ARCHIVE This is a section of my main profile (@thescentsofthenight). It stores stories and contents I want to share and/or save for myself.
My old profile (@phantombstone) had a similar section, except my contents and others' were kept together (OLD ARCHIVE).
• • •
MY PERSONAL FAVOURITES
CHAINSAW MAN
GENSHIN IMPACT
JUJUTSU KAISEN
MY HERO ACADEMIA
VINLAND SAGA
• • •
None of the contents you'll find in this section belongs to me. Credits to the respective authors and artists, my sole purpose here is to support their works and/or them.
The eight-year-old Segment was unlike any child you had ever met.
When you were in the Akademiya with Zandik, you had gathered bits and pieces from what he told you about his childhood to somewhat imagine what a little Zandik would look like. It was… difficult to envision, not because you couldn’t form a picture, but because the thought of him being hurt so deeply as a child hurt you too. But when you finally saw the slice of his child self in front of you, you quickly realized the reality was far more cruel than you could ever think of on your own.
His eyes were… empty. For someone so young, not even a glimmer of light could be seen within the redness. It would have comforted you more to see even anger or sadness, but there seemed to be nothing of the sort. And yet, it did not deter you from attempting to befriend him, despite Eight’s initial lack of interest.
He was the child, and yet you were the one wandering after him like a lost kid. The Segment would just stare at you before excusing himself. Perhaps he was confused about why you were speaking to him in such an excited tone. Perhaps he did not know how to deal with it. All he knew was that the others had told him to treat you respectfully but not to bother you, and Eighteen specifically gave him a look every time you tried to usher him closer.
But in the end, a child was a child. A child would think and behave like one no matter how much they buried themselves, and that was also true for little Eight. You had noticed Eight frequently spent his spare time writing and doodling in his notebook, although he would always shut it if you got too close, obviously still guarded around you. At least he had gotten comfortable enough to let you stay in his room. Still, it was easy to piece together what he was doing in there. So, one day you slipped him a drawing of an Aranara you had drawn yourself.
Eight recognized the creature immediately, and you witnessed more emotion than you had seen before, with his eyes widening and mouth parting. He closed his notebook shut and tentatively reached to brush his small fingers against the drawing, and you pushed it closer to him encouragingly.
“Have you ever seen one like this? You know, there are the round ones and-”
“The ones that are skinny with long hats.” Before you could finish your sentence, Eight interrupted you. It was like a switch had been turned on.
“And then there are some with flowers on their heads-”
“And the ones with leaves on top.” It looked like he really was an expert on Aranara facts.
“You know a lot, don’t you?” You beamed at him with interest, and suddenly the child felt a bit shy. It was rare anyone took interest in him or anything he liked, but at the same time, knowing a lot had once gotten him in trouble a long time ago.
“I didn’t expect you could… be so detailed,” Eight said, changing the topic as he brought your doodle close to his face, examining the detail as his nose almost brushed it, in true childlike wonder that he always kept hidden.
“Well, in the Akademiya, you’re usually asked to sketch out your observations like wildlife or architecture, even potential machines and inventions, so I know a bit.” He only continued gazing at the messy Aranara. “You can keep it, if you like.” Eight glanced at you, slowly nodding as he finally set the paper down. He looked a bit more relaxed now.
“Now… would you mind if I see your drawings?” You pressed the tips of your fingers together, brightening with hope. Eight already guessed you had been itching to ask him that for a while. At first, he would have rejected you, but now he felt a bit more… comfortable.
The child Segment didn’t need to answer, only opening his notebook to the first page and leaving it there for you. You clasped your hands together with a resonant ‘thank you’ as you pulled a chair to sit next to him at his desk.
“Some Aranara have hats of different shapes and colors. Some of their hats cover their faces. Others have leaves drooping down instead of hats,” you read aloud from the journal. Each description was accompanied by a drawing. “Some also have bowties or carry around weapons. They’ve also picked up habits from humans, such as cooking or living in houses.”
For someone who didn’t seem to feel much, Eight watched you intently as you examined his notes. Maybe he subconsciously looked for approval. At the very least, you looked to be absorbed in his words, allowing him to feel a bit proud of himself.
“This is some really good research. Thank you for trusting me with it,” you said softly, hand reaching out to hold his, until you stopped midway and drew back. Perhaps it was best not to push things so quickly. “Though… I do think some of these sketches could use some color.”
“I would,” the boy nodded in agreement, “but I don’t have anything to color them with.” A spark of sadness flickered in your heart, knowing that he was chained to the mindset of a child and was not even allowed to indulge in it.
“Well, why don’t I get us some colored pencils and we can fill them in together? Adding a bit of color is sure to add some life, hmm?”
And so a few days later, you were once again sitting near Eight with his notebook open. You had made sure to order the most high-quality coloring supplies for little Eight. Even he could not hold back his excitement, observing them up close one by one and picking out the ones he’d use for the Aranaras. In all honesty, he was more focused on coloring than you, and seemed very intent on making sure everything was accurate… But you didn’t mind. You only gave some pointers here and there and answered his questions on whether the color he chose was good or not.
“Thank you,” Eight said eventually. He couldn’t remember the last time he expressed gratitude for something, because the only thing other people ever did was hurt him.
“Anything for you, sweet one.” He didn’t respond to the pet name, and you quickly worried you had overstepped, before Eight nodded and went back to coloring.
Perhaps if he had just had someone who supported him when he was young and took interest in him, things could have turned out differently.
—
One day, you had called Eight to the kitchen, and he was immediately greeted with a delicious smell.
“Oh, you’re right on time!” You called for him and ushered him closer. He took in the mess of the kitchen before he noticed what was making his mouth water. A tray of baklava sat there, sliced and ready to be served.
“You all still like to eat, don’t you? I thought I’d make something for all of your hard work.” You were busy cleaning with your back turned. “I invited you to have the first bite. Help yourself.”
He and the other Segments would go to the Fatui’s cafeteria, and although it was nice, it didn’t really have food from Sumeru. They would never bring up their dissatisfaction, however. But now, one of his favorite treats from his homeland sat in front of him. The older Segments might have lingered around you some more, but him? The child couldn’t help but want to dig in as soon as possible.
“Thank you.” Those words were starting to become familiar to him again. Eight’s fingers pinched a piece of the dessert and took a small bite before immediately devouring the whole thing. It was probably the best thing he’d ever tasted. He glanced at you before taking another piece, and another…
“Do you like them?” You finished cleaning the area and washing the tools as you made your way to the table. “It’s been a while since I made any so-” You paused when you noticed at least a third of the tray was gone, and the child had stuffed cheeks.
Eight blinked at you. You blinked back. You were at a loss for words before you burst out laughing at the sight.
“Y-You don’t need to eat that fast, you know. I can always make some more.” You grabbed a tissue and began wiping around his mouth. You remembered Zandik being a fast eater back in the Akademiya, but you didn’t know he could gobble stuff down this quick. Eight stiffened as you tenderly wiped off the crumbs and fussed over him, and though it felt weird, it wasn’t weird enough for him to push you away.
“Hmm… I guess I’ll portion the rest for the others. We can give Eighteen the least for being a big meanie. Hehe, don’t tell the others, alright?” Your little accomplice nodded, chewing the dessert slower, not only savoring the flavor but… your kindness too.
Eight had started to open himself up to you, slowly but surely.
—
Little Eight had begun to seek you out on his own, cling to your side, to grab onto your sleeve and look up at you with expectant eyes. With that, the boy had become oddly observant of you.
“You don’t look well,” he pointed out.
“Hm? Oh. I’m… I’m fine. Just a bit tired but-” Before you could finish, Eight grasped your clothes and led you over to sit down. Of course, you couldn’t refuse him. “Really, I don’t-” Eight pressed his small hand against your forehead.
“Your face is warm, and you’re sweating a bit. You should stay here. I’ll get one of the others and the medical record.” It was almost jarring to see a kid assess the situation with such calmness. Perhaps he already had experience with this from Regrator, though. Or maybe he just had to grow up quicker than other children.
“But… you don’t need to do all this. I can take care of myself…” He should just be allowed to be a child, you wanted to say. He shouldn’t have to be in this dreary lab with experiments of this nature.
“I want to.” Eight was surprised those words left his lips as easily as they did. He had thought he had become numb to the suffering of others. He knew something was wrong with him for that. But when he looked at you, it made him upset that you were in pain.
“… You’re very sweet. Thank you.” The others had told you that the child Segment had already lost his compassion, but every day, you learned that clearly wasn’t true.
—
The eight-year-old carried around his notebook like it was a lifeline, clutching it to his chest. If he had to put it down, he’d always make sure it was within his line of sight. You knew that his notes were important to him, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was something else to this behavior.
You found out the answer one day, when you were in Eight’s room. He was searching for his notebook in front of you when he opened his drawer to reveal a few copies of the same black notebook, before grabbing one of them.
All of the notebooks looked the same, so you had no idea he had multiple. But it didn’t strike you as unusual at first. You just assumed he had filled up that many notebooks with his ideas, and naturally, you wanted to see.
“Do you mind if I read these?” You pawed at the covers.
“You can, if you want. But you probably already read most of them.” That made you pause.
“What do you mean?”
“Those notebooks all contain the same content. I just wrote most of the important stuff in all of them.” So… he was making duplicates of the same thing?
“But why?”
“Sometimes I misplace them. And then sometimes one of the others throws it out.”
“Throw… throw them out?” You repeated, as if you were in disbelief, but Eight seemed to be unaffected.
“It’s mostly Eighteen that does that. But I don’t want to lose my ideas, so I just write them down in multiple places just in case.” Your jaw was left slack as Eight calmly flipped through his current notebook.
“A-And what does he say?”
“That it’s childish. Or a waste of time. Things like that.” He didn’t think about it when you didn’t respond, but before he knew it, you were up and pacing around the room. “What’s wrong?”
“He can’t do that to you!” You had never spoken to him this loudly, which took him off guard, and you recognized that and took a deep breath. “That… is just wrong. I will not let him do it again. I’m- I’m going to speak to him right now!” Eight realized that this was the first time he saw you truly frustrated, and it was on his behalf, too. You almost burst out the door before he called for you.
“Wait,” the child requested. Never one to ignore Eight, you listened. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I do. If I’m here, no one is doing that to you. Why, I might as well go and throw out his property and see how he likes it!” Eight felt a bit of warmth prick his face at your outspokenness. But he really didn’t want to start a fight with Eighteen, which would probably escalate to the others, with Thirty-Five telling them not to hinder his work, Forty-Five laughing, Sixty-Five being tired, and the original Zandik… what would he do?
“I’d prefer it if you stayed with me.” You opened your mouth and closed it again, expression softening.
“Well then… I guess me and Forty-Five will do something to get back at him in secret instead then.” You couldn’t help but give in to Eight, especially when he was learning to be so genuine with you. You sat on the edge of the bed with him and rubbed your hand on his back. However, you still looked troubled.
You thought back to the days you spent with the original Zandik back at the Akademiya. Eighteen was the only Segment you had a concrete understanding of, considering he was a replica of the one you knew so deeply when you were young. You had seen his bitterness firsthand, the desire for himself and his ideas to be acknowledged, only for it to never happen, sending him deeper into his resentment for the world. He would grip you, stubborn tears rolling down his face that he silently asked you to ignore. Perhaps if you had remained in the waking world, you could have done something, but…
“You know, um, Eight,” you began, and the Segment gave you his attention. “About Eighteen… I wouldn’t say he hates you. He just…” The child’s eyes bore into you as he watched you fumble for words. “I guess… He might be a little jealous of you.” That seemed to surprise the little boy.
“I don’t understand. There is nothing I have that he doesn’t.” Eight furrowed his brows, carefully thinking, and a part of you was flattered he was taking your opinion so seriously. “Eighteen has his own lab, office, equipment, proposals, funding, experiments… I don’t really have any of that.” Well, there had been proposals he had been drafting for Pantalone, some with your assistance, but he had yet to present any of them… Most of his duties included assisting the others with their tasks instead.
“Well, all of that is true but… Eighteen doesn’t have your mind.” Perhaps deep down, Eighteen wished he too could be a bit “childish.” Although Eight had clearly gone through something rough, he managed to retain something Eighteen could not. Could Eighteen ever find something and pursue it with pure wonder and excitement as a child could? He couldn’t. Instead, the older Segment was only trapped within the harsh reality of this world’s cruel rules and laws. But how could you explain that to a little boy?
“By which I mean, he doesn’t have the proper mind to appreciate your dear Aranara. And it’s a shame, because he wants to, but… can’t.” You tried to word it as best you could. “Of course, what he did is still wrong, but…” You trailed off, really not knowing what to say, but Eight only leaned into your embrace. He could understand that this was your attempt to make him feel better. Honestly, you had already done more than you knew, because Eighteen always seemed to be in a far better mood whenever you were around. And whether he liked it or not, the older Segment still stayed with him for a lot of things.
The original Zandik, the one who was fascinated with you more than any sort of research, had once told him that your warmth could fill an entire room. Obviously, that didn’t make sense in the literal way, so it was metaphorical. But only now did Eight understand what the older man had meant by that. Actually, now he understood why all the other Segments trailed after you, looking for attention.
You were truly a warm person.
His eyes flickered from you to the floor, and back to you again, as if he was making an important choice. Within the span of a few moments, the tiny Segment turned to fully embrace you, arms wrapping around your body, making you softly gasp. Without hesitation, you gently reciprocated and held his smaller body. Eight always did like when you patted the top of his head.
The child really liked you a lot. Maybe you could convince the others to let him take a trip to Sumeru? Or at least get one of his proposals approved? But for some reason, those things didn’t seem as much of a priority now, when compared to spending time with you.
The Prefect had looked through every class, every free period, every courtyard, hell, every dorm common room! And somehow, their boyfriend wasn’t in any. It was almost impressive.
And then Grim had actually found them. Now he was barreling down the hallway triumphantly to deliver the news: “He’s sick!”
characters: all NRC students (- ortho; can he even get sick?)
warnings: implied and/or blatantly stated vomiting, mentions of poisoning, possible overdoses on medicine (if you squint), suicide jokes, no beta we die like ortho and malleus’s mother
Heartslabyul
Riddle Rosehearts
this man sick is a whole nother ballpark
victorian child dying of the plague present and accounted for !!!!!
takes a LOT of medicine (but only the recommended amounts for a growing boy of his age and weight and height)
not really a holistic guy his mom’s a doctor after all → probably doesn’t even gargle salt water lmao
speaking of his mom yeah he’s on the phone with her every thirty or so minutes asking about shit
will NOT let you in
i’m serious don’t come in you’ll get sick !!!!!
there is always tea on his nightstand (he makes trey bring it to him) and there is always some kind of soup (chicken noodle or tomato usually)
he’s not horrible but he is a teensy bit dramatic about being sick → his temp is like 98 F and he’ll be laying in bed with the covers to his chin
Trey Clover
you would never know he was sick……..
unless he is actively dying or like vomiting he literally does not care
stupid baker man can handle a stuffy nose
he takes motrin in the morning and then white-knuckles it the rest of the day
he probably has like allergies and shit so he’s used to it
“lemon juice take away throat hurt” WHY DOES IT WORK
he’s like your mom he knows all the shit you can do to be not sick without medicine
if he’s actually very ill (not like a cold but the flu or something) he MIGHT stay in bed… not likely though
he’s one of those who might need someone to put him in bed bc he won’t rest unless he’s half-dead and physically unable to exit his room
kind to get dizzy when he’s sick
Cater Diamond
you’ll know he’s sick bc he won’t stop spamming your account on magicam
“i’m dying!! prefect come save me !!! do you hate me ??? :(“ ← dramatic af
nooo he just doesn’t like to be alone with his thoughts
he still gets dressed and stuff just bc he’s sick doesn’t mean he can’t be presentable
laying in bed splayed out like he’s on his last leg but his makeup is fire and he’s in jeans ← baby PLEASE
please cuddle him he checked web md and he’s like 99.9% sure he is going to die
sniffles all night bc he refuses to blow his nose in front of you that’s yucky
Ace Trappola
THIS MAN
the epitome of man flu actually no one else can compare
no matter how dramatic the man there is no one who man flus worse than ace “prefect come over to record my last will and testament” trappola
he will text you at three in the FUCKING morning about how he’s dying and you check his temp it’s fucking 97.8 please beat his ass
BLOWS HIS NOSE SO FUCKING LOUD get out of here trumpet bitch
he does it on purpose to just to fw you (“see prefect i told you i was dying”)
if he throws up its over you will never get his head off your lap and you will never stop hearing him groan despairingly
…but tbf it did sound pretty bad (poor baby- NO I DIDN’T SAY THAT FUCK YOU ACE)
he gets mono hahaha (no he doesn’t he has zero bitches)
Deuce Spade
ugh my poor boy
he tries so hard he doesn’t wanna miss a single day of school DEUCE ILY
won’t rest until it gets really bad → by the time you get him he’s got a fever of 103 and he stumbles when he walks
he works hard not to get sick so when he does its always bad
voted most likely to get strep throat more than once :(
gets hardcore shivers but he’s also incredibly warm there is no in between
delirious from fever he is saying shit he’s not supposed to the whole time (“prefect….i…. i think…. i think i hate my alchemy class…”)
the kind of man to only eat healthy stuff all day bc he’s sick he’s my responsible boy
Savanaclaw
Leona Kingscholar
you don’t see a difference
i’m telling you the only difference is he sleeps more (which is like barely noticeable i mean cmon)
no there’s more differences → he’s not whiny but he does let you know he’s sick in case you wanna cuddle or plan your day around him yk
it would be really cool if you did but whatevs. not like he cares.
torn between not wanting to get you sick but wanting you in his bed all day
decides he doesn’t care if you’re sick bc you guys can just be sick together or whatever
makes ruggie go and get food for you two doesn’t matter
you’re not here to take care of him he can do that you’re here for moral support and a good pillow
Ruggie Bucchi
no he is not resting
ruggie bucchi has been working through fevers his whole life if it’s good money he’s not passing up bc he’s got a sniffle bro
might play it up a bit for you, but you’ll catch him up doing shit if you’re watching closely
donuts heal his cold PLEASEEEEEEEE *insert puppy dog eyes here*
why would he work if you’re there taking care of him ??
azul makes him go home bc he keeps sneezing near the customers
he does that dog thing when he sneezes where he shakes his head and his ears twitch
“........ aren’t you gonna say bless you?” ← kinda guy to claim that if he doesn’t get the Sevens blessing he WILL die
he gets a cough and he’s HACKING he hates it so much smh my head head my
Jack Howl
tsundere loser will pretend he’s completely fine and yet also take his sick day
he’s not unhealthy with it; this is JACK we’re talking about
he won’t be dramatic but he’s taking the recovery day → “to be the best you can be, you have to listen to your body and what it tells you. my body is telling me to take a break today.”
he’s not complaining but his little ears are all droopy and he keeps staring at his herbal tea like it killed his dog or something
do not let him run he will try and convince you he’s fine no baby if you sniffle you stay
is up and at ‘em the next day like nothing ever happened
Octavinille
Azul Ashengrotto
azul ashengrotto has DIED of the common cold in lieu of flowers please send a signed contract
dalks like dith for a week afther geddind a sthuffy nothe ← also the kind of man who gets a cough and it doesn’t go away for like a year (can you tell this is literally me)
you find him in his office with his glasses off and his cheek pressed to the documents he’s looking through → he gets HORRIBLE migraines when he gets sick
this man acts like he’s on his period or something lmaoooo i love him
he won’t stop working but someone caught him crumpling to his knees in the middle of the kitchen when he thought no one was around (the chef had to carry him into his office)
Jade Leech
oya? you really thought he was sick? no, sick is an accident. this fucker is testing you
“my apologies, prefect. whatever shall we do? it appears i’ve fallen terribly ill” ← the eel version of “cough cough i’m sick”
he really does appreciate the fact that even when you know he’s faking you’ll still take care of him
there truly is something domestic about being brought warm soup that makes jade leech intend to either introduce you to his mother or devour you (or perhaps both)
bigs his eyes at you as he lays in bed with you petting his hair
man he should “get sick” more often lol
Floyd Leech
depending on the day, floyd is either dying of dysentery or completely fine
if YOU’RE worried tho…. he’s not complaining
v similar to his brother except he puts more effort into faking (and he’s more likely to get genuinely sick)
“shrimpyyyyy, aren’t you s’possed to help me???” ← yes floyd but you keep EVADING THE SOUP
demanding when he’s sick
he has a bell ??? when did he get that ??? thinks its funny to ring it in your face
eventually he gets sleepy enough that he just wants to cuddle with you which is nice until its not (expect tickle attacks or just lung-collapsing squeezes)
Scarabia
Jamil Viper
haha! you thought he would be resting? no rest for the wicked darling
this man is still cooking and shit yk he can’t trust anyone else to get it done
if you remind him that he has a whole dorm to help he will raise his stupid fucking eyebrow at you and continue cooking → you both know he’s the only competent one in the whole dorm (in his eyes at least; kalim lovers unite !!!!!!)
“lemon and salt helps with sore throat and spice helps with illness. i have it covered, prefect.” WHY WON’T HE JUST LET YOU HELPPP
Kalim Al-Asim
kalim dgaf
most of the time “i’m sick” translates to “i have been poisoned and had my stomach pumped last night” so maybe you should check on him
he’s still having a good time!! he can’t move his legs or the fingers on his right hand but it’s whatever !!!
locks the door if he vomits bc he knows it sounds scary and he doesn’t wanna scare you :( he talks through the door
“i hope you’re not missing too much work to see me, prefect. maybe we can work on it together when we go back to school!” ← not to be dramatic but i would die for you kalim
keeps trying to convince you he’s fine → yk that’s just the way he is
fever? wahts a fever? no, im normally warm, i promise !!! i… i normally sweat !!! im normal !!
he throws a party when he starts to feel better and invites everyone !! he’s better and the world is back to normal ^^
Pomefiore
Vil Schoenheit
no one is allowed in his room
the only reason anyone even knows he’s sick is because he’s absent from his classes; no one has seen him since the night before he fell ill
there are only two people allowed in the room: rook and you
epel was before but he couldn’t hold back the laughter and vil doesn’t have the energy to kick his ass :(
he still tries to do his routine but gets frustrated when he’s too dizzy to do his yoga
you walk in and discover him mumbling deliriously to himself as he smears lip liner all over his cheek
liv in that one episode of liv and maddie when they’re both sick → that’s him
showers twice and then takes a bath he needs the warmth and it’s relaxing
“rook light another candle” “roi de poisson, this is almost a fire hazard!” → he can’t SMELL THEM
eats nothing but chicken soup and drinks nothing but water he is not playing rn
you can sit beside the bed like a mourning spouse hearing the doctor’s diagnosis for their dying husband but you are not allowed in the bed. what if you get sick?
Rook Hunt
holy shit what happened
okay first off if my main man does get sick you find him in your bed in the morning there is no discussion
“rook what the fuck are you doing here” “my throat hurt so i climbed through your window :( i do hope that you might take pity on your dearest, devoted boyfriend, trickster :((” sevens fuck rook what the hell
he does not leave the bed even if you do he just starts doing the Shelter Dog SighsTM
the back of his hand is on his forehead and he’s performing soliloquies about the tragedy that is your love (his stomach hurt)
claims kisses will make him feel better (i mean, i feel like it’s worth testin- NOOOO)
Epel Felmier
he gets hay fever HAHAHAHAHAHAHA get it get it ????
sneezes every ten seconds he is not having a good time
he tries to go to spelldrive practice still ← leona sent him home after he almost fell off his broom
sneaks into ramshackle bc vil did “despicable things to him” (made him drink chamomile tea)
lays on you all night he does not care that he’s sweating all over you and the bed
real men have Tummy TroublesTM come on we know this
steals blankets in his sleep and then kicks them completely off the bed in the middle of the night have fun being COLD
he gets one of those coughs that makes his throat raw :( i’d feel bad if he stopped insisting that he doesn’t need any help
“prefect, i love ya, but if’n you try ‘n touch me with that there flonase, i’ll kill yer faster’n you can say schoenheit” ← he hates it :(((
Ignihyde
Idia Shroud
the only downside to doing classes online → he has no excuse to skip if he’s sick
he has ortho inform the teachers and pretends that he has no idea what caused this sudden onset fever (it’s definitely not the all-nighters plus energy drinks plus lowered immune system due to little exposure to the outside world; don’t listen to ortho he’s LYING)
everytime he sneezes he threatens his own life
bro keeps going in and out of consciousness and everytime he wakes up he looks at you and goes “what day is it” → it’s been thirty minutes, idia
visibly sweating all day :( poor baby
Diasomnia
Malleus Draconia
it’s cute if you think you’re ever leaving his side when he’s sick
everytime malleus draconia gets sick he unlocks this special power called No Fucks to GiveTM and he officially gives no fucks what your friends think, or even what you think
(the secret is he taps into this power very often on normal days too)
no he will not make you come take care of him
but expect some rain in diasomnia if you don’t
purrs like a cat when you come to check his temperature
oh you brought soup. delightful! it’s not… it’s not from lilia, is it?
Lilia Vanrouge
i’m glad you scrolled all the way down here to read about what kind of person lilia vanrouge is when he’s sick. clearly you were not informed.
LILIA DOESN’T GET SICK HE JUST DIES book 7 taught me this
if he hadn’t gotten sick from HIS OWN COOKING he’s not getting sick dearies
…
okay obviously i’m joking i’m going to write bullet points for him
he’s the kind of guy that is pretty chill if he’s got a fever but the minute it has to do with his stomach it’s fucking OVER
nothing in the world can hurt a man the way The TummyTM can
he will curl up in a ball and big his eyes at you until you come and cuddle
Silver Vanrouge
i just want to make it very clear right now silver vanrouge has too strong a stomach to vomit
there are some things you just grow out of as a child and apparently for silver vomiting was one of them (i mean if you lived with lilia i think you would grow out of that as well)
he does run a fever but it just makes him very tired → please spend the whole day in bed with him
sleepytimes boy you’re my favorite
he’s one of those people who gets really red-faced lol and he sweats
he gets the sniffles :( it’s not very fun
“prefect, you can leave if you want. i know this is inconvenient” ← NOOOOO NO SILVER NEVER
kiss his face and cuddle with him he will wake up healed in the morning and ask lilia how to properly court someone
Sebek Zigvolt
sebek zigvolt just fainted ???? in the middle of the sparring grounds ??? and then woke up and yelled himself hoarse ???? someone get the prefect please
everyone in diasomnia is looking so exasperated at you as you walk in and you can hear the faint sound of someone with a very fucked up throat yelling something incoherent
sneezes like your grandpa he breaks the sound barrier
sebek ily but if you keep insisting that you’re immune to the common cold bc you’re half fae i will beat your ass
changes back into pjs after a while and yes he wears his fuckass ebeneezer scrooge hat all day
he gets shivers and needs some warmth → what a great excuse to cuddle your boyfriend !! if you can handle his embarrassed yelling
loses his voice (SOB)
malleus is like “sebek, you must take this time to rest and heal yourself” and sebek lit cries
“that the great and venerable waka-sama should allow me a break-! what a benevolent and gentle and perfect soul has he!” ← sebek he just didn’t want you sneezing on him honey it’s okay
A/N: hey, it’s me! i’ve been seeing a lot more interaction with my blog and i just wanted to remind anyone reading that my asks are always open for requests unless specified otherwise! feel free to ask me for headcanons (oc, x reader, etc), drabbles or fanfiction (though this might take longer lol), or even just to pop in and say hi! thanks for reading and interacting with my posts! :)
warnings: smut (explicit sexual content), dub-con, non-explicit coercion, erotic hypnosis, mind control, obsession/yandere, dark romance, erotica, female reader (she/her pronouns), self-insert (unconventional), foreplay, dom/sub, oral sex (M&F), finger-sucking, 69, mutual pleasure, body worship, subtle mention of creampie, intense, passionate, possessive, tension, tease, brief aftercare, non-canon elements.
resume: harlequin draws a young volunteer into his twisted show of power and desire. through hypnotic commands, sensual manipulation, and daring feats, he pushes the boundaries of control, pleasure, and humiliation — on her.
The lights of the circus ring shone lazily and envelopingly in soft green and golden tones, while the audience vibrated with an almost childish enthusiasm. Harlequin was finishing his storytelling performance, dramatizing tales always so dark and dubious, capable of causing discomfort even in the most indifferent individuals. Upon concluding the performance, he bowed to the frenzied audience, who applauded his eccentricity fervently. With a wave of his left hand, the clown silenced the crowd, and then his lips curved into an ambiguous and slightly cruel smile. His eyes gleamed suggestively, the green pupils dilated by the premise of a tragedy, of a twisted and delightful contentment.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The voice sounded slow, loaded, as if dragging each syllable into the skin. “The time has come to touch thoughts, fold them, and mold them until they become…", he hesitated deliberately, shrugging nonchalantly and causing a subtle jingle of his bells, smiling with bared canines. “Mine.”
His gaze eagerly searched the faces across the audience, as if mining secrets among scattered expressions. The hunt was discreet, yet assertive, and it didn’t take long for his expression to light up and the corner of his mouth to twist into a gesture of perverse satisfaction. He found something.
“You.” The word was a whisper, almost a hiss. The gloved finger pointed, slowly, like an irremediable sentence, and a murmur ran through the crowd. “Come.”
She felt her heart almost stop at that moment. Her face paled, and a nervous smile spread across it as the crowd erupted in laughter, loud whistles, and encouragement. With a brief nod of her head, she tried in vain to dismiss the clown's invitation to the stage, but the push of the audience was inevitable. Before she realized it, she was at the center of the platform, with the lights turned on her and the taller man. He held her hand theatrically, but leaned in too close, a muffled whisper, almost intimate, against her skin.
“Relax. From this moment on, your breath is mine. As well as everything else.”
The spectators erupted in expectation and excitement, complicit. They presumed a performance, a simple artistic demonstration, but only the young woman seemed to understand the real weight of his words. The anxiety she felt at that moment seemed almost unfounded, yet it was unavoidable. Her body was tense, her mind spiraling with countless possibilities — her thoughts warning of probable humiliations, dangerous tricks, and demonstrations possibly too intense. Her face flushed, suddenly intimidated by all those eyes focused on her. Harlequin, noticing her embarrassment, tilted his head slightly, as if he could unravel each insecurity, smiling through them all. He approached the front of the stage, and the silence seemed to swallow the air. His voice came low, deep, almost a secret shared only with her:
“Let us begin, my dear monsters, the twisting of what you think you know.” he practically sparkled as he positioned himself at the edge of the stage. “The next act will not be watched, but felt. A hypnosis conducted by me, the clown who entertains you, and performed by our sweet, audacious volunteer. Applause for the lady!”, he clapped his gloved hands dramatically once, twice, drawing enthusiastic reactions from the audience, before prowling around her again like a feline.
The young woman watched him apprehensively, though she tried to disguise it before that vast array of curious and expectant faces. Harlequin only smiled, eyebrows slightly raised in a humorous gesture. It wasn’t long before the first command came.
“Close your eyes.”
And she obeyed.
“With your eyes properly closed, breathe slowly. Focus on the sound of your own breathing, feel the air fully filling your lungs.” he said, his tone calm and still playful, but much more subtle. “First, you will give us a smile. Smile.”
And she smiled. A slow, almost languid smile, which made part of the audience laugh and applaud, not noticing the uncomfortable intensity it carried.
[...]
“How easily surprised you all are!” Harlequin provoked, making a careless gesture with his hand, shoulders dropping in a false air of boredom, while his two intoxicating green pools returned their gaze to the crowd. “This is just the beginning.”
The collective murmur ceased, replaced by an almost palpable curiosity. Harlequin leaned slightly forward, approaching the young woman, the shadow of his jester hat falling over her eyes.
“Those who know me understand that this circus ring was not born for the obvious. The predictable bores me.” he admitted softly, letting out a fake yawn and eliciting some laughter from the spectators. “So, how about something more exciting?” The phrase slid smoothly off his cinnabar-tipped tongue, loaded with double meaning. “Come now, the first challenge comes from you. What shall we have this little darling perform first, through the twisting of the mind?”
The hands of those watching the clown’s demonstration rose in hasty, impatient movements. A man in the front row shouted before the others:
“Make her walk backward on her tiptoes!”
Harlequin let out a fake amused murmur, though he was far from impressed.
“Such modesty. Very well, let us serve the audience.” The clown snapped his fingers, and the young woman, still with eyes closed, began to take slow steps backward, balanced on her toes. Her heels lifted from the ground, the calf muscles tense, and her toes slightly curled, holding the weight with delicate firmness. The audience, enchanted, laughed and applauded, believing it all a trick.
“Now, make her sing!”, said a woman, and Harlequin tilted his head theatrically.
“A request worthy of a spectacle.” The bells on his collar jingled as he gave the order. “Sing for us, nightingale.”
A soft, almost childlike melody escaped her lips, as light as the warm air hovering over the circus ring. Under the gentle stage lights, attentive eyes would be able to notice a slight blush on her cheeks, betraying the warmth, the embarrassment of performing gestures she normally wouldn’t execute consciously for the amusement of strangers. Her eyebrows displayed a slight disturbance, as if wanting to show the confusion she felt, yet her posture remained willing and diligent.
“Bravissimo!”, he exclaimed mockingly.
“Make her arch her body backward, as if her torso were stretching toward the sky! We want to see if she can become flexible!”
Another spectator, suspicious, suggested. His tone carried a discreet challenge, as if doubting that it wasn’t prearranged.
Harlequin smiled, a diabolical grin on his lips. His eyes darkened slightly at the challenge, while his face unconsciously warmed. A delightful angle, a crimson curved arch. Without delay, he positioned himself behind the young woman, whispering only to her.
“You see, they want me to handle you like a doll, like the good assistant you are. Once I press this specific point, just below the twelfth thoracic vertebra…” His voice descended slow, silky, as if sliding exclusively over her skin. “Your body will respond on its own. There will be no resistance, only instinct.”
His fingers then, cold and impossibly precise, traced the young woman’s clothed back in a suggestive manner, searching until finding the muscle space over the twelfth vertebra. The touch was not rough but calculated, applying just enough pressure to trigger the desired reaction.
The instant Harlequin pressed, something was unleashed within her. A sudden, almost electric discharge surged up her spine like liquid heat, flooding her sensations from her hips to her neck. Her breath faltered, her body reacting before her mind could even comprehend. The torso began to arch backward in a fluid, irresistible gesture, as if invisible threads were pulling her, displaying a perfect curve almost impossible to sustain.
The audience erupted in amazement. To them, it was merely a trick, a well-rehearsed number. But Harlequin knew. He felt every halting breath, every microtremor of her body, every frustrated attempt to regain control.
“See?” he whispered, close to her ear, his voice thick with dangerous laughter. “Delicious. It even seems you were born for this.”
There was something profoundly intimate in the act, even if disguised under the veneer of performance. Harlequin placed one of his gloved hands over his mouth, the sharp teeth obsessively exposed in a vicious, affected laugh. His eyes were wide, almost obsessively so, the green irises expanded in a feverish gleam. The tension grew insidiously, betraying him in a minimal gesture: a brief, contained press of the legs, quick enough to go unnoticed by the audience, yet sufficient to reveal the restless flame burning beneath the fabric.
“Now, ladies and lords!” The green-clad clown stretched his arms dramatically, drawing the attention of the increasingly mesmerized spectators. “Let us now play with the senses before progressing to something greater, yes? An illusion for the delight of your hearts… and for the confusion of our assistant.”
Harlequin positioned himself behind her again, gently caressing her shoulders, soothing the nerves awakened by the previous demonstration. He whispered something in her ear, and the young woman quickly extended her hands forward, toward the audience.
His words still echoed subtly and repeatedly in her mind:
Imagine you are holding something precious. Something dense, warm, pulsating against your skin. Liquid of the angels, a true relic.
Her open palms trembled slightly, though the audience would never notice. A sudden shiver ran through her arms, followed by the strange sensation of heat returning to her hands: more intense, more real than before. The imaginary weight pulsed between her fingers, as if what she held had a life of its own.
“Don’t let it slip.” Harlequin whispered, the voice unbearably silky. “Hold it tightly. It longs for you.”
The spectators saw only an obedient young woman, under continuous illusion tricks. But what she felt went far beyond. The imaginary liquid flowed down her wrists, viscous and warm, and every fiber of her body seemed to pulse along with his command.
Harlequin smiled, his sharp teeth gleaming under the green and golden light. “Bring it close to your chest. Keep it. It is only yours.”
She obeyed, slowly, almost reverently, bringing her hands closed against her own body. The sensation intensified so much that she gasped softly, a sound so light it was lost among the laughter and whistles of the audience. Blushing colored her cheeks again.
Concurrently, Harlequin stepped forward, and his laughter exploded, vibrant, exaggerated. Many in the audience could not hear, nor understand his slight words, before the announcement of the final illusion.
Admiravelmente tola.
He caught his breath before proclaiming loudly:
“My dears, a decent spectacle is made of courage…” He extended his arm, and with a dramatic gesture, an assistant brought him two shining daggers.
The metal reflected the green glow of the lights, but what made many hold their breath was what happened next. Harlequin ran the tips of his fingers along a nearby torch, letting the fire lick them, and without hesitation, brought the daggers close to the flame. The steel hissed with a muffled snap as it heated, acquiring a slight orange glow.
“Courage…” he repeated, low, before slowly licking one of the glowing blades, eyes fixed on the audience. A collective murmur ran through the room, a mix of fascination and horror.
He turned to the young woman and whispered:
“You trust me, don’t you?“
Her mind, under the weight of hypnosis, wavered. The initial fear was still there, pulsing, but now mixed with something that left her dazed. A strange vertigo, a constant warmth in her chest and fingers.
Harlequin raised one of the hot daggers and positioned it close to her skin, so near that the radiated heat made her breath falter.
“Do not fear. The fire cannot harm you.” His voice was a spell, a command gliding softly down her spine. “Trust my touch. Your body knows what to do.”
With a gesture of his own fingers, Harlequin indicated for an assistant to guide the young woman. He pulled her by the arm, not exactly rudely, but with a strength that distinguished itself from natural human force. He carefully positioned her on a metal wheel, studded with small blades that shimmered under the stage light.
“Stay still.” Harlequin murmured, approaching slowly, as if giving a final message. “One wrong move, and you decide whether you feel pleasure or pain.”
The young woman shuddered. The heat of his body, the proximity of the glowing blade, the seductive gleam in Harlequin’s eyes; everything mingled into a whirlwind that left her dizzy. She knew any wrong gesture from him could hurt, yet she could not take her eyes off his face.
Harlequin began slowly. The first dagger cut the air close to her head, and the heat of the blade made her shiver. A hoarse whisper escaped his lips:
“Do not move.”
The second dagger passed grazing her arm, so close she felt the blade’s breath on her shoulder. Her body trembled, heart racing, and the thrill of fear confused her.
The third dagger flew toward the side of her thigh, forcing her to hold her breath. The audience murmured, fascinated, as he leaned his body, leaving the movement almost sensual, his gaze fixed on hers.
“I almost touched the lady, didn’t I? But waiting is the most delicious part of the spectacle, don’t you agree?”, he asked rhetorically to the audience, his tone provocative and mocking.
The fourth and fifth daggers followed, one grazing her other hand, another her waist, marking her body as if tracing an invisible choreography. Each passage of the blade sent shivers, each lateral touch of her face before retracting and launching the sixth dagger, this time between her legs. A stronger shiver ran through her body; the tension was almost palpable.
“Pelos monstros! How perverted and hasty of me! See..” he raised his hands theatrically, “how the dagger landed, surely, between the legs of our adorable lady!” Harlequin gave a mock nervous giggle, but his eyes gleamed green, burning with the curiosity of all. “What audacity on my part! What insolence!”
The audience erupted in nervous laughter and applause, delighted by the danger and theatricality of the moment. Harlequin raised his arms, as if absorbing each applause, and cast a conspiratorial glance at the audience.
“Ah, my lovely spectators!”, he said, voice filled with charm and provocation “You saw the danger up close, felt the thrill of surprise, and yet, you left unscathed by my touch… or almost!” Harlequin winked, letting slip a mischievous smile. “The night ends here! Thank you for participating in the spectacle! A round of applause for our assistant, who shone beautifully in this circus ring!”
As the audience erupted in more applause and laughter, the young woman remained in a trance, eyes half-closed, body still tense from the danger she had just felt. Harlequin made his dramatic bow, drawing all attention, while one of his assistants silently guided her behind the curtains, protecting her from the audience but keeping her within the aura of the performance.
The murmur of the audience filled the theater, but behind the curtains, the world seemed suspended. The young woman still trembled, breathless, caught between fear and a strange, confusing fascination.
Harlequin crossed the stage slowly and approached her with his typical smile, that mix of charm, danger, and something almost intimate. Each step made her heart race, each gesture carried the same controlled tension that had hypnotized her minutes before.
“Everything is fine.” he murmured, voice low, brushing the air near her ear. “The show is over, but don’t be fooled. I am still here.”
The semi-darkness of the backstage — or more precisely, Harlequin’s improvised room — contrasted dangerously with the insistent, strong lights of before, shining in green and golden tones. Only silence and the sweet smell of smoke, whose source she did not exactly know, reigned there. The space was adorned with heavy dark curtains and modestly lit by circular lights that glowed lazily, as if discreetly inviting lethargy.
She lay on a soft divan, her body still in a trance, though not as intense as before, her breathing short and irregular. Her hands trembled slightly, as if seeking something to hold onto, yet at the same time remained docile, obedient to the invisible command still enveloping her.
Suddenly, the door creaked, and Harlequin entered the room. Freed from the obligation of entertaining the audience, his smile was slower and lazier, bordering on the perverse. His green eyes sparkled with the shine of something unspoken, hidden, yet suggesting possession. He approached in deliberate silence, letting only his boots make the minimum sound.
“Resting?” he asked, his voice gentle and almost genuinely affectionate. “What a silly question of mine. Of course you are. You were perfect, my star.” he affirmed, leaning and moving a strand of hair from her face with a misplaced delicacy, incoherent with the moments before. “Now it is my turn to take care of you.”
She instinctively recoiled a little, though her eyes still sought his. She sighed, an uncertain, halting gesture, as her words escaped softly.
“I am very confused. I don’t feel like myself…”
“Of course you are not yourself.” he affirmed, eyebrows raised in a gesture of arrogance, as if revealing an obvious secret. “I don’t want you at your normal.” His tone slid from tenderness to something lower, enveloping. “I want you like this. Surrendered, willing, receptive.”
He lightly caressed, with the back of his gloved hands, the side of her neck. The coldness of his fingers was as if no blood ran through his veins, contrasting almost abysmally with the warmth of her pulsating pulse.
“You know, sweetheart, confusion is just the name we give to the clash of mind and heart.” he murmured, his breath tickling her sensitive skin. “Let your feelings guide you. What do you want now?”
She bit her lower lip, trying to retreat on the divan, but her own body betrayed her. The blush rose to her cheeks, a heat so unprecedented it seemed to emerge not only from her chest, but from the tips of her fingers, from her dry mouth, from her quickened breath.
“I…” she hesitated. Her uncertain eyes moved away from Harlequin's for a few moments, before returning their attention to him. It was as if the hypnosis was still pulling her into that shimmering green abyss from moments before. “I don't know what I want.”
The clown clicked his tongue in a subtle gesture of disdain, before sketching a pedantic, almost Mephistophelian sneer. His fingers provocatively traced the area of her back, circling her shoulder blade and then insistently sliding over her collarbone.
“Don't give me that, of course you know. You feel the fire inside you. The longing, the curiosity and the ambition in their ugliest, rudest state. Don't fight the feeling anymore. Come here, let me help you…”
She let out a low sound, an almost suffocated moan of shame, squeezing her eyes shut as if to deny it. But then, defeated by her own body, she turned her face toward his. Harlequin licked his lips sneakily, like someone who had just won a silent duel, twisting her reason to the limit. The malicious glint in his eyes denounced the satisfaction of someone who already knew the outcome before the fight even began.
He didn't give her time to even breathe between shame and desire. He leaned in, capturing her lips with a kiss that mixed provocation, rudeness, and possession. In the first instant, it was as if his coldness stole all the air from her lungs, but soon the heat that burned in her chest exploded, making her give in to the impulse of surrender. The kiss progressed, deepening into a hungry, almost cruel gesture in the way it took her breath away. Harlequin gently pressed his weight against her body, caging her against his figure. His hands slid from the clavicle area to the curve of her shoulders, pressing as if to mark territory.
She tried to retreat for an instant, but his fingers on her nape held her with a deceptive delicacy, guiding her back to the ardent contact. A sigh escaped her throat, shamefully sweet, and the clown smiled against her mouth, savoring that surrender.
“Poor little thing. You are adorable, you know?” he laughed, approaching again and letting his tongue slide along the corner of her mouth, a slow, wet, and so intimate trace that it seemed almost an outrage. “I want to know how far I have to press until you break.”
In a calculated gesture, Harlequin guided her backward, pressing her body against the divan with his own weight. The upholstery creaked softly as she fell, and he settled over her with a dominating naturalness, his knee positioned gently between her legs, deliberately parting them, his torso curved like a predator that finally claims its prey.
She stared back at him with eyes full of silent pretense — eyes that betrayed the pulsation, the confusion, the shame and the impulse, the force of sex that bordered on the irrational. It was when her fingers instinctively clenched against the clown's curly, dark hair, as he traced an incandescent trail of kisses and licks from her neck towards her breasts, sensitive and expectant. Harlequin placed his hands over the two voluptuosities over the fabric, becoming aware of the weight, the shape, the delicious softness, before tearing off the clothes that covered them.
To say that the sneaky clown's eyes widened in satisfaction would be an understatement. Harlequin practically melted with delight, unable to disguise the admiration, the lust that was corroding him from the inside out. Without delay, his lips took her left breast in his mouth, like someone with an insatiable hunger. The clown slobbered and sucked it almost desperately; while a firm hand held the other shape, squeezing, twisting, stimulating every centimeter, the other explored her body, sliding over curves and ribs with a delicacy that contrasted with the lust of his lips. He murmured low provocations, encouraging her moans, savoring every reaction, every gasp, as if he were slowly devouring her surrender like a monster that sips tremors.
“Stupidly sweet, what the hell.” he stated, ecstatic, his lips making an obscene sound as they detached from her breasts. “I need more. Open your legs now, quickly, darling.”
She pondered for a moment, panting with difficulty, but soon gave in to the request and opened her legs completely before his sight. Harlequin clicked, his hand moving from the upper part of her body and pressing gently on her abdomen, perhaps a premonition of what was still to come. He moved to the edge of the divan, his knees against the cold floor of the room.
“I want you here.” he growled, pulling her closer by the legs with an almost rough firmness, her still-clothed intimacy pressing against his face. Harlequin's mischievous smile widened as he noticed a slight wet spot on her underwear, signaling her excitement. Without wasting time, he lifted her hips with dexterity, opening her legs and sliding delicately, but firmly, to remove the last barrier of fabric, leaving her completely at the mercy of his touch.
Before she could ask for anything, Harlequin intentionally ran one of his fingers through her folds, lightly brushing against her opening. His expression was of someone enraptured, and it carried the fixation of an addict. And then, like a butterfly seeking the weeping carpel of the flower, his lips landed on her cunt. His surprisingly long, ingenious tongue escaped and began its attack, licking and wetting the area with his immoderate efforts. The flesh traced circles and lines, sucking the area from bottom to top to her clit, extracting involuntary spasms and whimpers from the girl, while he himself moaned in cruel satisfaction and ground against the leather side of the divan, in a vain and desperate effort to massage his own dick, already hard.
“You like this, don't you?” he asked, his eyes glazed over on hers as he continued his attacks. In a flustered gesture, he lifted one of her thighs for a better angle, staring at her twisted and heated face of pleasure before returning with his tongue to the entrance of her cunt, slowly and mercilessly thrusting the hole. “You like it when I fuck your cunt with my tongue.”
Her moans became louder, more cutting, and every arch, every spasm of her body, made Harlequin feel an overwhelming heat run through his veins. She writhed, gripping his shoulders, biting her lips, breathing heavily, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Her body trembled under every tongue thrust, and the moisture that accumulated between them made him completely addicted.
It was then that, in the midst of a louder moan, Harlequin had a flash — he noticed how she reacted to his movements, the way she arched and squeezed his hands, the way her breathing quickened when he changed the pressure or the rhythm. A cruel and excited smile formed on his lips.
Abruptly, he stopped licking the poor, overstimulated cunt of the woman, only for her momentary discontent and frustration. She practically whimpered in complaint, until Harlequin smiled, rising from his knees and standing in front of her on the divan.
“You're driving me crazy. I can't take it anymore, I need your touch. Now I want you on top of me, in a way that we both can.”
She frowned, not completely understanding.
“I don't know what you're getting at...”
Harlequin gestured, his sharp teeth exposed and proud. He proceeded to undress as quickly as he could.
“I'll lie here.” he said, gently lying down on the divan, stretched out in the same way she had been moments before. “And you, my little dove, come on top. On your back. That's right.”
She slowly settled over him, feeling the weight of her own body on his face. Her face flushed, but the excitement she felt was so great that it overcame her trivial shame. She waited, savoring the moment, while Harlequin groped her butt with mutual wonder and malice. She felt a long, wet, obscene lick — a torturous and delicious rhythm that only the clown seemed to master. Harlequin moaned softly against her flesh, vibrating with pleasure and malice at the same time, and then retreated only to give her a light slap on the thigh, as if calling the attention of a pet.
“Come on, kitten…” he whispered, his voice grave and hoarse, but with that mocking tone of a ringmaster. “Give me this gift. Move. I want to feel your mouth. My cock is desperate for you.”
She hesitated for a second, her trembling hands resting on his thighs, as if her mind was still searching for a remnant of rationality. But desire consumed her whole, dominating every fiber of her body. With a truncated sigh, she leaned forward, her hair hanging like a veil, until her lips brushed against his erect and pulsating member.
Harlequin gasped, a guttural laugh escaping his throat.
“Ah…” His fingers squeezed her curves tightly, leaving red marks on her skin. “That's right. Show me how much you desire me.”
She opened her mouth, shy at first, but soon guided by the rhythm imposed by the insistent pressure of his hand on her neck. The clown watched, fascinated, her movements: the slow slide, then deeper, the way she choked slightly and moaned, turning it into an obscene sound that made him laugh with pleasure.
While she sucked him, panting and moaning with each impulse, each light thrust he forced into her mouth, Harlequin was not content to just receive. He buried his face between her legs again. His tongue explored with voracity, sometimes slow and wide, sometimes fast and pointed, extracting high-pitched moans and babbling from her that seemed to vibrate around his rigid member.
“My little dove…” he whispered between one lick and another, his voice muffled, vibrating against her clit. “You were made for me. For my stage, for my mouth, for my cock.”
She arched, her body trembling, her moans turning into small desperate screams, as if she couldn't bear that double stimulation anymore. She writhed without realizing it, pressing herself against his face, desperate for the friction. At the same time, she sucked him with more will, but with an already uncoordinated and lost rhythm. She was helplessly close to crossing the edge.
Then, suddenly, Harlequin stopped. He let go of her nape, moved away from her thighs with a click of his tongue and wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, theatrically bored. She let out a low curse, out of pure frustration.
“You were going to come, weren't you?” he guffawed, pushing her away with a firm shove. He licked his lips, dirty with her taste, and tilted his head with feigned innocence. “I could go on like this all night… but I'm already tired of appetizers.” His eyes flashed with desire and malice. “Come here.”
In an abrupt movement and with frightening ease, he turned her to face him and pulled her by the waist, laying her on the divan with calculated violence. The clown positioned himself over her, the weight of his body overwhelming and exciting, and guided his member to her hot and pulsating entrance.
“Feel that? Como você é safada, toda molhadinha debaixo de mim, sua gostosa...”
Without giving her time to answer, Harlequin pushed deep, all at once. Her body arched violently, a muffled scream escaping her throat as she felt herself taken, stretched to the limit. The clown moaned loudly, his eyes rolling back in an animalistic ecstasy.
“Ahhh… perfect, perfect. So tight…” he panted, each word a hoarse and excited groan.
He began to move, first slow, as if savoring every centimeter, then accelerating, with strong thrusts that made the divan creak under the impact. His hands grabbed her waist, guiding the rhythm without mercy, and with each attack her moans became louder, more confused — pain and pleasure intertwined in an obscene melody that made him laugh, excited, as if he were conducting a symphony of sex itself.
The woman pulled him into a clumsy and trembling kiss while their hips clashed in a wet and raw battle. Harlequin devoured her mouth like a feverish dog maddened by his own heat, his lips rubbing and crushing hers in an insatiable craving. When, at last, they pulled away, it was only because their breath was gone, and a thick thread of saliva remained between them, swaying like an indecent bridge.
The clown laughed low, his breath heavy, and then he raised his hand, bringing his fingers to her mouth. He forced them gently against her half-open lips, until they disappeared into her warm and wet cavity, savoring the gesture like someone marking territory.
She moaned against his fingers, a muffled sound that mixed surrender and surprise. Her eyes closed instinctively, her cheeks flushing with heat, while saliva ran down the corner of her mouth. Harlequin observed every detail with inhuman fascination, a permanent laugh adorning his mouth, as if the simple fact of seeing her bend to that gesture was enough to make him reach his climax.
“Good girl…” he hissed, leaning in to whisper against her ear, his voice grave and hoarse, almost a perverse purr. His fingers explored her mouth, pressing her tongue, feeling her hot breath clashing against his skin. “You like it when I silence you like this, don't you?”
“Come on, swallow them. Drag your tongue over them like you were doing so beautifully on my cock.” The order came hoarse, dominating, accompanied by a deeper, more violent thrust of the hips, making the divan creak as if it were about to give in.
She frowned in an expression of self-pity and dirty, absolute lust, her eyes shining like someone about to cry from so much pleasure or pain. Harlequin ran his other hand through her black hair desperately, his hips already losing the rhythm and the certain direction from before. She panted as he thrust her cunt, trembling in a near frenzy, each breath a muffled moan that made Harlequin's ears throbbed with pleasure. He held her tight by her hair, pulling her closer, his hips losing all contained rhythm, following only the current of his own fever.
“You're quite a freak, you know?” he growled, his voice hoarse, laden with possessiveness. “Fucking here with me, letting me take every mere centimeter…” he smiled crookedly, breathing heavily. “If someone found you like this, so close to coming on my cock and licking my fingers like a faithful little dog, what would they think?”
She moaned, lost between shame and excitement, her hands gripping his shoulders while his every word pushed her deeper into that limit that only Harlequin knew how to explore. Their bodies moved almost without control, but synchronized in the whirlpool of desire.
“That's it… feel how I fill you…” he panted, his voice truncated, almost bestial. His disheveled hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his teeth clenched in an almost animalistic smile. “My dirt, my cum… all just for you. Come for me, my star. Come with me, now!”
And then came the climax, a shared explosion: she bent over him, her moans breaking between laughs and screams, while he followed her, his body against hers, giving in with the same intensity. It was an instant of complete madness, of immoderate lust that left them sunk into each other, exhausted and trembling, until his heat overflowed inside her, marking her as part of his most intimate act.
The silence that came after was not calm, but full of heavy breaths, skin stuck with salty sweat and the persistent tremor in every muscle.
Harlequin laughed low, proud and slightly affectionate. The clown kissed her shoulder in a subtle way, the intense green of his eyes softening with something that seemed like genuine admiration for a few brief moments. Her skin still trembled sensitive under every touch, like a rose with freshly picked petals, and her heart was heavy. It was as if there was not enough space to accommodate fear, love, and ecstasy.
Then, with an unexpected care, he took her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers like someone sealing a silent pact. The gesture, as delicate as it was reverent, was out of place with the voluptuous violence from before. Harlequin leaned in, bringing his face close to hers, and placed a kiss on her knuckles — slow, chaste, almost devotional — and then another on her lips, a testament of affection after the chaos.
“See?” he guffawed, the tone too sweet to be completely real. “You shone until the end.”
With a delicacy, he pulled a rustic blanket that was thrown in any corner and covered her body and wrapped her, adjusting her against his chest as if she were a living trophy, one he wouldn't want to lose. His hand drew lazy circles on her back, while he murmured some melody.
“Sleep a little, my star.” he said in a whisper, his eyes half-closed in a smile that united tenderness and something dangerous. “When you wake up, I'll still be here.”
And, for an instant, there was no laughter, there was no spectacle. Just the loaded silence between the two, as if that kiss sealed something greater, something that could never be undone.
author's note:
hello! i hope this text can be enjoyable for those who read it. i said i had something with harlequin and i think i finally managed to finish it. he is so interesting, and his captivating charm is irrevocable, i like him a lot. i tried to dedicate myself better to writing the action and to incorporate some slight, quick nods to brazilian portuguese, so i hope it was worth it. the idea came to me at college (as always, and you can notice the use of some anatomical terms — you know why, right?), and it ate away at my brain. in truth, it’s much more detailed and explicit than i’ve ever written before, and i admit i’m a little shy about it. but it was fun.
anyway, thank you so much for reading if you made it this far. bye! <3
as always, this text was entirely written in portuguese, this time in third person, but with the intention of allowing self-insertion for the reader. an experiment with a more “distanced” and generic reader, but still placed inside the narrative. grammar mistakes are possible and subject to correction.
below are the two portuguese phrases translated into english:
“admiravelmente tola” means “admirably foolish.”
"pelos monstros!" means "by the monsters!"
“como você é safada, toda molhadinha debaixo de mim, sua gostosa...” means “you’re such a naughty girl, all wet underneath me, you sexy thing...”
In which MC asks characters to draw stars on their sh scars as a part of a Magicam trend
Features: Everyone
Tags: fluff, platonic (hence addition of Ortho) (though if you want it to be romantic with any of the guys, minus Ortho, go for it)
Trigger warning for mentions of past self harm. MC is in recovery and clean for a long time
Wrote this more for myself than anyone else but you're welcome to read it. Though I did not beta read it to the hell and back like my last fix so apologies for mistakes. Just keep in mind this is very me-specific (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)
Everyone's experience with sh is different, this fic is based on mine
Riddle Rosehearts
- Was very confused as to why you would ask. It's nothing special. Just a few stars on some old scars from accidents
- He might have missed the sh part of your request and didn't know how to react properly
- He decides to not mention it. He thinks it's better to just do what you asked him to, since you said it would make you feel better
- You can see how he is avoiding most scars, being extra careful when any line crosses over a scar
- He makes all the stars as perfect as they can be. But since skin isn't the most even canvas, they become a bit wonky once you move your arm. Very poetic
- He really hopes he was of use to you
Ace Trappola
- Is not on the same side of Magicam so he didn't know it was a trend. Tho he might have seen a video or two
- Anyway he's always ready for some silly things
- When you roll up your sleeves you can see a little sincere flicker of surprise. It's always different to see something than to imagine it
- But he doesn't mention it. He goes back to his casual and laid back self
- He makes the scars extra big and then lines them up in a constellation that looks like nothing in particular
- You spend some time laughing about what it could represent
- He also mentions that you can come up to him if you ever need another masterpiece on your arms
Deuce Spade
- Didn't know what you were talking about. He just couldn't visualise it well
- So you decide to show him. You roll up your sleeves take a marker and make one star
- He just stares at you. He's terrible at hiding his surprise
- You think you'll have to sit down and explain that you are in fact fine and it's a very old story
- But he's very chill about it. It just took him by surprise. He knew a lot of different people back in his delinquent days so he's not really weirded out by stuff like this
- Sometime life happens and different people deal with it differently. Weirdly mature for him
- He is very careful with his stars, the tip is barely touching your skin. The stars come out wobbly and crooked. But very, very cute
Cater Diamond
- He is SO down for that
- Sitting with you and making sure to snap a few photos to post to add to the trend himself
- For you it's a very laid back interaction
- For him it was more emotional. He really appreciates that you were open with him and really hopes he didn't ruin anything with his reactions
- Did manage to sneak in a few "I hope you're doing better now" and "If you need anyone, Cay-Cay is there for you"
- Trends usually come and go but this one stayed with him for a long time
Trey Clover
- Again, didn't know what you meant. He uses Magicam sporadically after all
- He is the only one in Heartslabyul to genuinely ask about the scars
- You explained your story, and assured him it's better now, scars are fully healed and won't get infected by the marker. It made him calmer
- He draws small stars in a shape of a bigger star. A little gift from him
- He helped to clean the marker off after you took the photos. Again, he might have been a bit scared about any damage
- He tells you that he's there for you if you need anything. He will let you take your anger out on some dough while he is baking if you need it, you just laugh because there's a no-0% chance this was a genuine proposal
Leona Kingscholar
- Can't be bothered. But after nagging him enough he agrees just so you would stop
- Didn't really process what you were even asking about initially (he just said no automatically) so he was taken by surprise when you so openly showed him your scars
- But it's Leona we're talking about, you didn't even see that surprise on his face. It looks like he didn't even budge from your perspective
- He made the stars quickly, holding the pen cap in his teeth.
- When he's done he just goes back to whatever he was doing (probably sleeping)
- He definitely thinks to himself that you're a bit more brave than he thought
Ruggie Bucchi
- Sure whatever it's not like he had anything better to do. Leona disappeared again but honestly he would rather do anything but look for him right now
- He's actually pretty surprised to see it. He isn't the type to hold himself back from commenting
- He asks any questions that comes into mind. He's not asking from malice, it's just genuine curiosity
- You get lost in talking and he has to rush the stars at the end once some Savanaclaw members come around, looking for him
- They are rushed but still, it's not often you get to just sit and talk with him
Jack Howl
- He doesn't have much against it. Just some stupid Magicam trend
- No reaction to your scars at all. People have their stories, it's nothing new
- He might be a little concerned for you deep down but, as every NRC student, his ego is just too big to admit it
- He is pretty good at arts and crafts, weirdly enough, so the stars come out very pretty
- He also made way too many. Almost covered your scars completely
- He just tells you to take care of yourself and goes back to his workout
Azul Ashengrotto
- In his infinite benevolence he agreed to your request, though he didn't really understand what it was about
- When you explain the trend he still finds it quite bizarre
- He won't say it out loud but he has hard time seeing this as something positive. Why go back to your old self and try to celebrate it?
- But as you two talk he starts to get it a bit more
- It's not about celebrating who you used to be but accepting it and loving who you are now
- Again, you wouldn't catch him dead saying this, but it gives him a bit to think about regarding himself
Jade Leech
- He would rather die than look at his old photos again but the way you're able to find joy in simple stars across your scars is weirdly admirable to him
- He then says he charges hourly rate just to see your reaction
- Now he just didn't expect you to have this kind of baggage
- This goes for all Octavinelle guys but, though exploiting people's weaknesses is their favourite hobby, they wouldn't dare to stoop so low as to use something like this against you
- Jade makes sure you know that. And if you want to keep it a secret he is also your guy
- He makes the stars very neat and nice, almost like they are organised in a pattern
Floyd Leech
- He's silent when he is doing it but he has a nice smile on his face. He's just making it a pleasant time for both of you
- You trust him so you avert your eyes
- You end up with a mushroom constellation of stars
- Oh he's SO DOWN for that
- He basically rolls your sleeves up for you
- Grabs the marker you brought with you and starts scribbling
- It's kinda chaotic but you appreciate the enthusiasm
- It takes you a few minutes to realise that after a star or two he just went on to draw a big ass shrimp on your arm
- He said he got bored with the stars and thought this would fit you better
- You're left wondering if this still counts for the trend
Kalim Al-Asim
- Kalim is just a rollercoaster of emotions
- At first he's so shocked he almost screams. You have to shush him, not that you're keeping your scars a secret but the idea of everyone learning about them through Kalim is just not ideal
- Then he's crying after realising you've been through a lot. He tells you how much he wants to be there for you since you two are friends.
- You say you appreciate it but it's an old story so he doesn't have to worry THAT much
- And then he's super duper happy to help you!
- He brings a bunch of different coloured markers and he insists on you also drawing
- At some point he decides that simple stars aren't enough and decides to draw whatever comes to mind
- So instead of aesthetic stars for Magical now you look like a kid's cast
Jamil Viper
- The biggest hurdle here is to convince him to do the trend in the first place
- He's a busy man, he doesn't have time for that
- But after waiting for the perfect moment, Kalim being taken care of in the Pop music club, he finally agrees
- He has a little lag when he realises you meant sh scars but it doesn't really shock him per se
- He just asks if he should be doing the stars around the scars or over them. And if it's the latter should he do it more carefully because they are more fragile or something
- He also asks you to take care of them properly, and if you ever need help with any injuries he can just add you to the list of people to take care of
- It's Jamil, there needs to be a snark remark about Kalim somewhere
- His stars are very crooked as he is constantly moving your arm around to find a good spot with less scarring tissue on it
Vil Shoenheit
- Saw it on Magicam but didn't think much of it
- So he is rather surprised when you ask about it. He agrees, of course
- He deeply understands the idea of making flaws into something beautiful. Not that he sees your scars as flaws. They are just a part of you
- He makes perfect stars effortlessly, you were planning on posting them to Magicam after all, nothing tied to Vil should ever be anything but the most beautiful
- He also tells you that, for all the bad they symbolise, they don't take away from your beauty at all
Rook Hunt
- You knew exactly how Rook would react after seeing your scars
- He is shocked and immediately asks if you are really okay. You explain that it's all alright now and it's just a fun trend you saw on Magicam
- After making sure you know that he's always there to listen to your problems, he's very excited about this
- He doesn't just do stars. No, no, he goes all out
- To be fair Rook is a very talented artist so you end up with a marker tattoo that looks like a constellation
- Oh the views and likes you're gonna get!
- He also says that you're beautiful with your scars not in spite of them or because of them.
- You're just beautiful
Epel Felmier
- Now that's one hell of a shocked expression
- He thinks they are new or something, he only calms down once you explain everything slowly for his lil brain to catch up
- He's from a small town, they don't talk about issues like these there, he just doesn't really know what to say
- You tell him it's okay to ask questions, if you're gonna feel uncomfortable you'll just say you don't want to answer it
- So you sit down and talk, the conversation is about the scars for like a few minutes and then it's back to your usual shenanigans
- You're joking around while he's making genuinely beautiful stars. Then he just starts doodling on your arm, with your permission of course
- Now you have a little collage, with multiple apples involved
- He really hopes you like it
Idia Shroud
- A bit spooked by them. Not in a negative sense, he just wonders why you would trust him of all people
- He explicitly asks how he should react
- You don't really know what to say so you just say whatever he wants
- So he ends up asking so many questions
- Some of them are on the very edge of being considered in poor taste, but you knows Idia well enough to realise there's no actual malice behind that
- He definitely shows you some cool fanarts of his favourite characters with sh scars as a way to bond with you
- His stars are... Well... They are here, that's what counts!
- He is pretty disappointed in how they turned out so he forbids you from posting them, he'll learn to draw better ones and then he'll show you that he was the good person to ask for this!
Ortho Shroud
- Little curious robot heard that you're okay with questions and now you're stuck answering everything that comes into his mind
- He cross-references your experience with others online and you have to tell him to stop doing that since it's no use, it's not a competition
- He offers you a good therapist that he found online who happens to be situated on the island... WAIT THEY HAVE THERAPISTS HERE?? THEN HOW COME THE ENTIRE PLOT-
- Anyway, he's really trying to be supportive tho it does get a bit irritating at some point
- You also beg him to not use any fancy gadgets on your skin, especially your arm that has been through a lot already
- So he obliged and just uses the marker
- They come out perfect... Well until you move your arm, then they look normal. He really likes this
Malleus Draconia
- You specifically said sh and he still doesn't get it
- At first you thought he might have gotten it confused. Now you're convinced he's just a bit stupid
- You explain in vague details the concept of sh and your own experience. It's not a comfortable subject but he is willing to listen and very curious
- He thanks you for educating him, truly the Briar Valley library doesn't have books on everything
- He is very sad to hear that life's been this tough on you, he promises to make it better as much as he can
- He knows he cannot control his strength that well but he does his best. And actually, it's not that bad. He might have pressed a bit too hard here and there but overall a great experience
Lilia Vanrouge
- He's the one that asked if you wanna do the trend
- You wonder how he knows but then again, it's not like it's your most guarded secret
- He explains he thought it could look cool and it's okay if you don't want to do it
- You say you were already thinking of asking him for that so you're more than happy to do so
- He is quite the artist. He brought a pack of non-toxic color markers
- Basically you end up with a galaxy on your forearm
Silver
- He doesn't react at all. It seems weird, Silver is a pretty compassionate person
- It turns out he didn't get the implication at all.
- "People fall down and get scars all the times. What's the big thing?" He means it sincerely
- You explain just a bit what those scars are actually from. Of course you mention that's it's an old thing and you're much better now
- He says he's sorry you went through that, that you can rely on him if you ever get sad again and then he goes back to drawing
- His stars kinda look like a child drew it, wobbly lines, inconsistent proportions...
- But they are very adorable and he is very pleased to see you happy with what he gave you
Sebek Zigvolt
- He immediately assumed these are battle scars
- You are about to correct him but...
- He tells you how brave you must have been, that scars like these are no reason to shame but a reason to be proud since you did survive stronger than ever
- He has the general idea...
- Actually, it's kinda comforting for him to see it so positively
- You do correct him anyway
- "Yeah I know, these are still battle scars, no? Or should I call them something else?"
- That's... Ok that's just way too sweet. You tell him he can keep calling them that
- He is very frustrated and apologises for them not being perfect. You say they are perfect just the way they are
Pairing: Jamil Viper x Reader
Word Count: 4,271
Gender: AFAB
Warnings: PRETTY suggestive; the reader keeps making spicy jokes and stuff, and that's what started this whole fic (mind you, the reader knows that her jokes are really stupid), reader wears a short dress and heels
Tags: @achy-boo, @savanaclaw1996, @qaxdea, @katzline
Notes: This was originally going to be part of a 5 + 1 things fic, but I ended up writing the characters separately, and even though I started with Trey, I ended up finishing Jamil's fic first. Also, inspired by this post.
Masterlist
Potionology with Professor Crewel was a class that you didn't actually mind attending - not because you were particularly good at it, but rather because you enjoyed watching the drama that unfolded when students inevitably blew something up. However, today, your source of entertainment sat directly beside you.
Jamil Viper.
Flawless posture, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms, and that sharp, aloof gaze focused on the cauldron like the fate of the world rested on getting the temperature just right. He moved like someone born into precision - deliberate, practiced, untouchable.
And by the Sevens, did that make him an irresistible challenge.
You leaned onto the lab table, one manicured hand supporting your chin while the other lazily stirred the base mixture of honeyroot and belladonna in your shared cauldron. Your eyes flicked over to Jamil's profile, watching as he measured out the powdered mandrake root with military precision.
"Is it supposed to bubble like that?" You asked sweetly, voice dipped in honeyed feigned innocence.
Jamil didn't even glance at you. "The bubbles are normal. We're at the catalytic stage."
You hummed thoughtfully. "Hmmm...I wonder if it's reacting to your natural hotness."
This time, his hand faltered - just barely - but you saw it. A beat of hesitation in his otherwise flawless technique. You smirked.
Bingo.
"You do realize that this is a graded assignment?" He muttered without looking at you, lips tightening.
"Oh, of course," You replied, stirring the brew with a deliberately slow swirl. "I'm just making conversation. I find it helps the potion's vibes when the room has a bit of...chemistry."
Jamil exhaled through his nose. "That's not how alchemy works."
"Isn't it?" You teased, leaning over to glance at the thickening potion in his beaker. Your shoulder brushed against his arm. "You're awfully tense, Jamil. You should let me massage your shoulders after this."
"I'd rather keep my spine intact, thank you."
"You wound me." You pouted dramatically, batting your lashes at him.
"You're going to ruin the stirring ration if you keep fluttering like that."
Sevens, he was so stoic. But not immune. You could see the tension in his jaw now, the ever-so-faintest dust of redness on the tips of his ears. He was trying so hard not to engage. It only made the game that much more fun~
The potion had begun to take on a soft violet hue, meaning that it was time to add the purified dew essence. Jamil reached for the vial carefully, concentration etched into every line on his face.
You leaned in, close enough to count his lashes, your voice low and sultry as your breath ghosted across the shell of his ear, "Careful, Jamil...one drop too fast and things might explode. Wouldn't be the first time a little tension caused something to blow."
His grip faltered.
The vial slipped just slightly, but enough - a splash of dew essence fell into the cauldron all too soon. The mixture hissed with the tenacity of a rattlesnake before erupting into a dramatic puff of violet smoke, swirling with glittering sparks and the undeniable scent of singed lavender.
You both coughed.
Professor Crewel turned so fast, his coat flared like a dramatic cape (which you suppose was exactly that in a way).
"Y/L/N! Viper! What is the meaning of this?" He snapped, heels clicking rapidly toward your table.
Jamil opened his mouth, clearly ready to take the blame, but you were faster.
"I'm so sorry, Professor," You said, wide-eyed and innocent. "That was my fault. I knocked Jamil's elbow by mistake."
You didn't miss the sharp side-glance Jamil gave you. Crewel narrowed his eyes.
"Hmph. Typical of you to treat my class like a fashion runway. Perhaps if you focused on your brewing instead of making doe eyes at your lab partner, you wouldn't be sabotaging his work, which through extension is yours as well."
You bowed your head. "Yes, Professor."
The scolding went on for another minute before Crewel finally snapped his fingers to clean up the mess and stalked off in a flurry of expensive cologne and disdain over his students' shenanigans.
You turned your head slightly to peek at Jamil. He was staring at you, his brows drawn together - slightly in annoyance, but more so in confusion. Something a tad unreadable.
"What?" You asked, smiling. "Surprised I'd take the blame for once?"
"I'm surprised you didn't let me take it." He said, voice softer than before. "Most people do."
Your expression softened (just a little, mind you). "Well, I'm not most people."
He was quiet again. His eyes lingered on you for a second too long, then returned to the fresh beaker of ingredients. His cheeks were a little flushed now.
You sat back in your chair with a satisfied sigh. "Besides," You added, flipping your hair over your shoulder, "Now you owe me~"
"I don't owe you anything," He muttered, but the words lacked their usual venom. He didn't meet your eyes.
Oh yes. The walls were cracking.
And you couldn't wait to keep pushing.
It all began with a simple errand.
Jamil had been tasked with delivering a set of enchanted scrolls to one of the faculty offices across campus (a rare occasion when Yuu wasn't called to the job). Normally, he'd have used some other method to do it alone and in silence - no fuss, no nonsense. Just efficient. That was the plan.
Until you spotted him unlocking his magic carpet outside Scarabia's dorm, scrolls neatly bundled beneath one arm, and a look of focused intention etched onto his face.
You slid up beside him with a little hum of interest, your eyes raking over the floating carpet with mock curiosity. "Running away from all your adoring fans, Viper?" You purred, arms behind your back as you leaned in slightly. "Or is this your version of a gallant escape?"
Jamil (as usual) didn't even spare you a full glance. "It's an errand."
"Even better," You said, stepping onto the edge of the carpet like it was the red carpet at a gala. "Let me tag along. I could use a break...and besides, I've always wanted to know what it feels like to straddle something that responds to your every command."
That got a reaction. Jamil's shoulders stiffened just slightly - a crack in his typically composed armor. He exhaled slowly, eyes forward, face unreadable.
"It's not a toy."
"Oh, sweetheart," You cooed as you sat down behind him with practiced ease, brushing imaginary lint from your miniskirt. "Neither am I."
With a sharp mutter under his breath and a reluctant motion of his hand, the carpet lifted into the air, floating smoothly over the campus grounds. The breeze tousled your hair and his, the sun casting a glow across his face - focused, serene, and unfairly handsome.
You, of course, couldn't resist.
Leaning forward, you gentle wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the taut definition beneath his robes. "Safety first," You said sweetly into his ear. "Wouldn't want to fall off...though I imagine falling into your arms wouldn't be the worst thing."
Jamil's fingers clenched tighter around the tassels. "You're perfectly stable without clinging to me," He muttered.
"Maybe," You whispered, letting your lips graze the shell of his ear just enough to make him flinch, "But I like how you feel."
He faltered for a split second - the carpet dipping slightly before steadying. You smiled smugly.
"You know," You continued, dragging your hands along his sides, "I've always had a thing for strong, silent types. Especially ones who know how to handle...sensitive equipment."
The tassels twitched in his hands.
You tsked gently. "Tense much? Maybe you need to relax. Should I give you a shoulder rub? Or maybe a kiss for bravery?"
He turned his head slightly - just enough for you to see the tightness in his jaw and the faint, stubborn pink burning in his cheeks. "Stop talking."
You pressed your cheek to his shoulder with an exaggerated sigh. "'It's criminal, really. Just the two of us on a floating carpet, your body between my legs, the wind in my hair...feels like the setup for something a little less PG."
Jamil's back tensed even more beneath you.
"Oh, don't get shy now," You purred, voice dipping like melted chocolate. "You're the one steering. I'm just here...enjoying the view." You slid your hand slowly down his arm. "And the ride."
His fingers visibly twitched, still gripping the tassels with all his life force.
"What really gets me," You continued, your breath brushing the edge of his jaw, "is how you've managed to keep your composure." All this heat, all this tension - and if he gripped the tassels any tighter, they might've snapped.
Jamil's grip tightened again, and this time the carpet pitched into a sudden, dramatic turn - a clear attempt to throw you off his rhythm or distract you into silence.
It didn't work.
You shrieked with laughter, clutching him tighter. "Are we doing tricks now?" You giggled into his shoulder. "Because I'm flexible, but I didn't bring a helmet!"
He groaned low in his throat, but it was too late. You were fully in your element now - lounging behind him with legs cross, hair wind-tossed, and the look of a mischief goddess on your face.
Eventually, with exasperation practically radiating from every movement, Jamil directed the carpet down in front of Ramshackle Dorm. You made no move to dismount.
"Home already?" You asked innocently, trailing your hand up his arm. "And here I thought we'd take the scenic route. Maybe stop by the woods, find a quiet little clearing...share secrets, maybe more-"
"Off."
You blinked.
He didn't even look at you. His ears were slightly pink, his jaw locked. But his voice was level, if strained. "Off the carpet."
You sighed dramatically. "You're no fun."
You dismounted with theatrical flair, smoothing your skirt and tossing your hair back as if stepping down from a royal procession. "But thanks for the ride, darling," You said over your shoulder. "If you ever need help...handling your gear again, you know where to find me."
Jamil didn't respond.
He didn't even look at you.
He simple tugged the tassels, and the carpet whipped back into the air with a swish and vanished into the sky, leaving a faint blush behind and a smirk on your lips.
The stately, mirrored dance room in Night Raven College's athletics wing was usually reserved for ballet or ceremonial formations. But these days, the pounding beats of on-beat music echoed between the walls as Jamil Viper practiced his own stress-relief routine - a private break-dance choreography born from hours of restless tension, endless assignments, and a mind that seldom shuts off.
You found him there in the late afternoon: the sun streaming through high windows, dust motes glittering in shafts of light. He moved with controlled confidence - spins, slides, freezes - all executed with the kind of graceful precision that only someone who had practiced dance for years could muster. His demeanor was calm, composed, yet there was excitement, passion in his movements. A true king in his element.
For you, it was an absolutely irresistible opportunity.
You slipped in behind him, every bit the vision of sultry control: a wine-colored dress with a ruffled hem that clung to curves and teased glimpses of skin with each shift, paired with slender heels that clicked faintly across the polished floor. You drew in a breath - rich, self-satisfied - before stepping forward and clapping once, sharply.
He froze mid-move, head snapping up, brow arched. You pressed a hand to your chest, feigning surprise.
"Ooh, Jamil..." You murmured. "I didn't realize break-dance classes were part of your daily routine."
He slid his foot out of a pose and smoothed back stray hair. "You said you'd leave me alone."
You smiled wickedly. "Who? Me?" Jamil sighed in exasperation. "Even if I did, you just...looked so tempting."
He crossed his arms. "I'm not practicing for an audience."
You tilted your head. "Is that why you paused mid-step? Because I showed up?"
He didn't respond.
Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you drifted toward the speaker, Jamil's phone resting beside it - your target. You tapped the screen, fingers gliding with casual intent - but the lock screen blinked back at you, cold and unyielding. No surprise there. Jamil wasn't the type to give away access lightly (as any responsible person should).
You picked up the phone, letting your gaze linger on it a moment longer than necessary, then turned and made your way back to him. He didn't look up right away, but you could feel the shift in the air as you approached.
Holding the phone out, you met his eyes. "Mind unlocking this for me?"
His jaw tightened - just slightly. Irritation flickered behind his gaze, but so did something else. Without a word, he took the phone and unlocked it, his fingers moving fast, precise. Then he handed it back, his touch brushing yours for half a second too long.
He didn't say a thing. He didn't have to.
You typed something into the search bar, intent on making sure that Jamil couldn't see you fiddling with his phone. The speakers started blaring again, and then you set the phone back where it originally was. The music began again, washing over you - elegant, flowing, rhythmic.
Extracting a corner of the toe of your heel, you dragged a clean line down the floor - a slow, deliberate movement.
Jamil's eyes narrowed - half irritation, half something else. You stepped across the hardwood floor, the rhythm from the speaker guiding you.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
Your heels pivoted lightly, sliding into the familiar cadence. A waltz. Or rather, the footwork for it, anyway.
You moved through the basic steps - slow turns, sweeping glides - the ruffles on your dress fluttering around your figure with every rise and fall. No partner. Just you and the music.
You watched Jamil with the eye of a hawk. Circling closer, footwork still carrying that elegant sway, you stepped into his space, and lifted your arms, one brushing his shoulder, and the other sliding neatly into his hand.
His body went rigid.
Your voice was lavender and velvet. "Waltz with me."
"I'd rath-" He started, tone clipped.
You tilted your head, fingers tightening slightly where they rested. "Dance with me."
He hesitated.
But your steps were already drawing him in, guiding him through the tempo - subtle turns, measured breath, contact that sparked more than rhythm. And for a moment, he followed. Not just because he wanted to. But because he couldn't help it.
You smiled.
You led him into the simple hold - right hand to his shoulder, left hand in his - and pressed forward onto the floor. The swell of a smooth, orchestral Viennese waltz began playing. The ruffles on your dress continued to swirl according to your movements; now with Jamil's stance recast from audience to partner.
Despite you leading him into the dance, Jamil naturally took the lead and guided you carefully with that firm, practiced grip.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
The steps were measured. The turn was tight. The closeness familiar yet thrilling.
"I didn't know you could dance like this," You murmured, voice low enough only he'd hear.
He blinked. "I can dance many styles."
Jamil was a practiced dancer, gifting you perfect posture and fluid motion. You used this chance to brush your hip against his a little longer, your gaze dipped to his neck as you followed his lead.
The height in the waltz built, and you subtly released his shoulder and pressed your chest against his closer. He still didn't flinch. He guided you.
You whispered, "If this is how you hold me now, I'm excited to see how you hold me later."
His step faltered, just a touch. He swallowed.
You slowed, accordingly to the melody, coaxing him into a sultry foxtrot. Each step was sumptuous, like the finest velvet - smooth, intentional, undeniably close. The ruffles whispered around with every turn, every slide a promise made in silk and motion.
You let your fingers trace ever so slightly over his shoulder as you moved.
"You're not trying to seduce me, are you? You questioned, voice dripping like warm honey. A pause. "Because it's working."
His breath hitched. Barely, but you felt it.
Your smile grew more wicked, more hazy.
"Careful, Jamil. If you keep dancing like that, I might forget we're just practicing."
He didn't answer with words. His hand tightened at your waist. His steps grew sharper, more deliberate - every shift of his body brushing closer, every movement carrying a kind of heat that left no room for misreading.
You realized with a slow, thrilling surrender - you weren't the one leading this dance anymore.
Before you knew it, a vibrant salsa tune reverberated throughout the room as you spun sideways, allowing yourself to be pulled into a livelier pattern. You clicked your heels, you flicked your head - classic salsa, but with an effortless allure.
His muscles flexed beneath his shirt. His leading was strong, firm, unflinching. Your bodies pushed and pulled, buzzing with magnetic energy. You uttered softly, "That's it, I knew you had it in you~"
His jaw angled. Sweat glistened on his temple. The fire of the salsa matched the fire in your eyes.
He dipped you low.
Your dress flared.
And your glossed lips parted.
The music changed on your breath - a tense, dramatic tango. You slid your hand along his chest, drawing your pulse to his sternum.
He let go of the salsa rhythm, leaning in for a true tango embrace. Chest to chest, cheek to cheek. Your hand went to the back of his neck, hair slipping through his fingers. His arm slid around your waist with surprising gentleness - tentative, but real.
He led. You pivoted. You pressed your hip against his. His eyes glittered in the mirror. Your hair flew wildly with the tempo. He guided your close, closer - hips aligned, shoulders aligned, heartbeats aligned.
As the music reached a crescendo, he dipped you - gravity and control in perfect synergy. You leaned back in the dip, your dress sliding temptingly, your pulse racing. Who would have known that Jamil Viper was this good of a dancer?
Suddenly, he lost balance.
Mid-dip, he staggered. But as quick as a pit viper, Jamil caught your head as you felt yourselves crash to the ground all too slow, his strong arms creating a barrier between you and the floor. His chest heaved, and his gaze was charged.
You blinked, hair falling forward. He brushed it aside, still holding that dance hold - intimate, warm, safe.
He nodded once, sharply. "I...you okay?"
You smiled back, breathy. "More than okay."
Jamil let go of you, setting himself up vertical, and offering a hand to help you up.
You rose up to your knees as you gently pulled him back to sit.
"I saw you wince when you got up," You said, voice laced with concern, but carrying a teasing edge. Jamil did not miss this. "Did you pull your side?"
He shot you a sharp look. "How'd you know?"
You flashed a knowing smile, leaning closer as your fingers brushed his arm lightly. "Kind of hard to miss. And you're not exactly the best at hiding things."
His eyes narrowed, but softened as you moved in closer, your gaze intent, lingering on his form. "Maybe you should stretch a little," You suggested. "I could help. You know, with that side of yours."
Your lips curled into a knowing smile, the offer looming in the air - a challenge.
You shuffled closer to him and placed your palm against his ribs. "Let me help you loosen up." Your tone was soft now - gentler with the teasing.
He stiffened and relaxed only when your touch remained focused, controlled.
"Everything alright?"
"Are you okay?"
You both asked at the same time.
A laugh, soft and breathy, slipped past your lips. "I've never been better. Though I wouldn't say no to a repeat performance - maybe with less falling, though."
He groaned and tried to move, but you reached up gently and brushed your fingers along his cheek. Your thumb ghosted just under his eye, and his breath caught.
You smiled at him, a soft, private smile that didn't match the typical wicked one you wore like armor.
"I think I broke you," You said playfully, though your voice had quieted.
Jamil didn't reply right away, just looked at you with those impossibly sharp eyes of his, reading more than you meant to show. His gaze swept from your flushed cheeks to your still-parted lips, and you could practically feel the turbulent energy strumming beneath his skin.
"You're pushing too far," He said quietly, voice taut.
You held his gaze, steady.
"Maybe. But you haven't stopped me yet."
The moment stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. Your fingertips still lingered against his face, and when you didn't pull away, neither did he.
"I like you, Jamil."
It came out quieter than you'd expected.
Even with your usual confidence, even with all your practiced lines and sultry jokes, this part - this truth - was vulnerable. Your stomach twisted as the words hung in the air.
Jamil narrowed his eyes, stunned for a breath.
You kept your fingers on his cheek, grounding yourself.
"I mean it," You said, your voice lower now, calmer, but clearer than ever. "I tease you, sure. I get under your skin. But with you...it's not just a game. It's different."
Light from the chandelier kissed the contours of his face, shadows settling in the hollows like secrets. His brows drew together, silent in focus.
"You drive me up the wall," You admitted with a nervous little laugh. "You're smug and unbothered and infuriatingly self-controlled. And still...you're all I think about lately. Every comeback, every glance...it's like a dance I don't want to end."
Jamil was still quiet.
You could feel your pulse in your throat now. Too exposed.
Your voice dipped again, hushed and a little shaky. "You don't have to say anything. I just...I wanted you to know. I know I'm a lot to deal with. But when it comes to you, I really am serious. Scary serious."
Still silence.
Then - very slowly - Jamil's fingers rose to your wrist. He didn't push your hand away. Instead, he curled his hand around it, warm and steady, as if anchoring himself there.
"I know you mean it," He said at last, voice somber and timbre. "I've always known."
Your breath caught in your throat.
"Then why pull away?" You whispered.
He leaned in closer, the space between you narrowing until your breaths were shared. His body hovered over yours, but it wasn't dominance - it was hesitance. Like he was waiting for permission he didn't think he deserved.
"Because I didn't understand it," He murmured. "I still don't." His gaze searched yours, guarded but unraveling. "I don't see why it's me. Why you'd look at me like that. There were moments I convinced myself it wasn't real - that you were just...being you. That I was passing fancy."
He exhaled, a shaky sound.
"But then you kept showing up. And you kept meaning it. And I couldn't stop wanting to believe you."
Your expression softened. "And what do you think now?"
"I think..." He hesitated. His voice dipped low, like river water flowing over stone. "You're absurd. And I haven't stopped thinking about you since the first time you blew me off with that ridiculous wink."
A slow smile curved the set of your mouth. "You liked the wink?"
"I hated it," He said, not sounding like he meant it at all. "But I couldn't forget it."
You sat up a little, your face now barely inches from his. "And now?"
"Now, I'm in trouble."
Your peals of laughter were tender and pleased, but something in you was still fragile. Still aching for more than one-sided banter. "Do you like me, Jamil?"
He exhaled, letting his forehead rest gently against yours. His hair brushed your cheek, silky and warm.
"I like you," He confessed, barely above a whisper. "More than I want to. More than I know how to deal with. You've turned my whole world upside down."
You swallowed thickly, "Good."
Then you tilted your face, so your lips hovered near his ear, your breath pleasant against his skin.
"Can I kiss you?" You whispered, soft but steady.
Jamil's fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist. His eyes found yours - intense, unreadable for a heartbeat.
Then they dropped to your lips.
"Yes."
You leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't a playful peck or a teasing brush.
It was the kind of kiss that melted time.
His mouth met yours with careful reverence at first, like he wasn't sure this was real. Then, as your hand tangled in the loose hair at the nape of his neck, he deepened it, pulling you closer, tilting your chin, kissing you like he'd been holding back for far too long.
Though, you supposed that was exactly the case.
You tasted like mischief and jasmine and stolen moments.
He tasted like order, oud, and tender hours.
When you broke apart, both of you breathless, you touched his chest lightly with your palm, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat.
"We're a mess," You chortled, smiling.
Jamil smirked. "You more than me."
"Rude," You teased.
"And yet," He murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek, "I still want more."
You leaned in again, your lips just grazing his. "Then you'd better keep up, Viper."
He kissed you again.
And this time, you didn't stop for a long, long while.
Author's Note: So I was supposed to post the Trey x VERY suggestive reader fic version of this before I posted Jamil's, but here we are! The process for creating these fics was NOT easy at all. To add on to Jamil's part, I originally did not plan for the dancing part of the fic to be as long as it was. I just figured that since Jamil is canonically really good at dancing, I could write about it. He obviously loves to break-dance, but he canonically is also really good at ballroom styles, and since this would technically be my first ever Jamil fic, I wanted to do him justice. :>
Now, I know that the reader's banter was really silly, but I meant for it to be that way. I was thinking about what would piss off Jamil for the purpose of this fic. He clearly hates overzealous puppy dog types Kalim, so even though the reader is supposed to constantly flirt with Jamil (and she does), I made the reader's lines silly on purpose. What better way to get under his skin than being an overzealous flirt?
Head empty just thinking abt being Kalim’s arranged fiancee who he’s head over heels for and you’ve been sneaking around with Jamil behind his back
Jamil x Kalim's Fiancee!S/O
cw: fempov (i assume, bc you used 'fiancee'), cheating (on kalim), nsfw, Jamil-biased, this is mildly messed up
charas: kalim al-asim, jamil viper
wc: 1.1k
notes: nonnie you do not understand how much I love this... oh my god... I'll write a full fic about this eventually but this is more of rambling / drabble again.... im so sorry kalim baby this is too good........ too delicious........
This is made a hundred times worse if Kalim's genuinely so in love with you, without realizing that your heart is with Jamil. He can be rather dense to people's true feelings until he's hit with reality in the face.
Kalim's a great guy, don't get me wrong. He's objectively the nicest guy amongst the entire cast, and you would be incredibly lucky to be chosen to become his fiancee amongst thousands of other potential, more suitable candidates. It's most likely that the two of you were childhood friends somehow, and that's when adults decided to pair the two of you for the rest of your lives and forevermore.
However, this would be made a thousand times worse if Kalim chose you, though. The Al-Asim family already has enough political connections grounded in generations-long history, so it doesn't matter if Kalim chooses some random girl he finds pretty. It's made even easier if you come from a family like the Viper's, who are forever bound to the Al-Asims as their shadows.
Your family is buried in generations of debt. Won't you say yes to this wide-eyed boy to save your bloodline from eternal servitude?
What Kalim wants, Kalim gets. The arrangement is formalized within days, and your family has little choice in the matter. After all, who can say no to the Al-Asim family, much less their beloved son?
You simply can't protest against the decision, even as you grow older. You were a young child who barely understood the idea marriage when Kalim naively pointed his finger at you. You can try, but not without upsetting Kalim and disappointing your own family. Though you're sure Kalim would understand if you just explained it to him—he would be kind enough to end it—the fate of your family hinges on your capacity to pretend you love him back.
They want to stay in the Al-Asim's good graces. They need you to do that for them. Being married to him would protect your entire family for the rest of your lives. It would enshrine your whole family with God-like status because of the vast amount of wealth and power the Al-Asims family wielded.
You can't possibly say no.
Much like Jamil, you have to spend every waking moment with Kalim. You have to bend yourself backwards and pretend to be the idealized version of you that Kalim made up in his head—a version of you that giggles dumbly and goes along with everything he does. Your parents have always told you that you were a smart girl, so you must use that intelligence not to spread your wings and fly, but to sing and dance to his tune whenever Kalim wants you to.
Love is nothing but a charade. Sex becomes a performance rather than an expression. The 'kindness' you once found so endearing as children becomes overbearing. Kalim's so generous, exceptionally so, and you're reminded of this every single day. Kalim's truly so benevolent for choosing you, some apparent gutter rat that he found beautiful. He's never done anything wrong in his life, except be a spoiled child loved by his family. Is that even Kalim's fault?
Kalim doesn't understand that the only reason you said yes is because your hands are tied. In Kalim's perfect little bubble, you could do no wrong and neither could Jamil.
That's why it was so easy to fall into Jamil's arms whenever you slip on the metaphorical tightrope you're forced to walk on everyday. Jamil's jaded and exhausted too, though he hides it better than you do. He knows that, realistically, he can't say no to Kalim either, not without risking his own family too. It's in that shared pain the two of you bonded over. One thing leads to another, and suddenly you're already in Jamil's bed instead of Kalim's.
Jamil's a better lover in the sense that you can hurt him without worrying about his softness, without irreversibly breaking him. You could yell, scream, cry, and get angry all you want, and you don't have to worry about shattering Jamil's entire world with the truth of who you are. Jamil's already seen it all and forced the pieces back together on his own. He's selfish and cunning, and that makes you feel better about your own selfishness. Jamil's beyond ecstatic when he finds out that your heart never truly belonged to his master, because that means your love isn't some discarded left-over when Kalim doesn't even know the real you.
You are the most precious thing that Jamil can take from Kalim. Kalim may have your signature on some document and a ring on your finger, but Jamil has your heart and your cunt. He finds it most satisfying to fuck you in risky situations, like when the both of you know that Kalim's completely clueless in the next room over. Jamil will fuck you when he should be preparing for feasts. He'll fuck you just minutes before you're supposed to he on a date with Kalim. He'll fuck you like you're his in the first place, wherever and whenever you need each other.
It's in these stolen moments that you feel most free and yourself. It's when sex becomes an expression of raw frustration and an act of revenge at the same time, lest you snap at Kalim and ruin your entire future.
Fucking you is revenge for robbing Jamil of his freedom and trampling all over his future. Riding Jamil's dick until dawn is revenge for making a mockery of your intelligence and personhood. Kalim doesn't have to know any of this, but Jamil personally wouldn't mind it if Kalim, one day, caught you being ruthlessly pounded into by his dearest friend. That would be the greatest middle finger Jamil could give to the world.
Unlike Kalim, both you and Jamil have to evolve in response to your unfortunate circumstances. Both of you are the kind of people who revel in the forbidden, and Kalim will never understand what it's like to want for something that you can't have. Both of you are the kind of people who will cheat and deceive others for it, because it's infinitely more enticing to do so when the world keeps telling you that it will never be yours.
But for now, freedom remains a distant fantasy until you and Jamil could find your way out of servitude. For now, you'll keep smiling and batting your eyelashes at Kalim during the day, only for you to bare your teeth and snarl at Jamil during the night.
BREATHED SO DEEP I THOUGHT I’D DROWN . . . ft. Floyd Leech
wc: ~7.5k
cw: NSFW—MINORS + AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI, gn+afab!yuu/reader, reader is not called yuu, reader is called shrimpy sorry, all characters portrayed are 18+, mutual pining, friends -> lovers, implied virgin!floyd, scientifically inaccurate/speculative on behalf of author’s conception of mer-eel anatomy, #fucking4science, more like fucking under the guise of science, pool sex, mentions of mating/breeding, penetration, fingering, cunnilingus, kissing, biting/marking, dirty talk, creampie, silly and unserious because it’s floyd, shrimpy more like simpy (floyd's worse), only like a third of this is actually smut someone shoot me
reid: couldnt have written this ridiculousness without my two beloveds @seasidefallenangel and @fleursdaydreams ... thank you for bouncing around analysis, prompting me to write, and listening to me talk endlessly about him for the past few weeks lol <3
You and Grim struck a deal back when you were first settling into Ramshackle together: he’d take the classes that required applied magic and its necessary preparation, and you’d take the more basic courses. You were mostly spared first year, save for the moments when you were more or less dragging Grim through History of Magic by the scruff of his neck (he was going to hold up his end of your duo-enrollment if it meant you had to maim him a little along the way), but that was it. Not that you’d have had much time to devote to study, anyway, what with the way Crowley had you running around all over campus and beyond, cleaning up after people’s messes and bailing your lovable (deplorable) companion out of trouble. But he promised he’d take it easier on you this year, your second year, seeing as you’d be personally enrolled in a few classes—just another one of his kindnesses that he had no reservation extending to you, of course, because Crowley was just so nice like that.
And you quickly learned in the first weeks of fall semester that being in class with the friends you’d made thus far is actually pretty fun—or, at least, it’s never dull. Kalim’s TA position in Trein’s astrology class comes in handy both for academic and entertainment purposes (he likes to tell the class the stories he used to make up for the constellations before he knew what they meant), and even mathematics is alright when Ace is willing to let you peek over his shoulder for answers.
And you have biology with Floyd, which goes… exactly as you might expect it to.
Really, though, people tend to write Floyd off as a clown—and for good reason, because he certainly acts like one sometimes, but he’s smarter than he appears. On the first day of classes when he’d slid into the seat next to yours, you immediately wondered aloud why he was taking biology his third year instead of his second, which would’ve been usual protocol. Had he flunked it or something?
“Subbed it for Ancient Magic last year since bio sounded boring,” he’d explained, kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him (Crewel, sauntering around all dramatic-like before the bell, passed by and batted them to the ground, muttering bad), “but they wouldn’t let me get away with flakin’ out on it entirely.”
Ancient Magic was usually strictly reserved for third years, so you guessed it was no small academic feat that he’d managed to wiggle in a year early. Even Jade’s test scores didn’t quite rival his brother’s.
And despite this quiet academic prowess (or maybe because of it), he seemed to really be dreading biology. You kind of scrunched up your nose when he complained—you wished your biggest worry was being too bored by college level subject material, even if it was just a gen ed—but in that lovingly compensatory Floyd way, he’d wrapped up his lamenting with some slyly sweet comment about how it couldn’t be that bad as long as he had his Shrimpy with him.
So you’d just rolled your eyes and smiled, returning the sentiment. As long as you had boy-eel-genius Floyd Leech to steal test answers from, you supposed you’d be alright. (He’d dismissed such a title with that radiating laugh of his, and so you were certain.)
And to this present day, he’s been a shining classmate, honestly. Meticulous lab partner, halfway decent notetaker. When he’s in the mood for it, is what everyone usually bellyaches about his redeeming qualities, but you have yet to experience a Floyd so stormy that he’s unwilling to lend you a hand or be sweet to you. And you’ve been waiting for it to happen, you really have—to catch him on a bad day, to be the one to say or do the thing that sours his mood before you can blink.
But it hasn’t, and you haven’t.
Ace and Deuce theorize it’s for reasons that make you go warm in the face. Please, who else is he that nice to but you? Because Floyd is notoriously an individualist to his core. Yes, he has a reputation for scaring underclassmen straight with a single glare. Yes, he heckles professors every chance he gets. Yes, he likes to skip out of class and wander the halls when lecture falls into a lull, but when he drags you with him, he never disappoints his MO of loathing boredom. He keeps you guessing—but, somehow, in a way that never exhausts or overwhelms you. If you’re thankful for nothing else that’s come out of the entire ordeal of being isekai’d into this terribly absurd pocket of existence, you’re at least softened by the opportunity to find beauty in places no one else gets to see, even if those places are renowned idiot Floyd Leech.
Like so many other things in Twisted Wonderland, he looks scarier than he is; the simple reality is that he doesn’t pay any mind to the narratives others fit him into, nor is he lacking in the depth that’s endeared him to you beyond your own expectations. He’s funny, he’s chaotic, he’s a quiet mind and a loud lover, reliable in his own right, predictable in his penchant for unpredictability. And one of your best friends!
Okay, so biology with Floyd goes better than what you might’ve expected it to.
It’s not like you’re going to complain. If he weren’t six-foot-whatever and heartwrenchingly pretty, you’d be so content with just best friends, but again, you’re picking your battles here. And Floyd, thankfully, doesn’t have to be one of them.
“Shrimpy,” he snaps, but when you look over, he’s grinning. Floyd tips your textbook shut for you; people are filing out of the classroom. You must’ve tuned out the bell. “Class is over. D’ja hear me?”
“Sorry,” you mumble, grabbing your bag. “What’s up?”
“I said you should study with me later,” he says, folding his arms beside you and tucking his chin into them. He looks up at you adorably. “Anatomy section’s kinda kickin’ my ass.”
Liar, you think at first—but then, maybe he’s not. Despite zoning out today, you recall the content of the past few classes—particularly, a class from last week, in which Crewel spent a whopping five whole minutes (if you were generous) taking a detour to a flimsy conclusion about how marine anatomy and physiology is so often glossed over on land, just by nature, by expectation, by separation or whatever, and for that reason, there isn’t really room for it in the syllabus. Or whatever.
You don’t remember the smart comment Floyd made at this gap in the curriculum, but you remember he made one. And if landfolk life science is by and large as foreign to merfolk as vice versa, you figure maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’ll actually study for once instead of goofing off like you usually do, ending up on the roof of Ramshackle, scrounging in the cafeteria for late-night snacks, or sneaking onto the bus to Foothill Town; his kicked puppy stare tells you so.
“Of course,” you say, gathering your things. “Mine or yours?”
“Mine, duh.” Floyd stands to trail behind you to your astrology class; he has a break after bio, but he always walks with you anyway. “Or send Sealie away, at least, if we do yours. Gotta get serious about this test next week.”
He still jars you a little when he talks so sensibly, but you chuckle anyway. “I can ask the uncles to babysit.” Your two now-sophomore Heartslabyul friends, you mean.
“You’re the best, Shrimpy.” Floyd tosses a jovial arm around your shoulders, and you tuck yours around his waist to keep yourself from tripping on his feet. “Can’t get ya to Trein late or he’ll have both of our asses. What were ya thinkin’ about just now, anyway?”
You, you could blurt, but you don’t. His fingertips toying with the shoulder of your blazer always make it harder for you to think clearly. Shouldn’t you have grown used to this by now? Floyd’s so open with physical affection when it comes to his friends; you hate when your brain makes it into something it obviously isn’t. Only it isn’t obvious that it isn’t, and you’d only ask if you were an iota more certain.
You hum. “Can’t remember.”
“Too bad. You looked real concentrated.” His chin knocks into your head, and you swat him away, laughing. “Love that lil’ brain of yours.”
Please, shut up. You’re not an easily flustered Shrimpy; Night Raven College knows this about you. So, you think, what the hell? “J’you just call my brain little, Leech?”
Cue sunshine laugh again. He doesn’t deny, nor does he confirm, but you know it’s out of love. Friendly love. Fuck, you’ve got it bad.
Before you break away from him to cross the threshold into astrology, Floyd takes you by the shoulders.
“I’m serious, I need help.” He’s got that whiplashingly serious look in his eyes when they snap to yours. “I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?”
You nod, smiling as you internally curse the indelible flush in your skin. You’re so irritatingly sensitive to his charms today. No doubt if he does end up wanting to bail on studying later, you’ll give in. “I’ll text you.”
“Cool.” In an instant, that toothy grin is back. He presses an amiable smooch to the top of your head (complete with loud mwah) and you swear you feel ten degrees cooler as soon as he begins retreating down the hallway. “See ya later!”
You toss him a wave as you duck into Trein’s. Kalim greets you brightly—he also immediately asks you why you look sweaty. You blink, sheepish, and say, “Good afternoon to you, too.”
What you didn’t expect out of biology was to have it so horribly for Floyd Leech.
Night Raven College knows, too, that you generally do a bad job at picking your battles.
It really kind of blows for the mer-students at Night Raven that they don’t teach their fucking anatomy and physiology in bio. Sure, the majority of them probably learn about it under the sea, but then to be thrown into landfolk A&P with no frame of reference to accompany? Talk about a learning curve.
It blows even worse that, right now, Floyd’s zeroed in on two blown-up diagrams right next to each other—the female and male reproductive systems—tongue poking out from behind his sharp teeth, brows knitted as he struggles to remember the names of everything he’s looking at. You’re pretty sure he was joking when he referred to the lymphatic system the limp-fantastic system (and maybe halfway intentional in making it sound like it moonlights as a Bizkit cover band instead of regulating fluids), but it is a lot to take in. Imagine him recounting the bones in the lower extremities some thirty minutes ago before getting to this.
“So, these are the…” Floyd’s circling both illustrations tentatively with his fingertip, and then taps harshly on one. “Okay, I know this is a penis. That’s a wiener. Duh.” He drags his finger, panning over to the other as you snort. “And this is where the babies are made. This is the babymaker. Yep.”
Your chin drops to your chest (even though he’s technically correct) and you sigh through a laugh. “Well, they… yeah.”
“Sorry,” he whines petulantly, more for himself than you, “this is hard! I ain’t never seen any of this stuff before, you know.”
But it’s less his human-anatomical incompetence that’s got you more dismissive than you ought to be for such intense material, and more the fact that since astrology all you’ve been thinking about is Floyd, Floyd, Floyd, just like you always do, like you’re a pathetic middle schooler lovesick for the first time, for their best friend no less. And now, words like penis and babymaker are leaving his mouth, and even though physiology specifically has got to be up there next to abstract algebra as one of the unsexiest areas of rote studying, having the guy you’ve got a massive crush on pick apart the literal stuff that’s inside you is making you feel some inconvenient (but not entirely unwelcome) things. You swear it felt a little romantic just watching and listening to him label the arteries, veins, and capillaries on and around the human heart.
“Weird as all hell I’m part’a this whole new species and I don’t hardly know shit about it.” He grumbles briefly about technicalities and vocabulary as he flops onto his stomach; your mattress creaks out its protest, but he just buries his head in his arms. You hear, muffled, “I’m sick’a this, Shrimpy, let’s do somethin’ else.”
Right, his borrowed human form.
It’s not even a second before you’re trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s inhabiting a body incredibly biologically compatible with yours. You disguise this train of thought beneath the sound of your textbook smacking closed before you opt to flop next to him, nosediving into your own arms in a similar fashion. Your skin feels like it itches.
Stupid Floyd and his stupid study session and his stupid mouth that never shuts up and that you absolutely want to kiss. You miss the way he peeks up at you quizically with one golden eye, but if you would’ve noticed, you’d be cursing his stupid receptivity that no one ever expects because he acts like a moron. You need to pull it together now. Quit being distracted by your stupid, attractive best friend, quit reminding yourself of his stupid human anatomy, and especially quit wondering if you could get him as worked up over nothing as he’s got you, in mer-form or otherwise, and how it would feel for him—if he’d like it, if he’d like you… If he’d—quit it, quit it, quit it, your stupid human brain chants like a mantra.
Think about anything else. His true form is probably so incompatible with yours, think about that. Think about how he’s actually, like, half a fish. Yeah. There. Crisis averted, battle picked.
“D’you feel alright?” he asks, fingers curling around your arm to feel your forehead. Ruined it, just like that. “You’re warm.”
“I’m fine,” you don’t mean to snap, but you do—even so, his hand doesn’t recoil. Floyd scratches your hair a little, the way one might do to a dog. You could scream at him not to touch you if you didn’t like it so much, but you do—painfully so—which is why you turn your head to face him while his fingers trace lazy half-shapes from your hairline to your temple. You try to sound chipper and not at all strained when you concede, “Let’s do something else. What’d’you wanna do?”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously dissatisfied with your dodge. He still traces, brushing your cheekbone as he studies you. “Something’s on your mind, Shrimpy.”
Stupid receptivity. “Just information overload,” which isn’t entirely a lie. “And I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. No marine A&P, my ass. You’ve got marine communities well within reach here, so not teaching it’s an outdated excuse for ignorance, if you ask me. But I guess humans are good for that wherever you go.”
Floyd hums, pulling away from you, rolling onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Yeah, that pissed me off, too.”
“‘M pissed for you.” You do give a shit, really, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have something to channel your intensity into right now.
Quiet settles over you both. You allow yourself a few seconds more of stewing and admiring his side profile, his sharp nose and bitten lips; Floyd looks like he’s pondering. You wish you could pick apart what’s inside him, too. He’s fascinating to you—you love his lil’ brain, too, you know, in more ways than one. It really is an injustice that landfolk don’t know more about merfolk and their glaring similarities and yet, major differences; Floyd’s an emotional, physical, scientific marvel to you. You don’t think you’ve met anyone more interesting. Or easier to love, for that matter.
Fuck.
“I know!” In an instant, he’s on his feet. “Let’s hit the pool. You’re all warm, it’ll cool you off—” He’s tugging you to your feet, grabbing his bag, bright, pointy smile lighting up all at once, “—it’ll be so fun. You can relax, and I haven’t swam in days…”
“That actually sounds perfect.” Yes, back to fish-form with the heathen. You’re quick to toss together a bag of swim things, eager to put mind-numbing, rage-inducing study material and complicated emotions alike to rest for the night. His unreserved laugh when you agree so readily still makes your heart flutter, but you plan to leave it at the door.
Surely, you can leave it at the door.
On the way to the mirror chamber, you’re so eager to leave it behind that you’re asking questions—your mood flipping with his, incidentally—because you’re disgustingly susceptible to him and, as noted before, you do give a shit. Ardent and full of curiosity, just like you always are with him, you shed the limitations of textbook-sanctioned inquiry and launch yourself full-force at reclamation of your own wall-hitting; you can and will get a fucking grip and be normal.
“Is it super different?” you ask.
“What?” Floyd’s rummaging in his bag as you both walk, already aware he forgot a notebook in your room. “Merfolk stuff?”
“Yeah.” You adjust your own bag on your shoulder. “Like, your A&P is probably as different to me as mine is to you. Where I’m from, scientists haven’t observed a whole load of shit about the ocean—it’s more of a mystery to us than outer space. There’s tons we don’t know about morays, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean skeletal system-wise, there are bony fish, and then ones with more cartilage. And either way, the whole structure and makeup is so different since we got no legs, and…”
You listen to him talk all the way through the mirror, into the halls of Octavinelle, past the lounge and onto the sprawling pool deck—it’s empty, much to your relief, sparkling and humid; when you reach down to skim your fingers across the water, it’s refreshingly cool. Floyd’s submerged before you can blink, hardly pausing his spiel; you lift your shirt off and toss it aside, and suddenly he’s aquamarine and soft green, scaly and shiny and webbed and you would tell him to look away while you slip your bottoms on but it’s you who’s staring, really.
“And then merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish when it comes to reproduction and shit. Don’t really know how that happened, and I don’t even know how—I don’t think…”
For once in his life, he trails off. You settle at the edge of the pool, dipped in up to your knees, and he swims up to you. Wanna play mermaids? is what you’d usually joke, but as your kicking feet slow to a stop and Floyd’s arms curl up across your lap, all you can do is look down at him, ruminative and a little mystified (no matter how many times you see him in his true form, you’re always taken by its elegance).
“Whatever.” It’s the day of Floyd burying his face in his elbows and looking up at you in a way that makes you want to take a page out of his book and squeeze him until he pops; it certainly doesn’t help that, absentmindedly, your fingers move to card through his wet hair and he hums, low and sweet as you do, so that you feel it in your stomach. “Not like lookin’ at anything on a piece of paper does squat. I’m more of a hands-on learner.”
He blinks up at you through his wet lashes—it should be a criminal offense—and you grin down at him as he splays his palms across your thighs, tracing, tracing little shapes again (fuck, and now you’re looking at his biceps. Stop that!). Your face burns, but you mock confusion to play it off. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re flirting with me, Floyd Leech.”
Less a bold move and more placing the ball in his court because with Floyd, what you see is mostly what you get. Yes, he’s a horrible trickster, but you know him. And if you know him as well as you think you do, he’ll laugh that radiant laugh (which he does) and, next, you’re confident, brush you off and yank you into the water yelling about how his Shrimpy needs to learn to swim like he does so you can keep up with him—yes, he’ll wave the silly little theatrics behind you both and forget it even happened before tomorrow peeks over the horizon.
But he muses, “I am,” not at all coy, because coyness and Floyd don’t go hand in hand.
And you blink at him, all at once a little giddy and disbelieving. “No, you’re not.”
“D’ya not want me to be?” Schroedinger’s flirt. I mean it if you do, but if you don’t, then of course I’m totally joking.
His mismatched gaze is locked steadily on you. You wish he would ever let you hear the end of it if you covered your face with your hands, but he won’t, so you don’t; you just giggle, unable to not, unable to confirm or deny, unable to decide if it’d be better or not for him to say he’s messing with you. It’s always straightforward, except when it isn’t.
“Shrimpy, I’m serious,” he continues when you finally look at him again. He does feign urgency—or maybe he’s not feigning, like his words would imply, as he positively bores into you. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?”
“I—” You suppress your trepidation, doing your best to match his air. “I never said I don’t want you to.”
“Get in the damn pool, then,” he snaps a little bit, impatient—impatient for you, you realize; you’re smirking as he slinks down to tug at your ankles with no real consequence. “C’mon.”
“Make me,” you tease, and something dangerous ingnites in his eyes—something that makes you want to toy with your fingers and look away, but you don’t, because it’s always worth stifling yourself to feed Floyd a little bit of his own medicine. You’ve never watched it have this particular effect on him, though; when you grin evilly at him, he plants his palms on either side of you and rises out of the water to your eye level.
“Don’t piss me off,” he half-barks in your face—sometimes, if you poke him hard enough, you do feel like you’re catching a glimpse of the scary Floyd everyone’s warned you about, but you don’t slink away from it. You kick at him, go to pinch his nose—he makes an attempt to bite your fingers and you laugh and laugh, and he does, too, eventually, the two of you in a duel where you have the upper hand only because he chooses to give it to you (and his hands are literally occupied with holding himself above water).
You wrastle with him, landing a jab to his (infuriatingly well-defined) stomach, snapping your fingers in his face a bit, blowing air in his eyes—before you gather his cheeks between your fingers, squishing his face in a way that makes him scrunch his nose, lips puckered unwillingly, and you—you fucking kiss him. You land a quick peck to his mouth without even thinking, and you release him immediately; he pulls back, but only a few inches, just enough to look at you.
For a moment you think he’ll really get mad. You try not to shrink.
It’s quiet and you can’t tell if his expression is starstruck or disgusted.
A few seconds is a century.
“Kiss me again,” he barks right at you. Like he thinks you won’t.
Your face feels stuck, contorted into a sheepish grin; Floyd’s open mouth, taunting you, luring you in, lets you watch his tongue flick between his rows of sharp teeth and the thought of what they’d feel like in your neck jolts you toward him, your hands grabbing for his strong shoulders; he’s not sure if you’re about to shove him off or devour him whole, but he hangs in that lightning-quick moment of anxiety, thrilled to have your hands on him, all at once assured and with the only hint of apprehension you think you’ve ever seen on his face and you decide you have to, you must—what else could you possibly do but throttle yourself forward, into him, not at all soft or scared as the water envelops you from head to toe and he does just the same?
Beneath the surface is a pillowy, noise-cancelling limbo—you feel like you’ve plunged into a dream, eyes screwed shut and senses dulled where the only vivid things are his hands clutching your waist and his lips on yours. And you kiss him and kiss him, drifting up, suspended, cupping his jaw like you’d start breathing him if you could.
Before you hit oxygen, pockets of air bubble out from between both of your mouths; you’re laughing before you’re inhaling, finding yourself panting to catch your breath—unlike Floyd, who giggles so fully and unapologetic it echoes around the pool deck. The next thing you feel is a cool, slick tail twining around you—your hips, your waist, so you don’t have to flail to stay afloat.
“Here, hold onto me.” His tail slips away with his tense disposition, replaced by laughter that doesn’t cease as you link your ankles behind him at the spot where his human back gives way to his mer-half, and your wrists at the base of his neck. “There ya go.”
You’re not sure if you’re tingling from the impact to the water or from the way his pale teal chest rises and falls so rapidly against yours. He sways back and forth so subtly you’d almost think it was only the rippling of the water; you wane into silence in the crook of his shoulder, like you don’t want to be the first to speak.
But he does (you’d be nervous if he were to be quiet); large, clawed hands slide from your waist to hold you up from beneath your ass.
“I could kiss you again,” he offers into your ear like it’s the most obvious thing—a was that okay? of Floyd fashion, an opening to tell him he’s silly, this was silly, to let you go. He listens to you for alarm bells. You don’t set any off. “Always wanted to do that. Could do anything you want, baby.”
Baby?
What world were you transported to when you resurfaced? It’s the first time he’s called you anything other than Shrimpy, or your name. Something flares in your chest, unfurls down your arms and into your fingertips which trail down to the planes of his chest.
Anything?
Your manner of yes, of promptly shutting that window, is a series of fluttering kisses beneath his ear, over subtle, pulsing gills you’ve never been close enough to notice before, let alone touch. You really can’t curse the A&P curriculum now—it’d be blasphemy. Look where it got you: nipping at your best friend’s throat, quick to wonder what bruises would look like blooming on his aqua skin. You tear into him gently, hearing him hum over hitched breath when you do.
“I mean, I think I could use an interactive lesson if I’m gonna have a shot on this test.” A minute ago, you were the one gasping for breath; now, Floyd sighs to maintain composure, accidentally puncturing your bottoms with his nails while you lick across his jaw. You can’t see his erection, but you can feel it, beginning to press up beneath you as his arousal grows. Merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish, he had said; maybe you’re more compatible that you originally assumed, and the fact that you have him hard just from a little bit of kissing and biting is so pathetically cute. Floyd might look real tough, but he’s practically falling apart just the way you fantasized he would earlier today, just as quick if not quicker than you, his cute lil’ Shrimpy—his baby—who’s clearly had more control over him than he’s let onto until now.
You pull back to look into his olivey eyes and he’s half-lidded with something just to the left of restless yearning—like how a predator must look when it’s got its prey backed into a corner.
But you’re hardly prey.
His head cocks like a puppy waiting for a treat. “Ain’t’cha gonna help me out?”
Later, you’ll swear this was him begging, and he’ll deny it; he tries to distract you from it with that sly confidence, his eternal air of never taking anything too seriously, but you have him right where you want him.
Even if he does get one final jab in, sing-songy, grasping onto the last of his smugness. “You could get a little marine anatomy lesson in return, y’know.”
You want to make him squirm back—so you concede, “Alright,” like you’re doing him a favor. In reality, it’s so sweetly dizzying and surprising to drink in his desperation after he’s made you feel crazy for as long as he has. You untangle yourself from him, backing up until you hit the wall so you can hoist yourself upon it once more.
Floyd treads back up to you without having to be told. When you slip your bottoms off, you don’t ask him not to look.
“Ever touched a human like this before?” you ask, more to put him through answering than actually looking to know; you have a pretty good idea, anyway, from the way he just pouts up at you—an answer in itself. You prop one heel up on the edge of the pool and push his drenched hair away from his forehead as he settles a shoulder beneath your still submerged calf, downturned eyes shining.
You look at him so fondly, drag your gentle touch down his face before tilting his chin toward the apex of your thighs; if eels could blush, you’re certain you’d have gotten him with the way you wiggle forward to the edge and spread yourself open with two fingers.
You’d be kidding yourself if you said his hungry gaze and warm breath on your cunt doesn’t affect you just as terribly.
“So,” you clear your throat—this is an anatomy lesson, after all. You’re nothing if not committed to the bit. “A lot of my reproductive anatomy is inside—totally unreachable. But this—”
You demonstratively swipe a finger over your clit.
“—feels real good if you touch it.”
Floyd, self-proclaimed hands-on learner, doesn’t waste a second replacing your finger with his thumb.
You yelp, jumping a bit, for more than one reason. “Watch the claws, Leech.”
He bites his lip through a focused smile—he really is so hot when he actually gives his full, undivided attention to something, and the fact that you’re the something is even better. “Sorry.” He’s hardly sorry.
But he struggles to avoid scratching you up.
“Tell me what to do, baby,” he insists at your ow, ow, ow, lower and more invested than usual—it makes you clench around nothing, makes you feel so empty. You wish his fingers inside you wouldn’t maim you. You suppose that’s an excursion for his other form. His hands instead busy themselves grabbing at your thighs, opening you up, wanting more. “Can I just…?”
You don’t know if oral sex exists under the sea and you don’t really care—either way, Floyd’s unhinged enough to just go for it without you having to tell him, and you simply guide his head the rest of the way to you as his tongue licks a long, experimental stripe up your slit.
“Yeah,” you sigh, “yeah, that feels—”
He keeps licking. Enthusiastically, like one might an ice cream cone. You cover your smiling mouth for a split second before you continue, pushing him away to show him.
“Here, here, here.” Again, you touch yourself—so pulsing and hot compared to how chilly he is. “This little—above the hole, is the—”
“The Exorcist,” he insists, looking deadpan up at you, so Floyd in timing, that you can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
You try so hard not to snort. Sevens, what kind of media has he been consuming up here? At least he’s maybe, sort of trying? (His bio grade does depend on it, after all.)
“Clitoris,” you correct him, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of this whole situation. It’ll catch up to you in embarrassment if you don’t get his mouth on you in the next five seconds, you’re pretty sure. “See it? Feels really good to touch, lick, suck o—oh!”
Before you can breathe, he’s latched onto you—licking again and pausing where you’ve instructed him, suckling around you and twirling his tongue in a way has you pushing him into you instead of away, now, and you’re going to keep your voice, of course; you’d go as far as to call him somewhat of a natural, but you’re still going to instruct him like a good tutor.
“Y-yeah, that’s it,” you encourage him; his tongue feels long and a little frigid, so unlike anything you’ve felt before, and it’s certainly not working against him. “Just—don’t move down—yeah, like that. G-good boy, Floyd.”
He must like that, because he hums into you; the vibration sends your hips rolling forward into his mouth—you prop your other heel up to spread yourself even wider—and he peers up at you wetly like he wants you to say it again.
When you don’t, his eyes flutter shut, his brow furrows, and his tongue works harder—making you arch, making you croon.
And it falls from your mouth like you can’t help it, “Good boy, right there—mhm!”
Said tongue slips down, prodding your hole; you’re gasping all over again, biting into the back of your hand when Floyd moans into your pussy once more like he’s unaware of the shockwave it sends through you (he probably is), his hands landing at the small of your back to tug you into grinding on his face. He seems to enjoy alternating between tonguefucking you and making out with your clit—if how tight he’s holding you is anything to go off of, anyway, and with the way he moves, the way his elbows come up to rest under you, tense and holding himself up, it seems like he’s humping the pool wall.
The fact that he’s getting off on going down on you makes you want to lay back and curl your thighs around his head. But as much as you’d love to cum in his mouth, as good as his tongue feels drinking you down, now that you know he has a cock, you pretty much need him to fuck you with it.
“Floyd,” you whine, wriggling away from him. He’s hesitant to let you go; his eyes fly open like you’re taking away his favorite toy, which you may as well be. “Floyd—ah, I want you t’fuck me, please?”
That has him happily departing with a lewd smack, nails letting up on your flesh; he looks up at you with a dopey smile, like you’ve just injected him with something that’s sent him skyward, but it doesn’t last long—he’s determined as he pulls you back into the water with real firmness, catching you beneath your arms as you squint for the splash.
When you open your eyes, you’re met with a satisfied and glistening mouth, tongue poking out, lapping you up. “You taste good, Shrimpy.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me Shrimpy while we’re fucking.”
Floyd snickers. “Ya like baby better? Maybe I’ll use that all the time from now on.”
“You should,” you agree before he’s kissing you; you’re coiled around him again in an instant, tasting yourself in his spit, sliding a restless hand under the water between both your bodies to thumb his tip.
Floyd bites your lip as you circle him; you half-wish you could see him from an outside point of view, how his eyes are screwed shut, how his jaw flexes and releases when he chokes on his breath, but you know you can’t be anywhere but here—you fully don’t want to be anywhere but here—pleased at the way he bucks into your hand all needy.
When you maneuver him down to drag your cunt along him, you earn your first nasally, full-bodied moan from Floyd Leech—all at once obscene and uncorrupted; you wonder if he’s ever made himself sound like this, if he would even know how to; you nearly growl into his open mouth as his ridges and veins catch on your clit, your entrance. You wonder, too, just how soaked you are right now, riding along his length, which does not by any means feel small, by the way. When you close yourself around him to let him fuck your thighs, you feel his tip reaching past your ass.
And now that he’s started, he’s not going to shut up. “Oh, shit, that feels—Shrim—baby, oh, fuck.”
You wish you’d have dedicated some time to learning his cock—when you catch a glimpse beneath the surface, it seems to be the same darker shade of blue-green that contours the edges of the rest of his body; it’s undoubtedly naturally slick, also not unlike the rest of him, probably as pretty as it feels.
You bite into the freckles across his collarbone as you thrash against each other, all sweat and water and stickiness and teeth. “Want you,” you mumble in his webbed ear. “Spare me the lesson.”
“Alright,” he hisses, letting up like it’s painful. “Your turn.”
It’s in Floyd’s nature to turn on a dime. He was so docile while you let him explore you. His razor-sharp grin threatens you with ruin now that you’re letting him take what he wants, forgetting all about the subject at hand—the topic that got you here in the first place. Nonetheless, he intends to be strict, you can tell—even if you’re the one palming his cock, wetting your lips for more of his rough kisses, hooking your knees over his elbows and guiding him into your cunt.
“This how ya do it?” But he’s got the basics down by now—and with you lining him up, he’s got little more to do than thrust himself forward, but he decides the best way to go about this is to shake his head dismissively, almost annoyed, and bend your knees up to your shoulders, damn near to the pool wall, and all at once he’s in you, filling you up, hitting you deep.
“Floyd!” you squeal, stretched in more ways than one. “Chill!”
“Fuck—can’t,” he groans brokenly; he’s fucking into you already, steady and rigid. His next sentence tumbles out more like one long word, like it might be the last thing he ever says: “Oh, fuck, it feels so good, I gotta move.”
His long tail comes to wind tight and writhing around your middle as he pins you, leveraging your whole body as he keeps an experimental pace, but already, speech escapes him; still, Floyd doesn’t shut up, groaning through uneven whimpers, unabashed and frantic to let you know how you good you feel even if you’ve stolen his voice.
Water swashes around you and you can do nothing but cry out, tangling both hands in Floyd’s drenched hair, your forehead pressed to his.
“‘S’okay, baby, I want it all,” you whine.
And in a second, his hips are brutal against yours.
You can’t see anything below—the way he fucks you deliriously stirs up the water—but you reach down to touch yourself again, jaw slack to your chest as he bends and pounds you; Floyd’s so damn loud you’d worry about being heard if it wasn’t for the way you can feel his dick, ruthless in your guts, turning your brain to pitiable mush. He looks so pretty, eyes all teary and borderline crazed, teeth clenching closed just to be pried open by pitchy moans that send waves of heat straight to the orgasm building in your core.
When he gets his voice back, you’re losing yourself—reminding yourself to keep your eyes open, keep your gaze on him, because you’d rather die than miss the way Floyd looks when he opens his pretty mouth again.
“If you—fuck, ‘m gonna cum in you—‘f you could take it, I’d keep—keep fuckin’ you…”
“Want it,” you breathe, words all strung out and slurred, whole body jostling with the way he batters against your insides, “ngh’I want y’r cum.”
Floyd cusses a few more times—mouth just as filthy as the rest of him for you as you goad him—because you want him, you want him to cum in you, you’re so fucking tight and perfect around him that he knows he’s growing more and more addicting with each rapid-fire slam of his tip against your cervix but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and from the way your hips jerk to the flexing and curling of your toes and the whines and moans you sing, muddled and noisy, into the air for him, he doesn’t think there’s a world that exists where he’d want to.
“This is where you’d release your clutch, if ya had one—oh,” he explains, breath quick and hot against your neck as you twitch—you’re so close, he can feel it, the way you clamp around him erratically as each stroke, each thrust distresses his words into little more than gasping and rambling. “A-and I’d—hah, fuck, I’d knock you up so good—”
In your hazy, foggy, humid upswing of pleasure your melting mind remembers his unfinished thought from earlier: I don’t even know how—I don’t think… And oh, fuck, just the thought of it sends you hurdling over the edge, cumming hard, but
the words, too, are leaving you before you can stop them, before you can think too hard about what it is your clipped and breathy voice is babbling—
“G’na breed me? Wanna fill me up with your kids, Floyd? Huh?”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah—” he chants back, ruined, “G’na fuckin’ take it all for me, aren’t’cha, baby?”
“Fuck, I need it,” you’re unsure if you whisper or scream—your nails are harsh in his shoulders and his teeth are buried in your neck, muffling rough, rhythmic cries as he cums, throbbing inside you; he cums so fucking much, you can feel it, filling you to the brim, coating every inch of you he can reach, trembling and spasming and fuck, he can’t stop—it feels like forever and too soon when he slows to a stop, buried in you, letting up on your neck and dropping your legs to grab either side of your head and kiss you long and hard, both of you half-humming, half-whining into each other.
Between labored breaths and lazy kisses you spend a good few minutes rocking into one another—biting at lips, hands wandering, tongues poking, until eventually you’re both just play-fighting, snickering quietly, touching in ways that are spent of sex and yet still wholly intimate.
When he calms a bit, scarily serious in that way only Floyd can get, he asks you, “You gonna be mine ‘er what?”
“I’m already yours, Leech.” You flick water at him, resigned, and wriggle a bit. One golden eye winks to dodge, and he’s grinning, so familiar; as he untangles himself from you, helping you back up onto the tile, he mocks relief.
”Good. Would be kinda awkward if you weren’t.”
Water settling is the only sound across the pool deck as you towel off, shuffle your shorts back on. In the silence, Floyd twirls around the water and starts to sing a stupid little song—totally off-key and fully content, I love my Shrimpy, I love my Shrimpy…
Until the lights start to flicker, and you hear the extremely vexed voice of a certain Mostro Lounge owner from the far hallway—
“If you’re done, get the fuck out! My students are trying to sleep!”
And in another blink, Floyd is human and wild-eyed, on the deck pulling his shorts on and running—he catches your hand in his, mumbling something about how he’s gonna ace this test and Azul can suck it—and he’s laughing, running, and you wouldn’t rather be doing anything but the same.
Greetings, fellow writer of the internet, I was curious to know if it is alright to request the Housewardens and Jamil from Twisted Wonderland x gn Reader, where the Housewardens and Jamil are trying their absolute best to hide their growing feelings for the reader, but their affection keeps slipping through in the small gestures they do for the reader, such gestures like lingering touches, remembering tiny details, or soft smiles they didn’t mean to show, etc.? I just absolutely love this concept; It makes my stomach flutter with joy!!!
── ⋆⋅☆ TWST HOUSEWARDENS - WAYS YOU CAN TELL THEY LIKE YOU
── ⋆⋅☆ AUTHORS NOTE Twin, where have I been? I have been renovating my room and working full-time. Sorry for my absence, though no one probably noticed lol, I am back now. And also ☝️🤓 I feel like this is some of my best work, not to pat myself on the back. I researched writing tips and stuff cause I wanna cook for y’all.
── ⋆⋅☆ RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS
Riddle absolutely thinks he’s being subtle about his feelings. Spoiler: he is not.
At first, it’s tiny things. Like, microscopic.
He’ll stand a little closer to you than he does to anyone else. Not close enough to break a rule, of course, but close enough that Cater raises an eyebrow every time.
Whenever you talk to him, he answers a little too quickly. Like he was already listening for your voice before you even said his name.
He absolutely tries to keep his tone even and proper, but every now and then, he slips and sounds… soft?
Not “Riddle Rosehearts, Perfect Prefect of Heartslabyul” soft, but “boy with a crush who has no idea what to do about it” soft :/
Sometimes he’ll do this thing where he gives you a compliment but phrases it like it’s just an objective observation.
“Your handwriting is—adequate.”
Translation: he’s trying not to say “you look cute” and failing miserably.
But the real kicker is the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
Soft, warm, totally enamoured — like he’s letting himself feel everything he refuses to say out loud.
The second you look his way, though?
He straightens up, clears his throat again (this boy is singlehandedly hydrating himself by clearing his throat), and pretends he was absolutely not admiring you from five feet away.
We let him pretend.
He’s cute. He’s trying.
And one day, he’s absolutely going to crack and spill everything in one breath.
── ⋆⋅☆ LEONA KINGSCHOLAR
Leona thinks he’s being smooth about hiding his feelings.
He is, in fact, being about as subtle as a brick.
At first, it’s the little things he swears no one will notice.
Like how he suddenly “just happens” to nap in the exact places you like to hang out.
Pure coincidence, of course. Definitely not planning. Leona would never.
He’ll be lying there with his arm over his eyes, pretending he didn’t track your schedule down to the minute.
You show up?
“Oh. Didn’t see you there.”
Leona, you absolutely did. He heard you coming from across campus.
And if anyone calls him out? Instant denial.
“What, you think I care? Don’t be stupid.”
Meanwhile he is actively glaring at anyone who stands within two feet of you.
But the biggest giveaway? His tail.
That thing has zero poker face.
When you sit beside him, it’ll flick once like he’s annoyed… but then curl around your ankle like it has a mind of its own.
He’ll pretend he’s asleep so he doesn’t have to explain it.
── ⋆⋅☆ AZUL ASHENGROTTO
Azul swears he’s keeping his feelings under control.
And, honestly? He tries.
But the man is about as subtle as a contract with fine print in size 6 font.
At first, it shows in how he suddenly pays a little too much attention to you.
Like, you mention something once, and he has it memorized like it’s part of a business deal.
Your favourite drink? Always stocked.
Your schedule? He somehow knows it better than you
He acts perfectly composed, of course.
Or… tries to.
Because every time you compliment him, he does that weird “pushes his glasses up and looks away” thing like he’s buffering.
He starts offering you “special discounts” at the Lounge.
Which would be normal… except you’re the only one getting them.
“Oh, it’s just a promotional offer.” :D
Azul, babe, no promotion on earth is ‘for (Y/N) only.’
We let him pretend.
He’s cute when he thinks he’s being smooth.
── ⋆⋅☆ KALIM AL ASIM
Kalim doesn’t hide his affection so much as he thinks he is.
There’s a difference.
A very adorable difference.
At first, it’s the way he lights up whenever you walk into a room.
Not a normal smile. No, no.
A full sunshine-level beam like someone just told him every day is his birthday now.
He tries to act casual, but Kalim’s version of “casual” is… loud.
He’ll excitedly wave you over from across the hall, nearly knocking Jamil over in the process.
“Oh! Come sit with me!” :D
Totally subtle.
He remembers everything you like and immediately turns it into a celebration.
You mentioned once that you enjoy a certain snack? Boom. He orders a whole platter for the dorm.
Said you like a certain color?
Congratulations, he’s wearing it the next day.
“Oh wow, what a coincidence!” :D
Kalim, please.
If someone else tries to monopolize your attention? He doesn’t get jealous, exactly.
He just appears at your side out of thin air with a smile that says, 'I’m here now! Pay attention to me instead!'
He’s like an affectionate teleporting golden retriever.
── ⋆⋅☆ JAMIL VIPER
Jamil actually tries to hide his affection.
Not like Leona “pretend I don’t care” hiding or Kalim’s “I forgot I’m supposed to hide it” hiding.
No. Jamil hides it like it’s a state secret punishable by death.
At first, it shows in how he pays attention to you just a little too closely.
He’ll act like he just happened to notice you skipped lunch…
Right before he slides a plate your way without making eye contact.
“It’s extra. If you don’t want it, throw it out.”
Jamil, this meal has your love language all over it.
But the real giveaways? His reactions.
You make him laugh, genuinely laugh, and he immediately looks away like it was a crime.
Jamil acts like smiling at you too much is going to get him arrested.
If someone else gets too close to you?
Jamil doesn’t get jealous. he gets competitive. Silent, deadly, competitive.
Suddenly, he’s next to you, subtly out-performing whoever dared to take your attention with a smile that is absolutely not a smile.
── ⋆⋅☆ VIL SHOENHEIT
Vil insists he is in complete control of his emotions.
Naturally.
He is elegance. He is poise. He is composure... and he is also so painfully obvious about liking you that even Epel noticed.
EPEL.
At first, it’s the hyper-specific attention.
He’s always correcting your posture, brushing lint off your shoulder, fixing your collar, just small touches he claims are “for presentation.”
Sure, Vil. Totally not an excuse to be close to them at all.
He watches you like a hawk in the most caring way possible.
You skip breakfast? He knows.
You look tired? Suddenly, there’s a vitamin drink in your hands with “drink this” written all over his face.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” he says, sounding only 40% exasperated and 60% concerned.
He pretends it’s all for your health and image, but he is absolutely worrying about you like it’s his full-time job.
He also softens around you without meaning to.
His voice dips, his lectures shorten, and sometimes, just sometimes, he lets out genuine, unfiltered laughs.
Little ones, but still.
Vil Schoenheit letting himself relax in your presence is basically a love confession.
── ⋆⋅☆ IDIA SHROUD
Idia thinks he’s hiding his crush flawlessly. He truly believes he is the stealthiest man alive.
In reality?
Ortho knows.
The ghosts in Ignihyde know.
The vending machines probably know.
At first, it’s tiny things.
Like how he suddenly appears online the exact second you do.
“Oh wow, what a coincidence,” he says, while literally sweating.
Idia, please. He has push notifications on for your login. We know.
He starts sending you memes. Normal. Fine.
Except they’re ALWAYS perfectly tailored to your humour, and he sends them instantly, like he’s been waiting with the link copied to clipboard for hours.
Whenever you come to Ignihyde, his hair flames go from “soft blue” to “neon panic mode” in record time.
He’ll spin in his chair like, “Oh—uh—didn’t hear you come in!” (｡﹏｡")
Sir, you jumped like someone fired a cannon.
He tries to act cool by being “detached.”
You ask him a question, and he’s like, “Yeah, whatever, I guess…”
while literally typing a paragraph of internal screaming in his mental chatbox.
Stop, he's so cute.
── ⋆⋅☆ MALLEUS DRACONIA
Malleus truly believes he is being subtle.
He’s ancient, powerful, dignified.
Surely he can hide a simple crush... He cannot.
Everyone in Diasomnia figured it out before he did.
At first, it’s the way he just appears wherever you are. Completely by “coincidence.”
You go for an evening walk? Boom. There he is, emerging from the mist.
“Ah, Child of Man. Fancy meeting you here.” :)
Malleus, please.
He asks you questions. SO many questions.
Things no normal person would think to ask.
“What brings you joy?” “What colours do you like least?” “Have you dreamed recently?”
He’s collecting lore about you like you’re an ancient artifact he discovered.
He brings you gifts constantly, but pretends they are nothing.
A rare flower that blooms once every century. A hand-carved charm infused with protective magic. A little gem from his hoard.
“I happened upon this and thought you might appreciate it.” Sir. This is a priceless ancient relic.
He lights up when you say his name. Literally. His magic flickers, the air shifts, his smile grows just a bit too fast.
It’s like he’s been waiting centuries just to hear you acknowledge him.
He’s too precious and too hopelessly in love to call out.
The kitchen was never silent when Jamil was in it.
Even now, long past midnight, there was the soft, deliberate sound of a blade against wood. A steady rhythm. Measured. Controlled. The scent of spices hung warm in the air — cardamom, cumin, something darker beneath it — clinging to skin, to fabric, to breath.
Jamil stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hands bare. No gloves. He didn’t need them. He trusted his control too much to fear a slip.
You shouldn’t have been there.
But neither of you said that.
“You’re in the way,” he said calmly, without looking at you.
Not unkind. Not sharp.
Just true.
You didn’t move fast enough.
Jamil sighed — quiet, almost indulgent — and set the knife down with care. He turned then, slow, eyes dark and assessing, taking in where you stood, how close you were to the counter, to him.
“Honestly,” he murmured, stepping closer, “if you’re going to hover, at least do it properly.”
“Since you’re here,” Jamil said without looking up, “you might as well be useful.”
He slid the cutting board across the counter toward you with a practiced flick of his wrist. The ingredients were already laid out with meticulous care — washed, measured, waiting. He handed you the knife next, handle-first, eyes finally lifting to assess you.
“Thin slices,” he added. “Even. Don’t rush.”
You nodded, took the knife.
And immediately proved him right.
Your first cut was uneven. The second worse. The blade caught awkwardly, biting into the board at the wrong angle. The sound alone was enough to make Jamil pause.
He sighed.
Slow. Controlled. The kind of sigh that suggested disappointment, not anger.
“Stop,” he said calmly.
You froze, knife hovering uselessly above the board.
Jamil stepped closer. You didn’t notice at first — only the shift in air, the faint warmth at your back, the way the kitchen suddenly felt smaller. He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t touch.
Yet.
“You’re holding it wrong,” he murmured, voice near your ear now. Too near.
His arms came around you from either side, enclosing your space without actually pulling you back. One hand settled over yours on the knife handle — warm, steady, fingers long and sure. His other hand covered yours where it held the ingredient in place, adjusting your grip with practiced ease.
Skin brushed skin.
Brief. Accidental.
Enough.
“Like this,” Jamil said quietly.
He guided your hands forward, the blade moving smoothly under his direction. Your back brushed his chest as you leaned in, the contact light, intermittent — gone when you stilled, back again when you shifted.
He didn’t correct the distance.
Didn’t pull away.
“Slow,” he instructed, breath warm against the side of your neck. You could feel it with every word, every measured exhale. “Let the knife do the work.”
The next slice was clean.
Then another.
His hands remained over yours, firm but unhurried, guiding rather than forcing. The occasional brush of his knuckles against your skin sent a quiet awareness through you — subtle, insistent.
Jamil noticed.
Of course he did.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, closer now. His chest brushed your back again, this time lingering a fraction longer. “Focus.”
He adjusted your hands once more, fingers tightening just slightly — not to restrain, just to anchor. His breath ghosted over your skin as he leaned in, watching the blade move, the line of your hands, the way your shoulders tensed and softened under his guidance.
“Better,” he said softly.
The knife completed another perfect cut.
He didn’t move away right after.
Didn’t release your hands.
The warmth of him stayed at your back, his arms still framing you, breath steady, controlled — close enough that you could feel it even when he stopped speaking.
And in that quiet pause, before intention fully settled into touch, the kitchen held its breath.
His hand came to your waist — bare skin, no barrier — fingers warm, firm, precise. He moved you not roughly, not gently, but efficiently, sliding you back until your hips brushed the edge of the counter.
There was no space left to pretend this was accidental.
His other hand braced beside you on the stone, close enough that you felt the heat of it. He leaned in, the scent of spice and warmth and him enveloping you, voice lowering as he spoke near your ear.
“Stay,” Jamil said quietly.
It wasn’t a request.
His fingers adjusted at your waist, thumbs pressing in just enough to feel your breath change. He noticed. Of course he did. His grip tightened a fraction — not restraining, just aware.
“You know,” he continued, tone smooth, almost conversational, “most people think control is about force.”
His knuckles brushed your side as he shifted closer, chest nearly touching yours now. The contact was unmistakable — skin to skin, heat to heat — his presence grounding, unavoidable.
“It isn’t.”
His hand slid from your waist to your back, palm flattening between your shoulder blades. The touch was steady, anchoring, guiding you closer without pulling.
“Control,” Jamil murmured, leaning in until his lips were just beside your ear, “is about knowing exactly how much pressure to apply.”
His breath was warm there. Lingering. Intent.
You felt his fingers trace the line of your spine — slow, deliberate — as if counting vertebrae, as if memorizing where you would soften, where you would tense. His touch never rushed. Never wandered without purpose.
Then he turned you.
Not abruptly. Not roughly.
He guided you so your back faced him, hands settling at your hips, drawing you back until you felt the solid line of his body behind you. His chest pressed lightly to your back, his head dipping close, hair brushing your shoulder.
The kitchen felt smaller.
His hand came to rest over your abdomen, palm warm, fingers splayed, holding you there. The other brushed your arm, skin against skin, a fleeting, intimate contact that sent a quiet awareness through you.
“Look at you,” Jamil murmured, almost to himself. “Standing in my kitchen like this.”
There was no mockery in it. No cruelty.
Just acknowledgment.
His chin hovered near your shoulder. His lips brushed the skin there — not a kiss, just the suggestion of one — enough to make your breath hitch.
He felt it immediately.
His fingers tightened once, grounding, then stilled.
“Careful,” he said softly. “You’ll make me lose track of what I’m doing.”
A lie.
Jamil never lost track.
His hand slid up, slow, deliberate, until it rested over your chest — not possessive, not urgent — feeling the rhythm beneath his palm. He stayed there, breathing steady, listening with touch.
Your heartbeat quickened.
His thumb shifted, almost absentmindedly, tracing a small arc as if calming it.
“Still,” he murmured, close enough that his words warmed your skin. “I suppose that’s my fault.”
He leaned in further, forehead resting briefly against your shoulder, breath even, controlled — the picture of restraint pressed against quiet want.
Then he pulled back just enough to turn your head.
His fingers under your chin, gentle but unyielding, guiding you to face him. His eyes were dark, intent, unreadable in that way that always meant he was thinking three steps ahead.
His lips brushed yours.
Not a kiss.
A test.
He lingered there, close enough that the next breath would close the distance entirely — then stopped. His thumb traced once along your jaw, slow, deliberate.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Jamil said quietly. “This doesn’t mean I’m losing control.”
His mouth hovered near yours, breath shared, the air between you heavy with everything unsaid.
“It means,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “I’m choosing exactly where to place it.”
The kitchen clock ticked softly somewhere behind you.
The spices cooled on the counter.
Jamil’s hand stayed at your waist. His thumb stayed warm against your skin.
And the moment stretched — taut, deliberate, perfectly balanced — waiting for the slightest shift that would tip it into something neither of you had named…
☆彡 in which professor crewel judges your relationship with the NRC boys
nrc boys x reader (minus ortho)
word counter: 4.8K (200+ per character)
tags: reader is prefect, crewel is your father figure, established relationship, possible ooc
a/n: oh this was by far my most requested work. people wanted father crewel!! i held off on writing this for a while because i felt like i had such a weak grasp on his character. i did my research for this but sorry if my interpretation is off. nonetheless, I hope you enjoy :>
ace trappola
Very against this. It's just one bad influence after another with you, isn't it? First Grim, now this guy. You attract the absolute worst pups, don’t you? You’re lucky you’re his favorite. That’s not stopping Crewel from being crazy strict with both of you though. Expect to get seated across the classroom from your boyfriend. There are plenty of well-behaved puppies in the litter, why are you settling for one who barely knows how to sit? Ace and Crewel are NOT getting along. It’ll take Ace trying to improve himself (i.e. not getting in as much trouble) for Crewel to start being more accepting of him as your boyfriend. If he sees Ace attempting to be a better student, he's more than happy to start extending some grace. He isn’t that cruel… And then Crewel finds out that Ace cheated on a few tests and he’ll get detention for weeks. In detention Crewel is going to make him write a 12 page essay about his bad behavior; standing over his shoulder the whole time as Ace writes this. He'll crack his whip against the boy’s desk if he slows down while writing… Yeah. So much for not being cruel. These two are going to be bickering CONSTANTLY. With time, they’ll mellow out and their arguments will get more playful. (i’m imagining it like Meemaw and George from Young Sheldon) But don't expect him to stop punishing him. It's what bad pups get after all.
deuce spade
Believes you two are adorable together! You two puppies can bounce off and learn from each other. He’ll push Deuce to follow your example, especially if your grades are better than his. He is an educator above all else and takes his position very seriously. Though, as your self-proclaimed father figure, he will be watching Deuce closely. Yes, the pup is good intentioned. But he also has a tendency to get in trouble and still has a long road ahead of him. Crewel will be getting more strict with Deuce, but it isn't as strict as he is with Ace. He's more willing to let some of Deuce's mistakes slide because he sees that he genuinely wants to be better. But those mistakes are in terms of academics. If he makes mistakes in your relationship? Oh that pup is getting whooped. No questions asked. Crewel will not tolerate him hurting you and he has made that very, very clear to Deuce who accidentally got a closer look at the professor's whip. It's not that he thinks that Deuce will hurt you. He's just making sure. He sees it akin to putting a leash on a puppy as they play to make sure they don't get rowdy with the other dogs. Deuce is simply being kept in check by him. Perhaps under Crewel's watchful eye, he will shape up to be the perfect pup for you! He believes Deuce has the potential. It's just a matter of unlocking it.
cater diamond
He's fond of the boy. Makes sure Cater doesn't get away with using his phone in class. He'd hate for any bad influences to start coming your way, so he'll ensure that Cater is following the rules to the tee. He isn't afraid to take away or even break Cater's phone if the time calls for it. Crewel's actually been wanting to get to know Cater more since he's heard about his Magicam. The professor is acutely aware of the latest trends and what not but firmly believes that vintage looks just hit different. So, with Cater now being your boyfriend, he'll be more likely to come up to Cater and recommend him fashion brands that most young people probably wouldn't know about. He's going to start buying you two matching couple outfits, enjoying seeing both of you represent older luxury brands. In exchange, Cater will usually talk to Crewel about celebrity gossip or whatever's trending. This will all be heavily scrutinized by Crewel, but the professor just can't stop listening to what new gossip Cater has. He's open to hearing about student gossip too. Crewel is always open to learning more about his adorable pups and makes sure they aren't misbehaving. Cater becomes his news outlet of sorts. Honestly, Crewel is probably talking to your boyfriend more than you. You're still his favorite of course, he's as loyal as a German Shepherd. Cater is his just new gossip buddy.
trey clover
A fine choice, albeit boring in his opinion. Crewel enjoys a little flare, obviously. His curiosity will grow as to how your relationship happened and why you'd want to be with Trey. His attention will be on Trey more often. And being the astute teacher he is, he'll start to notice more and more... interesting comments that Trey lets slip. Crewel will definitely find out about that side of Trey which... he doesn't know how to feel about it. On one hand; flare! Yay! Now he understands his favorite little pup's relationship better. On the other... Trey is a rather bizarre man is he not? He thinks to himself; how did he ever think that Trey was a normal student? NRC has none of those, much to the teacher's dismay. He appreciates Trey's efforts to win him over though; leaving him little treats. It's like watching a dog bring back a bone, waiting for validation. He'll give it to the boy with due time. Though, Crewel would rather see him treat you nicely as opposed to Trey giving him gifts. He's obviously a well-trained pup, especially given his position as the vice-housewarden of Heartsbyul. Though, Crewel is hesitant to say any boy is worth your attention, he doesn't mind Trey and his tendency of spoiling you. It's what you deserve. Crewel really doesn't have any reservations about your relationship. He just has his suspicions on Trey as a person. Especially if you tell him about the teeth thing. Please don't tell him about the teeth thing.
riddle rosehearts
He appreciates you going for an obedient pup. Crewel hopes Riddle will push you to be more responsible, officially assigning him as your partner in all the classes you have together. The professor also asks him to be your tutor after seeing how well you work together. Academically speaking, Crewel believes Riddle is a good pup. However, he wants to make sure you're being treated like royalty in your relationship and isn't afraid to make vague threats to scare the boy a little. He'll say things around Riddle like, "Hm. It's been quite a while since you and the Prefect have gone on a date, hasn't it?" While not so subtly cracking his whip. Fear is one of the best motivators and best believe Riddle instantly took you on a date after that incident. They have mutual respect for one another as they're both sticklers for the rules. Riddle is just a bit... intimidated at times by his professor. But it's all smooth sailing. Crewel just reminds Riddle of the consequences of treating you poorly. A lot. The housewarden is unnerved but uses it as an opportunity to better himself, earning some brownie points in Crewels book. He's always had a soft spot for obedient puppies.
jack howl
Crewel's intensity really gets to him sometimes. He knows it's bad but whenever Crewel's around Jack starts to overthink. "Why is he looking at me like that... What if I did something wrong? What punishment will I have to face?" In reality, Crewel likes Jack. He thinks you picked the cutest little pup ever. Partly because Jack is a wolf beastman with dog-like features. But Crewel also recognizes Jack's grit. He's actually quite charitable when it comes to complimenting him. During class, Crewel will correct and check up on Jack quite a lot. The beastman takes this as his Crewel not thinking he's good enough for you. But in reality it's quite the opposite. Crewel just genuinely enjoys teaching things to Jack. He approves of the relationship, believing you've chosen a well-rounded dog. Strong, reliable, a rule-follower— it appears you've finally gained a good companion. However, as time goes by, Jack can't stand the thought of Crewel not thinking he's well suited for you. Soon enough, he goes to the teacher and spills his guts, saying that he knows he's not perfect but he's trying really hard to be the man you need. Crewel laughs, patting him on the head. "Oh, you silly little pup. You already have my approval." Jack is shocked to hear this, but it does make him happy to hear. All the more reason to be devoted to you in Jack's mind.
ruggie bucchi
He's not fond of troublemakers— a well known fact. So, Ruggie tries to be more subtle with his mischief once he finds out that Crewel's protective over you. As much as he'd like to stick it to the man, Ruggie quite enjoys his life and would rather not play with fire. But Crewel catches on. He always does. And oh boy, he finds Ruggie's under the table misbehavior to be anything but tasteful. His whip is going to be put to good use. Ruggie gets mortified and starts skipping class, making the whole situation worse. You're probably going to have to be the middleman for these two and make sure nothing goes overboard. Needless to say, Crewel is not fond of Ruggie. However, the teacher respects his work ethic. That boy is always on the job, looking to get extra cash. There's potential in Ruggie and Crewel is going to find it. Meaning that he's going to bug you for more information about your boyfriend before pulling him aside and having a genuine talk with the pup. After the talk, they seem on good terms, with Crewel even complimenting Ruggie from time to time! Yay! Little do you know that he's constantly threatening your boyfriend with the whip.
leona kingscholar
He hardly sees the appeal of a lazy cat who sleeps his days away. Leona is hardly in class so Crewel can't even punish him. He'll have a stern talking with you, telling you not to settle for anything you don't deserve. Once you explain that, "Oh no, Leona treats me very well." and maybe throwing in a, "He lets me use his credit card." for good measure, Crewel will be more open to the idea of you two dating. He could always sense that Leona had that side to him, but he absolutely despises his laziness. He'll try to get you to convince the beastman to come to class more often. Crewel starts threatening to punish you if your boyfriend continues to skip. After all, your boyfriend is an extension of you. And if you're boyfriends being a bad pup, then you are too. So basically you're begging Leona to start to come to class again because Crewel does not play when it comes to punishments. Crewel is not holding back any punishments once Leona starts attending classes more. It's extremely frustrating for Crewel— seeing untapped potential in Leona. He doesn't tolerate this pups behavior, but he genuinely wants to see him be better and decides to talk to him after class. Leona is surprised when Crewel isn't being too preachy and instead talks about how he wants to make sure you're being treated right. It kinda pisses the beastman off that his professor thinks he'd ever treat you wrong in the first place, but it does give him some newfound motivation. The two eventually grow to have a mutual respect relationship on the basis that they both want you to be happy. Though, Crewel still thinks dogs are better than cats. And frankly, this extends to your boyfriend. Sorry not sorry.
floyd leech
What spell does this leech have you under!? In what world would he EVER let you date this monster of a man!? This love is forbidden! Crewel will go full Romeo and Juliet style when restricting you two because he is NOT letting you date Floyd! Nope! Not if he has a say in it! Going on a date tonight? Too bad, he's assigning both of you extra homework that must be completed ON YOUR OWN. Floyd dislikes him right back, always complaining to you how Crewel's no fun. Floyd is one of the biggest troublemakers on campus, right next to Grim. Arguably worst. Floyd is going to get really upset about Crewel's attitude about it and, to your horror, he confronts the professor about it shamelessly. RIP your boyfriend. That poor guy is NOT making it out alive. If you make the mistake of asking Crewel why he doesn't like Floyd, oh that man will go on a tangent. He will be talking for HOURS. I don't see this relationship improving either. Floyd has no intention of changing ever; very content with how he is. If anything, he's making it worse by talking back and throwing tantrums. And it's probably going to be your job to calm him down because Azul and Jade do not wanna deal with allat. Have fun!
jade leech
Unsettled to say the least. He swears up and down that the pup is plotting something. Unfortunately Sam tells him he's overthinking it. He will be sitting you two away from each other... A part of Crewel genuinely wants to get to know him and how this relationship flourished. A louder part of Crewel wants to get you the hell away from this pup because he's scheming SOMETHING he can sense it. All their interactions are going to be the most tense thing ever. Like, both of them are going to be staring at one another with the most strained smiles in the universe. As Jade passes by Crewel's desk with his up-to-no-good smile, I can picture him saying, "Is something the matter, professor?" And then Crewel hitting him back with an equally as devious grin. "Nothing that concerns you, my pup." And then they'll proceed to have a staring contest until you inevitably drag your boyfriend away. Hey, at least Crewel is outright disapproving or hostile to your boyfriend? But he does give you several warnings to watch Jade closely. Because no one should like mushrooms that much. It's suspicious. Crewel is definitely paranoid and probably has a bunch of conspiracy theories on Jade but he never really disapproves of the relationship. A win is a win?
azul ashengrotto
As mean as this sounds, Crewel can sense his insecurity. He's just learned how to pick up on those kind of things after being a teacher. And Azul reeks of hidden insecurity to the professor. He doesn't go any easier on him— he'd be damned if he let any of his puppies step out of line. But he's much more open to be complimentary, especially since you're dating Azul. He'll encourage Azul to spend more time with him after class for studies in order to give him pep talks. If Azul was good enough to catch your eye, then Crewel assures him that he doesn't need to put on this whole 'business' facade to win anyones favor. Azul is definitely stunned to receive this kind of talk from his teacher, but decides to take his advice to heart because he really does love you. Crewel doesn't tell you any of this. Whenever you talk about your boyfriend he kinda just nods along and goes, "That's nice, honey." But in actuality, he smiles to himself after hearing that Azul's been coming out of his shell more. Or— in his case pot. He's no love expert, but he goes soft when he hears that his students are genuinely improving.
kalim al asim
Okay. Get that money. Crewel respects the grind; going for the richest kid on campus. But he isn't a fan of how reliant Kalim is on Jamil in terms of academics. And now that he knows that Kalim is your partner, he'll be harsher on the boy. Crewel doesn't want you hanging out with non-scholars! You deserve a very intelligent boyfriend who can at least get a B average. So he pushes to see Kalim more after class without his attendant, claiming that he needs to learn how to be independent. Kalim obviously struggles with this a bit due to his upbringing, but is willing to take the challenge! Especially if it's to win the respect of your father-like figure! He's really sweet and does try hard... but it doesn't garner much results much to Crewel's dismay. Nonetheless, Kalim does in fact show the grit that was needed in order for Crewel to approve of your relationship. Though, he does insists that Kalim continues to come after class on his own. Maybe you could tag along and help him. Because somethings that boy just doesn't get, no matter how hard Crewel tries. The professor can't help but smile when he sees how lovesick Kalim is over you. He'll watch from afar as you two puppies hug each other in the halls. If you accidentally make eye contact with him, Crewel will give you a small, approving nod.
jamil viper
Crewel has had his eye on Jamil before the two of you started dating. He could tell that the pup held himself back. For what reason, Crewel couldn't say but once he heard the news about you two, he definitely used it as an excuse to get to know Jamil more. He'll watch how Jamil acts around you, the way he relaxes and becomes more snarky. Crewel finds himself liking this version of Jamil more than the quiet, blend in the crowd guy that he presents himself as to the professor. So, Crewel decides to force him out of it. He'll push him, purposely grading his papers harder so that he'll have to put in more effort. Crewel knows that Jamil is capable of 'A' papers despite only turning in 'C' level work. His solution? He makes it so that, in order to get a 'C', Jamil has to turn in 'A' level work. Call it unfair, but it works. Jamil does get frustrated and rants about it to you. As hard as he tries to bite his tongue, he'll eventually let something slip on accident to Crewel. Now, Crewel hates disrespect. But he knows he purposely pushed the pup to see this side— the true side. He'll tell Jamil that being fake doesn't suit him. So, Jamil drops the act. He isn't stupid, Crewel is basically your father and he isn't trying to get on any of your family's (blood related or not) bad side. And it turns out to be for the better as they actually develop a nice bond with Jamil being more himself. Some puppies just need to be pushed out of their crate.
epel felmier
Crewel is happy to hear you're dating a Pomfiore student! He'd like his son-in-law to be fashionable. Then he hears that it's Epel and he's mildly disappointed. Listen, he genuinely cares for his students so he pays attention. And he's heard Epel slip out his native tongue underneath his breath. He's seen the boy rough play with Ace and Deuce. He knows that this pup is different from the other Pomfiore students. That's why he also gets frustrated when Epel tries to maintain this fake act with Crewel. "Good pups don't play pretend when it isn't asked of them. Drop this act. That's an order." This, naturally, freaks Epel out a bit. The country boy is a bit ashamed to be himself around Crewel since he really wanted to appease him due to your father-like bond with him. But he isn't going to disobey— Epel has seen Crewel's punishments, he's not taking his chances. Although Crewel isn't the biggest fan of Epel's southern charm, he appreciates the pup being his real self around him. Is he good enough to date you? Not in Crewel's book, no. But he'll allow it. Epel knows what the punishments are if he breaks your heart anyways.
rook hunt
What compelled you to want to date this man? Crewel doesn't understand your taste. Rook starts leaving clothing and jewelry from luxury brands that Crewel loves on his desk. The professor has very mixed feelings about this. 1. How did Rook find out what brands he's partial to? Should he be concerned about this? Because he's getting concerned. 2. Crewel doesn't like the idea of being bought over. No matter how much he enjoys the gifts. Because he wants your love to be genuine. Crewel wants to see proof that Rook is treating you right, not another luxurious coat that he'll definitely be wearing later down the line. He takes the fact that Rook thinks he can be bought over as an insult and pulls him aside after class, giving the pup a stern talking to. "Non non! I simply gifted it because it reminded me of you, professor! These have nothing to do with my devotion toward the Prefect." Crewel smells bs and does NOT tolerate that. He'll punish Rook by having him clean the alchemy tools after the freshman class since that class was notorious for leaving behind a mess. Rook knew what he was doing. His hand holds yours tighter and he smiles as you two pass by Crewel, with Rook catching a glimpse of the professor wearing one of the necklaces Rook gifted him. You just sigh because there's no way of controlling this man. His audacity knows no bounds.
vil schoenheit
Oh, Crewel is living for this. Vil might just be the one student he fully approves of, 100%. You dating one of the top alchemy students who is also an actor and model with the best sense of fashion in the entire school? Now that's a good puppy! Crewel almost wants to buy both of you treats with how over the moon he is. Vil, ever so charming, easily woos Crewel over by showing him how caring and compassionate he is towards you while also maintaining good grades and fixing your clothes. The professor smiles wide as he asks you, "How's your boyfriend doing?" And he listens happily as you tell him about the super romantic date that Vil took you on. Vil also seeks Crewel out for opinions on different outfits he plans on wearing to his modeling shoots. Crewel is more than happy to give his two cents. All the alchemy students have Vil to thank for the professor being in such a good, less snappy mood. He's not any less strict on them, but he compliments their work much more as he thrills over the fact that his little puppy is dating the perfect student. There's nothing more pure than puppy love, and he sees it written on Vil's face whenever he's around you.
idia shroud
You're dating the recluse? Now how did that happen? Crewel rarely sees Idia so he hasn't exactly seen how the two of you interact. He urges and bugs you to get your boyfriend to show up to his class. Cause Crewel only has a faint idea of what he's like. And once he does get familiar with Idia... Oh... Oh, puppy, why? Why him? Not exactly the type Crewel would've gone for at all. He'll definitely have to punish Idia a few times. Partly because of his horrendous attendance. Partly because he's heard him say a few sly comments under his breath. But mainly so he'll know the consequences of hurting you. Idia is beyond TERRIFIED of this man. Why does he keep calling him a 'pup'?! WHY DOES HE HAVE A WHIP?! And his fears are justified when Crewel punishes him. Idia will let out a loud sigh as he snuggles against you. "Out of all the staff members to be your fatherly figure... Did it have to be him?" Which is pretty funny because you're pretty sure you've heard Crewel complain, "Out of all the students... you chose him?" Looks like they've got some similarities. Just don't expect Idia to be striking up conversation with Crewel ever. Same goes with Crewel. They just pretend that the other doesn't exist and move on with their days.
sebek zigvolt
Oh, Crewel knows who Sebek is. That pup has a lot to learn. Especially when it comes to controlling his volume. Crewel uses the fact that you're dating him to teach him a lesson. "If you yell a single time in my class again this week, I will have your relationship with the Prefect ended. That is a guarantee." It's not a guarantee since Crewel knows he can't really control you, but he says it to keep Sebek in check. And it works. Nobody knew he could stay that silent for that long. Crewel was pleased with the progress, giving him a pat on the head with a small, "Good pup!" Oh, and Crewel is especially satisfied when Trein comes to complain to him that Sebek's been extremely loud in his class as of late. Crewel shrugs, claiming that he's been nothing but the most obedient dog in his class. "Maybe it's a teaching problem regarding you?" Trein wanted to strangle him when he said that. Crewel found it extremely amusing. The professor honestly thanks you for dating Sebek because this is the most fun he's had in a while. You're just glad that Sebek got Crewel's mark of approval. Because you know he would've been crushed if he didn't.
silver
He isn't a fan of the boy who's always sleeping. Crewel becomes even harsher when he hears the two of you are dating. It's hard for Silver so eventually the student comes to him explaining his condition. The professor is much more understanding after that. He actually tries really hard to help Silver, probably dragging you along as well. He'll have you stay after class for some parent-kid (blood related or not, you are literally his child) bonding while making a potion. Crewel will make dozens of potions, giving each one to you so you can pass it along to your boyfriend. None of them really make his condition go away fully of course, but it definitely helps as he's able to stay awake in class. Silver is extremely thankful for the help from Crewel, making it a point to express his gratitude nearly every time he sees him. With Silver awake more often, Crewel's able to witness the knightly way in which he treats you. Spoiler alert; he loves it. Yes! Live out your fairytale dreams, puppy! Crewel's convinced that Silver was a medieval knight in a previous life. He also offhandedly mentions that Silver should start modeling because that pup is GORGEOUS. (I'm biased because have you seen his eyes!?)
lilia vanrouge
Sure. He's cute.... Wait he's how old? Crewel is NOT approving when he finds out that Lilia is probably older than him. It's funny because Crewel starts to talk to Lilia more like he's a staff member than a student. And Lilia happily goes along with it. It's such a switch when he talks to you and then your boyfriend. "Hello, pup. I'm glad to hear you had a good day. How's your alchemy project coming along?... Oh, Lilia. How's the mortgage." "Quite well, professor. How's the wife? Wait, sorry, I forgot— you don't have one." Yeah, he hates your boyfriend actually. May or may not attempt to set you up with someone else. Only for the person that Crewel sets you up with to be Lilia catfishing as someone else. "Khee hee~ The internet these days is crazy, isn't it?" If you look closely you could probably see steam coming out from Crewel's head. The professor will make it a point to constantly tell you that your boyfriend is the worst. He doesn't even consider him a pup in the litter. He's a rodent who somehow snuck into the box. A rodent that you adopted much to Crewel's dismay.
malleus draconia
Since it was well known that Crewel was your father like figure, Malleus actually made it a point to go to him and declare his love for you. It kinda catches the professor off guard. One minute he's just grading papers. The next some fae pup busts through the door and starts spouting Shakespeare style how much he loves Crewel's unofficial adopted child. Crewel is left speechless by the time Malleus done, barely even registering all that he just spouted. "... You have my approval?" Heavy on the question mark. Crewel might've had no idea what Malleus said, but if he willingly went on a 30 or so minute tangent about how much he loved you— he probably loves you a lot. And Crewel doesn't regret it as he watches the two of you bond like you're in your own little world. He'll start being more open about approaching Malleus, suggesting small tweaks to Diasomnia's dorm uniforms. Your boyfriend agrees with the biggest smile and implants the suggestion right away, loving the fact that he has the favor of your father figure. Crewel likes to watch the two of you from a far and muses how the most unlikely creatures from completely different worlds can still fall deep into puppy love. The universe works in funny ways, doesn't it?
Soft side
Synopsis: A rare morning of warmth in the heart of a northern winter, where a war-hardened jarl softens only for the woman he calls home.
CW: SFW (Teen+), married intimacy (non-graphic), breast worship, nudity (non-explicit), light sensuality, comedic embarrassment, Norse domestic life, mentions of war, troop movements, raids, winter survival, and mild strong language.
Word Count: 3,458
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction and does not reflect the official story or characters of Vinland Saga. The story contains material that may be upsetting for some readers, such as non-graphic depictions of intimacy/nudity, but is intended for mature audiences only.
Snow whispered against the thatch all night, and by dawn the storm had gentled into a steady white fall. Thin winter light slipped through the smoke-hole overhead, brushing over the tangle of furs wrapped around your legs. The fire had burned down to ruby embers, the only sounds the soft pop of the hearth and the deep, steady breath of the man sleeping beside you.
Outside, the wind clawed at the timber walls, making the beams creak. But under the layered pelts, the cold couldn't reach you—except for the faint fog of his breath mingling with the smoke curling up toward the rafters, where dried herbs hung in brittle braids.
You drifted in and out of sleep—too tired to rise, too comfortable to care—until the pelts dipped. He moved carefully, too carefully, which only made his weight shift clumsy in its restraint. A callused forge-hot hand slid over your hip, up your side.
Not rough.
Not demanding.
Just… careful.
His thumb brushed your cheekbone. A low, groggy rumble vibrated against your ear. He smelled of salt, earth, iron, and smoke —the smell you’d fallen asleep wrapped in countless nights before.
You smiled without meaning to.
His lips touched yours—soft, cautious. Nothing like the blood-spattered giant who returned from war grinning wide enough to split his face.
You murmured something half-asleep.
He answers with a pleased sound deep in his chest—not quite words, not quite laughter.
“Mhm…” you breathed, eyes half-slit.
Another kiss—lazy, testing, like he was making sure you were real.
"Mmnh… what are you doing?" you muttered, squinting up at him.
A quiet laugh ghosted against your mouth. “Wakin’ you,”
“Been too long since I’ve seen those pretty eyes.”
You pushed weakly at his chest—warn skin over iron-hard muscle, forged by years of slogging through mud, cleaving men in half, enduring seas and winters that killed lesser men. But against you, he was simply warm. Alive. Yours.
“Mm… cut it out.”
He ignored that, naturally.
The furs rustled.
"One more," he murmured, pressing a long kiss to your cheek—slow, starved, softened by months of hunger.
He’d been gone longer than expected. And somewhere on some frozen battlefield— between storms, skirmishes, and a hotheaded earl testing him— the brute had started missing you more than he cared to admit.
Right now, stripped of war, his needs were simple: hold you. Breathe you in. Let the world stop spinning.
–
You turned away, rolling onto your side with a sigh. Exhausted, pleasantly sore, unwilling to move for anything short of the roof collapsing. The “welcome home” last night had wrung you dry—only a man like Thorkell could overwhelm you completely without meaning to.
Sleep tugged at you again.
Until the furs shifted—
A massive arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you back into him, your spine pressed to his chest like he’d reclaimed what was his.
It was enough to stir you awake, though your limbs still felt weighted by sleep.
you sighed, not bothering to push him off this time.
"Shh." His breath warmed the back of your neck. “Missed this.”
"Mmhn You were supposed to rest. You just got back." you groan.
"Aye. And the welcome was sooo good," he drawled, smirking against your temple. “Sleep can wait.”
He brushed your hair aside and kissed the nape of your neck. Then your shoulder. Then lower—mapping you like a coastline he’d been away from for too long
His beard scraped down your skin — scruffy but plesant— it sent a shiver down your spine. “Stop that,” you muttered, even as your body betrayed you, leaning into him.
“No.” His voice dropped to a lazy growl. “Been months. Let me have this.”
He tugged at the collar of your tunic—his tunic, of course —it hung loose and enormous—exposing you to his mouth. His teeth grazed your skin lightly — not biting, just enough to raise goosebumps.
“Thorkell…” you huff under your breath, and buried your face into the thick wolf-pelt.
A pleased chuckle vibrated through his chest. His hand slid beneath the fabric, warm palm resting on your stomach, then down to your hips, rubbing slow circles with aching patience.
He felt enormous beside you. Too large for the bed, too large for the room. The warmth blooming under your skin betrayed you.
"You smell like me,” he murmured, smug as a cat despite nuzzling into your neck.
“You’re an idiot,” you muttered chest tight, drifting between irritation and sleep.
He snorted, delighted—a quiet, breathy laugh, instead of his usual booming bark. “Don’t be mean. I brought you gifts.”
“Is one of them peace and quiet?”
“No.” He said in mock offence, you could practically feel him grinning against your skin,
“You know better.” He pinched at your waist.
He always did that when you mouthed off—acted as if your annoyance was some private treasure.
His hands wandered again—slow, reverent, starved—until his palms cupped the underside of your breasts. You jolted.
“You’re impossible.” you groan into the furs, voice tired and weak.
Another chuckle — soft as snow, almost boyish.
“Mm,” He kissed your shoulder. “Can’t help it,” he sighed through kisses trailing up your neck, behind your ear, then tucked you beneath his chin. “Missed all of you.”
"And you missed me too," he added, smug.
You huffed—but smiled. He knew you too well.
Wrapped in furs and him, his chest warm against your back, his arms locked around you like he wasn’t letting go until midday—you felt comfortable and safe. Thorkell, for once, seemed content with the quiet… and the drowsy kisses he pressed to your forehead as the two of you drifted in and out of half-sleep.
–
A cold draft sliced through the longhouse. You shivered and tried to pull the furs tighter—only to find you couldn’t move.
A massive arm tightened around you, locking you to his chest.
"Mmnn—no," you strained.
He dragged you closer, grumbling sleep-thick words into your neck.
"Mmph… you’re not goin’ anywhere."
You blinked up at him groggily. “Thorkell… the fire’s out. I’m freezing.”
His answer was a low, barely-awake.
“So get closer.”
You snorted. “I can’t. You’re already—”
He buried his face in your neck, beard rasping warm against your throat, breath hot on your shoulder.
"Warm enough now?" he murmured, nudging your skin with his lips. “Jus’ stay.”
“Thorkell…” you whispered, trying to sound irritated, but your voice came out softer.
You could feel him smile against your skin, the upward curve of his mouth ghosting along your throat. “Mm. Love it when you say my name like that.”
His hand spread over your stomach, pulling you deeper into him. The winter wind growled outside; ice shifted on the fjord.
"I need to get up—"
"Nope."
He rolled, effortlessly pinning you beneath him. Cold air hit your skin—then vanished under his heat. He peppered your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder with kisses, beard scraping in delicious, infuriating patterns.
Your breath caught blinking up at him. In the faint morning light, his hair was a wild golden mess, bandana lost somewhere among the discarded clothes. His beard darker from months at war, face tired, unshaven—yet his amber eyes… gods were they soft.
Filled with love. All for you.
He cupped your chin, eyes flicking between your mouth and eyes.
You swallowed. He wasn’t starved for food or warmth—he was starved for you.
A draft swept the room. You shivered.
He noticed instantly.
"Alright, alright—c’mere."
Before your mind could catch up, he’d scooped you up in one effortless motion—furs and all—lifting you clean off the bed. You yelp, arms flying around his shoulders.
“Thorkell!”
“Cold little thing,” he teased, walking naked across the room, utterly unfazed by the chill. “Should’ve woken me sooner.”
He crouched by the hearth breath steamed in the air, lowering you and the bundled furs to sit in front of the fireplace.
The cold stone beneath threatened to steal the warmth from your bones—but before it could, he was crouched at the ashes, muscles shifting beneath scarred nude skin, focused on coaxing life back to the embers. The flame catches and blooms, golden light pours across the room—revealing the two of you half-wrapped in the thick pelt, your skin marked from last night.
Thorkell settled beside you leaning back on his elbows, hair falling forward in a disheveled golden spill, a small tired smile pulling at his mouth.
“Better?”
You met his eyes. “Much.”
He lay back stretched out on the furs, patting the space on his chest.
“C’mere.”
You crawled into him; his arms locked around you. The new fire warmed one side; he warmed the other. Burying his nose into your hair.
“Mmm, really you smell too good,” he hums into your scalp. “Can’t get enough.”
You elbow him lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You say that, yet you’re the one stealin’ all my shirts.” He sighs, arms flexing around your waist, sliding down over your hips. “And my bed. And my furs.”
“What choice do I have? You were gone long,” you whisper bashfully.
He softened. “Aye.” He brushed hair from your face. “Next time, I’m bringin’ you with me. Stuff you in my pack.” He kissed your forehead.
You chuckled, “I’d slow you down.”
“Worth it.”
–
The quiet that followed was domestic. Fire popping. Snow pattering on the roof. Your fingers tracing idle shapes on his chest as he watched with half-lidded contentment.
His hand rubbing slow circles on your back.
His beard brushed your cheek—lazy, claiming. Then he kissed you—slow, and starved.
You moved without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest, swinging a leg over his hips. He let out a helpless, guttural sound as you settled onto him.
“Nnh. Gods, yes, I missed this too.”
His lips found yours again.
You rocked your hips; his breath hitched. Hands roaming up your thighs, your waist, your ribs—gentle but greedy.
“You’re trouble,” he chuckled against your mouth. “And I was trying to let you rest.”
“You weren’t trying very hard,” you gruff against his mouth.
That earns a low pleased laugh. Your lips lock again, this time with more heat. He meets you halfway, mouth warm, impatient. Hands guiding your hips back and forth. He groaned, head falling back, propping his neck against his forearm as you lean over him.
He grunts, gaze dropping straight to your bare chest, zero shame or hesitation.
His hand trailed up your body, large rough fingers caressing the underswell of your breast.
Then he leans forward, his mouth trailed down your neck, beard burning in a way that makes your breath stutter. He mouthed along your breasts—sucking a nipple into his mouth— making you gasp, hips stuttering.
“Thorkell!” you moan nearly losing your balance.
He looked up with a wicked grin, pupils blown wide. And hums against your skin, tongue teasing slow flicks against the bud that make you mewl despite yourself.
This man lives to be a tease.
“You,” you breathe, mewls turn to gasps as you grab a fistfull of hair, “are way too good at that.”
He grins against you, “Mhm.” dragging his mouth lower, teeth grazing your sternum before his lips trailed along your ribs.
“Mmh—don’t be smug,” You whined, shuddering as you place your palm flat over his mouth.
He bit your fingers lightly, heat flaring beneath his half lidded eyes.
Then hauled you into a filthy kiss—deep, slow, tongue sliding against yours as you ground down.
He groaned, fingers digging into your thighs—
—And then the door slammed open.
“Jarl Thorkell—!”
Your heads whipped up to the door, back facing it, he turned to look over his shoulder.
Asgeir barged in with another man at his side and three servant women carrying trays of warm food, a basin of water, and a bundle of fresh sheets.
All of them froze..
You’re straddling him. Naked.
He’s naked.
The fire crackling merrily beside you.
There’s a heartbeat of absolute, horrified silence.
Then—
“For the love of—” Asgeir spluttered. “Commander, can you not greet the morning indecently for once?!”
The other warrior turned away, coughing hard into his fist.
The servant women squeaked, staring at their full hands, ceiling, the floor—anywhere but at the two of you.
Thorkell just groaned and buried his face in your neck.
Then grinned.
“So close,” he murmured into your ear.
You slapped his arm, mortified.
He only grinned wider.
–
Asgeir cleared his throat.
Thorkell rolled his eyes. “Terrible timing.”
“Terrible?! It’s practically midday!” Asgeir snapped. “We need to speak of the king’s summons, the troop movements, the— just put some godsdamned clothes on!”
Thorkell sighed dramatically, sat up on one arm, and pulled you in for a slow, deep kiss—long enough to make Asgeir groan in exasperation.
You broke away breathless, cheeks hot. A wicked glint flashed in Thorkell’s eyes.
Then he rose, lifting you off his lap effortlessly and settling you back down onto your knees by the fire.
–
Completely unashamed, he sauntered across the room toward his clothes. The servants rushed past him faces burning; the warriors grumbled. Thorkell only laughed, stretching like a waking bear.
“What? It’s my house.”
One woman set the basin over the hearth; the others wrapped a heavy fur around your shoulders.
“Come, my lady,” one whispered, ushering you behind the wooden partition. “Before the jarl decides he’d rather chase you back onto the floor.”
Your cheeks flamed as they pulled you away. Thorkell chuckled.
The moment you were behind the carved screen, the women erupted into flustered whispers like a pot boiling over.
“Oh, my lady—Ullr take me, you must be freezing—”
“Sit, sit, lets get you warm—”
“He didn’t even let you dress—gods, men returning from war forget their manners entirely—”
Despite the chaos, their hands were gentle.
The carved chest at the foot of the bed creaked open. You heard thick garments unfold—an ankle-length chemise, a wool overdress, a winter cloak.
Another woman fetched the warm basin from the hearth.
You sat on a wool-cushioned stool, letting them fuss over you. Their voices softened. Steam rose as one poured the fresh hot water in a bowl, pressing a warm, damp cloth to your shoulders, trailing down your back, chasing out the chill that had sunk into your bones.
“There,” she murmured. “We’ll get you presentable before he decides he’d rather drag you back into the bed.”
You bit your lip to hide a laugh.
A third servant worked delicately through your hair, untangling knots of sleep and passion after a night’s celebration with skilled fingers. She used fragrant oils—gifts your husband brought from overseas—rubbing them between her palms before smoothing them through your strands. The almond scent curled softly around you in the warm air.
Beyond the screen, Thorkell’s voice boomed:
“So, what’s so cursed urgent it couldn’t wait ‘til after my breakfast?” he grunted, the clip of his belt rattling as he pulled his waistband up.
Asgeir, long-suffering, launched into his exhausted report.
“The scouts returned before dawn. Four ships crossed the strait—possibly allies, possibly raiders, but either way—”
“Mhm.” Thorkell said, utterly disinterested.
One woman snorted softly. “He’s looking this way more than he’s listening.”
“Shh! He’s doing it again!” another giggled
You felt the pull too, peeking over the top of the partition. From this angle, you could just see Thorkell’s broad silhouette—half turned to the men, eyes flicking your way every few breaths.
–
Outside, wind howled. Snow thumped off the roof. The women worked quickly—washing, drying, respectful but efficient—the kind of care reserved for wives of jarls, especially when their husbands were waiting impatiently mere paces away.
“Lift your arms, my lady.”
You did, and they slipped a fresh linen shift over your head, soft and warm from being stored near the hearth. Woolen underlayers followed, embroidered at the edges with delicate knot patterns you recognized—Thorkell had gifted these to you last spring.
–
“…and if that’s the case,” Asgeir continued, unaware of the battle between patience and desire happening in Thorkell’s skull.
“we’ll need to reposition the cliff watch-posts. Also, the men want to know whether to—”
“… Thorkell?”
Silence.
“Jarl Thorkell,” Asgeir eventually snapped, “did you hear a word of what I just said?!”
“Hm?” Thorkell turned sharply, caught. “Yes?”
Asgeir stared at him.
Thorkell sighed. “No. Say it again.”
“Gods,” Asgeir groaned.
Thorkell grinned like a boy caught misbehaving.
You covered your mouth to smother a laugh.
“He’s hopeless,” the woman braiding your hair muttered.
“No,” whispered another, tying the laces at your waist, “just in love.”
Heat rose to your cheeks.
–
A few more deft touches—warm oils rubbed into your palms, a brooch pinned at your collar—and the warmth settled into you like something sacred. Something homelike. A winter morning you wanted to bottle forever.
Then: a throat cleared, deep and impatient.
Thorkell.
“My lady,” one servant whispered after peeking out, “he’s glaring holes through the screen.”
“Is he at least decent?”
She peeked again.
“…Just about.”
His shadow loomed across the partition.
“Are you done in there?” he called, trying to sound gruff instead of impatient—and failing. “Because I ought to be leavin’ and—and these fools can’t remember half the things they’re tellin’ me—”
“He wants a kiss before he goes,” a servant translated dryly.
You heard him huff.
“Go on,” one woman said gently. “We’re finished.”
You stepped out.
Thorkell was fastening a leather guard impatiently. His head snapped toward you instantly.
He froze.
Softened. Eyes sweeping over you like you’d walked straight out of a dream.
“There you are,” he breathed.
He crossed the room in three strides. Hands hovering at your waist, another trailing up to cup your cheek—as if asking permission in his own rough, wordless way. You nodded.
His thumb brushed your lower lip before the other hand pulled you into a deep, warm, kiss. As if trying to memorize the feel of your lips.
“I’ll be back before sundown,” he murmured, pulling away reluctantly but keeping his forehead against yours.
“I know,” you whispered.
He cupped your cheek with surprising tenderness. “And when I get back…” he pinched his fingers, squishing your cheeks to keep your eyes on his. 
Voice dipping, rough like a promise.
“…we’re finishin’ what we started.”
Your stomach fluttered.
And Asgeir akwardly cleared his throat. “Commander. They’re waiting.”
He didn’t look away.
“Right, right. Danes, ships, ice, raids—whatever.”
“You truly didn’t listen,” Asgeir groaned.
Thorkell lingered at your side, eyes locked with yours. You nudged him and he sighed turning toward his men— furs and leather thrown over his shoulders, hair still wild.
“Let’s go deal with it, then. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I’m home.”
“Stay warm,” he murmured, kissing your temple. With one last look—hungry, soft, certain—he squeezed your side and let you go.
–
The door thud shut behind them, muffling the winter wind.
For a moment, the room felt twice as quiet without his voice filling it—only the crackle of the fire and the faint clatter of servants tidying up behind you. Warmth lingered where his hands had been, a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth.
You stood there, wrapped in fur, ribbons and winter-soft linens, breath still unsteady.
One of the women passed behind you, moving to lift the cover from your bed. “Soon he’ll tear the doors off their hinges rushing back in,” she teased knowingly.
You tried to answer with something clever—something that didn’t sound as flustered and soft as you felt—but your voice caught in your throat.
Outside, the crunch of their boots faded. Asgeir barking orders. Thorkell’s deep and wild voice being swallowed by the storm.
You exhaled slowly, letting the quiet settle into your bones.
A soft rustle drew your attention. At the foot of the freshly set bed, a thick pelt-lined shawl he favored on long marches had been put out for you—placed there by one of the servants. You touched it, fingers sinking into the fur. Pulling it closer to your nose, pine, smoke, and him.
Your chest warmed.
Through the shutter slats, you caught the barest glimpse of him mounting a wagon—turning just once to look back at the house. At you. Even from here, you felt it. That stupid, heart-stealing softness he reserved only for you.
Then he snapped a command, and his men crowded the clearing. You couldn’t help but feel tense as you watched their silhouettes disperse into the fog.
Servant maids continued to work around you, gathering cloths and bowls as they set up the dining table for lunch, their chatter gentle now, the storm outside a distant hush.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back,” one said simply, recognizing your unease.
A small smile curled at your mouth before you could stop it.
You pressed your fingers to your lips, face flush, still tingling from his kiss.
One stolen plate is all it takes to turn dinner into a battlefield.
CW: SFW, Thorkell the Tall x F!Reader, fluff, play-fighting, physical tussling, messy food-sharing, background banter.
Word Count: 1,504
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction. It does not reflect the official story, character relationships, or views of the creators of Vinland Saga.
Your plate had barely hit the table when it vanished.
One second it steamed before you, the first proper meal you’d had all day. The next, a great hand swooped in, brazen and unhurried, plucking it away as if it had been meant for him all along.
“Oi!” you snapped, fork stabbing at wood.
Across the bench, Thorkell leaned back, your plate balanced carelessly in one paw, grinning like a thief caught red-handed. His side of the table looked like the aftermath of a feast—bones, greasy platters, mugs scattered like rubble. He’d eaten half the kitchen and somehow decided your meal was fair game too.
“Thork—”
“Mm-mm-mm!” He hummed as though to test the flavor, already tearing into the meat with his teeth. A low groan of satisfaction rattled out of him. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?!” You lunged across the table, seizing the edge of the plate with both hands.
The big man chuckled, lips shiny with grease, holding it just out of reach. “Easy there.”
“Give it back!”
He stretched his arm higher, barely moving, and suddenly you were a child jumping for sweets. He shoved another piece in his mouth and smirked, cheeks puffed as he tried to chew.
You jabbed your fork at his wrist. “Drop it!”
Thorkell leaned away, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, eyes glittering. “Tch, tch. Not very lady-like.”
“Oh, shut up!” You braced your heels and yanked with your whole weight. For a breath you thought you had him, his wrist bent, the plate tilted—then he gave the smallest twist of his arm.
The plate popped free. You stumbled back with nothing in your hands.
Thorkell popped another bite in his mouth, laughing through his nose, muffled around the food.
A couple men down the bench had started watching, ale halfway to their mouths. One nudged the other with his elbow.
“She’s gonna kill ’im,” he muttered, grinning.
-
You stared him down, jaw tight, then let out a long, defeated sigh. The fork clattered from your fingers to the table.
“Fine,” you muttered, brushing your hands on your tunic as though you were done with the whole business. “Enjoy it.”
Thorkell blinked at you, chewing, a little thrown by your sudden calm.
“…Eh?”
You turned and started walking away.
For a moment, he almost felt bad. Almost. Then he shrugged and scooped up another fistful, humming to himself as he shoved it into his mouth.
But the rhythm of your boots on the floor shifted. He frowned.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy, deliberate.
He had just enough time to glance over his shoulder, cheeks still full, when your battle-cry split the hall.
“RAAAAH!”
You charged. The warriors burst into laughter, shoving back from the benches to give you room.
“Gods save him!” one barked.
You vaulted onto the bench, then onto his shoulders, legs locking around his neck. The whole chair buckled under his size as you drove him back, and the two of you went crashing to the floor in a storm of splintered wood.
“BAHAHAHA!” Thorkell’s laugh exploded, muffled around the food still in his mouth. He rolled half onto his side, trying to swallow, shoulders shaking so hard it rattled the floorboards.
“Spit it out!” you barked, hair falling wild across your face as you clawed at his jaw.
He slapped one massive palm over his mouth, the other bracing against your forehead to keep you back. His eyes were crinkled shut, laughter spilling through his nose.
“Mmmffhh—hrrhhfhh!”
“Don’t you dare swallow it!” You pinched his nose with one hand, prying at his lips with the other.
The men were howling now, some pounding the tables with their mugs, others bent double with laughter.
“Get it, lass! Take his tongue too!”
“By Odin, look at her go!”
Thorkell tried to say something, but it was just garbled noise through a mouth full of food and your fingers forcing their way in. You managed to wedge your hand past his lips, digging like a madwoman.
“Ghrrhhk—BAHahaha—st—stop, you’ll—hrhhkk—!” He gagged, tears streaking his face from laughing too hard.
But you didn’t stop. You wiggled your fingers deeper, nails scraping his teeth, until you hooked something soggy.
With a triumphant yell, you yanked it free — a dripping, half-chewed mess.
The hall erupted in a thunderous roar.
“By the gods, she’s got it!”
You stuffed it into your mouth before he could react, chewing furiously like it was the spoils of war.
Thorkell was still flat on his back, chest heaving, choking on laughter. He tried to push himself up on one elbow, still holding you draped across him like a cloak. “Y-you—hah—little fiend—”
“You started it!” you snapped around a mouthful, cheeks puffed like a squirrel’s.
The men’s jeering hit a fever pitch.
“She ate it! She bloody ate it!”
“That’s fouler than Fenrir’s arse!”
“I’ll never kiss a woman again after seein’ that!”
Thorkell finally gulped down the last of what he’d been hiding, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. His face was red from laughing, beard wet with grease and spit, but he was still grinning wide as ever.
With an arm hooked around your waist he sat up, hauling you up with him like you weighed nothing. His voice boomed over the din,
“Ha! Did you see her? Fought me like a wolf for a scrap o’ meat! Fiercer than any of you soft-bellied bastards!”
The hall roared back, some raising their mugs in salute, others whistling.
You were still chewing stubbornly, glaring at him like you hadn’t just made half the longhouse piss themselves laughing.
-
The waitress— A lean English woman, had set a fresh plate down for one of Thorkell’s men, he leaned forward to hand it to you with a crooked grin. “Here, lass. Guard it with your life.”
You snatched it immediately, elbows tucked tight, pressing it to your chest like a shield. Your legs kicked lightly, instinctively curling against Thorkell’s sides— still hoisting you effortlessly in his massive arms. His grin stretched wide, low humming vibrating through his chest. “Eh… think that’ll stop me, little firebrand?”
“Hands off!” you barked, shoving a chunk of meat into your mouth before he could snag the piece. Grease glistened on your fingers, dripping slightly onto your chin. Thorkell’s gaze flicked from your lips to the food, eyes gleaming with mischief. He leaned closer, just enough that his chest pressed against yours, and nuzzled your temple with the tip of his nose. “Full of fire… and a bloody appetite,” he murmured, teeth flashing in a grin. One enormous hand hovered near the plate, twitching like he was deciding which morsel to snatch first.
You squealed around a mouthful, twisting your body just enough to shove him gently with your elbow. “I am eating this! All of it!”
He laughed, deep and rumbling, as he tipped the plate slightly with a playful nudge, trying to snag a bite.
You squirmed, twisting against him, knees braced against his sides, shoving the plate between you to keep him at bay.
Finally, with a groan of amusement, he eased you down to the bench. You pressed your back against the table, straddling his lap, knees planted against his chest for leverage. The plate was angled protectively between your knees and chin, as you began shoveling food into your mouth like a woman on a mission.
He leaned closer again, chin pressing into the top of your head, sniffing your hair, and tried to brush his fingers across the edge of the plate to snatch a roll. You hissed, shoving him away with your thighs trying to keep him from stealing another bite, He chuckled, warm and teasing, continuing to lean closer so your forehead brushed his chest. “Careful, lass… you’re making it hard to keep my hands to myself,” he murmured, nibbling gently at your fingers when they strayed too close to his jaw—quick, teasing, affectionate — and you swatted at him with a laugh, twisting away, trying to keep each bite.
-
Soon your fingers were scraped clean of crumbs, the plate empty but for smeared grease. You leaned back, triumphant, cheeks full and flushed, as his hands settled lightly on your waist to keep you snug.
You swallowed the last bite, with a victorious smirk. “You’re insufferable,” you said, half teasing, half breathless.
“Aye… but you love it.” He hummed, pressing you closer, and wiped the grease from your chin with a gentle thumb, eyes lingering on you just a fraction longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Mad, stubborn woman… I like you best this way,” he murmured, leaning down so his forehead brushed yours. arms snaked snugly around your waist.
The hall faded around you, the men quietly shaking their heads, mugs tipped, bemused at the tiny, feral woman straddling the tallest man alive. You were victorious, plate empty, pressed against him — the only person alive who could say they’d wrestled a meal from Thorkell the Tall, and won.
𓏴 ꕀ thorkell is massive compared to you, and he loves it. he’ll constantly compare your hands to his or just grab your whole face with one hand and laugh like he’s discovered something amazing.
𓏴 ꕀ super obvious with affection. he’ll throw an arm around you in front of everyone, toss you over his shoulder without warning, or just plop you down in his lap like you weigh nothing.
𓏴 ꕀ he’s not the best at “soft” gestures, but he tries in his own way. his version of comforting you is ruffling your hair, booming out that “everything’ll be fine!” and pulling you into one of his crushing hugs.
︵︵ sometimes thorkell gets so caught up in the chaos of a fight that he forgets just how scary he looks. you’ve had to tug on his sleeve more than once, reminding him to tone it down before he accidentally terrifies an ally. the first time you did it, he just blinked down at you and barked out a laugh. “scary, me? nah—look at this face!” he grinned wide, bloody and wild-eyed, and you couldn’t help rolling your eyes. “exactly,” you muttered.
𓏴 ꕀ no concept of personal space whatsoever. if he’s tired, he’s laying on top of you. if he’s excited, he’s scooping you up and spinning you around. if he wants your attention, he’ll literally block your view until you give it to him.
𓏴 ꕀ loves bragging about you to literally anyone who will listen. mercenaries, enemies, random farmers—doesn’t matter. they’ll know you exist and that thorkell thinks you’re the greatest thing alive.
𓏴 ꕀ he secretly likes when you fuss over his injuries. he’ll pretend it’s nothing, but deep down he melts when you scold him for being reckless while wrapping his wounds.
︵︵ after a long battle, thorkell finally flopped down on the grass beside you, groaning dramatically. “ahhh, i’m exhausted. but i fought well, didn’t i?” he turned his head toward you with a grin, expecting praise. when you only raised a brow and started dabbing at the cut on his cheek, his grin softened. he sat there, strangely quiet, watching you work. “…you’re real gentle, y’know that?” he rumbled, voice unusually low, before chuckling and tugging you into his chest.
None of the contents you'll find in this section belongs to me. Credits to the respective authors and artists, my sole purpose here is to support their works and/or them.
contents: NSFW. cw: significant age gap, mentions of violence and alcohol, time-period accurate misogyny/mentions of marriage, time-period inaccurate slang used. Size kink, hand job to completion (m!receiving), possessive language used by Thorkell toward reader including calling her "my wife", romantic smut with a lot of talking.
notes: this was a blast to write and i hope i did our big sturdy tree of a man the justice he deserves. this has been finished for a while but i actually added like 2.5k+ words to it so...yeah! <3
The winter of your village’s invasion has passed and given way to a glorious spring.
Not long after the first snowfall, the first pillaging occurred. At first they only took sheep and cows, sacking homes for necessary supplies including the meager weaponry farmers must have to keep their families and animals safe. They returned a second time after the snow had accumulated, invading during a storm to cover their tracks. Fluffy white filled in footsteps that could alert the evening watchmen and they came after nightfall to collect once again, dragging off more animals and some able bodied men to work for them.
The third time is when your father - the village leader - fell to his knees and pleaded with the band, including their leader. He offered them safety and warmth in the dead of winter in exchange for the safety of his villagers. They agreed to cease the violence and sacking as long as their demands and needs were meant.
Despite their presence things seem strangely peaceful. You believe most people have chosen to ignore the ever present threat as a means to stay positive.
Or they’ve opted to focus on talking about you and the task you’ve been personally assigned thanks to your father - attending the scariest man most of your fellow villagers have ever seen. The madman who is missing an eye and swings an axe nearly as high as the sun. The leader of the group that has decided they needed to be here to choke a trade route that leads to an enemy encampment.
“Thorkell?”
Water splashes around him when he turns to look at you. The candlelight is blazing, recently lit, shining over his shoulders and the definition of them. “Yes?”
Opting to gaze at the flame rather than what is so beautifully highlighted by it, you clear your throat to gather your courage.
“May I ask you a few questions?”
He sighs, which captures your attention. You look up to witness him bringing his hand up to cup his chin in a comically dramatic gesture for a man nearly too big for the washtub that was custom built to fit his excessively large frame.
“I tend to believe once a woman has seen the parts of you that you’re to hide with clothes that she can ask you anything.” You roll your eyes. He chuckles, pulling his eyepatch down and back over its empty socket for your comfort. “Speak freely. I won’t punish you unless that’s what you’d like to ask for.”
It pains you to laugh at him though it’s futile to stop yourself. He’s quite charming for a complete oaf, full of affection and brightness that many of his counterparts who scowl at you while you make your way into the quarters where your mother and father used to sleep that have now been commandeered by the visiting viking lack.
The only reason you’ve been coming for all of these months is to attempt to keep him happy to stave off attacks. You were given permission to do whatever is necessary by your father. Nothing uncouth has happened so far but the longer time has passed the more curious you find yourself becoming about the leader of the group specifically.
You believe you may have developed a bit of a fondness for him, as dangerous of a prospect as it is.
That very prospect has led you to believe that questioning him is the right way to change your feelings. Getting to know him will surely only grow the hatred time has doused. You simply need to remind yourself of how terrible he is and always has been.
Clearing your throat, you look up at him through your lashes to find him already gazing over at you, lazing about in his tub.
“Why do you fight?”
He sits up instantly, grinning. “Because there is little else to live for besides the thrill of battle.”
You cannot hide your dissatisfaction with the answer despite his glee, a sigh escaping.
“Yes, yes you’ve told me this more times than I can count. The thrill of battle, the spilling of blood.”
Fighting is wrong, a lesson you’ve been taught since you were old enough to remember. It’s wrong to harm others and certainly without reason. There’s no telling how many people Thorkell the Tall has harmed against this belief.
Part of you is sure he keeps a tally somewhere in his shockingly vacant head. He cannot hide how your frustration delights him so he spurs you on.
“Why do you believe we fight, young lady?”
Shaking your head, you toss a well loved linen cloth into the water. He scoops it up and wrings it out, placing it over his shoulder so it doesn’t float away.
“Thirst for blood trickles downward, my lord. They see how much you love it and it only makes them lust for a taste of it themselves.”
He tilts his head at you, touching his fist to his chest as though he’s touched by your words.
“You think me a lord?”
You snort humorlessly, tipping a little more water out of the bucket in your hands while daring to let your cheek rest against the lip of the tub, placing the bucket down next to your bent knees.
“My father has instructed me to regard you as one despite your presentation and I cannot defy.”
The Goliath grins at you, blonde facial hair damp with steam from the water you continue to pour into the wooden basin. “Ah, I always knew he was a smart man.”
Sighing and settling back into the water now that the temperature has risen, he opens his mouth to speak.
“It’s all I’ve ever known from the time I was a boy.” He closes his intact eye like he’s lost in a reverie. “The glory of victory and the bitter encouragement of defeat. I would be half a man without them even if you see it all as beneath you.”
The viking now makes a show of placing his hands on the back of his head, arms bent yet still so wide you almost collide with his elbow when it passes over your head just before you can duck.
“You mustn’t kill me or else you’ll have no chambermaid.”
Your tone remains flat though an amused smile rests across pretty lips dappled by fading candlelight.
The man laughs, it seems to be all he does whenever he’s in your company, cupping his hand to dip it beneath the water and scoop some over his head. Your eyes follow his every move, maintaining sight of his forearm and wrist, his thick fingers and the strands of blonde hair that flatten over his forehead while they’re wet. He pushes them back and they immediately fall forward again, an action that wins a giggle from you.
With a never fading smile, he repeats the motion. Pushing his wet strands back, sliding his hand across their surface, they rebel and return to their home across his forehead. He sighs in mock exasperation, hands no longer cradling his head but instead spread out far beyond the sides of the tub.
“Now you see why I must wear the headband.”
Why is there a swell of warmth in your chest over the boyish smile of this man over twice your age? It curls around your heart like the steam in the room and the smoke from that still fading candle.
This feeling is very inappropriate.
He’s a warlord who will likely conquer your village and overtake your father. He came here to inflict harm and to claim that which does not belong to him. Swallowing thickly, you sigh and further settle against the side of the tub. There is no response you can come up with to match his wit while hiding your true feelings so you rest a moment, dipping your fingers into the basin and wiggling them gently to warm them up although the room feels far from cold.
Silence never sits well with Thorkell, nothing but the splashing of water filling his ears. He wishes it were the music and liveliness of an inn, something your small village is missing, but he’ll take listening to you speak in lieu of such things.
“Do you know what your father told me about you the first day I met him?”
It was gracious he allowed you to enjoy the quiet for even a few minutes. You pretend to think about his question for a moment and then shake your head.
“Haven’t a clue.” A shrug, your shoulder lifting to your cheek. “Did he not offer marriage? My assumption has always been this is why he’s made me come and perform such uncouth tasks for you.”
Clearly you’ve piqued the man’s interest. He raises a blond brow. “No. Although if you believe he’d be willing t–” you shoot him a glance that makes him stop, his tongue stilling in his oversized mouth for just a moment before a sly smirk crosses his face.
“You know how much I like it when you get that fierce look in your eyes.”
You nod coolly despite the beating of your heart. He’s complimenting you? Admiring the tenacity you keep so well hidden beneath your smiles and obedience?
Thorkell liked you from the first time he encountered you, staring curiously at him from across the largest banquet table your people could find. You asked him no questions nor paid him any actual mind when he attempted to smile and raise a mug of ale in your direction, choosing to turn your attention to the children who misunderstood the excitement and celebrated the arrival of the people who may eventually raze the only home they’ve ever known once they no longer need it.
That was many moons ago, more than the warrior has bothered to continue to count. You came to his chambers that very first night to bathe him, as you were clearly instructed to do, silently and seething with rage. You could likely have concealed it from someone who had seen less of it but he knew instinctively, this man.
“Kill me if you must but I’d far prefer a kiss from one as fair as you,” he teased.
You dumped water over him with the same expression you wear now but you kept your eyes pinned to the wall instead of glancing at the nude man. Now this was greatly amusing to Thorkell. It also affirmed to him that he did not merely like you but found himself charmed by the lack of warm welcome and determined to bring back what he saw earlier that day sitting across from you.
In the present day, you aren’t bothered by the sight of his unfathomably large, muscled, scarred form nude. Or so you think until he does as he’s doing right this moment, stretching and spreading his long legs out and over the edge until water drips to the floor beneath them. His flaccid cock floats upon the water. You catch sight of it and look away quickly, backing away from the tub to grab the bucket and return to the stove for more hot water.
Thorkell stops you, reaching to place a hand over yours. His fingers curl around your hand and the handle of the bucket both. “He told me that you wished to someday leave this village.”
You hum, aware he regales all visitors with that tale in hopes one of them will take you off of his hands and alleviate the strain upon his stores and finances. Your father loves you, of course, yet things are only growing more and more strained as the Danes advance. The future has never felt more uncertain, yours or that of your entire family.
Even before the arrival of your unexpected visitors you longed to go. There’s another side of the landscape your eyes can make out yet you’ve never touched, further away than you can even consider walking by yourself. There are oceans and snow covered hills; grasslands and fertile soil and more than the simple rocky lowlands of your dreary homeland according to the stories the Northmen have told you. More than green, more than gray, more than any of us.
There’s a limitless world out there for those bold enough to take it.
“He told you the truth, Thorkell the Tall.”
The man chuckles, your sarcastic formality leaving him thrilled. His thumb rubs over the back of your hand and each of your knuckles.
You should rip yourself away from the touch of his hand, filthy bloodied paw that it is, yet you stay in place. The rapidly cooling water sloshes when he shifts, the room alongside it when Thorkell makes his way to the edge of the tub to lean over it and loom over you. The candlelight has grown down to a dim flicker, no longer bright enough to highlight his chest or the proof of prior battles that cross it.
Not that you need the reminder, you can conjure them on your own. Even in the dim light you see him looking at you, a handsome face beginning to be etched by the delicate lines of age with scars that match those on the rest of him nearly touching yours.
“I could take you out there to see it all,” he offers in his best attempt at a whisper. His voice still fills every corner of the room. You shake your head, wiggling your hand beneath his to try and loosen the grip.
“I cannot leave unless it’s with my husband.”
“Then I’ll talk to your father and arrange our marriage.”
That humourless laugh surfaces once again, your hand shaking beneath his.
“Will you take me by force if I say no, just as your men have done to many others?”
Thorkell chuckles, astute enough to tell that even if you mean to wound him, it’s merely a scratch. But if you want to play rough, he’ll play right alongside you.
He’s always carried an inkling you’d prefer it that way to begin with.
“It has never been I who has forced you to do things against your will,” he squeezes your hand and releases it with a mighty groan, shifting in the tub again so that his arms and head dangle over the edge.
It stings to recall that first night all those moons ago when you were forced to face this humiliation. To fill a basin for a man you saw as a predator felt like only staving off your own damnation, the ruination of farmlands and homes. A temporary means to an end.
That once venomously pervasive belief has softened over time and with the lack of aggression from the invaders toward your village.
You realize that while Thorkell is a bloodthirsty, senseless, loud brute he is intelligent. He can tell a story unlike any man you’ve ever met and his tales have always been fantastical. There’s a gentleness beneath his brash exterior, proven in the way he holds your hand not only right now but every other time he has. He hungers for more but don’t you do just the same, wishing to feel the grass of another pasture beneath your feet?
Sighing, you lean back against the side of the tub. The water must be cold now, the candle burned out completely leaving only moonlight to shine through the room though he makes no effort to take his leave. His cock floats ominously, his body relaxed and heavy beside you.
Would this man truly marry you to give you the life you seek?
“And how would you treat your wife, Thorkell the Tall?”
The water splashes while he lifts himself up to sitting, one arm remaining out of the tub so he can cup your shoulder in his large hand.
“Same as I treat all women,” he boasts as blunt as ever, gently shaking you which makes you laugh, attempting and failing to shrug him off.
You know he hasn’t taken a lover in your village since arriving, something many of the women have taken offense to despite their husbands if their incessant complaining in any indication.
“I’ve not heard any rumors of your treatment. Care to tell me more?”
Curiosity has always been your strength and weakness both. Fortunately, he’s eager to indulge you regardless.
“You’ve not heard a single tale about how the women weep when I leave their villages?” He chuckles, lowering his head so that it is over yours once again. “ ‘O Lord, please protect the heathen who showed me Your face while using his tongue’ they cry in the streets.”
You may be unwed but you are no fool and the innuendo is not lost on you. Your face runs hot though you can’t quite place why, chest squeezing.
“So you’ve had many women then?”
The older man smirks, droplets from his hair sliding into your lap and falling into the empty water bucket beside you.
“I’ve had my share,” he admits, hand sliding up your shoulder to wrap around the side of your neck and head. The delicacy of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, his thumb rubbing a small line across your throat. “Yet not one inspired me to claim her as my wife.”
Conquering is truly all he knows how to do, isn’t it? You scoff and Thorkell feels the vibration against his digit, removing and replacing it with his lips. He places a kiss against the hollow of your throat.
“Northman,” you warn, though the bite in your voice dies to find new life as a breathy sigh when he kisses your neck again. His facial hair scratches against your soft, unblemished skin causing goosebumps to sprout across it.
“Stop me then, sweeting.”
The term of endearment ensures that your head and heart are no longer communicating, thoughts slipping away like petals on the wind. Your body reacts instinctively to his touch, head tipping backward to allow him access to more. He chuckles against your skin, tongue now laving over the irritated skin left behind from his kisses and the scratch of his scruff.
“You didn’t answer my question,” you remind impatiently, air escaping your lungs in short puffs. “And I don’t wish to ask it again.”
His hand once again slides from your neck to your back, palm resting between your shoulder blades to pull you closer toward the tub and subsequently his insatiable mouth. It’s easy to forget how large he is yet right now it’s all you can think about - how engulfed you feel by his presence much less his hands.
“You’ve not let me finish,” he pokes right back in your direction. That large hand slides down your back, his long arm hardly stretching to reach your ass to cup it and give it a playful squeeze. You protest but realize it’s futile, raising yourself up slightly so he can slide his hand fully beneath the backs of your thighs. Thorkell smiles down at you, his other arm now dropped over the side of the tub to cup your chin alongside your behind.
“I cannot promise that I would be able to give my wife a life free from suffering,” he starts. ”I am a warrior. My call will always be to battle no matter how badly she may desire that another truth exists.”
Nodding is all you can manage, averting your eyes from him. Is it strange to find a man so much older and worn than you this handsome? Is there something wrong with you? With the heat in your veins and the throb between your legs?
Is it evil of you to crave to live this life with him? You can picture it - not here but far away, the vision of his homeland that his stories have created form the blurry outlines of the dream. Long after he’s taken you around the untamed and unowned world and shown you all it has to offer, every hilltop and cavern.
Questions and uncertainties rush by in your head, so quickly you can hardly make sense of them.
The warrior stares at you curiously, lifting your head to meet his eyes. You’ve chosen to let him finish uninterrupted and he takes advantage of it.
“I would give my wife my heart no matter how far the wind carries me from her side.”
Despite the creeping fears dwelling within your worried mind, you smile at him. It’s soft, even a bit tense, exposing that you are afraid to believe a dream as outlandish as this could come true. The ghost sensation of his lips across your throat returns and you reach for it, running the side of your index finger over the sensitive skin.
Thorkell realizes where your mind has gone and takes advantage, reaching for your hand and pulling it into the tub. You gasp as your sleeve soaks up a bit of the water, attempting to pull it back yet finding yourself unable to be free of his grasp. Keeping your eyes locked on him, you don’t dare look and see what he’s doing lest you react strongly and alert his men posted outside of the room.
When you touch something entirely unfamiliar that does not feel like water, you dare sneak a glance and gasp sharply upon realizing he’s flattened your palm across the width of his cock. He chuckles at you, molding your fingers around what he considers his most impressive weapon.
“And this would be all for my wife.”
Wrapping his hand all the way around yours, he squeezes and hisses at the softness of your skin. Your palm does not cover even half of his girth, fingers far from touching each other. There is no indication that you wish not to touch him so he continues on, using your hand to slowly stroke his shaft.
“I’d never take another lover if I had my wife,” he serenades you with a humorous note floating through every word, leaning over the tub to look you up and down with a grin. “Although I believe my wife may be a bit too small to take all of my cock.”
That same flushed feeling from earlier returns to your face, the ache between your legs encouraging your thighs to defiantly squeeze together to give you a bit of relief. He glides your hand smoothly from the bulbous tip of his head that leaks fluid he rubs back down the rest of him, thumb resting on the outside of your wrist to keep it steady. Breaths leaving him in soft pants that mirror your own, your brows knitting together when you mewl softly with need.
A mischievous light shimmers in Thorkell’s narrowed eyes now that you’ve openly displayed how his teasing makes you feel.
“I would like my wife to try, though,” he rasps, throat dry and blood rushing from his head to his painfully hard cock. “To try to take me.”
You didn’t need the clarification, still you nod and swallow. There’s no hiding from a direct conversation now. You’ve been confronted.
There remains a lingering concern that he doesn’t mean it though lust fogs your thoughts too strongly to make you really take a step back and consider if this is real. Your hand moves up and down his cock, his hips gently bucking up and into your fist while cool water splashes around his hips and onto your forearm.
“Would yo–would you do that for me?” He asks, grunting between each word. His complexion grows more pink with every passing second and you find it adorable that a man of his size flushes in such a manner when he’s being pleasured.
You gaze into the bathtub, able to barely make out the tinge of red from his throat clear down to the deep flushed pink of the head of his cock. It’s such a strong contrast to dark scars and honed muscle that you whimper again, biting your lower lip and resting your cheek against his fingers.
“Would I do what for you, Thorkell?”
An impure part of you likes to hear him speak in this way, especially about you. Your body. Your pleasure. The visiting invaders have never been shy about sex and their conquests, speaking about them in front of polite company like priests and women alike but you’ve never quite seen this side of the man next to you.
Thorkell only speaks of fighting. The yearning of his blade for blood is all you believed he was capable of feeling until this evening.
Now you see the man whose heavy, full balls slap against the bottom of your fist each time he thrusts upward to meet his stroke with your hand for who he really is. You see that his passionate blood runs hot for more than just battle just as he sees that you aren’t meant to be a shepherd’s wife.
“Stretch yourself upon my cock?” The words come through gritted teeth, his body tensing and voice doing the same. “Allow me to fuck you until even the gods know my name you’ve been shouting it so often?”
Lack of experience aside, you get the distinct impression that he is soon to lose his mind to his pleasure. His chest heaves and the water around him no longer ripples but behaves like a wave capped stormy sea with each determined thrust of his hips, his remaining eye shutting tightly.
“Yes,” you mutter.
Without further hesitation you reach into the tub and wrap your free hand around his and your other hands to increase the pressure of the grip on his shaft. He moans loud enough you know that the men on the other side of the door have to know what’s happening but you don’t care.
“Yes, if I am your wife I will let you take me however you like.”
The words leave you in an anxious jumble, your lower lip wet with saliva and eyes heavily lidded as though it hurts to open them fully in your aroused state.
“I will not merely allow you to fuck me Thorkell, I will beg you to.”
You pant, brows knit together expressing how painful the ache of your curious cunt has become. It would be a lie to say you are completely unfamiliar with your body, you’re aware of how to soothe this pain but both of your hands remain locked around him.
“There’s nothing I desire more than to feel you inside of me.”
One look at your face tells him that you mean it. It’s almost hilarious how wide your pupils are blown and how spit slicked your lower lip is from gnawing it like a starved beast. Thorkell doesn’t laugh though, he merely focuses on chasing the feeling in the lower half of his body.
“Then inside you I will be,” he assures, tipping his head back while his jaw slackens and falls open. His release spurts all over your hand with another mighty groan announcing its arrival, white coating your knuckles and the cuff of your shirtsleeve.
You let go of him, backing your top hand away slowly though the one around his shaft remains there locked in his grasp. Awkwardness keeps you anchored in place, patiently waiting for him to say something; anything.
“I’ll speak with your father in the morning.”
He rises from the water and you nod, eyes wide. He meant it? You may really someday learn what’s just beyond what your eyes can see?
Thorkell bends at the waist and holds onto the edge of the tub, staring down at you with that same grin he never quite conceals no matter what. He’s so good natured for someone so violent.
“Go lie down on the bed, my wife, and I will give you a taste of what’s to come.”
And who are you to say no? You scramble to your feet, holding your soiled hand out in front of you until you decide to simply wipe it on your skirt. No sense in feeling shame now, not while a very hungry predator stalks across the wooden floor, leaving a trail of droplets behind him.
Bjorn (M) (Vinland Saga) x Crushing Reader (M/F/N)
Prompt: Cooking
Sus level: Mostly fluff , one vague suggestion
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
You rub your eyes roughly, staring at the ceiling of the tent, unable to sleep. You had been tossing and turning relentlessly, your mind heavy with unwanted thoughts and feelings. You were stressed, thinking about what the future holds. You, along with Askeladd's army would be marching out tomorrow morning, beginning another long journey. There would be more fights, more unnecessary deaths, and on top of that, you had to worry about your friends. Well, you had a hard time admitting to yourself, but there was one you worried about the most. The one you dreamed about most nights, your subconscious screaming at you to do something about your feelings. The one you stared at longingly each day, needing to pry your eyes away each time you realized. You didn't think he was one for love. A Viking that takes joy in killing, with a hard exterior. A Viking you could barely say the name of, yet he dominated your consciousness, he was all you could think about. All that mattered to you. Nevertheless, you had no doubts that he just saw you as another teammate, and to confess would surely be the end of your respected status in the group.
You sat up quickly, cutting your thoughts off. It was not time to think on this. What you needed was to push those thoughts down as deep as they could go, and never let them resurface. Feeling them creep back up, a blush rose to your cheeks. How embarrassing was it to be fantasizing about something so taboo.
You threw the covers off of yourself, leaving the tent. The smell of fresh cooked pork hit your nostrils, a scent previously drowned out by the crashing waves of deep suppressed thought. Your mouth watered now, your eyes darted quickly to the source. Hovering above the fire was the man you had grown to fear, not due to his bloodthirsty nature, but due to the unrelenting torment he had on your mind. Your mind raced, how can I get out of this? Surely he had seen you, and to go back in your tent as soon as you had left it would be quite suspicious. You sucked it up. You were going to do as you planned, take a walk to clear your head. You were a warrior after all, feelings are something to be ignored.
Just as you started to take cautious steps, Bjorn's eyes drifted to yours. You felt the tension explode, you hoped to God he couldn't see it on your face.
"Hungry?" Bjorn questioned, eyeing you questioningly for your stillness. He must have assumed you were staring at the food.
"Y-yeah. I could smell it from in the tent." You fumbled.
"Come, I'll share." He smiled warmly. A look you were not accustomed to seeing, "just don't let the others know." You blush, hoping it would come across as exposure to the cold. Taking cautious steps to Bjorn, while trying to play it cool, your mind raced. Was there a way to get out of this? Did you want to get out of this?
You sat down on one of the rocks around the fire. You dared to look over at Bjorn, he was focused solely on the meat on the end of his stick. He was surprisingly careful with how he was roasting it.
You looked around awkwardly, unsure of what to say. It was crazy how out on the battlefield, you could kill without mercy, you could fight until your bones ached, and you could continue until you were no longer able. You could look unflinchingly into the eyes of the enemy, even in their last breath. Yet, when faced with a love interest, you crumbled. You could barely look at the man. He had just removed his coat, unbuttoning his undershirt to mid-chest. The heat of the fire must have been overwhelming him. You avoided looking to the best of your abilities, but every now and then you caught your eyes drifting.
He nor you made any effort to bring up conversation. You knew Bjorn was a quiet man, and frankly, you had no idea how to talk to him. You waited anxiously for the food to be done, so you could escape the situation. As if sensing your thoughts, he pulls the meat away from the fire, examining it carefully.
"Done." He says, setting it aside to cool. He proceeds to scan the forest around, silent. You were still wrapped in your coat, cold despite the roaring fire. Admittingly, Bjorn was closer to the fire than you were. "Cold?" Bjorn asks, seeing you grip your jacket. That action was more nerves than cold.
"Yeah." You said shortly, not sure what to say from there. Bjorn hummed in response, his gaze lingering a little too long on you. You had never noticed him look at you for that long. Of course, this made a blush spread like wildfire on your pale cheeks. Something only a fool wouldn't notice. And you knew that Bjorn was no fool. You noticed a flicker in his gaze. What that flicker was, you were unsure.
"I thought you were cold." Bjorn teased. Since when did that man tease? You wondered, the blush only raising.
"I am." You responded, unable to come up with a witty response.
"Really?" he asked accusingly, leaning in ever so slightly. You backed away, giving him a concerned look. "I've never seen the cold do that to a person." Bjorn noted, smiling. His expression changed suddenly, looking you up and down subtly. He reached for the meat, tearing off a piece for you. "Here." he said, his expression unreadable.
"Thank you." You reply, nibbling at the meat.
"If you need another coat, I don't need mine." Bjorn admitted, picking his up from on of the other seats and putting it around your shoulders. His hands in such close proximity sent your brain into a scramble. You blushed like crazy, trying to focus on eating the food he had given you.
"Thank you" you forced out, still nibbling away.
"Your face is still red, are you feeling well?" Bjorn asks. He had to know, didn’t he? He was just being nice.
"I'm okay. I just need sleep."
“What’s keeping you up?” Bjorn asked, staring at the fire while he ate.
“I don’t know, it’s too cold in there. Nights like this make me nervous.” You admit, unable to look at Bjorn.
"Would it help if you weren't alone?" Bjorn asks.
"Um, I think I'll be ok." You stumble.
“Just because, I find it easier to sleep when someone is near.” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck. Bjorn- nervous? Since when? But maybe he thought the same of you. You wondered what other secrets he had buried beneath his cold exterior.
"I'll accompany you just incase." Bjorn insists, genuinely concerned for your health. “No sleep tonight makes the battle tomorrow much harder.” You hadn't taken Bjorn for a worrier. You nodded in response, still avoiding his gaze. How could you deny such an offer?
You both had finished up your meat and you began making your way to the tent, Bjorn following closely behind. Your face was flushed, your mind riddled with depraved thoughts. You sunk into bed, Bjorn's jacket still wrapped around you. Bjorn laid on the ground beside you. You noticed him start to shiver subtly. The drastic change in temperature must have been more than he expected.
"Do you want your coat back?" You ask, concerned for his wellbeing.
"No, it's ok." Bjorn said, holding back from shivering visibly.
"Do you want to share?" you ask innocently. Where that came from, you had no idea. You couldn't just watch him suffer on the cold ground. Bjorn glanced indecisively to you and back to the ceiling. With no audible response, he rose up to join you under the covers. You couldn't help but look away, your mind racing with scenarios. This means nothing, you told yourself. Just two platonic Vikings sharing warmth. That's all. Your body was as stiff as a board, trying your hardest not to give any signals whatsoever. Though this is what you had been craving., and part of you wanted progression. A large part. Bjorn shifted in the bed, grazing your side. Being this close to him made you realize how large the man was. You flinched. You wondered if he had noticed.
After a while, Bjorn had fallen asleep. The snoring let you know that fact. You had finally relaxed when out of no where his hand loomed over you, reaching for your waist. You flinched as it snaked around you, pulling you in. Your back was pressed to his front now as he gripped you firmly. He was incredibly warm. Were you supposed to let it happen? Should you wake him up? You froze, the warmth was too comfortable. It wasn't as if it was your choice anyways. You exhaled, releasing the built up tension and relaxing in his grasp. This had been a big fantasy your mind had been suppressing. Your dreams were quite literally becoming reality. You hadn't seen this coming- not in a lifetime.
Did he feel how you did? Would this progress further? Or would he wake up, realize, and pull away. You prayed it would continue. That it was no mistake. And that he had feelings for you too.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ok well that’s enough for this post. Maybe there will be a part 2 or maybe I’ll make another prompt. Follow for more to come!
