#And she's watching at him with a stern gaze she does not care he's a pawn like the others on her chessboard
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No Second Chances- Al Haitham x Azar's daughter! wife!Reader
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Recovery date: April 26th, 2024
Description: Hello sorry if I'm bothering you but I got an idea from this video. (https://youtu.be/ZcMI-CQcZ_c?si=Ri1SQU-0DO6PMtIV) What if the reader is the biological daughter of Azar and is currently married to Alhaitham and they have a toddler who's almost two years old and the reader wants nothing to do with Azar because of what he did though she was willing to try and keep a somewhat healthy relationship with him because at the end of the day Azar was still her father and her child's grandfather, the reader is a gentle, humble and soft-spoken woman who does try to avoid confrontation.
Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. This one was a little hard to write, so I'm sorry if it's not very good.
Word count: 640
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Al Haitham is not known for his empathy. He comes off as cold, he is calculating, and he doesn’t care for other people's bullshit. Those traits serve him well, they keep him out of trouble and on time, and they make it abundantly clear what he thinks of people.
He can count on one hand the people he tolerates excess complaining and illogical arguments from.
“You don’t have to see him,” Al Haitham whispers into the quiet room, tightening his hold on his wife.
She stops squirming, finally, but he knows she’s not done. He’s proven right when she fights against his hold to turn towards him and he opens his eyes to find her staring into his. Y/n places her hands on his chest, above his heart, and takes a deep breath. He can feel the pounding of her heart.
“I want Ehsan to know his grandfather.”
“He will.”
“Beyond what the history books will say,” Y/n sighed.
Al Haitham bit back a sigh. He couldn’t say he agreed with her, Azar hadn’t even been particularly present in her youth, but he understood what she was trying to do. When Azar had come to their wedding, she’d been ecstatic. When Ehsan had been born and he’d sent flowers, she’d started planning a day to bring him by the Academia. To her, Azar’s absence had always been explained and was never malicious so she was willing to give him a chance in her life.
That illusion she’d created, that her father carried, was now teetering after the recent events with the Akasha terminal. It was always so fragile, and now she was looking for a way to break it completely.
“It’s making you anxious,” Al Haitham said instead, resting his chin on her head and rubbing a hand up and down her back. “You hardly ate today.”
“I want my father to meet his grandson at least once, and you and Cyno went through all that trouble-”
“Y/n. We don’t care.”
She lowered her gaze, staring at her hands as she drummed her fingers against his chest. Al Haitham slid his hands around her waist to hold hers and placed a gentle kiss against her ring.
“Ehsan has a wonderful family already.” He nudges her chin up. “And if you tell any of them I said that I will put salt in your coffee.”
Y/n cracked a smile, and Al Haitham put his chin back on her head while wrapping his arms back around her.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered. “You can decide in the morning.”
---
Y/n took a deep breath before nodding at Cyno who opened the interrogation room door and let her in. She stepped in, fiddling with her fingers, and stared at the floor as she made her way to the empty chair. Azar watched her with stern eyes, hands folded on the table.
“I hear you’re being sent to Avidya forest.”
“Yes.”
Taking another deep breath, Y/n pressed her palms flat against the table and squeezed her eyes closed before meeting Azar’s eyes.
“Good luck.”
She got up from the chair and headed back towards the door.
“Is that all?” Azar asked, frowning.
“That’s all.”
“How’s Ehsan?”
Y/n stopped with her hand raised to knock for Cyno.
“He’s good, very smart… like his father. I think it would be better if maybe you take some time to think about things and then, if you want, we’ll come visit.”
“But he’s my grandson,” Azar snapped, making Y/n tense up and dig her nails into the palm of her hand.
“You’ve never met him, and the idea of seeing you makes me so nervous that he gets worried. So, for my son’s sake, goodbye,” she breathed, the shaky exhale causing her shoulders to relax as she knocked on the door.
#researcher s's recovery#genshin impact#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact alhaitham#genshin impact al haitham#alhaitham#al haitham#al haitham x reader#alhaitham x reader#x reader#female reader#oneshot#genshin impact oneshot#rating unavailable
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WIP Wednesday Saturday
Stripper!Tav x Raphael
Just a piece of something that's been in my drafts since forever
· · ────── ❊ ────── · ·
People who don’t know any better think her strength lies in the art of seduction, but she believes it’s in the way she can read people at first glance. Whether it was the twitching of a finger or a sharp intake of breath, no sign was small enough to escape her trained eyes.
The man sitting at the front-row table would rather be anywhere else. Glancing at his watch discreetly, eyes glazed over with boredom. Tav has seen plenty of men like this come and go. Men who were pressured into coming to their club by their peers, out of a sense of obligation or just to keep up appearances, there’s no way of knowing for certain.
He’s handsome, in a timeless, elegant way. The kind you see in black-and-white movies. Chestnut-brown hair slicked back, sharp cheekbones and a mouth that promised to curl into the most sinful of smiles. In his late forties or fifties.
Two other men sit at his table, both younger and more enthusiastic, if the way their eyes almost pop out of their sockets as they look at her is anything to go by. She doesn’t spare them a second glance.
Of course, Tav knows she’s being partial. In her experience, older men are more likely to keep their hands to themselves and leave generous tips.
A part of her resents the fact that he isn't looking at her, craves his undivided attention. But then again, her show has just started.
“That girl looks like a good lay,” says one of the men in the front row, loud enough for her to hear even over the blaring music.
“The one with the awful dye job?”
Excuse her…? Her hair color is as natural as it can get, thank you very much.
“Nah, that one is a real blond.”
“I’ll only believe if I see it for myself,” the man says as his eyes run down her body in a way that leaves little doubt as to his meaning.
Fuck her this, fuck her that. Enough of these two jerks. She heard worse and with much more color. If her handsome stranger kept such rude company around him, maybe she isn’t so keen on getting to know him after all.
She often pictures someone while she dances—a prince from a faraway land, a movie star, a stern-looking madam. It gave her performance an extra edge, made it just a little more captivating. This time, however, she doesn’t need to superimpose her imagination on a poor bystander, she locks eyes with her mysterious stranger and gives everything she has.
It doesn't take long for her to lose herself in the carnal energy of the place, in the heavy beat of the music, in the pungent smell of smoke and sweat, until everything around her is a blur. It reminds her why she does this, why she dances.
The music stops and she slides down the pole, body aching and sweaty, a satisfied smile on her face. The men stare at her, lust written in their gazes, but she only cares about one set of eyes. At the front-row table, her handsome stranger is looking straight at her.
Not just looking at her. Devouring her is a better way of putting it, as if she were a fresh-from-the-oven—and entirely too irresistible—canapé being served at his table. She was right earlier: he does look good when he smiles. Although she had underestimated the wolfish nature of it, the way his eyes sparkled with newfound interest.
The moment is short-lived. A small crowd has gathered at the edge of the stage, pulling her from her musings. Her audience expects her to put on a show and she doesn’t intend to disappoint.
Her lacy garters are overflowing with cash by the time she’s done, some falling to the floor where she stands.
A flash of brown hair. Her heart beats faster.
“You were magnificent, my dear. Truly a sight to behold.” Lorroakan, one of her regulars, blocks her view of the crowd. Tav looks past him, but the seats at the front-row table are empty. “You must let me show you my full appreciation later.”
There is little to be said about the man, other than the fact that being around him was an exercise in endurance. Forcing a smile, Tav crawls to him on all fours on the stage. Lorroakan may be an insufferable bastard, but he had money to burn.
The fabric of her jeans shorts grazes the cold floor as she arches her back to be at eye level with him. Her outfit today is that of a naughty country girl, with a sleeveless white shirt wrapped around her midriff and stockings that went up to her knees. A little too plain for her tastes, but she knows better than to say no to Shadowheart (the flush that took over the woman’s face when she put on the outfit more than made up for her troubles, though).
“I’ll take your appreciation in the form of your tips.” Holding the ginger’s gaze, she splays her palms over her breasts and squeezes them together.
It is almost comical, the way he automatically reaches into his pockets and places the money in her cleavage, like a toy that was put to work, his eyes wide open and mouth ajar.
What happens next is a little more unclear. Lorroakan goes back to his seat—or is pushed, he doesn’t seem to have noticed either way—and someone else takes his spot.
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— Mystra would consider...forgiveness?
— She would consider what she considers to be forgiveness.
#baldur's gate 3#bg3 fanart#gale bg3#gale dekarios#gale of waterdeep#mystra#Idk if I managed to pass thru the art Mystra's coldness and indifference to Gale while he's just accepting the fate she doomed him for#I really wanted to show the difference between them as a god and human#He's standing in a goddesses shadow no matter how hard he loved her or tried to be better for her#And she's watching at him with a stern gaze she does not care he's a pawn like the others on her chessboard#my art
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Steve had known it was a bad idea from the beginning.
Dustin had come barreling in to Family Video, dragging a disgruntled Eddie Munson behind him, begging him to host Hellfire because the school was hosting some christmas fundraiser and didn’t want the Dungeons and Dragons club interfering with the event.
“Steve,” Dustin cried, eyes wide, lip jutting out, “please let us have Hellfire in your house.”
Steve stared at Dustin, unimpressed. He had one eyebrow raised, with his hands on his hips. “Why can’t you have it at one of the other members’ houses? Y’know, as they’re in the club. I’m sure one of them can play host for your dumb little game.” He argued, ignoring Munson behind Dustin. Well, trying to. The Dungeon Master looked wildly uncomfortable to be there, glaring directly behind Steve in defiance.
“Because, none of their houses are big enough for all of us,” Dustin explained, leaning over the counter. Steve scrunched his nose up at the action, gently pushing him back a few inches. Robin was standing next to him, looking amused, gaze flickering back and fourth while watching the scene unfold. Traitor.
“Right, so why can’t you just postpone the game then?” Steve asked, sighing. He grabbed a few tapes from the returns bin, walking around the counter to actually do his job.
At that question, Eddie finally spoke, “We can’t just postpone the session, that’d be stupid. I told you he wouldn’t do it, Henderson.” Steve paused, cursing himself for being affected by the tone that Eddie had taken on. He knew that tone, that was a ‘why would King Steve do anything to help others’ tone, or worse a tone that implied he didn’t believe Steve was actually friends — or whatever — with Henderson.
Steve turned around slowly, white knuckling a tape in his right hand by his side. He saw Dustin deflating, before seeing him puff up, getting ready to defend Steve.
“He always does this,” Dustin explained, “acts like he’s not gonna give in when he’s totally going to give in.” Steve watched as Eddie scoffed and rolled his eyes in disbelief, opening his mouth to make some scathing remark. Steve narrowed his eyes, absolutely not.
“Right, because you—”
Steve cut Eddie off, turning around so he wouldn’t have to face Dustin as he finally gave in. “Fine,” he sighed, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. He heard something fall, but refused to turn to see what it was before he continued. “You can have your Dorks and Demons meeting at my house.” Robin snorted from behind the counter, meeting Steve’s glare with an amused grin.
“Yes! Told you, Eddie! Thank you—” Dustin began, but Steve cut him off.
“You’re cleaning up after, and you’re all gone by 9 P.M.,” Steve said, turning to face Dustin. The freshman grinned at Steve toothily, not fading even as he took in Steve’s stern look.
“Absolutely!” Dustin agreed, bobbing his head in agreement rapidly. He turned to Eddie, who looked surprised. Dustin either didnt see, or didn’t care, as he continued babbling away to Eddie as he dragged him out of the shop as quickly as they came in. Steve felt a knot at the pit of his stomach forming, twisting uncomfortably as he took deep breaths to try and soothe it.
“That was nice,” Robin commented, leaning on the counter with her chin resting on the palm of her hand. Steve schooled his expression to be one of nonchalance before turning to face her.
“Well, someone’s gotta do it. I guess,” he sighed, returning the final movie finally before making his way behind the counter. Once securely next to Robin, he looked at her with wide eyes. “Eddie Munson hates me and this is a terrible idea. Will you be there? Please?” He asked, pouting at his best friend.
“I’m sorry, dingus. Family dinner tonight, otherwise I would,” Robin said, looking apologetically at Steve. While she didn’t want to go, she also knew how bad Steve’s anxiety had gotten over the last few months after Starcourt. Steve groaned, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling.
“It’s fine, I know how your family is,” he sighed heavily, closing his eyes.
“Call if anything happens, though,” Robin said, nudging Steve’s side.
—
Steve knew it was a bad idea when at 3:30pm, Dustin knocked on his door with the rest of Hellfire standing behind him. Still, Steve wanted them to have a good time and made sure he had a variety of drinks and snacks available. He had taken the dining room table and moved it to the living room, so that way they would have more space.
“Hey, Steve!” Dustin greeted, barreling past him. Steve rolled his eyes fondly, a small smile gracing his face as he watched the curly haired boy run past, quickly followed by Lucas and Mike.
“Hey, losers,” Steve greeted the kids, “your favorites are already at the table, help yourself.” He called out to them, before turning to face the older members of Hellfire. They all looked vaguely uncomfortable, if not a little upset to be there. Steve felt his stomach twist again, clearing his throat to dislodge the anxiety a bit.
“Welcome, feel free to help yourselves to the kitchen. Snacks are on the island and drinks are in the fridge. Grab whatever,” he explained, opening the door wide enough to let everyone in. They all looked between each other before walking into the house. Steve let out a weary sigh once he shut the door, making his way after them.
Once everyone had taken their spots around the table, Steve noticed only the kids had the snacks still. He hesitated for a moment before awkwardly making his way to the table of nerds. Immediately, everyone’s eyes were on him, the kids with curious looks and the older boys with suspicion and confusion.
“Uh, there’s Coke, Sprite, Mt. Dew, Dr. Pepper and Strawberry Soda in the kitchen. Anyone want anything?” Steve asked tentatively, glancing at each of the older Hellfire members.
Gareth scoffed, rolling his eyes. “We don’t need your drinks, Harrington.” The name was spoken with vitriol, leaving a sour taste in Steve’s mouth. “Figures you’d try to buy us.” Dustin and Lucas frowned at the words, while the others laughed. Mike stayed silent, looking a bit amused, but still unsure if he should laugh. Steve swallowed thickly, leaving the room.
“Now that he’s gone, we can get started,” Eddie said, clapping his hands together. The kids were easily distracted by the words, their discomfort quickly leaving to be replaced with anticipation over the start of a new campaign.
For the next few hours, Steve stuck to the dining room, listening to the campaign. He had to admit, it sounded pretty interesting. Eddie had called it ‘the Cult of Vecna’, which seemed to get everyone pumped for the rest of the game. He would occasionally try to offer drinks or snacks, only to be rebuked every time. He eventually decided to just silently deliver Dustin, Lucas and Mike’s refills, before leaving quickly again to avoid the scathing remarks from the older members. After the first few times, even Mike had gotten uncomfortable with the remarks. It seemed to drain the kids energy, watching Steve get belittled at every turn.
“We can get our own drinks.”
“No, Harrington. We don’t want your damn snacks.”
The last comment he got before giving up entirely was one that hurt him the most, he thought.
“We’re not going to steal anything, you can stop hovering.”
So he stopped trying, sticking to the kitchen or dining area.
Around six thirty in the evening, Steve made everyone sandwiches. Dustin had told him about Jeff being a vegetarian and made sure there were options for him as well. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the table with apprehension. Unfortunately for him, he hesitated long enough for Dustin to notice him hovering again.
“Steve made sandwiches!” Dustin said excitedly. Lucas and Mike perked right up, turning to face the babysitter. Steve flushed, shrugging helplessly.
“It’s dinner time and I’ve only seen the kids eating, so I made sandwiches,” he said quietly, avoiding the gazes of the older members. He focused on Dustin, who grinned toothily at him, making grabby hands. Steve snorted at it, walking forward and placing the tray of sandwiches on the table, purposely standing between Lucas and Mike to not have to stand near the older members.
“Uh, these ones are vegetarian,” he said, placing the second plate down near Jeff. Jeff looked at him surprised before grabbing one of the sandwiches. Frankie groaned, rolling his eyes at Steve.
“What are we? Twelve? We can take care of ourselves, Harrington.”
Jeff hesitated for a moment, but still grabbed the sandwiches Steve had made specifically for him. Gareth looked vaguely uncomfortable, while Frankie just openly glared at Steve.
“We didn’t ask for these,” Eddie said, tone sharp. “Leave us alone, man. Don’t need to bullshit with us.”
Steve felt his stomach drop and tensed at the words that Eddie spoke, tears immediately filling his eyes. He turned abruptly and walked towards the front door, slamming it behind him as the tears began to fall.
Yeah, Steve knew it was a bad idea to let Dustin convince him to host Hellfire.
The table stared after him in shock, flinching at the door slamming. Dustin turned to face the older members, eyes fiery with rage.
“What the fuck was that?”
———
listen i just wanted to write unresolved angst. not my best work honestly, but i still like it. not beta’d because why would i. i doubt i’ll continue this, because it’s just intended to be Sad.
#i just had the idea of the hellfire club being assholes to steve#while steve is just trying his best to be a good host#unresolved angst#hurt/no comfort#steddie#eddie munson#steve harrington#steve x eddie#stranger things#st#steve harrington x eddie munson#unsteddie writing
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Charles Leclerc - (Scuderia Ferrari) - Your Hand Fits In Mine
Requested: yes
Prompt: 22) "I like how your hand fits in mine."
Warnings: none tbh
Charles Leclerc woke up in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains of Y/n's Monaco apartment. He smiled as he looked at the peaceful face of his girlfriend, who was still lost in the land of dreams. Careful not to wake her, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face. Y/n stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open to meet Charles' gaze. He grinned upon seeing her tired smile. "Good morning, sleepyhead." She yawned and stretched, "Morning. What time is it?" She asked. "Does it really matter when we have all the time in the world?" He replied.
Y/n sat up and walked over to the double doors that opened out onto her balcony and opened them, the Mediterranean breeze danced through the curtains, Charles Leclerc found solace in the sight of his girlfriend. Their love, like the winding streets of the principality, was hidden from the prying eyes of the world. "Come back to bed." He said and with little to no convincing, Y/n did.
As the morning sun painted the room with a warm glow, Charles lay entwined with Y/n, their laughter echoing off the walls of her cozy apartment. The soft sheets cradled them as they basked in the simple joy of each other's company. The pair watched as their hands moved around with the other, looking almost like a dance. "I like how your hand fits in mine." Charles whispered, the pair looking up to their hands as entwined as they were. "It's like they were made to be together." He murmured, bringing her hand to his lips and planting a tender kiss on her knuckles. "It's like the world stops spinning, and it's just us against the sunrise." With a contented sigh, Y/n snuggled closer to Charles, her head resting on his chest. "I love this whole romantic morning and all, but I really need to get up. I have work, remember?" He chuckled, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her back. "Work can wait. I have a better idea." He murmured, nuzzling into the crook of her neck and kissing her sweet spot. She sucked on her lower lip to hide a smile but mornings like this are what got her in trouble.
She pulled his head away and kissed him, before pulling away with a playful smile on her lips. "You say that every morning, Charles. I can't keep being late." Charles pouted. "But you look so perfect in the mornings. And my dreams of you just make me want to-" She kissed him again to get him to shut up, because if she heard his dreams, she wouldn't leave the apartment and he knew that. "I need to go." She whispered. "But you're so perfect, I need you." He got up on top of her, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her lips. Y/n chuckled, her fingers dancing along the contours of his chest. "You're biased."
"Please, let me show you how perfect you are." Charles admitted, his lips finding hers in a lingering kiss. "Besides, who needs work when we can have moments like this?" She pulled away, a mock stern expression on her face. "I do, Charles. I have responsibilities, unlike some people." He feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. "Are you saying my job isn't important?" Y/n laughed, her eyes sparkling. "No, I'm saying you have the luxury of being a Formula 1 driver. I, on the other hand, have bills to pay." Charles sighed dramatically, pulling her back into his arms. "What if I call your boss and explain that you're having a 'morning emergency' and can't make it?" She raised an eyebrow. "A morning emergency? What's that?"
He grinned, his voice dripping with mischief. "Well, it's a term I just made up for when someone is desperately needed in bed for a dicking down." Y/n burst into laughter, shaking her head. "You're so horny, Charles." She laughed before Charles leaned over her yet again, his chain dangling from his neck and sparkling in the soft sunlight. "Or, here's another idea." He continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Quit your job, and you come to my races and we can have mornings like this eve morning." She sighed, a familiar response to his persistent suggestion. "Charles, we've been over this. I can't just quit my job."
"But think about it." He insisted, his fingers tracing patterns on her arm. "You wake up in a new city, the only worrying thing being what clothes to wear today, and a sexy Ferrari driver between your legs." Y/n looked at him, her heart torn between the practicalities of life and the allure of adventure. "As enticingas that sounds-" She paused, placing a hand on his chest. "I need a job so I can provide for myself. I am happy to quit if or when we have children but until then, there is no way I am quitting my job. Im just being responsible with my life." He sighed, feigning disappointment. "Fine, be the responsible one. But just know that the offer stands whenever you're ready to say yes."
Y/n gently extracted herself from Charles' lingering embrace, a smile playing on her lips. "I really have to go now, Charles." He sighed dramatically, giving her a theatrical pout. "Fine, fine. But you better make it up to me later." She bit her lip and leaned in, placing a lingering kiss on his lips. "I'll give you a night you'll never forget."
As Y/n made her way to the door, Charles couldn't resist one more impulsive move. He grabbed her hand, pulling her back for another quick kiss. "I love you." He whispered against her lips. Y/n blushed, reciprocating the sentiment. "I love you too, Charles." Reluctantly, he let her go, watching her leave the apartment. In a burst of energy, Charles dashed to the balcony, a sudden idea forming in his mischievous mind. As Y/n walked down the street below, he shouted after her. "Y/n!" She looked up to see her boyfriend, naked eith nothing but their bed sheets to cover himself. "Je t'aime, Y/n!" He shouted, his arms opened wide.
People passing by stopped and stared, their eyes widening at the sight of the famous Formula 1 driver proclaiming his love from the balcony. Charles, oblivious to the amused and perplexed onlookers, grinned widely, shouting once more. "Je t'aime, mon amour!" Y/n covered her eyes with her sunglasses to cover the slight embarrassment her boyfriend gave her, but still she blew a playful kiss towards the balcony, making a heart with her hand. Charles caught it dramatically, proclaiming once again that he loved her.
The spectators on the street exchanged glances, some snapping pictures of the unexpected romantic scene. Finally satisfied, Charles winked at Y/n, who was now laughing heartily, and retreated back into the apartment, leaving the crowd still buzzing with excitement. He couldn't help but revel in the spontaneity of the moment and the sheer joy of expressing his feelings for Y/n in the most unconventional way.
#f1 imagine#f1 blurb#f1 oneshot#f1 oneshots#f1 x female reader#f1 x y/n#f1 x oc#f1 x you#f1 x reader#charles leclerc x female oc#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc oneshot#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc
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Pino taking care of a sick reader...
~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~
~ Alright for starters, Pino has very little knowledge on illnesses, but he's seen first hand of what the plague has done to the last few remaining people in Krat. He's witnessed the fleeting hope in their voices, and the pain in their coughs, so the moment he picks up on even the slightest wheeze or cough from you he's in shock.
~ You'll have a hovering mother hen of a puppet clung to you protectively. He is genuinely terrified for you, thoughts of having to witness your last breaths strikes him to his very core.
~ It's only when kind Sophia, or his father geppetto, explain to him that thankfully all you have is a cold, that he finally eases up. You can heal. You'll be ok, you're safe. Those are the things that repeat over and over in his mind. You're far too precious for him to lose.
~ Don't even think about getting out of bed. The moment Pino spots you loitering around in your pyjamas, you'll earn a stern look from the taller puppet, his gaze focused on you as he makes his way over to you. No amount of assurances will cease his protectiveness, and at once you're swept away in his arms back up to your room.
(Just Sophia softly chuckling as she sees pino walk past with you cradled in his arms securely, offering a little apologetic yet amused look as you pout a little at the puppets assertiveness)
~ He'll dutingly remain by your side whilst you recover as well. He'll fluff the pillows of your bed and help you climb in, tucking you in comfortably as he sits by your bedside and stays. He's like a guard dog in a way, refusing to leave your side until you're alright again. You may hold and play with his hand, pull him into bed besides you so you may lean on him as you read. Pino will fulfill any wish as long as you agree to rest.
If you try to get up unnecessarily, he'll subdue you to lay back down again with kisses and hugs. Just being hugged to lay down as he tucks his heavy head into your neck, light kisses pressed into the clammy skin of your jaw and shoulder as he tries to convince you to just lay and cuddle with him instead :((
~ Thankfully, Pino cannot catch what you have, so he uses that advantage to be as cuddly and affectionate as he wants. Cold porcelain lips traveling over the expanse of your clammy forehead, his head of dark soft chestnut hair splayed against your pillow as he gives you sticky-cough syrup kisses to your lips.
(He'll pout if you push him away. Why? It's not that gross). He'll look at you like a kicked puppy after that.
~ His legion hand is a little cold, so if you have a temperature he'll gently press his palm to your forehead to cool you down, using his thumb to lightly soothe little comforting circles into your temple to ease any pain.
~ Pino will crawl in beside you if that is what you want. Stepping out of his shoes, he'll shuffle himself beneath the covers and tuck himself besides you- close enough for you to feel the comforting presence of him, but also far away enough for you to tuck yourself closer if that is what you wish.
He'll sit up a little with his face rested against his propped up hand, watching you sleep. His expression soft, but troubled.
(Also he may have a habit where he subtly tries to feel for your pulse 💀 you sleep so soundly it makes him a little concerned. Yes, he is that dramatic)
~ He's a little over-protective of you when you're in this state, so he'll take the tray of food out of polandina's hands and take it to you himself.
(Ok but pino spoon-feeding you soup when you're too tired and shaky to do it yourself :( he's very attentive and gentle when doing so as well)
~ Overall, he's just extra cuddly and protective of you when you're sick. It's only when you've recovered does the worried knit in his brow disappear, and he's his usual Pino self
<3
#lies of p pinocchio x reader#lies of p#lies of p x reader#lies of p x you#hope this helps with anyone who's gotten sick lately 🥲
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Heyy! Can u do a 2015 tom x young (18-19) fem reader where reader ask tom to teach her how to ride his dick cuz shes still a virgin? Like slow and gentle please? Ty if u write it! Have a nice day!
Ofc !! 🤭 (Can't promise it'll be good...)
Private Lessons
Category: smut, smut, smut !!!
Warnings: dom!Tom, sub!reader, d¡ck riding, choking, swearing, badly translated german (Google), praise kink, fingering, marking, slight breeding kink? idk.
Reader is 18, Tom is around 26 !!
"Mm... Tom?" Your soft voice echoes through the quiet kitchen of Tom's mansion, he lifts his head out of the fridge and looks at you, a curious expression on his face. The two of you had been dating for a couple months now, and yet you had never had sex. Tom loved you enough to settle for jerking himself off until you were ready, but is today the day?
"Yeah, leibe?" He responds, standing up straight and closing the fridge to lean against it as he watches you, a nervous expression on your face as you shuffle in your seat on top of the counter. "Can you... Um... Can you teach me how to ride you?" His eyes widen, a smirk immediately plastering itself onto his face at the sound of your innocent voice asking him such a filthy question.
He takes a step towards you, his hands gently resting on either side of your thighs as he looks into your eyes. "Are you sure? You don't have to..." He asks for your confirmation, not wanting to pressure you into doing anything you don't want to. You nod in response, watching as toms smirk widens and his tongue plays with his lip piercing, making you squeeze your thighs together. He waits for you to back out, but after a couple seconds of looking at your innocent face, he chuckles and moves his hands to your ass, pulling you into him as he carries you to the bedroom.
--⋆.ೃ࿔*:･.
Tom closes the bedroom door behind him with his foot and lays you down onto your shared bed as if you were a sleeping child, he looks down at you and smirks again at your expression, how innocent you look, your doe-eyes driving him crazy. "Strip, Prinzessin." He orders, his voice stern whilst soft and gentle. You obey his command, slipping off your tight tank-top and denim shorts, leaving you in just your baby blue panties and matching bra. "Fuck..." He murmers at the sight of you, his hungry gaze drinking up your appearance.
It doesn't take him long before he's gotten rid of his grey sweatpants and Calvin Klein, leaving them on top of your own clothes. He kneels in front of you, hooking both index fingers around the sides of your panties, looking up at you for permission. You nod, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth. He slowly pulls off your panties, throwing them onto his pillow before he does the same with your bra, but not before gently squeezing the small amount of padding. "Gonna finger you first, baby... Gotta prepare you for me, okay?" God, that accent, his voice alone is making you drip onto the bed sheets below you.
You spread your legs for him, his gaze moving down to look at your glistening cunt. A shaky breath leaves him at the sight of you, he raises his right hand, gently swiping up your slit and making you gasp at the contact. He smirks once again, his thumb pressing against your clit and forcing your back to arch. "Oh-! Tom!" You gasp out, causing him to look up at you with slightly furrowed brows. "Shh, baby... Let your Tom take care of you." He whispers, leaning his head up to catch your nipple in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it, feeling it stiffen between his lips. He lets his teeth nibble on it, letting the pain of his bite distract you from his finger slipping into your cunt. He groans against your skin as he feels you clench around his finger, curling it slightly and eliciting another gasp from your pretty mouth.
He uses his free hand to spread your thighs wider, his lips leaving your stiffened nipple and trailing down your body and back up until he reaches your neck. He leaves small and big hickeys against your soft skin, as well as a couple nibbles, making you groan quietly. He continues to fuck you on a single finger until he's able to add a second, once he's able to add the second finger, he presses his thumb against your clit, forcing your pussy to clench around his digits. "Fuck, schatzi, so wet... all for me?" He asks, a hint of amusement within his lust-filled tone. You whimper, unable to respond as he curls his fingers, hitting that gummy spot inside you.
He pistons his fingers in and out of you, occasionally picking up the pace then slowing back down to hit that sweet spot that forces you to grasp his shoulders. But what after seems like hours and around two orgasms from his fingers alone, he finally pulls them out of you. He lifts them to mouth, sucking your sticky cum off a single finger before tapping your jaw. "Open." You listen, opening your mouth to allow his fingers to shove themselves down your throat. You suck off your cum from his fingers, grimacing slightly at the taste.
Tom then pulls his fingers away from you full and stands up, sitting beside you on the bed as your wide eyes go down to his erection. How on God's earth will that fit? He seems to hear your thoughts and he gently grabs your chin, kissing from your ear to your collar bone, shaky breaths and whimpers leaving your soft lips. "It'll fit, mein Süßes Mädchen..."
He wraps his hands around your waist, lifting you with a scary ease, he sits you on his lap, his hard dick pressed against your stomach as your doe-eyes stare up at him. He shuffles back onto the bed, laying down and holding your waist as you wait for his instructions. "Lift yourself and hover... I'll hold you up, mein süße." You nod, nibbling your bottom lip as you lean your hands against his chest, lifting your hips and hovering them over his aching dick.
He removes one hand from your waist, making you shake a little, he squeezes your waist with the remaining hand, using his now free hand to align himself."Slowly lower yourself, baby. It might hurt, but you'll be okay... Just tell me if you want to stop." You nod again, slowly lowering yourself with the help of his left hand whilst the right keeps himself aligned. He throws his head back and groans as he feels your virgin pussy swallow him. "T-tom... It hurts..." Your voice whines, causing him to snap his attention you. "It'll be okay, it won't hurt in a minute, just get used to it."
You let out a pathetic whine and he chuckles before he sucks in his breath and lets his head fall back onto the mattress below. He moves both hands to your hips, guiding you up and down all 7 inches of his cock. When he feels his tip kiss your cervix, his own hips instinctively jerk upwards, causing you to shriek out a moan. He manages to reign himself in, continuing to guide you slowly. Up and down, up and down. "Fuck... That's it, süße Mädchen... Oh, ja..." He whispers out his praise, his hips moving to meet yours as you moan and whimper, your breasts bouncing softly with each thrust.
As you slowly manage to adjust to his size, his pace starts to pick up, your body jolting with each movement from your boyfriend. "Fuck, schatz... So fucking tight, gonna fill you up, ja?" You can only moan in response, your virgin cunt creating an embarrassingly loud squelching noise as Tom's hips start to snap upwards as he starts to build up his climax. "Gonna fill you with my kids... Fuck..." Tom groans, his hand sliding up your sides until he reaches your throat where hickeys were forming.
He wraps his hand around your throat, the other gripping your hips tightly as he uses your body as his own toy. He moves his hips faster, more aggressive, a string of German dirty talk leaving his lips as he suddenly flips you over so you're under him. He pounds into you, his balls slapping against your plump ass whilst he buries his face into your neck, feeling your body jolts and squirm. He feels you tighten around him and you cry out his name, your back arching as your gummy walls flutter around his cock. He follows soon after, his hips moving against yours in a frenzied state until he pushes against you as hard as he can, feeling his orgasm crash over him and slowly drip out of you.
"Heilige Scheiße" ('Holy Shit') Tom murmers as he slowly pulls out of you, your body twitching as you come down from your high. He watches his cum leak out of your pussy and he frowns, plugging up your hole with two fingers. "No- no more..." You whimper, trying to pull his wrist away to which he laughs and shakes his head. "Relax, leibe... Just makin' sure no more leaks out of you."
This is ass but oh well !!
(I forgot u asked for slow and gentle... hope it was okay 🫶🏻)
#tom kaulitz#tokio hotel x reader#gustav schäfer#bill kaulitz#bill kaulitz x reader#tom kaulitz smut#bill kaulitz x you#bill kaulitz x reader smut#love#tom kaulitz x you#tom kaulitz x reader#finger
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to traverse this with you
tags: armin x reader, forced proximity, bathing together (technically), sexual tension, flower crowns & sentimentalities, love confessions, virgin!reader, loss of virginity, oral sex (f!receiving), penetrative sex, reader uses she/her pronouns
warnings: sexual content - MDNI!
words: 6.8k | masterlist
They used to love one another, long ago. Not loudly, nor ferociously, or even in a way that the other knew about, but they did. She knows that now.
It could have stayed simple. They could have stayed apart. It has been years since she's been deployed to Marley, to live and work under a secret identity; and grieve as she may have for him, she could have lived with it. She really could have. They could have stayed star-crossed, torn away by war, but things just had to get difficult.
Now, with tensions rising, she is forced to relocate – to trek through the lone mountains in the desolate Marleyan wilderness, in an attempt to clandestinely reach a port outside Liberio. And in another world it would have, perhaps, been a task of a casual undertaking. It could have been simple. Were it not for him, by her side: the man she has grieved for this entire time. Were it not for this one simple, stupid mistake.
It is the day before the night they would spend last in these mountains, and she does not think about it.
She does not.
When she wakes, she finds she is not the first. She finds him smiling faintly, his hand brushing at her temple as he wakes her. She laughs, or she tries to, chuckling weakly in the midst of the sleep that is pulling her back.
She does not think about it. Instead, she rises, chattering lightly about the upcoming hike. Instead, she keeps hold of the dream she had that night, wishing their endless, sheltering road into this waking world.
When they walk, she stays a step ahead, soles aching each time he would catch up. And still her mind feels burdened, swollen with the afterthoughts of the harbour in these mountains; of her time here, tied by the hip to the man who just keeps, incessantly, not letting her step be ahead.
It isn't until he takes another step forward that her mind clears. He steps in front of her, hand outstretched towards her, and she pauses – all of her does. She looks to him, and then she follows his gaze, and then she sees it: alive, murmurating – a bend of a river, its stream gentler than she remembers it. She hears it now, speaking softly.
"Is that the same one?" He asks her, eyes wide. He is laughing before she confirms it, the sound light and tittering.
"It is," she laughs with him, head shaking at the absurdity, and as soon as she feels his hand on hers, she takes off, running towards it. Armin's laughter echoes loudly, oscillating between the hills, and he follows her, step in step.
Her backpack thuds when she slings it off her shoulders. The jacket she wore follows swiftly, though much more gingerly this time around. It isn't until her shoes are off that Armin protests: "Wait," he tells her, loudly at first. "Wait," he repeats, weaker, and then he is at the foot of the river, hands in the water. "Won't you get cold? And we're so close to the city, what if someone passes by?"
"Armin," she says, her sternness so feeble in the wake of her snicker. "It has been days since we've been by a body of water. I don't care how close we are to the city, I am bathing, and I am bathing now."
"But what if–" and he turns around then, so swiftly she sees him stumble in his step, and his ears burst into a scarlet red; all because he'd peered at her hands, reaching to the top button of her shirt.
"Join me or take watch," she tells him, laughing as she sees him bristle at her words, his back tight and shoulders rising; she swears she can hear him mumble, right beneath his nose: not funny, she thinks he says, and she has the decency to let her shoulders shake quietly.
"Fine," he finally tells her, back turned to her. He points in the far-right direction of the river. "You go there. I'll bathe here."
Amused or not, now she finds herself undressing swiftly, feeling, with a tension in her stomach, that it is her turn to bristle. Though she turns away, she does not hear him undress – not until she wades into the water, bar of soap in hand. He'd waited for her, she realises, and she feels the skin of her throat heat at the thought.
Here, in the flowing water, she feels the cold within it bite her, but this, still, feels good – or she tells herself that, ears sharp at attention as she hears Armin join her in the water, several feet down the stream. Her breath hitches at the sound, chest contracting against her will; she hears him clearly, the water stirring at the disturbance of his body, and her hand nearly trembles as she drags the soap across her skin.
They wash in silence, her skin on pins and needles. She thinks he will say something; she thinks she should say something. Instead they stand, backs facing, bathing in the stream. It is cold, so cold, and yet the skin of her back heats inexplicably, muscles taut and tense. Her fingers dig into her scalp, begging her mind to clear with the soap, and it is when it flashes in her mind – urgent, tantalizing, the urge to turn around – that she sinks herself whole into the water, her hair feathering before her eyes.
She gasps when she rises, and she hears him – meek and startled, no doubt seeking to ask if she's okay. "I’m done," she says before he can, before her mind catches up to her again. "I’m getting out now."
He is quiet, for a moment. She knows he stands there, unmoving – turning, most likely, even further away from her. Eventually, he tells her: "Okay," and it sounds so horribly stiff.
She dries and dresses swiftly; too swiftly, hands shaking, buttons defiant. She nearly mixes up her shoes. Her hair drips down her back, rivulets running across the skin that is bare, and she thinks it should cool her, she thinks she should be cold – but each part of her heats, near blazing.
When she is done, she just stands there, hands in fists; curling, uncurling, over and over, breath difficult and strained in her chest. She hears, with an agonizing awareness, as Armin walks out the water, as he dries himself quietly, as he dresses. She keeps her eyes shut, as if in some sort of penance, and her breath does not still until she knows he is done.
Then he is by her side, and he touches her hair – and she gasps, startled by his proximity, his eyes wide as he steps back. He raises his hands, apology on the precipice. "I’m sorry," she says ahead of him. "You startled me."
"I was just.. Your hair," he says, gesturing in its direction. "Won't you get cold? Does it take long to dry?"
She gapes at him, momentarily. Then she bristles, taken aback by her own reaction. She takes a strand into her hands, the one he has touched. "Not too long," she says, and she is stricken as she feels this staggering urge for him to touch it again. "It's warm today. It'll take a few hours."
She looks back at him. He looks back at her. He seems to ease, a sort of relief coming over him, and yet still he seems tense, shoulders hunched as if in worry.
"Okay," he breathes, hands at his sides. "Okay, well, um – let's keep walking."
"Let's," she says, just as absently.
And they do. And the longer they do, the easier breathing becomes. The further the river is, the quieter it grows, so does her mind, and it seems like Armin's does, too – though slow, their chatter picks back up, and all the while, she watches him pick lone flowers on their path, weaving them into a wreath.
"Mikasa taught me," he tells her along the road, smiling fondly at his creation. She, in turn, watches with awe as his fingers weave at it with so little effort. "Back in Shiganshina."
"We didn't make these where I grew up," she tells him, keeping up her step with the man. "Is it difficult? You make it look effortless."
"It's easy," he tells her, turning to grin at her – that soft, private smile he seems to have reserved only for when she can look him in the eye. "I'll teach you. Here," the man stops, reaching the wreath out to her. His eyes glint in the mid-afternoon light, and the wind is still. "Put it on."
She blinks at him. "Put it on?"
He just chuckles at her. Then he steps closer, and she, so suddenly, becomes aware of the hair sticking to the nape of her neck. "It's a crown," he tells her softly, hands above her head. His hands don't touch her as he becrowns her, and yet it feels heavy on her head, heated from the ghost of his fingers on the stems. Then he looks down, and he grins wide, as if charmed. "There you go."
Her cheeks heat. "I feel ridiculous," she admits to him, and yet she can't help but begin to unravel beneath his look, so warm and attentive and, most oddly, proud; as if he'd really made it for her.
He laughs at her words, loud and unabashed, and he does not take a step back. "To be fair, it's for kids mostly," he admits, but they were kids no longer, she knows that now – standing pinned in front of him, she finds that the lightweight, feathering innocence of their childhood friendship has long since transformed, taking shape of something larger, something intricate and complex – something, she knows, now way out of her control. And even still, the chrysanthemums lay heavy and tight around her, and she can't help but feel her heart bloom with them, flowering under the sun within his gaze. "It looks good on you," he tells her then, and what is she to do? She smiles widely at him, hand touching at the petals.
"Let's go already," she says with no heft to the words, and he does so gladly, step in step.
They walk until evening, one that comes quicker than the rest, the sun now giving way to the coming colder, darker months. They make no stops until then, none except one – a time when she bounds for a growing sapling at the edge of their road, seeking, at Armin's advice, to hang the crown there. It would be no good to pull attention in Liberio, he mused with her sadly, and she'd told him then, she did – she will find a good place for it. With Armin ahead, waiting for her, she reaches upwards to lay the crown upon the budding tree, and there is only a moment, fleeting and precious, where she thinks to stuff the crown into her pack, to keep it safe and sound forever, crumpled or not, but then she decides to not. She leaves the crown where it shall be, somewhere growing, somewhere safe, and then she runs back to Armin, ready to soon set camp.
That same night, by the fire, he teaches her how to weave it – five blossoms in each of their hands, he teaches her, over and over, until hers looks just like his do, and she is laughing lightly, easily, triumphant for walls know what. It doesn't still until she feels his hand on her hair again, touching a strand – tentatively, this time; fearlessly. "It's dry now," he tells her, hand still on her hair; even though it has been dry for hours now.
And they sit closely, side by side, until the embers smolder weakly, giving in to the cold weather. They sit until they should tire, even if they don't – fuelled, she knows, by the second breath of the knowledge that this night will be the last.
They don't part, not really, when they go to sleep. They lay as close as they would, voices hushed with a faulty exhaustion, and though she feels her blood heat and her heart pump, though her mind burns with this feeling of his hands at her back, she can't help but think it: it is the last night. It is the last night. And she feels a sort of desperation surge through her, keening and clawing at her heart, and though she knows she won't be separated from him, she also knows something has changed between them, here, in-between these desolate hills – and she does not want it to end.
She finds herself, despite her own better judgement, clinging to him: she finds herself pulling herself closer, her hands twisting tightly into the back of his shirt, seeking, almost futilely, to close this horrid gap between them; and he makes this sound, thick and deep in his throat, and before she can even think anything of it, his hands pull at her, sinking into the flesh of her back. He pulls her closer, closer, as if tugged by the same kind of desperation, or as if, perhaps, he'd been waiting to do so, all these nights.
She's so close she can smell the soap on his skin, and she can smell the faint vanilla that follows him each day. She lays her head at his throat, nearly feeling the pulse that trembles within it, and her hands do so of their own accord as they sink into his hair, soft; far softer than she'd imagined, softer even than it used to be. And she sighs then, feeling him flush against herself; she feels as if some urge has been sated, as if some fear – soothed, and she barely notices her nails grazing at his scalp. She would not have, if it weren't for him – if it weren't for him, for this soft gasp at the crown of her head. If it weren't for the foreign hardness growing near her thigh.
All at once, his entire body stiffens, and his hold changes. She hears him inhale, sharp and stern, and she feels him try to rise, to move away – she hears him begin to apologise.
"Stop," she tells him, breathless, and he does; and all at once she makes the space – to look at him. To look right at him. She feels his heart thud dangerously hard beneath her palm. His eyes are wide, wild with a panic that seethes within his chest, and she looks at him, feeling his hold on her waver. Quietly, she finds the words; quietly, she asks him: "Is this how you feel?"
His eyes grow downcast, a blush so harsh crossing over his face. He takes a moment, or perhaps he doesn't – time stretches all the same, and then he replies with a simple: "Yes."
And it is the way he says it. Shy, and embarrassed, but so tight and so fierce that they just lay there, not speaking for a moment. She lay feeling the heart at her palm, thud, thud, thud. She finds herself, in an almost grotesque manner, wanting to reach for it – to soothe it, in any way she'd know how.
Instead, her hand slides upwards, soon reaching the skin of his throat, at which he holds his breath. Then her hand settles at his jaw, and he sighs, the sound rattled and forced. He says her name, softly, so softly, his voice so strained it almost sounds painful to her ears. Her hand splays across his jaw, and all the while, she can feel him so clearly against her thigh. He leans into the contact, as if pulled, as if magnetized, eyes closing and shut tight, his face near screwed. Her hand nearly shakes with the fervor that enters her, as if from him to her, as if it were made of the same material as the warmth they have shared all these nights.
Once more, he exhales harshly, and she feels it fan against the thin skin of her wrist.
"Look at me," she finds herself saying, as if dazed. And he does. His eyes rise as if on command, as if he were in a position where he would not deny her anything, and it twists at her heart. He looks at her as if he were stricken, a deer caught in a hunt, awed by the glint of the arrow. "Armin," she breathes, the name leaving her lips on instinct. "It's okay."
"I don't want you to feel.." he trails off, and then he gasps, as if the word were too heavy for him to even say it. His hands grow soft around her, more hesitant – but his hold does not, and neither do his eyes, steeled and focused and so, so conflicted,
"Obligated?" She finishes, her thumb so close to his lip. Her heart is rabid. He screws his eyes shut again, for a moment so short it seems meaningless, and then he opens them, and then he looks at her again, and her mind unravels at its seams when she sees the look in his eyes. In it, a craving grows, an unfiltered affection which burns high and deep within him – deep down, she knew it was there, she knew it, but now that she sees it, so clearly and so brazenly, she finds herself drowning, and sinking, and unmoored all at once.
"Tell me clearly," she nearly pleads with him, control melting at the edges. "Tell me clearly, Armin: do you want this?"
"I do," he chokes out, "I do. I..” And her palm, snuggled so flushly against his jaw, heats. Her thumb moves, almost of its own accord, and it brushes against his lower lip – and instead of finishing his sentence, Armin gasps. His hand, once so tentative, lists reflexively to her wrist, wrapping around it, holding it there, at his jaw. He looks at her with eyes wide and transfixed, nearly pleading – no, not nearly enough. He is pleading with her. He may not say it, but he is.
Her hand twitches in his hold. Her breath flutters. And then, once he sees something in her, he does plead with her. "Kiss me," he tells her, voice so low and thin it drives a punch straight through her core. "Please," he whispers when she begins to pull herself closer, and then again, as their lips are an inch apart: "Please." And there is no shock when she does. No all-encompassing jolt, unlike she expected. But he shifts. His entire being does. As if unwound by some oath, there is no breath shared between this and the moment she feels his lips on hers, and by then all else becomes moot point.
Her heart sings, unwound, at the feeling of his hand at her jaw. Her hands find his hair again, winding into it greedily, and she pulls him closer, closer, and he abides her – rolling over to press on top of her, breath hot as he kisses her back, as he kisses her first – as he sucks on her bottom lip, as he hums when she does the same. It is chaste, and gentle, and simple, and she feels drunk on the feeling of him kissing her, then parting, breathless, then kissing her again; of him holding her there, bereft of any hesitation, their kisses longing and heavy with yearning.
And it is she, then, who deepens the kiss, it is she who tugs at his shirt, she who brushes her tongue against his lip, and it is as if a second wind passes into him at it. His hands nestle into her hair with a fervor, and she lets him, angling her head back, letting him take hold of her. He deepens the kiss, jaw tight as their tongues brush against one another, and there's this sound that leaves her throat, low and quick and so desperate, and he pulls away at it, gasping for air. His forehead touches hers as the both of them heave, watching one another, and the gaze with which he looks upon her bursts with a longing, enveloping her whole. He pulls away, just a fraction, as if overwhelmed with the suddenness of their circumstance, and he takes her hand off his cheek, he pulls it tightly, flushly against his chest. He holds it there with an urgency that speaks to her before he does, and he looks pained for a moment, desperate; as if trying to tell her something through the gesture alone – as if he were looking for words that have lived in him for months, years.
"It's yours," he says, tone burnt with a passion that steals her breath. "Do you feel it?" He asks, her palm against his heart, loud – so loud. "I’m yours."
She blinks hard and ruthless, keeping back the tears that burn through her, and a fierce relief floods her. She tries to tell him, to say 'me too', but her tongue ties itself together, so instead she pulls at him, she leans into him, and she kisses him, and kisses him. "Armin," she whispers into him, "Armin." Hands in her hair, lips at her jaw, she feels weak in his hold, so carefully attentive. "I want you," leaves her mouth, feeble and desperate, and she repeats it, just as weakly, and he gasps against her lips.
"Do you know," he says in-between the pants, "do you know how long I've dreamt of you?" She tries to answer, she does, but his gaze, dark and blooming, has her pinned; his thumb brushes at her cheek, and it has her bewitched. "Every night," he continues, leaning to kiss her once the words pass, and he stops right before it. "Every night." He kisses her, brief and chaste. "Here," he angles her neck, and she lets him, feeling his lips at her throat; then his teeth, grazing gently. "When you left." His tongue follows, a wet line drawn across her clavicle. "Before you left."
Her breath shudders at his attention. It suffocates her. Her hands tremble in his hair, but so unlike they have ever before. "Please," she pleads, for what even she does not know, and he looks at her, he rises and he looks right at her, a sort of grief, an intensity settling in his eyes.
"I want you," he repeats. "I want you. Let me have you, Y/N. Please."
"Have me," she breathes, her palm cupping gently the skin of his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut, the entirety of him leaning desperately into the contact. "Make me yours."
It is as if it takes a moment to settle for him. As if he needs to decide if he truly believes what he's just heard. And then she sees it: a spark, a fire, and then a forest burning, all enchanted into his eyes, locked with hers.
Then his eyes are on her shirt, on the button he'd been so awfully shy about this morning, and he looks back at her, a question in his gaze. Her hands leave him, settling on the button, then reaching back to where they belong, curling around him lovingly – letting him decide what he wants.
And he does. Hands precise and gentle, her shirt is undone by them, and then he helps her out of it, the span of her upper body opening to him. He inhales, the sound trembling, and as he watches her so, so intently, his frame shudders when he touches the bare skin of her shoulder. He gasps, hand nearly twitching against her skin. Then he looks back up at her, meeting her gaze, and she sees a wildfire in them.
And with just a tinge of hesitation, he lowers himself to kiss her sternum, urged forward by the soft gasp that leaves her lips. He kisses lower, and lower, and then he kisses at her breast, tongue soon curling around her nipple; softly at first, then harder, spurred on by the whine that escapes her throat. And his kisses trail soon after, slow and steady and so meticulous in their exploration of her, and she sucks in a breath when she feels a hand of his settle on the buckle of her belt.
"Is this okay?" He asks her, pausing to look up at her, and her chest blooms with a warmth at the tentative care in his eyes.
"It is," she says, her hands joining his upon the buckle. "Armin," she calls, and he stays still, he stays looking at her. "I've never done this before," she admits, the gentle grasp he has on her hip now searing her from the inside out. She shifts beneath his gaze, which flutters, then steels in an odd, indecipherable way.
"That's okay," he breathes, and she feels his fingers ghost over the skin of her waist. "I have. I will.. I'll take care of you." And she feels it, his hand twitch lightly upon her skin – and she sees him bite the inside of his cheek. And then he asks her: "Are you sure you want to?"
"Yes," she tells him, quick and so desperate that it seems to spur a different kind of need in him, and she dare not feel embarrassed at being so open, so flayed before him. "Yes," she repeats, unbuckling her belt, and this time he does not hesitate. He drags her pants off her frame, gentle and decisive in a manner she has already learnt from him, and as she lay there with her knees pushed together, his hands nestle at the back of them, looking at her, once more, with a gentle question in his eyes.
And he won't do this himself, she knows this. Her thighs tremble visibly as she spreads them for him, and a heavy sigh leaves his chest, and then his eyes burn into her, at her – watching her naked before him, legs spread for him. He lays a cheek against the top of her thigh, gaze transfixed on her, his eyes heavy-lidded.
"You're so pretty," he tells her breathlessly, as if lost deeply in thought, as if he'd ached to tell her that for so, so long.
Her insides flip, watching him tower over her spread legs, and she has a distinct, mind-numbing realisation that it is him who watches her with those ravenous eyes. It is Armin who holds her thigh, who's pulled her closer to him. Him who seeks to please her; to have her to himself.
She fights to breathe in. Her chest caves beneath the feeling, leaving her breathless and utterly pliable in his fingers. All the while, he watches her, needy intent shimmering with something larger, stronger. Yearning roils in him, she sees it now. And then he leans down, forward, to kiss at her thigh, and her mind grows blank and empty. He kisses her again, and again, trailing a path closer to her core, pausing only to graze his teeth at her, only to nuzzle into her flesh.
Then, so, so close to her, he looks back up at her, and he asks, voice low: "Can I kiss you here?"
"Please," leaves her, and it is all she can muster, but he does not need more from her. He leans in, his tongue curling into her tentatively and so, so slowly, his palms gliding down her thighs as he settles comfortably between them. He licks a trail through her folds, centering around her clit, and she keens, whining pitifully. Her hips strain on reflex, pulled closer to him, and he pulls away for a moment, smiling up at her.
"So pretty," he repeats, and then his hands sink into the flesh of her thighs, holding her back in place with a strength she did not know he has. Then he closes his mouth around her, and the pleasure is so sudden and violent, she feels as if she caught on fire. She loses composure, far faster than she'd imagined she ever would with him, and soon, hips locked in his vice grip, she has nothing else but pleading, but tugging, desperately, at his shirt, or at his hair. He licks and sucks at her with a firm pace, humming into her core, smiling as he hears her slowly, slowly come undone at his attention. And he watches her as he pulls pleasure from her; eyes dark and heavy, sated in a way she knows a wolf only could be, and she can't do anything, she can't do anything but pray for his name as she comes with his tongue at her core, lapping at her as if he were a man parched.
He continues to lap at her, greedily at that, even when she tugs at him once more, eager to feel him against her, but he does not give in. Instead, he pleads with her to go easy, to let him be greedy. "Let me take my time with you," he tells her, kissing at her thigh, "please."
And so she does. It is only when she's trembling in his hands, wound tight with a different, insatiable pleasure building fiercely in her, that he finally rises to meet her lips, nestling flushly between her legs. Her hands are back on his shirt then, shaking, undoing his buttons, and he lets her, towering over her as he watches her. He says her name softly, and he repeats it when he lets her take it off him. Then he takes her hands, he collects them so gingerly into his hold, and he touches her cheek.
"Do you want to continue?" He asks her, his gaze so sweetly concerned. "Are you sure?"
Her hands shake in his. Her exhale trembles. Her voice fails her. She needs to tell him – how desperately she's dreamed of him. Of this. Instead, she frees her hands, and she settles them at his jaw. "I need you," she tells him with such an earnestness that she's sure, she's sure he knows. And he sighs then, body wracked as if in relief.
Her hands reach for the clasp of his belt tentatively, and he lets her, but then undresses himself. She watches him, an odd sort of impatience beginning to burn at her from the feet up, and her eyes rave over the span of his chest, her own burning at the sight of him: lean and muscled, a soft, light trail of hair growing down his stomach, one that she feels an urgency to touch. He catches her gaze as he takes off his pants, pausing for just the briefest moment, and she holds it there as he undresses himself whole.
Then he pauses on his knees, his hand on her thigh, and there, as he stand there, he seems overcome. She thinks she knows what he feels: bare before one another, open beyond she'd dared dream of, it is as if the years spent together and the years spent apart all come together, to a close, undulating and culminating into this one, singular moment. Then he leans towards her, hand at her waist, and he kisses her: so deeply, so fervently, it steals all breath from her.
"Are you sure?" The words ghost over her lips, and for a moment she is taken with his eyelashes, long and crowning along his eyes, so filled with an emotion that has her chest in knots.
"I am," she tells him, hands at his cheeks, and she nearly cries. "I am."
His breath wavers and shakes as he enters her, which he does slowly, carefully, with one hand at her thigh for purchase, the other finding hers, clasping them together tightly. He watches her attentively, almost hawkishly; looking, she realises, for a sign of pain, or of discomfort.
And she lets him. She lets him take his time with her. She drowns in his meticulousness, in the careful nature with which he holds her; with which he comes to a hilt inside her, a rattling sigh leaving his lips, so restrained and so overwhelmed that she knows. She knows: he doesn't even feel it, the pleasure. Not until he knows that she does, too.
And by the time he is fully inside her, there is a gentle, sudden piercing – and then, just like that, it is gone in a flash. She feels a stretching that is both foreign and right, and then he whispers her name, so delicately that it has her gasping. Suddenly, his hand leaves her thigh, and it is at her cheek, and he is looking her in the eye, he is asking her, with so much unrestrained care: "Does it hurt?"
"It does not," she tells him, and then she is pulling him closer, then she is kissing him, and her knees rise to meet his waist, her hips urging him to move. "Make love to me," she pleads with him, heart flipping three times over as she feels him smile into her lips, and he does.
He does so slowly, sinking in and out of her with a heedfullness that has her head spinning. He glides in and out, pressed so close to her body, holding her so carefully. She feels him so clearly, stretching her with a tenderness, pushing against delicate spot after delicate spot inside her, and each one has her reeling, and each one never, somehow, ever skips his attention. This pleasure is different, she knows this now; slower, encompassing, dizzying with the feeling of her love inside her. And just like he, she watches him, too; lips apart, eyes glistening, beautiful before her, breathtakingly so. She swallows greedily the small whines that leave his throat each time he thrusts back into her, so breathy and ardent, and soon, very soon, she begins to lose her composure.
She feels it rise in her, tempting and needy, almost harrowing in its intensity; desire, fervor, whatever the hell it is that the poets call it – it feels so much greedier, so much more powerful than she ever could have put to words or imagined, and soon she pleads with him to go faster, to give her more. And he does so, abiding, eager; raising her hips with the one hand at her thigh, and then he looks back at her, almost startled, at the wanton noise that leaves her throat. Instead of stopping, it seems to burst him into flames, too, and he finds that spot again, and again, claiming this newfound land for his own. He fucks into her with a precision, watching her steadfastly, with this greedy, satisfied glint in his eye – and with it, he slowly unravels her. He turns his head, just so, biting gently at the fingers she holds at his jaw, and with a fierce look in his eye, he speaks into the skin of her palm, words uttered in a reverence; sweet words, filthy ones, each one sending aftershocks into her core, and as he rocks into her with a mind-numbing languidness, he asks her: "Does that feel good, sweetheart?"
And it's the way he says it, lustful and needy as he sinks into her flesh – it has her thighs shaking at his waist; it has her whining his name, it nearly has her pleading, pleading for gods know what.
"It does," instead she tells him; "Don't stop," she tells him, and then: "Come closer. I need you. Please, Armin."
And he groans at it, at the way she says his name, pulling her with his hands by her hips, sinking deeper into her at this angle, and he kisses her as she moans, feeling out of control. There he pulls her thighs flushly over his hips, and her head spins from pleasure, and she finds her nails digging into his back, feeling the heat and steam rise from the broken skin. She cries his name out, again, and again, and again, and through it she hears her own name echo back to her, pulled from his lips between the groans and the soft whimpers that leave him. Then he kisses her fiercely, almost sloppily, whining into her throat.
"I want," he gasps, the sounds he makes soft and high–pitched and coiling deeply within her gut, "I want you to come. I want you to come on my cock, Y/N," he pleads into her lips. "Please," he says again, whimpering once more, composure cracking.
He kisses at her skin, her temple, her jaw, her throat, greedily, almost possessively, and she, in turns, pulls him closer to her, seeking to fill this space between them desperately. He lets her, he molds himself to her hold, pliant and eager. And there, there, fuelled by his mewls beside her ear, by the closeness, by that gods-damned vanilla permeating from him to her, she breaks. There, she tells him, finally, with her voice quivering to the last word: "I've wanted you for so long." And his hips stutter at this, and his hold on her thigh grows vice–like, and then his forehead is touching hers, his rhythm slowing, just so.
Then he is looking at her, gaze crested with a warmth so deep. "Say it again," he asks of her, he begs of her, his pace picking up with the words, as if inflamed by them. "Say it again, please, Y/N."
And she does. Again, and again. "I want you," she tells him, hands in his hair. "I've always wanted you," hands on his cheek. "Always."
It isn't until he's kissing her that she pauses, it isn't until she feels herself strain closer and closer as he whispers into her lips, soft things, unspoken things; it isn't until she hears his words that she finally, truly comes undone.
"My Y/N," he tells her, "mine. Mine."
And she cries out, hands seeking purchase at his shoulders, thighs so tight around his waist that it nearly hurts. She falls, and falls, careening rapidly into his hips meeting hers. For a moment, everything grows white, ceaseless and endless, and in that moment she thinks that this is how it should have been; in that moment, she thinks she was never meant to leave. Then Armin follows her, and he, too, cries out, desperately so, and she feels him slam into her harsh and uncoordinated. She kisses him fiercely, swallowing his climax with a greed that was unheard of to her before now, before Armin. They both shake in one another's arms, gasping, noses touching. They watch one another, eyes unwavering.
For a moment, she does not know what to say. She gasps and gasps, her tongue willing to curl only for the syllables of his name. Then he smiles at her. So gently, so brightly; the sight is so familiar that the words come tumbling out of her with an ease she had once almost forgotten. "I love you," she tells him, earnest from her heart.
"I know," he says, and he kisses her. I know, he repeats between kisses, I know; as if to himself, as if in relief, as if having waited, for so long, to hear it – if only just this once. "I love you," he tells her then, and she holds onto him, tightly and fiercely and unyieldingly.
They lay like this for what feels like ages, the mountains surrounding growing quieter, and quieter. She holds onto him, and he – onto her. They do not let go. She feels his heart beat against her own, and they kiss one another: small, fleeting kisses, borne not with shyness but with a gentle, permeating ardour. They lay like this until they are spread thin by exhaustion, hands weak, and here, in the dead of the night, she speaks to him so quietly; "Don't let me go," she pleads with him, hand at his chest. I won't, he tells her, his hand on hers. "Don't let me go," she repeats, "Don't ever. Not again."
"I won't. I promise. I promise."
And they sleep like this, nestled fondly within one another's crooks and edges, touching with their hearts. They do not move, or let go – even when they wake, they can't seem to let go of their hands, even when they ready. Even when they walk to the port, they do so hand in hand, talking little, but glancing often, with fleeting, earnest smiles unhidden from one another.
They feel tense and severe as they walk through the streets of Liberio, however; a goal reached, the end of their journey. It strains them, the hands with which they hold onto each other, but even that soon seems to patter out once they peer at the barren ink of the Azumabito, glinting brightly on the bow of the ship. This ship, they know, is beholden with their friends and allies. This ship, they know, is the end of this road.
And he turns to her, birds crying along the loud crashes of the sea, wind tousling at his hair. He looks so beautiful now, she thinks, and she's enamoured as he asks her: "Ready?"
His hand feels heavy and warm in her own. More than that, she thinks – it feels right.
She looks back at him. Here, right now, there is a moment which seems to stretch between them – one filled with a sadness so inexplicable, so faint, that she barely manages to discern it at all. It feels foreboding, this feeling, as if the road behind them was the easy one, as if the one ahead were predetermined; as if it bears, unbeknownst to them, challenges beyond their imagination.
But she does not think of that. Instead she looks him right in the cerulean eye, gaze as deep and as determined as the sea before them. She smiles at him. And she squeezes his hand.
dividers by arlerts-angel
tag list: @arlerts-angel @levistealeaf
@sukunascrustyfinger @chiinni
@nilaaaas @ryoiii
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thank you for giving this story your attention 💗 i harbour a lot of pride in it, and it's an honour that so many of you have enjoyed it
#armin arlert#armin fanfiction#armin x reader#armin aot#armin fluff#armin x you#aot headcanons#attack on titan#armin x y/n#armin arlert x reader#armin arlert x you#armin arlert x y/n#levi x reader#jean x reader#eren x reader#aot x reader#aot#snk#aot x you#armin headcanons#armin smut#aot smut#aot fluff#attack on titan x reader#shingeki no kyojin#my writing
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Little Spider | Miguel O’Hara x Teen Spider Reader (Platonic)
warnings- none
Summary- Miguel doesn’t want you to go on a mission with him because its too dangerous and he doesn’t want to see you hurt.
Side note- Not proofread soo~ sorry if theres any spelling or grammar mistakes! Also thank you for 100 notes on Bribe ♡ tbh I didn’t think it would do good 😭💀
“I told you no this mission is to dangerous. I DON’T need a KID getting hurt.” He said in a cold tone. Miguel acted as a father figure to you ever since you joined the Spider Society. He can’t help but see and treat you as a daughter and feel that he’s responsible for you.
“But if you just listen-“ I got cut off
“I don’t want to hear it.” He says while raising his voice. “I already told you no, you’re gonna sit this one out.”
“I always sit them out!” I argued
“And i’m telling you this one is different.” He says in a serious tone “I can’t even put it into words. Just this time please, sit it out.”
“You say that All. The. Time.” I complained
“Because I’m worried about you!” He snaps, before taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Your not invincible, I’ve seen your combat records and there’s been close calls. You can’t avoid it forever.” You stayed silent.
As he speaks his tone is stern yet loving if that makes sense he wants her to understand how truly dangerous it is. “Im not gonna stand here and wait for the day you go off on a mission and don’t come back..”
His expression softens as he begins to let his true feelings show, “This is why I want you to sit this one out.” His voice is soft and tender as he says this. He knows she wants to be included but he also wants to protect his Little Spider.
Their gaze meets for a few seconds, the look on his face shows the love he’s felt for her all this time. “Please, please for once listen to me.”
"Can I just watch from afar-“
“No.” He says in quite possibly the hardest tone yet, he doesn’t want to sound harsh but he’s not letting up on this one.
We started arguing back for a little again then he left you there back at the HQ alone in his office like he always does, leaving to the mission that was currently happening. She was there for quite a while, left to think to herself for the next few hours.
As time passes she begins to feel the emptiness of the room, it was quite and somber and she began to realize how right Miguel was. She shouldn't have argued with him, but it was to late now he was already gone. With Miguel gone she did her best to help around the HQ, taking care of various tasks.
While she worked she couldn't help but feel bad for how she acted towards Miguel. He only wanted what was best for her, maybe she was being a little to eager to jump into dangerous missions..
-Skip some time later-
As she continued to work around the HQ she finally heard Miguel return, his voice echoed and it was clear he sounded upset. She continued with her tasks as she heard him open the office door, she just hoped he wasn't mad at her.
As he walks in he goes straight to his chair, he takes a seat and lets out a sigh as if he was annoyed or just tired. You couldn't help but feel guilty. As you see him sit in his chair he looks up and sees you "Oh. I see your helping around." He says in a annoyed tone.
"Yeah." you say looking down and going back to work, this only made you feel more guilty. You did your best to help but the silence that's going on is making it hard to feel comfortable. You knew he was mad, but it hurts knowing that it was your fault.
Miguel looks over at you once more, this time he's not annoyed anymore. In fact... there's a hint of sadness to his expression. He sighs once more before speaking "You know, maybe I was being a little harsh." he says rather quietly, his tone isn't quite the same anymore. “No, no, no its fine Miguel I understand that your just trying to keep me safe.” You said in a low voice
His tone changes to a quiet whisper "I just care about you okay? Thats the whole reason why I didn't want you going out." he says while letting out another sigh. "I don't want you thinking it's because I don't trust you. Its because I just can't bare to think of anything happening to you..." He looks at you with a expression that shows how much he means his words. Another long moment of silence passes by as Miguel just stares at you, he looks at you before giving you a small slight smile.
Even though he knows you still feels bad about the whole thing he can't help but feel like its his responsibility to keep you safe. He doesn't know if your truly understand why he was mad in the first place but he was just glad that you were safe.
After this Miguel stands up and looks towards the desk, "I'm gonna go make myself something to eat." he says while stretching his arms. You knew he was still a little mad for what had happened a few hours ago.
But for some reason Miguel just couldn’t seem to stay mad at you, no way can he be mad at his sweet little spider.
A/n - The next one shot is gonna kinda be longer cuz like I got a little too carried away 🙏
#miguel spiderman#miguel o'hara#atsv miguel#miguel spiderverse#miguel x reader#miguel x y/n#miguel ohara#teen reader#x teen!reader#x child reader#spider man: across the spider verse#spiderman#spider man 2099#platonic#fluff#cute#miguel x you
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I still want Mafia!141 AU
Part 1 https://www.tumblr.com/sadist1224/742379650222784512/i-need-the-mafia141-au?source=share
I just still want Mafia!141 who are so used to you, your difficult, persistent character and kind heart that they try to help you in everyday life and drag you somewhere on weekends, literally imposing themselves on you. At first you were angry and nervous knowing who they were, but the more you talk to them, the deeper they penetrate into your heart.
Johnny, who seems to have fallen in love with a self-sufficient, harmful and somewhat fearless barmaid from a small bar, who can't help talking about you for a day, which annoys the Ghost, and Gaz only slaps the Scotsman on the shoulder and offers to bring you coffee to work, and at the same time sandwiches.
Price, who is happy that his boys have found entertainment outside of work hours, but still worries that you are sitting too much in their heads.
The hikes of the 141 guys start to attract attention, and at some point there are more visitors in the bar, some of whom are quite intimidating.
A ghost who notices familiar unwanted faces hanging around your work. And the problem is that your neighborhood is small, at the intersection of two streets of the city, is a no-man's land and gangs have been fighting for it for a long time. And 141 and Los Vaqueros may be ready to accept your area as neutral territory, but others are not yet. He immediately reports this to Price, thinking along the way how he can scare other sharks away from this place.
But they have a job again and Price swears that he will take care of you and the bar as soon as he returns from another city.
It's not the first time you've seen new faces in a bar lately, your income has increased significantly, but the two men who came today seem too suspicious to you. One of them is tall in a sniper hood, the other is smaller, wearing sunglasses and a medical mask on his face. Both of them run their eyes around the bar, meeting you at the bar, wiping glasses, and then bumping into Valeria's stern gaze from the opposite corner.
Both choose a quiet corner away from the eyes, and the waitress brings an order for two beers. These two don't cause you any problems throughout the evening.
But a bar shift wouldn't be a bar shift without incident, right?
Therefore, when one of the particularly drunk customers starts harassing one of the waitresses, you can't help but intervene. A few seconds are enough for you to go around the counter of your workplace and walk with quick, firm steps to a group of drunks.
"Come on, we're going to have a lot of fun~" - one of them says, clinging to the waitress's arm with such force that she can't escape them. The girl turns, fixing a pleading look at you, and a moment later a half-empty bottle of rum breaks with a loud sound on the head of one of the men. The others jump up from their seats while their friend falls to the floor.
The one closest to you swings at you with his fist, but you easily dodge him, making a grab and pinning the man to the table, twisting his arm.
To your left, Val has already knocked the third one to the ground with a good punch to the jaw.
"Is there a problem, bastardos? - the brunette does not hesitate to kick one of them in the leg. This is her place, she can. - You are not welcome here."
The waitress girl hides behind you while you watch the drunks trying to get back on their feet. A crowd has formed around you for a long time, but you know for sure that the people around you are on your side.
A group of male regulars pick up the violators by the arms and take them out the door for a "conversation". Valeria, as always, punches you and goes to the bar with a loud phrase in Spanish. Everything is going back to normal.
However, out of the corner of your eye you notice the stares in your direction from those two visitors. You don't like those looks.
It's late at night, when the shift is over and you and Val have said goodbye, you feel the surveillance again. But you know for sure that 141 is not in the city, and if it's not them, then you need to be ready.
You are not a fool and you know that because of your injury you will not be able to handle a direct fight, especially with several opponents. Your strength is enough to defend yourself, but your instincts scream at you to escape and you manage to take off before someone very tall pounces on you from the shadows.
You run well. You run fast. But, unfortunately, not for long, and there is not enough lane map in your head to choose the most acceptable route to your home.
Therefore, when you are finally dropped to the ground, you group up and manage to deliver several blows to the attacker. One in the knee, the second in the stomach under the ribs. This does not save you from a severe blow to the head and darkness in front of your eyes. Well, you've been caught.
#call of duty#mafia au#cod mw2#simon ghost riley#ghost#mafia#könig mw2#john price#john price cod#au#oc#x reader#price x reader#ghost x reader#john soap mactavish#soap x reader#soap#kyle gaz garrick#gaz x reader#tf 141#141 x reader#kortac#los vaqueros#valeria garza#könig#horangi#könig x reader#horangi x reader
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cbf!simon or price and widow reader. He doesn’t know how to comfort her after she lost her husband and was left alone to raise their little girl, but he does know he’s going to die trying.
i'll use Price because he makes me insane. He's older than you by a bit, so it never felt right for him to pursue you, even though he never missed the looks you gave him when you thought he wasn't paying attention.
he doesn't know what it's like to lose a partner, nor does he even want to know. But what he does know is you.
both of you were essentially raised together, so when he finds out about the terrible news, he's already knocking on your front door. he doesn't say anything when you open the door, just takes you in his arms.
he maneuvers you towards the couch, and holds your small hand in his, as you cry. the baby cries in the other room, and he pats your thigh.
I've got it, love. Take your time.
his heavy boots thud as he walks towards the nursery, and in a couple of minutes, the house is silent again. john comes out to the living room, and your little baby is fisting his facial hair— he doesn't seem to care at all.
john just coos at the baby, not even flinching when she pulls a few hairs from the root.
the image is gut-wrenching because, may your late husband forgive you, but this was what you had wanted— you've loved john since you were both kids.
of course, things never seem to go your way. not with john, and now, with your late husband.
wiping your tears with the palms of your hands, you approach john with your arms extended toward your baby.
thank you for passing by, john. i'm not alright but i will be, soon enough. i'll take her, i'm sure you have better things to do than be here with me.
he doesn't give you the baby. his face is stern, sky-blue eyes hardened as he gazes at you.
is he mad?
his jaw clenches as he exhales loudly.
he's mad.
john shakes his head and scratches the back of his head with one hand.
i've known you for most of your life. you've never held your tongue back on me before, so don't start now. you don't want me here? then say that. otherwise, go wash up. i'll watch the baby.
his eyes soften when he sees your eyes glisten, and he pulls you in with his free arm, pressing a prickly kiss to your forehead.
i'm sorry, sweetheart. truly. but i'm here for you, whatever you need.
he doesn't go home that night. nor that week. nor the one after that. he goes to work and comes home to you. your heart is in turmoil, torn between grieving for your late husband and adjusting to the presence of another man in your life.
it all comes to head one day, when john answers to your baby's call.
dada.
you talk to him when she's put down to a nap. well, yell at him, more like.
what are you doing here? really? don't you have a wife somewhere? a family? are you here out of some sense of duty? guilt? you don't need to be here, taking care of a baby that isn't yours, john.
he lets you rant, get it all off your chest. once you finish, he pulls you in for a hug, and tells you that no, that little girl might not be his biologically, but she could be his in every other way. just like you could be.
you harshly push him away at that.
how dare you? i, you... i've loved you since we were kids, john! and you broke my heart, which i can understand because there is nothing that dictates that you had to return my feelings. but then i move on, grow a family with someone else, and suddenly you want me? you need, i... don't touch me. i need time to think.
you leave him there in the room, and then john hears the baby crying.
he scratches the back of his head, and heads toward the nursery. when the baby sees him, she throws her grubby hands up, gesturing to be picked up.
dada.
yes, sweetheart. i'm your dada.
schemeerrrr.
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He asks him exactly once.
Some months after the world almost ended, Crowley still smells smoke and tastes fire whenever he first enters the bookshop, and so every single time he stays into the evening, he gets drunk. It's not the ideal way of dealing with it, but it works, and, really, it's not going to last forever.
(Right?)
Either way, it's past midnight and he's absolutely shitfaced. Aziraphale pulled out the good whiskey around eleven, and while he is still nursing his second glass, Crowley has lost count of how many times he has topped off his. Looking back, it is hard to tell why that evening, why that question at that time - not that it matters much.
The room is spinning, he is less than artfully sprawled across the sofa and only held in place by a stern look Aziraphale had leveled at the cushions at some point; they wouldn't dare to let him slide off.
"Stars, angel," he says, responding to... something, surely.
"The whole bloody sky 's full of 'em, but you only see such a tiny teeny sparkling sparkle."
Pushing himself a bit more upright so he can face Aziraphale in his armchair, the liquid sloshing dangerously, Crowley impatiently waits for a response, flopping onto his back when he doesn't receive one within seconds.
"Y'know, 's all so pointless, innit?"
Even with his gaze tracing colourful swirling lines on the ceiling, he knows exactly what kind of frown falls onto Aziraphale's face, half worried and half thoughtful. Distantly, emptying his glass and miraculously not choking, he wonders what his concerned little pout would taste like.
"Maybe we're simply not supposed to know the point, my dear, the-"
"The Almighty 's not here, angel, She doesn't care 'bout my stars."
His interruption ends on a sigh, a puffy exhale laced with the first sparks of millennia old angry frustration, and his mind is jumping between centuries and memories alike, leaving him uncomfortably dizzy.
"D'you think," Crowley begins, his voice oddly steady, "She's still- does She care 'bout me?"
If he were fractionally less drunk, he would have sobered up before the words slipped past his lips, but he isn't, and he doesn't. Regret comes all the same, immediately and forcefully enough to punch the air out of his lungs. Home, he needs to go home, needs to take the question back, needs to run before the pity undoubtedly radiating from Aziraphale hits him. His limbs are dipped in honey, unresponsive to his commands, and he screws his eyes shut just long enough to get rid of the worst of the vertigo.
He does not know the answer nor which answer he wants to hear, and yet he has whispered the question to the stars countless times, receiving nothing but cold silence.
(I still love you, he wants to tell her, sometimes, hoping that maybe-
You made me and I still talk to you and you're my Mother, you're the heat burning in my the stars, you're watching us, me and him, and you have yet to punish us him)
With considerable effort, he pulls himself upright with one hand gripping the backrest, dropping his empty glass onto the floor and swinging his legs down next to it. His vision is a blurry haze, his mind too heavy to fully comprehend the panic raging behind it, and a familiar rush of blood in his ears is drowning out Aziraphale muttering in concern.
"Sorry, 'm leaving. See you t'morrow, angel."
"Crowley-"
Making it to the Bentley with nothing but a twisted miracle, he shakes off Aziraphale's fluttering hands, and falls into the driver's seat; she knows where to go, whether he's actually driving her or not. Loneliness seeps into his bones while the engine cools, and he forbids himself from thinking about the response Aziraphale might have given him if he had stayed.
The stars above London are distant and quiet like they always are, and not for the first time, Crowley accepts the silence as the answer it is.
(He asks the sky again three weeks later, he never did know when to stop with the questions.)
(Deep down, he thinks knows hopes if he just keeps asking, eventually She will answer; he hates Her almost as much as he misses Her.)
(Almost)
#alex writes good omens#good omens#ineffable husbands#crowley#aziraphale#good omens season 2#go2#aziracrow#crowley x aziraphale#ineffable divorce#i have come to the realization that uhm i might be projecting my mommy issues onto crowley#which is good i need to process that shit but at the same time i dont wanna acknowledge it at all#anyway more crowley angst
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i feel like the mere idea of bringing up orym & ludinus and their entwined threads of fate is taboo, but i cant stop thinking about it.
orym is a rare, nearly impossible kind of protector - a guard, somehow not attached to a corrupt, brutal system. he just wishes to protect his home, his leader. but ludinus, via otohan, attacks this peaceful place. he turns the ashari cautious & agrieved. he turns the society of air into the eye of a hurricane. orym is turned into a widow. his title as guard is marred; he failed. maybe zephrah is forever marked as a battleground & graveyard, now.
orym walks across tal'dorei & marquet, slowly healing beside his friends, protecting them as best he can. but then he learns who killed his family, and she kills his friends, too - and him, for a moment, giving him visions of his dead husband, reopening the wound. he is in the eye of a sandstorm, tinged red by the moon. he is a pilgrim no longer. his attempt to be a guard has once again been thwarted. maybe you cant have peace if you're a protector.
orym is at the center of the goddamn planet, the leylines aligning as he witnesses his leader fall at the hands of otohan, again at the center of his home's wound, and ludinus, again pulling the strings. a protector far stronger, more capable, than him, adorned in feathers, alight with divinity, falls worse. his friends are flung to the far sides of the world. he once again fails as a guard. maybe a guard is too small in the scale of this world's forces to impact the tide at all.
and so, orym nods to laudna as she rips bor'dor's life from him. he shears his hair ever more, adorns tougher armor. he makes a deal with a hag, desperate for any chance someone he cares for could maybe fucking make it out okay - even if his vastly increased sternness to keep them safe pushes all of them farther into fear of their own. he sneers with unfathomable anguish as he sees ludinus at the volcano and wastes every one of his action points to rip his soldiers apart. he uses ludinus's harness. he takes the willmaster's power. he keeps pushing into the bloodred storm. he could never be a guard right. so it is time to be a soldier. to truly protect must mean to run to the source of all of it and end it once and for all.
all of the bells have been forged by ludinus, a horseman of war, but orym takes it most viscerally. he does everything in his power to stop ludinus, but in a way the elf has already won - or perhaps, in his need for exandria to be "saved" (as he percieves his actions will do), he's failed, but the bells have still lost. because this new generation isnt at peace. they arent even heroes. they are soldiers. orym more than anyone else has accepted that is his life, his death, his fate. there is no goal of his that doesnt end at ludinus. ludinus, who just like him, lost everything in a war involving gods. who has felt the way the world keeps turning, unbothered by what destroyed his society. who uses that accursed harness to take power for a cause. who doesnt want to force someones mind to get what he needs, or kill, but does, because it is necessary. who has pushed himself to the point he is a means to an end more than a person, willing to rip himself apart because he doesnt matter, his goal does. who cant see anything but war on the horizon anymore.
when the two are mentioned together it causes folk to bristle. the idea orym could be in ludinus's shadow is seen as a suggestion that orym is evil as him. but, thats not what i intend. it is a terrible thing, watching someone's gaze harden after tragedy. once a long time ago, as the gods fought across exandria, ludinus saw his world destroyed. and so he enacted a plan to ensure that would never happen again. that they would suffer, and mortals would thrive. but his plan was a god's foot, trampling mortal society upon society. and so orym saw his world destroyed. and he knows killing ludinus is how to let it mend. as the two march forward, in a second calamity, i can think of nothing but the first scene of exu: calamity, when pelor & asmodeus fought as avalir fell below them. despite ludinus's raging, incredible hatred of the gods, the biggest tragedy of all is that mortals really are crafted in the gods' image: and he, & orym, are most representative of that endless cycle of war, of this war, a failure of the past generations, of ludinus, to ensure a "true" freedom of mortals. of peace.
willmaster edmunda was a terrible person, but i fear she was on the right track when she spat at orym "some would like to live in harmony [with Exandrians]. some... know the nature of violence, that others like you carry."
he would never have carried it if ludinus had not dropped it at his feet.
#critical role meta#critical role#campaign 3#orym of the air ashari#ludinus da'leth#long post#van speaks
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Hi Jade!! Can I request a hurt/comfort with Remus where you get really severely hurt or are in the hospital and he’s very worried about you and takes care of you?? Thank you!
Hi! Thank you so much for your request, I think this is my favourite thing I’ve written in so long and I missed Remus very much. I hope this is okay <3 fem!reader, tw hospital and implied painful injury/illness (not specified)
Remus is there when you wake up. He always is.
He's got one hand over yours, rubbing your dry skin gently, steadily, a ceaseless back and forth. The other is in his lap holding open a small paperback. You watch him as you gather your bearings, minutes of bleary blinking and an aching throat. He doesn't once turn the page.
"Good morning," you say, barely audible.
He lets out a relieved breath, book dropped as he turns in the chair toward you. The hospital bed is much higher than his seat, so he has to stand up when he kisses you.
"Good morning," he says, lips pressed to your cheek. He kisses you twice in succession. "Oh, I'm so happy you're up. How's your pain, lovey?"
Maybe you haven't woken up properly yet, or maybe they've given you something in your drip, but the pain is much better than it had been last night, when you'd cried enough to wake with sore eyes. You think of how he'd advocated for you, gently and then less so, until they'd taken you seriously and given you some strong painkillers. You feel a thousand times safer with him beside you, knowing he's always gonna stick up for you.
"I'm fine."
He strokes your cheek. "Yeah?" he asks. "Shall we sit the bed up?"
Remus grabs the controller from the side of the hospital bed and clicks the right button on his first try. The bed starts to rise, until your back is nearly straight and your abdomen aches. You don't mention it.
"That better?"
You nod, wordless. Not uncommon with your being in hospital, you've found yourself overwhelmed more often than not by everything that's happening. Remus has been your glue, undoubtedly. Praising you, loving on you, taking amazing care of you. Of course, your doctor and nurses have been invaluable, but you really couldn't make it through this without him.
You try to tell him and the words get stuck. He's not waiting for anything, he's fussing, tucking your blankets neatly under each thigh, all the way down to your ankles.
"It's a bit cold, isn't it? Do you want your jumper, darling?"
Remus doesn't usually call you darling. Dove is and always will be his go to, but he's called you just about anything sweet since your admittance.
"I'm okay." You rub your hurting eyes. You feel oddly like crying, though this is as well as you've felt for days. "Remus-"
You don't mean to stop talking, but you know if you keep trying you'll burst into tears, ugly and dramatic sobs that won't do you any good.
He thinks the same thing, sitting carefully on the side of your bed, his hands falling to your waist.
"Don't cry," he says. There’s a well-meaning sternness in his gaze. "Tell me what it is and I'll fix it, promise."
That's why you want to cry. You bite your tongue until it hurts and the heat of your tears has faded.
"Can you wipe my face for me?" you ask.
"Yes, I can."
He grabs your wash bag from the small cubby hole under the nightstand and pulls out a flannel, wetting it in the sink in the corner of the room. Only when he does do you remember that you're on a ward. It's loud, four beds to a room, two with the privacy curtains pulled around them and one without. The bed across from you is empty.
Remus returns and tilts your head back.
"The lady with the hernia," he whispers, dabbing your face with the flannel tenderly, "when I got here, she was screaming bloody murder. You woke up for a couple of seconds, do you remember?"
You aren't sure. Vaguely, you might recall his hand stroking your hair from your face, his voice whispering, "It's okay, dove, it's alright."
"She fucking wailed," he finishes.
You giggle at his language and his gossiping tone, eyes slipping closed as he wipes the oil from your nose.
"Poor woman, she doesn't have a lovely guy like you taking care of her," you say, tangling your fingers in the hem of his t-shirt.
"She has a hernia, my love."
"They can be really painful," you say, lightly chiding.
He turns the flannel inside out, rubbing around your hairline with the fresh side. "I'll never let anyone complain to me ever again, after you." He pulls the flannel away, his chin dipping toward his neck. "You look brand new."
He looks tired. He has shadows under his eyes, stubble around his mouth. You've seen him unwell, in pain, in agony, and you'd never pictured what it would be like to be on the other side. You take care of him, good care of him, and you can finally understand how and why he pulls through it every time.
"You're so good to me," you say, tears welling in your eyes. You can feel them dancing along your waterline.
"I love you," he says simply, frowning as the first tear falls. "Dove, seriously, I love you so much, I just want you to get better, okay?"
"Okay," you say, sniffling.
He catches your tears with the flannel. "Your poor eyes, all this crying. You're gonna need my glasses if you don't stop soon."
"They look good on me."
He pouts at your tearful tone. "Yeah, they do. Everything looks good on you. Except for tears," he says pointedly, leaning in until you're eye to eye. "Don't cry anymore. For me?"
You nod fiercely, blinking away the last few strays. "Okay."
He's ridiculously grateful. "Thank you." He kisses your damp cheek. Rests his nose against your nose. You don't fit like that and it doesn't matter. He breathes you in. "This will all be over soon. You've been so brave."
"Remus, if you want me to stop, you can't say anything nice to me for the rest of the day."
His laugh fans over your skin. He stands at full height. "Sorry. Love you. Your flannel's dripping down my arm."
You push him away with as much strength as you can muster. It isn't much, but he's everything, so he pretends you've hurt his arm and murmurs grievances all the way to the sink.
#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin x you#remus lupin x y/n#marauders era#remus x reader#remus x you#marauders#remus lupin drabble#remus lupin blurb#marauders x reader#remus lupin imagine#remus lupin fanfic#remus lupin fanfiction#the marauders
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Amor Maldectuim
Rodolfo Parra x fem reader
MASTERLIST • AO3
summary: And if you go, who'd else would I tell the myth of existence?
Warm gazes and stories spilled under the moonlight.
Note: This fic means a lot to me, I've been waiting to post it on a full moon, which is tonight. Look closer, and you might see the woman, she is teary, but she'll smile at you, and gift you some of her stones if you tell her about your loved one. <3
"I'd be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love"
His hands weave a tale of unspoken promises, as they delicately embrace yours, perfectly fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. The warmth of his coat envelops your shoulders, a comforting shield against the chilly air. You protest, wanting him to keep the fuzzy material for himself, but he refuses, his gaze a blend of sternness and adoration. He kisses you again, stubbornly draping the coat around your form.
You sigh, your voice barely above a whisper, "You'll get sick..."
He grins, shrugging playfully with a cheeky smile. "I don't care, my love. You'll take care of me, won't you?"
His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of cedar, never waver from your gaze. He smiles, drawing you closer to him with a gentle pull.
Rudy never fails to amaze you. He's not one to boast, believing that actions speak louder than words. And indeed, he showers you with his radiant love and tender kisses.
You rest your head on his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his musky cologne, a blend of vanilla and cinnamon that feels like home.
Although you're not originally from Las Almas, the city has become your home, thanks to Rudy. He's not just captured your heart, but your mind and soul as well. In his arms, you've found the missing piece of your heart that completes you.
Rudy's hand trails up your arm, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake until his palm finds its place on your shoulder, gradually inching upwards to cup your chin. He tilts your head, his thumb gently caressing your lips, as if he's committing the softness of your touch to memory. He takes in your face, as though he's memorizing every freckle and lash, one by one. His gaze is filled with a mix of admiration and awe as his other hand glides down your cheeks and jawline. Leaning closer, his warm breath tickles your lips like a precious elixir, breathing life into you both. Immortals, that's what you became. You were drunk from the potion of love and now remained waisted on what is left.
Rudy whispers, his eyes locked with yours. "The moon..."
"It's beautiful?" you ask, your gaze turning towards the radiant hole of light.
He grins, shaking his head. "It is, mi vida. But I meant, what does it look like to you?"
You gaze up again, torn between your own musings and his thoughts. His lips form a gentle crescent, not as round as the moon above, but just as beautiful and magical. A sight that holds a similar magnificence and worth.
You sighed, leaning closer and resting your head on his shoulder. Rudy instantly pulls you in, his warm embrace serving as a shield against any worries.
Your eyes never leave the luminous surface, and his eyes never leave you.
After a moment of reflection, you finally speak. "It's... pretty. It reminds me of you. Calm, beautiful, sometimes distant and ever-changing, but always there, watching over me."
Rudy coos, a faint blush warming his cheeks as he cups your face, letting his lips meet your forehead for a tender moment. You close your eyes, savoring the blissful connection. You don't need sight to understand the depth of his love for you.
His affection never ceased, nor vanished. So why it should take from a blind man to hold your hand and ask can't you see?
Rudy has always been more than enough.
He pulls away, his whisper against the skin of your neck soothing the goosebumps that rose on your flesh. "When I was young, my abuelita and I used to sit outside the house on warm summer nights. She loved me dearly and always took care of me. I remember one night she told me that the moon is a woman. She pointed at it and said, 'There are her eyes and lips, she is a weeping woman, a beautiful weeping woman, hijo.'
For years, after she passed away, I would stare at the moon, trying to see it as she did. But ever since I met you, it's as if my eyes have finally understood."
He utters, a warm smile gracing his lips as the tears that fell earlier now serve as silent prayers for love, a vow. Your thumb brushes away the pearls of emotion, and he chuckles.
"Does this mean you're happy, Rudy?" you ask, your eyes meeting his once more.
A hint of autumn lingers within his gaze, mingling with memories of seasons long past, creating a captivating blend of cinnamon and damp earth, infused with unwavering devotion.
They say that each person's eyes hold a unique universe, with only two moons orbiting within, wrapped in the void of one's soul. You never truly believed that until your gaze met Rudy's eyes, captivated by the beauty reflected in them.
He shifts, inhaling the fragrance of musky flowers carried by the gentle breeze. It seeps into your skin and whispers ancient promises of lovers from centuries past. Rudy whispers again, his words soft and sleepy, as if he's on the verge of drifting off. "Yes.. I am happy, mi amor... more than you could ever imagine."
kindly like and rebelog, it motivates us to write more <3
#𓆩♡𓆪 faith writes#call of duty#task force 141#los vaqueros x reader#rudy cod#rudyfluff#rudy x you#rudy x reader#rudy parra#rodolfo rudy parra#rudy parra x reader#rudy parra x you#cod fluff#writblr
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✝ 𝖠𝖫𝖫 𝖨 𝖶𝖠𝖭𝖳 𝖥𝖮𝖱 𝖢𝖧𝖱𝖨𝖲𝖳𝖬𝖠𝖲 (𝖨𝖲 𝖸𝖮𝖴) — 𝖪.𝖡𝖠𝖪𝖴𝖦𝖮𝖴
i was in the mood to write something fitting for this season, even though i'm not really a fan of christmas. thank you @dilfteracy for reading this and supporting me with your amazing commentary.
𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦. katsuki bakugou x genderneutral!reader
𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲. fluff, language, mentions of alcohol, underage drinking (listen, it's legal to drink at the age of 16 in germany)
𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳
I don't want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need
Bakugou scoffs into his cup of hot cocoa. He’s had about three of them now, spiked with a good amount of rum Mina managed to sneak past Aizawa’s observant eyes, but the alcohol has yet to unfold its effect to make the voice of Maria Carey somewhat bearable as she sings the lines to her infamous Christmas song for the fourth, no, fifth time that evening, warbling her high-pitched notes through the sound boxes Momo and Jirou placed in each corner of the common room for the party his class planned.
To enjoy the last days of school together before everyone leaves to spend the holidays with their families, they had explained after he had nearly blown off the decorations a few days prior, bellowing at them why on earth they’d even want to throw a party as stupid as this one, but now, as he glowers over the rim of his mug, he’s convinced they set it up for the sole purpose of getting on his nerves.
(and I) don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree
But despite his initial dislike of this party, he has to admit that his classmates did a decent job at capturing the festive spirit for this night — red and green ornament decorate the walls, colorful stockings that carry the names of his friends are filled with sweets and hang upon the fireplace and there’s a distinct smell of vanilla and cinnamon tickling his nose.
I don't need to hang my stocking there upon the fireplace
Somewhere near the kitchen, Denki is fighting Sero over a batch of freshly baked cookies Sato brought, though their playful banter seems to be more to the amusement of his classmates who have gathered around them to watch their antics. With their red hats and equally ugly Christmas sweaters, they somehow resemble angry elves in Santa’s toy factory and despite trying to keep a stern face, Bakugou can’t help but crack a smile at his friends.
Yeah, they’re idiots, but at least everyone seems to have a good time.
Santa Claus won't make me happy with a toy on Christmas Day
Between the cheers of his friends and the unwavering tootling of yet another Christmas carol, he can faintly hear your voice, laughing softly with someone. Instinctively, his eyes scan the crowded room to catch a glimpse of your face, but you’re neither standing among the group of students howling at Dunceface who has proceeded to throw cookies at Sero’s head nor does he find you talking to some of the girls sitting on the sofa and around the small table, happily reaching for the snacks as they chatter away.
"Were you looking for me?" You ask with a raised brow, pushing a plate of baked goods into his hand before you settle for a spot beside him, comfortably leaning against his shoulder. A smile creeps across your lips when he shrugs, suddenly far more interested in the pink marshmallows floating around his hot chocolate, though the treacherous blush that tints his cheeks and reaches the tips of his ears tells you that you caught him red-handed. "Hey, I'm talking to you, idiot. Are you enjoying the party?"
I just want you for my own
“Yeah, ‘s alright,” he mumbles softly. Blonde lashes flutter against his brow bone when he looks back at you, sharp gaze studying the curve of your nose, the space between your eyes and the smoothness of your cheeks, tracing each feature with a hint of secret admiration. A grin flickers across his lips, baring his teeth for just one second before it disappears behind his usual scowl and he slumps against your back, focuses on your body heavy and warm against his own — he likes it, the feeling of your shoulders touching and his fingers faintly grazing your hand as he stands there with you and suddenly Bakugou realizes he likes you.
More than you could ever know
He actually likes you.
Right, maybe he’s had too much of that stupid rum Mina mixed into that awfully sweet hot chocolate and a part of him is becoming aware of the blush that creeps up the back of his neck and seems to flush his entire face in embarrassing heat, but before he can stop himself, he’s fucking giggling. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes as he tries to stifle the sounds behind his raised hand, clasped tightly over his mouth until he can’t take it anymore and drops his head on your shoulder, laughing quietly into your hair.
“What’s going on with you now?” You ask. There’s a teasing lilt to your voice that coaxes another fit of giggles out of him and you swear it’s the most beautiful sound you have ever heard. “Katsu, c’mon! What’s so funny?”
"I think I like you,” he wheezes, barking out a laugh. His hands find yours, fingers curl tightly around your wrists and then he’s sliding down the wall, pulling you with him to the floor where he gently knocks his head against yours. There’s a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth and you think you should be alarmed, because you’ve never seen him like this before or maybe you should take the empty cup out of his grasp and keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t get another sip of the spiked cocoa, but this is—
Make my wish come true
"You think?" You repeat quietly, full of hope.
“Yeah,” he mutters after a beat and turns his head. For a moment, neither of you dares to say more before he finally leans in to press his lips against yours in a clumsy kiss that faintly tastes like hot chocolate and rum and your heart punches your ribcage in excitement. “I like you, dumbass.”
All I want for Christmas is you
#🕷— drabbles#bakugo katuski x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#bakugo x y/n#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugo x reader#bakugou fluff#bakugou x y/n#bakugou x gender neutral reader#bakugou x you#bakugou x reader#katsuki bakugou imagine#katsuki bakugo x y/n#bnha x gender neutral reader#bnha x y/n#bnha x you#bnha x reader#bnha imagines#boku no hero academia
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