t help but stutter to the sound of it. You immediately recalled the things you’d felt the night before. You averted your eyes towards the floor.

“It’s noon, is it not?” “Correct, my dear, you’re pinpoint on time. I would’ve thought you’d be a busier woman.” He backed into his office, beckoning you to follow. “Well, I’m not one of your clients, Gortash. I work for you; it would be unprofessional to be late.” You followed his lead, sitting at the chair he gestured you to. It didn’t take long for you to notice two glasses, side by side, accompanied by a bottle of fine, luxurious whisky. You hadn’t thought that you’d feel so… at ease, yet you did.

“Oh please, don’t be so formal. This isn’t some work related event… this is a meeting between peers.” Gortash purred, his smooth voice raising goosebumps on your skin. You raised a brow, watching on as Gortash poured the fiery liquid out. “How so…?” “Well… I thought about your silly little proposition… and I found that it would benefit me, as it would you, of course.” As he spoke, he seemed to be in the midst of pondering to himself, an index handily placed on his chin. “In other words, you’re no longer my secretary… you’re much more than that.” His eyes skimmed over the piles and piles of unread letters scattered around his desk before resting back onto you.

You stood still, not daring to open your mouth before you could figure out how you felt. You weren’t sure that this was a bad thing… all the luxuries that would come with being involved with a man like Gortash… even if it was just a facade. It certainly dwarfed your current lifestyle, that of a humble woman who didn’t often treat herself to luxuries. You hummed to yourself, taking a sip of the liquid. It was disgustingly bitter, tasting like bile and burning the back of your throat as you swallowed it. You cleared your throat. He smirked devilishly as he noticed your grimace, taking a sip himself. “Well… I’m not disappointed by that news…” You could barely hide your disbelief at it. In honesty the proposition had simply been a stupid drunken thought nothing more, you hadn’t expected much from it, you silly thing.

Every time you were this close to the lord you noticed small details about him, the unkemptness of his hair- or the dark circles that always lingered under his tired eyes. It made him look even more handsome in a strange way. Those eyes were now firmly fixed onto you.

An hour had passed and you had hardly noticed it, you were so busy listening to the conditions Gortash had come up with, things such as where you would stay, who you would be allowed to interact with, etc… There weren’t any with particularly stood out to you. They were all reasonable considering what you would be receiving.

“…And that seems to be just about it.” Gortash paused, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “However- before I send you on your way, I’d like to know something, wife.” He mocked, though you weren’t sure how you should feel as when he called you by that, as stupid as it sounded it made your chest tighten. You’d rather warmed up to the lord, so this question didn’t strike as much fear as it would’ve usually. “Of course, do ask.” You responded, the kindest smile you could muster stappled onto your lips.

“Is this strictly business to you?” Gortash’s tone was curious, although you could spot something much darker. You felt your blood run cold as his eyes continued to relentlessly bore into you- he was good at building tension. “The way you behaved the last I saw you, was remarkably friendly…” His eyes narrowed as he likely noticed your face redden. “…Although you’re very welcome to prove me wrong.” He averted his gaze to the empty glasses of wine you’d gone through in that past hour, a suggestive smirk crossing his lips.

“Huh I was simply being… polite.” You lied through your teeth. “Were you now?” You paused. Could you lie your way out of this, It was probably unwise to be so considering how you he had already caught onto you… curse you, Gortash…

“Fine… I suppose you’re… not mistaken.” You admitted, with a sigh. “It’s irrelevant though-“ Gortash cut you off, tutting to himself. He stood up from his seat. “It’s very relevant.” He said sternly, although his expression was softer, you couldn’t quite make it out…

His eyes pried into you, deciphering, scheming… as he walked over to the chair you sat in. “I must admit, you can be rather bold at times.” You could feel your body going numb as he looked down at you, with unbridled curiosity. “I admire that in a person.” “…Where is this going, Gortash…?” You raised a brow. “Come here, and find out.” He rested an arm on his desk.

You couldn’t help but listen to him, it was like your body was moving on its own. You stood up, taking a few apprehensive steps in his direction, was this really about to happen? You were so close to him, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the bitter alcohol on his lips… you wanted a taste. You cleared your throat, now only mere inches away from each other. “What do you want from me?” You asked, a breathless mess. It was embarrassing really- you hadn’t had as much romantic experience in the past… you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He stood still, looking down at you, you wished that you could hear his thoughts, for there were surely many coursing through his brain at this very moment. “Did I misread you, Y/N?” He narrowed his eyes, a smirk still plastered on his face. “Perhaps you’re not a sharp as I thought.” Gortash scoffed with the sentence, turning his head to the side. “Well, I mustn’t dawdle, I shall get back to work I have-“ “Wait-“ Your hands were suddenly on his chest, grasping at the expensive linen. You couldn’t believe your eyes- that you were really doing this… what had gotten into you!?

Gortash clearly shared the same sentiment, his body was stiff under your touch, his hands grasped at your wrists, pulling you away from him before he paused, looking back down at you again. Not one work escaped either of your lips, as soon you were fighting for air against each other.

He kissed you tenderly, passionately… his hands settled on your hips, pulling you into him. You felt him smirk against your lips, before he pulled you even further into him, your hands finding themselves to unbutton his shirt. The taste of whisky, the way his knee had ended up between your legs… his firm grasp on you… it drove you mad. His eyes followed yours, a smirk creeping onto his lips once he noticed how red your face had become.

You broke free from the kiss, breathless and flustered, he opened his mouth, but before he could even get a word out you kissed him harder, pinning him back again his desk, sending paperwork scattered onto the floor. You took immense pleasure in hearing noises of shock from the tyrant, as you dug your teeth into his lips. Not long after you notice the taste of blood seeping into your mouth, Gortash let out a muffled yelp and he pulled away from you, warm blood gushing down his chin, perhaps you’d bitten him a little too hard…

“You-“ He stopped himself, before a dark grin appeared on his lips. “You are done for.” Before you could react, he had you pinned against his desk, your hands found their way back to claw at his shirt, pathetically trying to remove it. “Patience,” He purred at you, his hands sliding to the sides of your thighs, tracing soft circles on your skin. Your eyes widened slightly as you felt his hands creep higher and higher up your tights, up your skirt… You were a mess, already throbbing with need, if only he could feel how badly you wanted him… Although knowing Gortash, he wouldn’t care, he took pleasure in being cruel.

It didn’t take long for his fingers to trace around you, his touch was light and brief, leaving you craving for more. Yet it soon ramped up in intensity, he dragged a thumb across you, hooking a finger onto your tights, pulling them and your underwear down with expertise. You could tell this wasn’t the first time he’d done this; he was strangely skilled at it.

He continued teasing you, rubbing against the soft fabric, earning a stifled gasp. You could feel the moisture gather as he continued- ceaselessly dragging his fingers backs and forth, in circles, softer, harder, faster, slower… you could see stars. You weren’t sure if he could tell how much you enjoyed this, that is until you heard your own sounds.

You were beginning to lose all of your remaining composure, your blushed face was now red, sweat hot and sticky has accumulated on your face, your palms, your chest… it all felt so feverish. However, Gortash was his usual self, not a hint of anxiety. You scowled, you wanted to wipe that stupid grin off his face, make him shiver like he had done to you.

You needed him, you craved him. Without thinking twice, you trailed a hand down his chest, his abdomen, arriving at his belt. Gortash stiffened, his eyes darted to where your hands were now positioned, already busy getting rid of the obstacle. “Did you not hear me, woman? Be patient.” He snarled at you. He was bad at hiding his arousal… You grinned at his words before shutting him by pulling him into another deep embrace.

The two of you indulged in each other before one thing led to another and now his fingers trailed around your entrance, rubbing you, teasing you. Before you could even make a noise two fingers plunged inside of you, earning a soft gasp you tried to muffle. You were ashamed to admit, that even his fingers made you wince. You hadn’t expected to be that big… you couldn’t imagine what…

Before you even finish that thought his fingers were moving in and out of you. He curled them, hitting spots you didn’t know a person could hit. You took in a sharp breath of air, trying not to make as much noise as you wanted to. He couldn’t find out how much you were enjoying this…

While he moved his two fingers inside of your throbbing core, your knee pushed up against his crotch. He was already rock hard… how predictable. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself knowing that. You pushed harder and you felt his composure slip, he groaned, his eyes shut, his lips tightly sealed, his cock begging to be released. Gods you were so close now.

He removed his fingers from you before reaching for his belt, unclasping it. You could hardly believe this was real… until you both heard a sharp knock coming from the office door.

#gortash x reader #lord enver gortash #lord gortash #bg3 gortash #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #enver gortash

[spenzitz]

LOVING THEM ~ BSD

a/n~this is a new thing? it's definitely out of my comfort zone, but I've been thinking about it for a while, so here you go! words~ 524

dazai, atsushi, ranpo, gn!reader, this is my first time writing for ranpo so uh, tw :)

DAZAI

loving dazai is putting up with his shit. when it's 7 in the morning, and you should have been up half an hour ago, but dazai was just too tired. too tired to get out of bed but awake enough to talk your ear off about whatever popped in his head.

when you finally do roll out of bed, you have to pull dazai along with you by his hand. you drag him to the bathroom to brush his teeth while you go get dressed and bring him his clothes.

there's something about getting dressed that changes his mindset from tired and half asleep to awake and energized. suddenly, dazai is the one dragging you around to get ready for the day. he makes you some breakfast which ends up being kinda terrible and a waste of food. but "thank you, dazai. it's lovely" is all you can manage to say to him.

you're both late for work that day, something you never did before dating dazai. but this is your new normal, and you think it might be worth it.

ATSUSHI

loving atsushi is taking care of him. see, atsushi has no concept of self-care(or love, lmao), so you have to do it for him.

one time, he stayed up until 3am doing paperwork because he didn't want kunikida to be mad at him. so he only got like 3 hours of sleep. the next day, he was completely useless like the dude should not have shown up. he also doesn't like coffee(he says it's too bitter, same atsushi...), so you couldn't really help him.

similar things happen for a while until you realize that he doesn't understand the problem. he genuinely thinks everyone does this, and it's ok. you realize if you don't have a conversation with him soon, he's gonna end up killing himself. so, you make him a rule saying that he can't do work after 7pm except in special circumstances.

you also have to make sure that he eats three meals a day and drinks plenty of water. he's so confused when you put a sandwich on his desk around noon. he's like, "but i already ate this morning?" or when you ask him if he's drank any water today. you really do wonder how he survived after getting kicked out of the orphanage.

RANPO

loving ranpo is bringing him snacks. he's a simple man. what can I say?

"thank you, my dear," he announces when you walk into the office. you grin as you drop off your bag on your desk and make your way to his. "for what, honey?" you say, pulling up a chair to his desk and propping your head on your hands.

he glances up at you from his work, peering over his glasses "for the food you brought me" he says all smug. you let out a big dramatic sight, " I just can't keep anything from you can I?"

"of course not!" ranpo closes his laptop and looks at you with pleading eyes. "you're not getting them until lunch!" you say definitively. he looks defeated but doesn't argue. he decides he'll let you win for once.

masterlist

requests~open

#dazai x reader #atsushi x reader #ranpo x reader #bsd x reader #bsd headcanons #osamu dazai x reader

[r4zberrygirl]

Checkmate, I couldn’t lose

akaashi keiji x gn reader, collegeAU, fluff, 1k

cw: suggestive but like barely

an: my first actual post for this blog! sorry if this is bad lol no pronouns and no physical description of reader :) -raz

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Mastermind

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

Midterm exams were right on top of you at this point and the only cafe within comfortable walking distance, that also happened to have the best mocha lattes you’ve ever tasted, just closed for remodeling. You sank further into your chair inside the cramped library on the corner and holding your bitter homemade coffee, decided your week could not get any worse. Sighing and leaning over your laptop you glance upwards and your heart stops. You try to avoid your staring being too obvious but the stranger standing in front of a shelf labeled ‘classics', seemed to be the most breathtaking person on earth. He looked tired and held a coffee, but his black curly hair and jade eyes made you stare for probably longer than you should’ve. Breaking out of your stupor, you determine that if there's one thing you can do to make your week of midterms less shitty, it's getting this hot guy’s number. You stand from your chair and pretend to look through the shelves at his back, even tilting your head and running your finger along the spines to really sell the act. You take a silent breath, a measured step back, and bump into him. He turns to steady you in surprise. “Are you alright?” he asks, pushing his glasses up and looking into your eyes with concern.

“Yes I'm so sorry! I was just looking for Shakespeare’s work!” The lie rolls off your tongue like you had been planning it, which of course, you had.

“I think his works are right here actually. What are you looking for?” 

“Hamlet.” Luckily your lie from earlier was mostly based in truth as you really were struggling in your literature course right now. “I wasn’t paying good enough attention in class and now I’m stuck trying to study for this midterm,” you said, sounding slightly guilty. 

His eyes glow a little as he speaks, “Oh! I'm actually an English major. I took that class last semester. Professor Kimura, right?” 

You release a sigh of relief because your plan of getting this hot guy's number might actually benefit you in more ways than one. “Yes!” 

“I can try to help if you want. I don't have any of my stuff from that class right now, but maybe we can meet up tomorrow?” He says with a soft smile. 

You smile and put your hands together, “Yes please! That would be incredible! I’m ____ ____ by the way!”

“I’m Akaashi Keiji.” He holds out his hand and motions towards your phone. You hand it to him excitedly and he makes a contact for himself. “Text me later so we can pick a time and we’ll meet here if that works for you.” 

“That works perfectly for me,” you respond. This felt like a dream, maybe this week isn’t so cursed after all. He grabs a book off the shelf behind you and puts it in your hands, “And I think this is what you were looking for.” He turns and walks away but not before flashing you a smirk. Your gaze falls to the book in your hands and you chuckle. Hamlet.

You agree to meet tomorrow at 9 in order to start the day off strong and be productive. That night you go to sleep with a smile and wake to your alarm blaring in your ears. You sit up and rub your eyes. It's brighter than usual at this time and you reach for your phone off the nightstand. You overslept. You must’ve hit snooze on your first alarm not realizing it and now you’re gonna be late. You get dressed and brush your teeth as quickly as you can before grabbing your bag and an apple and getting out the door. You deem coffee as unnecessary, you can live without it for one day. 

Akaashi meets your gaze through the window, somehow just as gorgeous at 9am as he was at noon yesterday, and you make your way towards the table he’s picked out. “I'm so sorry I'm late! I slept through my first alarm,” you tell him frantically while getting out your laptop and sliding into the chair across from him. 

“No worries. I actually brought you a coffee anyways, so I guess it all worked out,” he tells you looking at your slightly frazzled state. 

“You didn’t need to do that, you're already helping me so much by being here, but thank you.” You mentally mark him down as a charmer. He grins at you and you begin to review his old notes together. 

“Your exam isn’t until Wednesday, right?” Akaashi questions during a break you agreed on after an hour of studying.

“Yes, thank god,” you reply to him.

“Make sure to call me after so we can see how helpful I was,” he says jokingly.

Three days, and two and a half hours of testing later, Akaashi’s phone rings and you echo through the line, “I GOT AN 88!” He congratulates you through the phone and states how this calls for a celebratory coffee, his treat. You of course are not going to turn that down and meet up with him at a shop a few blocks from campus. Upon seeing him you trample him with a hug and thank him until he has to stop you from doing so anymore. Akaashi laughs at you softly, “You’re welcome, but I'm sure you could’ve done it on your own.”

From there, your friendship with Akaashi blossomed into a relationship as the first date turned into third, which turned into fifth, which turned into inviting you to a New Years Eve party his friend was hosting, which obviously turned into your first kiss and so much more. Recently, it seems like you spend more time in his apartment than your own but there's nothing you would change about that. Waking up next to him felt sacred, you could talk about whatever you wanted and he would always keep the conversation flowing with little questions and quips about whatever you’re going on about. 

Keiji reaches across the sheets to pull you closer to him when he notices your quiet snores have stopped and you begin to stretch out your legs. Your arms naturally go up to his neck to play with his hair when he wraps his own around your waist. He smiles sweetly at you, “Good morning.”

You giggle for a second before responding, “Good morning to you too.” Your eyes travel up to meet his as you ask, “Keiji do you believe in fate?” 

“I don’t know. I never really thought about it. Do you?” He replies, slightly confused on why you were asking such a deep question so early in the morning. 

“Well I think it was fate that you walked into that little bookshop at the same time I was there.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I was having a horrible week and I think you were sent to fix it all.” He hums and kisses the top of your head as you fall into a short silence. “You know it wasn't an accident. Back at the library I mean. I bumped into you on purpose,” you admit and your cheeks heat up a little. 

“I know,” he says and smirks down at you. You look up at him, shocked eyes and open mouthed, and he puts a deep kiss onto your lips. He knew the entire time. And he just went along with your scheme because apparently you weren't the only one whose heart stopped at the first glance of a stranger whose beauty was truly breathtaking.  

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #hq x gn!reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi keji x reader #akaashi fluff #this is my first fic plz be nice to me #raz.writes #Spotify

[mangoisms]

i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute)

━ chapter two: out of my depth at this altitude | read chapter one | read chapter three

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 4.4k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

━ a/n: this fic is supposed to be updated once a week on fridays but the reception has been so nice, i couldn't help myself from posting a bonus chapter before then. as a treat. also... would anyone be interested in a tag list for this fic? let me know, and enjoy!

You joked about it but, really, Tim Drake is a quick study. Not that doing your laundry is that hard to begin with — well, if you have no idea where to start, it is, but once you know the basics, it’s all fairly self-explanatory. You get to ask about the fabric softener when you two go back to put your clothes in the dryer and he mutters something about them feeling weird afterward, which you valiantly try not to laugh at. By the way, he sighs at you, you are not successful. 

But after that? Well… that’s kind of it and you step off the elevator at one in the morning with a basket full of warm and freshly-folded clothes, feeling a tad disappointed that it’s all over with. 

But then Tim says, “See you next weekend,” and the feeling disappears quickly. 

Fate, you quickly learn, also seems to be looking out for you. 

The next day at noon, you’re waiting to head downstairs, eyes narrowed on your compact mirror as you roll on a darkly tinted lip balm. The elevator doors open, but you’re distracted with the lip balm, so you don’t notice who else is in there. Not until Tim calls your name, surprising you so much your hand jerks and a light smear of the tinted lip balm shines on your cheek.

He sputters a laugh. “Sorry!”

“This is payback for all my jokes, then, is it,” you say, stepping in and, seeing the button for the ground floor pushed, start digging through your tote bag for the small pack of makeup wipes you usually carry with you.

“It’s not,” Tim says, smiling. “The jokes were a fair tradeoff for you teaching me the ways of laundry.”

You nod sagely. “Indeed.”

He chuckles. “Where are you off to?”

“Grocery shopping,” you say, cleaning off the streak on your cheek, then making sure you didn’t smudge anything else around your lips. “You?”

“Same, actually. Well, just for the detergent. Speaking of, you know, I realized sometime last night I never got the brand from you. They turned out pretty good.”

“Like your butler did it?”

“I never should’ve told you that.”

You laugh, putting away your makeup wipes, the mirror, and the tube of lip balm. 

You realize, then, that Tim is dressed in something other than sweats and a t-shirt — which is an excellent look, definitely, but he’s in his outside clothes, in jeans and a thick jacket much like you are to fight off the early February cold. 

He looks like a model, to be honest. You spy the brand of his jacket. Patagonia. A Patagonia model, then. Jeez. Patagonia’s expensive. But to him, it’s probably nothing. You managed to thrift yourself a slightly worn Columbia parka which has served you well against several years of bitter Gotham winters.

He tucks his hands in his pockets, cornflower blue eyes trained on the red numbers that tick by for each floor you pass. His side-profile is disturbingly perfect. So not fair.

“Where do you do your shopping, then, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks, glancing at you and making you look away. 

“Stalking me?”

“That’s why I said if you don’t mind me asking. So, we didn’t have to do that.”

You laugh. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I figure a… mostly high-profile figure like yourself can’t be in the business of being creepy. Reputation and all that. Though I suppose you could pay people off. Or call a hit on them.”

But while the other notable rich families of the city have all kinds of skeletons in the closet, the Wayne’s don’t. Mostly. No whispered rumors of them paying off sexual harassment rumors or other morally reprehensible shit. 

“Oh, please. And what’s this about mostly high-profile figure?” He almost looks offended but you spy a playfulness to him, so it’s more of a mock offense than anything. Like he doesn’t actually care. He probably doesn’t.

But still, you go along, smiling apologetically as you shrug.

“Weeell… it’s not like I recognized your face.”

“Some do.”

“But I did recognize your name. So. Mostly high-profile. See, if you were, say, Lex Luthor —” he wrinkles his nose in deep disgust and you choke out a laugh “— then yeah, I’d recognize you immediately.”

“Fair enough. And also, please don’t ever compare me to him again.”

“What, you don’t like him?”

“Do you?”

“Fair point, fair point. Anyway,” you chuckle, “I’m going to ShopRite.”

“The one off Schnapp Ave?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh. Me, too. Are you in the parking garage?”

You snort. “No. I bike. Not great for bulk shopping but what can you do?”

He pauses, seeming to think hard. You raise an eyebrow as the doors open and the two of you step out, heading for the lobby.

“I could — I mean, since we’re going to the same place…” he gestures a little awkwardly; it’s not the request itself that trips him up, you think, it’s something else — probably not trying to come off creepy. “I could give you a ride?”

“A ride, huh?”

Tim spreads his palms. “I’m not trying to kidnap you or something, I swear.”

“But a would-be kidnapper would say that, would he not?”

“I don’t know,” he says, awkwardness easing out for vague amusement. “I think a would-be kidnapper would be, well, better at this whole thing. Like not taking you out from the main entrance.”

“Think about that a lot, do you?”

“Text a friend where you’re going,” he says, smiling. “And let me give you a ride so you can bulk up on your groceries without worrying about getting it back here.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

But of course you’re going to say yes. You consider yourself a fairly good judge of character.

There is much to be said about Tim Drake. 

As mentioned before, the adopted son of billionaire Bruce Wayne; his parents — you shamelessly looked it up last night — used to own Drake Industries, a company that specialized in medical equipment and supplies before it eventually closed down. Both of them passed away, his mother first when he was younger, then his father later; Bruce Wayne adopted him in his teens. 

He had a brief stint as figurehead CEO of Wayne Enterprises when he was seventeen, was also apparently engaged to Tamara Fox, the daughter of the current WE CEO, Lucius Fox, and also had an assassination attempt on him. This is followed up with being, like, regularly held hostage for ransom. 

A lot of drama, basically, but not much about him himself. 

You expected — and you’ll admit this — a much haughtier persona than the one you are currently encountering. After all, he could have taken offense at your teasing about the laundry and refused your help. But he let it happen — not hesitating to add his own jokes at his expense, too. 

And here he is now, offering you a free ride and free use of his car’s trunk for your grocery shopping pleasure.

Maybe you are about to be kidnapped. 

But at least it was in the name of bulk shopping.

He scratches his head. “I also have a Costco membership if that sways you?”

You’re practically in love.

“You know the way to a woman’s heart,” you sigh dramatically.

“Free trunk space and Costco?”

“Free trunk space and Costco.”

You text your brother for good measure, though.

It’s not serious. Mostly, it’s you having your fun.

i’m going grocery shopping with tim drake. if i don’t text you back by five, call the cops

WHAT

WHAT???

WHAT!!!!!!!!!!

You just smile and put your phone away. 

You have nothing to worry about. 

Well, you knew that but over the course of the day, as you first hit Costco and buy toilet paper, paper towels, detergent, and other groceries in bulk, then you go to ShopRite to get the rest of the stuff, you realize Tim is actually… a lot of fun.

He has this snark to him that comes out in the most unexpected moments and you would be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t like how it keeps you on your toes.

Plus… it’s fun to grocery shop with someone else. Maybe that sounds weird but… you don’t know. You like the companionship.

(And that, of course, could be the gnarled loneliness inside of you finally being soothed away in the company of a person who doesn’t have to be here with you, yet is.)

The sun is setting when you two get back to the apartments. The parking garage is adjacent to the building and they have little carts people can use to take up their groceries more quickly.

“I mean,” Tim starts, easily lifting the case of water bottles from the trunk and dropping it into the cart. “At the risk of sounding creepy again, I don’t mind helping you take this stuff up.”

“In that case, I owe you.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

“Aw, come on. You let me monopolize your trunk, your Costco membership, and your time.”

“Believe me, I didn’t have anything planned for today. This is a much better use of my time.”

You don’t know how to handle that. Which is why you insist.

“You know the Indian place on Cameron? On me.”

“They do have good biryani,” he muses. “Alright. Why not.”

You manage to haul everything into two carts. He only got the detergent, which he says he’ll just take upstairs with him after.

You dig out your keys on the elevator ride up, the two of you deciding on what to order.

“Just leave the carts near the door,” you say when you get to your apartment. “And take off your shoes, too, please.”

“Sure.”

You unlock the door, belatedly realizing you did not prepare your place for guests but you are assuaged by the reminder that you’d cleaned last night like you always do, so, there’s that. 

Your apartment is an open floor plan, with the kitchen immediately to your left and then the living room to the right. Your bedroom and bathroom are off to the side of that. 

You scan everything quickly as you kick off your shoes. Your coffee table is the only thing not quite suited for visitors, with your laptop and graded papers scattered over it. Right, that reminds you, you need to finish those for this week and get the grades inputted…

“Nice socks.”

“Huh?” You blink, turning and spying an amused look on Tim’s face. Your eyes flicker to your socked feet in the next second, barely remembering you had put on a pair of black socks with a pattern of the Flash’s symbol on them.

You grin proudly, looking back at him. “Thank you. I think he’s pretty cool. Well, I think most of them are cool…”

“League supporters are hard to come by these days.”

You roll your eyes. “I know. But I don’t care for the government’s posturing about what they should and shouldn’t do. They’ve saved the world, like, a bunch of times. They should be grateful.”

“Hard to accept they need the help.”

“Yeah, then they go pouring my tax dollars into the military when it can go literally anywhere else. Jerks.” 

Tim takes off his shoes and sets them aside while you shut the door behind you. He stands up, taking in your apartment with clear curiosity.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say, gesturing to it. By now, more than six months after moving in, you’ve made it your home. Picture frames on the walls, a few choice paintings, some old drawings from when you worked at Gotham Elementary right after graduating. Decorating the TV stand and various surfaces are little figurines and pieces of pottery you’ve made. You do pottery classes twice a month at the rec center in Chinatown. You’ve been doing it since you graduated three years ago. 

His eyes spy your twenty-gallon tank against the wall, behind the couch and beside the bookshelves.

“Reptiles?” he guesses, squinting to get a better look.

You smile, stepping forward and beckoning him with you.

“No, they’re hermit crabs. I needed some pets like me.”

He snorts, then bends forward to peer inside. A thick layer of substrate covers the bottom. You have two ponds of freshwater and saltwater on opposite sides of the tank, a handful of sanitized shells scattered about, moss pits, a little holder suctioned to the glass with a fish net attached to it so the crabs can climb into it, and then various fake plants and pieces of driftwood and hollowed logs. 

“This is their crabitat,” you inform him. You point to a crab with a pink shell mottled with brown, currently climbing the fishnet. “That’s Sid.” Then to another crab with a tan shell speckled with red moving into a hollow log. “That’s Diego.” And finally, a crab with a darker shell, with black spots chilling by a plant. “And that’s Manny.”

You both are bent forward, peering into the crabitat. Tim scrunches up his face and looks at you. “Did you… name them after the characters from Ice Age?”

You grin widely at him. “Yes.”

He laughs. He laughs for a while, actually, enough so that you start to feel a tad embarrassed.

“Hey!”

“No, no, no, I’m not making fun of you,” he quickly says, a little breathless, cornflower blue eyes bright with mirth. “I just… Talk about a blast to the past. I think the last time I saw those movies I was a kid.”

“Well, see how it makes an impact? You remembered their names.”

“True,” he says, chuckling. “Haven’t they come out with a bunch of movies since?”

“Mm, yeah, and they’re okay, except for the most recent one. That one is just a total mess because a handful of the actors didn’t come back for it. And also they tried some new animation and it looks so bad.”

“Kids probably don’t notice that,” he points out teasingly.

“Well, they should pay their respects to the original movies! All my childhood media was enjoyable for me and sometimes for my parents, too, because they always had adult jokes in it. Like in Spongebob. Or the earlier seasons, anyway.”

“I was never allowed to watch that,” he admits.

“Ugh, you aren’t the first person to tell me that. Some of my old college friends said their parents didn’t let them watch it because it would ‘kill their brain cells.’ You know what’s not just killing brain cells but indoctrinating them, too, these days? Paw Patrol.”

Tim lets out another loud laugh. 

“I don’t watch it, either, okay! I just watch Spongebob sometimes and I guess it thinks I’m a child so it plays, you know, commercials geared towards kids and god, the amount of Paw Patrol commercials I get is so annoying.”

“I’m surprised you lean toward it,” he says, the two of you going over to the carts. “Since you’re a teacher’s aide.”

“Well, that’s the good thing about middle schoolers. They’re out there watching TV and movies that they probably shouldn’t be watching, so that’s not what I’m hearing about.”

“I’m not sure I’ve heard the words ‘good’ and ‘middle schoolers’ in a sentence before.”

You snort, then feel bad immediately. Your kids are good. Annoying sometimes, sure, but they’re kids. Everyone is annoying every now and then. Plus…

“I wasn’t too keen about being saddled with the six graders, either,” you admit. “But I’ll tell you what Ms. C — the teacher I help — told me. Maybe the reason middle schoolers are so… not fun to be around is because they can tell their teachers and practically every other adult in their life doesn’t want to be around them, either.”

He tilts his head. “Fair point. But also — puberty.”

“There is also the puberty,” you agree.

Tim chuckles and the two of you get to unpacking the groceries. You tell him he doesn’t have to — seriously — but he simply says he might as well help out. Of course, the process is made doubly longer by the fact that he has no idea where anything goes and you have to point him in the right direction but just like earlier, you don’t mind.

After, he pulls on his shoes, grabs the container of detergent he bought, and tells you he’ll take the carts back downstairs and put his stuff away, then come back. 

You let him go and call in the order to the restaurant, then feed your crabs and collapse onto your couch. Your weekends are usually for resting your abused feet, since during the week, you are moving and standing constantly, but you don’t mind today’s aches, knowing it was accompanied with… one of the best days you’ve ever had in a long while. 

With that, you decide to let your brother know there is no need to call the cops. 

hi i made it unscathed

haha just kidding today was so fun

i went to costco!!! my tp is stocked for Days

Hello????

hello

Don’t do that. What on earth are you doing hanging out with Tim freakin Drake?

I don’t think that’s his middle name. Isn’t it jackson?

You can faintly recall that from when you unashamedly googled him last night.

A knock on your door. You heave yourself from the couch and open it. Tim steps inside. 

“Hey, what’s your middle name?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Jackson. Do you want to know my mom’s maiden name, too? Maybe the street I was born on?”

You grin, going to sit back down. “I don’t know. I mean, if you’re offering.” 

He shakes his head at you, then hesitates. You gesture to the couch. “Make yourself at home, seriously. After today, we’re practically BFFs.”

“Should I be worried about you?”

You wave a hand. “That’s just the crippling loneliness, don’t worry about it.”

“You’re…” He shakes his head again and sits down. You have the TV on, one of the various streaming services you shamelessly leech off your brother for pulled up. The page for Ice Age is there, too, waiting for you to hit play. 

“You said you didn’t have anything else to do and I took that to heart.”

“I can see that,” Tim says dryly, but the quirk of his lips belies the tone. 

You glance back at your phone where your previous text is. You snort. 

“Your middle name really is Jackson?”

“Yes…” he says warily. “Why?”

“You have three first names.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “You’re the worst.”

You giggle and pick up the remote, pressing play. “Sorry!”

“Whatever. I do all this…”

“Hey!”

He grins and glances at the kitchen. “You mind if I grab a green tea?”

“Only if you grab one for me, too.” 

He stands. “I guess. Even though you’re bullying me.”

“I’m sorry, you just make it so easy.”

Tim rolls his eyes good-naturedly at you and crosses to your kitchen, opening the fridge.

“There’s ice in the freezer since they’re not cold yet. And the cups are in the cabinet to the left.”

“Got it, thanks.”

You take a second to watch him shut the fridge, then step to the side to open the cabinet, pulling out two glasses. You’re crazy for thinking it, you know, but you don’t… terribly mind the sight of Tim in your kitchen. You really don’t.

It’s a good thing you two are friends, then.

Wait.

You are friends, right?

“Hey, Tim?”

“Yeah?” 

“Are we friends now?”

Maybe it’s elementary to ask but… communication is important and all that. You would hate to think of you two as friends only to later realize he thinks you two are just… you don’t know, acquaintances? 

He turns, smiling faintly. “And here I thought my offer to let you use my trunk and Costco membership said that clearly.”

“I didn’t want to assume!”

“I don’t just let anyone do those things, you know. Not strangers. Only for friends and strange girls who judge me for not knowing how to do my laundry and make fun of my name.”

“I am buying you dinner.”

“Do you buy dinner for strange guys who don’t know how to do their laundry?”

“No,” you admit. It really does say it, the fact that you even let him inside your place. Let him commandeer your kitchen for green tea, too. 

Your face warms and you look away. “Alright! I’m just making sure, okay…”

“Yes,” he says, and when you glance at him, he’s smiling at you. “We’re friends.”

The butterflies in your belly go a little crazy at that. You have to look away again.

“Cool,” you mutter.

He chuckles and turns back to pour out the drinks.

You split your attention between him and your phone. He doesn’t stand in front of the counter but allows the glasses with the ice to be in plain view. For your sake, you’re sure. 

we’re friends. just discussed it. i made a friend!!!

…….. He’s TIM DRAKE

so?

Jesus christ

Tim returns with a now-cold glass of green tea, ice clattering around inside, and you hit play on the movie. Your dinner arrives shortly after. You were right, of course, in that the very first Ice Age movie is more than a little amusing even for adults. Especially for adults. 

“What other movies do you like, then?” he asks. 

“Hmm. I’m partial to Mamma Mia. I like ABBA. And Meryl Streep and Amanda Seyfried. You know, I almost named the boys, um, Sam, Harry, and Bill.”

He blinks at you.

“You know, the — the guys! The baby daddies!”

A slow shake of the head.

“You’ve never seen Mamma Mia?”

“I’ve seen… The Devil Wears Prada?”

You pause, raising an eyebrow. 2000s dramas don’t seem to fit him but honestly you’ve never actually seen the movie, so maybe it’s different from what you think. 

“I’ve never seen that one.”

He gives you a look, saying See? You, too.

“Alright,” you say, grinning. “You have to see Mamma Mia and I have to see The Devil Wears Prada.”

“We could just do it now,” he says, glancing at the TV, where the credits for Ice Age are rolling. The second movie, Ice Age: The Meltdown, is being advertised as the next movie you should watch.

“Which one? I think we should watch Mamma Mia.”

“Well, I think —” he stops as something vibrates. You think it’s your phone initially but then he slips his out of his pocket. It’s already nine. He grimaces. “I think we’ll have to make that decision another time.”

“Hey, no worries. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I should probably be getting ready for bed, too.”

Though, the good thing about Gotham Pointe being a newly-opened and very funded charter school is that, in a move to distinguish itself from the other charter schools in the city, school starts at nine instead of seven-thirty. It was a point that they wanted to move the starting time later, in an effort to heed the countless research that kids were better off starting their school days later rather than earlier. It still ends at four like the other ones, too.

But you have to be there at eight. Which is still a better alternative than anything else, of course. 

He types something into his phone, lips pursed, then stands, collecting the trash from dinner and putting it back into the bag. 

“You don’t have to —”

“Least I can do,” he says, tying off the bag, your coffee table now clear of trash. Your laptop and stack of… shit, not graded papers sits in the corner. You still have to do that. Damn. Oh, well. This was too much fun. 

“So,” he starts, lips pursed, thinking quickly as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll take a raincheck. I’m thinking you can host for Mamma Mia and it’s only fair if I host for The Devil Wears Prada?”

“Oh, you mean —?”

“If you’re comfortable with it,” he quickly says. “If not, we can do it here. I just, I don’t know. Want it to be fair so I’m not always hogging your space.”

I don’t mind, you want to say.

You don’t.

Instead, you smile and shrug. “You haven’t kidnapped or killed me yet, so, sure, I’d like that.”

“Well, you see, I need to build trust first.”

“Ohhh, of course, of course. Makes sense.”

He grins at you and picks up the bag. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Yeah. Have a goodnight.” 

You sit up to pull your laptop and the papers to you, picking up your blue glitter pen. The kids tease you about it but you think they secretly like it.

“Oh, wait,” he says, straightening after pulling on his shoes.

“What?”

“Your number,” he says, shaking his head. “I was about to leave when I realized I don’t have your number and you don’t have mine.”

You stand, picking up your phone. “I completely forgot, too. Here.”

You pass off your phone and squash down any hesitancy in him handling it, with the yellowed clear case and a couple cracks in your screen protector. Then you gingerly accept his, sleek and new, the display bright and flowing smoothly as you type in your phone number.

“Please don’t leak my number to the press,” is what he says when he passes his phone back to you.

You laugh. “I promise on my Justice League sock collection.”

“Now, that’s serious.”

You back away, giving him a two-fingered salute like you did last night. “I’d never betray them.”

He smiles, bids you one last goodnight, then steps out. You lock the door behind him. 

Then you step away, staring at it for a moment, a silly grin full of giddiness growing on your lips.

You look back at your phone, then burst out laughing when you see how he did his contact.

First Name: Timothy Jackson

Last Name: Drake

A poke at you for that comment about his name, you’re certain.

Not like it matters, anyway. 

You are far too pleased to have his name in your phone.

Not because he is Timothy Jackson Drake, twenty-three-years-old and one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors, but because he is Tim, your friend who can’t handle spicy foods but eats it, anyway, who likes The Devil Wears Prada, and who has so much more about him that you cannot wait to find out. 

Your friend.

What a thought. 

reblogs are appreciated!

#red robin #dc comics #tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #tim drake x y/n #dc comics x reader #red robin x you #red robin x reader #red robin x y/n #tim drake imagine #dc comics imagine #batfam x you #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader

[celestialspark]

statements from the gap started with me writing a one-shot based on this drawing by @starfleetrambo​

Now that the fanfic has reached the original statement, I can post how I introduced the story in the beginning!

“Mrs. Robinson!”

Jamie looked up from the reception desk when she heard the young man who had been pacing in the entrance hall for the past half an hour call out to the Head Archivist.

To ignore the archival assistant – Michael? –, Jamie had been gluing her eyes on the logs and records of everyone coming to work today despite not processing even one name in them.

Now, the Head Archivist was finally arriving at work, way past noon. Jamie had given up on making head or tails of the Archives’ work hours anyway, but the timing of Gertrude’s arrival felt like she had been called in because of what had happened.

The receptionist almost let out a bitter laugh.

What could the old lady do anyway? Archive all the names of the employees that had disappeared? Write letters of condolence to the families of the employees that have mysteriously vanished? Being able to explain what the bloody hell had happened?

“Go back to your work and don’t talk about what happened.” That newly promoted Head of the Institute had obviously been furious when he came down the stairs. But the moment he looked at his employees, he had switched to a cold and calm tone – as if it had been their fault. What a prick that Bouchard was.

Did he even know what had happened? He hadn’t been down here. He hadn’t seen the child. He hadn’t felt the cold—

Jamie wanted to cry. She wanted to go home, throw herself under a blanket and just know that she was safe.

She wasn’t.

The longer she stared at the list of employees at the Magnus Institute, the more she knew that she wasn’t. There was just that knowledge gnawing at her brain.

Michael’s ramblings barely reached her ears. Only when he stopped, she noticed. Jamie looked up and saw both Gertrude and Michael staring at her. She flinched. There was something in Gertrude’s eyes. A certain kind of hunger. A thirst.

Then, a calm observation from the old lady: “I think you have something to tell me. Come.”

Jamie moved almost automatically. She shouldn’t be leaving the reception unattended. Especially not after what had happened this morning. She wanted to run away from this place. She wanted to be home. Despite everything, Jamie followed.

Gertrude wasn’t waiting for her as she walked with brusque steps towards the basement where the Archives was located. Michael had something like a look of pity for the receptionist before he quickly ran after his boss ere he was scolded by her.

In all her years of working here, Jamie had never been down in the basement before. It was dusty and the vents only did the bare minimum. It was suffocating, and Jamie immediately was back in the horror of today’s morning.

She barely noticed the way the other archival assistants down here looked at her. But she felt uncomfortably seen.

Closing the door to the Head Archivist’s office at least protected Jamie from them.

Throwing her cardigan over the chair, Gertrude fished for a tape recorder and sat down. She didn’t pause for anything. Neither for explaining nor for Jamie being fully sat down as well.

Instead, she clicked on the tape recorder.

“Jamie Barnes. Incident occurred at the Magnus Institute, London, 1st of July 1997. Gertrude Robinson recording.”

And Jamie knew what she had to do.

Jamie’s statement can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47153620/chapters/119564914 The fanfic can be read in any order but for the best way to speculate and theorize, of course the posted chapter order is recommended :)

#TMA fanfic #moony writes #statements from the gap #also jamie resigns after giving her statement :')

[rebelwhump]

Double Date: Part 2

@bellysoupset and @writing-whump this is for you! Just a little wrap up to my last fic.

Part 1

CW: emeto

_

The house was quiet when Paul returned home from the office around nine. Figuring his brother was still out with friends, he unlaced his brown dress shoes and headed into the kitchen. He was starving, not having eaten since noon. Today was beyond stressful, and involved Paul spending hours trying to fix a mistake that another paralegal at the firm made regarding an important client. A gentle moan startled him out of his thoughts and he whipped around. Brett was curled up on their green, lumpy couch with his arms wrapped around his midsection.

“I didn’t realize you were home,” Paul said as he walked into the living room. It was strange to see Brett laid up at this hour on a Friday night. “Is everything okay?”

“Ate too much…got sick at the restaurant,” he groaned. His cheeks puffed out with a burp as he ducked his head and blew it out of his mouth.

“You? Eat too much?” Paul teased. “I’ve seen you put away an entire Crave Case in one sitting and then complain about still being hungry.” That’s when Paul noticed sweat stains on his brother's shirt and several brown curls glued to his cheeks. He kneeled down next to the couch and placed a hand on Brett’s forehead. “Well, it wasn’t just the food. You have a fever.” Brett looked up at him with furrowed brows.

“Really?” He asked, confused. Paul nodded. “Huh. I guess that would explain why I feel so awful.”

“Why don’t you get into bed and I’ll find you a change of clothes?” He asked while lending a hand to his brother to help pull him off the couch. The change in position appeared to make Brett dizzy, as he stumbled and blinked rapidly. Paul reached out to steady him. “I’ve gotcha.”

“Think m’ gonna be sick,” Brett mumbled and let out a wet burp before he quickly clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Alright, bathroom it is,” Paul decided, practically dragging his brother down the hall and in front of the toilet. Immediately, Brett let out a thick belch and hung his head over the bowl, but nothing actually came up. He shivered, spitting thick saliva into the water. Paul grabbed a blue washcloth and ran it under cold water before getting down on the tiled floor. He hung the towel around his brother's neck and started rubbing his back.

“I wish Jasmine were here,” Brett sighed, before he looked over at his brother, “no offense.”

“None taken,” Paul chuckled. “I wish she were here too. Then I wouldn’t have to be the one sitting on this cold ass bathroom floor watching you vomit.”

“I haven’t vomited…yet,” Brett argued weakly, spitting more bitter saliva into the toilet.

“Oh, you will. I’ve been taking care of you since we were kids. I know the telltale signs that you’re about to barf,” he said. “Valuable insight that has saved me from getting puked on more than once.”

“Shut up. You love taking care of me,” Brett grinned, playing shoving Paul’s shoulder. Seconds later, a harsh gag had him scrambling back over the bowl. The remnants of his dinner rocketed up his throat and splashed into the water below. Paul continued rubbing his back until he was finished.

***

The two of them sat there in silence while Brett rode out the lingering waves of nausea. Eventually, his brother straightened himself and scooted back until he was resting up against the wall. Beads of sweat trailed down his forehead and neck.

“Part of me feels like maybe she doesn’t really care about me,” Brett said softly, his voice horse from all the vomiting. At first, Paul was confused, not sure who or what he was referring to. Then it clicked. Jasmine. “But then I remember that she can’t help it.” Paul suspected that this was just the fever talking, but he hated how sad and conflicted his little brother looked.

“I think most people expect their partner to want to take care of them when they’re sick. And it’s okay if you’re upset with Jasmine because she doesn’t,” Paul told him. “Has she ever expressed interest in wanting to work on her phobia? Therapy might do a lot of good at helping her work through her fears. At least then, it would show that she’s trying to get better. And in turn, be a better partner to you.” There was a long pause and then a sigh from the other man.

“I think I love her, man,” Brett admitted softly.

“I know, bud,” Paul smiled. “It’s pretty obvious.” He reached a hand up to Brett’s forehead. “Think you can stomach some meds? I don’t like how warm you’re feeling.” Although his brother looked unsure, he eventually nodded and Paul helped him up off the bathroom floor. He got Brett situated in bed with a clean shirt and a fresh pair of boxes for him to sleep in before bringing him a glass of water and some acetaminophen.

“Thanks, Paul. For everything,” Brett said quietly as he threw back the pills and sipped on the water. A grimace formed on his face as he swallowed and Paul was ready with a trash bin just in case it all decided to come back up. Thankfully, everything seemed to be staying down.

I’ll let you get some sleep,” Paul said, flicking off the light switch and heading back out into the kitchen. Even after he just witnessed his brother puke his guts out, he found he still had an appetite.

#sickfic #emeto #fever #burping #nausea #angst #comfort #hurt/comfort #my writing #brett carlisle #vomiting #illness #stomach flu