#MyWriting
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Lorgar and his pregnant wife, please?
[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]
Author's note: Was already making this, so I just expedited the process. Enjoy some Lorgar goodness.
Relationships: Lorgar/Fem!Reader
Warnings: One quick NSFW flashback, Tokophobia, Pregnancy, Lorgar being overwhelming and suffocating
Lorgar’s personal quarters are massive- as much of it is filled with his own personal librarium.
Perhaps another time it would’ve interested you enough to take a peek, but right now you sit swallowed by the massive bed, wrapped in thin, cool sheets. Anything that could be on those shelves is of little interest in comparison to what is currently running through your mind.
You still remember the medicae's word. He’d let you go with little fanfare after- apart from the formality he gave speaking to the Lady of the Word Bearers- and you’d returned to your quarters with little more than a few words to tell you that you were indeed, pregnant.
It’s been a little over two months more since you first were told that news, but you’re still just so, surprised. Given Lorgar's unnatural creation, his size and abilities, the thought of such a thing being possible hadn't even come to the table.
Though neither of you were thinking of it either, in the height of other things.
'My little goddess,'
You felt so full, cum leaked from you and onto the silken sheets. But he was far from finished with you, and continued until the stars in the sky gave way to the sun.
You remember that last time the both of you were together. Lorgar knew he was leaving in the morning and had spent almost the entire night with you, preparing for the future time apart.
As such when he leaves, you’ve been unable to contact Lorgar for more than a few minutes at a time. This was something you wanted to tell him in person as well, and so you’d held your tongue until the Fidelitas Lex finally came to port.
Your clothes still fit, though most now show a slightly visible bump; Noticeable to anyone who's seen you enough to catch the difference. Thankfully, that isn't too many.
At least the nausea had faded mostly. You remember when it had forced you to see that medicae, and enlightened you to this whole thing.
"Are you well, Lady Aurellian?"
You laughed him off, and cleared your throat. Your mouth tasted terrible, and the noise did little to change it.
"Just a little under the weather." He took your response at face value, but didn’t seem entirely convinced. You were eager to get this all finished with, and answer any more questions curtly in the way you thought was most applicable.
Once it was all finished you walked quickly from the massive room, and just barely managed to make it to the balcony before your breakfast made its unwelcome return. You stood hunched over the railing, skin feeling hot. You wiped your mouth and took a few deep breaths.
"Lady Aurellian!"
You suddenly turned to see two Word Bearers looking at you shocked. One was from the room you'd just been in; You assumed he followed you to escort you back to your quarters. They both expressed their gentle demands for you to see the medicae, and not eager to fight about it, you went along with little fuss.
But Lorgar is due to return of Colchis any minute now. You’ve already been told his flagship has moored in the planet’s orbit, and you’ll see him soon. Very soon; Enough so that your stomach feels like it's buzzing.
Many of the primarchs are returning to their home planets in preparation to visit Terra. Many if not all of the Primarchs will be there apparently, at least according to Lorgar.
He's always yabbed a bit too much about things you feel like you shouldn't be hearing, but he seems to enjoy whispering you secrets. Many times simply because he’s venting out his anger at the galaxy, or the people within it.
You hear the heavy wooden doors slowly open, and you see Lorgar in his casual garb in the doorway. He must've already removed his armor before returning to his quarters.
He seems somewhat disgruntled, until his face lights up at the sight of you sitting on the edge of his gigantic bed. He smiles wide and instantly comes to you, kneeling in front of you and cupping your face in his hands to kiss you. They feel warm and soft, and you can't help but forget everything you've been getting ready to say for just a moment.
“I’ve missed you even worse than when I last left you. I didn't know I even could.”
You lay your hand over his own for a moment before he pulls them away, laying one over his own chest for a moment as he speaks.
"But- I have so many wonderful things to show you, my love. And to give you! The places we've been, they had so many beautiful things; Not as wonderful as you of course-"
It went well, you assume. Lorgar always becomes talkative if it does. If things go poorly, he's often in an unmanageable mood for days, until something, or now you, manage to soothe him.
You swallow the knot in your throat and interrupt him.
"Lorgar?"
He freezes, and the smile on his face fades within a moment. He notices your troubled expression and his hands rest on your lap. "Is something wrong, my love?"
You nervously wring your hands.
"I have to confess that I, have been keeping something from you." His brow furrows, but you speak before he can. "Can I explain before you rake me across the coals?"
Lorgar is already looking a bit worried and upset, so you elect to speak quickly in the hopes that the hourglass that holds his emotions doesn't completely flip before you have the chance to quell him.
"I went to the medicae not long after you left," He visibly jerks and you quickly forget all of the other words you were going to say and spit out:
"I'm pregnant, Lorgar."
He freezes for a moment, as if trying to process what you’ve said and understand it. His lips shift before he finally finds words.
“You are? I-“
He uncharacteristically stutters for a moment, before finally his mind catches up with his feeling and his hands cup your jawline. You watch his face keenly before you see his face melt into joy and you can breath a sigh of relief.
“I thought I couldn’t be happier to finally be here with you again, but this? There isn’t a word in any language to describe how I feel.”
Lorgar has a way with words, you never cease to be wooed by it. He can make you go from furious to in love with him, and you don't even think he does it intentionally. You play with the loose fabric of his robes for a moment to keep your hands busy.
“I’m sorry for keeping it from you, I just wanted to tell you in person. It didn't seem like the type of news to tell you over a vox while you're in the middle of commanding your men.”
His hands drift downward, and hesitantly move to brush across the growing roundness of your belly.
“I could never be upset at you; Not after this. Not after what you’ve given me.” He smiles in the same way he does after writing something he's proud of, or talking of his religion.
"The child of a Primarch; I never even considered it would be possible..."
He also seems lost in thought for a moment, before he finally comes back to reality and plants his feet firmly on the ground again. He moves to hold your face in his hands once again and give you a kiss, his larger palms swallowing your jawline. His lips feel so soft and warm against your own, you almost forget about everything until he pulls away with a soft pop, and your lips are puffy and well kissed.
"This means we should leave for Terra as soon as possible; Before it be to much danger for you," He says, and your eyes widen.
"I'm coming with you to Terra? Aren't all of the primarchs going to be there?"
You've never been to Terra, never seen a primarch besides Lorgar. Judging by the way he speaks of them, Lorgar is more than enough for you. But he nods, sparking a bit of turmoil in your gut.
"Of course! I refuse to leave you for a second, and I wish to show all of the Imperium the news." Lorgar must see the nervousness on your face, and he kisses the tip of your nose.
"Don't worry, we'll have our time to ourselves as well. I won't parade you around the entire time." That's relieving, as you know that you can't say no to him about this without fearing the repercussions.
Suddenly the primarch begins to stand, peeling his hands away from you.
"I should tell my men to ready the Fidelitas Lex, that we need to depart as soon as possible." You quickly reach for his hand. "Can you wait a moment to do that? You just returned, I want a moment with you before you're off again."
Lorgar halts, looking down at you. His shoulders loosen, and he smiles. It's that same smile that lights up his tanned skin that you love. He kneels back down, his eyes holding that barely contained wonder that has you feeling so loved and suffocated.
"Of course."
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I would love to see Leo and Jonah sick at the same time ^^
maybe one of them has food posioning and the other has been hiding some sort of stomach bug for a while that happens to show it’s face then?
if not that’s fine but would really like to see this!
-🪼
(First time submitting an ask :D)
This was sent before you switched to the 🧋anon tag.
Also requested by @vdoggg!
Food Poisoning - Part 3.
A continuation of Leo's birthday fic. Read part 1 here. Part 2 here.
--------------------
Leo was lying on the bed, curled up and trying to make sense if he was about to puke again, when he heard the front door opening. JD lifted up her head from where she had been happily kneading his thigh and he breathed out.
“It’s just Jon,” Leo grumbled, not moving a muscle. Jonah hadn’t texted him, but Leo had enough sense to figure out who had eaten the missing cupcakes and why he was back earlier than usual.
As if to confirm his point, he heard hurried steps and then the noise of liquid hitting liquid and Jonah’s signature loud burp down the hall, as he probably burst into the guest bathroom. Leo sighed, forcing himself to sit up and waiting a second as the room spun around him.
He had originally thought it was a simple overeating bellyache, even when he puked again as they arrived home, chalking that up to the vestiges of nausea and carsickness. Halfway through the night though, while Jonah was peacefully asleep, Leo was wrecked by the cramps in his lower belly and had given up on that notion as the runs hit him.
Leo felt mildly guilty he hadn’t been awake enough that morning to warn Jonah this was definitely food poisoning, then maybe his fiancee wouldn’t have eaten the cupcakes.
Grabbing on the walls to keep himself upright, Leo made his slow track down the hall and sighed as he found exactly what he had predicted. Jonah curled up in front of the toilet, hugging the bowl with arms, his shoulders hitching with a retch.
“Shit,” Leo sighed, slumping against the door and taking a deep breath to steady himself, “I’m sorry, Jon.”
A burp answered him, followed by more liquid splashing and then a pitiful whimper. Leo slowly entered the bathroom, which was much too small for the two men, and sat down on the cold ground, planting a hand on his fiance’s back.
He didn’t have the energy to rub, but Jonah didn’t seem to mind. After a couple minutes the other man finished coughing and raised a shaky hand to flush the toilet, so Leo grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and passed it to him. He heard Jon blow his nose, then flush again and finally he turned to look at Leo.
Leo cringed, his boyfriend looked damn near gray and his lips were a terrible pale shade. He had sweat beading all over his face, gluing his curls down to his temples, “Jon, are you-”
“Threw up- threw up in front of a patient,” Jonah informed him, in a little strangled voice. He closed his eyes, as if wincing at the memory, “I really don’t feel good.”
“I know,” Leo said truthfully, scooting closer. He couldn’t emphasize enough how much he understood Jon’s plight, given that just walking the short distance between their bedroom and the guest bathroom had caused his nausea to increase all over again, “I’m really sorry, Jon.”
“Not your fault,” Jonah groaned, turning to the toilet once more and spitting in it, planting a hand on his chest and massaging a burp up, “fuck…”
Leo tipped his head back against the cold tiles of the bathroom, trying to ignore the angry gurgling of his belly and how he felt like acid was crawling up his throat. He took a measured breath, gulping down, then startled as he felt a hand touching him.
Jonah let out a small snort at his jerkiness and Leo frowned, taking a second to realize Jonah was checking his vitals. He was being gentle, but the slight pressure on his Adam's apple was not helping Leo gulp down the nausea, so he pulled back.
“What are you doing…?”
“You’re really, really pale,” Jon frowned at him, “when did you last drink water?”
“You’re the one throwing up,” Leo pointed out with a pout, bringing his knees up to his chest, “are you done?”
Jonah shrugged, not reassuring him in the least, “I’m fine,” he said, using the toilet to pull himself up and then promptly leaning over the sink with a deafening retch. Leo scoffed, dizzily rubbing Jon’s thigh since he didn’t feel like he could get up now that he had sat down.
‘You’re fine, uh?”
A wet burp, followed by Jonah letting out a groan and wrapping an arm around his stomach… Then whimpering, “oh no,” and bent on the middle, clutching his belly. Leo raised his eyebrows.
“Jon…?”
“You need- I need you to get out,” Jonah groaned through clenched teeth, “now.”
“What… Why?” Leo tried to pull himself up, only to find that he really couldn’t and Jonah whimpered again.
“Fuck, Leo, I’m gonna shit my pants, get out-”
“I’m trying!” The blonde exclaimed, darting out a hand and grabbing the bathroom sink, in order to pull himself up, since his fiancee was of no help at all. On the contrary, Jonah seemed to have tuned him out, too preoccupied with the sour state of his intestines.
“Leo…”
“I’m-I’m go-” Leo didn’t finish his sentence, because being upright so quickly caused his head to swim, so instead of leaving the bathroom, he clutched the granite of the sink for dear life, breathing through his mouth, ears ringing and black spots dancing in front of his eyes. The queasiness that had been on the back burner until then, jumped up tenfold and Leo couldn’t do anything as he leaned forward and brought up a gush of pale yellow vomit in the basin.
Vaguely he heard Jonah groan and then the noise of his boyfriend falling sit on the toilet, sickness overriding any modesty.
Leo coughed, gasping for air and still white knuckling the sink. It felt like his head was floating. He gagged once more as he heard the noise of Jonah’s intestines emptying out and his fiancee let out a humiliated whine.
“I’m sorry, this is so gross, I-” Jonah all but whimpered, a sound so alien in his voice that it made Leo snap slightly back in reality.
He shook his head, opening the tap and washing away the vomit, before washing his mouth and forcing up a small burp. Leo hung over the sink, unsure if his belly was done with him.
“Jon?” he called after a minute, splashing some water on his face to try to get rid of the woozy sensation that he was about to pass out.
A cough answered him and Leo turned to look at his boyfriend, then groaned in sympathy. Jonah had grabbed the bin and planted it on his lap, as his own stomach joined his body’s attempt at purging.
“Aww angel,” Leo stumbled slightly forward, planting a hand on Jonah’s shoulder and squeezing his nape, “get it up, worst is almost over…”
Jonah’s whole body lurched with a big belch, that brought up another large wave of vomit inside their bathroom bin. Leo brought up a fist to his mouth and muffled a gag, turning his face away. He wasn’t one to get sympathy sick, but this was a gruesome sight when his stomach was already so upset.
He looked up at the ceiling, waiting until Jonah stopped heaving, then dared to glance down as the other man rasped out, “I’m done… I think I’m done…”
“Let me take this,” Leo took a forceful breath and retrieved the bin from Jonah’s hand, planting it on top of the sink and tying the trashbag, “do you need help…?”
“I’d rather die,” Jonah scoffed, wrapping both arms around his stomach and rocking softly, “bloody hell, Leo, it was just… Just two cupcakes, how the hell-”
“I don’t know,” Leo rubbed his face, frustrated, then grabbed the trashbag and fortified himself for the journey of getting out of the bathroom so Jon could get up and shower, “I’m going… I’m gonna give you some privacy. But I’m gonna leave the door open, okay?”
Not that he really could do anything in case Jonah slipped and fell in the shower, considering Leo was barely holding his own weight up. Jon was graceful enough not to mention it, though Leo wasn’t sure his boyfriend was even listening. Instead he was taking little rapid breaths, a sickly little burp sneaking up on him.
“Babe?”
“Bin-” Jonah’s voice was thick with nausea, “Leo- Gimme-”
Leo quickly pulled the tied trashbag out of the bin and passed the empty bucket back to Jonah, thankful that it wasn’t a hollowed out metal bucket like others they had in the house. Jon leaned over it immediately, barely retching before liquid sprayed from his mouth, then his back arched with a more violent heave.
“Jesus,” Leo whispered, starting to panic. This was quite violent and he hated that he couldn’t help as much as he wanted to. His legs were shaking and his own tummy was squeezing and cramping, intestines building a riot inside of him. Leo ignored the horrible sensation of his body revolting against him, in order to plant a shaky hand on Jonah’s shoulder and keep him from falling off the toilet.
After what felt like an eternity, Jonah planted the bin on the ground and his elbows on his knees, groaning, “fuck…”
Leo squeezed his shoulder, “I’m- Uhm- Are you-you done…?”
Jon’s head snapped up and he frowned at Leo’s sluggish sentences. Even exhausted and wrung dry, he hadn’t been losing liquids for as long as the other man had and was more alert.
“Leo, sit down,” he bossed and Leo shook his head, sweat breaking on his forehead and gluing his shirt down.
“Can’t- Don’t feel well…” He forced the words out, “are you okay…?”
“I’m fine,” Jonah stressed, “please, can you just sit down for a minute? I just need to shower-”
Leo nodded, then stumbled back and sat on the threshold between the bathroom and the hallway, whole body going down as if he was a broken doll. Jonah felt the start of panic prickling him, running his options through his mind.
Despite wanting to stay under the hot water for the rest of the day, Jon forced himself to keep the shower to only a minute, wrapping a towel around his hip and ignoring the way his belly was grumbling and whining all over again. He couldn’t even understand how he wasn’t empty yet.
Leo was in the exact same spot, he hadn't moved a muscle. Jonah crouched down, touching his fiance’s pale, slack face and hating the way he could feel Leo’s rapid heart beat.
“You’ve been puking since yesterday, this isn’t good,” Jon sighed, patting Leo’s cheeks, “baby, open your eyes.”
“Gon’besick,” Leo groaned, instead of obeying and Jonah jerked back just in time to avoid getting his arm coated in vomit, as Leo’s head hung and bright yellow bile splashed on his shirt.
Jonah groaned, sympathy sickness making his stomach squeeze and he didn’t have it in him to fight it, he turned his head and gagged. It took forever for his stomach to settle and he could feel Leo was still dry heaving, even without looking.
“We need help,” Jonah said, forcing himself to look at the mess and deciding there was no way he could handle this alone, when his body was hellbent on getting ready of any fluid he had ever consumed.
Leo let out a little whimper as an answer and Jonah made up his mind.
—------------
“Christ,” Luke’s voice was much too loud in their quiet apartment and Jon jerked from the small nap he was taking in the middle of the hallway. He had managed to strip Leo out of his ruined shirt and changed into boxers himself instead of only a towel, but that was it. Moving Leo had been out of the question.
“Leo first,” Jonah opened his eyes, his head was pounding from all the heaving and coughing, “I think he needs a hospital…”
Lucas didn’t argue, crouching down in front of them and touching Leo’s cheeks, patting them softly, “Leo. Leo, hey-” he shook him a little harder, until the blonde let out a groan and opened his eyes. His face immediately twisted into a frown, the cramps hitting him now that he was awake.
“Luke…?” Leo groaned, curling up as much as he could, but Lucas was having none of it. He forced the other man to open up and threw an arm around his neck.
“C’mon,” Luke’s voice came out strained as he managed to pull Leo up on his feet, “couch with you. You need to drink something.”
“Gonna… Gonna go right through-” Leo groaned, his head lolling and he pressed his nose to Luke’s neck, “won’tssstay down- Where’s Jon?”
“He’s fine,” Lucas managed to plant Leo on the couch, then grabbed some cushions and planted them under Leo’s legs, “I brought stuff.”
“What did you bring…?” Jonah tried to get up from the hallway, only to find that he was much weaker than he thought. His face burned with embarrassment as he too had to be hugged by Luke and pulled up.
“Everything the drugstore would sell me without a prescription,” Luke huffed, planting Jonah in the opposite couch to Leo’s and then heading to the door in order to retrieve his grocery bag. He put it down on the coffee table, then removed a gatorade bottle, and five different medicine bottles.
“Here,” Luke handed Jonah two different pills and a bottle of gatorade, “try holding these down.”
“Where’s JD?” Leo whispered from the other couch. He had curled up as much as he could and Jonah winced at the sight of him, throwing Lucas a panicked glance. He didn’t like at all the shade of white Leo had reached.
“What?” Luke asked, walking closer. For Leo he opened the gatorade bottle and stuck a straw inside of it.
The blonde made a face as the straw was pressed to his lips, trying to move away, “she must be starving…”
“I’ll look for JD in a minute,” Lucas ushered him closer, “just one sip, Leo. If you can’t then we’re gonna go to the hospital.”
The vague threat worked, because Leo finally took a gulp. Jonah watched him anxiously, already so familiar with the way his boyfriend worked that he fully expected to see the drink come up within seconds. When that didn’t happen, he allowed himself to fully collapse against the couch’s cushions.
“How long has this been going on?” Lucas’ voice was distant, followed by a meow and then his footsteps. JD meowing louder. Jonah turned his head, fighting valiantly the urge to go to sleep and scoffed as he saw Luke clutching JD in his hands.
“Don’t squeeze her like that,” he glared at the other man, while from the opposite couch Leo let out a pained groan.
“Luke-” It was a whimper, and then Lucas dropped JD and lurched just in time to catch the mouthful of gatorade in the crumpled groceries paperbag. Jonah squeezed his eyes to avoid looking at the mess, feeling even worse that he was so useless.
His own stomach churned uneasily and Jonah rolled on his side, focusing on breathing in and out and not on how awful he felt that he couldn’t be of any comfort or help as Leo continued to dry heave.
“Fuck,” Lucas said and Jonah dared to open his eyes. Leo had fallen against their friend, white as a corpse, and not even fighting it as Luke wiped his lips with his thumb, puke be damned.
“Hospital,” Jonah bossed, even dizzy as he was, “take him.”
“Yeah,” Luke nodded, carefully pushing Leo against the couch’s back, “Bella is coming over, she just stopped to buy us food. We’ll wait for her.”
“Nooo-” Jonah shook his head, then his stomach clenched violently and he gagged, but all that fell on the floor was a clear line of spit, “don’t-”
“I’m not leaving you alone,” Lucas said harshly, crossing the room and forcing Jonah to sit up correctly, then grabbing a bucket and pushing it on his lap, “and Leo’s not gonna die in the fifteen minutes it’ll take her to get here. Chill.”
“Can’t…” Jonah mumbled miserably, too tired to hide how raw he felt, when Leo was this sick. He felt like crying and probably would have, if he wasn’t so dehydrated, “can’t chill.”
Luke’s frown softened up, replaced by all concern and sympathy and he crouched down in front of Jonah, grabbing the gatorade bottle once more, ‘yeah, I know, man. But I’m looking out for both of you. You trust me?”
Jon hesitated, then nodded, refusing to meet Luke’s eyes and the other man pushed the cold bottle in his hand, “take another sip. Bell is nearly here, I’m going to pack Leo a bag.”
True to what Luke had said, not more than ten minutes later, Bella entered the apartment. She was carrying another set of groceries and in true pragmatic fashion didn’t spare them even a look, heading straight to the kitchen to empty their fridge of the possibly tainted food and repack it.
“Okay,” Luke walked back to Leo, with a backpack around his shoulder, “let’s go, Leo.”
“Jonah…” Leo mumbled dizzily, burying his face in Luke’s chest, “Jon’s sick too-”
“I know, but he’s in better shape than you,” Luke grunted, pulling Leo up and stumbling a little, “Bell will stay here to keep him company.”
“JD-”
“She’s fine,” Bella said softly, rushing ahead to open the door for them and picking up the cat when she tried to sneak past her legs. The woman held up the kitten so Leo could see it and he blinked blearily, clearly feeling too awful to string things together.
“She’s hungry…”
“I’ll feed her,” Bella vowed and Luke huffed, tightening up his hold on Leo as the blonde started to slip down.
“Everything is fine here, we’re gonna be back in no time,” Luke promised, dragging him away. Finally they were alone, Jonah and Bella, and Jon let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He curled up even more on the couch and almost smiled when JD jumped from Bell’s arms to come pester him.
“That’s some food poisoning,” Bell wrinkled her nose, walking closer, “how you holding up, Jon?”
“Not well,” Jonah leaned his head against the couch’s arm. He didn’t say it out loud, but he felt an immense relief at knowing Leo was on his way to getting fluids. He didn’t think he needed to say anything to Bell, she always seemed to just know.
“Did you throw up the meds?”
“Nope,” he planted a hand on his unsettled, bloated stomach, “but I might.”
“Well, try not to,” Bella rolled her eyes, then dangled her fingers for JD, “pspspsps, let’s have dinner, poor thing. You must be starving.”
Jonah stayed quiet as he heard Bella move around in the kitchen, serving JD her food and sorting through the mess. He continued to sip on his gatorade, only to find that had been a mistake when a sharp burp brought up a splash of acidic liquid to his throat.
“Fuck me,” Jon groaned, curling up and trying to massage the burps out of his belly before he ended up wasting all the hard work to keep down his meds.
“Don’t do that,” Bella circled the coffee table, holding a tall mug filled with coffee for herself. She unceremoniously pushed his leg to the side so they could share the couch and leaned in, slapping Jonah’s hand away from his belly, “let me.”
“Bella…” Jonah’s face burned with embarrassment, which got even worse when she pressed her fingers against his sloshy, bloated belly and it immediately caused a sick burp to erupt.
Bell rolled her eyes, smirking at him, “relax, I promise I’m not gonna tell anyone.”
Jon scoffed, cupping his mouth and belching again, his throat aching with the force behind it, “please.”
“Maybe just Leo,” Bella grinned, sliding her hand over the curve of his sick belly and chuckling when Jonah let out a groan at her threat.
#mywriting#sickfic#emetophilia#emeto#leo wagner#jonah banks#food poisoning#tummy ache#bellyache#belly rubs#🧋anon
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“John Egan, your two o’clock.”
bucky sleeps in fits at the camp.
the cold keeps him awake. the lack of comfort. the noises, sure.
but when he does finally manage to fall asleep, those aren’t the things that wake him.
it’s a recurring nightmare of arriving at the stalag, asking after buck, and never being able to find him. he walks and he walks and he calls out and nothing happens. the world around him is dull and lifeless and buck isn’t here, gale isn’t here, which means —
bucky sits up with a gasp in his bunk, gale’s name already on the tip of his tongue, the veil between nightmare and reality so fucking thin, until —
“you’re alright, john.”
bucky glances in the direction of the voice — your two o’clock — and finds gale laying there, right where he said he’d be, right where bucky had found him again. his breathing slows as he holds buck’s gaze, finding comfort in the familiar hue of gale’s blue eyes practically twinkling in the moonlight.
(this is real. bucky knows it — knows because he’d never manage to dream up that kind of beauty in a place like this.)
“sorry for wakin’ you,” bucky offers quietly, voice low to hide the tremble he still can’t shake.
gale just hums. “get some rest, egan. you know where to find me.”
bucky keeps his eyes open as long as he can, committing the sight of buck in his own bunk to memory before he drifts off.
your two o’clock. your two o’clock. your two o’clock.
#masters of the air#mota#john egan#gale cleven#clegan#buck x bucky#bucky x buck#gale x john#john x gale#userfrench#userbells#mywriting#buck cleven#bucky egan
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Shackled Forest
The next GT July prompts were Jewelry and Cursed, and though I started with just the first one in mind, it fits the second pretty well too, so I'll count it for both. Got a new concept for me to play around with, some new characters ... we all know I love a forest character.
Introducing Morrel. He's doing his best, but it's difficult.
~~~
The jewels hadn’t shown a sign of life in a long time.
Sometimes Morrel naively, stupidly, foolishly-optimistically thought that they’d finally fallen inert, all power sapped away into the atmosphere never to bother him again. But if that were the case, he’d be able to remove them. The thick wrist bangles, glittering with teal and blue gems, would unclasp and fall away while the choker with its enormous ruby at his throat would fly open and he’d be free of the weight at last.
But no. They stayed with him, more than a human’s weight in gold and a matching quantity of precious stones, heavy and lifeless, until that morning.
It began as a stirring dread in the back of his mind that he almost hadn’t recognized in the early hours. By sunrise, though, he couldn’t deny what it meant.
A human had found and donned the fourth and final piece of jewelry in the set. A ring, the band human-sized rather than giant, sporting a humble diamond little more than a fleck of glitter to his eyes. Despite its small, nondescript appearance, though, that ring meant only trouble for him.
He felt no compulsion, no drive towards the wearer of that ring, which meant that they didn’t know what they’d picked up. That was good. There was still time to figure something out. Time before they understood they had a giant bound to their whim, no matter what it may be. If they figured that out, Morrel would be stuck with them, and they with him, until they passed on or renounced the ring.
No wearer had cast off the ring before. He had no reason to believe this newcomer would either.
To that end, he rushed towards where he’d last seen that infernal ring. The height of a young tree himself, nearly thirty feet, he couldn’t do much sprinting on the forest floor without damaging everything in his path. Instead, Morrel skimmed over the canopy, his boots barely touching the crowns of the trees like a water skimmer barely touched the surface of a lake. To anyone on the ground below, he would be a passing wind and little more.
He tried not to think too hard about what he might need to do when he arrived. If he indeed found the ring near where he expected it: on the tiny, fragile hand of a human. He couldn’t touch the ring itself, thanks to his own accessories. He couldn’t harm someone who’d activated the power in the ring. For someone who didn’t know, though … Morrel had options. None of them were good.
The alternative couldn’t happen again. That ring had passed through generations of tiny human hands, leaving him at the command and mercy of tyrants and warmongers, pillars of greed and conquest alike. He’d never felt relief the likes of what he felt when the last king to wear that ring had fallen to a highwayman, his jewels and money taken away to be passed around among thieves. One of Morrel’s first actions taken with free will in centuries had been to terrorize a camp of bandits, to put his hands on a human before he could take up the ring.
A nondescript piece of jewelry was easily forgotten, tamped into the mud and ruin of that camp. No one remembered a ring over a gold-bedecked rampaging giant-of-the-woods, with skin like tree bark, long, bloody hands and sharp features, four narrow eyes glowing with the colors of sunset and a voice like a storm.
Morrel didn’t want to hurt anyone like he’d done then. He didn’t need to hurt anyone. He merely needed to separate them from the ring that would seal his fate.
Whatever human it was had some choice in the matter too.
At less than half a mile from where that camp had stood decades ago, Morrel slowed his dash, sinking into the woods with only a whisper of leaves against his skin and tattered clothes.
He couldn’t do much about the shining gold of his jewelry, but Morrel had at least switched out his old clothes, fine things in the colors of the kingdom he’d belonged to for so long. He wore rougher fabrics now, pieced together or bartered from the occasional passing hill-giant, in the greens and greys of the woods he called home. When he sank into the forest, it was like a new tree had sprouted there and began slinking between the trunks.
The dread in his core ebbed and flowed like a tide. Morrel couldn’t say whether his own anxiety or the actions of whoever had the ring did it. He could barely remember the first time that ring had fallen into human hands, how it had felt then. The freedom of before was a faraway dream, hazy and faded by centuries of subjugation. What he had now wasn’t even freedom, not with that threat constantly waiting.
The threat that, now, hung so close over him he practically felt its shadow.
Stalking through the trees, the dread became sharper, more focused. He had never kept track of where exactly the ring had fallen—he never needed to. This clarity always grew when he came too close to it. Only bad things came from that little band of gold and his whole body knew it; if running as fast as he could in the opposite direction would help, he’d have abandoned it long ago.
A small voice mumbled up ahead—no, two voices. Morrel’s eyes narrowed and he crept even slower towards the sound, blending into the trees despite his bulk. His recent years of avoiding humans hadn’t been enough to forget how to read tone in a small voice; they were arguing over something. One of them was old and gruff, the other young and fresh. It was more than the simple kind of arguing between a willful youth and their elder.
Creeping close enough to parse the words but not enough for them to spot him easily between the trees, Morrel’s core chilled like winter.
“I’ve got a feeling about this thing. Why would we just give this away for what’s probably not enough money to solve our problems? There’s something magic in it, we just need—”
“What we need is money, you little idiot. Not flights of fancy and pretending the dirty jewelry you found in the woods is magic. Give it here!”
Foliage and twigs shuffled as the pair apparently chased each other a few steps. Not far—the older voice grunted in discomfort and the younger voice huffed defiantly. “It is magic. It resized to fit me as soon as I put it on. And I’m going to find out what it does!”
It was as good a cue as any. Morrel couldn’t allow the owner of that young, hopeful voice find out what the accursed ring did. He abandoned stealth for speed and surged forward, slipping past tree trunks like they were reeds in a pond, scraping away bark and low branches.
And then he was upon them.
He was fast, faster than his bulk might suggest. One long hand dropped to the older human where he stood, knocking him from his feet and pinning him harshly to the ground. Weak struggles met Morrel’s unforgiving palm, though he didn’t lean enough weight onto the man to give him more than bruises.
The other hand snatched at the other human where she stood on a boulder jutting out of the ground, surely the spot she planned to flaunt her spryness over her companion while she talked wistfully of magic and boons and happy tales. Morrel’s hand found her all the same, long fingers like steel coiling around her middle before she could flinch away. His thumb lengthened and sharpened as he hauled her off the stone, the point resting just a breath away from her throat. She stared at him with wide eyes, all bravado forgotten, while her companion shouted unintelligible things from where he was stuck on the ground. She didn’t even struggle, just stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.
It wouldn’t be the first time. With and without the influence of the jewels, Morrel’s hands had been bloodied. He could do this again.
She was so young.
Had that mattered last time?
He couldn’t remember the faces or the voices of the last humans he’d accosted. They had been bandits, humans living rough much like these two seemed to be. They were so so different from the humans dressed in fine things and living in constant luxury that had hurt him. But they had the same opportunity to hurt him anyway.
He couldn’t hurt a fully aware master of that ring, but even though she wore the grubby thing on her grubby finger, she hadn’t realized its potential yet. She knew it held magic, and that provided the wary dread at the back of Morrel’s mind, the knowledge that he could be captured again. Now was the only time to save himself, and he hesitated.
It needed to be done. He’d be protecting himself. Just one little motion of his hand and it would be over. Her fate was regrettable, but his own had to matter more to him.
But she stared up at him, so young and afraid, with eyes that couldn’t have taken in two decades of life.
“Close your eyes, young thing,” he said. He didn’t have a mouth, but his voice rumbled out of him all the same, and he was grateful it didn’t betray his hesitation. “Close your eyes. Look away. Whatever is easiest.”
It wasn’t the young human but the older one that responded. “No ... no! Take me instead, if you must take someone! We meant no disrespect or trespass!”
Morrel didn’t look away from the human in his hand, but his gaze softened. His lower set of eyes closed entirely. “No. Close your eyes, little thing.”
She shook her head, though a shiver diminished some of the sense of brave defiance. Her gaze flickered over him quickly, taking in a few details of his appearance, but she didn’t waver. “Y-you don’t actually want to hurt me, do you?”
Morrel’s eyes shifted to a slightly stormier color, some grey mixing in with the sunset hues. “I want to do what is necessary. If you will not accept what mercy I can offer, that is not—”
“No, that’s not it,” the girl said, her confidence growing while his dimmed. “I can—” she broke off into a laugh and finally looked away from his face down to her pinned arm, where one hand sported the faintest glint of gold. “I can feel what you actually want.”
Morrel froze.
Somewhere within him, a lock clicked into place.
His dread peaked and then drained away to nothing.
The girl grinned wider. “I know what this ring does.”
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find me;
ivantill, 4.1k, inspired by this post by @ivanttakethis
Ivan returns - alive - after round 6 despite all odds but something is different about him. Wrong. Till is on his own to figure out what happened and how to fix it.
Till didn’t know how to describe what he was feeling – that wasn’t quite true; he had an idea. He was numb. He thought he’d been numb, before, but after watching Ivan die… now he knew what true numbness felt like.
He might not have expressed it enough, looking back. Just how much he appreciated having Ivan around. Maybe, he hadn’t even known yet how terribly empty this place would feel without him.
And now he would never get to tell him. He would never even get to talk to him again.
It was over, and frankly Till was too tired to keep fighting. It didn’t matter. His next opponent was Luka and he wasn’t naive enough to think he could win.
Strangely, he felt an odd sense of calm alongside the numbness. He was ready to go. He was ready to see if the aliens were truthful about this one thing, at least. Was there much of anything after death or just eternal darkness?
Nothingness?
Maybe that really would be better. To feel nothing. Be nothing.
Till heard a familiar bell; it was dinnertime. He curled up tighter, hugging his knees and closed his eyes. He wasn’t hungry.
-
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when he was finally jostled awake. He blinked, once, twice, eyes having a hard time adjusting to the brightness of day.
When he lifted his head, he was met with the face of a girl about his age, dark hair and dark eyes. Unassuming. He was pretty sure he’d seen her around once or twice. They’d never talked.
“I thought you might, um.” She was wringing her hands nervously. Till shouldn’t care. He had given up caring about anything, especially whatever she was struggling to tell him.
He sniffed. “If you have nothing to say, please go away.” He just wanted to go back to sleep. Sleeping was the only time he didn’t feel completely hopeless. At least in his dreams, he wasn’t alone.
“I know we haven’t talked much or anything,” she continued, speaking just a little too fast, “but I thought you might want to see this. You, um. You were close to him, right?”
She didn’t say his name. She didn’t need to.
Till didn’t even bother answering. He just blankly stared at her. Apparently, that was answer enough.
“You really need come see this,” she said again, this time with more urgency.
Till frowned. He should just ignore her. He didn’t want to entertain whatever game she was playing.
“I’m serious,” she was fidgeting again. “Please.”
He could’ve ignored her, but he didn’t. Even now, he supposed his curiosity had a way of getting the better of him. Standing up, he winced when his back cracked and his knees popped.
She smartly didn’t say anything and just led the way. Till followed slowly. It was only when she stopped abruptly that he finally looked up, barely avoiding running into her.
“Hey,” he barked. “Watch it!”
She stepped to the side, opening her mouth, probably to retort, but he couldn’t hear anything over the rushing in his ears.
There, in the middle of a small crowd, was Ivan.
He didn’t even know what to focus on first – his hair, brushed back with a small clip on the side to keep it out of his face. His clothes, pure white and pristine. The smile on his face, warm and sweet.
But none of that mattered, really. Nothing mattered but the fact Ivan was here.
Ivan was alive.
Till didn’t even wait to see if the girl had anything else to say; he rushed past her and joined the crowd, pushing people out of the way. Some of them glared at him, some yelled, but he didn’t care.
He needed to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. He needed to know Ivan was real.
When he finally reached the center of the crowd, he let out a shaky breath and just stared. Ivan was really there, standing right in front of him with a confused tilt of his head and an unnervingly polite smile.
Then Ivan opened his mouth and asked possibly the dumbest question he could:
“Are you okay?”
Till felt anger rush to the forefront of his many conflicting emotions, red hot and burning. “Am I okay?” he repeated in disbelief, and suddenly grabbed the collar of Ivan’s shirt. Ivan blinked, but didn’t move to stop him. “You seriously think you can do all that and then just ask me if I’m okay?”
Ivan stared back at him with a familiar blankness before suddenly he was smiling, soft and kind, “I’m sorry,” he said, and Till couldn’t remember ever hearing him apologize, before. “I don’t know what I did but I assure you I didn’t meant to upset you.”
He reached up and gently touched Till’s hands, still clutching his collar.
“If you would let go, maybe we can go somewhere private and talk.”
Till blinked, once, twice, before suddenly letting go like he’d been burned, his hands curling into fists at his sides “You don’t know what you did?” he repeated, slowly, icily. “Is this some kind of sick joke to you?”
His heart was thumping in his chest too fast, too hard. He felt like he was struggling to breathe.
“I really don’t,” Ivan replied softly. It was unnerving, hearing him talk like that. “But I’m assuming I did something to hurt you, and if I did, I really am sorry.”
Till bristled, fists tightening. He could feel something wet in both palms of his hands; blood, maybe, from where his nails were digging too deep.
“You really don’t remember?” he asked, terrified of the answer.
Ivan smiled again; it was too sweet. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Okay.” Till swallowed, forced his hands to relax at his sides. “Okay.”
Without waiting for any kind of response, he turned and ran.
-
For a while, he isolated himself and just tried to figure out what had happened. Maybe some kind of head trauma? That would’ve explained the memory loss, maybe, but Ivan was acting like a completely different person.
Before he had seen Ivan again - before he had gotten confirmation he was still alive - he had gone over all the things he wanted to say to him, good and bad.
Now he couldn’t bring himself to say any of it. He avoided even crossing paths with Ivan for the first few days but then he realized something:
Ivan was avoiding him too. Not on purpose, it seemed, but somehow that realization was even more terrifying.
He used to do anything to get his attention - steal his things just to return them, start trivial fights, ask him to teach him about music (he never paid attention). Now he barely looked in his direction most days, too distracted with the handful of other contestants who were seemingly glued to his side.
Before, he hadn’t had any friends. Not for a lacking of trying - many people wanted to be friends with Ivan - but he had never even bothered trying to act interested.
Eventually they had stopped trying, of course, but now that had changed. It was like people could smell he was different, and they were right.
To make matters even worse, Till had overheard a few of Ivan’s conversations with some of the contestants. He wasn’t sure if Ivan meant it but when they would flirt, fluttering their eyelashes, pouting a little, Ivan would seem interested, smiling coyly.
That was possibly the most obvious sign something was very, very wrong.
Ivan didn’t do friends - not beyond what championship he had been able to forge with Till and Mizi, possibly Sua (before) - but he certainly hadn’t flirted with others.
He hadn’t even flirted with Till prior to their round, despite seemingly having some kind of feelings for him. Or maybe he had, but in unconventional ways. He certainly hadn’t been obvious about it.
(He wanted to talk to him - the real Ivan - understand what he really felt, but now he couldn’t. The Ivan of now apparently felt nothing for him.)
Could a head trauma do that? Till wasn’t educated in that kind of stuff; some of the others were, the way he was interested in music, but even they hadn’t had many chances to explore it with their limited resources. So when he asked, they simply apologized and said, honestly, “I don’t know. Maybe?”
He was grateful for the honesty but it had brought him no closer to figuring out what was going on, or how to reverse it (if that was even possible. He really hoped it was possible.)
-
Till finally reached a breaking point after Ivan won round 7.
(Since nobody had expected him to survive, and it was unprecedented, they had decided to add two new contestants to the lineup; one to go up against Till and one to go up against Ivan, extending the season to 9 rounds overall. The finale would make history as - for the first time - three contestants would go up against each other at once. Till really didn’t care about dissecting what that meant for them, in the future.)
Obviously he was glad he had won - he had been watching the broadcast with bated breath - but he had won by singing a new piece. Till felt an odd sense of comfort, hearing his voice again (maybe the only thing that hadn’t changed) but then he had started to pay closer attention to the lyrics.
And it was wrong. All wrong. Since when did Ivan sing of birds flying through clear blue skies, free and fearless? Of requited love, sweet and true?
It might’ve been his voice, but those weren’t his words. Something was wrong. Ivan was here, but he wasn’t.
Then finally Till made a realization. It was a working theory, of course, but at least it was a start.
-
It started with Till watching Ivan even closer (something he didn’t think was possible). He started to slowly notice other details that were wrong.
Just little things. Things that might not have been noticeable to other people. Like the way Ivan’s laugh was a little off (slightly too high-pitched compared to before). The way his eyes were brighter, now, but somehow lacking life at the same time.
Till realized he reminded him of a doll. Too happy. Too polite. Even Mizi - sweet as she was - hadn’t been nearly as perfect. It was unnerving.
Once - still testing his theory - Till had even spilled his soup on him during dinnertime. Just to see. Ivan had barely spared him a glance, a polite smile. “Don’t worry,” he had said before disappearing to change.
He returned with another white shirt. Laughed with everyone else at a joke that was objectively not funny.
That was when Till was certain he was on the right track. They had done something to him. It wasn’t surprising, in a way. They had experimented on Till many times before, after all, but this was different. This was Ivan; the pride and joy of the season.
It was risky to mess with him, but he supposed if it was that or his death, the aliens had weighed their options and decided this was the better outcome.
And truthfully, it had worked out for them. Ivan had gotten even more support than ever after his latest round; brands were lining up to work with him, he had a new interview being published almost every week.
But Till wouldn’t be so easily satisfied. Even if this Ivan was easier to deal with. Even if he smiled more. Till missed tussling and rolling around in the grass with him. He even missed the times Ivan would steal his things just to return them a few days later.
He missed Ivan, his friend, and possibly something more, one day. He still wasn’t sure; wouldn’t be until they could actually talk about what had happened on that stage. But either way, he would find a way to snap him out of this.
-
Easier said than done. Now it was hard to even get a moment alone with Ivan, seeing as he was always surrounded by people.
Finally Till did what he had to do (and he wasn’t exactly proud of it): he pretended to be hurt, and Ivan - this new version of him, at least - couldn’t resist the bait. He helped him to his room and stood there, seemingly unsure of what to do next. Till pretended to massage his ankle.
“Thank you,” he said, and a part of him meant it.
Whether or not this was the Ivan he knew, he still didn’t like him looking so lost. It was jarring, compared to the easy confidence he usually carried himself with. Before and after. The confidence had always been the one consistent thing across both versions of him, although it had certainly manifested in different ways.
Ivan smiled then, looking more sure of himself. That smile - bright and full as it was - still didn’t manage to quite reach his eyes. Till knew this was it. He had to take this chance and find out a way to reverse whatever they had done to him, if that was possible.
(It had to be; he didn’t know what he would do if it wasn’t.)
For now he just had to keep him here with him, separated from all the others.
“Can you sit with me for a second?” he asked, and Ivan didn’t even hesitate before joining him on the bed that felt more like a concrete slab with a blanket over it.
He even sat politely, hands together in his lap, back a perfectly straight line. He was still smiling. “Did you need anything else?”
Till hesitated for a moment, mentally scrambling for an excuse to keep him here longer. “My ankle really hurts,” he blurted, “even worse than before.” He paused, biting his lip, still thinking. Then he thought of it, the perfect excuse. “Could you maybe look at it?”
“I’m not sure I’d be able to tell you anything,” he replied despite already moving to the floor. Till watched, heart pounding in his chest, as Ivan gently touched his ankle, lifting his foot a little.
He should’ve prepared a bit more, maybe, because his ankle was perfectly fine. No bruising, no cuts. Still he winced, frowning. “It’s sore,” he said, pointing to a random spot. “Around here.”
Ivan nodded, softly running his fingers over the spot with pursed lips.
Till knew he should’ve been thinking more, formulating a plan. He couldn’t just keep Ivan here forever looking at his ankle, and he was no closer to finding out what the aliens had done (or how to reverse it.)
Until he saw it:
A ring, perfectly discreet, around Ivan’s finger. It wasn’t quite silver but an odd hue that nearly blended into the color of Ivan’s skin. Like he - or someone - hadn’t wanted others to notice it.
Till felt his heart beating a little faster. There was no way, right? Surely it couldn’t have been that easy. All these weeks - all this pain - had been caused by a ring?
“Your finger,” he said, voice thick. He hoped Ivan wouldn’t notice; he didn’t, seemingly, still focused on Till’s ankle. “Where did you get that ring?”
Now Ivan looked up. For a long moment he just stared before finally he blinked, once, glancing down at the ring around his finger. “It was a gift.”
Till nodded slowly. “From who?”
“I - ” Ivan stopped, eyebrows furrowing as he idly spun the ring around his finger. “I don’t quite remember, it seems.”
Till knew this was it. He was onto something. He slid off the bed to join Ivan on the floor; Ivan gasped, just a quick breath, gesturing at his ankle with eyes full of concern. Till didn’t know if it was real - his concern. He didn’t know what was real anymore but in this moment he liked to believe it was, as unfounded as it was.
“I’m okay,” he assured him. “I just, can I - ” How did he ask for this, he wasn’t really sure. Finally he gave up and just grabbed Ivan’s hand.
Ivan let him, even as his eyebrows furrowed again, watching as Till gently turned his hand in a few different directions. It was a simple ring, no stone or decorations. It was loose enough for Ivan to spin it around his finger with ease, but too tight to fall off by any accident.
“Do you mind…?” he asked as his fingertips brushed the ring. Surely it wouldn’t be so easy, but it was still worth a try.
Ivan blinked; there was something lost in his gaze, almost like he wasn’t quite seeing. Then suddenly he was pushing Till back with enough force he yelped as his back hit the edge of his bed.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, icily, as he stood and turned toward the door.
It was all wrong. The Ivan that had been, here, for the last few weeks would’ve never reacted like that. So aggressive and cold. That was when Till knew there was no other option: that ring had to go. Whatever was going on, it was clear the aliens had put in some kind of safety measure to keep Ivan from letting anyone take it off.
Whether or not it would magically fix everything was unimportant. It was a start, at least. Till scrambled back to his feet and grabbed Ivan by the arm, yanking as hard as he could. Ivan stumbled, for just a second, but it was enough for Till to get the upper hand he needed.
He spun them around and pushed Ivan onto his bed; he fell with a huff. Before he could fully recover, Till was on top of him, pinning his arms down by his sides. Ivan had always been stronger than him but thankfully with the element of surprise and whatever adrenaline was coursing through his veins it seemed he had managed to subdue him.
“What are you doing?” Ivan asked; his voice no longer had that icy coolness to it, but he was obviously still not happy.
Till squeezed his wrists, hard. “I know you don’t remember me or - or what happened,” flashes of that night on the stage, painful and sharp, played through his mind, “but I know you cared about me and I don’t know if you knew at the time how much I cared about you too.”
Ivan just stared up at him, unblinking. Till took a shaky breath.
“I wish I had let you known, before that night.” His eyes burned but he forced the urge to cry back, swallowing thickly. He needed to focus right now. “Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have done what you did. Maybe we could’ve found another way. You had always been the smartest out of any of us. If anyone could’ve done it, it was you.”
Ivan finally blinked, his mouth pressing together into a thin line. Till couldn’t spend too long wondering if any of this was getting through to him. He just had to keep talking.
“Instead you felt like the only way to save me was through sacrificing yourself, and - ” It was too late; his eyes watered, blurring his vision just a little. “I was so mad at you, at first. I was so angry I was sick. You - ” Till paused, shaking his head, hard. “You had no right to do that. To decide for me what I needed.”
He paused, took another shaky breath. Ivan still didn’t say anything.
“I missed you so much, Ivan,” his voice wavered with each word. “I thought I was never going to see you again and I was so numb. I realized I cared about you, more than I ever realized and - and you weren’t even here for me when I needed you the most.” He sniffed, squeezing his wrists even tighter. “You selfish asshole.”
Finally Ivan opened his mouth to say something. His eyes looked shiny, glistening. Till didn’t even bother waiting to see what he had to say; he surged down and slammed their lips together so hard their teeth clanked together, sending a jolt of pain through his jaw.
Ivan made a small noise in the back of his throat. Surprise, maybe. Till used the moment to let go of his wrist and feel for the ring; as soon as he found it, he yanked it off without hesitation and threw it across the room. He heard the distant clattering and then Ivan was kissing him back with fervor, taking his face in his hands.
Till felt something warm in his chest - hope - as he shifted, deepening the kiss. He was almost afraid to stop, afraid that he’d been wrong and nothing would be changed. Afraid he was kissing a stranger, not the Ivan he knew and desperately needed back.
But finally he had no choice; he pulled back and stared down at Ivan, eyes half-lidded, mouth wet and swollen from the aggressive kissing.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please say something.”
Ivan blinked, some clarity seeming to return to his eyes. His tongue poked out, licking at the corner of his mouth where there was just the smallest spot of blood, probably Till’s fault.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and for a moment Till felt the world stop. He had failed. But then Ivan’s hands were at his sides, holding on gently. “I never even considered how you would feel.”
Till sniffed, waited. Didn’t want to get his hopes up too much.
“I can’t even lie and say I thought you wouldn’t care.” Ivan smiled, a small thing. It was nothing like the fake smiles he’d been giving for weeks now. “Because you’re you, and you care more than you let on.”
He didn’t even realize he was shaking until Ivan smoothed a hand down his back, trying to calm him.
“But one of us had to die up there, didn’t they?” Ivan’s hand stopped, low on his back. He let out a soft sigh. “And it couldn’t be you. I couldn’t let that happen.”
Till swallowed around the lump in his throat, almost too big to breathe. “You kissed me,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation, just a quiet acknowledgment. “You asshole, you kissed me and then left me here to try and pick up all the pieces by myself.”
He wasn’t really angry.
“And you just kissed me,” Ivan said, slowly. “Good way to distract me, hm?”
Till couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let things go unsaid between them, not after everything. What if something happened again? What if this was his only chance?
“I did use it as a distraction,” he admitted, but then, “I’d been thinking about it for a while.”
Ivan’s hand twitched against his back. “You had this plan for that long?”
“No,” Till answered truthfully before leaning down a little; their noses were only a couple inches from touching. “You should’ve told me, Ivan. Given me a chance to decide what I really wanted.”
Ivan stared back at him, unwavering. “You wouldn’t have chosen me,” he said with a confidence that sent a pang through Till’s chest, and maybe he would’ve been right, once upon a time, but things were so different now.
They could never go back and change the past, as much as Till wanted to, but the least he could do was be honest with himself moving forward.
“Maybe not back then,” he admitted, because he wasn’t fond of lying and it felt important to be honest here. “But I’m not the person I was back then, am I?”
Ivan gazed up at him with an intensity that made him shiver. “No,” he agreed. “I suppose you aren’t. Because you never would’ve gone through this much trouble for me, before.”
“I always cared about you, Ivan,” he replied, softening his voice, needing him to hear it. “I think I just didn’t know how much.”
Ivan opened his mouth, closed it. Till didn’t know what he was going to say, but that was okay. He wouldn’t push it. They had a lot to figure out over the next few hours - like how they were going to hide Ivan breaking through whatever the aliens had done to him, or if they even could hide it because Till didn’t want to risk putting the ring back on, or even where they stood as friends or more - but for now none of that mattered.
Ivan was back, he was here with him, gazing up at him like he used to, when he used to think Till was never looking (and he wasn’t, most of the time, but not all the time.) And Till knew he would do anything to ensure he never left him again.
#alnst#ivantill#alien stage#ivantill fic#alnst till#alnst ivan#mywriting#thank u op for giving me permission to use this idea#bc this is my fav ivantill fic i've written yet
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so who's excited for the valentines day UTDR newsletter.
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Poly!Marauders x Reader - First time
Poly!Marauders x Reader, it's her first time and they're all helping out. Also, it's so On Brand for James Potter to come in his pants while eating pussy. I love this man.
“So, you’re saying you’ve never… done it?” Sirius asks, looking at Y/N questioningly.
“Nice way to put it, Pads”, scolded Remus, reaching out to touch the cheek of their girlfriend.
“Uh, yeah, I guess”, she starts, “I mean, I’ve done… some stuff? But not, like, all of it?”
The boys share a look of… something new. Soon, three sets of hands are touching her, rubbing her thighs, arms, and sides.
“Do you… want to? With us?” Asks James, rubbing circles with his thumbs on her arms.
She’s playing with her hands in her lap, feeling her heart racing. Excitement started to take over the nervousness that had previously filled her body. She did want it, badly, but she was unsure of how to initiate, not knowing what was okay or how to best go about it.
“Yeah” she says, looking into James’ eyes, “Yeah, I want to.”
***
Not long after, she’s sitting against the headboard, back pressed against Sirius’ chest, lips locked with Remus and James’ lips kissing down her legs. They had promised to take the best of care of her, and she really could feel it, the love that encompassed her in this position. The arms of Sirius, wrapped around her waist, started to sneak under the fabric of her shirt, as Remus’ hands teased her nipples through the shirt.
“Baby, can I unbutton this?” Sirius asks from behind her, lips trailing kisses down her neck, leading to Remus receiving a moan in his mouth before she nods, telling the man behind her that yes he can.
Hands are running up her legs, rubbing at her thighs, sending shivers down her spine as her shirt finally comes undone, baring her tits for her little audience.
“So pretty, love”, murmurs Remus, sitting back and taking in the view.
James, too, leans up on his elbows to look at her, basking in her beauty, “Yeah babe, so pretty,” making her shy away from all the attention, trying to hide her face in Sirius’ hair.
“How’re you feeling, pretty girl?” Sirius asks her, reaching to grab at her pretty tits, feeling her arch her back against his chest.
“Uh huh, so good”, Y/N whines, feeling James’ hands creeping up her thighs, followed by his mouth, kissing, biting and nibbling at the skin. Her moans rise an octave as his hands reach the very top of her legs, fingers nudging her underwear.
“May I?” His glasses are completely askew and he’s looking up at her with wide eyes, shiny with anticipation, and when she nods he reaches all the way, rubbing at her clit through her panties, “How’s that feel baby?”
“Good, so good”, she’s getting whiny, the feeling of all three of them becoming overwhelming, “Remmy please, wanna feel you, kiss me?” And how could he ever say no to that? Leaning back down, he places one hand on her cheek, angling her face to be able to kiss her.
James taps her hips, indicating for her to lift so that he can pull her undies down, “Oh she’s so pretty”, he says, “Pretty little pussy… Pads, help me keep her legs open.” His friend complies, using his own legs to keep hers open, hands still running up and down her waist, sometimes coming up to grab at her tits.
Sploshy sounds fill the room as James’s lips stay locked against her wet pussy, his hips moving to rub himself against the mattress. Remus pulls away, again, “Do you like that, pretty girl? You like James eating your sweet cunt?” He asks, rubbing a thumb against her red and swollen lips, “I think you should put this pretty mouth to good use as well, don’t you?”
The question makes her blush a deep red, but she does think that so she nods, feeling that nervousness creep up again, but before she can think any more of it, Remus’ trousers and pants are off and he’s placing his hard, pink tipped cock right in her face. “Open up, baby”, he says, poking her lips with the head.
The taste is a bit strange, she thinks, salty and tangy, but not bad. She starts by licking around the tip, before opening up more to let him further in her mouth. At the same time, James’s fingers are working tirelessly against her clit, while his tongue licks around her hole, making her moan and whimper around Remus’ cock.
Remus has a firm hold around her neck, not really squeezing, just holding her in place as he lightly thrusts his hips, careful not to choke her. “So good, baby, such a sweet little mouth, yeah?” Her eyes open, looking up at him, “Yeah, you’re just made to take cock like this.”
In between her legs, James switches position, fingers plunging into her leaking hole, tongue rubbing circles on her sensitive bud. Her legs try to close, but Sirius’ legs keep her open for his friend, letting him feast on their girlfriend, while their other boyfriend fills her mouth. He can feel her getting closer, noticing how she gets more twitchy in the legs and her mouth turns slack around Remus. “So good, love, you can let go now, yeah just like that, let go, come all over James’ face, just like that, good girl”, Sirius is telling her to let go, and that with the praise sends her straight over the edge, juices flooding, covering James. Remus pulls out of her mouth, letting her breathe, and takes Sirius hand, bringing it to his cock. Watching their girl come, one of his boyfriends jerking his cock, Remus can’t do much but come, covering her chest in hot, white liquid.
“Jamie, please stop”, her hands go to his hair, pulling him off, “‘s too much, please.” He pulls away, face wet with her slick, and he looks sheepishly up at his three partners as they all notice the wet patch on his legs.
“Can you take more?” Asks Remus, coming down from his own orgasm. She nods, whimpering a simple yeah, “Good girl, then I think it’s about time Padfoot gets his turn with you, yeah?” Her eyes widen, but soon she’s turning in the lap of the aforementioned boy.
“Hi baby”, he says, finally facing her. Arms around her waist, holding her close
“Hey…”, her head nuzzling into the crook of his neck, smelling his hair, breathing it in.
“Gonna fuck you now, yeah? Gonna make you feel so good”, his hands reach down, grabbing her ass, spreading her cheeks slightly, “up a lil for me” he commands, and she raises herself up on her thighs, hovering over his lap. He frees himself from his pants, tugging himself a few times, “Allright, baby, now come down for me.” One hand on himself, the other on her hips, he aligns himself with her hole, letting her down, filling her up. They both moan at the intrusion, his eyes raising to look over her shoulder at their two boyfriends, eagerly watching the pair.
Sirius moves down a bit, laying down, letting her face stay in the place where his neck meets his shoulder, folding his legs and thrusting up into her. He winces as she bites his shoulder, in a desperate try not to scream out loud.
“Is this okay, baby?” He asks, warm hands rubbing her backside.
“Yeah, ‘s good, so good.” She feels like she’s on fire, her hole being perfectly stretched, g-spot consistently hit. It’s a new sensation, different from James’ fingers. When Sirius starts thrusting faster, holding onto her arse, practically splitting her in two, she goes into a very different headspace. It’s so good, so, so good, but also so so much and soon she’s coming, again, walls clamping down on Sirius’ cock, moans slipping from her mouth, stuck to her throat.
“Fuck, babe, you’re so good, so tight, love this little hole”, he’s, once again, whispering very dirty words in her ear, chasing his own orgasm.
“Ah, huh, Siri, fuck, ah, please”, she’s whiny, moaning and whimpering, small hands clamping down on his upper arms, holding on for dear life.
“Ah that’s it, love, gonna come now, gonna fill you up”, and he does, and it’s amazing, yet another completely new sensation, sending her over the edge for a third time.
“Good job baby, took us all so well”
“Yeah love, you did so well for us, gonna let you rest now”
“‘M gonna clean you up a lil, you just lay here though, such a good girl”
#amathelia writes#mywriting#fanfic#james potter#remus lupin#sirius black#james potter smut#james potter x reader#marauders#marauders era#poly!marauders#poly!marauders x reader#sirius black x reader#sirius black smut#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin smut#smut#firts time
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CNC and Safewords
"No Daddy I don't want it"
"I don't care, you're mine and I'll use you how I want"
*safeword comes out*
"Oh baby I'm so sorry what's wrong? How can I help? Are you okay? I love you, you're safe, I'm here. I promise."
Since some people don't seem to know how CNC works
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kaveh snapping at alhaitham for buying another ugly wood carving… except he forgot it was his birthday 👀
read my short fic on twitter here or see more below! 🫶
—
“This looks absolutely nothing like me!” Kaveh snaps at the rough-out Aranara carving that suddenly shows up one morning, looking so blonde and angry.
Alhaitham comes out of his room at this moment and walks over to their common shelf where the architect stands.
Kaveh has a meeting with a particularly frustrating client today and he’s feeling so anxious that he cannot help but snaps at Alhaitham too, “How many times do I have to tell you not to bring ugly wood carvings into our home!?”
Alhaitham looks at Kaveh, his lips tightens. Something unfathomable flashes across his eyes and disappears just as suddenly.
“Do whatever you want with it then,” Alhaitham says finally after an awkward silence. Then he grabs his key from the shelf and turns his back to walk towards the front door without saying another word.
Kaveh looks at him leaving the house in puzzlement. It is not a rare occasion to see the Scribe not bothering to argue with him but Alhaitham never walks away after saying only one sentence before. He looks as if he’s angry or even…pouting? Kaveh is not sure if that word can describe Alhaitham.
Maybe Kaveh did something wrong? He gasps at the thought.
Is it because the smell of the cream soup he made yesterday was too strong? Or maybe it was the fact that the house is now so messy because he’s in the middle of tidying up things? Or maybe he moved or touched some books he wasn’t supposed to?
Kaveh ends up thinking for the whole day. He even spaces out during the client’s meeting and almost drops the model when he tries to present his plan.
He thinks and thinks but nothing comes to his mind. They have been on unusually pretty good terms lately, so he cannot think of something recent that might have made Alhaitham upset.
Kaveh is so deep in thought he almost bumps into Collei on the way home.
“Ah! Sorry!” Kaveh exclaims then realizes who it is, “Collei! I didn’t know you were in town today!”
Somehow, the trainee Forest Ranger looks shocked to see him. She quickly picks up something that fell to the ground when they bumped into each other earlier. Kaveh catches a glimpse of a small green box with yellow ribbon before Collei swiftly hides it behind her back.
“It’s so good to see you! Wanna grab something to eat?” Kaveh asks, ignoring her suspicious behavior. He’s not ready to go home just yet, not when he still hasn’t figured out what he did wrong.
“Uh, sorry I have somewhere to be today,” Collei replies nervously, avoiding to meeting his eyes, “If you will excuse me, I really need to get going.”
Then she takes off before he can say another word.
Kaveh ruffles his hair in confusion. What is going on today?
After wandering around aimlessly for a while, he decides that he has no other place to go except the good old Lambad’s Tavern.
He sits down at a table and orders a drink even though it’s merely 5PM.
“Hey, Kaveh!” Lambad shouts his name from behind the counter, “That one’s on the house! Happy Birthday!”
Oh. Shit.
A realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning.
“How could I forget!” he cries, standing up abruptly, “It is my birthday!”
He tells Lambad that he’ll take a raincheck on that glass of wine before leaving the tavern. Kaveh rushes home as fast as he can and finds Alhaitham standing in front of the shelf with the Aranara carving on one hand and a bag on another.
Alhaitham raises his eyebrows when he sees Kaveh practically flying from the front door.
“No, wait—-“ Kaveh tries to catch his breath, “D-don’t throw that away!”
“Oh?” Alhaitham puts down the Aranara and turns to face the architect. “Seems like you finally remember something.”
“Sorry for what I said this morning,” Kaveh blurts out, “I know it sounds like an excuse but that client’s project kept me frustrated all night and I shouldn’t have taken it on you.”
Alhaitham looks at him silently.
“Alright, alright,” Kaveh puts two hands in the air, “I apologize for calling it ugly.”
The Scribe lets out a chuckle right this second. It is clear that he does not intend put up any fights with Kaveh on his birthday.
Alhaitham hands him the Aranara in question and asks, “Will you also stop calling my other wood carvings ugly?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Kaveh replies with a beaming smile. His eyes light up as he takes the wooden figure in his hands.
Alhaitham gives him birthday presents every year but they are usually books or drafting tools. This is the first time Kaveh has received something custom-made. Well, from anyone, really.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me this morning,” he mumbles, feeling the rough wood under his fingers. “Sure, it looks a bit cruder than that one in your bedroom which I kind of like, but the more you look at it, the mor—- Hey!”
“I changed my mind,” Alhaitham announces with a straight face, the Aranara is now back to his hand. “I’m taking it back.”
Kaveh blinks.
“What did you just say!?” he raises his voice.
“I don’t see any reasons why it should be in the possession of someone who doesn’t appreciate it,” he replies simply while putting the wooden figure in the bag, then starts to walk to the entrance hall.
“How do you know I don’t appreciate it!?” Kaveh follows him, trying so hard not to yell at his back, “This is ridiculous! You just gave it to me literally a second ago!”
That does not make Alhaitham slow down one bit. In the heat of the moment, Kaveh charges at him without thinking.
Next thing he knows, they are both on the floor with Alhaitham being beneath him. He quickly snatches the bag from the Scribe’s hand and sits up.
“Ha!” Kaveh exclaims, raising it in the air in victory. “You cannot walk away from me this time! Don’t you know that it’s rude to take back what you have given!?”
When there isn’t any response, Kaveh glances down, only to see that Alhaitham is covering his face laughing.
Kaveh looks at this scene in disbelief.
“Were you just teasing me!?” he asks with a high-pitched voice, “Oh my god, who are you? What have you done to my Alhaitham?”
“I couldn’t help,” he is still laughing, “You should’ve seen your face.”
It’s extremely rare for Kaveh to see a silly side of Alhaitham, let alone seeing him laughing like this. Kaveh stares dazedly at him, completely forgetting why he was mad in the first place.
“You can have the Aranara,” Alhaitham says with a smile, “Will you get off me now? Although I don’t really mind—-”
Kaveh interrupts this sentence with a cough, just realizing what a dangerous position they are in. He shifts to move out of the way, but at this moment, a small piece of paper falls of the bag and lands on Alhaitham’s chest.
The Scribe’s eyes widen as he moves to reach for it, but Kaveh is quicker.
Seeing what’s on there, he is speechless.
Alhaitham covers his face again, but his ears are turning visibly red. The worse thing is, Kaveh can also feel his face burning too.
“You carved this,” he asks softly, “for me?”
After a while, Alhaitham admits with a sigh, “Yes.”
Kaveh is dumbfounded. He assumed that it was merely a commission. Never has he ever thought Alhaitham would go that far to do something like this for him.
“That’s why you’ve been coming home late for the past week!” Kaveh just remembers how unusual it was when he said that he needed to work overtime.
“You knowing this wasn’t part of the plan, I was too careless.” he says flatly and decides to pull himself up, unintentionally getting closer to Kaveh. “Now it’s good time for you to forget you have seen that workshop receipt.”
“Nuh-uh,” Kaveh pokes his chest, “This Aranara is now worth a million mora to me.”
“You have just burdened yourself with a new enormous debt then” Alhaitham teases.
“Hey!”
“I think wood craving has grown on me.” Alhaitham smiles, “So I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with these ugly figurines for now.”
“Come on, they are not that ugly,” Kaveh chuckles, “But we do need to set up a proper corner for them so they don’t disrupt the current aesthetic.”
The Scribe can’t help but roll his eyes at this comment.
“Seriously though, thank you” Kaveh softly touches his shoulder and looks directly into his eyes, “It’s the first time someone did something so special for me. I will always treasure it.”
The Scribe stares back at him and without a warning, Alhaitham pulls him into his arms and whispers to his hair, “Happy Birthday, Kaveh.”
After that, Collei, along with Cyno and Tighnari, burst open their front door right when they are still hugging in the hallway. Kaveh’s face turns as red as a tomato as Alhaitham helps him up on his feet.
The night cannot be more perfect. The house is filled with the smell of good food, laughers and joy. His most favorite dishes are laid out on the table and the gifts are waiting for him to open. Wine never tastes better and even Cyno’s jokes are funnier than usual.
Kaveh watches as everyone starts to eat and cheerfully discuss about what games they are going to play tonight. His heart aches a bit thinking of how much he does not want to ever lose this; his friends, his happiness, his home.
And when his eyes accidentally meet with Alhaitham’s, he cannot help but wonder, would things turn out differently if he hadn’t met the Scribe at the tavern that night where he had taken Kaveh in?
He tries harder now to stay happy, to actually listen to some of Alhaitham’s advice, the sensible ones at least.
“Don’t burden yourself with something unnecessary from the past and from the future”, he would say.
So instead of dwelling on the past regrets and unknown future, Kaveh thinks he is ready now to find comfort in the present happiness.
(END)
#happy birthday kave uwuwuwuwuw#the love of my life#genshin impact#kaveh#myart#alhaitham#kavetham#haikaveh fic#kavetham fic#mywriting#haikaveh#haikavetham#just realized i spelled kaveh wrong in the first tag like wat
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Fervency
Non-Ascended Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW
Synopsis: After falling into mysterious spores in the Underdark, you start to experience some... strange side effects. Astarion is more than happy to assist.
Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac/glorified sex pollen, established relationship, discussions of consent, fingering, oral sex (both giving and receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.
Word Count: 5.7k
There’s not much that surprises you anymore.
It’s true - being kidnapped by illithids, having a tadpole implanted behind your eyes, facing the gods themselves - all of that does make it difficult for mundane life to come anywhere close enough to truly shock you. Your days aren’t necessarily peaceful, but they never seem quite as exciting as that blind haze of companionship in the aftermath of the nautiloid, trekking through the wilderness and shadow-cursed lands and the city, finding yourself in the company of strangers but soon-to-be family.
Still, these days, there’s something every now and then that catches you off guard. The trouble is, you’re never quite left in a space to know how to handle it. Unlike your earlier adventures, things are rarely solved with a dagger in your hand or a dash of flattery in your words. No, the burdens of day-to-day life are much more complicated than that.
Falling into a patch of mysterious spores, for one.
The Underdark is full of various mushrooms. Poisonous. Explosive. Befuddling. You could go on and on. You’ve had your number of close calls with them, but the sensation coursing over your skin feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced - and it doesn’t help that you’ve never seen spores like this.
Hells. Of course this is where your day would end up.
Just a little stroll, you’d told yourself. It’ll be harmless. And it had been, for the most part. There’s an unearthly beauty to the Underdark that you’ve never encountered anywhere else, one you’ve come to appreciate just as much as the upper surface. But halfway through your usual route, your feet had snagged on a branch and you’d gone tumbling, and now - now you’re in a patch of glowing, red spores, feeling like…
Gods, what do you feel?
Hot. You feel very, very hot. Sweat trickles down your back. Warmth blooms like poppies in a number of strange places - your cheeks, your lips, your neck. The feeling is spreading fast, bleeding through your ribs as you get to your feet.
Alright, you think to yourself, ignoring the sharp, bleeding panic in your throat that’s threatening to take over. Situations like this call for a sense of rationality. You’re going to get out.
It takes much longer than it should for you to slowly stumble back to familiar ground. Your movements are jerky, as if you’re being puppeted around, and it’s getting harder to think straight when you’re feeling as if - whatever this is - is slowly consuming you. The heat is in your lungs, coursing fire near your pounding heart, raging with every inhale.
You need to get this off of you, and as quickly as possible. After that, maybe it will fade and maybe it won’t. You’ll… you’ll figure it out.
By the time you make it to the river, your knees are trembling so much that you nearly fall in. The water barely scratches the surface of the fire when you splash it over your skin, but the coolness of it is euphoric. You go as quickly as you can, covering area by area - your clothing, your arms, your face and neck - until most of the spores are off, but the feeling pulses and throbs in you all the same. Whatever it is, it isn’t killing you, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.
You could tell Astarion. He’d tease you a little, but he’d also be certain to search endlessly to find something to stop your discomfort. And you ache for him. His touch, his voice, the fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.
Had it really been just this morning when you’d last seen him? It seems like lifetimes away - lost to a very, very different type of ache in your veins that won’t seem to fade. You’ve just made up your mind to go find him, rising to your feet again, when the heat rushes to a very specific place between your legs and all thoughts of looking for Astarion are instantly cast out.
Oh, you think, somewhere between dizzy, needy, and utterly humiliated. So that’s what this is.
You’ve read about things like this - plants, pollen, potions - but most of them had been in bad romance novels, and none of them had ever come with any mention of an antidote. And, needless to say, you won’t be making your way to the Myconid Sovereign to learn more. It’ll have to be handled on your own.
You could risk going home and pretending to be ill, but Astarion is far too perceptive for that. He’d see through your ruse immediately. Which leaves the only option: hiding in a cave and waiting this out, praying he won’t notice you’re gone and come searching for you before you’re back.
And really, how bad can it be?
Bad. It can be very, very bad.
You’ve been sitting in this cave for who knows how long, and your sanity is fading more and more by the minute.
It had been manageable at first. The heat spread through you like warm cider on a cold night - a slow, steady increase, the way a candle gradually burns down to the wick. You’d thought it would stop at a certain point (it had to, didn’t it?), but no. It just… kept going.
Now, every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire, and it’s not slow, or steady, or even remotely bearable. It’s a strange, pleasurable flame, but a flame nonetheless. You can’t even decide whether touching yourself would even help at this point. Even just grazing your hand along the length of your thigh sends the fire rising, and you’re not keen on experimenting at the moment.
Your hands have gone stiff from balling your fists. Your mouth keeps switching between being as dry as sand and overly salivating. Each breath ignites more warmth, and you’ve been trembling for so long that you don’t remember how it feels to be still.
Gods. If you trusted yourself to get to your feet, you’d go see the Sovereign - a lifetime’s worth of humiliation or not. You don’t have any clue what time it is. There’s no sun or moon down here to guide you, no mechanism to spell out the hour. Has Astarion noticed your absence? How long until he’s concerned?
You know enough to know that you should have been back by now - that it’ll be unusual for you to have been gone so long. At least this spot you’ve found for yourself is relatively private. A dark, dry little place with a stone floor; fluorescent ivy in shades of lavender and coral; remote enough that, if your willpower fails and you end up making some noise, no one will be around to hear.
You attempt to swallow, but the action dies on your tongue. You attempt to breathe, but you can’t seem to suck in any air. You’re just thinking you really might die in this painful, mortified state when the pad of footsteps on stone hits your ears, and your whole body pulls as taut as a rope.
Oh, gods. Please not him. Anyone else. The Sovereign. The Society of Brilliance. Anyone.
But it’s him, because of course it is. He slowly makes his way inside, pressing through the narrow entrance and around the corner, and when he sees you curled against the cave wall, his brows rise - alarm.
“Wait,” you blurt out, determined to speak before he can. “Don’t come any closer. Please.”
Astarion stays where he is, but his eyes start instinctively scanning you over, searching for ailment or injury. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“I’m fine,” you tell him, even though you’re anything but. You want to say more, but your thoughts trail off as another wave of heat flares inside of you. You’ve started trembling again. Your fingers accidentally graze against your thigh, and you let out a small, involuntary noise.
Astarion hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Darling,” he starts, raising a brow, “you make a terrible liar.”
Of course you can’t fool him. Not even a little. You let out a laugh, but the sound hitches into a strange, choked sob. You pull your knees to your chest and let out a long, shaking breath, trying to get a grip. “I know,” you say softly. “Gods. I’m sorry.”
He takes another step closer, and concern writes itself into his expression. “Gods below,” he exclaims. “Er - my sweet, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look...”
“Horrible?” you finish for him. “I know.”
“I… was going to say ill, actually,” Astarion replies, laughing a little. “This dark cave lighting looks beautiful on you, my dear.”
You can’t resist another laugh. It’s less burdened this time, but it fades away as you hesitate, very pointedly gazing down at your fingernails instead of meeting his eyes. “I may or may not have fallen into a patch of mysterious spores.”
“And?” Astarion says, lifting a hand into the air and giving a small, contemplative gesture. “Go on, darling. Seeing as you aren’t dead - I’m assuming they weren’t poisonous?”
You shake your head, swallowing hard. How the hells are you going to phrase this? “No,” you answer. “I just feel… hot. Not like the explosive ones, just… hot.”
“Well,” Astarion says, “That’s… interesting. Alright - let me take a look at you.”
Half of you wants to protest, but what’s the point? He’ll find out the truth sooner or later. So, instead, you nod.
He steps closer, kneeling down at your side, and you have to ball your fists to keep from doing something stupid. You’re expecting more flame at his touch - a painful flare, like when you’d grazed your thigh - but when the back of his hand meets your forehead, his touch is like a salve. Soothing, cool, sweet. It mellows out the fire, makes you feel sane again.
You shut your eyes in relief, staying as still as you can, and when you open them, you find him giving you a look you know all too well. Smug. Affectionate. A glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.
“My, my,” he purrs. “Darling, I’m no healer, but… a racing pulse, dilated pupils, feverish to the touch? That, I know.” He leans in, his voice low in your ear. “And I can smell how much you want me.”
A shudder runs down your back, betraying you. Astarion leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours - soft and gentle and perfect - and it takes everything in you to pull away.
“Wait,” you protest.
He instantly halts, pulling away from you and scanning over your expression. “What is it?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”
“Everything is fine,” you say quickly. “But you don’t… I mean - I can manage this on my own, you know.”
His brows rise. “My dear, you do realize I am very capable of helping you in this situation?”
“Gods, Astarion,” you say, biting back a delirious sort of laughter. “Believe me, I’m well aware. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. I can manage this.”
A fondness enters his expression - the rare kind, reserved for the most meaningful of moments. He leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. “I know,” he says softly, the words tender and delicate. “Trust me. I want to do this.” He trails a finger along your thigh, and you shiver again. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “And, unless I’m wrong, you’ve missed me, too.”
After searching his gaze and finding him entirely present, you let yourself relax into his touch. “I’ve missed you more than anything.”
“Good,” he says. “I was almost worried.”
He skims his knuckles over your jaw, leaning in to kiss you once more, and the flame in you seems to bend to his touch. It rages in you like a furnace, bellowing and cruel, but with every frigid brush of his fingers, the feeling subsides. Even the feel of his lips on yours seeps away the discomfort.
He’s slow with his actions, but he doesn’t tease, even though you can see the amusement in his eyes when he pulls away to look at you. He’s enjoying this, and if you’re honest with yourself, you are, too. If only it didn’t come at the price of your dignity - but if it’s going to fall away in front of anyone, it might as well be him.
His hands slide down to your thighs, and your whole body pulls tight, torn between wanting him to touch you now and not wanting him to stop what he’s doing.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your ear. “I’ve got you, darling.”
You let out a shaky breath and try to coax your body into cooperating, shutting your eyes and letting the feel of him drown out the path of your thoughts. The sensation of his mouth, trailing down your neck, ranging between feather-light kisses and the barely-there sting of his teeth against the skin, making every inch of you melt into his touch like clay. His hands, sliding to the front of your top, deftly unlacing it and pulling it away from your skin.
Thank the gods no one is anywhere around this area - if anyone were to interrupt you, you’re sure you’d die right here and now. The simmering need that lies under your skin is bordering on painful, a white-hot delirium of impatience that will not be ignored any longer.
Astarion’s fingers skim across your sternum, further soothing the burning inside your chest, and his lips soon follow downward. You let out a soft noise from the back of your throat, something choked and desperate, and he hums against your skin in response.
When your eyes flutter open again, you find that he’s staring up at you as he kisses down your abdomen, eyes dark and hands curled lightly around your ribs, ardor and affection both palpable in the heat of his gaze.
Your instinct is to shut your eyes again - to shut out the intimacy and vulnerability that comes from holding his stare - but you don’t. Instead, you move the stiff muscle of your arm and coax your hand into working again, gently tangling your fingers into the silky-smooth, silvery curls in your lap.
He gives you a roguish grin, tugging on your bottoms until they finally, mercifully, pull away from your skin, leaving you in nothing but your smallclothes.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, the words dark and heavy on his tongue, but they feel more for him than for you. His brows crease together and his actions turn sure and firm and quickened - as if he can’t wait to have his mouth on you.
Beautiful. It’s the second time he’s called you that word tonight, but it doesn’t stop the heat from rising back into your cheeks, and that feeling of the warmth seems to spark a chain reaction.
It’s as if his voice is stoking the fire - more heat, all rushing to the very place his lips are heading to now, only to be soothed by his touch. He gently pulls at your thighs, coaxing you to lay on your back, and you’re so desperate that you nearly knock your head against the hard floor laid out beneath you in your effort to obey.
Your mind isn’t processing things the way it usually does: in an even, progressing line of events, every moment spread out from one to the next. Rather, everything comes in bursts of feeling, flashing between being a thousand miles away and all too close, all too present. You barely feel the graze of fabric when he removes your smallclothes and leaves you entirely bare, but the gentle, wet press of his tongue against you feels amplified a thousand times over.
“Astarion,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair.
He hums again, and the feeling of it has you shivering, muscles going slack in pleasure. Short, soft flicks of his tongue over your clit and you’re left a shuddering mess, not thinking to try to be quiet - not really thinking at all, anymore. He grips at one of your thighs, looping it over his shoulder as he pulls away for a moment, nipping at the tender flesh there. Soothing it with a gentle kiss, then returning to his work.
You’re a walking - or perhaps laying - contradiction. Your arousal is lava hot, but your pleasure is cold as ice. You can’t decide if you’re cold or hot or both or neither. You’re not in a place to think, not as blinding bursts of pleasure course up your spine, rendering you a lump of skin and bones and not much more. His mouth is nothing if not fervent.
You aren’t sure how long it lasts - your hand in his hair, his mouth against you, writhing in dizzying pleasure against the hard, stone floor and barely feeling the discomfort. It might not be very long at all - but it feels like hours before his fingers enter you.
You’re soaking wet. If you weren’t so focused on, well, everything else, it’d be humiliating. Still, when two fingers slip into you and meet no resistance whatsoever, Astarion groans. The pace he’s setting with both hand and tongue is torturous, slow and even, and it takes everything in you not to beg him for more.
But when he goes a little faster, a moan pulls from your throat, and you look down to find him grinning as he pulls away, fingers still at work. “Look at you,” he says, praise lilting the words as he curls his fingers - sending your hips rolling. “You’ll come for me, won’t you, darling?”
And as if he’s flicked a switch in your mind, you’re coming around his fingers, gasping and shuddering and clenching. Electricity seems to coarse through your veins, hot and sharp, flaming and radiant, and when it’s gone, there’s only the slickness between your thighs, a slight breathless laughter that escapes from you without a thought, and the fading warmth of the spores.
For a moment, it seems as though there might be relief. Your thoughts clear and the heat wanes, but after a sparse second or two of relief, it comes back as strong as ever.
You’d be disappointed at its reappearance, but then Astarion is crawling over you, using his knee to coax your legs apart for him, so how could you ever be disappointed? Everything else slips away except for him. His eyes, dark with want, his lips, molding against yours, his tongue, gently pressing into your mouth as he buries a hand in your hair.
He’s hard for you. You can feel it, and that realization has you grinding against him. He groans, cursing under his breath, then reaches down to undo his trousers. “Are you ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice half-broken with want.
You laugh, still trembling from your climax. “You know I am.”
“Mm,” he hums, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “But maybe I wanted to hear you say it for me, darling.”
Gods. He’s beautiful - always so beautiful - even here, in this dark, cold cave you’ve found. A work of art down to the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, his smile lines.
You could spend a thousand years studying the art of him and never, ever get bored; not of his voice, and the way his confidence sometimes, ever so rarely, breaks into something real and raw. Not of his hands: nimble fingers and the calluses from his blade and soft skin - and not of his eyes, which seem both dark and light depending on his mood, and which can seem so sharp and severe at times, but sometimes soften into something soft and round. Sometimes. When they’re looking at you.
You could spend a thousand years admiring him and never, ever get tired of him, and never, ever deserve him. And he’d never believe it.
He’s noticed you staring, because of course he has, and he tilts his head. “What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?”
You can only smile, deliriously happy and wanting and both hot and cold - hot where the warmth burns uncontained, and cold everywhere his skin meets yours. “I love you.”
Your words must catch him by surprise, because it’s shock that meets his expression first. It fades away into affection, placing itself on his lips in a soft smile. “I - I love you too,” he answers, brushing a stray strand of your hair out of your face. “More than anything.”
He clears his throat and shifts, and as you feel his erection brush against you, only then do you remember the conversation you two had been having. Him between your legs. You, still needing him inside of you.
“I’m ready for you,” you breathe. “Please. I want you.”
“How could I say no?” he asks, leaning in and biting at the lobe of your ear.
He presses into you slowly, even though you don’t need it - not after the effects of the spores and your first climax still evident on your thighs. Only when he once again begins a slow, torturous pace do you realize that he’s doing it to tease you, and when you look up and find a certain amount of devious intent in his eyes, a shudder runs down your back.
He’s always seemed to enjoy watching you fall apart. How many times have you looked up in the middle of one of your late-night trysts to find his eyes on you, the darkened ruby gaze that seems as starved for you as his hunger for blood?
How many times has he eased your arm away from your face when you felt the need to hide yourself, and how many times has he gently pulled your hand away from your mouth so he could hear the noises you made for him?
There’s never really been a question about it; Astarion gets off on your pleasure, and the feeling is very, very mutual. Vulnerability aside, it does something beyond words to you to know how much he enjoys giving you pleasure. And, sure as the hells, you like to give it right back to him. So, keeping your gaze locked on his, you grind your hips down to meet him and let out a moan.
His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his thrusts deepening as he props himself over you. You watch the lovely path of the action over the bob of his Adam’s apple, then flit your eyes back to his, letting out another noise.
“Gods,” he says, and his pace quickens. His hands wrap around your shoulders and he groans, panting as he rocks into you, his grip turning into something almost bruising.
Part of you desperately wants him to keep going - but the other part of you wants to give him something, and now seems the proper time for it. So you tilt your head to give him access to your neck and murmur a few, soft words, and he slowly comes to a halt: breathing heavily, nails digging into your skin as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.
He kisses down your jaw, slowly drags his teeth along the skin, then sinks his fangs into your neck. You’re used to the sharp pain of his bite, but it’s different today. Intensified. It’s as if his mouth on your skin, the barely-there pain, is salving through that fire and every single limb of yours goes slack with…
What is it? Pleasure? Affection? Relief? It’s something in between, something warm but not scorching, something sweet but not overly-saccharine. He starts moving his hips again and you’re instantly on the edge, planting your hands on his lower back underneath his scars and resisting the urge to dig your nails into the skin.
He’s drunk from you enough times since you met to know where the limit lies, even on the cusp of his climax. He drains you until you’re sufficiently lightheaded, but not enough to harm you, then pulls away, planting a messy kiss on your mouth.
Messy. It’s how you know he’s close. His actions are usually so graceful, his movements lithe and calculated. Only on the edge of orgasm do the pretenses fall away - his shaking thighs, soft moans into your lips, panting, blood smeared across his lips and almost certainly yours.
There’s a blinding moment of pleasure as he thrusts harder, deeper, neither of you caring about the level of noise you’re making, and your nails dig into his back. He lets out a groan of approval, then - gods, you’re climaxing again, your whole body trembling with the waves of pleasure that crash over you. Overwhelming at first, then receding into the brief moment of clarity that lasts a minute or two this time.
Then the spores start their work again.
The heat isn’t nearly as intense this time, but it’s still there. Part of you wonders if it’ll ever really fade. You lay still, gasping, as Astarion slowly pulls out of you. Then he brushes the damp hair out of your face and kisses you again.
“Darling,” he starts breathlessly, flashing a mischievous grin at you, “if this is where we’ll end up, you should fall into mysterious spores more often.”
You laugh, sending a playful, light hit toward his shoulder. He catches your hand mid-action, pressing a kiss to your palm, holding your gaze the entire time. “You’re not the one who feels like they’re on fire, Astarion.”
He hums, kissing back down your neck, cleaning up the remnants of blood from his bite. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, his voice gravelly with want.
That gives you pause. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he says with some effort, propping himself above you, “whatever those spores were - they seem to have entered your bloodstream, my dear. It’s - an interesting sensation, I’ll admit.”
You’re searching his face for a tell that he’s not being serious, but instead you find wide, blown out pupils, flushed cheeks, and nothing beside his usual mischievousness. Any blood left in your face quickly exits. “Gods, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, and you see a small smear of your blood on his lips. When you lick your lips, you can taste the iron of it on your tongue.
Astarion is watching you. His gaze darkens, and he lets out another thin, broken groan. “Darling. At this rate, we’ll be going the whole night.”
And, honestly? With the rate the heat is returning - you don’t doubt it.
Still, you gently ease him off of you to sit up, then make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.
There’s something addictive about Astarion - there always has been. From the moment he’d had you against the dirt, a dagger to your neck, he’s been your fix.
In those first days when you’d had to hide your want for him - not even lust or sheer desire, but want; the ache to run your finger through silver curls, the warmth in your cheeks when he held your gaze just a moment too long, and the rare moments of vulnerability that came more and more as you’d gotten to know him - it had been torture.
And then he’d propositioned you. And all at once, you’d found yourself in a clearing under silver moonlight, alone with him, long before you ever knew the extent of what had been done to him - and after all this time, the craving for him, the need to lay beside him in the long nights and find him there come morning, has only ever gotten so much stronger.
The heat is somewhat bearable now. Enough to take a moment to admire him, head tilted as he gazes up at you, pure need simmering in his eyes. Dark, glinting rubies. His fangs, barely visible under parted lips. Flushed cheeks. That will fade before long; the rosiness of drinking never lasts more than a few minutes, but you admire it all the same.
“You’re beautiful.” The words are hushed. You hadn’t even meant to speak them, but your mind isn’t really yours at the moment, not wholly, not as firm as it should be. You feel half-drunk, half-needy.
The corners of his lips flick into a smile, and he raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, clearly stealing for more flattery. “Do you think so?”
You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You know I do.”
You gather a single, loose curl in your fingertips and gently roll it between your thumb and index finger, admiring the softness of it. You could use the same soaps, wash your hair with the same things he uses a thousand times over, and it’d never matter. It’d never be as soft as his.
“Anything in particular?” he asks. His voice is particularly airy; he’s battling between begging you for what he needs, and the compliments he likes so much.
You think back to when you’d first described him - that night beneath the stars, when he’d tossed the mirror aside and asked how you viewed him. Words hadn’t been enough then, and they still aren’t, but you’ll try.
“Your eyes,” you start, running your finger over his crow’s feet. “They change color in the light. Right now, they’re dark. Hungry. I can tell you want me, and I like that.”
His hands, which have strayed to the back of your thighs, tighten against your skin. “And? What else?”
The heat’s strength is back, clawing its way up your abdomen. “The way your hair curls around your ears,” you murmur.
He frowns, and you know you’ve gone too poetic. To distract him, you lean in and nip at the lobe of one, and any of his upset disintegrates.
“Gods,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up to your waist. “Darling, I can’t wait much longer-”
You’ve trailed down to his jaw, alternating between kisses and sharp little nips just like the ones he likes to give you, and the words die in his mouth in favor of a sharp inhale.
You won’t keep him waiting much longer. In fact, you have a plan. A plan that’d hatched from the moment you’d realized that the spores were in his system, too. Since you’d seen the hungry look in his eyes - every inch a predator circling around its prey.
Only, you’re not content to be the prey. You want to disarm him, and if any of the time you’ve spent together means anything, you’ve gotten very, very good at that.
His shirt is still on, so your hands are quick to remove it, tugging it away from cooling porcelain skin, silky under your fingers as you drag them down his sternum. He shudders, and you remember how it’d felt when he’d first touched you. If it’s anything like that, he’s probably dying to beg you for more.
Your lips soon follow the path your hands are sitting, taking your time with the softness of his abdomen before you pull his trousers away. He’s panting now, and a frenzied sort of desperation lies in his gaze when you look up at him.
And he’s hard again. Leaking.
You lightly trace your nails down his thighs, silently relishing in the way his breath hitches - the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you.
“Gods,” he says again, and though it isn’t a direct request, with the broken way it falls off his tongue, this time it is every bit a plea.
And you’re in a mood to please.
You take his cock in hand, swiping your thumb over the head, where precum is slowly leaking, and he lets out a long, breathy noise. You hum in response, taking his length between your lips, and the sound becomes strained, more needy. His hand gently makes its way into your hair, very lightly guiding you where he wants, but not forcefully.
You alternate between things: long, even movements of your mouth as you drag your tongue down the shaft, swirling your tongue around the head, then sucking him hard and slow. Eventually, simply following the guidance of his hand. His grip tightens in your hair - not painful, just encouraging - and his noises become more drawn out, less coherent.
When you pull away for a moment, using your hand to continue what your mouth had just been doing, you find him dangerously close. You press a kiss to the head and take him in again, increasing pace, accommodating him as you take him in as far as you possibly can, and he starts whimpering.
“Please,” he says, and if that isn’t a rare word to hear from him.
On another day, you might tease him, but you don’t want to. Not now, while he’s begging to have you. Instead, you take him as deep as you can again and suck harder. Astarion tugs at your hair and his thighs shudder and you know he’s close.
“Please,” he says again. “Gods, don’t stop.”
And you wouldn’t dream of it. What you can’t take into your mouth, you use your hand to stroke, and that’s it. He’s coming.
There’s something artful about it - the tremor that runs through him, the salty taste of him in your mouth, and those seeking, breathless sounds that come out of him as he spills onto your tongue. A long, shaky inhale as he pumps his hips, still chasing out his pleasure, then the trembling exhale as his mind starts to come back to him.
He doesn’t soften, and you don’t take your mouth off him. Not yet.
Usually, Astarion can be counted on for two orgasms, but if those spores are doing anything remotely like what they were doing to you, there’s certain to be much, much more than that.
“By the hells,” he murmurs airily, running a hand down your back. “You’re going to kill me, darling.”
You pull away for a moment, kissing at his abdomen, keeping his eyes locked on his as you do. “Does that mean you want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, trailing your nails along the skin of his thigh.
He swallows hard. “Gods, don’t,” he pleads.
And you don’t.
#astarion#astarion x reader#astarion ancunin#astarion x you#astarion x tav#baldurs gate 3 x reader#mywriting
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Would you be comfortable writing some courting headcanons for the primarchs?? Thank you!!
Author's note: Here you go, they're sort of random but I hope you enjoy them.
Warnings: Fem!Reader for some like Lion’el because of words like Legion Mother, A few very slightly lewd remarks
Fulgrim:
The primarch who out of all has most devoted himself to things like the arts is nothing short of overwhelming, when he first expressed his desire for you.
Flowers, paintings, clothing, food, whatever it is you enjoy, all of it gets gifted to you with no small amount of theatrics. Though thankfully, Fulgrim knows when to turn it down a bit, and you can enjoy his company. Even then however he is still very intense, kisses on the hand, the lips, and gentle caresses abound as he woos you with his silver tongue.
His legion is also one of the few who at the start know about Fulgrim's intentions, and actually takes it decently well. Far better than other legions, when finding out their Primarch is indulging in romance.
You are the socialite, the shining star in a room and the talk of everyone there, and Fulgrim will have it no other way. But as much as he does all this, he finds it cute if you’re shy or nervous about it. Shyness isn’t in his dna, so he finds it very adorable.
You often get purfumed, hand written letters when he is away. Fulgrim has quite the way with words, and many of them you’re glad the one who reads them are him and you.
Perturabo:
He might be a petulant manchild at times, but when the mood strikes him Perturabo can be a bit softer. It helps that you're one of the few people he trusts, now that the two of you are so close.
Though it may often be more trouble than it's worth, with how often his mood changes. Perturabo can go from lavishing you with Olympian clothes to sulking in his workshop for hours if not days, leaving you to eventually wander down there and find him, and bring him out of his petulant sulk. A gentle hand on his own, asking if he can explain to you what he’s working on tends to help.
Perturabo also becomes very possessive of you, not long after he starts courting you. If Dorn, Sanguinius or Lorgar so much as look at you the wrong way, he's more than ready for a fight. He has one person in his life who hasn’t wronged him, who actually respects him, and he isn’t losing that.
Those softer moments with him as he speaks of his plans for amphitheaters and bathhouses while you lay in his arms are worth it, however.
Lion’el Jonson:
Lion'el is, complicated. Part of him wonders how he even got here, something as frivolous as romance was never a significant part of his mind. But here he is. He can’t complain, as he’s become so used to you now that often times, his nose wrinkles anytime he’s away and casts sight on an empty bed. He doesn’t say anything about it, however.
Part of him laments he isn't able to give you rides on horseback, as he's far outgrown the horses he rode in his younger years. Though he can walk beside you, even if his men think it's demeaning of his position.
Is painfully blunt about some things, and extremely obtuse about others. He wishes to marry you? Blunt. You get a military parade dedicated to showing the galaxy the Dark Angels new Legion Mother with no warning. He wishes for you to wear the colors of his legion and match him so when you arrive on Terra everyone knows who you are with? Vague and obtuse, he will grunt about every option until you choose the one he likes.
Rogal Dorn:
As with all parts of his life, he's extremely stoic and at first, you don't think anything's changed.
He's the type that listens to the things you talk about, and silently gives them to you. For instance as a newcomer to Inwit it's incredibly cold, but your current dress just doesn't cut it for the harsh wind and un-acclimated body. You find a new one on your bed three days later made perfect and exactly how you like it, but Dorn says nothing about it.
Those few late night moments alone when he brings you into his office, and you sit at his desk while he works are some of his favorite. Dorn gets to feel you safe in his arms, and while he’ll never say it out loud, he is overwhelmed in his love for you.
Does not tell any of his fellow primarchs about you. The day they realize Dorn has a beloved is a stressful one, they’re all sneaking around trying to get information about you, and Dorn almost has to lock you in his quarters and shoo them all away.
Is surprising talkative in written word. His letters or anything else tend to be very long, talking about the ins and outs of his legion, and their current progress. You’ve never heard him talk half that much in person, it’s sweet. Though once in a while those letters can get a bit salacious; And Dorn is nothing if not detailed.
Leman Russ:
This man's declaration that he wanted to court you was as brash and blunt as he is. You're pretty sure he was half way into sleeping with how drunk he was at the time, a massive hand on your shoulder as he smiles with a red face.
Granted when he sobered up he was far more, romantic about it. By his standards. He still stunk of mjød, but at least he held your hand.
From that moment on however Russ isn't a man shy of showing off, and wastes no opportunity to plop you in his lap and give you a kiss, pick you up off the ground, or say something far too inappropriate for the current locale. Whether it's day two or day two hundred, he finds keeping himself off of you too much trouble. He’s the type to make others turn away with how overt his affection is. Every one of his kisses and hugs feel like he’s treating it as the last one he’ll ever do.
Loves when you comb and braid his hair. It takes awhile and he has no patience for it, but he enjoys when you do it.
Ferrus Manus:
As a recurring theme with all of these, Ferrus finds it a bit hard to show how he feels. While he has moments where he cracks a smile, often times he’s largely stoic. As such, he never really asked you to be with him, it was something that simply progressed overtime. He doesn’t invite you into his quarters and his bed if you aren’t his beloved, he assumes it wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out.
Late night workshop time is a must. Ferrus can spend days in there with no issue, and oftentimes you have to come and climb into his lap if you want any time with him at all. He doesn’t mind as as long as you’re quiet; Though over time he’s begun to enjoy explaining his plans to you if you aren’t asleep.
If you are asleep, sometimes he gets a bit emotional and talks or thinks to himself. He never thought he’d have someone like you when he lived on Medusa, he just needed to survive.
Is actually somewhat hesitant when you first are together. Ferrus is well aware of his size (both out and in the bedroom, or any other local where he deems sex a daring and intriguing idea), and often tries to be quite gentle. It took a bit of coaxing to finally treat you like you weren’t made of glass.
You get surprise gifts from Fulgrim at times. Some are sweet; Some are… They’re hidden until Ferrus returns from where ever he’s currently away to at the time and you can surprise him.
Horus:
The same as Fulgrim; Excessive and grandiose, but unlike Fulgrim, there's a tad more subtlety to it. But only a tad. Horus still is eager to show off the love of his life (and so much more that he’s kept just in his head shh), but he’s aware that sometimes you require a bit more subtlety.
For a primarch, he’s quite the romantic. Though there’s only so much you can do when you have thousands of gene-sons waiting on orders and don’t exactly get why their primarch is holding your tiny hand and helping you walk down the thunderhawk’s ramp. You can do it yourself, they think.
He can also be quite a bit grandiose in the theoretical sense. Horus seems to have your entire future together planned, and he’ll speak it to you during very late nights with stars in his eyes. To marry you, to bring you into his legion as the mother of his gene-sons, to give you your own child one day.
He’s more than a bit overwhelming, but it helps he’s so charismatic.
Angron:
I... I hope you're patient. Angron isn’t one that is fond of things like romance. For multiple reasons. One being that it brings him pain because of the Nails, and the other being that in many ways, he doesn’t feel like he deserves it.
He’s a slave, he’s a monster, he’s a man who failed his people, men like him don’t get to have someone like you. But you stay anyways despite the fear of him loosing control of the Nails, and eventually Angron supposes that there’s more annoying people to have around.
He’s far more applicable to this in his early days. The Nails haven’t degraded his mental state yet, and his legion is still fresh faced and eager to prove their worth. If Angron accepts you, they will as well then.
The downside is that many of the primarchs worry about Angron’s relationship and subsequent attachment to you, and the danger it brings. Some for your safety, but mostly for the fact that now that Angron is so deeply attached, if something were to happen to you it would well be within the possibility that Angron would completely loose control of the Nails, and become an unstoppable threat that would have to be put down. On the other hand, it seems that you can calm him down a bit, as much as the Nails will allow, something that not many are able to do. A double edged sword, your love is to him.
Often times you have to restrain him during anything, strenuous. It’s for your own safety, though it seems like Angron doesn’t hate it either.
Roboute Guilliman:
The most traditional out of them all. He follows the 'rules' so strictly you have wonder if he's following some sort of manuscript. Your relationship progresses at a very methodical pace, which is a bit odd but you find it oddly sweet he puts so much thought into it.
He does little more than hold your hand, kisses and anything heavier are strictly private; If it wasn't for the longing, puppy dog look in his eyes, no one would guess you two were anything more.
He's not overt about it like Horus or Fulgrim, but you are still absolutely smothered in gifts. From jewelry to clothing to weird purfumes he's been gifted by high lords attempting to earn his favor through you (Guilliman has made it very obvious that he's not the type to be swayed by gifts but they hope you are and will put in a good word with your beloved), you quickly find yourself constantly or the receiving end of some sort of lavish gift.
Roboute is very much in love, it's just hard for him to admit it. As you come to understand his own little love language is the day he's a very happy man.
On a bonus note: It is very easy to get this man to completely melt for you. If it’s been a stressful time for him and he’s stressed, giving him a bit of a hand will make him a bit bashful, but overwhelmingly thankful.
Sanguinus:
As kind as he is beautiful, Sanguinius is one of the more heartfelt ones around. Romance abound, the angel and you are the textbook example of star crossed lovers the moment he proposes courtship to you. It almost makes some of the primarchs jealous at how incredibly perfect your love for each other is, like your feet don’t touch the ground
He loves to pick you up and give you a hug or a kiss, wrapping you in his wings. He always says it's just so you feel safer, but he also likes the bit of privacy, hiding you from the worlds in his arms. You also enjoy playing with his wings when you’re in private, as they’re quite sensitive.
A side note; He thinks it's cute that you use his fallen feathers as bookmarks and quills, and he now gifts you a few of his fallen primary feathers every now and again for you to use.
You’ll know about the Red Thirst eventually when you’re with him. Sanguinius won’t ever ask for assistance, but if you were to offer a bit of blood? He’s incredibly careful, but the blood of his lover is nothing short of ambrosia and he will dutifully treat you afterward for sating his appetite.
Jaghatai Khan:
As one of the more reasonable primarchs, Jaghatai is a steal to have as your lover. He’s personable and kind, and funny to boot. He enjoys making you laugh, something his sons have picked up on. Sometimes they’ll tease you (or more likely unsuspecting commissars) when you’re in their company. If he's not able to hold your hand, he'll have a hand on your shoulder or back, always close to you whenever you're both together.
He’s extremely dedicated to Chogoris, and it’s incredibly important to him that you adopt some of the culture he grew up in. You don’t have to, but it would make Jagahatai an extremely proud man if you attempted to understand Chogoran.
He’s also private; His fellow primarchs don’t even know of your existence let alone close relation to him until you’re well into your romance, and Jaghatai has thoughts for no one else but you.
Konrad Curze:
Konrad’s romance is as toxic as he is. But at the same time, it’s like a drug you can’t get enough of. Because you’re fucking terrified of him, but the man is obsessed with you.
Not many of the other primarchs understand the soul crushing, teeth grinding obsession Konrad has for you. He’s willing to fall to his knees and submit to you as long as you tell him you love him, and that he's worth more alive. But if you tell him you don’t?… You don’t want to tell him you don’t.
Konrad is painful. He holds your hand too tight, kisses you too rough, bites you too hard. He doesn’t mean it, you don’t think at least some of the time, but he’s so caught in this obsession with someone trying to save him that his martyr complex melts away for a bit and he’s this self-loathing, sad excuse of a man. You almost pity him as much as you love him. Making him happy has become an arduous journey for you.
Is the exact opposite of the others in wanting to show you off. You’re hidden for ages, until the primarchs realize Konrad has someone at his side. They worry, but they know separating him from you would cause more harm than good, and you keep Konrad’s emotions a bit more in check. And in the eyes of a few individuals, your safety serves as a good threat to keep Konrad and his unhinged legion on a leash and working towards a desired goal.
A note; Konrad is surprisingly selfless in regard to more intimate matters. And he likes to bite. Your thighs don’t get much reprieve from him.
Vulkan:
Sweet as sugar, no one is as good at a proper declaration of love or desire to romance like Vulkan is. No matter how much it breaks his back he’ll always hold your hand, give you a kiss, or pick you up to bring you with him across the Flamewrought or the Terran palace. Besides perhaps Sanguinius and Lorgar, no one is as star-crossed in love with you as Vulkan is.
He’ll do anything for you, if you just ask. He often paraphrases that he would shield you from any threat, but sometimes you fear he’d do it literally. Less seriously he loves to gift you various things, your favorite being a necklace. You never thought he’d be able to work at such a small level, but Vulkan is nothing if not skilled. He got quite the reward the evening he gifted it to you.
Is one of the quicker ones to get serious. Talks of marrying you, writing you down in the history of his legion as their Legion Mother, Vulkan is quite eager to tie himself to you, and you to him.
Corvus Corax:
Corvus is private, and also quite slow to trust. Even slower to admit he likes someone, let alone enough to express that he’s in love with them. Many moments with him are often spent in his private quarters or somewhere else alone, where only you have eyes on him.
Is one of the few primarchs conscious of the fact that he isn’t really meant to exist, and that he’s forcing it by being with you. Your body often bruises and aches if he isn’t careful with you, and it secretly pains him that the one person he loves is so easy for him to hurt. Finding out about this feeling he has swiftly turns you into a mess of reassurances that quickly overwhelm poor Corvus, and while he still feels it at times, he appreciate you trying to soothe him.
Loves to write you letters. He feels like it means more to put the effort into handwriting, and when you send him one back, it’s like he can feel your touch on the paper. One time you left a lipstick kiss on the parchment and the man was insufferable that evening from how pent up he was, unbeknownst to you millions of miles away. You paid for that transgression dearly one he returned.
Lorgar Aurelian:
Lorgar is yet another primarch who is sweet as sugar. He also has quite the way with words, though unlike Horus and Fulgrim, it isn’t intentional. He’s just very passionate and verbose.
Is also very touchy. Loves to pick you up and kiss you, show you off to others. He’s so stupidly in love and everyone around him is almost annoyed by it. He just loves his tiny little goddess so much, you bring him light he didn’t know he needed.
Lorgar is also very affected by his religious trauma. His self flagellation both emotional and literal has always been an issue. You’ve had nights where you’ve put ice on his back after he whipped himself bloody, crying over his wounds. If it isn’t bad he encourages you to not weep over him, and if it’s worse he often times is beating himself up over worrying you. Being with him is stressful emotionally, to say the least.
In another path, he often time beats himself up over the idea of corrupting you with sinful thoughts. Though that doesn’t really stop him, especially if he comes to his quarters one evening seeing you wearing all white draped across his bed. Lorgar will sin alright, but he does it while speaking prayers to save his own soul as he worships you.
He’s one of the quickest Primarchs to want to marry you, to make you his own and to bring you closer and closer to his side.
Mortarion:
Mortarion isn’t an easy one to love. He doesn’t really consider the emotion valuable until one day he suddenly realizes that you mean something to him, more than just another baseline human does.
Like Ferrus in that he never does the official courtship nonsense, and just upgrades your relationship in his head overtime. Someone who isn’t his lover doesn’t spend hours in the Pale King’s study watching him work, keeping one of his hands in their lap while he uses the other.
Is a bit of a pushover in some ways, and takes his self loathing a bit too far sometimes. You’ve learned that sometimes he needs you to kiss him and tell him you love him more than anything else, to get him to stop sulking.
Everyone is extremely surprised he found sometime. Let alone someone so personable. Fulgrim jokes that Mortarion should just send you instead of himself to Terra when the primarchs meet up to discuss things, as you’re easier to deal with. Mortarion hates when things like that are said, and he’ll hide you from the world obsessively for awhile after.
He loves you, but sometimes for him love and possess get intertwined in his head when he thinks for you.
Magnus the Red:
Isn’t the worst beloved to have, but he has his quirks. He can be a bit stuffy at times, and often times forgets that relationships needs nurturing to grow. Magnus often times gets stuck in his own head and forgets everyone around him, including you.
Loves to show off his warp magic to you, especially if you show literally any interest at all. He’s so used to everyone fearing it, fearing him, hating psykers no matter what, that any interest by you gives him hearts in his eyes. You’ll be up all night listening to him read you tomes. Which you don’t mind, it often helps you fall asleep.
Since Magnus can change his size, he knows exactly how to make your squirm. You know you’re in for a wild ride when your beloved becomes bigger than Ferrus and starts taking off his armor.
AlphariusOmegon:
The twins are complicated. Given the primarchs consider you only Alpharius’ beloved, you spend more time with him than Omegon. As such, sometimes Omegon can get a bit possessive whenever you two are together.
You don’t entirely blame Omegon for it; His other half is the one holding your hand and showing you off, joking about marrying you to his fellow primarchs. As such, those topics tend to be a minefield in your weird little relationship.
They often use you to get information about the other Primarchs. It seems your smaller stature makes them almost seem like you're less of a threat, and get a bit more talkative around you than they are around whatever twin is currently frontfacing. You hate when they ask this of you, but you have no power to refuse them.
As the twins are extremely meticulous and through, they've been careful to not show anyone how in love with you they really are. If they how just how much Alpharius loves you, it would be easy for you to be used against them. So affection is limited, and they put up an aura that you're not much more than an arm piece when in view of others. They eagerly make sure to show you this isn't the case in private, however.
#fulgrim x reader#perturabo x reader#alphariusomegon x reader#roboute guilliman x reader#jaghatai khan x reader#magnus the red x reader#lorgar aurelian x reader#konrad curze x reader#rogal dorn x reader#mortarion x reader#horus lupercal x reader#corvus corax x reader#angron x reader#vulkan x reader#sanguinius x reader#ferrus manus x reader#leman russ x reader#lion'el jonson x reader#primarch x reader#warhammer 40k x reader#reader insert#reader#mywriting
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modern au where eddie and robin are roommates and steve is italian <3
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eddie has always known that his roommate robin is in the US for college, but grew up in and is from italy. sure, sometimes he forgets, because she somehow has a near-perfect american accent and also speaks two other languages, but he’s always known.
and for the past year and a bit, he’s known how much robin wants her best friend stevie to come visit. she talks about them all the time, and ever since she and eddie moved out of the dorms and into an apartment together for their next year of university a month ago, he’s known stevie is going to come and visit.
he just kind of forgot the exact day stevie would be arriving.
so when he, clad in nothing but his garfield pyjama pants and a metallica t-shirt that’s falling apart, walks into the kitchen one morning and sees someone he doesn’t know at the kitchen counter fiddling with their instant coffee machine, he almost shits himself.
luckily, he doesn’t, because he remembers in that split second that stevie was due to arrive last night. but he still flinches pretty hard at the fright and grabs for the nearest grabbable thing, which turns out to be the doorframe. somehow, he makes a noise loud enough to get the mystery person’s attention, and they turn around.
holy shit. eddie did not know stevie is hot. or that stevie’s actually a guy. he kind of just assumed, with the nickname and all? but the man standing there looks like he could’ve been carved by the gods eddie doesn’t believe in, and- eddie realises he’s been staring at the guy for a few seconds now, and decides to talk like a normal human being. he first adjusts his position so he’s no longer holding onto the archway of the kitchen for support, and smiles at the guy.
“hi, you must be stevie?” he offers, and stevie takes a few seconds to process his words before nodding with a smile.
“my name is steve. robbie just is… hm, silly?”
eddie blinks a couple times, because steve has an accent. a thick one. he should’ve expected that, because- hello? they’re both literally from italy. but it catches him off guard, and adds to steve’s hot factor. why didn’t robin warn him about this.
“yeah, robin is very silly.” he agrees with a chuckle, and then realises steve might not know him, “i’m eddie. robin’s roommate. you probably knew that already though, so now i probably look like an idiot. well- more of an idiot than i already do in these clothes…”
he lets his words trail off as he realises steve is frowning at him in subtle confusion. he’s picked up robin’s rambling-when-nervous habit over their friendship, and hot guys tend to make him pretty nervous. but then he realises maybe steve isn’t as fluent in english as robin is, and even if he is eddie’s a fast talker that doesn’t always pronounce things fully.
“i am sorry,” steve looks embarrassed, “my english is not as good as robin.”
eddie feels so guilty at the pink that’s made itself known on steve’s cheeks, and shakes his head immediately.
“no! you don’t need to be sorry. i just talk a lot when i’m nervous.” he confesses. why did he say that? now steve knows he’s nervous. or does he? maybe he didn’t catch his full sentence.
steve raises one eyebrow at eddie though, and one side of his mouth quirks up into a smile as he turns around to keep trying to make himself a cup of coffee.
“i am making you nervous? why?” steve asks, his back still turned. now eddie’s the one with red cheeks. dammit.
“it’s because eddie here thinks you’re hot, stevie.”
eddie’s flinch at robin’s magical appearance behind him is somehow more spectacular than earlier, and he clutches dramatically at his heart and spins around to glare at robin.
“robin! what the fuck, man!” he yelps when he realises what she’s said. but robin isn’t listening, she’s too busy speaking to steve in italian about who knows what.
probably about how she knows all eddie’s tells for when he finds a guy attractive and how she knows eddie’s type and steve checks every single box. or, eddie squints at the pair as robin tsks at steve and takes over manning the coffee machine, maybe robin’s just telling steve how to make a coffee with the machine?
“you think i am…” steve starts as he spins around to look at eddie, and seems to be searching for a word for a few moments, “attractive?”
eddie’s eyes widen, and then he sighs and fixes a glare on robin. robin just shrugs and makes a very insincere ‘oopsie’ expression, and eddie is about to start denying like his life depends on it, but he looks back at steve.
and steve has that blush back on his face, and a tiny smile, and he’s looking eddie up and down even in his ridiculous outfit.
“um, yes.” eddie practically squeaks, not used to having someone’s eyes on him like this.
steve says something to robin in italian that sounds like it ends with a question mark, and robin rolls her eyes.
“steve wants me to translate a pick up line he wants to use on you, but i literally refuse to do that. google translate is free.”
and with that, she leaves the kitchen.
#steddie#italian steve harrington#steddie drabble#steddie ficlet#steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#st#mywriting#robin buckley#steve is so smooth in italian and so not smooth in english#he just lacks confidence#eddie doesnt believe him#thank you to the person who explained how tumblr tagging system works <3
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“Would you want to be buried with your family, Si?”
Simon looks over at Johnny, eyebrows raised at his lovers random interjection. He gives him a once over, eyes narrowing a little bit, trying to find what could have possibly brought that question on. Finding nothing, Simon turns back to his book.
Johnny watches him scan a few lines before replying. “Can’t.”
Johnny’s brows furrow. “Why not?”
“They thought I was dead,” he replies simply, almost absentmindedly as he flips a page. Johnny’s confusion only grows until,
“Washington got your spot,” he says with dawning horror.
Simon says nothing, just humming an assertion. Johnny finds himself in a position he is in far, far too often as Simon’s closest confidant- utterly horrified, while Simon shrugs, already having worked through it with a therapist years ago, and numb to the sheer tragedy.
Simon turns another page, and Johnny breathes through the instinct to start screaming. A man who betrayed him, tortured him, and killed his entire family. Buried in his families plot, where Simon deserves to be someday. Where Simon was supposed to be able to fucking rest, someday.
Eventually, when he’s more in control, Johnny opens his mouth again, and it only comes out a little bit grated.
“So if you die, what would you like?”
Simon snorts at the ‘if’, and finally looks back at Johnny, considering him.
“What do you want?” Simon asks simply.
Johnny just looks at him for a second. Blinks, licks his lips. Opens his mouth to tell the truth, but pussies out at the last second.
He cracks a smile, but Simon can see the way it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Ah, I dunno. Just curious.”
Ghost considers the obviously bullshit answer, but decides to allow the out, turning back to his book. They lapse into a comfortable silence, Johnny going through his gear for their mission tomorrow, Simon flipping through his novel.
“What made you ask, anyways?”
Johnny stops in his movements, and looks over to Simon. The room is technically his, as the commanding officer, but it's strewn with evidence of Johnny’s place in his life. Clothes, notebooks, weapons. His shave kit in Simon’s bathroom, cause the lighting is better, and because its pretty nice to have Simon walk up behind him with a soft touch to his back while he cuts his hair, making sure he hasn't missed anything and leaving him with a kiss pressed to his shoulder.
"I'm thinking about retiring," he blurts out.
Simon looks over, and blinks.
"And…and I want my ashes scattered in the highlands. Unless you want to be buried next to me," he says, feeling out of breath at his confession. "That would…that would be good too,” he near-whispers.
Simon puts down his book.
“But if you wanted to be with you family, I could probably rob the grave and get Washington out of there, and put you back in. I’ve done crazier stuff.”
Simon’s mouth curls just a bit. “Come here, Johnny.”
He hesitates, for just a moment, feeling raw and vulnerable. But Simon pats his thigh, and Johnny could never resist that call. Curling up on Simon’s lap, he hides his nose in his neck, wrapping his arms around the broad shoulders of his best friend, his lover.
Simon embraced him back, pulling him close against his chest. They stay there for a moment, tension slowly draining from Johnny, and eventually Simon whispers.
“I’ve had it in my will that burial rights go to you for a year already. And as for retirement…”
He pulls back, and Johnny does to, looking into his warm eyes, shockingly open in this moment.
“You let me know when, and I’ll follow.”
#AND THEN THEY DO THAT AND DIE OLD AND CONTENT IN THE CONTRYSIDE AND THEIR FRIENDS AND FAMILY SCATTER THEIR ASHES IN THE HIGHLANDS TOGETHER#soap mwii#cod mwii#soapghost#ghostsoap#cod mw2#ghoap#simon ghost riley#tf141#john soap mactavish#codmw2#mywriting
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the game’s the game
“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”
Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.
“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.
“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”
Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.
“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”
“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”
All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.
Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.
He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.
“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.
He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.
Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.
There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.
“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.
“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.
It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.
“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.
“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”
Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.
“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.
“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”
Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.
“What?”
“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”
There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.
They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.
Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.
“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”
“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.
“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.
“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”
The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.
“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.
Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”
Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.
“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.
“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”
“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.
“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.
“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”
Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”
“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.
“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”
Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”
He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.
It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.
“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”
Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.
They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.
“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.
Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.
“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.
Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”
“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”
He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.
Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.
“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.
They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.
Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.
“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.
Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.
“I thought we could talk.”
Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.
“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”
The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.
“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”
He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”
“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”
Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …
“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”
The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.
“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”
They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.
Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”
“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”
“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Shut up. It’s your quote.”
Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.
Read On Ao3
#quidditch rivals but ohh they’re secret lovers bet NOBODY saw that coming#kinda unsure about the tone shift at the end but ITS LATE I’m sorry ok#I just wanted earnest Harry which is MY FAVORITW THING#drarry#drarry fic#Draco Malfoy#Harry Potter#my writing#mywriting
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Happy Stardew Valley update, everyone!!
I've been playing this game for years, and it has a very special place in my heart... I also started my Stardew fanfic, Supernova, almost 5 years ago, when I was studying in the US. It's still a story that's very dear to my heart <3
#just felt like celebrating <3#stardew valley#sdv#sdv art#stardew valley fanfic#sdv fic#sdv fanfic#sebastian x farmer#stardew valley farmer#stardew valley sebastian#myart#myoc#myocs#elijah#mywriting#mine
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Poly!Marauders x Needy!Reader
“Daddy”, Y/N whines, “Need you.”
James chuckles, the feeling of her mumbling against his neck is tickling him. His hands are rubbing at her sides, trying to comfort her.
“Please daddy, want you, inside”, she’s mumbling against his neck, fingers pulling the hairs at the nape of his neck.
“You’re all worn out baby, you’ll be too sore”, he reasons.
“Yeah baby”, Sirius, sitting next to James and their girl says, rubbing her side, “you have to wait, at least until tomorrow, or it’s gonna hurt.”
She huffs, not liking the answers. She needs it. Needs to be filled up again, won’t calm down without it. James is still rubbing soothingly above her shirt, not wanting to excite her too much.
As Remus walks in, her head piques up,
“Daddy! Please daddy, they’re being so mean”, she groans, arms reaching up around his neck.
“Are they being mean to you, baby? Huh?” He asks, arms wrapping around her smaller frame, eyebrows raised as he looks at the other boys.
Y/N nods against his chest.
“Moony, she’s obviously out of it, we can’t fuck her now”, James says.
Remus tsks, lifting Y/N up using his grip around her waist,
“Oh baby, they’re right, we can’t fuck you again”
She looks as if she’s about to cry, eyes welling up with tears and bottom lip jutting out,
“But Daddy, ‘m so empty”, the first few tears run down her cheeks.
Remus sits down on the couch, placing her in his lap, her legs straddling his. One of his hands coming up to her cheek, thumb rubbing her tears away.
“There’s still a way to make you feel full”, he says, hands reaching down in between them to unbuckle his belt, “you’re gonna take my cock in your pretty pussy, and you’re gonna sit very still.”
She nods, drying her tears. Next to them, the other boys share a look. Remus takes his half hard cock out of his pants,
“Baby you have to make daddy hard first”, he coos.
Her hands reach down, wrapping around him, he’s big and her hands are small so she needs both of them as she jerks him off, watching as his cock grows in her hands.
“That’s enough, love, gonna fill you up now, yeah?”
He grips her hips, throwing his head back as her warm, wet walls swallow him.
“So, how was quidditch practice?” He asks, turning to his other two partners.
#fanfic#mywriting#amathelia writes#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin#sirius black x reader#sirius black#remus lupin smut#sirius black smut#james potter#james potter x reader#james potter smut#poly!marauders x reader#poly!marauders#smut#marauders era#marauders
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