you think march is down right adorable when he's drunk. there's not a second that goes by where he isn't touching you somewhere just to make sure you're still next to him. even while he talks with ryis about a beer he tried the weekend before, his hand still rests on your thigh and squeezes every so often. even when you talk to celine about a plant you just gave to the museum, his fingers are interlocked with yours. and when he eventually gets called over by his brother, he'll always drag you right alongside with him.
he's so clingy too and it makes you chuckle knowing how shy he would get in the morning about it. teetering on his feet, but instead of leaning on the bar, he leans into you. hemlock calls him a sap, elsie teases with a smile, and balor helps take some of the red head's weight off of you all while saying he's glad march found someone to take the stick out of his ass. even still, you find yourself wrapped in march's arm with his chin on your shoulder.
he whispers that he loves you soooo much and because you love him so much you should let him get another drink. you look to josephine who gives you a wink, and hands him a glass of water and says it's the best vodka she has. he chugs it without a second thought and gives you the biggest grin.
he has to stand between you and his brother, just to be able to walk home because his steps are too wobbly. he keeps telling you how much he loves you, how happy he is, and olric beams because his brother's joy is also his. it's cute the way his eyes go to the sky and then back to you when he has something to say, slurred compliments and cheeky smiles.
you stay over at the shop, not to take care of him, but because he asked. he looked so pitiful when he asked you not to go, so the only solution was to stay. now cuddled up, arms wrapped tightly around you, he falls asleep telling you you're the best thing to ever happen to him.
Please please please write the rest of March smut alphabet🙏
Honestlyyy thank YOU for giving me an excuse. Marchie letters H through Z are READY! I hope you enjoy part 2!
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
The carpet does not match the drapes, but we knew that already. March visits Vera for his routine bright red dye job with the consistency and commitment of someone going to church. The carpet is however fairly well-groomed. He’s not super meticulous about it, but he prefers to keep things cleaned up down there.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He is…surprisingly romantic. In his own March way. He’s not great with words, so physical intimacy is an opportunity for him to show you how much he cherishes you. That doesn’t mean he’s going to treat you like glass. He knows how much you can take. He just wants to make damn sure that you feel loved, appreciated, and of course, thoroughly satisfied. He is devoted to learning what you like best. Even when he’s losing his mind and his head feels like it’s full of clouds, those dark eyes are seeing you with crystal clarity. He hopes he can use his body to convey the depth of his feelings, since his words always seem to come out wrong. He’s a little awkward at first! But he really does love looking into your eyes, caressing you, and holding your hands as he drives into you.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
It’s only once in a while, once you’re dating him. His own rough, calloused hands are not his first choice when he has you. Before that, though, it was happening pretty often. It was necessary to preserve his sanity with how incredibly frustrated you made him. He would have just lost his mind if he let himself get all pent up. Or, he would have snapped and jumped you a long time before he was actually ready. He needed *some* kind of outlet and jacking off was way easier than confessing his feelings.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
So. The thing is. Even though you are precious to him…even though he tries very hard to be really nice when you’re dating…there’s still a part of him that goes wild over being a little mean to you. He delights in your reactions. He’ll do things like squish your face in one (large, calloused) hand and call you a brat just to watch you squirm. He’ll hold something up over his head so you have to jump, and hopefully climb all over him, to get it. He’ll shove you face-down into the pillow when you start babbling while he’s taking you from behind. There is no real harm intended and he will never take it too far; he just loves pushing your buttons.
Singing his praises always goes straight to his dick. This is a button of HIS you can push whenever you want. He absolutely loves to get his ego stroked. If you do that while you’re also literally stroking him? He’s done for.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
His favorite place to fuck you is *your* house! His bedroom is fine, but it’s attached to a shop and also his brother’s living space. Privacy is not guaranteed. Olric has probably knocked on the door to ask if March wants dinner when March was eating YOU for dinner. So…your farmhouse is just perfect. Nobody ever goes down there at night except the two of you, and it’s far enough removed from town that nobody could possibly hear the sounds he’s dragging out of you all night.
However. It’s not out of the question that he might drag you off from a night at the inn or a festival to pound you against a wall; somewhere secluded, somewhere he’s sure no one else has any reason to be. Sometimes you just get him so turned on over the littlest things and getting all the way to either of your homes is just not happening.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
He has a quick trigger. As Ryis so aptly noted, getting worked up is pretty much March’s hobby. And oohhhh, you get him worked up. You always have, one way or another. Getting March in the mood is not difficult. Things that will do it 100% of the time; being a little sassy, being extra sweet, letting him guide your hands as he shows you something at the forge, acting super impressed by his work, buttering him up with praise, and giving him *that look* from across a crowded room or busy town square. That last one makes his knees weak every time. It’s like you start glowing while everyone around you fades away.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
No sharing. No, no, no. You may have good intentions by suggesting bringing someone else into the bedroom for some fun, but all poor March will hear is “I’m not enough for you.” He is determined to meet any and all of your needs through his own efforts.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He’s really good at giving head. It’s kind of crazy. Who taught him all that? (He taught himself by practicing on you). Your legs will be shaking and you will be seeing entire star charts. The chances of him stopping before your shit is rocked are basically zero.
That said, he still slightly prefers receiving. Seeing you on your knees sucking him off is like a dart of pure bliss shot straight at his ego. It makes him feel like he’s king of the world. It’s also oddly romantic to him—you’re doing something for the sole purpose of making him feel good? That’s an act of love in his mind, sure as anything.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He’s an intense guy by nature. His default setting is to get you good and ready, and then pin you down—or lift you up—and pound you. He’s entirely capable of softer and slower sex, though, and he does genuinely enjoy it. Just communicate what you want and March will accommodate you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
He actually likes quickies. While naturally he’s a huge fan of the long nights you spend exploring and pleasing each other until the point of exhaustion…there’s something so exciting about stealing you away from an evening at the inn to fuck you silly before you both stroll back over like nothing happened.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Depends on what risk, exactly. The risk of harming you? No way. Getting caught? He won’t let it actually happen, but walking the line is hot. Experimenting with new positions? Very much yes.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
He has too much stamina honestly. He spends all day every day swinging a hammer around next to a blazing hot forge, so it’s no surprise. He has a short refractory period and a high level of physical fitness, so a round two (or three) is yours if you want it, whenever you want it. He’ll keep foreplay up for so long you’ll be begging him to just fuck you already. The flip side; he doesn’t last veerryyyy long once he’s inside you. He is not a two pump chump or anything, and he is gradually improving in this area, but yeah, he’s not long for the world with your walls around him. It doesn’t help that just being naked around you is nearly enough to send him over the edge. Short fuse and all that.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
He doesn’t own any actual toys and doesn’t want them involved. Yes, he is a craftsman, but he is also a very proud man. He doesn’t need some object doing his job for him. He’s totally fine with things that only enhance the experience or spice things up, like blindfolds or restraints.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
As we’ve established, he can be a lil mean. Now, that doesn’t mean he’s seriously degrading you —he adores you. He’s just a smug bastard who likes getting a rise out of you. When you started dating, he mostly suppressed the worst of his rough and callous behavior. It comes back out in bed. Your mere presence tortured him for months. He can imagine no sweeter revenge than teasing you before he lets you have it. Getting you to beg for it gets him so turned on he can barely survive it.
He is also perfectly happy to let you mess with him, even if he pretends to be mad about it. Working him up and then trying to walk away produces some delicious results. Everyone’s winning.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He’s a vocal person all the time and that’s especially true when he’s having sex. He 100% talks you through it. He acts so cool about it, just like all those times he patiently explained blacksmithing techniques in that deep, gravely voice of his. It’s a fun little game to find out how fast you can make him lose the plot.
He simply cannot cum quietly. A major contributing factor to why he likes to fuck at your house. The smallest sound he’ll ever make upon his release is a strained groan. Most often, he will be muffling a scream into your pillow or your shoulder. It’s a blessing you don’t have neighbors.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
March has some deep-seated issues. When you spend your entire life bitterly guarding your heart, you don’t just magically have no problems with emotional and sexual intimacy—even with the right person. And make no mistake, he is certain you are the right person for him. He’s just working through some stuff. One of his main attempts at retaining a feeling of control over himself was to delay sleeping with you for a good while even once you were in a committed relationship. At the same time, he really, really wanted you. What this potent psychological mixture created was several weird nights early on when he’d come onto you like a man possessed and you’d think, finally let’s goooo this is happening, only for him to suddenly stop with no explanation. He would get cagey if pressed about it.
Eventually, he just processed whatever he was processing and popped that cherry. Sex with him has been very natural and very fun ever since!
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
You can’t have an attitude like that without something to back it up. He’s a gifted guy, and I’m not talking about his famous forging skills. Yet he’s not so massive that penetration will hurt or require extensive prep to be possible. Basically, if you endured the great and trying journey of breaking through the walls of steel that March built around his heart, you get to reap the reward of enjoying his practically perfect dick.
His body is just divine. You didn’t need to wait until dating him to learn that—he made sure you knew it. That time at the beach when he was all, “if you’re going to stare, can you do it from further away”...that was a clumsy attempt at flirting. He wanted you to notice how ripped he is.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Between the point in time when he realized he was into you and the point where you started having sex, his horniness level was frankly insane. It presented a genuine problem. Acting unaffected around you took constant, dedicated effort, and he still failed…often.
Now that he’s getting laid on the regular, he’s more normal about it. He’s always into you. That hasn’t changed. He’s just more able to focus on other things when he’s not around you, because he knows he’ll have you again before long. A sustained burn versus a raging five alarm fire. If you have some span of time when the two of you can’t go at it, he will revert to the old ways. He starts getting twitchy if it’s been more than four or five days.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Depends on how tired he is from his day overall. He may stay up reading or thinkin’ bout stuff for a bit. If you had a little tryst during the day or in a private moment stolen away from a party, he is not likely to get sleepy. He will probably be more pumped up than before.
♡⡷ Just as he’s resolved to wash away his frustrations, he hears the familiar pitter patter of another set of feet enter the changing room.
♡⡷ warnings: established relationship, semi public sex, creampie, simp behaviour, unhygienic tbh
♡⡷ rating: smut, 18+!
♡⡷ wc: 9,083
♡⡷ a/n: i gen haven't written anything in a few months, and this is my absolute first FoM fanfic ever... first time writing for March too waaah please be nice to me im rusty!!! otherwise i hope you enjoy!
The waiting room stinks of strong perfume, something floral and too sweet for his senses, accompanied by an underlying hint of expensive soap that hits the back of his throat unfairly well. So potent is the overwhelming smell that his nose scrunches up in honest distaste, internally lamenting the fact that this is the only place to properly soak his well worked for muscles in the whole of town—he’ll have to chastise Juniper over her choice of scents later, making a mental note to leave an in person review when he gets the chance as he shifts around in his swim shorts until he’s comfortable, tucking his discarded clothes away into one of the provided lockers for safekeeping as he prepares himself for the utter relaxation he’s hopefully about to experience.
Minus the smell, at least. When he’s so used to grease and soot, burning wood that sticks to his skin all night long, anything other than the stench of work is almost too much to bear.
Regardless, his eyes close with promise as he sits on a nearby bench, allowing the soft sounds of running water to fill his mind with such ease that he’s half convinced he could fall asleep right where he is, if not for the allure of releasing all the pent up tension currently coiled tight in his shoulders. Adeline has been working him hard as of late, preparing hundreds—no, thousands it feels like—of these tiny little nails for an upcoming construction project. Meaningless, boring work. Of course, he’s more than happy to help at all, seizing any opportunity to prove just how useful and necessary he is for the town at large. But… Nails? Seriously? His heart yearns for something more substantial, something more important, a flashy show piece that he can attach his name to for recognition or something equally as valiant. Now that would at least make his aching muscles worth the effort, he muses to himself.
Though unfortunately, peaceful musings never seem to last long in this town, try as he might. Not since you came along.
Just as he’s resolved to wash away his frustrations, he hears the familiar pitter patter of another set of feet enter the changing room. Opening his eyes just a smidge, just to get a peak to quell his curiosity, he instead lets his lids fully snap open to the sight of you, his beloved girlfriend.
Well, maybe there are two things worth working his muscles for after all.
Instincts beg him to tense up, showing off for you as you saunter up to his seat with such a soft smile that he almost thinks you’re here to bathe yourself too. The assumption doesn’t last long though, noting the slight pink tinging your cheeks for his viewing pleasure. You’re real pretty when you’re pretending, y’know that? Got his heart racing and everything, body heating up before he’s even had a chance to dip a toe in the soothing waters he was promised this morning. As if he were permanently attached to a leash held by you, suppressing the urge to nervously bounce his leg in an effort to keep his cool guy attitude in front of the one person that matters most.
“Well, look who it is…” he almost coos, allowing only so much softness to taint his voice as he leans forward, looking you up and down as if inspecting your right to be in the bathhouse with him. “I almost didn’t come today.” He admits with a forced sigh, the weight of his words heavy at the back of his tongue, throat threatening to close as he takes in the sight of you first thing in the morning.
Your presence alone commands some semblance of honesty in his words, eager to impress.
“Now I’m glad I did.”
The warmth that flushes up his neck to find home on his cheeks can be dismissed as the heat from the flowing water, right? Nothing more, nothing less, he’s just warm from the humidity, that’s all. Admitting to thing such as eagerness over your presence certainly hasn’t got him light-headed. And his twitching hands certainly have nothing to do with how close you are to him, waking him up far quicker than a dip in the pool could ever hope to—nah. Definitely not.
“Care if I join you?” You ask innocently enough, tilting your head curiously to the side—cute. You’re so infuriatingly, frustratingly cute, his tongue clicking in trained annoyance over how hard his heart races at the sight of you acting so pretty. Like it comes intuitively to you, or perhaps more disappointingly, he’s most susceptible to your natural charms.
Though he takes a moment to respond. Not by choice, rather… His stalling is borne out of a need to compose himself. Replace the softness he aches for you with something more commanding, something to prove his worth, so that you learn to rely on him more than his previous attitude had afforded. A quick lick of guilt catches his breath at the memory of his first meeting with you, needing to offer you more than his past self could ever. But the way that you remain patiently waiting for his response is a swift balm over his bad behaviour, and he appreciates being given such a chance, determined not to let it go to waste.
Exhaling through his nose, he steels himself. The least he can do is give you an honest answer.
“Please,” he chokes out, decidedly not what he had intended on saying, but the word has already left his lips and you’re already smirking back at him and all he has left is to clear his chest from the remainder of shame that coils around his lungs. “I— I mean sure.” He settles on, stuttering through his usual act as you busy yourself with the changing room, and he’s left to contend with the soft twisting in his stomach. Please, please, please, you’re giving him exactly what he wants.
He doesn’t mean to act so foolishly, cursing himself internally at the slip-up. But there’s just something about you, even before he had started seriously courting you—in fact, he might even be worse off now since dating, struggling to bite his tongue around you now that he can call you his. Honesty just spills from him, like water into a cup, or a bath.
Right, he’s here to bathe. There’s nothing wrong about bathing with you, surely… Out of everyone in town, the person he’d be most expected to share a bath with should be you, though butterflies nonetheless line his lungs as you enter his vision again, bathing suit hugging your body in just the right way to make his mind race. Empty besides you, and how pretty you look, and how well you suit that colour, and how hard he itches to reach out and grab at you. Frozen in place in sheer awe over just how much he likes you, adoring with the silence he forces upon himself; he tries not to stare, truthfully, but the sudden heat of your hand on his bare shoulder fills him with the striking realisation that he can stare, and that maybe you want him to. Boyfriend privileges or something, he’s new to all of this. Flailing through a series of new emotions as quickly as he can to try and calm down, but you seem to strive to make his life more difficult by the second.
“Ready?” you speak in such a casual tone, ignorant of the nerves building in his body as his gaze flickers around the space you inhabit, stealing glances of your soft skin, the way the swimsuit makes little indents across your hips, God, your tits…
He is, after all, just a man.
“Yeah,” he swallows down more honesty, “Yeah, okay.” but with how tense his muscles already were, it’s no surprise that he almost springs into action, every inch of him uptight as tries to focus solely on not popping a boner right in front of you, lest he embarrasses himself even further than he already has. He’s so determined to not be viewed as a loser, in fact, that he forgets all about holding your hand as he stomps his way over to the main room, allowing you to trail behind him only because the thought of watching your hips sway in front of his attentive gaze makes his life in such flimsy shorts much more dangerous.
He even enters the bath before you, hoping that the bubbles will hide most of his obvious infatuation for your choice of outfit under the water, taking the furthest side with his arms stretched out and draped along the edge, if only to remain somewhat inn control of his affections. And as you enter the pool yourself, gradually lowering into the water, he can’t help but to imagine that you’re obviously teasing him. A slow show of your body dripping wetter, drool collecting behind his tight jaw as his teeth grind to the view of your legs disappearing under the blue, wetting your skin with condensation droplets that leave him thirstier for something other than a drink, tight little swimsuit growing darker in spots that the water brushes up against, and Jesus fucking Christ, now he’s jealous over water…
Despite his morning plans to ease the tension in his overworked muscles, the pressure only builds in his body as he stares you down, feeling the obvious furrow in his brow as he settles into a neat scowl in response to your effortless taunting. He’s sure you don’t actually mean it, he’s probably just pent up from working such long hours without time to tend to himself, but fuck—what he wouldn’t give to release his stress through the show you’re unknowingly providing him right now.
At least the water is warm, offering a much more pleasant aroma now that you’ve decided to join him in relaxing. Soft sounds of the consistent stream keeping the bath full fill the air, begging to be listened to, but all he can focus on is his own ragged breathing as he looks at anything other than you. As if the pristine tiles of the bathhouse are miraculously more interesting than anything you currently have to offer, which really couldn’t be further from the truth if he was more honest with himself.
He’s strong thought, right? He can handle a little showing off, it’s not like he trains for no reason.
“Comfy?” your question snaps him out of his more indulgent thoughts, directly calling for his attention that he all too eagerly gives without a second thought, only to be met by the prettiest smile he’s ever seen, and a slight jiggle of your tits as you shift around idly; he’d never miss that.
“Mhm,” he nods, knowing full well that if he were to open his mouth to proper conversation, he’s liable to embarrass himself further. “You?”
“Yes. It’s nice here, isn’t it?”
Nicer with you, he keeps to himself.
He’s supposed to be resting right now. Loosening his tired muscles, letting the water soothe all of his aches and pains from the past work week. It’s one of the only joys he has, spare the inn on Friday nights. Not that you’re spoiling the fun, abso-fucking-lutely not, it’s just… Well, you’re making it harder for him to let loose, in more ways than one.
What he’s not supposed to be doing in the bath is struggling to hold himself back from jumping you without a word. Jaw as clenched as his arms are taut, all in an effort to appear calm, composed, and collected. Thank God his lower half is hidden under ripples of water, the constant stream from the tap promising to keep his secrets for the time being. Though he doesn’t have the best imagination around, he has enough material right in front of him to think about grabbing your arm and tugging you snug against him in one swift motion, letting you feel the swell of his bulge under the bubbles as a reminder of exactly what you do to him. He can envision shoving your head under the water to meet his hips, hiding you from an unfortunate visitor to keep your dignity in tact. Hooking your legs over his shoulders on the edge of the bath, curling his fingers under your suit—he can think about a lot of things, though none of them are anything you might describe as clean. Desperate, more like.
And it’s not like you help his situation, sitting there just… Just… Fuck, just sitting there! In as little clothing as possible without being naked, prompting his primitive brain to imagine what might be hidden underneath. He’s not stupid, he’s seen your body before, but the way you rest there so nonchalantly in spite of his intimate conflict has him feeling hotter than the water that surrounds him is. Like he’s a lonely pervert or something, leering at you from afar because confronting his affections is far scarier than suppressing them.
He just doesn’t wanna fuck this up. Can’t stand the thought of fucking you up.
Though, from day one, you’ve always been able to see right through him, haven’t you?
“You’re staring, March.”
Shit, the soft teasing lilt you attach to your astute observation has his cheeks feeling flush, stomach twisting with that sickeningly sweet tone you use to scold him with as if parenting him. A childish reaction threatening to creep up his throat in response, if not for the way he thickly swallows it back down with better judgement. You so effortlessly remind him that his affections may be considered rude by most, but the way you’re fluttering your lashes back at him as he continues to gawk begs otherwise.
He’d apologise if he truly meant it.
“No I’m not.” He huffs defiantly, still yet refusing the tear his gaze away from your pretty smile out of rebellion alone. A challenge, perhaps.
“You’re still staring.” Always quick to bark back—it’s part of why he fell for you in the first place.
“Because you’re still yapping.”
A giggle falls from your lips, and he can feel his stomach do a flip as he falls back on his perfected frown, squinting his eyes at you as a means to protect his ego.
“You were staring before that!” you continue, and he knows he can’t argue with that, because it’s the cold hard truth. He was leering at you, in spite of the shame between his legs—or maybe because of that. You’re too pretty for him to discern the difference right now, head fuzzy with thoughts solely of you. Always you, late at night, first thing in the morning, in the bathhouse, doesn’t matter what he’s doing in truth… You’re always at the back of his mind, in his periphery. The resulting throb behind his shorts is the only inevitable outcome, really.
So, he gives up. Sighing heavily as he sinks lower into the bath, as if doing so would somehow absolve him the embarrassment of getting caught red handed, his legs instinctively stretching out under the waves to accidentally brush against your own polite ones; an honest mistake, but his reaction is nonetheless immediate.
Shooting straight up with his lips pressed into a thin line to suppress a pathetic whimper at the mostly innocent touch, core flexed so strongly that it’s a wonder why he even attempted to relax in the first place. Just that brief contact, the lack of concern on your face from his pass against you, is enough to have him gasping for air. The steam surrounding him now feeling much more suffocating than usual, your presence at the opposite end of the bath he usually inhabits having the opposite effect as intended.
Like he said, he’s just a man.
A sensitive, overwhelmed mess of a man, averting his gaze from your curiosity as he chokes on the words he’d like to say. You’re so pretty it’s annoying, I can’t focus on anything besides your chest, the feeling of your skin against my own is enough to get me going.
Obviously, he can’t admit to such dirty thoughts out loud. Not when he’s so out in the open like this, vulnerable to your charms despite his outward sarcastic shield. He can only handle so much!
Though you seem determined to prove him wrong— typical. Inching closer just a bit, worry etched so sweetly on your face that he has half a mind to act up if it’d help soothe your nerves. “Are you okay?” he hears you gasp, but he’s far too concerned with diminishing his growing need for you as opposed to offering you any sort of reassurance. His heart hammers against his chest as he fights his own urges, begging to spill some of his secrets, but he’s much too prideful to let loose in front of the one person he tries his absolute best to be cool in front of. Even if his body betrays him by the second.
But he can’t leave you hanging, forcing out a rough sounding I’m fine, which very much doesn’t sound fine now that he’s heard how steeped in heat his words has become, and he can’t escape your worries for long as you continue to approach, swimming over to his end of the bath as he locks up. Frozen in place, not from fear, but from a selfish want to have you nearby in spite of himself. A prisoner of his own making, coiled up like a spring as you grow closer and closer, a lump in his throat pleading to bark back at your continued sympathies as all the blame falls on you, really. If only you didn’t looks so nice today, too bad he’s useless when it comes to self control, his fault for being unable to react faster to your concern, so on and so forth.
It’s only natural, he swfitly reasons with himself, to be tenting under the water when you are his girlfriend after all. Would be weird if he wasn’t, right? Though his logic does very little at pacifying his increased temperature, a hitch in his breath promising to ruin him as your brows knit together in what he can only describe as adorable confusion.
“Are you sure?” you double check, though there really isn’t any need to. Despite his frown, he’s never felt better. You and him, alone in a bath together? This is the stuff his wet dreams are mode of, to be honest! But therein lies his issue.
He’s all too eager to make his dreams a reality, and your faux innocence is only riling him up further. As if you have no idea exactly as to what you’re doing to him right now, prompting a tut to escape his tight lips at your display of utter naivety.
“’M sure.” Curt and polite, muffled by the water as he attempts to hold on to the last shred of dignity he has, still allowing you to grow closer to him because what else is he gonna do? Deny his girlfriend?
“You look warm…” you pout so cutely at him that he turns to grinding his jaw in an effort to hold back.
“It’s a bathhouse.”
You scoff at his self-explanatory reply, though there’s a soft look in your eye that lets him know you haven’t taken his short answer the wrong way. You’re probably used to his communication style by now, right?
“Obviously, but I mean more than expected… Are you getting sick?”
Every inch of his body is screaming for him to lean forward a little, just enough to close of the distance you’ve thus left between to show you exactly why he looks so red right now. Hair sticks to his forehead not from the steam, but from the sheer amount of sweat your interest in his well-being has caused. Finding it difficult to deny that it’s incredibly hot to him that you’re so concerned about him, knowing that he can look after himself but still finding the time of day to want to care for him. You’re infuriatingly sweet.
He wishes so badly that he carried over some of his previous confidence in the changing room, because he wasn’t lying. He is glad that he came in today, that you seemed to show up as a stoke of luck—how nice it’d be if he could quip back with something snarky, a sarcastic reassurance to get you off his back… Or his front, in this case—with those pouty lips that drive him mad and the breathy tone that has him biting his tongue.
But before he has a chance of formulating anything even close to an answer, you grab on to the side of the bath he rests on, pulling yourself closer as your knee brushes against his crotch, and well fuck.
He’s rock solid.
As if stricken by an immediate sickness, or pained by your soft brush against him, his hands that were white knuckled against the edge of the bath fly under the water, cupping his cock from further investigation as he regards you with an uncharacteristically pleading look. Biting down on his bottom lip to keep his whines hidden, looking at you with such large puppy dog eyes it’s a wonder he doesn’t start sobbing from the sheer humiliation of his current predicament.
And after a brief tense pause, you only make it worse for him.
“Are you…?”
“Shut up—” a mix of whispering and shouting, his voice pitched a tone higher as he struggles to catch his breath from the emotions you’ve stirred inside of him. Obvious now even to you as his knuckles brush against your exposed thigh, and it’s a good thing he’s cupping his crotch at the moment…
On one hand, he’s absolutely mortified. Terrified of the repercussions that may comes from acting like a pervert in public, getting hard solely from watching you out the corner of his eye like some sort of sick peeping tom. You must think he’s gross for that, right? Disgusted in his inability to control himself, still yet reeling from the brief contact of your knee against his hidden cock like some sort of dirty virgin. But on the other hand… He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard before. Heat pooling just below his stomach, muscles taut and tense as if expecting this to go anywhere other than a light scolding, no doubt leaking precum all over Juniper’s poor bath without second thought. Well, it’s not like he can stop himself now, steeping in the embarrassment his lower half had brought upon him, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he cringes at himself enough for the two of you.
An apology rests at the back of his tongue, brought up with the bile that comes from getting caught doing something he really shouldn’t, even if you are his girlfriend. The setting is all wrong—inappropriate at best.
But you bring him back to Earth with a soft, pleasant sound. A little chuckle, more teasing than reprimanding as you settle to his right, body pressed as snug as allowed through the waves against his shaking arm.
Don’t fucking do that, he wants to reprimand instead. But the feeling of your tits squishing against his bare arm causes him to stutter, in both mind and body. Reeling from the sensation of your slippery skin, the heat coming off of you overwhelming his senses to a dull, stupid state.
“It’s okay, March,” you whisper against his skin, the intimate sound of your words going straight back down to his cock to make it throb in his protective hold. He hasn’t the strength left to reply to you, at least not verbally, though he continues to shiver nervously back against where your front connects to his flexed arm. “Do you want some help? Can’t leave you here in that state…”
He didn’t think it was possible to get harder than he is now, but alas, your offer of help has his eyes rolling back at the mere thought. How kind, he muses to himself, for you to offer relieving him of his perversions like some sort of saint. The contrast of which is not lost on him, serving only to make his hips buck involuntarily as he fully takes in exactly what you’ve just offered, and he shudders out a heavy breath.
Without missing a beat, he looks down between his legs before answering, connecting the dots with ease. “You’re lucky Juniper isn’t here.” He settles on when he finds nothing better to complain about, squinting at you with a lazy lying smile on his face. It is, of course, the truth; without the owner present, it’ll be easier to misbehave. But the pill of his lewd intent is easier to swallow if he has you to blame for it, huffing out some steam at the incredulous expression you offer back at him.
“Me?!” You feign shock, successfully tugging his lips higher. He understands your tone—it’s him that’s hard, he gets it already. Understood it for the past however long he’s been soaking in the tub with you for. “Besides, are you saying you wouldn’t want my help if she was here?”
“No,” he gives in to impulsivity and lets go of his crotch, leaning one arm back to be parallel to your own that hangs over the edge of the tub, facing each other and dripping water onto the floor below with a consistent soft thud. “I’m saying, you’d get us caught if she was.”
You start to whine something petulant, thought he doesn’t particularly care for the contents of your protest, too busy repositioning himself now that you’ve given him the go ahead as he cuts you off mid sentence, standing as best as he can in the shallow bath with his spread wide palms immediately finding home on your hips. Spinning you around before you even realise what’s happening, careful to keep you steady so that you don’t fall and hurt yourself when tending to his desires.
"Atta girl-" he teases once you’re settled, low and strained, like he can't hold himself back much longer.
This position is easier for him to handle. Bending you over the edge of the tub, the thickness of it enough to support your upper body without being too awkward to hold. And, with your face out of view, you’ve got no chance of watching how easily he falls apart for you. Besides, it’s not like he hears you complaining about it. The power dynamics suddenly shifted as he uses his hard worked for strength to his advantage, pinning you in place as water threatens to slosh around your trembling legs, knees buckled just a little to give away your immediate submission to his sudden snap.
This is relaxing too, right? He allows your hands to brace yourself against the edge of the tub, though he’d ordinarily keep them pinned behind—this isn’t an ordinary experience though, is it?
He clicks his tongue down at you, the role reversal causing his dick print to throb under the wet suction of his shorts. “Still happy to help?” his head tilts to the side even if you can’t see it, amused at your sudden ability to shut up, watching the pretty picture of your instinctive swaying from side to side as his own private show. Though he’s mostly provoking you, he is also seeking consent, checking in that you’re okay with this and that he hasn’t allowed his fantasies to run too wild under the insinuation of your words. “Lemme know.” He encourages you when he doesn’t immediately hear a reply, squeezing at your hips with stability to try and communicate that he won’t get upset if you’ve changed your mind, he has a hand for a reason.
A second or two passes, but his cock throbs painfully as if they were minutes... Twitching behind his shorts as he hovers just out of your reach, nonetheless feeling the heat roll off you from his slipping grip of your skin.
He’s about to back off when you finally confirm.
“I wanna help.” You hum, voice drenched in such a sweet, dulcet tone that his mind immediately blanks at, staring dumbly at where your cunt hides behind your swimsuit like it was her consenting. The gentle side to side of your hips helping to hypnotise him as he tracks your movements with a parted mouth, just before he bites down on his bottom lip with resolve.
You’re a great motivator, at the very least.
“Good,” he practically coos down at you, letting one hand drop down to the hem of your swimsuit while the other keeps you nice and steady with an iron grip kept at your hip. He doesn’t work all day for nothing! “Then stay still.”
With his hand dropping lower and lower, he pings the edge of your swimsuit back against your skin once or twice, hearing the echo that resounds around the otherwise empty bathhouse, but he’s much more interested in listening to the short gasps for air you make upon each snap. Teasing your limits as he toys with you in the private public offered by the water, regaining his confidence when he feels you twitch and shift under his scrutinising gaze, already forgetting to stay still.
Not that it bothers him seeing you act so eager like this, pleased with the way you squirm under him as he idly traces the outline of your cunt over your swimsuit, cursing under his breath at the way the way fabric digs into your skin, clinging to your wet heat as you present yourself to him as the answer to his fat, throbbing problem right now.
His chest rumbles with attachment, grip tightening to prevent slipping off your waist as his resolve crumbles the more he idly plays with you.
A soft sigh escapes him as he thumbs at your clit over the skin tight fabric, whistling lowly to himself when your whole body jerks for his attention, something he’s all too eager to provide. Letting out a rough, hushed little “Fuck it—-” before he unceremoniously tugs your suit to the side, freeing that pretty pussy for his eyes to fuck first, his hips instinctively bucking forward a tad to let his bulge rub along your slit. The resulting combined gasp bounces off the walls of the bathhouse like some lewd prayer, his skin immaterially prickling with selfish enjoyment at the way you’re seemingly incapable of withholding your own perversions. You really are lucky to be alone with him right now, huh?
And he’d be lying if he said that the risk wasn’t worth the reward himself. His heart hammers from the thrill of it all, secretly admiring the way you couldn’t care less as to who hears your little whimpers and whines, or perhaps you’re simply revelling in his touch enough that you’ve already forgotten all about the threat itself—the fact that Juniper could return any minute now, or a stray wandering neighbour might decide now is a good time to soak in the pools, only to be met by your shivering sighs and pretty pussy on full display for his wandering hands. Shit, he’s been so hard for so long, he could probably cum just from the sight of your cunt alone. But imagining someone walking in on him inspecting your holes, tugging your cheeks apart to spread you wide open for his leering does get him going more than he’d like to admit. Prideful to a fault, extended to how pleased he is by your display, torn between wanting to share the pretty sight with others versus keeping you all to himself.
The bathhouse meets a nice middle, he muses to himself.
“Doin’ okay?” he checks in, leaning forward just a little behind you only to choke on a whine of his own when the outline of his cock comes into direct contact with your exposed cunt, heaving over you with barely there restraint like a bitch in heat. You should feel lucky, actually, that he’s still got his shorts on. He’d otherwise be balls deep in you already if not for the wet barrier keeping him somewhat sane, cock hot and ready pressed against his skin.
You mumble a small mhm back at him, and he supposes it’ll suffice. Must be hard collecting your words when he’s absentmindedly dragging a finger up and down your bare slit, collecting the slippery slick that drools out from your hole in preparation for him, cunt feeling wetter than the bath he currently stands in. Enough to leave a soft squelch in his trail, a sticky sound of your arousal that has him dangerously on the verge of caving.
Though what really pushes him over the edge is how small and weak you sound when begging him please. “Hurry up,” you whine softly, a cute little sound that has his tip leaking all over himself. “Before someone sees…”
He can practically see the pout on your lips as you plead.
And, well, since he’s yet to actually relax this morning, it couldn’t hurt to use his strength one last time, right?
He’d love to spend his time working you open, giving you a few shallow in and outs of his thumb at your entrance, popping it repeatedly in lieu of a proper finger fucking to warm you up. His throat dries up at the sound alone, the way your hole immediately tries to wrap around his barely inside teasing as if begging for it, like you need him just as much as he needs you. And you’re so cute when he’s edging you, ruined from the frustration alone as he so often has his fun. But fuck, you’re right… He only has limited time to impress you, and he wastes part of that precious time in tugging his shorts down just enough for his cock to spring free, the water surrounding him splashing up against his abs, over the edge of the tub, up your backside, purely from how fast he tries to rush. He doesn’t mean to be so clumsy in his plea to free himself, but the water that’s soaked his shorts has left him sensitive and sticky, the material clinging to him for dear life as he gives up half way, letting them hang just under his ass as he lets out a noticeable groan of irritation.
“Right,” he’s quick to excuse himself, genuinely apologetic for making you wait more than a few seconds before giving you exactly what you’re asking for. Promptly grabbing at the base of his cock with one hand, tugging your lips apart with his other, and tapping the tip against your slit once or twice. Allowing you to get sufficiently desperate before pressing forward. “Ready?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. Rhetorical given the way you push back in a seeking of contact without thought, coaxing him closer with a needy whimper that he’d be dumb not to heed.
Even though he tries to go slow for your own sake, he ends up falling forward further than intended due to the moving water under his feet, tip catching on your hole in a way that has him gasping for air. The hands he was using to guide himself in now planted firmly against the edge of the tub, supporting the sheer weight of his indecent intent as he pants heavily above you, hot breath no doubt warming you up more than the bath itself attempts.
He corrects his posture as quick as he can to settle your keening, lovingly tutting down at you as you shift your weight around to try and catch more of his cock inside. Needy little thing, you’re only stroking his ego the more you wriggle around, knowing that you depend on him so eagerly to resolve the tension in your tummy gets him soooo rock hard, God, his want to serve you overtaking all sense as he hovers over you with a twitch in his hips, letting his tip dip deeper into your cunt with a forced sigh escaping him. And he can’t stop now, not when he feels the first suck of your cunt around the sensitive head of his cock, drooling precum against your insides as if you weren’t wet enough already for him to slip further inside, tilting his head back marginally as he enjoys stretching you out at least with his fat girth—who needs fingers when his cock is right there, right? Just the searing heat of his erection, humping into you with small, easing thrusts to help you get accustomed to him again given your little to no prep. But he stutters inside like he can’t help himself, involuntarily offering more than he intended because you indulge him too much.
Though with how warm and wet you already are as half his length throbs inside your hole, he figures you might not need much prep at all. Perhaps the fact that he’s taking you in public is enough to have you ready for him, cunt choking his cock well enough to have his eyes rolling back before he’s even fully inside, silent behind you in pure focus of filling you full and not much else. Eager to please you as he gradually feeds you the final few aching inches, rolling his hips so gently that he’s forced to hold his breath in fear of whimpering praise for you.
Instead, he shudders out a whispered “Holy shit.” To the room itself. The only witness to his perversions.
Ah, but you make it just so easy for him to fall further. Laying limp to let him support his own weight with two damp palms clutching at your hips, nails biting into your slippery skin just a bit to keep himself upright, else he’s liable to fold in half on top of you. Heaving from the amount of effort it takes to simply stall behind you, giving you a few moments to grow accustomed to the stretch he’s kindly offering as his huffs of air are all the compliments you get. Because though he’d be hard pressed to admit it outright, he needs more than a couple of seconds to catch his breath himself from the sheer tightness surrounding him. Poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek in light frustration over how effortlessly you wind him. Without even trying honestly, rendering him useless to anything but his more primal instincts, feeling compelled to prove himself to you with his ability to make you feel good—just because it’s you. He only ever gives in to you.
And it’s only when you start to squirm on the end of his cock, communicating that you’re ready for him to move again, that he gives in to the urge deep in his stomach with a long, drawn out drag backwards. Reeling at the harsh suck of your hole along his length, all the way up until only his tip remains inside as he hold his breath in preparation for giving you exactly what you’ve been asking for.
Some part of him recognises that you’re talking to him. An echoed plea reverberating amongst the lonely baths, high pitched and needy in a way that triggers his rash behaviour as he pushes forward again, lust pooling in his hips to drive himself forward in an immediate, unfair thrust— an attempt to quell the urgency in your tone. Though he’s not sure exactly what you were begging about, he figures he might have hit the mark as he starts with an eager tempo, offering almost his full fat length in an effort to not slap his balls back against you which would surely get him caught with his pants physically down.
The fast fucks he immediately humps into you with cause bubbles to form around his thighs, greedily splashing water well over the edge now that he’s given in to his desire to fuck you first thing in the morning. Been on his mind all night too, y’know? Tip of his cock making a mess of his sheets, fist aching to fuck himself before heading to the baths to try and calm himself down—and then you show up, soft, cute, coaxing him closer with that stupid little swimsuit and kindness in your heart. Helping him by presenting yourself with easy access, prompting him into disregarding his well taught discipline with a simple flutter of lashes and a pretty pout to boot. It’s gross to know just how down bad he is for you, a sickly sweet intimacy crawling up his spine as you already struggle to keep your enjoyment hidden, and he has to wrap a toned arm around your neck so that he can personally muffle your pretty whines. Not that he particularly wants to, biting down on his tongue to keep his own hidden in favour of hearing your choked sobs instead, but he’s a selfish lover at the end of the day. Eager to keep you all to himself, stifling the whines and the gasps his half humps fuck out of you so that no one else gets to hear how pretty you sound when getting fucked.
And he so desperately wants to praise you for your strained efforts. Wants to commend your cunt for wrapping around him so well, squeezing every hot inch he fucks against her, so warm and wet and his—but if he so much as parts his lips to breathe, he knows for sure he’ll get you caught. Dirty words hidden behind his teeth when his jaw clenches at the muted sounds you struggle to suppress, thighs tense with the effort it takes to simply stay standing. Needing more than anything to completely encase you with himself, wrap you up against his own body to fuck you so full of him that you’re forced to confront the fact that he’s so madly obsessed with how good you make him feel, and that you’re all he ever thinks about.
Though he supposes bouncing you back on his cock in semi public like this might suffice for the time being. The pads of his fingers digging into your cheek as a reminder of his affections for you, as if the increasingly fast fucks weren’t enough. Growing sloppy with himself as he adds an extra inch or two with each subsequent thrust, all in an effort to please you more.
It’s easier to ignore the growing recall of his balls surrounding the room he’s plowing you in when the wet suck of your cunt holds all his attention anyway.
He was right, however. You are loud, enough to grab the attention of anyone who dares to dip in the pools this morning. And despite to the best of his knowledge of secrecy, the idea that someone might be lurking in the shadows, keeping to themselves to watch how well he fucks you over the edge of the bath, listening just as intently as he is to the strangled sounds he refuses to allow pass your lips—God, fuck, the thought alone only makes him hotter. Makes him fuck faster, as much as he can despite the wet ground he stands on, cock sliding inside of your too tight little cunt with ease given how slick you’ve gotten from his attention, dripping into the pools below as he hums with some mixed sense of appreciation and annoyance.
“So good—” he lets slip, embarrassed by the strain present in his tone, but nonetheless allowing a rough groan to escape now that he’s already started yapping, unable to withhold his praise for the way you take his cock any longer, and how nice it feels to be fucking you balls deep in public like this, clinging to you as if his life depended on getting you off first thing in the morning. “Just like that, that’s it.” crooning down at you, laboured breaths fanning across the back of your neck as he leans down just a bit, angling his cock deeper against your insides as his tip kisses precum as far as it can reach. And it doesn’t help that the new position has you gasping louder, whimpering against his trembling palm with barely contained restraint, his head dropping on instinct alone to press against your sticky back, keeping you pinned in place with one hand slipping to your waist to tug at possessively, as if he were sure there were eyes on you and he needed to reassert his dominance.
And it’s almost as if you want to get caught at this rate, pushing back against his every fuck forward in tandem, increasing the loud slap of his balls against your ass with such desperation he can’t even begin to scold, the wet squish of your angel cunt prompting his skin to prickle with increased sensitivity as he feels the urgent need just as strongly. Like the mere existence of you under him is overwhelming, the sounds you’re unable to withhold as he fucks the shape of his cock inside your tight hole with every greedy thrust forward like he’s seeking validation for his efforts causes him to start stuttering. Sloppy with his drives deeper, messy with his affections as he openly pants against your back, cooling your sweat slicked skin as he bullies you against the edge of the tub, letting go of the grip he has on your mouth just to selfishly endure your enjoyment regardless of the risks. It’s much hotter knowing you’re unable to contain yourself when he’s fucking right up to the hilt anyway. A deep sense of worth it urging him to continue ruining you for breakfast.
It’s those risks that has him so hot and eager in the first place anyway. The fact that he’s doing something to you in a place he really shouldn’t; a shared bath house is decidedly not where you should desperately fuck the love of your life over the edge of the pool, drooling a mixture of fluids into the water as if it were home, like it was a private affair shared simply between two lovers and not the town itself. But the fact that his fucks are so wrong to begin with, fervently disregarding privacy in his desires for you, greedy for that pretty pussy choking his cock so well, so fucking good holy shit—knowing that if he were to be caught balls deep in you as he is now, he’d never hear the end of it—that’s what he needs most of all right now. You really shouldn’t be letting him fuck you like this, addicted to the tight fit of your cunt, the way she squeezes him just right, balls taut against your backside as he reluctantly peels himself off of your back, just to push his weight back down on your hips to force your soaked body into a deeper arch for his selfish gratification.
He’s already close. Always quicker than he’d like to be when you’re involved, but can you really blame him? With the way you’re now whimpering without restraint, sighing in that soft, erotic tone he can’t ever deny, he really never had a hope in stopping himself from pure indulgence. Fucking fuller moans out your throat now as he uses your body as an anchor, dragging you back against his pelvis just as much as he buries himself forward to the hilt, a pretty froth of cream adorning the base of his cock as evidence of his good job. He could cum just by looking at that alone, if only he didn’t need you to finish first.
It’s his duty. As your loving, doting, fast fucking boyfriend, he’s supposed to make sure you always cum first.
You make him reckless, your reaction of immediate approval when he drops one hand to between your legs has him compelled to continue, even in spite of your increased volume. He’d tease you for it under normal circumstances, but the needy edge to your tone has his cock throbbing harder, not thinking clearly as he brings his attention to your sensitive little clit, urgently rubbing careless circles against it in a desperate bid to have you creaming his cock as soon as possible, before he acts foolishly first. As seems to be common with you.
He lets out a soft, shuddered sigh at the way your hole clamps down on him harder in response, more demanding as you start to shiver against his touch, evidently appreciating the way he dumbly tries to stroke your clit, even if his actions are more focused on stroking his cock inside of your pretty pussy, wanting to make her all better. “This is all your fault,” he seethes from behind, swallowing a pitchy moan in an attempt to save face, sucking at his teeth to try and stall the inevitable, if only to prolong his own pleasure. Though it’s a bare faced lie—he wanted this just as much as you seem to, if the amount of precum his fat cock fucks out of you is any indication, staining your insides for at least the upcoming week as his own. “Just wanted to relax, and—and fuck,” doesn’t matter what the ill-fitting scolding he was gonna hiss at you with was, because you cut him off perfectly with a rapid rhythm promising to end him. Cunt convulsing around his cock as his hips falter behind you, instinctively rubbing harsher circles against your pretty puffy clit just to make you squirm some more, the sound of your hiccuped moans going straight to his dangerously full balls as his cock pulses with need—just a few more uneven fucks later and he’s collapsing on top of you with a whiny whimper, pained by how good you make him feel.
Thick white ropes shoot from his tip as his pace slows, only offering you half thrusts when your cunt continues to milk him, unable to find his strength to bury balls deep again despite the way he continues rutting against you, fucking his seed deeper with every greedy thrust because he can. And he wants to. Heaving openly above you, panting with sheer bliss when he fills you so full that some of his seed spills out around his stammering fucks, a breathless laugh falling from his bitten lips when he just can’t seem to stop himself, making sure you take every single drop of him and then some before it spills. Nursing his spent and sensitive cock in the warmth of your overstuffed cunt while he still has the chance, while nobody has came to interrupt his lewd display yet.
He only starts to pull out when you begin to actively kick him away, splashing the water in his direction as overstimulation likely takes hold between your legs, and he winces to himself when cum continues to seep from your well loved hole and into the bath water below.
Hopefully Juniper won’t be able to tell later.
Tucking his cock back under his shorts to let the water wash him clean, he leans over your shivering form one more time to make sure you know how thankful he is, and how much he loves you. Leaving a feather-light trail of kisses across your exposed neck, trailing down your spine subtly with an adoring hum filling the space left between your gasps for air. Gently, he shushes you. Not out of annoyance, but as a means to comfort and console you after such hard work, his heart swelling with genuine pride held just for you.
“You okay?” he breathes slow against you, thanking his stamina for the fast recover to allow his focus to rest solely on helping you, hoping that by pressing his heart against your back that you might come down slowly with him. “You did good, so good.” he whispers against your skin, the sudden silence of the tub causes his skin to heat up in soft embarrassment. Hoping to ease some of your potential own, prepared to take the brunt of the bad behaviour if need be. For that kind of fuck again? Absolutely.
Reassured by the sight of your soft nod, he smiles with satisfaction to himself as he pushes up off your back, returning to his previous position in the pool with his back to the edge, settling much more comfortably now that his balls have been drained thanks to your help. A successful morning by all accounts, his muscles now loose, mind calm as he soaks for a moment or two. Allowing you space to collect yourself, though he doesn’t complain when you seek further solace in him by moving to cling to him like a koala. He shifts around to accommodate you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with one arm wrapped around the small of your back to keep you close, the other remaining on the edge to support his own balance.
“C’mere pretty,” he nods against your skin, idly huffing in your scent to further relax. If a hug is what you want, then a hug is what you’ll get, especially after that performance. “Glad you showed up.” he offers, unsure as to whether he’s asking you a question, or communicating a statement.
Though you hum agreement back at him regardless, wrapping your arms loosely around his clammy neck as temperatures cool, and you’re left to bask in the afterglow of his tense muscles.
Just as he does too. Resting in the warm water for the first time since he arrived this morning, stretching his legs out under you with a small, pleased sigh.
But he knows you better than that. Dozing off with the weight of you calming him, it’s not long before his eyes snap back open and his expression tugs into that casual scowl he so often wears.
“Bet you’re relaxed now.” you quip, carrying a mischievous lilt to your voice that’s hard to ignore.
And even after all the kindness he’s shown you today; he tuts back at you. Happy to have served you, but just as happy to put you back in your place. Lying through his teeth for the fun of it, lowering his posture so that just his head is above water and letting the pool heal his efforts before barking back.
summary 𝜗𝜚 the moment they realize they're in love. balor, eiland, hayden, march, ryis x reader (gn in all parts. no use of y/n.) genre fluff, non-established relationship. cw reader is pretty mad at balor in his part. kissing in eiland's. ryis' is a little bittersweet </3. not proofread. wc 4.3k (approx. 750-900 per)
note from zanna first request! i spent practically all day writing this i was fr locked in lol <3 but i had so much fun with this! and happy to have included hayden in the scenario this time he always gives me such domestic cozy thoughts </3 tell me why i struggled with ryis' HE NEEDS TO STOP DOING THIS TO ME i wanted to add more to it but it was giving me such a headache as well. fav one is probably balor's (once again) lmfao. for the bachelor who's personality stumped me the most at first he's become the one that i always get carried away writing for (and i'm not complaining).
BALOR
Balor has broken the news to almost everyone in town already. An offer too good for him to not accept has come up, an opportunity that only presents itself once in a lifetime. The job is all-inclusive: food and housing covered completely, and a hefty income every month to seal the deal. It's nearly three times as good as his current work in Mistria. If Balor had any sense at all, he would snatch up the offer as quickly as possible without a second thought. But for the first time, he finds himself delaying for a reason he's too scared to admit.
The thought of telling you hurts. He can imagine the questions you'd ask him, the look of disappointment on your face, the betrayal you might feel by it. He's hates the thought of turning his back on you like that. Months ago, he had promised you that you would be helping Mistria get on its feet again together. All your work has been intertwined since that day. Every morning when Balor comes to check on your shipping bin before the sun has even risen solidifies that. It's a truth he can't ignore. He works better by your side.
It's the first time he's ever had a partnership quite like this, and he fears it will be the last time, too. Moving away from Mistria for better pay means leaving you behind. There's no world in which he can have both. And now, he has to make the choice. A glamorous life working far, far away from Mistria, or staying in the one place he's started to feel is home.
The decision is tearing him apart piece by piece, and he's never once felt this fragile or indecisive. Months, even weeks ago, he would have packed his bags overnight and left before morning, chasing opportunities as fast as the wind. He's always been selfish, self-preserving, self-obsessed, and any other vain word one could describe him as. Balor has heard them all, and every time has been unable to defend it. It's the truth, after all. There is nothing that drives him quite as much as tesserae in his pocket. Over time, he's tried to embrace it, living year after year as a vagabond.
He's never shown anyone how lonely it can get. No one ever seemed to care. No one, except you.
He's never given his deepest wants any time to consider. He's always been stubborn like that, convinced that this way of life is the only one that suits him. He doesn't deserve stability or a place to settle down. He doesn't need a home—things like that just aren't compatible for him. And who would even want to make a home with him? Who would even give him the chance?
You.
It's always been you, day after day, month after month. Every time you show up at his stall, every morning you eat breakfast with him at the inn, every night you stay up talking in his room at The Sleeping Dragon, spilling your wants and fears and aspirations. You are the first person who has ever made Balor feel a little less alone—that is why he feels so torn at the thought of leaving you. No one has ever cared if he stayed or not, no one bothered to make a strong connection. Only you.
Balor knows as much as he wants to hide this secret from you, word spreads fast in this town. The second he spilled it to Hemlock at breakfast, he knew it was only a matter of time until you got the news.
The knock on his door is desperate and rushed. He doesn't even have time to answer it before you let yourself in, breathless and determined. Balor expected this. There was no way you would let him go without a fight, and that thought makes his heart feel both guilty and loved at the same time.
"You must be out of your damn mind, Balor," you rasp, staring daggers at him. He stands, pushing his hair back in an attempt to get his thoughts together. How is he supposed to say it to your face? How is he supposed to say goodbye to the person who made him feel the most alive?
"Business calls," he mutters, feeling smaller than ever. Where has his shameless pride gone? Why does he feel so shitty about the whole situation? He should be overjoyed. "I answer. You know me… this is what I do."
"So you're leaving just like that?"
"I already overstayed my welcome. Mistria doesn't need me anymore—" Balor tries to argue. It feels weak and useless. He's dancing around the elephant in the room, too scared to address it. You do it for him.
"I need you, Balor. We're supposed to be in this together, a-and now you want to throw it all away for what? A higher salary?" you stammer, your emotions raw on your face.
Balor feels worse than he thought he would. He's quiet, studying you as if you have the answers. The pain in your eyes is clear as day. The crease of your eyebrows is a desperate plea for him to stay, and the way you gnaw at your lip anxiously a silent confession. The realization hits him like a stab to the heart. He can't leave the person he's fallen in love with.
EILAND
Eiland, despite how knowledgeable and observant he can be, is still as dense as the artifacts he discovers. Perhaps its a royal trait passed down on him, or maybe there's a missing connection between his brain and eyes, but he's missed all the signs thus far.
If you weren't so down bad for him you would have found it frustrating. Instead, it's somehow endearing. The entire town is seated for the entertainment of it all—when will Mistria's beloved lord Eiland realize his own feelings?
Juniper has offered to make you a love potion for him to speed up the process. Reina has planned nearly a dozen dinner dates for you, all of which have been perceived as merely platonic by your dear prince. Holt has given you insights to a man's perspective on it, but even he agrees that Eiland is a rare and almost hopeless case. How could someone be so blind to your pursuits?
You're not even sure how much more you can take before you shut up his excited rambling about Aldarian history with your lips. But still, you force yourself to be patient. One of these days, he has to realize your feelings for him, right?
Today is not unlike any other day spent with Eiland. You've made a fresh strawberry cake—sweet whipped cream and juicy berries filling the layers of soft sponge. It's always been Eiland's favourite. You think his excitement every time a dessert is involved is adorable, and you always find yourself feeding his sweet tooth more and more.
Eiland had sent a letter to you this morning about deciphering an ancient scroll he had come across. You make a good team together, uncovering more about Mistria's past than ever before. Eiland gets delighted whenever you find so much as a speck of new information.
Today's work has stumped Eiland. The words you're picking out from the ancient text seems to all be flowery poetry and figuring out what the meaning behind it is proves difficult. The information you have so far is limited. You know the letter is from an old Aldarian king, but neither you or Eiland can figure out who it's addressed to or why the letter was sent.
"Pass over the cake, I'm having no luck with this," Eiland says in defeat. You slide a piece over—already his second—and scoop some up with your spoon. Holding it up to his mouth and prompting him with an 'ah', Eiland doesn't even question it. He opens his mouth and lets you feed him, a satisfied hum following as he closes his eyes to savour the sweet taste. From the corner of the room, you see Elsie winking at you. You smile back knowing exactly what the scene looks like.
There's nothing that says best friends about it. Eiland's desk is a mess of papers and pens, always enough stationary for both of you, always set up for two. His chair is pulled up right next to yours; too close to not suggest something different. And then there's the way he relaxes next to you every time, as if your mere presence reminds him to relax the tension in his shoulders and let his neck have a rest from hunching over his desk all day.
To the outside eye, it couldn't be more clear. But Eiland still lives oblivious day by day.
Your eyes draw back to the scroll laying on the desk, shifting back and forth between the text and feeding Eiland spoonfuls of cake. You notice one of the words at the top of the letter, almost entirely worn away but just barely legible. Juniper had talked about ways ancient Mistrians' referred to their lovers while trying to help you with Eiland. You recognize the word to mean dearest lover.
You straighten in surprise, losing hold of the spoon in the process in a way that causes some cream smear to the side of Eiland's lips. He opens his eyes again in response to your startle, noticing the spark in your eyes as you piece it all together.
"It's a love letter, Eiland! The king was writing to his dearest lover—look here," you exclaim, pointing to the top of the scroll again. Eiland leans down in excitement, gasping at the detail he had somehow missed.
You get lost in the way his lips turn up in a smile and earrings sway. The shimmer in his purple eyes drawing you closer and the bit of whipped cream on his lip tempting you further. You reach out to wipe it away. Eiland's breath catches in his chest. You're suddenly very close, perhaps too close. He tries to distract himself.
"So the ancient nobles used poetry to win over their lovers… How… romantic…" he whispers, eyes drawn back to yours. His cheeks are dusted with blush all over.
"What about modern day nobles?" you ask quietly, drawing yourself ever closer to Eiland. He takes a breath, considering it carefully.
"I think… they tend to be a bit bolder nowadays."
Your heart soars when you hear that, knowing you've finally got him. When you lean in, his lips are sweeter than you could have imagined. Perhaps its the lingering taste of the strawberry cake, but you have a feeling that Eiland always tastes like this. Whichever it is, you'll have many more months to find out, because when Eiland pulls away, flushed a bright red in shyness, he looks at you with only one emotion in his eyes: love.
HAYDEN
The scene is perfectly domestic in a way that makes Hayden almost shiver. The sun is just starting to peek through the windows of his cottage casting golden beams on the counter-top of the kitchen and the couch where you sit. Henrietta is in your arms, happier than he's ever seen her, and something feels unmistakably right about it all.
You had stopped by his farm early this morning, still sleepy and hair clearly not brushed yet, asking if you could have breakfast with him. Who was he to say no to that adorable sight?
Ever since the news of a new farmer moving into town reached Hayden, he's been curious about you. You became good friends within a few weeks, but something started to shift lately. Over the past six months, you've started putting extra effort into ranching on your own farm, and your passion for it is undeniable. Hayden has always loved like-minded people, those who understand his love for animals and how precious they are. Someone who also wants to spend their life caring for them. Seeing you like that made something in his heart shift. You're kind, patient, perseverant… you fit all of Hayden's standards almost too well.
Love is a tricky subject for Hayden to tackle. He's always felt content in his independent life, alone with his animals for company. It's never felt lonely. There was never anything "missing". He's seen Josephine and Hemlock, Nora and Holt be perfect lovebirds, running the town through the strength of their strong marriages. Hayden has watched their families grow and the town become more lively because of it.
But he loves the quiet life, the routines, the farm-work. He loves Mistria with all his heart, even if the town was far too small for the chance of meeting new people. Everyone knew that newcomers arriving to Mistria was rare. The small community was part of its charm. Growth was a hard thing to achieve.
But when you arrived after the earthquake, determination in your eyes, and a goal that everyone could see, you started to shake Hayden's small world. Every improvement you made to the town: helping with repairs, boosting sales, growing more food locally—made impacts bigger than anyone else ever had before. For the first time, the small town of Mistria started to grow bigger than it ever had.
Hayden has always admired your work ethic. You never seem to tire, and are always up for a new challenge. You learn quickly, are amicable with everyone, and generous beyond nature. But he also adores the faults he's seen in you too. How short-tempered you can be when you reach a stumbling block, your mutters under your breath trying to keep up with all your tasks, and your panic whenever you arrive back home so late your animals have fallen asleep outside. You're not perfect, but you always keep moving forward, and Hayden couldn't ask for anything more in a person.
These thoughts surrounding you swirl in his head as he cracks a few eggs into a sizzling frying pan. They're still warm, freshly laid this morning. Next comes beautifully browned pieces of toast, slathered with butter he had mixed up just two days ago from a fresh batch of cream. Hayden takes pride in his animals and their produce. Happy, healthy animals means fresh, nourishing food.
He sets down the plates on the table and you shoot your head up at the smell. Henrietta squawks, hopping off your lap, allowing you to rise and join Hayden at the breakfast table.
"Looks delicious, Hayden! Thank you, this'll wake me right up," you say, rubbing away the last bits of sleep from your eyes and smiling at him. Hayden's breath catches, strong hands gripping the back of his chair. He waits for you to take a seat before settling down too, eyes never able to leave you.
Maybe it's something about the angelic quiet of the morning, or the soft glow of the sun streaming on your face. Hayden can't help but imagine spending every morning just like this, making you breakfast, talking about the plans for the day. A gentle companionship, something that wouldn't take away from the life he's already built. When Hayden thinks about it, he realizes how perfectly you already fit into it. The way you greet his animals on your way inside. The way Henrietta bawks excitedly at your arrival every time. The way his lips can't help but burst into a breathless smile when he sees you.
Maybe—Hayden thinks—this is what love feels like.
MARCH
Your daily routine confuses March. You spend all day running around, completing different errands. Some days you're planting a new field of seeds. Others, you're delivering something for Adeline. And at least three times a week you're at the mines, digging deeper for fresh ore and gemstones. Your schedule has been busy since the first day you arrived, and March cannot imagine having so much energy and excitement for everything. It makes him exhausted just seeing it.
But what keeps him pondering is how you always take time out of your day to talk to him. Usually you have some ore to give him as well. In the beginning, he tried to refuse it, feeling as though accepting it would hurt his pride in some way. After months, he's learned how determined you are. There's no refusing you anything. You'll always find your way to do what you want, and that includes giving him freshly harvested minerals daily.
Your streak is almost impressive… not like March has been keeping track or anything. You're nearing almost six whole months straight without missing a single day. You're always stopping by first thing in the morning or late at night before heading home—not like he's paid close attention to that—so when the clock strikes 1AM and March still hasn't seen you all day, he starts to wonder what's keeping you. You've never been this late before.
March can't sleep. He tosses and turns in his bed; his pillow feels too warm despite it being a chilly Autumn night, and his blankets scratch and irritate his skin. Why didn't he see you today? Have you finally decided to stop pursuing him so stubbornly? Has he finally gotten rid of you for good? No more interrupted work at the forge? No more bracing himself when he sees you across town and knowing you'll start sprinting towards him any second?
If that's the case, then he should be happy. He's wanted that since the first day you arrived and started bothering him like it was your only daily mission. But… he's not happy at the thought. In fact, he feels the opposite. His chest tightens and his mind is cloudy when he thinks of his day ending without seeing you, without talking to you.
At first, your daily conversations were something he tried to end as fast as possible. But now he's gotten used to them, and perhaps even… looks forward to them. But no, he shouldn't care. If you decide to stop whatever routine you've crafted for the past six months, March won't even bat an eye. His life was fine before you came into it. He can easily go back to pretending like you don't exist.
But he still can't sleep, and the thought still continues to bother him throughout the night.
At 5AM, he gives up trying to sleep. A hot shower and fresh clothes does enough to hide his eye bags, and although he's tired, he has enough energy to start on a new order for tools at the forge. It's a bit early to start business, but it beats staring at the ceiling while you race in his mind. He's starting to get annoyed by how you refuse to leave his head. You decided to not stop by to see him, yet you won't let him stop thinking about you for even a second? Unfair.
He's able to ignore the pit in his stomach for a few hours as he works, getting half the order finished by lunch time. There's still been no sign of you. Just as he's accepting that his suspicions are confirmed—you really have decided to give up your daily visits—he squints over at the fountain. There you are.
He averts his eyes immediately. He can't look too excited to see you again, or you'll never let live it down. But still, he sets down his tools and wipes his hands on his apron, preparing for the impending conversation.
"Morning, March!" you say, cheery as ever.
"It's afternoon," he points out, stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning towards you. Damn, you look prettier than usual.
"You're right—guess I'm a bit late," you shrug, opening up your bag and sifting through it.
"Where were you yesterday? You didn't stop by," March asks, trying to sound as uninterested as possible, even as his heart races to know the reason. If you've stopped by like usual, then surely his original thought must be wrong. You still like seeing him every day… right?
"Ah, I was at the mines!" you explain, biting back a smile. "I lost track of time, though. By the time I got out, I was about to pass out. Plus, I'm sure you were already asleep. It was way past 1AM." He was definitely still awake at 1. He would've opened the door for you. "And look what I found while I was down there!"
You pull out a shiny piece of metal from your bag and plop it into March's hands. He holds it up, studying it. The most perfect gold ore he has ever seen. It's too rare to be turned into a regular bar—heck, it should probably get displayed somewhere. He's never seen a piece of metal so flawless.
"For you!" you grin, eagerly awaiting a response. March just gulps, hoping his red ears don't give him away completely.
God, what have you done to him?
RYIS
When Ryis first started taking orders over from his uncle, he often found it overwhelming doing everything by himself. He's good at his craft, and enjoys it fully, but the demand could easily overload his own ability to keep supplying. But, ever since you've started taking on more jobs with him, he's felt that burden lessen. You're not just a great farmer, but an excellent carpenter, too. Ryis has always found himself drawn to passionate people. Perhaps your talent is what keeps him so invested in you. Hours a week spent in your company still isn't enough for what he craves.
You've been quite productive this morning, stopping by the shop early and getting straight to work on a new set of bookshelves for a library commission. The birds singing has been your background noise, and you flow together with Ryis so naturally anyone would think you've been working together for years. In truth, it's only been a few weeks.
"You know, you're quite like a bird yourself," you say offhandedly, catching Ryis' attention from the other side of the porch. He's at his workbench, biting at his pencil (a habit he can't seem to quit) while thinking of what type of wood would hold up the best for the main bookshelf. It'll have to hold a lot of weight, and given the ornaments and embellishments the commissioner wants, he'll need to pick a wood both sturdy and easy to carve. Mahogany is probably his best bet, although it'll be expensive to supply. You're sorting through some of Landen's old toolboxes, searching for broken pieces and signs of wear.
"How so?" Ryis prompts, turning a fresh piece of paper over to sketch a new print idea.
"You and all your sisters growing up together in your parent's bakery—your "nest", so to speak. But you couldn't stay forever. Birds have to learn to fly on their own eventually. I think it's brave of you to be the first one to take that step. You took a leap of faith, and now look at you? You're soaring," you grin.
Ryis flushes a little. You spell out the thought that he's has had for a long time so clearly. Like you extracted the exact ideas he's had in his head and put them into words. His fascination with birds has always come from a feeling of solidarity. But it's also mixed with admiration (he's sure that anyone could tell that much).
He envies their innate ability to survive and adjust. Birds, upon close observation, have distinct patterns and behaviours. They always seem to know exactly what to do during each stage of life. Migrating south, returning to certain forests for mating, or even the best spots to find food for their young. The many guidebooks he owns on them gives him all the secrets he needs to appreciate all the native species. Their similarities and their differences. He finds a piece of himself in all of them.
Ryis wishes there were a similar guidebook to tell him what he should be doing with his life. You tell him that he's soaring, but most day's he isn't too sure. He misses home; his parents, his sisters, the bakery. At the same time, he's doing his best to make a new home for himself here. He loves living with his uncle and taking over the carpentry business. It feels fulfilling enough. But he feels lonely sometimes too.
"You seem quiet. Thinking?" you inquire, walking over to his bench and pulling up a stool.
"You know, I've always felt a little conflicted. Most days, I feel so glad I took the risk and moved here. I love how closely-knit the town feels. I love seeing how much I can help out. I love having nature in my backyard and waking up to the sound of birds chirping," he smiles. You can't fully decipher the mix of emotions behind his eyes.
"But I also miss the Capital. My family was always busy with business. Even with me and all my sisters, we somehow always felt short-staffed at the bakery. It was always loud… chaotic at times, too. But it felt like home, you know? And, I miss it…"
You pass him a sympathetic smile. "Homesick?"
He nods, biting on his pencil again. Melancholy is an emotion you don't like on Ryis. For someone who shines so brightly in your eyes, he looks deflated. But even in his down-turned state, he's still beautiful. You trace your eyes over his chocolate skin, strong calloused hands that suggest the years he's put into his craft, his deep brown eyes that have stared at you with both wonder and excitement.
Ryis glances back at you, granting a smile that tell you not to worry. He doesn't have to say it out loud for you to know. You make Mistria feel more and more like home every day. With every look and every conversation. Every project you complete together, and each hour you spend birdwatching with him. It's all been adding up faster than Ryis can keep up, but he doesn't need a guidebook to know that he's fallen so in love with you.
march (fields of mistria)/f! reader | 7.4k | read it on ao3
march has a problem. he's got this frustrating feeling coming from the depth of his chest at the lack of interaction with you. so when he's already stomped off out of the inn barely having seen you all day, his anger is tested when the face he's been dying to see greets him by his front door.
smut, dry humping, headlock, piv, thigh job, no use of y/n
i highly recommend reading this fic as well, another march/reader so incredibly well done it has me in a chokehold (hehe)
⁺₊⋆main masterlist < moved to the new blog
the weather in mistria has only just started to become bearable again.
the forge is another story altogether, searing white hot metal never giving march any respite from the high temperatures, so when the gusts of colder wind started getting more common, he took a deep whiff of the early autumn air. yeah, it's getting better now. what hasn't been getting better, though, is the heat he still felt on the back of his neck, spreading down to his chest and up into his cheeks — the shade of which could rival that of his hair when freshly dyed — every time you came by to say hi.
really, he shouldn't have stuttered that much, not when all he did was echo your own words, but there's something about the way you seem to see him that has him stumble over his words and feet, not knowing where to look first, your smile or your outstretched hand that's handing him the most perfect iron ore he's ever laid eyes on or… something even more perfect. something that he definitely shouldn't be staring at like some kind of pervert, definitely shouldn't be plagued with images of how it would feel to touch, squeeze, kiss, bite, fuck… no, he definitely shouldn't be thinking about your breasts.
despite telling himself it's probably a normal reaction to seeing someone you're deeply attracted to — though it took him an eternity to admit even that to himself — march still feels a little bit of shame, awkwardness, an unsettling bubbling at the bottom of his stomach that keeps reminding him that he's no longer just satisfied being good at what he does… no, sometimes he curses the feeling of want that bubbles up in his chest and head and… abdomen. the want that follows him for the rest of the day when he's left there trying to remember what the glob of red hot metal on the anvil is supposed to be turning into.
you seemed to have become really good at this in such a short time, at scrambling his brains to the point where he stopped knowing when his thinking got sidetracked from work, work, more work, and work again. and work is the furthest thing from his mind now, when all he's focused on is the fact that you only came by for a second, already on your way to the museum… or the mines… or fishing. he didn't register the words you chirped at him and eiland. he couldn't have, when you waved and smiled and just… looked like that.
it bothers him now that you barely breezed past him all day today, he couldn't help but wonder when you'd come by to actually talk to him so he could talk to someone other than olric and ryis that he actually enjoys being around while he's sober.
not that he'd admit it, of course. at least not quite yet.
it's already so late that the street lights have started attracting bugs, everyone has gathered at the inn, and he's scanning the room in hopes of seeing your figure mingling with the townspeople, grabbing something to eat from reina, playing along with whatever elsie may be gossiping about, or really just sitting there trying not to get lost in the endless swirling sea of chatter. but nothing. not a peep, not a glimmer of your grin at the large door. the night keeps getting more and more hopeless for march.
the crowd stays as lively as ever, and he usually doesn't mind, not when he's slowly feeling lighter and lighter, gently swaying on his feet as he hiccups and slurs along with the rest of the townsfolk when they decide it's high time for a sing-along. tonight, though, whatever drink hits his tongue feels like ash, dead and grey and horrid, making his stomach turn.
"where ya goin'?" olric looks at him, one eye open and leaning back on his chair. a dangerous choice, march imagines at least five tragic outcomes of this action.
"home. not feeling well." he rubs a hand on his stomach to emphasise his point, though he's been sour all evening, nobody could doubt him even if they were sober enough to do so. and with a halfhearted wave of his hand he turns and leaves them all behind as he walks out into the night. march gives himself exactly two seconds to feel the breeze in the air before his face returns to the scowl that so many people know on him.
an entire day has passed, he thinks while making his way back home, and you barely came by. an entire day and you gave him the same smile that you give everyone else. even eiland got the same treatment, he got to smell your very light perfume as you fluttered past them on your way west with a sword strapped to your back. now his mood sours even more.
a rock lands a few steps ahead as he's kicking it on the way to his house, focusing more on its path to avoid his mind going to other places. the places he really shouldn't be entertaining. the places where his jealousy will get the better of him. where he'll imagine the rock is eil—
"fuck!" he groans, shaking the thought out of his head, knowing it will get him nowhere other than into a spiral of jealousy and hardly covered up aggression towards everyone that speaks to him — something he knows he should work on, but not when it means admitting that he wanted to be the special one, the person you'd smile at the most, the person that could make you at least as flustered as you make him.
"march, hi!" a voice as light as the breeze stops him as he's about to forcefully push open the front door. his head whips around, ears as hot as the sand in the summer, cheeks tingling with the blush that's spreading across them with no help from the beer this time.
"h-hi."
march tries, he really does, to keep a hold on at least some of that frustration, because what's coming for him may be worse. he keeps a grip on the corners of his lips, willing them not to rise. he keeps his fists balled up, not letting himself run a hand through his hair, though there's no point in fixing it since you've already seen him in all his sweaty and messy glory.
"back so early?" you chirp, leaning against the anvil by the entrance, standing at a very comfortable distance from him. maybe a little too comfortable.
"not feeling the crowd. and you? back so late?" he nods at you, keeping one fist against the door where he froze it when you caught up to him.
"got… a little sidetracked." you chuckle, a devastating sound. "not feeling the crowd either."
he lowers his gaze, seeing the way your leg slightly wobbles, almost struggling to hold your weight. the way you still smile at him despite so clearly being hurt is enough to make his walls drop, at least until he can be mad at you safely again.
"what's up with your leg?" he asks, as cold as he can make himself be when all he wants is to kneel in front of you and fix you up if you let him.
"ah! it's fine, actually, just a sprain probably."
"a sprain doesn't bleed." march scoffs, pushing himself off the door and allowing himself a few steps towards you, where he can now see just how tightly your fingers are gripping the edge of the anvil, knuckles going pale against the dark steel. "either you walk inside with me or i throw you over my shoulder. your choice."
he watches you squirm, not that bright and cheerful anymore, not when you need to accept help. from him. a breath of relief escapes him when you let go of the anvil and hobble along with him, walking into the shop while he secures the lock after you. march should be used to seeing you here at this point. it's been the place where you bothered him the most at first, always chatting away with olric while he was concentrating on very detailed work at his desk, but at the same time trying to will his ears not to perk up every time you giggled at something his brother said. he can't have been that funny…
every so often he caught you looking over his shoulder, trying to sneak a peek at his latest project, and every time he'd go to protect it from your view out of pure habit, not thinking you would be interested in what he's doing but instead tease him for it. it feels weird to him not to try and cover up everything he's worked on this time, to just let you limp over to his chair and nearly sit, but it slides away from you, and you're falling, falling…
"done playing brave and strong?" he huffs, having lunged forward to grab you before you managed to land on the floor. you serve him a smile, a sly little curve barely visible in the darkness before the lights flicker on, but he just clicks his tongue, refusing to feel the warmth that crawls up to his cheeks. it's not fair, not fair at all how you get him flustered at the drop of the hat. it's not fair how his heart keeps hammering against his ribs, so loud in his ears, echoing so hard he's half-certain you could hear it. his grip on you tightens, and without much ceremony he lifts you up, hooking his other arm under your knees.
that might have been a mistake on his part, because as he's making his way to his bedroom — where the bed he's planning to place you on won't slip from under you — all he can smell is your scent. in his head he's seeing you breeze past him like so many times already, making him want to drop everything and follow in your every step like a puppy, the same way that he wanted to drop his hammer this morning, eiland's requests be damned…
march grits his teeth, not caring that you can so clearly hear it as your head is leaning against his chest — a feeling he knows he'll definitely revisit when he's not trying to push down the betrayal rising in his stomach — but the sight of your brilliant smile as your light steps took you away today keeps flashing before his eyes. he pushes the door open with his knee, slowly lowering you down onto the edge of the bed where you immediately sink into the mattress with your wounded leg outstretched. without a word, he reaches for the box of random stuff he got from valen a while ago where it sits forgotten on the bottom shelf.
just from a quick glance your way — another mistake on his part — he decides not to believe his eyes. you most certainly, definitely, absolutely did not just check him out. at least as far as he's ready to believe. not when he's bent over like that, his trousers maybe a little too short now, in need of fixing some stitching… no, it must have been his mind playing tricks. he feels his cheeks warm up too fast, damn it, and he hides the colour in his face in the darkness, avoiding the little lamp on his bedside table as much as he can.
he puts the box down on the bed beside you, glad to have an excuse not to look you in the eyes as he kneels down in front of you, shrugging his jacket off and throwing it over the chest at the foot of the bed before carefully taking the leg you've been sparing into his hands and examining it. not too bad, he decides as the box opens and he fishes out everything he needs, just in a very awkward place. you shouldn't be moving your foot too much as you'd most likely just keep it agitated, not allowing the wound to close properly if it doesn't get any rest. and knowing you…
"how did you manage this?" he says with a scoff.
you shift on the mattress, no doubt trying to see his careful hands working the bandage around your ankle and calf with such precision.
"stupid rock exploded too close to me." you murmur, still looking down at him, a fact he's a little too aware of now, feeling your eyes pierce his skin like a million heated needles.
"i— exploded?" he lifts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. but that… that may have been the biggest mistake he's made so far with you. because what meets him there is your pretty face illuminated only by the warm glow of the lamp beside you, keeping half of your face hidden in the shadow, but the side that's light? golden. like the sun itself. march has to remind himself to breathe in that moment, replaying the last few seconds of your conversation to himself as if to restart at the last chapter. "what the hell is happening in those mines?"
you chuckle, sighing once he returns to tightening the bandage on your leg. "stuff i neither can nor want to think about right now. it's… interesting down there. full of wonders. oh, and—" you reach into your pocket and take out a small, but brilliant piece of what seems to be—
march inhales sharply, nearly dropping your leg on the floor. your heel rests on his thigh as his hands fly upwards to cup the item you're handing him. the most incredible, beautiful piece of gold ore he's seen in his life. gold. actual perfect gold ore. the exact size he would need to examine on his desk, too. he takes it from your hand, gulping as your fingers brush against each other, and leans over to the light to get a better view. his breath hits your hand, something he becomes aware mere moments after it happens. his chest is pressing against your legs, face so close to your thighs he can feel the warmth radiating from your body.
he dares not move for a while. even if it kills him.
pretty sure his heart stopped there for a few moments and started again when you cleared your throat and spoke, march pulls away to move from you. he busies himself with putting the rest of the bandages into the box and crawling away to put it back on the shelf, not trusting his legs to work after this.
"so you like it?" you ask, not letting your eyes leave his figure while he's making himself not return the gaze.
"like it?" he scoffs, finally sitting on the floor in front of you. "it's perfect. it's literally in the name. perfect gold ore. i love it."
however, his face drops when that quick mind of his lands on something he doesn't want to think about anymore. was this really for him or was it as fleeting a gift as your smile that morning. he can't believe he's still bothered by it, it shouldn't matter, not when you're right here in front of him, and if he were to look at you properly instead of relying on his peripheral vision, he'd see a softer version of that same curve on your lips, this time just for him.
"well good," you lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees as he puts the piece of ore away, "because i had a feelin' you'd like it. love it, whichever. that's the only reason why i went to get it." march tilts his head to the side, raising a brow at you. "what? i really did. knew i should've gone back up to the surface at that point, at least to catch you before you go to the inn but—"
the bed barely has time to creak before march shuts you up with his lips on yours.
his hand is warm, rough, cupping the side of your head almost too tenderly, as if he's afraid you'll melt like a piece of metal on his anvil. his lips are clumsy, trying to give and take at the same time, unsure of what he actually wants to do, but luckily you're moving along with him, letting him try to kiss you with the intensity that he feels in his chest. his breath escapes into your mouth between two very needy kisses, hot and quick, and it takes a second before you're reaching behind his back and tangling your fingers into his hair.
it's hard to stop once he starts, nearly impossible, because you're responding so perfectly. because all of a sudden march's knees are digging into the mattress too, and he's pressing you down into it, caging you between strong arms flexing when he's holding up his weight on them and the knee that's slotted between your thighs. your hands, your damn hands gently go along the back of his head, making his entire body shiver and nearly collapse on top of you. he's barely holding onto the reins his own desire, the beast that's been banging on the inside of his chest for far too long to be contained now, it's demanding to be fed, demanding to get satisfaction between your bodies.
your little moan against his bottom lip almost ends him.
march is almost completely surrendered when you slide his headband off and toss it aside, making space to trail your wandering hands all over his scalp. it's nearly burning up with excitement, but fear as well. fear that he's not doing it right, that he's messing up by being too eager — something he doesn't even know how to stop at this point — but your body arches up into him regardless, and that thought simply evaporates out of his mind.
it feels natural, having your curves pressed against his body, feeling your waist under his callused palm so warm to touch. march never thought he'd get here, feeling your softness and the goosebumps on your sides. but now that he is, he's not ready to part with the sensation.
until you tug on his hair.
and he fucking groans into your mouth.
and you buck your hips upward, rubbing yourself against his thigh.
and he's sinking deeper into this spiral of want.
and sinking.
and losing his mind.
and his lips find your neck, deciding to kiss it just to feel your pulse quicken under them.
driven completely by his body moving before he has time to think, he lowers his body against yours, not completely stopping you from rutting against his thigh, but making it a little harder, in turn feeling your movements against his crotch. he's beyond saving as soon as his hips move as well. rolling with the grace he never knew he had, what may only be described as a desperate rolling of waves one over another, he's breathing hard against your neck, fighting the urge to bite you — as punishment for making him so needy. as punishment for ignoring him. as punishment for being so tantalising with your soft yet strong body and your warm neck and your pretty, pretty moans that have him scrambling to stay alive.
the heat from his body seems to be pooling in his cheeks as well as in his abdomen, that tightness that he's somewhat used to now increasing at least tenfold, overwhelming when he's rolling his hips against you, and he's certain there is only one way this can end. march can't hold it in anymore, he licks a stripe up your neck and bites down, letting himself groan against your wet skin, gripping your pliant body like he needs it to stay afloat. the pleasure is quickly taking over him, taking over any and every molecule of his being that's telling him to pull back, pull himself together, pull away and stay calm. he's done staying calm.
the way you throw your head back might just be his undoing. he's moving faster, chasing after something he thought he shouldn't want while you helplessly lift your hips to rub yourself against his leg like that, moaning and whimpering in frustration, like it's there for you as well — that finish line glowing golden behind your eyelids. march tightens his hold on your waist, lying pressed against you while your fingers tug on his hair. it's right there, he can feel it, if only he can—
the whine that leaves your lips is heavy. he's never heard a sound so powerful, and with a stutter of your hips he knows you've found your peak. the heat is even stronger in his abdomen, he presses a little harder against you, replaying that tight sound in his mind until he's cursing into the warm skin of your neck, bucking his hips like a desperate animal while release takes over him, covers his brain with wool, stuffs his ears with it, until the only things he can feel are the echo of your pleasure in his mind and the cum leaking from his oversensitive cock.
the only sounds in march's room are two breathing patterns intertwined together as you lie trapped underneath him.
somewhat tentatively, your hand leaves the messy strands of his fiery red hair to glide down between his shoulder blades. he shivers at the tenderness with which your fingers touch him, sliding just under the fabric of his shirt to feel the muscles underneath. he should move. he really should. he should get off you and make sure he doesn't catch your leg that should be resting, get cleaned up… should he help you clean up as well? probably, maybe it would be the nice thing to do when he just used your body to get off, even if it is in his pants.
but you just keep… holding him there. not pushing him away, not making him get off you once you got your fill too, so he just tries to… lean into it. he lets go of your waist and instead digs his hands under your body to embrace you and hold you against him. he hasn't done that before, and yet the touch feels familiar. like something he's been craving but didn't know it. like something he might even be able to get used to.
but it soon comes to an end when you squirm underneath him, adjusting your hips so he's not crushing you completely.
"can you… i need to take these off." you request, and it takes him a moment to realise you mean your underwear. oh. he scrambles off you, cursing as he knocks the edge of the bed with his foot, and he helps you sit up. as he stands there in front of you he can hardly look away, not when you pause with your fingers hooked under the waistband of your pants, not when you chuckle and continue the movements anyway, not when he can feel the wet patch on his pants, not even when he gets hard again, only minutes after blowing his load to the feel of you.
"you're just gonna—" he starts, but one look at your smirk only tells him he should be making a move himself.
"are you not gonna give me something to change into?"
he's forgetting where his clothes are, where his mind has gone, where he is. quickly, he grabs the first thing he can reach, a change of clothes that should be okay for you, but there's no way he's letting you walk out of here, at least not tonight. wounded leg and all, of course.
you've already changed into his clothes by the time he decides he probably should've looked away, the blush on his face may as well be permanent, the way it creeps back as soon as he shakes off the dream-like feeling that wraps around his body and mind every few moments. wow, you must think he's some kind of a loser, the way he reacted as soon as you told him you had done something for him just because. and he might be… he very well might be. an absolute loser, who can't think much further than how he's going to do that with you again, get you to touch him like you just did, gently caressing his back like you don't want to ignore him and breeze past him in the mornings.
"come on." you murmur, and he notices that you've already got yourself into his bed.
into it. not on. covered with his duvet, pushing your hair to the side as you lie down on the cold white pillow.
"you want me to—" he points at the empty space behind you, and you wreck him by giggling.
"i'm not going home tonight, march." you say as if it's the most normal sentence in the world. "and i'm not sleeping on the floor. neither are you, come on."
march moves in slow motion.
his steps are a line of half-remembered movements that somehow lead him to the edge of the bed again. he grumbles as he takes his shirt off, throwing it over the jacket on the chest at the foot of the bed, following it by his pants and underwear that he replaces when he turns around to not risk you taking an accidental glance. almost naked, almost completely bare, he slides under the covers and immediately faces away from you, but there's no escaping the feeling of your body so close to him. surely there's no way he got addicted to feeling your touch after only a few minutes… surely, it must be something else, it must be the weather getting into the real autumn mood, the air cooling down enough to where he's going to have to think about wearing actual clothes to bed instead of barely covering himself in order to not soak the sheets with sweat.
then he feels the duvet shake a little as your body shivers.
"what was that?" he murmurs, half turning to your side of the bed. well, his side, but yours for the night.
"what?" you ask, pulling the covers over you a little tighter.
"you're cold?"
"yep."
he sighs, trying to find a way out of this. there isn't a spare blanket, but he could give you more clothes. he's about to get up and hand you some when your hand closes around his.
"come closer."
now a shiver runs down his spine. march turns his head and sees you curled up on the side of his bed, so still, odd when he's used to you fluttering around town always on your way to the next thing. but you're gently pulling him a little closer — and he gives in.
his body slots against yours like a puzzle piece.
march tries not to breathe as he lies down again, his chest pressed against your back, very keenly aware of the softness of your ass against his crotch. still hard. unlikely to go down soon. or ever. you don't let go of his hand, instead leading him to drape his arm over your torso, leaving his palm to just… sort of dangle there. halfway between your navel and your chest, and march knows where he'd rather have it — if he were brave enough, of course. still, he keeps a little bit of distance between his face and the back of your head, just so he's not forced to inhale your scent and get lost in it all over again. it has to get easier, he can't be aware of every heartbeat in these four walls forever.
"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses you, huffing as he flexes his fingers across the slightly uncovered skin of your stomach, "enjoy playing with my feelings?"
your laugh is quick, soft, and completely disarming.
"stars forbid a girl wants some body heat from a cute blacksmith."
march shakes his head, refusing to let the corners of his lips quirk up at that. "cute?"
"aren't you?" he can hear the smile in your voice. you're bold. toying with him like this when he doesn't even know where he stands with you… or even himself.
"shouldn't you tell me that?"
"i wouldn't do this… with just anyone, march." he rolls his eyes at you. "i'll tell you again… in the morning when i'm not as… tired." your voice keeps trailing off, so he knows you must be telling the truth, you're surely about to pass out any second now, what from the exhaustion of mining, what from the drop in adrenaline of… he chases the memory out of his head.
"sure. good night." march closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind of the images of you. you from just a few minutes ago, arching into him seeking release. you from earlier tonight, smiling at him like you're ecstatic to have run into him before he made it to bed. you from this morning, smiling at him — and only him in his head — as you waved and hurried off to find something to gift him. sometimes he feels like an absolute idiot, pining in silence and torturing himself instead of just laying it out there and giving you a chance to accept him as he is — flustered, clueless, and desperately horny for you.
march can feel your breathing slow down as the clock ticks on.
he's already used up his bravery for the day — hell, maybe even a month — but your skin is so warm he can't resist but slowly move his hand until it's resting above your heartbeat. there's something soothing about it, the rhythm even and constant, that makes march's head feel lighter, lighter, lighter as he rests with his eyes closed and finally decides he can let go of consciousness.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
the door to march's bedroom open with a loud creak.
olric stumbles into the room, apologising to the hinges, the floor, the wall, and march takes those few seconds to snap out of the initial panic and… panic even more once he realises you're still in his bed. that wasn't a dream, and he can't have his brother finding out about it, even if he is completely wasted by the sounds of it.
"h-hey march!" he slurs, half-yelling as he holds onto the door frame. "ya missed out! ha, reina mixed sum stuff an' let m' be her guinea pig!"
in a moment of sheer desperation, march tries to cover you up as much as possible, shielding you from view with his body and the covers. your soft, cold hand rests on his forearm where it presses against your neck, and only then does he realise he's got you in a headlock. but… you're not pulling it away. if he could show his reaction to you, he might even be shocked, albeit a little aroused as well, but you're holding his arm like this is the best placement for it.
"what the shit?" march mumbles, louder than intended. thankfully, olric took it as a reply to him.
"he-hey man, tomorrow! you gotta come t'morrow! don't ca— oh damn," he stumbles, barely saving himself from the fall by grabbing onto the door knob, "care if yer stomach hurts you goooootta come!"
you're quiet, march has to give you credit for it, but your pulse is quickening under his forearm, and it's doing something to him. he's getting uncomfortably hard, the bulge in his underwear precisely pressing against your body, the feeling of which is not helping him right now. march can feel your smile widen, the muscles on your cheeks shifting and he reflexively tightens his hold on you, saying this is not the moment. but you've never been one to listen.
with slow, barely there movements, you're lowering your hands under the covers and march has to try and move along with you to not put unnecessary attention to what's really going on in his bed.
"olric, leave me alone, i was just about to fall asleep." march grumbles, loud enough to cover up the sound of fabric being dragged along the sheets. you've successfully taken off the clothes that he gave you earlier. oh he's done for. rock hard and in a pickle, trying to be loud enough for his brother to not hear, but not loud enough to draw attention to his movements. "we'll talk tomorrow, just… let me sleep." his arm flexes against your neck, bicep twitching on your cheek to try and warn you, but you don't stop. instead, you're already shifting, hand reaching behind you to brush against his aching bulge, and he's doing all he can — which is really nothing — to stop himself from bucking into your touch.
he recalls the feeling of your pliant body as he was grinding his hips against you, your hands tugging on his hair, your moans… he needs it all again, but this time he's not sure he could be satisfied with just that. it's a slippery slope, having you here freshly undressed and looking for trouble, because you're already reaching into his underwear, wrapping that cold hand around his cock. his brother is apologising to the door for bumping into it again, but march can't even roll his eyes at it because fuck you feel so good, slowly stroking him so good he's instinctively pressing closer against you in search for more of your warmth. you're so soft, his cock is flush against your ass now and it takes him more self-control than he has available to stop himself groaning against the back of your head.
"you said sumthin?" olric murmurs, finally having finished his conversation with the door.
"no!" march exclaims, too loud, too panicked, "just go…" he can't take it anymore, not with your gentle hand guiding him, your legs parting slightly, your… your damn wet pussy just perfect as he nudges it with his tip when you release his cock. march is so gone, head swimming with desire, with the wish to feel you but also punish you for being such a temptation for him. for making him act like a fool, for making him scramble to make up a believable lie to his brother, for making him panic and try to hold you as close to his body as possible to not get found out, for enjoying his arm around your neck holding you in place.
his reward for holding out this long is just a touch away now, and all march has to do is to angle his hips a little, trying to be inconspicuous and not make a damn noise. it's proving to be more difficult than anticipated, especially when he feels your breath hitch, a dainty little huff against his forearm that he reflexively tightens and groans to cover up the sound of your moan.
"'m gonna go t' bed now," olric announces, to which march can't help but sigh in relief, "but… one more thing…"
march can't do it anymore, he nudges your soft folds apart, olric be damned, and now he finds himself in the warmest, softest dream he's ever had. his arm is tight around your neck, a warning not to be loud, and your hand rests on his forearm, as if grounding you while his cock sinks into you, pushing into your slippery, squishy cunt.
"… i know yer all sulky today because of the farmer not comin' by. 's a little obvious…" olric continues, and march can hardly take in half of his words as he's struggling to stay afloat while your pussy squeezes him as you adjust. "give 'er a break, march… she's doin' her best, so… maybe be nicer to 'er, yeah?"
march breathes heavily against the back of your head, pressing you into his chest as he tries to get enough breath to speak.
"yea. fine." he squeezes through his teeth. "good night."
without another word, but with plenty of stumbling noise, olric closes the door to march's room and leaves you all alone again.
"be…" you start, straining against his forearm, "nicer to me, huh?"
march huffs. you've made it all but easy for him. tonight and all the times before, with your fleeting smiles and offhanded touches, with your gifts and your attention and your goddamn teasing. he moves his hips now, slightly pulling back before snapping them forward like he's been dying to do to you.
"you liked that, did ya?" he grunts into your hair, holding you in place as he takes you like he wants. "liked bein' a menace while my brother was here? liked makin' me work extra hard to be quiet?" his hips snap forward again, this time not giving a shit if you squeal or not… in fact, hoping you do. "or did you wanna get caught?"
the noise you're making has him roll his eyes as your warm walls squeeze around him, making his hips stutter while he's moving them, repeatedly thrusting into you. his anger is bubbling up, frustration growing thicker in the air as he fucks into you, harder, harder, snapping quick punishing thrusts into your cunt like it doesn't matter that his heart is racing. because you will be the end of him with how well you take him. the pulses of your squelching cunt — and now he doesn't give a damn that you're noisy — the tiny little whimpers as your nails dig into his forearm, everything about you screams to him that you're right where you want to be, fucked out of your mischievous mind on his bed.
now, when the danger is gone, when the door to his room is shut, when the creaking of the bed is only between the two of you, he grunts and curses against your ear, baring his teeth as the tip of his cock hits a beautiful spot in you, the spot that has you whimpering into the darkness.
march really has no idea what he's doing. all that his mind and body are agreeing upon is that he simply has to keep fucking you as long as you're making those sounds and clenching around his shaft like that. and for now, that's all he needs to keep him thrusting. the symphony of your choked little breaths and stuttered curses keeps his rhythm steady, keeps his mission clear even when his brain is chock-full of static, the electricity sparking in the code of your name.
it's infuriating, the power you have over him, how he wants to have you even when you're doing your best to bring him down to his knees like he was mere hours ago when he wrapped your leg in bandages, to make him flustered like every time you say hi in that stupid giggly tone that leaves him stunned for a full minute.
a harder thrust, a higher pitched whine. he's enjoying turning the tables on you, now you're the one who can't even form a word that doesn't sound like his name, you're the one blushing and begging and tightening with every pointed thrust of his thick cock into your spongy walls, like you're trying to keep him there forever. oh how it feels to have the higher ground now, he grazes the shell of your ear with his teeth, just as he feels the pressure in his abdomen get impossible to handle without breaking into pieces. he won't choke you any tighter, though you sound like you're exactly where you're supposed to be — on the precipice of pleasure with him stuffed inside you.
"f-fuck march i'm gonna—" the sweetness of your moan mixed with the filthy slapping sound of his hips on your flesh makes for a concoction that march will never be able to get out of his head.
he shakes out of a haze at your words, gritting his teeth against the side of your head. "yeah? fuck… you're that filthy are you? getting off to me puttin' you in a headlock?" he struggles to taunt you any more, being so damn close himself. he's losing the thread, all the words he wants to say just turn into a long string of fuck please please need you in his mouth. your soft hand leaves its place on his forearm, reaching down between your legs to rub little circles on your swollen clit, something he heard felt good from juniper's countless tipsy lectures at the inn. seems like something actually stuck in march's head, because he's feeling the effects of your movements in the fast fluttering of your perfect pussy around him.
march is so close to tumbling over the edge with you when your entire body shudders and he feels his cock get coated in slick, warm release, fucking you through it all. you're moaning more softly now, all satisfied as you pulse for him, curses slipping from your lips like praises. he groans one last time as you squeeze around him and pulls out reluctantly, keeping his cock between your warm thighs as he thrusts between them, whispering nonsensical babbles and finally… finally letting go. orgasm wrecks him like a carriage, knocking him sideways as you squeeze your thighs together and his tip spills pearlescent white cum between them. he fucks your thighs all through it, stuttering in his rhythm as he feels more and more weightless, loosening his arm around your neck.
everything goes quiet.
save for your heartbeats.
there's no other sound that echoes in march's head, no other distraction from the feeling of your soft, sweat-slicked skin against his. he flexes his hand, until then tightly balled into a fist, and glides it down your torso, almost as if making sure you're really there and it hasn't been a sick trick of his imagination. your breathing gets a little deeper once your neck is free of the pressure of his forearm, and it takes only a few moments for your hand to reach his, resting atop his rough palm. it's no longer cold like it was when you reached for him to come closer, now it feels like comfort.
march is not thinking clearly. he presses his lips against your bare shoulder, instinctively trailing kisses up to your neck like he knows on some level it would beat with the rhythm of your heart and he would be able to tell that you don't regret this. he needs to know you don't regret this.
"march…" you begin, and he freezes. "not to be a pain, but… i don't wanna lie in a puddle of your cum."
he blinks the haze away, then blinks again, registering what you said. "my…"
"march—" you snicker, body shaking against his chest while his hand rests on the top of your thigh, gently squeezing, not even realising he's doing it. damn, the way you say his name in the bliss of pleasure does damage to his heart, stabbing it with arrows adorned with feathers of your voice, devastating him to the point he wants to make you cum again, and again, if anything just to hear that noise again.
"right… sorry." he pulls back, gasping as his softened cock slips from between your thighs, slick with your release. "but i'm not doing that now."
he can tell you're about to protest, but before you get the chance he grips you tighter and flips you over his body to the other side of the bed where you land unceremoniously, holding onto his forearms. once you're settled again, he pulls you into his chest, warm like you never left. like an overgrown cat, reluctantly accepting affection, he glides his other hand up and down your side, in what seems almost unconscious movements. it feels nice under his fingertips, though, the softness of your skin so different from the tools he is used to.
"gross." you wrinkle your nose and he really can't care less about the puddle currently drying on the other side of the bed.
"you're gross." he murmurs through what can maybe even be classed as a smile. a sweet, soft little curve of his lips as he buries his face into the back of your head. at least until the morning.
march doesn't think about what will come after. not about the explanation for why he's keeping olric staring at something on his desk while you take the chance to sneak out of the house, not about the annoying wash he will need to do to clean the sheets, not even about how the hell he will be able to function around you knowing about what you did tonight. instead, he thinks about tonight, not about tomorrow. all of that will happen at some later point, after he's done taking this moment and finally understand that he is special. at least a little bit. at least to you.
♡ if you enjoyed this, consider leaving a like, reblog, or a comment. interaction helps keep your writers motivated! also, feral or any other comments keep me giggling and kicking my feet, and you really want to do that i think.
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This is so simple, and to the point that I couldn't help but giggle. I do also love a good jealous man. So here you go!! I ended up going with some hc's- and more of like some actual writing too. That just felt rifhr.
As always Requests are Open!! Feel free to come by and just chat too! :3
warnings: Maybe some slightly suggestive lines?
Balor:
I feel like he is the type to be silently jealous.
Like he is watching you from the other side of the room and just GLARING at the poor soul who chose to flirt with you.
Balor gets up, his chair scraping agaisnt the hardwood of the Inn. Hemlock opens his mouth to chastise him however, he falls short in doing so. He'd never seen a look in Balor's eye like that. Following his gaze, he spots you. Standing there and talking to someone else.
You look, friendly but guarded. Keeping your hands tucked into your personal bubble. Making sure that you give nothing beside polite responses and friendly smiles. The poor fellow that doesn't quite get the idea yet? They're trying to make you laugh, leaning in closer. Being... too friendly.
Balor doesn't know that he is going to say when he goes over there. All he knows is that this will not stand and you are his. Quickly approaching you, his arm naturally slides around your waist. "Hello darling." He says cooly. "Do you want anything to eat?"
Looking up at Balor, you can't help but feel relief flood your chest. Leaning into him a bit further so that hopefully they get the message. "Hey hon." You grin. "I'd love something, what were you thinking?"
Before you can properly recall, you find yourself sitting at the chair he was previously, Balor standing next to you. An arm wrapped around the back as if to act like a barrier between you and the rest of the bar. The two of you sharing a plate of food with idle loving conversation between the two of you. None the wiser to his antics of pulling you away from them.
Eiland:
This man, my sweet little guy. He pouts LIKE CRAZY.
Not in the 'omg he's such a pathetic baby!' type way. But in the, 'i have to be a proper gentleman and not cause a scene or else I fear the wrath of my sister.'
"Brother." Adeline's words cut through his thoughts as he glares at the fool flirting with you. "You have to keep things cordial." She hisses from the side hall that she pulled him into. "We need this deal to work out. For Mistria."
"I think Mistria can handle it." He huffs, crossing his arms. Turning his head toward the door- hating that he can't see through it. "He is openly flirting with my partner."
"I know." Adeline sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "But we have to act nobelly! Mother and Father would."
"I think Father would hit a man for lesser." Eiland grumbles.
"Eiland, please." Adeline whines. "I will have Reina make you as many cakes, sweets or anything you want. If you just behave."
Eiland raises an eyebrow. "...fine. I will. But I want a chocolate cake first thing in the morning."
With that, they re-enter the room. Apologizing for thier absence. The nobel man across from you keeps his gaze trained, saying something about how it wasn't an issue. Adeline shoots Eiland a glance. But Eiland simple sits down, kissing your cheek. His hand finding your thigh and places his on it. While he has to bite down his temper, all he can think about is you, him and that beautiful chocolate cake you'll share.
March:
This man is jealous and everyone knows it. There is no way around it.
I mean you saw him when you got into town. He is even more of an asshole to someone who is flirting with you.
It takes about three men to make sure that March stays away from you, and the person flirting with you at the Saturday Market. Orlic, gently patting his brothers head. "March, March we don't know that they're flirting." He says.
"Okay," Ryis sighs. "Either way, it will be okay. Y/N will make it clear."
But March watches, he sees the way that the person infront of you just clearly does not care. But he cares. He cares a lot. Shaking Orlic off, he makes his way over to you.
His arm slipping around your waist, pulling you into him. If you're taller than him, he rests his head on your shoulder. If you're shorter he rests his head on you. Glaring at the person. "Hey, I missed you." He pouts.
Looking at your partner, you laugh. "Hi March, I missed you too." You greet.
"We're going over here now." March says, pulling you away. If you're smaller than he is, you're getting picked up. Making sure that you are as far away from the person as you could be.
Ryis:
He really doesn't strike me at the type to get jealous honestly.
I feel like it would take a lot to do that. Just with him being from the Capital and having been around so many people, someone simply talking to you wouldn't really make him jealous.
I feel like his jealously really takes over when it's like clear the person isn't taking the signs, or is touching you.
Ryis wasn't usually a very jealous guy, and he knew this. You knew this about him. But watching the way the person in front of you keeps leaning in, keeps laughing way too hard at your jokes. Making you uncomfortable, he can see it in the way your shoulders tense.
It was simple really, he just needed to get across the crowded room and get to you. Pushing through the crowd, he finds you quickly. Taking your hand, "Hey!" He calls over the loud music. "Lets go dance!" He smiles. His heart soaring as you smile and nod. Waving politely to the person you were speaking too and following him onto the dance floor.
As you sway to the music, you can't help but smirk. "We're you jealous, Ryis?"
He pouts, feeling his cheeks warm up. "No..." Then he looks at you and sighs. "Fine, a little."
You can't help but laugh and kiss his cheek.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed!! This was so much fun to write!!
Happy mines update day, Mistrians!! In honor of the occasion, have some headcanons I've had stewing in my head since the last update. These are what I think each romanceable's favorite form of physical affection is, specifically with a partner. I put a lot of thought into them, so let me know if you agree or disagree with my takes!
Oh, and just so you know, I take requests for Mistria drabbles and headcanons now! Hope you enjoy. <3
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March will never admit it, but he adores having you rest your head on his shoulder.
When you’re next to him for an extended amount of time for literally any reason, he tugs you closer and subtly offers his shoulder to you.
Occasionally you tease him a little and give him a smile, asking if he wants you to snuggle up to him. He always blushes as red as his hair and stiffens up…but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he nods and mumbles a small “Yes. Obviously.”
You can feel his posture relax when you set your head down. The closeness of the gesture makes him feel like your protector, like you see being nestled at his side as a safe place. He wants to be a safe place for you.
Don’t mention it when he silently rests his cheek atop your head or he’ll stop. LOL
Balor likes kissing the back of your hand.
Or hand kisses in general. Those are big for him; he just loves them.
He makes it a habit to press kisses to both your hands whenever you come up from a dive in mines with something shiny for him. It’s a token of thanks for your labor.~ (And also a tiny way of saying ‘I’m glad you came back safe.’)
Balor isn’t a PDA kind of guy for the most part. Sure, he isn’t keeping up a mysterious persona anymore, but he’s new to romance. Give him some time and he’ll warm up to it.
In the meantime, hand kisses are a sweet, playful way to show affection that he feels comfortable doing anywhere. He always greets you with one in the morning, no matter where you run into each other.
Caldarus will never stop loving the softness of your lips on his.
It isn’t just the physical sensation of kissing that appeals to Caldarus (though, trust me, he adores it). There’s an emotional aspect as well.
Kissing you makes him feel…human. Or, humanly connected to you, at the very least.
That isn’t to say he feels insecure about his human-esque form, or feels he cannot love you the same way as your fellow humans. Not at all. He just loves connecting with you in distinctly human ways. Kissing, especially on the lips, is such a distinctly human way to express love. He is overjoyed when he gets to relearn humans through you, after his long slumber.
He wonders often what you feel when he kisses you, what his lips feel like to your mortal ones. He hopes his are as warm as yours.
Hayden is the world’s biggest (and best) hugger.
This is just common knowledge. Hayden loves giving and receiving hugs. Hugs are not partner exclusive for him, either; if he knows someone, he’s hugging ‘em.
That being said…you definitely get the rights to some extra special, super exclusive hugs as his lover.
When Hayden hugs you, his hands splay across your back, like he’s trying to feel as much of your skin as he can. He holds you impossibly close and squeezes you tightly, but not enough to hurt. Years of handling animals have taught him the perfect amount of pressure to apply in any embrace (he hugs a LOT of animals).
Each and every time you hug, he nuzzles his cheek against your hair and coos words of adoration. No, he never runs out of sweet nothings for you.
Reina loves letting you lay your head on her chest.
There’s nothing she loves more than allowing her hardworking farmer to rest with her at the end of a long day. She gets so much satisfaction and joy from laying with you and letting you snuggle into her chest.
Her biggest love language is acts of service (largely through cooking). Acting as your pillow makes her feel like she’s providing for you, but in a cuddly way! What can she say? She’s a pamperer.
She runs her hand through your hair every time, either humming one of the songs her mother taught her or chit-chatting about her day.
Occasionally, you fall asleep like that, nestled against her. She never wakes you. You need your rest! She stays put until you wake up (or, more often, just falls asleep with you).
Valen never misses the opportunity to rest a hand on the small of your back.
The dear town doctor is a bit teasing with her touch. She likes watching your body respond to hers, even in the smallest ways. She’s very observant of how you react to her attention.
On evenings spent at the Sleeping Dragon, she slides her hand across your lower back as she takes a seat on the stool next to yours. She lets her hand linger there once she’s settled.
Valen isn’t one to interrupt your conversations with others when she wants attention. But she isn’t one to sit idly by, either. Instead, she approaches from behind and silently waits her turn. This waiting, of course, includes her placing her hand on your hip and giving it a small squeeze, before her fingers wander to your back and wait there while you finish your chat.
Juniper gets cranky if she doesn’t have time in the day to rest her legs on you.
At the end of a long day, there is nothing Juniper enjoys more than draping her legs across your lap. She particularly enjoys doing this while she drinks wine and, well, whines LOL. Or gossips with you. Often both.
It’s something she can do in private, that both lets her be in control of things but also shows you that she trusts you and enjoys your presence…without having to say so aloud.
She never asks you to, but you can tell from the almost imperceptible red hue that appears on her cheeks that she loves when you rest a hand on the bare skin of her leg as you listen to her, nodding along to show your focus. And when you start tracing soothing patterns with your thumb? She has to take a sip of her wine to hide her face.
Ryis knows it’s basic, but he can’t help the way he loves holding hands.
Ryis is a romantic. He knows it. You know it. Everyone knows it.
Holding hands is classic. It’s cute. (“Almost as cute as your smile,” in his own words.) He loves it. It gives him even more of the warm, fuzzy feelings he associates with even just the thought of you.
His favorite time of day has become his breaks, when you make the time to join him on the Eastern Road for a few minutes. You two sit on a bench across from the tree you grew together and watch the birds.
No words need to be spoken when he slowly moves his hand closer to you, his pinky finger grazing yours. You merely laugh and intertwine your fingers. He gives your hand a squeeze in reply.
Eiland insists on linking arms whenever you two stroll together.
It is nonnegotiable for him! He wants to be your gentleman, always. He grew up with a lot of etiquette training, and by gosh, he wants to finally put it to use!
I’m being so serious. If it weren’t for you being the most capable adventurer he knows, he’d be throwing his coat over puddles for you. (He still will if you let him. Don’t, by the way; you both know he likes his clothes and will be sad after.)
Eiland knows he can be a lot at times, and that his mind can wander. Having your arm in his, with you walking steady at his side,it grounds him. It makes his thoughts go from flitting here and there, past and future…to settling on you, and your present. Together.
Adeline absolutely melts whenever you hold her face in your hands.
She had no idea how much she liked the feeling until you came along.
One day, she was rambling, stressed over her duties and feeling like she wasn’t doing enough. Mid-sentence, you gently took hold of her face, your hands cupping her cheeks. You swear to this day that you watched her eyes turn heart-shaped in real time.
She didn’t know she needed that sort of thing until that very moment. And now that she does know, it’s become your patented tunnel vision breaker. Whenever Adeline gets in her head, you lovingly cup her face and all her thoughts turn to jelly.
Sometimes she can feel an anxiety attack coming on and goes to you before it gets bad, lifting your hands and pressing them to her cheeks.
Celine can’t keep herself from kissing you on the cheek.
She just loves giving you little smooches to show her appreciation! You do so much for her, and for Mistria, on a daily basis. She can’t help but swoon over you.
To Celine, cheek kisses are simple, sweet, and effective. And she can do them in public, too! They’re not overboard PDA. To her, they’re just right.
No matter how many times she gives you a quick peck, she always blushes afterward. It’s a Pavlovian response at this point. Even if she’s keeping her cool pretty well, there’s no stopping the giddy flush on her face and the little giggle she lets out.
On sunny mornings, you stop by her garden on the way into town. Every time, she gently places a flower in your hands and a kiss on your cheek.
He responded, but didn’t look away from the tv. You frowned at that, then shifted so your head rested on his shoulder. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, and your lower body between his legs as he laid in bed with his back against the pillows. You poked his cheek, hoping to receive his attention. He huffed lightly before turning his head towards you.
“What?”
“Say it back.”
“I did.”
“While looking at me.”
Rin just rolled his eyes at you before glancing away, the tiniest hint of a blush coming across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He looked back at you, hands on your waist giving you a light squeeze. Was he flustered? Maybe. Was he going to admit it? Absolutely not. He contemplated for a moment, soon realizing he had no way out of this.
“I love you, too.”
You grinned at that, your hands moving to cup his cheeks. You officially had his full attention on you instead of the stupid movie. You kissed his forehead. Then his nose. Then the corner of his lips. You laughed as you saw his cheeks reddening.
“I love you more.”
“Mhm…”
You just continued with the flurry of kisses around his face. His forehead, nose, cheeks, lips, chin, jawline, and even one of his eyebrows had all received kisses. He was practically a tomato at this point, and you couldn’t help but find it adorable. You finished it off with a peck on the lips, and finally pulled away from him with a cheeky smile on your face. You were happy with the product of your affections for your boyfriend.
“Do I have your attention yet?”
“… You’ve had it.”
“Good.”
Your boyfriend could be such a cutie sometimes.
A/N: something short and fluffy before Monday to Friday and my Mitski series starts ❤️
Jet lag, exhausting training camps, foreign countries, endless interviews, stadiums filled with thousands of screaming fans... none of it bothers him.
Only sleeping alone does.
He doesn't even realise when it became a habit.
At home, every night ends the same way. He wraps an arm around you, pulls you against his chest, buries his face in the crook of your neck and falls asleep within minutes.
It's no longer something romantic, it's simply how he sleeps.
So whenever he's overseas for training or has an away match, the hotel room feels strangely empty.
The bed is too big and cold, the room is too quiet.
He turns onto his side with an irritated sigh. His hand reaches across the mattress on instinct.
Nothing, only cold sheets.
He frowns.
This is ridiculous. He's one of the best strikers in the world, he should be perfectly capable of sleeping by himself.
Still, an hour later, he gives up.
Your phone lights up.
You answer almost immediately. "Rin?"
"...Did I wake you?"
"No. I'm still working."
"I figured."
You smile.
"Everything okay?"
"...Yeah."
You wait.
"Training was fine. It's colder here than I expected."
"Mhm."
"Have you eaten?"
"I did."
Another pause and oh, you know him too well.
"You can't sleep, can you?"
Silence.
A quiet laugh escapes you. "So that's why you called."
"I called to check on you." He lets out the tiniest sigh. " An because I missed you."
Your smile softens. "...I miss you too."
He closes his eyes and the corners of your lips lifts up.
"So, what do you want me to do?"
"...Just talk."
"About what?"
"Anything."
So you do.
You tell him about your day at work. The paperwork that's driving you crazy, the colleague who keeps making everyone laugh, the terrible coffee you regret buying, the client who reminded you of him because they were just as stubborn.
He barely says anything, only the occasional hum lets you know he's listening.
Before he realises, your voice fills the quiet hotel room. And without you knowing...
He reaches into his suitcase.
Hidden beneath neatly folded clothes is one of your dresses, the one you've been searching for since the day he left.
"I swear I folded it!" You had said.
Rin simply looked away.
"Maybe you forgot where you kept it."
He lied without the slightest change in expression.
Now he pulls the dress against his chest. It still carrying the faint scent of your perfume.Your shampoo, you.
His shoulders finally relax.
"...Rin?"
"Hm."
"You're quiet."
"...Listening."
"You always get sleepy when I ramble."
"...Your voice helps."
You smile. "So I'm your sleeping medicine now?"
"...Maybe."
"Should I start charging you?"
"No."
"No?
""You're my girlfriend. So it's free."
"What a stingy person you are!"
"...Mhm."
His replies become shorter, softer, slower... until all you hear is the gentle rhythm of his breathing.
"...Rin?"
No answer.
"...You fell asleep already?"
A sleepy little hum reaches your ear. "Mm..."
You can't help smiling.
"Goodnight, Rin."
He doesn't hears it, because he's already asleep.
The next morning, one of his teammates notices how refreshed he looks.
"You actually slept well?"
"...Yeah."
"What changed?"
Rin shrugs. "...Called someone."
"The missus?"
"Mhm."
Bachira grins before noticing Rin carefully folding something into his suitcase.
"...Isn't that a dress?"
Rin freezes for half a second. "...No."
"It definitely looks like a woman's dress."
"...You're seeing things, you schizophrenic bastard."
He zips the suitcase shut without another word.
No one is touching it, no one is finding out. Some things belongs only to him.
Even if that "thing" happens to be one of your missing dresses that smells like home.
NOTE: finally got around to finishing up this chapter. Ik it took awhile but it’s here now! Mainly rin pov bc we all wanna know what’s going on inside that little head of his.
Tick-tick-tick
The soft, rhythmic sound of the kitchen clock was the only noise cutting through the quiet evening. Rin sat on the edge of the living room couch, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin buried in his hands. His sharp eyes were fixed on the entryway of the kitchen, where he could see you humming a soft, mindless tune while washing the dinner dishes.
He’d been staring at you for 30 minutes.
Usually, when he stared this intensely, it meant he was either hungry, bored, or waiting for you to shake that ridiculous feathered teaser toy in his face. But tonight, his mind was fixated on something else. His ears twitched, tilting backward as he tried to process a heavy, confusing knot tightening in his chest.
Rin didn’t understand what he was feeling. He hated not understanding things. In the underground fighting rings, everything was simple: you kill or you get killed, you hate your opponent enough and you survive. But here, in this massive, overly soft house, the rules were very different.
Technically, on paper, you were his "owner." He had seen the official documentation from the Second Life Center. He knew the legal system classified him as a high-risk predator pet, a piece of property meant to be managed, muzzled, and kept under strict control.
Yet, as he watched you carefully dry a glass bowl, your movements so gentle and unhurried, he realized you had never once done an "owner" thing to him.
You didn't lock him in a cage, you didn't use a shock collar, you didn't even force him to perform or command him to sit, stay, or heel. The only things you actually did were feed him delicious meals like that salmon ochazuke, play with him when he threw a petulant fit over his soccer balls, and relentlessly dote on him despite his constant grumbling. You treated him like... a person. Someone you actually wanted around.
It's lukewarm, he thought to himself, his tail swishing frantically against the couch fabric. She's just naive. A fragile, overly trusting human.
But that explanation didn't account for the weird, fluttering sensation that hit his stomach every time you praised him. It didn't explain why his chest felt heavy whenever you walked out the door for work, leaving nothing but your comforting scent behind.
Sometimes he’d even spend all day in your room. It smelled like you the most, and your presence was so strong he could almost imagine you standing there.
He’ll never tell you this though, who do you think he is.
Rin leaned back against the cushions, letting out a frustrated huff. Was he just grateful? Yeah, that had to be it. You rescued him from a living hell. Anyone would feel attached to their savior. It was just a biological response to safety.
Then why does it feel like I'm losing my mind whenever you aren't next to me?
Rin closed his eyes, his inner thoughts drifting back to the incident on the mountain trail. The second that feral canine hybrid had put its filthy claws on your arm, something inside Rin just snapped, maybe it erupted, whatever, it was everything. It was a primal instinct that screamed at him from the very depths of his DNA.
An instinct to protect what was his. And, more confusingly, a deeply territorial drive to claim. To build a nest out of those three extra plush blankets you bought him and keep you tucked safely beneath his heavy body where the rest of the world could never touch you. Maybe the better way to describe it was to procreate? Gross. But it didn’t sound that bad.
The word love crossed his mind, but he instantly brushed it away, his fangs catching on his lower lip. Love was a weak, pathetic word. Sae had abandoned him because of "love" for the sport. Love was something fragile. What Rin felt toward you felt like it was more.
"Rin? You okay over there? You're looking very serious tonight."
You teased, breaking through his hyper-fixation. Rin’s ears instantly shot straight up, snapping forward as you walked into the living room. You’d changed into an oversized, cozy sweater, one that he secretly loved because it absorbed your scent, and you were holding a fresh bowl of sliced strawberries.
"I'm fine," Rin muttered. He crossed his arms, averting his eyes to the floor to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck, and most likely his face. "Don't look at me. You're annoying."
You didn't even blink at his harsh words. By now, you were completely immune to his defense mechanisms. You laughed, walking over to the couch and plop-sitting right next to him. And because he had officially conditioned you to have zero personal space, you casually leaned your shoulder against his broad upper arm, holding the bowl out to him.
"Want one? They're really sweet."
Rin stared at the bright red fruit, then at your face. Your hair was a little messy, your eyes were bright, and the neat white bandage wrapped around your arm was a stark reminder of how close he had come to losing this peace.
Without saying a word, Rin leaned down. He didn't use his hands. Instead, he parted his lips, exposing his sharp fangs, and took a strawberry from your fingers, his tongue brushing against your fingertips.
He watched your cheeks flush a faint pink, a sudden spike in your heart rate echoing in his sensitive ears. A wave of smug satisfaction washed over him. He liked making you react. He liked knowing he could affect you just as much as you had been unknowingly affecting him.
As he chewed, the sweet flavor bursting on his tongue, Rin shifted his weight. He slid his long legs out, grabbed your waist with his large hands, and forcefully dragged you into his lap.
"Whoa—Rin!" you gasped, the strawberry bowl wobbling in your hands as you suddenly found yourself sitting squarely on his thighs, your back pressed firmly against his chest.
"Shut up," he murmured, his voice vibrating right against your spine. He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, effectively locking you in place. He buried his face deep into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of wild mint from the spring was gone, replaced by your natural, intoxicating warmth.
His ringed tail snaked around your thigh, squeezing gently. He felt a deep, low purr beginning to rumble in his chest—a sound he usually tried to suppress because it felt too vulnerable, but tonight, he was too tired to care.
"You're acting very velcro again," you said softly, though you didn't try to escape. Instead, you relaxed completely against him, leaning your head back against his shoulder. You picked up another strawberry and popped it into your own mouth. "Is your stomach still upset from all those s'mores?"
"No. My stomach is fine," he grumbled into your skin, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your neck, making you shiver. "You're just cold. I'm keeping you warm."
"It's July, Rin."
"I don't care. Humans are always getting sick. You'll catch a disease and die or something."
You let out a bright laugh that echoed straight into his soul. Rin’s grip tightened just a fraction, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your sweater. Listen to that laugh. Watch the way your small hands rested over his large forearms. It was so normal. So comforting.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his inner thoughts swirling again. He didn't know what love meant. He didn't know how to be a normal hybrid, or a lover, or whatever it was that humans called this. But as he felt your uninjured hand reach up to gently stroke the side of his face, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw, Rin realized it didn't matter.
He didn't need a dictionary definition. He just knew that if anyone ever tried to take you away from this couch, from this house, from him, he would tear the world apart to get you back.
"Hey," you whispered, your fingers shifting to gently scratch the base of his teal ears.
Rin let out a ragged sigh, his head dropping heavier onto your shoulder as his eyes drifted shut. As much as he hated feeling helpless, your ear scratching usually left him paralyzed and defenceless. Such is the ways of being an actual house pet now he supposed.
"What," he muttered, his tail, now unwound from your legs, giving a happy, rhythmic thump against the couch cushion.
"I'm glad you're here is all."
Rin didn't answer. He didn’t really know how. His throat felt too tight, and his heart was beating a frantic, erratic rhythm against your back. Instead of speaking, he simply shifted his head, pressing a soft, lingering, and possessive kiss right against the side of your neck, his purr deepening until the entire couch seemed to vibrate with it.
He felt you tense up. It made sense, he’s never done anything like this with you before, with anyone really. The closest he’d ever gotten with affection was when he was a kitten, and Sae would touch noses with him or rub against him to share scents.
He still didn't understand the feeling. But if he could hold you close like this everyday, listening to the steady, safe beat of your heart, Rin decided he had plenty of time to figure it out.
—
The shiny, trifold brochure sat on the kitchen island, its glossy font practically screaming for attention.
"THE RED ENCLOSURE: PROJECTING THE NEXT GENERATION OF ATHLETIC HYBRIDS."
You leaned against the counter, sipping your morning coffee while reviewing the fine print. Ever since the bush-camping trip, Rin’s clinginess had reached an all-time high, but so had his restless energy. He had already gone through his eighth soccer ball, and you were starting to worry your living room baseboards wouldn't survive another one of his training sessions. You needed an outlet for him—a place where he could run, kick, and unleash that monstrous athletic drive without destroying your home.
This program seemed perfect. It was a specialized clinic designed specifically for predator hybrids to channel their instincts into sports. The name The Red Enclosure felt oddly specific, and some of the waivers about "complete isolation" and "unlocking the inner ego" were a little weird, but honestly? Who actually reads the fine print? You just saw a state-of-the-art facility, a massive indoor pitch, and a way to burn off his energy.
When you first brought it up to Rin, he had given you a look of pure disgust. "I'm not going to some day-care to kick a ball with a bunch of domestic lapdogs," he had sneered, his teal ears pinning flat against his skull.
But you had used your ultimate weapon: the threat of the silicone muzzle and a week-long ban on salmon ochazuke if he didn’t at least give it a try. Reluctantly, with a dramatic amount of clicking his tongue and hissing under his breath, he had allowed you to drive him to the facility for a one-day trial.
The pickup time was 6:00 PM. You parked your car in the facility's driveway, halfway expecting him to come out looking relaxed, or at least a little tired.
Instead, the glass double doors of the building practically flew open, and Rin stormed out like a localized hurricane.
His hair was slightly damp from a shower, his jersey was half-torn at the collar, and his ringed tail was whipping back and forth so violently it was creating an audible whoosh in the air. The volume of dark, murderous aura radiating off him was enough to make the nearby automatic sliding doors glitch.
He ripped open the passenger side door, threw his sports bag into the footwell with a deafening crash, and slammed himself into the leather seat.
"Rin?" you started carefully, shifting the car into drive. "How was—"
"A waste of time. Absolute garbage. A collective gathering of brainless, lukewarm parasites," Rin erupted, his voice a deep, gravelly snarl. He crossed his arms so tightly his claws almost punctured his own jersey, staring fixedly out the side window as his ears twitched with rage.
You blinked, suppressing a smile as you navigated onto the main road. "Wow. Okay. Tell me how you really feel."
"I am telling you," he snapped, turning his head to glare at you, his eyes hyper-focused. "You sent me into a room full of talentless losers. They call themselves 'strikers'? It’s offensive. They don't even know how to properly use their instincts. They just run around chasing the ball like a bunch of mindless mutts hoping for a treat."
You nodded sagely. "I take it the competition wasn't up to your standards?"
"Competition? There was no competition," Rin huffed, his tail thumping aggressively against the passenger seat. "It was just me having to constantly clean up the garbage left behind by a bunch of half-wits. Especially one of them. A pathetic little canine hybrid."
Your ears perked up. "Oh? A canine hybrid?"
"Yeah. Some domestic mutt named Isagi," Rin spat, the name leaving his mouth like a piece of spoiled meat. "A total lukewarm loser. Physically? He’s slow. His reflexes are shit at best. His acceleration is non-existent. If I hit him with a basic shoulder check, he’d probably shatter into pieces."
Rin leaned forward, his hands gripping the dashboard as he got increasingly worked up by his own monologue. "The piece of trash kept staring at me. Everywhere I went on the pitch, his stupid dog ears were perked up, tracking my movements. He has this disgusting habit of reading the field, trying to adapt to my plays. He actually had the audacity to try and steal a goal off my assist, acting like he predicted it."
"Well, that sounds like teamwork, Rin—"
"It's not teamwork!" Rin roared, his ears flattening completely against his head as a flush of frustrated heat crept up his neck. "He’s a pathogen. A literal bug. He looks at me with those creepy, wide, eyes like he’s trying to swallow my entire playstyle whole. He kept muttering about 'devouring' me. He’s a domestic breed! He should be fetching slippers, not talking about devouring an apex predator!"
You had to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it bled just to keep from laughing out loud. The image of a dog hybrid completely occupying Rin’s thoughts was the funniest thing you had ever heard.
"So... I'm guessing you don't want to go back?" you asked playfully.
"I would rather walk back into the underground fighting rings than spend another three minutes in the same room as that lukewarm parasite," Rin muttered, finally deflating slightly and sinking back into the passenger seat. He let out a long, exhausted huff, the massive adrenaline rush from his angry rant finally taking its toll.
As the car pulled up to a red light, you reached across the center console. You didn't say anything, knowing that trying to reason with him right now was useless. Instead, you just gently pressed the outer part your fingers into the side of his cheek, caressing it, then when he leaned into your hand further you move your hand up to lightly scratching the sweet spot right behind his velvety ears. His lashing tail froze mid-air. For a second, he looked like he wanted to snap at you just to maintain his fearsome reputation. But as your thumb gently stroked down to his jawline again, his defense mechanisms crumbled.
His eyes drifted shut. A low, heavily reluctant rumble started deep in his chest—the familiar, vibrating purr he could never quite suppress when you touched him. His ears relaxed, drooping slightly as he leaned his heavy head sideways, resting the full weight of it right into your palm.
"Idiots... all of them," he mumbled, his voice suddenly losing all its bite, turning into a soft, sleepy growl.
"Aw I know, Rin," you cooed softly, your heart melting at how quickly he transformed from a soccer-playing monster back into your clingy, dramatic boy. "Everyone else is lukewarm. You're the only real striker."
"Damn right," he muttered, still nuzzling into your touch, his ringed tail finally relaxing, slithering across the console to gently wrap around your wrist, anchoring you to him for the rest of the drive home. You were going to try and convince him for another session at Red Enclosure. But if he returned agitated again you’d just have to work your magic. Looking at his peaceful, purring face, you didn't mind one bit.
Rin's voice cuts in one afternoon, sharp but not cruel. You're sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling your phone, brows furrowed.
You hum distractedly, not looking up.
"Don't make that face, he mutters, snatching your phone and putting it aside. "What's wrong?"
You roll your eyes. "Nothing. Just a stupid fight with Sara. I'll get over it."
But Rin doesn't let go. His gaze lingers, intense, almost irritated. How dare anything or anyone make you upset?
He doesn't say it, but it's written all over him.
"You come to me when you're pissed, right?" he asks finally, his voice quieter now.
You blink at him, surprised by the softness underneath. A smile creeps on your lips and you lean into him, resting your head against his arm.
"Always."
He doesn't respond, just exhales slowly, relief hidden in the sound.
You don't notice, but Rin does this often— breathing like he's trying to push away the fear that one day you might not come to him.
The truth is, Rin lives in constant conflict. Outwardly, he acts calm, collected, even indifferent. He doesn't cling, doesn't guilt you, doesn't cage you in. He wants to be the understanding boyfriend, the one who gives you space.
But inside? He's restless.
Every time you're late to reply, every time someone else makes you laugh, every time you mention another boy's name in passing— his stomach knots.
He doesn't want to admit it, but he's possessive. Not the type to explode in jealousy, but the type to plan quietly, to make sure no one gets the chance to take you away.
And when you're not looking, he prays. Prays for time to move faster, for years to pass quicker, for the day when he can slide a ring on your finger and know you're his forever.
"Getting older is useless," you once teased him. "I wish we could stay young forever."
Rin had stared at you then, expression unreadable.
"No. I want us older," he said firmly, almost too quickly. "I want to grow old womb you."
Your laughter had filled the room, thinking he was joking.
But Rin wasn't. He never jokes about you.
You don't know about the way he lies awake sometimes, watching you breathe beside him. You don't know how he imagines your future, how he pictures you in a home together, pictures you carrying his last name, pictures kids that might have your smile.
All you know is that every day you wake up, you're happy. Happier than you've ever been.
And Rin? Rin may not say it, but he's happier too.
Even when he scolds you for staying up too late, even when he frowns because you skipped a meal, even when he mutters under his breath about your "annoying habits", he wouldn't trade a second of it.
Because in his quiet, serious, obsessive heart, you're already his entire world.
𓂃⋆.˚𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓: rin walks you home after practice, and he can’t seem to understand what it is he’s feeling.
𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: itoshi rin x reader | 1.4k | fluff, sfw. childhood friends to lovers dynamic, rin and reader are 18+ | reposted from my previous account | please do not save or use my banners!
it’s a soft summer afternoon in july the day itoshi rin walks you home.
there’s sea salt in the air, seagulls in the endless sky. you’re walking up on the raised barrier that separates the footpath from the beach, and he’s holding your hand to make sure you don’t fall over. it’s not weird, he tells himself, you’ve known each other since you were kids. you’ve shared his toys with him as you both sit behind the net, watching sae turn from a boy into legend like an achilles reborn. it’s not weird, because you were there with him at the airport when his big brother left, and his arm was around your shoulders as you sniffled and big fat tears rolled down your cheeks.
it’s not weird.
it’s not weird at all.
and you’re utterly oblivious to the thoughts jumbling and tumbling around in his head.
rin feels like he’s sixteen again. you’re only holding hands for god’s sake, and he’s only doing it for your safety. it doesn’t even mean anything at all in the grand scheme of the earth rotating on its axis and the universe expanding forever and ever.
(but it does.
the same way the salt kisses your lips and your eyelids. the way the wind brushes your lower lashes and says i love you, i love you.)
rin hopes you can’t feel how sweaty his palm is getting. he hopes that you think he’s still just grimy from practice, even though he’s already had a shower and his hair is still wet and sticking to his forehead. his eyes drop to the footpath, and he counts the lines of every brick he steps over.
one.
two.
three...
get it together.
“how was practice today?”
he jolts a little at the sound of your voice. you’re not looking at him, you were quite focused on where you were stepping, your other arm stretched out beside you for balance. rin smiles to himself. he thinks of when you were kids and you ran along this very same stretch of beach. when the world was still rosy-pink and you were both untouchable with the invincibility of youth.
“good.”
seriously?
that’s all you have to say?
rin mentally kicks himself.
but you just giggle, and rin’s heart stutters, because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard in all his life. why you still stuck around him and his gloomy moods, rin doesn’t know. you’ve been there for everything. you were there the day he got the letter to join blue lock, and you were jumping for joy for him, even though he couldn’t have cared less. because that place — and everyone in it — was just a stepping stone to him, and he told you as much. the only thing he cared about was surpassing his brother, because if sae was to be achilles, then rin would become heracles, and that was just the way it is.
(that’s a lie.
you care about more than the fame and eternal glory of it all, but you do not know how to admit it to yourself.)
you’d only smiled at him.
maybe a little sadly.
rin knows that you had once hoped him and sae would repair what they once had. that the three of you could be together again and hang out the way you used to, with you sitting on the bleachers and watching them while they kicked a ball between each other. but those days ran away from you all the day that sae got back from spain. when he said those cruel words to rin and told you that you were no better for being stuck in the same place as his little brother. the day you both got on a ship and sailed away from the boy you both used to look up to, and never looked back.
that was the day that you chose rin.
and he would never forget it.
he figures he owes you everything until the day he died for sticking by him. and ever since that day? every goal was for you, every win was for you.
all of it was for you.
“did that isagi guy annoy you again?”
rin scowls. “he always annoys me.”
you laugh again.
and the tips of his ears turn a beautiful strawberry red.
there’s that strange flutter in his chest. the one that happens whenever rin has done something to make you laugh. he decides he likes this feeling, maybe even a little better than the feeling he gets whenever he scores a goal. rin wants to be able to pull those sugar-coated laughs from your lips as easily he’s able to score.
but he can’t.
he can’t even string together coherent sentences around you lately, never mind think of jokes that would make you laugh. all he can do is send you memes on his phone and imagine the sound of your laugh as you react with a laughing emoji. you’re his best friend, and he doesn’t know why he’s so unbelievably pathetic when it comes to you.
“you play so well together, it’s hard to imagine that he does get on your nerves so much.”
he hums. “i guess.”
“i wonder if you’re just pretending i don’t annoy you too.”
“you never annoy me.”
he’s quick to say this, too quick.
you pass by the set of traffic lights just beyond the beach, and rin knows that you’re only a few minutes away from your house now. he knows that he’s going to have to let go of your hand soon, but he doesn’t know why the thought fills him with so much dread, or why he wants this stretch of beach to go on for another hundred miles.
you stop suddenly.
and you’re squeezing his hand so tightly that rin’s heart feels it’s about to burst. you’re about to hop off the ledge and back onto the safety of the footpath. he grips your hand a fraction tighter, holds his arm out more for you, his muscles tightening.
he is so unbelievably ready to catch you.
a part of rin feels a little guilty for wanting you to lose your footing and fall into him. you bend your knees slightly, your body tipping forward. your feet hit the ground and carry you a step closer than either of you expect. rin’s other hand shoots out before he can even think about it, catching your other free hand, steadying you.
suddenly, you’re right in front of him.
and there’s barely any space between you both.
rin’s pulse roars in his ears.
for a moment, this is all there is to the world. you two standing there with your hands clasped together, the waves crashing behind you like a thousand and one fans in a stadium. and you’re here and you’re real and your hands are so wonderfully soft to the touch. the way you’re looking up at him is making his knees weak. like you might be feeling that fluttering feeling in your chest too, that spark of gold between your interlocked fingers.
rin parts his lips, and he thinks he might finally say something, anything — everything. that this, and being with you, definitely isn’t weird at all.
(no.
it’s the most natural thing in the world. inevitable, the sigh of the sea as it strokes the curve of the shore.)
he blinks.
and the moment shatters.
you’re the one to let go first.
a sweet smile is playing on your lips, all cotton candy and marshmallow softness. the two of you fall back into step. rin knows the way back to your house like the back of his hand, could trace the lines on a map to and from your place to the pitch in his sleep. but the way feels different today, heavier. he doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, or if you had really just shared a moment a minute ago. but before he can think of another thing to say, your house appears around the bend, and you’re standing in front of your house. you climb the three steps to the door, pause and look over your shoulder at him.
“thanks for walking me home,” you say.
rin nods stiffly. “anytime.”
you go in.
the door clicks shut behind you.
and itoshi rin just stands there for a moment, his hands tingling with golden dust, a soft summer wind tousling his hair and kissing him with salt.
The room smelled like sweat, spent friction, and the sharp, medicinal tang of the muscle rub Rin insisted on using before every match.
Rin didn't move for a long time. He stayed heavy, his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, humid hitches that dampened your collarbone. This was the only time the tension ever truly left his shoulders, in the immediate, hazy aftermath of a physical exertion so total it managed to drown out the noise in his head.
You shifted slightly, a sharp intake of breath catching in your throat as your muscles protested. The ache was deep, centered in your core and radiating down your thighs, a dull, pulsing reminder of how he’d just dismantled you. When Rin played, he played to destroy. He brought that same suffocating, obsessive intensity to the bed, treating your body like a pitch he had to dominate, every touch a calculated strike, every movement designed to elicit a specific, ruinous reaction.
He heard the hitch in your breath. Immediately, the heavy weight of him shifted.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, obscuring that sharp, teal gaze. He looked down at you, his face settling back into its usual mask of icy indifference, but the way his hands stayed anchored to your waist, thumbs tracing the dip of your hips, betrayed him.
"Don't move," he muttered. His voice was a low rasp, stripped of its usual venom.
"I wasn't going anywhere," you managed, your voice sounding thin and airy even to your own ears. "Kind of hard to move when my legs feel like they’ve been through a blender."
Rin’s jaw tightened. He didn't offer an apology; he didn't do those. Instead, he slid off you, the sudden absence of his heat making the air-conditioned room feel biting. You watched him move, the lean, predatory grace of a professional athlete, even when he was just walking across a darkened bedroom. He didn't put on clothes. He didn't check his phone .
He disappeared into the en-suite bathroom. You heard the sound of water running, the clatter of a basin.
You closed your eyes, letting your head sink back into the pillow. Your body felt liquified. Every nerve ending was still humming, caught in the low-frequency vibration of what he’d just done to you. He was always like this, all or nothing. He didn't know how to be gentle until the 'game' was over.
The bed dipped. You opened your eyes to find Rin sitting on the edge of the mattress. He had a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth.
"Sit up," he commanded.
"Rin-"
"I said sit up."
It wasn't a cruel command, just his usual bluntness. You pushed yourself up, wincing as the friction of the sheets stung your sensitized skin. Rin reached out, his hand steady as he gripped your shoulder to stabilize you. He began to wipe you down, his movements methodical and surprisingly light.
He started with your chest, cleaning away the salt of his own sweat. He was focused, his brow furrowed in that way it always was when he was visualizing a play. He treated this with the same grim perfectionism he applied to his corner kicks.
"You're shaking," he noted, his voice flat.
"You're a lot to handle, Rin. I think we’ve established that."
His eyes flickered up to yours. Those long, heavy under-eyelashes, the ones he shared with the brother he hated, cast shadows over his cheekbones. For a split second, the coldness flickered. There was something raw there, something that looked suspiciously like concern, before he buried it under a layer of boredom.
"Pathetic," he murmured, though he eased the pressure of the cloth. "If you can't keep up, stay off the field."
"This isn't a field, and I'm not a defender you’re trying to dribble past."
"Hn."
He moved the cloth lower, his touch clinical but lingering. He took his time, cleaning the marks he’d left on your thighs, the dark blooms of purple where his fingers had gripped you too hard. He didn't look away from the bruises. He traced one with the pad of his thumb, his expression unreadable.
This was his aftercare. He wouldn't whisper sweet nothings. He wouldn't tell you he loved you in a way that sounded like a poem. He showed it in the way he tended to the wreckage he caused. It was a silent acknowledgement of the power he had over you, and the responsibility he felt to put the pieces back together once he was done breaking them.
When he finished, he set the bowl aside and disappeared again, returning with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. He handed them to you without a word.
"Drink."
You obeyed, the cool water soothing your parched throat. When you set the glass on the nightstand, Rin was already pulling the duvet back. He climbed in beside you, but instead of turning his back to sleep, he pulled you against him.
He ran his hand down your spine, his palm large and warm. He tucked your head under his chin, his heartbeat steady and strong against your ear.
"Rin?"
"Shut up and sleep," he grumbled, his grip tightening just a fraction. "You have to be able to walk tomorrow."
"Big match?" you teased softly, closing your eyes.
He was silent for a long moment. You thought he’d fallen asleep, or that he was ignoring you in favor of whatever tactical demon he was currently wrestling with. But then, his breath fanned over the top of your head, and his voice came out barely a whisper, stripped of the ego, the rivalry, and the bitterness.
"No," he said. "I just don't want you hurting."
You let the exhaustion take you, anchored by the weight of his arm and the silence of a room where, for once, the world outside didn't matter. There were no brothers to surpass, no rivals to crush. There was just the heat of him, the ache in your bones, and the slow, steady rhythm of a heart that only beat this way for you.
It was the closest you’d ever get to a confession. You reached out, sliding your hand over his ribs, feeling the rhythm of his breathing. Underneath the monster, the prodigy, and the vengeful younger brother, there was just this, a boy who didn't know how to be soft, trying his best to hold onto the only thing he hadn't tried to destroy.
His eyes always followed you around—never unbearably. Instead, one could imagine that it felt like a safety net.
Or at least today, it's more like his eyes have morphed into hearts.
"Jay? You need something?" you ask, as you fold your laundry.
Nights like these are rare, when Jason doesn't leave the moment dusk bleeds across the sky. His vigilante gear is shoved into the closet, and the tension in his body finally melts as he sinks into the sheets.
"Just you." He turns his head to get a better look at you. His eyes trail over your features before they settle on your lips for the briefest moment. "C'mere."
You assume he wants to kiss you, so you do what any sane person dating Jason Todd would do.
You abandon the jeans you'd been folding and sit on the edge of the bed. Before you can even process what it is that he wants, you're being tugged into the middle. One arm loops around your waist, keeping you tucked against his side like a stuffed animal he can't sleep without.
"What're you—
He hands you a book. The same one he read to you a few days ago.
"Your turn," he says as if that explains everything.
You blink. "You want me to read to you?"
Jason shrugs and leans down to kiss the side of your head. "m'not doing the voices tonight," he mutters, breath fanning your ear.
"I'm not doing the voices," you complain. But you're already opening the book to where he left off.
A sleepy huff escapes him. "Read the book, sweetheart."
"Okay, but without the voices," you say again. And to make your point, you elbow him in the ribs.
he side-eyes you. "Doesn't matter."
"What doesn't?" you ask.
“the voices.” He tucks his face against your shoulder. "just wanna listen to yours.”
AN: Hello everyone! Sorry I went ghost for a bit. We will call this my birthday present to myself because my birthday was a couple days ago and Caleb holds a special place in my heart and there is a lacking of fics for him. I have a smut scene for this fic written out, I might post it on its own but idk yet. As always thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy! Xoxo
Disclaimer: Readers abilities are based off of my D&D character, I don't own Caleb or the Mighty Nein. I also do not know German so if a translation is wrong I'm sorry.
Summary: Sometimes it's easier to just know things, but sometimes feelings become too strong to ignore
Rating: Fluff, suggestive themes, nudity, if I forgot something I'm sorry
Main Masterlist Here
“Cheers to The Mighty Nein! The greatest heroes who ever lived!” Jester says loudly pulling Nott closer to her, in her free hand a pint of ale swings wildly around, some of the contents spilling to the ground. “Ahh- Jester! Could you try to be a bit more careful?” Nott says pulling away from Jester slightly to wipe off the stray drops of ale now on her.
You sat across the booth watching them with a smile, it was nice to finally relax after all the excitement your group has endured lately. Molly was across the bar flirting with the pretty barmaid and Fjord was sitting next to Jester who was now singing along loudly with Nott. Beau and Yasha were sitting in the far corner of the booth next to you, both drunk and whispering to themselves sweetly. Everyone was happy for once; there was only one missing from your group though–
“Where's Caleb??” Jester said loudly looking around the bar for the red-haired sorcerer. “He said he needed some fresh air so he went outside,” Nott said, taking a sip from her drink before sharply looking in her direction. “Don't even think about bothering him!” She said pointing a finger at Jester, who shrugged before going back to singing- now leaning on Fjord who was blushing slightly. She was wasted. You smiled behind your cup, your thoughts drifting to the red-haired man in question. A small flush rose to your cheeks and you hoped none of your group saw, you could just blame it on the ale or the cold if you had to.
You had been in love with Caleb for as long as you can remember, it's been a couple years at least. He was just so sweet and charming- he was also incredibly handsome, it also did not help that every time he looked at you with his crystal blue eyes your knees decided to not want to work. When he would compliment you it would leave you stammering like you did not know how to speak- it was quite pathetic. The worst part was that you knew he had feelings for you too. It was driving you crazy to just- know.
You stood, shaking your head to yourself softly, your eyes falling to the stairs that led up to the balcony where you had seen Caleb disappear earlier in the evening. You stand to make your way to the bar to grab a drink, smiling sheepishly as you approach. Molly was whispering something in the barmaid's ear, whatever he was saying had her blushing and giggling profusely. As you sat your cup on the counter, she smiled at Molly with a blush still on her face before grabbing your cup to turn and refill it.
You felt eyes on you as you waited and you turned to see Molly staring at you, his chin resting in his hand as usual– he also had a slight smirk on his face. “Looking for our wizard?” He said teasingly before eyeing you up and down, noticing the slight squirm at the mention of Caleb–damn him and his ability to read people easily. “Why don't you just tell him how you feel?” He said with a smirk on his face, you could hear the tease in his voice. Your eyes almost popped out of your head and you turned your face away so he couldn't see you blush, “what?! No no no, I don't know what you're talking about,” you say- though the blush that forms on your face and neck say otherwise.
Molly raises an eyebrow in suspicion, clearly not buying it, he barks out a small laugh before covering his eyes with his hands, dramatically running them down his face like he was in agony. “It's so painful watching the two of you run around like lovestruck fools for each other, Caleb acts like a drunk idiot every time you enter the room- and you cannot form a proper sentence when he compliments you!” He said in an exasperated tone. “That is not even the start of it though!” He added “-and don't get me started on the sexual ten-” you throw your hands up in a plea for him to stop, “Okay! Okay, I guess we are pretty pathetic aren't we?” You say with a small huff of a laugh, bringing your now filled cup to your lips, smiling at the truth behind Molly's words. He was right, you and Caleb had danced around each other for what seemed like forever. Both of you were scared to let the other in completely, but you always found yourself gravitating to him. You both knew deep down but just could not bring yourselves to just be together. It was safer to just…know.
You avoid Molly's gaze, he smiles at you fondly reaching a hand across the bar to grab yours, squeezing it reassuringly. “Go to him and just tell him love- you already know what the answer will be.” You nod slowly, asking the barmaid for a second drink before making your way upstairs where you had last seen him disappear earlier.
Caleb stood apart from the party inside, leaning on the railing. He looked out at the falling snow, his expression unreadable, a mixture of melancholy and peace on his face. The door opened behind him, and he didn't need to turn to know who had sought him out in the quiet. He had been aware of your presence all evening, then again he always was when it came to you. He gestures with his head towards the city below without looking at you. "It is a different view from up here. Less... loud." He turns his head slightly, his blue eyes catching the reflected light from the snow. It sent a shiver down your spine. "Would you care to join me?” He said softly, his lips tugging into a smile- the one that made your heart do a flip in your chest.
You smile, hesitating slightly before stepping out to join him. "If it's not too much trouble, I do not think I can take anymore of Nott and Jesters’ drunk singing,” finally joining him out in the cold, “but I did come bearing gifts." You say with a bright smile, holding up the pints, reaching to set one in front of him on the railing before setting yours down so you could lean forward on the railing to stare out at the city, taking a deep breath to steady your heartbeat which was out of control. You can do this.
Caleb huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, picking up the cup to bring it to his lips, "Ja, they are... enthusiastic, to say the least. Though I suppose it is better than Nott's usual threats to steal people's buttons." He leans against the railing beside you, his shoulder just barely brushing yours.
"This snow reminds me of Blumenthal. Not the city, but... the quiet moments." His voice is softer now, gaze distant. Then he blinks, as if catching himself, and glances at you with a self-deprecating smile. "Apologies, I did not mean to darken the mood.”
You smile fondly at him, glancing back out at the snow covered landscape, "the snow reminds me of the mountains back home, before my parents died. I was too little to really remember them but what I do remember is the snow most of all... " You say trailing off in thought, but look at him with a small smile, a blush forming on your cheeks, "I guess that didn't help lighten the mood,” you say with a huff.
He watches as your breath hangs in the air before disappearing into the night. His eyes soften as you mention your parents, and he turns to face you more fully, his shoulder pressing against yours a little more. The touch, though slight, conveys a silent acknowledgement and support.
"No, it did not," he replies with a wry smile, but there's no malice in it. Only understanding. "But then, we are both well-versed in the language of melancholy, aren't we?”
You laugh, a smile gracing your lips, “Yeah I guess we are.” You say as you watch the snowflakes fall with a heavy silence. A comforting silence fell over the pair of you for a moment and it was peaceful, just being there with him in the moment. It felt…..different this time though. There was a heavy tension looming over but not bad- it was almost like a cord that was being pulled so tight it would snap under the slightest touch.
You reach your hand out to catch a snowflake, studying it for a few seconds before closing your eyes- you clutch your necklace in your hand, a warm glow emits from it as the snowflake slowly turns into a pink petal of a flower. You open your eyes smiling at the delicate petal in your hand before looking at Caleb who had been staring the entire time. A blush forms on your cheeks and neck as you quietly stammer, "it's a spell I learned from the woman who took me in- she um, taught me all about magic and stuff after my parents died." you said looking away, trying to not meet his gaze.
Caleb watched intently as the snowflake turned into a petal in your hand, his gaze flickering down to the glowing necklace and back to your face. He seemed captivated, the faintest hint of surprise in his expression. Though that surprise is quickly replaced with an almost reverent admiration. He had seen you use your magic many times before in fights but this was new- he had never seen you so..soft- almost delicate in a way.
He reaches a hand out, his fingers hesitating for a split second before gently taking the petal from you. He twirls it slowly in his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. "That is... beautiful." He murmurs, his voice soft and sincere.
Your blush heats up your face even more, your hand coming to scratch the back of your neck, still avoiding his gaze, "oh thats nothing, its a parlor trick really,” you say with a small nervous laugh, "It's nothing like your magic-" Your eyes meet him for a second before looking back at your feet.
He exhales sharply—not quite a laugh, but something close—and shakes his head, the petal still cradled carefully in his palm. "Nein. There is nothing trivial about magic. Especially not when it comes from... someone so beautiful." His voice grows quieter as he says it, as if the words themselves are fragile. Then, after a pause, he carefully tucks the petal into the pages of a small, battered notebook he pulls from his coat pocket—like a keepsake.
When he looks back at you, his expression is softer than before, a little less guarded. "Would you show me more? If... if you do not mind.”
Seeing him put the petal in his notebook made you feel... proud? You always thought your spells were trivial compared to his but how could you deny him when he asked so sweetly? Even though you had known each other for years the two of you had never really shown each other your magic unless in a fight so the idea made you nervous. You blinked quickly before stammering, "oh, uh no! Of course I don't.. um lets see.”
You quickly look around, spotting an empty planter that held flowers in the spring and summer tucked away in the corner of the balcony. You walk over holding your hands above it, slowly you close your eyes, your necklace emits the same hue as before, only now your hands also start to glow as well. Slowly the plant started to return to life, it started out small and quickly grew bigger until it came to life, the green, lush leaves and red roses bloomed- it almost seemed as if your magic made the plant grow bigger and stronger somehow. It was beautiful. You opened your eyes and smiled at him, eyes shining proudly.
Caleb watched in open awe as the plant grew from nothing, his gaze flicking from your hands to the plant, then back to you. The expression on his face was a mixture of wonder, admiration, and... something he would refuse to put a name to. He takes a step forward, reaching out to touch one of the petals as if to make sure it was real, then quickly pulls his hand back, not wanting to ruin the magic.
"That... is incredible," he says softly, his gaze returning to you. He seems at a loss for words, his usual composure slightly cracked. You smile widely as you reach out to pick one of the roses before turning to look up at him. "Here,” holding it out to him sheepishly, you say with a smile, your eyes shine with pride, adoration and something else, something more intimate. He holds your gaze as you offer the rose, a faint flush dusting his cheeks. He takes it gingerly, as though it's a delicate, precious thing. His fingers brush against yours, the contact sending a strange flutter through his chest.
With a slight nod, he murmurs his thanks, his eyes flicking between the rose and your face. Then he does something quite unexpected; he tucks the rose into the lapel of his coat, just above his heart.
You blush at his actions, fingers coming to push some stray hair behind your ear and you clear your throat, "I uh, I know its not the best but-" You take a small step but your bad luck and the universe seem to hate you at that moment- you fall forward and land into his chest sending you both toppling backwards, you landing hard on his chest. "Oh my god!- I'm so sorry!" You say with a horrified squeak. His arms instinctively come up to steady you, landing hard on the balcony floor with a grunt. The breath leaves his lungs in a rush, but despite the surprise of it, he doesn’t seem upset. Instead, after a brief, stunned silence, he lets out a soft chuckle—something rare and genuine.
"Ah—mein Gott—are you all right?" he asks, voice slightly winded but amused. His hands remain lightly on your arms, not pulling away but not tightening either, giving you the space to move if you wish. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he adds, wryly, "I did not think my invitation to join me would be quite so... literal.”
You blush profusely at his words, stammering you go to pull back to give him space, "I didn't mean too! Are you okay?- I'm so sorry!” His hands tighten slightly when you try to pull away, a silent plea for you not to move. He shakes his head, the beginnings of a genuine grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No need to apologize, it was an accident. I am alright, but please- stay." He shifts slightly beneath you, moving to prop himself up on his forearms. The position brings you even closer, the proximity suddenly much more intimate. His eyes search your face, the amusement in them tinged with something undefinable. You blink at him, shuddering slightly at the feeling of his warm body under you but you relax slightly, you are sure your face is the color of Molly's eyes at the moment and you try to look anywhere but him so he won’t see, "yeah okay, I mean- if that's what you want." You say looking anywhere but his face.
Caleb can feel the heat radiating off your face, and can see how flustered you are. The sight of your blushing cheeks amuses him, a small part of him pleased at your reaction. He notices your attempt to look away, but he gently lifts a hand to your chin, tilting your face back to his. "Look at me." He says, his voice low and gentle. His touch is feather light, his eyes roaming over your face, taking in every detail. "Please.” You let him, leaning into his touch slightly, "Caleb?" You say quietly almost squeaking his name, your eyes shining brightly at him searching his eyes for an answer. The way you say his name causes his heart to skip a beat. The way you lean into his touch, the way your eyes shine at him... it breaks through his cool facade, causing a crack in his carefully constructed armor. His gaze softens even more, his fingertips gently tracing along your jawline. "Ja?" he responds, his voice barely above a whisper. He's hyper-aware of every point of contact between you, every point where your bodies are pressed together.
You blink slowly at him, studying his face. Dammit, there was that tension again-you were tired of this back and forth, Molly was right you needed to tell him Your eyes fall to his lips and you subconsciously stick your tongue out to lick yours. Your cheeks heat up when you realize, your eyes hold a slight panic, knowing he saw it "I...I....." Your sentence trails off, too lost in thought and his eyes to form a complete thought.
He watched as your tongue darted out to wet your lips, his eyes tracking the movement. Every nerve in his body was suddenly on fire, the sight of your mouth causing a wave of heat to wash over him. He couldn't help but notice the slight panic in your eyes, the way you trailed off. He knew you were struggling with your words, but all he could focus on was the way your eyes held his. He could see you battling yourself behind them. His hand moved from your chin to your cheek, fingers tracing along your skin almost absentmindedly. "What is it?" He asked softly, his voice hoarse.
Your hands that had been holding onto his coat with a death grip moved up his chest to wrap around his neck, your eyes shining with longing, adoration and maybe love? For a moment, he doesn’t move—simply stares up at you as if committing every detail of this moment to memory. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulls you down toward him, his lips finally meeting yours in a kiss that’s achingly soft—hesitant at first, as if he can hardly believe this is happening, but quickly deepening as the realization sinks in. His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your neck while the other presses firmly against the small of your back. When he finally pulls back, just far enough to look at you, his voice is rough with emotion. "...Meine Liebe.” He exhales the words like a prayer.
You sigh breathlessly, he tasted like ale, smoke and something... darker, it makes your head spin. So you find your voice and quietly say, "Caleb, I'm in love with you...I have been for a while, and I am tired of acting like I'm not- I'm tired of just knowing… I know you feel something for me too–everyone can see it and I am not running anymore," you say looking down, tears forming in the corners of your eyes- and just like that, the cord snaps.
He freezes as the words leave your mouth, his mind struggling to process what he'd just heard. The world seemed to slow, everything else faded into the background as your confession rang in his ears. Even if he wanted to deny the feelings he had for you, the depth of them hit him like a wave. The way his heart ached for you, all the years he'd spent watching you from afar...it was as undeniable as the winter's chill. He reached a hand up to gently tilt your chin, wiping a falling tear from your cheek softly, forcing your gaze back to his. "...say that again.”
You blink at him. "I...I love you,” you say, your fingers threading through his long hair. "It's always been you," you say as your nose brushes his slightly. You could feel the heat from his breath on your lips. The second time you say it, something in his chest fractures—but not in a way that hurts. It’s as though a dam has broken, years of carefully guarded walls crumbling in an instant. His breath catches, and for the first time in a long, long while, he doesn’t think—he just feels. His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you back to him with a desperate sort of reverence. The kiss is deeper this time, less tentative, as if he’s trying to pour every unspoken word into it. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his voice rough and raw. "Ich liebe dich auch, more than you could possibly know." A shaky exhale, then, softer, "I have been... terrified of this. Of losing you, that is why I kept my distance. But I cannot pretend anymore.” You huff softly, gazing up at him. You smile softly through tears you just now noticed were falling. "Then don't pretend, I'm yours...just be with me," you say quietly.
His thumb brushes away your tears, his touch achingly gentle. Hearing you say that woke something fragile and hopeful in his chest, a warmth that chases away the lingering shadows of doubt. He exhales shakily, pressing his lips to your forehead in a tender, lingering kiss. "Mein Schatz," he murmurs against your skin, "You have had me for a long time already. I was just... too much of a coward to say it.” A quiet, self-deprecating laugh escapes him, but his arms tighten around you—as if he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. Then, softer, more vulnerable than you've ever heard him: "Will you stay with me tonight? The others will be drunk for hours yet. We could... just be. Together.” You laugh softly at the thought of the others, he was right and you didn't know the next time you would get to be alone with him. You were going to take advantage of it. "Of course, who knows the next time we will be able to be in an actual bed..." You say with a playful smirk as you lean forward to trail kisses up his neck.
A shiver runs through his body when you press your lips to his neck, an involuntary gasp escaping him. He lets his head drop back, giving you more access to his throat, his grip tightening on your body. The thought of being alone with you—and not just in a stolen moment or hidden corner—has him nearly dizzy with anticipation. He lets out a low, rough laugh of mock-exasperation. "Scheiße, if you keep that up, I might just lock us in my bedroom for the rest of the night.” You smile into his neck, slightly peeking at him through your long lashes, "and what's so wrong with that?" You say with a playful pout. His breath catches at your expression—that pout, the way you looked at him- he groans, half in exasperation, half in want. His grip on you tightens for a second, fingers pressing possessively into your hips before he abruptly shifts, rolling you both over so he’s the one hovering above you, his forearms braced on either side of your head.
His voice is a rough murmur, laced with amusement and something far more dangerous. "Absolut nichts. Except that I am trying—very hard—to be civilized about this." A beat, then he adds, smirking, "But if you insist on testing my patience, Liebling, I can make exceptions.” You smile up at him, your eyes hold a more mischievous glint now, almost challenging in a way. "Then what are we waiting for?”
A couple hours later, the noise from the tavern next door had quieted down some time ago, not that either one if you would have noticed. All you could hear now was the cracking of the fire and Caleb's heavy breathing. You both lie on the bed naked, sweaty limbs tangled together like you were both scared the other would disappear. You sigh happily. "Wow, that was.... amazing. We should've done this sooner,” you say with a small smile, gazing up at him fondly tracing circles on his chest.
Caleb chuckles breathlessly, one strong arm wrapped around your waist, the other resting above his head. His heart is still hammering in his chest and he's fairly certain he won't be able to move for at least an hour. Still, he can't keep the smug smile off his face as he gazes down at you. "Well, as much as I want to take credit for my prowess in bed, I think your timing is more responsible than my skills." He teases, eyes tracing over your face. "But yes, I agree. We should have done this a long time ago.”
You pulled away from him to sit up so you could admire him more, the sight of his toned chest in the dim firelight made him look...angelic. He had a content smile on his face that you were not used to seeing from him and it warmed your heart to know you were the one to make him feel this way. He watches you as you pull away, his hand immediately moving to trail lazily along your back as if to keep some sort of connection between you. He notices the way you look at him—with something like awe—and his heart does that stupid little stutter it seems to reserve only for you. He shifts slightly, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek.
"You are staring." He says it lightly, but there’s a rare warmth in his voice—no guardedness, no hesitation. Just open affection. You grab his hand gently, bringing it to your lips before kissing his palm then his wrist smiling into his skin. "Can you blame me?" You say with a smile, "have you seen yourself sir?”
His eyes flutter shut at the feeling of your lips against his bare skin, and he can't suppress a quiet sigh of contentment. Your words cause his face to flush with an unfamiliar feeling of bashfulness—and god, you really have too much power over him—but he just smirks. "I do not think I'm handsome, but I am glad you do, so thank you." He says lightly, opening his eyes to look back at you. He looks utterly undone—his face flushed, his hair messy, his eyes soft with affection.
You smile at his quip, "well, you should- because you are,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek softly before moving to stand up. Knowing he was watching you bend down to pick up his discarded shirt before slipping it on to move to the balcony doors. You open them and take a deep breath in, basking in the cool night air.
He can't help but admire the way his shirt looks on you, slightly baggy in the shoulders and sleeves but long enough to fall to mid-thigh. It's an absurdly domestic sight—you in his clothes—and it makes his heart ache in the most wonderful way. He follows you to the balcony, standing behind you and pressing a possessive hand to your hip, chin resting on your shoulder. "You look better in my shirt than I do," he mumbles against your skin. You smile at him, hands resting on top of his larger ones. You lean back into his chest laughing softly. “You are only saying that because you've seen me naked,” you say with a playful smirk.
He snorts, grinning against your neck before nipping lightly at your skin. He tightens his grip on your hip, pulling you back against him, the evidence of previous activities pressing against the small of your back. "I mean it. You could be wearing rags and still look ravishing."
He pauses for a moment, his tone shifting into a low purr, "Though I do prefer you without clothes.”
You hum thoughtfully, before turning around in his arms to wrap yours around his neck. You realize in the moment how much shorter you are than him, you love feeling small next to him. It made you feel safe, "same, it's such a shame we have to wear clothes all the time." You say with a slight pout.
His hands settle possessively on your hips, one sliding down to caress the bare skin of your thigh. He can't help but chuckle at the pout on your face—you're far too adorable for your own good.
"Liebling, if it were up to me, I'd keep you naked all the time." He murmurs, ducking his head to press a kiss to the hollow of your throat. He smiles against your skin. "Unfortunately, others might have a few complaints about that.”
You smile mischievously, "hmmm I don't think Molly would mind,” you say teasingly. He snorts, his hands skimming up your thighs, under the shirt. He gives your ass a slight pinch, grinning against your neck. "Molly's a scoundrel, he'd enjoy it far too much. And you're mine."
He presses you flush against him, his hands sliding back up, under the shirt this time. "I don't want anyone else taking a good look at your perfect little body.”
"What is your plan Mr. Widogast, are you going to lock me away in a tower?” you ask with a playful smile. His grip tightens slightly, his expression darkening with playful possessiveness.
"Ja, maybe I will." He murmurs, lips brushing yours. "A tower with a very soft bed, plenty of books... and me. And you wouldn’t leave unless I allowed it." He nips at your lower lip before pulling back just enough to smirk at you.
"Does that sound like a terrible fate?”
You tap your chin, playfully thinking, "It sounds like a dream come true." You say with a smile, your nose brushing his. He chuckles, breath warm against your lips before stealing another quick kiss. His fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt—your shirt now—tugging you even closer.
"Good. Because I have no intention of letting you go now that I've finally got you." His voice is light, but the possessiveness in his grip is undeniable. He pauses for a moment, resting his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. "Mein Schatz, I would burn cities to keep you safe. Keeping you to myself is just... an added bonus.”
"I don't need you to burn cities Caleb, I just need you here with me." You say wrapping your arms around his waist, melting into him, you felt incredibly small in his arms.
His breath hitches slightly at your words, arms tightening around you as he presses his lips to the crown of your head. He exhales—slow, steady—like he’s trying to relearn how to breathe without the weight of the world pressing down on him.
"Then here is where I’ll stay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Solange du mich haben willst—as long as you’ll have me."
And for the first time in a long, long while, the future doesn’t feel like something to fear. It feels like warmth. Like you. It felt like you could just be- together.
AN: Ahh I am a sucker for the confession trope, sorry not sorry. The next part of JBFR? will probably be posted next week sometime, if all goes according to plan. As always thank you for reading! Xoxo
Translations:
Ja: Yes
Nien: No
Mien Gott- My God
Miene Liebe- My love
Ich liebe dich auch- I love you too
Mein Schatz- My darling
Scheiße- Shit
Absolut nichts- Absolutely nothing
Liebling- Darling
Solange du mich haben willst- As long as you want to have me (rough translation)
The tavern was loud in the way most of your nights with the Mighty Nein tended to be—Jester’s laughter ringing bright and chaotic, Nott the Brave already halfway through another drink she absolutely shouldn’t have, and Beauregard Lionett arguing with Fjord Stone over something that had long since lost its point.
Caleb sat slightly apart from the worst of it, as he often did, a book open in his lap, though his eyes flicked up more often than he’d admit, tracking you, always you, like a quiet orbit he couldn’t break.
You were tired.
That bone-deep, slow exhaustion that crept up on you after too many days on the road, too many late nights, too much noise and movement and people. Your limbs felt heavier, your thoughts softer around the edges.
A yawn escaping your lips, sleep pulling at you as you slowly looked around the room and saw that the only open space...
Was Caleb's lap and of course, you didn’t think about it.
You just… sat.
A soft plop, settling sideways across his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And for you? It was.
Warm. Solid. Familiar.
You sighed, already melting into the contact, your body instinctively relaxing against him.
But for Caleb Widogast, the world stopped.
Completely.
His spine locked, every muscle going rigid as if someone had cast Hold Person on him.
You.
Were.
In.
His.
Lap.
His book slipped slightly in his hands, forgotten instantly. His breath caught sharp, quiet, like he didn’t dare draw too much attention to the fact that his entire existence had just derailed.
“…I—”
He didn’t finish.
Couldn’t.
Because you shifted.
Just a little.
Settling more comfortably, your weight fully resting against him, your head tipping toward his shoulder.
And then you exhaled. Long. Slow.Your body going soft.
Caleb’s hands hovered awkwardly at your sides, fingers twitching like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go if anywhere at all.
“Caleb—”
Jester Lavorre’s voice cut through the noise like a knife wrapped in sugar.
“Oh my god...adorable”
He didn’t look at her.
He couldn’t.
Because if he moved if he did anything at all then you might realize what you’d done and pull away.
And he could not bear that, he did not want that, you deserve the rest.
“…Do not,” he murmured, low and strained, eyes fixed firmly on the page he was no longer reading.
Jester was already grinning. “Oh no, I am absolutely going to.”
Across the table, Yasha Nydoorin glanced over, quiet but observant, while Beau leaned back in her chair, arms crossing with slow, dawning amusement.
“…You’re not moving,” Beau noted.
“I—cannot.”
That got a snort out of Nott, who leaned over the table, squinting at him. “Why not? Wizard boy forget how legs work?”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
Because you were still there.
Still warm.
Still soft.
Still sleeping.
At some point he wasn’t even sure when you had fully drifted off. Your breathing evened out, your body completely relaxed against him, your cheek now resting against his shoulder like it belonged there.
It was like you belonged there.
And Caleb, Caleb did something dangerous.He let himself feel it.Slowly, carefully, his hands lowered.
One rested lightly at your side.The other after a long, hesitant moment settled at your waist.
Not gripping.
Not pulling.
Just…holding.
A protective, grounding touch.
“…She is asleep,” he said quietly, as if that explained everything.
“It explains why you’re not breathing, yeah,” Beau shot back.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re barely blinking.”
Nott cackled, kicking her feet against the chair.“Oh, this is so good. Look at him! He’s gonna combust!”
Jester leaned in closer, eyes sparkling.“Caleb, you know you’re allowed to enjoy things, right?”
His ears went red, he parted his lips and turned his head away. “I am not....this is not—”
His words faltered as you shifted again.A small, sleepy movement. Your hand warm and soft came to rest against his chest.
And of course, that is what did it. Caleb’s entire body went impossibly still. Because now, now you were touching him.
Not accidentally brushing.
Not passing contact.
Resting.
His breath left him in a quiet, shaky exhale.“…Bitte,” he muttered under his breath, not even sure what he was asking for anymore.
“Did he just pray?” Nott whispered loudly.
“I think he did,” Beau replied, equally loud.
Jester clasped her hands together dramatically as she tilted her head to the side. "Oh, this is so romantic! She’s asleep in his lap, he’s having a crisis, it’s perfect!”
Fjord grins leaning in. "I am never letting you live this down."
Caleb closed his eyes briefly.Trying to regain control, to ground himself, to remember how to function like a normal person.
It did not work, of course it didn't because you sighed softly in your sleep and leaned closer.
Fully settling into him.
And something in his chest broke open.It was warm, it felt...good.
“…Please,” he said, this time a little louder, though still soft, still careful not to wake you. “You will be quiet.”
Beau raised a brow. “Or what?”
He didn’t answer immediately.Just looked down at you.At the way you trusted him.At the way you had chosen him without even thinking. "I do not think you want to find out."
The teasing stopped....well, mostly.
Beau rolled her eyes but leaned back, muttering something under her breath. Nott snickered but quieted. Even Jester softened, watching the two of you with a gentler kind of mischief as Fjord groaned rolling his eyes muttering how boring Caleb was being.
Caleb exhaled slowly.His thumb moved.Just slightly.A small, absent stroke against your side as your body relaxed more.
And so he let himself relax, finally. Book forgotten, conversation ignored, the entire world narrowing down to the weight of you in his lap, the warmth of your body against his, and the quiet, fragile realization that for once,just once he was allowed to have something good.
And he would sit there all night if it meant you didn’t wake up and take it away.
After eons of scouring the sacred tomes and ancient texts for more Caleb x Reader fics, I have at last found another one! Thank you for this, it's adorable!
Helllooo! I noticed your open requests so i thought I'd give it a try! I noticed you like writing about The mighty nein! Soo could you do a Caleb x reader with a kind, apologetic reader?
Like she'd apologize if she bumped into someone, if she made a bad joke, not too extremely apologetic, but enough to be noticed. I'd like to see Caleb's reactions to her apologies and later, if she bumps into someone, she apologizes, the guy is too rude and she's too kind to fight back, what will Caleb do?
Sooo yeeee... Thank you so much! I hope that you like my request and inspired you enough to write. If you don't feel like writing it, that's okay! Have a wonderful day, byeee!!!
enough of your apologies
Word count: 1928 | Masterlist |
heeeeyyy this is ninteen hundred words of this got out of control…. :P i liked this one and i like you anon you entertained me with this one. there’s everythign in here angst, hurt/comfort. also i dont like writing for the mighty nein i love it silly.
Caleb is a creature of habit— at least when he has the opportunity to be. Every night after finding a safe place to sleep, he reads; every night he sets up a wire around his room; every night he huddles close to Nott. Caleb Widogast is a creature that notices patterns; it's what he was trained to do. This rune implies that, see the order in which they’re placed, break them down, and understand. He was able to see patterns in the arcane arts and capitalize on them. Bren Ermendrud is a creature that sees. He sees the cause and effect of the world; by combining these components with these words, he will get this reaction. By doing this, he will get that.
Naturally, Caleb Widogast considers Bren Ermendrud dead, a name from the past that he regards with faraway looks and a hammering heart. But Bren Ermendrud still lives, tucked away inside the most guarded parts of his heart, the once-vicious Volstrucker now nothing but a scared boy hiding in the safe confines of his fortified heart. However, there are many occasions when Caleb finds himself allowing the curious boy to resurface—when he first met Nott, or when he watches you.
And because it’s of no consequence, watching you or not, he finds himself doing it often. As Caleb, the creature of habit who sees your own habits, as Caleb Widogast, who wants to understand the components that make you, and as Bren, who looks at you but never sees you. Upon realizing this, Caleb finds you frustrating. Your meek apologies to those around you act as kindling for this frustration. Just as he is guarded, so are you. Hiding behind a wall of apologies and kindness that is unwavering and undeserved for some.
He didn’t even see the collision happen.
He’s walking just a pace ahead of you when he hears you yelp and the near instant apology,
“Oh my gods, I am so sorry, I didn’t see you—”
“Sorry? You’re sorry, huh?” He leans down and presses his face close to yours. “Why dontcha show me how sorry you are, little thing?” Caleb turns, and though he stands as arguably the most cowardly of the Mighty Nein— next to Nott, a bit of flame curls around his fingers.
This man, if he could even be considered as such, is hulking, huge; his forearm alone is probably as big as your head. But the one thing that makes Caleb’s frustration turn into mild fury is that he has you by your forearm, your feet dangling a handful of inches off the ground.
“I otta teach ya some manners f’that.” He regards his buddies, who snicker among themselves, and Caleb doesn’t know whether he should burn just the ringleader or all of them. All drunk and looking for entertainment in anything that would give it to them.
The three other men circle to your left side, knuckles cracking, wicked grins spreading on their faces. The ring leader reels an open palm back, before his open hand can come down on your face, a dirty, calloused hand clasps your attacker's shoulders. You know this hand to be Caleb’s. Because you’ve studied them. In fact, you study all of Nein’s hands. You find that hands are honest; they tell stories of age, of hard work, of character and will. Caleb’s show you courage and cowardice, nimbleness and anxiety; they tell you stories of sorrow, grief, and pain.
So you find yourself able to recognize the hand that latches around the brute's shoulder— calloused and dirty and hurting, this is the hand that you hold when the world becomes a little too much, the hand that you hold when your chest feels tight, and the world becomes impossibly small. The hands that used to work tirelessly on a farm with only his parents, those hands that were strapped to chairs and bound in straight jackets, and the hands that run through soft orange fur.
“Let go now.” He sounds different; this voice comes from deeper inside his chest, something angrier than you’ve ever heard come from Caleb. This is chilling, a stark contrast, and a grim reminder that Caleb Widogast was once Bren Ermendrud. You inhale sharply and then grimace at the char smell that enters the air, and the smoke that rises from where his palm connects to the brute's shoulder. He screams, violent and raw, and drops you to the ground from which you skitter to Caleb’s back, hiding as best you can behind him.
You can no longer see the man, surrounded by his friends, all unsure whether to help or call for help. Caleb turns his back to the quad, grabs your biceps gently, and looks at you with unbridled concern.
“Are you alright?” He scans you over, eyes catching on your forearm, which he scowls at and grasps gingerly, and you can see now that there’s an already forming bruise, dark and ugly on your skin. He brushes a thumb over the mark, feather-light, and finally meets your gaze again, only slightly pink in the cheeks.
“I’m sure Jester can fix this.” He mutters, more to himself than you, his cerulean eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you can see anger flicker across his features, yet just as fast as you see it, it disappears.
“Wh-what did you do to him?!” One of the friends stands between the burned man and Caleb, trying to be a human shield but looking more like a shivering leaf, and this time you see it happen—you see the warm blue eyes of his darken, like a storm forming in an instant over calm seas. You see who Caleb Widogast once was.
“I would consider…… finding a new friend. You would never know what kind of trouble this pathetic man could get you dragged into.” His words aren’t acid, they’re fire, molten and broiling and begging to be trifled with, and he turns, fire already crackling in the palms of his hands. The friend falls to his rear, eyes wide with terror, and the ground beneath him softens with piss, shanking hands coming up to shield his face— yet nothing strikes him, and the fire in Caleb's palms simmers to a broiling heat. And he grabs the friend's hand, and the friend wails, fat tears rolling from his eyes and snot falling onto quivering lips, whimpering as the simmering heat of Caleb’s hand cools slowly.
“I don’t want to see any of your ugly faces around here ever again, ja?” He squeezes, and the friend squeals while nodding as quickly as he can, nearly throwing his head off his shoulders. With a final squeeze, Caleb releases the friend, who shrieks at the bits of charred skin that come off with Caleb’s hand. Without another word, Caleb turns, head tilted downward, and walks steadily over to you, hand without charred skin, grabbing your non-bruised arm.
Too shocked to even question where Caleb was dragging you off to. He doesn't look back at you, his head no longer down, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, and his other hand is curled into a fist. Fingernails digging into the callouses on his palms, crushing the charred skin that remains stuck to his hand to dust.
“I-I’m sorry, Caleb.” He stops, completely stops, both of you in a secluded little alleyway that smells vaguely like mouse piss, and he’s still, so still in fact, that it nearly looks like he’s not moving at all. You can barely see through his clothing, but you can tell his entire back is tense, and his hand around your wrist lets go.
“And why are you sorry?” He doesn’t turn; he must be mad at you for making him use his magic on someone like that. It must’ve been so hard; your heart plummets inside your chest. Now you’ve really done it.
“For making you use your magic like that,” You aggressively scrub at the tears that force themselves into your eyes, “For making you remember all those horrible things.” You keep brushing away your tears, but to no avail, the tears come faster than you can wipe them away, and your sniffling makes it absolutely clear what’s happening.
Finally, Caleb turns. And his brows are deeply furrowed, his jaw set tightly, the storm that shadows his beautiful eyes clearly visible when you see him. Tears dripping down your face onto your clothes and staining your sleeves, shudders wrecking your posture into something smaller, something that apologizes, something that is sorry.
You're taking a gasping, shuddering breath when he says it, your moniker, your title, you—instantly stilling the storming ocean. Because it’s not that he calls you by your name, it’s the tenderness that stills the raging ocean inside of you, the cadence of his tone that makes your eyes snap to him. His jaw is still clenched tight, and he remains only five feet away from you, but his brows soften, yearning, angry, and concerned. He takes a step forward, then another, and then another, and then he stands in front of you, right hand taking your own.
“Enough with your apologies.” The exterior of his sentence is stern, but what lies inside is soft, and caring, and gentle. He lets go of your hand and wraps his arms around your upper waist, tugging you into his hold— he’s warm.
For the first time in your entire life, you don’t feel like flooding him with apologies, you don’t feel like apologizing for needing help, you don’t feel the need to apologize to the world for your existence; you feel still and safe and warm. You wrap your arms around his neck, tears smearing the coat that he just bought, you feel the urge rise, the words forming instinctually on your tongue, and yet you can’t say them. Because this is Caleb, and he’s borne the weight of the world and would still refuse to accept a meaningless apology from you.
“I refuse to accept any apology from you, not for that.” You want to push out the words, say anything of meaning to him, but the hiccups and the stuttering breath are all you can manage.
“Using my magic like that is probably the most just reason I’ve ever used it.” He squeezes you, pressing his chest to yours, giving you the space not to feel sorry, not to feel bad all the time, and allowing you to, allowing his hand to press flat against your back, palms warmer than natural, but caressing your spine, melting the anxiety that’s been chilling your bones. Hands that are rough and want so desperately to hold something without hurting it, calloused and dirty hands that want to fix this. Nimble hands that want to show the world that he can love, too, despite having blood on them.
Caleb is rough and anxious, willing to hold you forever if it were to prove that you have nothing to apologize for. Caleb Widogast is calloused and dirty and broken, but wants to fix himself, not only for himself, but for you; to prove it’s possible. Bren Ermundrud wants to love you, no, Bren Ermundrud does love you, and he is violent and trained to kill, and he is human, and still that boy he once was, that still loves so dearly. Because if you love all of him, love him even when there’s a storm in his eyes, and he becomes that violent boy again, then he can love all of you as well, and he will.
