Just a fun little blog for fanfiction. //MULTIFANDOM// Ask box: OPEN. // My main blog: @hauntinq-6 // My OC blog: @sil-has-ocs //WARNING: I'm a lazy ass, so I will post whenever the heck I feel like it😂 // PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS BLOG IF YOU'RE UNDER 18. I DO NOT WANT ANY TROUBLE🙏🏻 I am 24.
Hi guys! My name is Sil and this blog is entirely dedicated to fanfiction! In here I will reblog all of my favourite fanfiction and even try to write some of my own. If you happen to like my writing, please go ahead and send me a request! This blog is multifandom so I'm sure there's a little something for everyone!
Before you go ahead, I only have a few ✨RULES✨:
I will only write about the fandoms mentioned below. Even if you come across some reblogs from other fandoms, I will not personally write any content for them unless they are mentioned in the list below.
This is an 18+ blog, which means there WILL be NSFW content up ahead. Please do not interact with my content if you are under 18.
Dark content ahead!! This blog contains a wide range of content and some of it could be considered dark or disturbing. I put content warnings on all the pieces I write but other than that you are responsible for your own viewing experience.
If you are: homophobic, transphobic, racist, mysoginistic, a pedophile, a bully or a problematic person in general, you are not welcome here. This blog is a fun, safe space and I do not want any negativity in here.
FANDOMS:
BG3
Stardew Valley
Fire Emblem Fates
AOT
BNHA
Obey Me!
The Arcana
Harry Potter
Gravity Falls
Dragon Age
Everything written by me should be under the tag labelled #my writing, and there's both x reader and OC/self-insert content. Have fun!
Appearing in and out of the sun, the fly buzzes around, seemingly aimlessly. The giant patch of long haired greenery looks like the perfect landing spot. It has everything. Dandelions, clovers, weeds upon weeds upon weeds, grown from dirt and soil and rotten dead leaves from the previous seasons, way past seasons.
That frisbee has been there for so long there's a hole in the middle, and grass is already growing through.
"The garden isn't that bad. Besides, you're the one with the green toes."
"Thumb, Haley, green thumb. And it is bad. I dropped a quartz the other day and I'm yet to find it."
Haley snickers. "Can't you follow its aura or something? That's where pebbles belong! It doesn't want to be found."
Emily groans. "I know you are pulling my leg, but you might be onto something…" She lets her head fall into her open hands. Damn, if Haley weren't her sister… "I'll be back in five days, " she says, pinching the bridge of her nose, "I want that garden to look like a garden when I come back."
Haley waves, a friendly smirk under a wince as she tries to swat at the brazen fly around the sunflower clip in her long blond locks.
Emily waves back, heading towards the train station. To an aura seminar of sort, if Haley remembers right.
Once her blue haired sister out of sight, Haley looks around. The tall grass is tickling her calves, and she jumps, certain something grazed her naked skin.
"Nope, nope!!" She says, raising her arms and leaving out of the fenced area. "Who needs a garden anyway!" She exclaims, furiously scratching her ankles.
Once certain she is not covered in bugs, she replaces her skirt, flipping her long blond locks to turn to the street. This is when she sees the grumpy ass neighbor walking, on his way to his dead end job, hands in his pockets.
Haley observes, hand on her chin, tapping her lips with her finger. Those sure are strong calves, and if he wasn't slouching so much he'd probably show off a strong frame, decent shoulders.
Besides, the bum would probably do anything for a bit more money to spend at the saloon.
"Shane! Wait up!" She runs to him on the cobbled path, her small flats daintily slapping against the stone. "Hi!" She waves at him, and he finally stops.
"Mornin…?" He answers before clearing his throat.
"How are you doing today?" Her sweet voice clings to the air like icing sugar, slapping Shane in the face as he opens wide eyes.
The hell does she want now. "M'fine. How….how bout you?" This was clearly unexpected. No one in this town was really giving him the time of day if only for being polite. Emily was offering her ear as well as bartending service but that was about it. So why was her sister up his ass all of a sudden.
"Oh I'm actually in a pickle." Haley pouts, twisting her fingers. "You see, I want the garden to look fabulous before Emily comes back from her retreat but…" She motions to her skirt as if lifting it up a bit too high, not missing Shane's gulp. "I got tangled in vines and thorns and…I don't know if I can do it by myself and Emily will come back to a disaster of a green space and her aura is going to be all messed up and I'll be the screw up sister again and-"
"Ok ok ok alright I'm, huh, you want me to help round?"
Haley's pout and wet eyes turned to a big toothy grin. She was perfectly aware of her manipulative skills. "Oh Yoba, would you? That would be fantastic!"
Shane puffs his cheeks, keeping in a sigh. He really couldn't be bothered. Bloody shift at Joja was already keeping him away from his next pint, and he'd have to spend hours on his knees weeding the neighbor's garden for a favor? He felt sore just thinking about it.
"Er…Haley listen…"
"I can pay you!" Haley grabbed his hoodie, her blue eyes fluttering towards the sleepy man. "I've got some nice returns from my last pictures, I'd be happy to pay for your service."
The mere idea of getting paid by a… "friend" is ridiculous, but the allure of more spending money trumps everything else. Shane chews the inside of his cheek for a while. He'll be late at this cadence.
"I'll come by after work, 'k? Just to kinda…assess the work."
Haley jumps on her feet. "Oh thank you Shane!" She sings as she releases him, almost tempted to wipe her hand on her skirt. "You'll see, it'll be easy done and easy money!"
He watches her saunter back to her house, almost skipping to the door, her long perfect blond locks jumping with her.
"See you after your work then, yes?" Her eyes somehow look even bigger from afar.
"Yeah yeah." Shane throws a dismissing wave, heading back to work.
"Haley this is a fucking dump." Shane tries to compose himself as he sees Haley shakes at his swear. She wasn't miss proper, but he knew everything always had to be perfect -for her- so letting the garden turns that way wasn't really a surprise.
Asking the trashiest man of the valley for help though really was one.
"So, what do you reckon, a day, two?" She asks with desperate hope in her voice.
"I'll be here like two hours a day at that." Shane starts, rubbing his stubble, wanting to make sure she wouldn't overwork him when all he wants to do is go to the saloon or back home to drink in peace. "I'd say four." He shrugs.
Haley thinks for a moment. If this bum keeps his promise of coming every day then it would be done before Emily was to come back. If.
"Four days work." She nods. "If you make sure you do show up four consecutive days".
Shane brows furrow. "Fuck you take me for, sure I'll be there." That'd show her.
The blond shrugs, playing with the bounce of her locks. "As long as I don't have to step a toe in that mess."
"Yeah figured that wasn't something you or Em' would do." Shane laughs. "That quarter there's covered in 'possum shit."
Haley trembles, concealing a shriek. Pests? Rodents? In her garden? Relieving themselves in her garden? Yoba she was glad she didn't go through the whole thing this morning.
"Ok, well, chop chop?" Her genuine looking smile doesn't help with the demanding clap of her hands, and Shane stays still, fists in his pockets, tired eyes on the weeds, dirty shoes in the mud, and what's that on his hoodie? Is that chili sauce? Haley softly recoils. "What are you waiting for?"
"Don't you have tools or 'nything? Want me to go at it by hands? Or with my teeth? M'not a bloody goat."
Sure do smell like one. Haley thinks with a huff, disappearing into the house. Surely Emily would have some gardening stuff laying around…
"What the hell is this?" Shane would explode in a fit of laughter if he wasn't pissed off having missed precious drinking time. "You want me to work with that?" He points at what Haley brought back from the house.
Some novelty shear, trowel, and shovel, all painted with flowers and mounted on plastic handles. It looked just like those Jas used to play with.
"What's wrong with them?"
"Those are toys." He grunts. "M'not gonna be able to pull no damn weed with that thing." He grabs the pair of shears, looking ridiculous in his hand, in his big palm.
"Well, that's all we've got so…"
"Yeah, it's not me you need it's some fucking tools."
"No no no, please!" Haley stops Shane from leaving, putting the shears back in her hands. "I really need your help, please!" She drops the 'tools' and pulls on Shane's dirty hoodie. "I did my nails yesterday, I can't dig in the dirt!!"
Shane only chortles, moving his shoulder to get rid of the blond parasite while he resumes his walk to the ranch. No, not even extra cash could convince him to be this ridiculous.
Leaning against the fence, Shane is looking into the distance. He finally got to open his long awaited beer, and the taste is bitter. Much bitter than expected. Sips aren't soothing, not even this satisfying burn at the back of his throat weirdly coated by…guilt? He could be helpful. He could just for this one damn time put his rotten self to the side and help. But no, he had to crave a cheap bubbly piss of a beer too much to actually be nice.
He sighs, sloshing the lukewarm drink in its can. Fucking hell.
"can'ttrustanyoneinthisdamntown" Haley mumbles, rambles, using the pastel shears on the tall grass, sweat falling in her eyes, her usually floating hair tied up in a messy bun, knees in the mud.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
She turns her head to the voice, smearing mud on her face as she tries to wipe the sweat off. "What do you want, dickhead?"
"Woh ok there, just came back to help." Shane put the tools he took from the ranch against the wall, keeping the large pair of shears. "Look that's what real shears look like."
"You find that funny?"
He looks at the pretty princess all covered in mud, sweat, grass, kneeling in dirt and droppings, and chortles. "Yeah."
"Get bent."
"Nah come on, I came back to help ya." He smirks as he extends his hand to her, his lips tugging just a tiny bit more than he wants at the cute mess in front of him.
Haley looks at the big hand offered to her, earnestly open to help her, albeit a little dirty. She tries to flip her long blond hair before realising her hands are much dirtier, and gladly accepts Shane's help. Without any effort, he lifts her up the ground, up to his stale beer breath and strange mix of odors. Perhaps working the grass will help him at the very least look like he's actually worth breaking a sweat.
"Fine, do your thing, I'm heading to the shower." She releases his hand, leaving him in the garden.
Haley reappears, enshrouded in the steam of the bathroom, a few towels, and a renewed self-esteem, along with the floral scents of rosehip, peony, and a hint of vanilla. She tip-toes her naked feet to the kitchen to fill a kettle, treating herself to a less fragrant herbal blend she definitely earned, and while she waits for the water to heat, she bends to the window.
Shane had removed his hoodie, and was now working against the thorny bushes that line up the outer fence. He's obviously been working hard while Haley was pampering herself, as the entrance to the garden is now a pristine green of nothing but the wanted grass. She watches him pull on the tangled branches, all muscles flexing, pricks of blood, mud, and sweat. His arms seem to explode under his jersey, meeting the -very obviously- worked out deltoids he had been hiding under his hoodie this whole time. And he's back at another branch, flexing, swearing, choking the wood under his big palms to pull with strength, relentless, until it gives and falls in his hands, until the branch has lost its power, its roots, and is now nothing against Shane's powerful grip and resolve.
"Oh you f…"
Haley jumps, the kettle's whistle almost making her slip in the sink where she was perched to observe Shane at work. It takes a while for the colorful walls to come back, the sink, the counters, the damn loud kettle, and she struggles to place herself back into her own kitchen, her cheeks warm, face flushed, shame slowly creeping in, coursing through her whole body under the fluffy towel. Her mind was playing tricks on her sensible self, she knew she would never wish to be a thorny branch.
Still, once she had dried up her hibiscus scented hair, applied the jasmine mask, covered her body in orchid and almond moisturizing butter, and as she was busy cutting her cuticles, Shane now away to wherever he was heading, she found herself thinking about him, again. About his back muscles stretching under his shirt, his strong arms pulling on the tough branches he was holding with bare, rough looking, calloused, dirty, powerful hands, carrying the tools and branches like he could carry her, without any effort, concentrating all his force and vigor into…
"Aouch." The small bamboo trimmer goes in deeper than intended, blood starts gently bubbling above her finger she quickly puts in her mouth, her warm face and dreaming eyes looking at the door in front of her. She can't wait for Shane to come back the next day, and finish what he started.
He was late, but at Haley's relief, he showed up. He did apologize, and reeked of alcohol. But he was ready for the task, already grabbing the shears and other tools he was using the day before. She was as cold and demanding as any other day, Shane thought, already removing his hoodie. Today, he'll finish with the weeds and the bushes.
From the kitchen window, Haley observes. He's been whacking at the tall grass for about half an hour now, enough to break a sweat, enough for him to lift his shirt and wipe his face with it, enough for his stomach to spill through as Haley open wide eyes, looking at the messy happy trail that had been hiding from her. And his shirt falls back, his dirty hand spread mud on his forehead and it's warm, unbelievably warm today.
"Think you deserve a break." Shane hears from one of the windows. "I made lemonade, if you want any."
"Could at least bring it out here" Shane mumbles to himself, wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead, falling on his temples. He sure hoped she'd have a little pick-me-up to spike that lemonade but that would be surprising.
Not as surprising as what welcomes him.
Haley is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table, and smiles as she sees how it stopped Shane right in his track. Her baby blue lacey chemise was falling on her like tiny waves, the curves of her body being an ocean under the sun of her blond hair. She flipped it, sending a combo of floral scents to Shane's nostrils, already taken aback by the vision.
"Huh…" He says with a dry throat.
"The lemonade is right there." Haley says, uncrossing her legs to point with her foot to the counter where a tall glass is sweating on the counter. But Shane's eyes are on nothing but Haley, and not following her foot made him discover that his blond neighbor was not wearing any underwear.
"Wh-, uh, what…"
Haley giggles at his stutter, everything was working like a charm, she would have him between her legs in just a minute. "I can't imagine how hot it is outside, and you doing all this labor…" She pouts, and grabs an ice cube from the bowl behind her. "Thinking about you toiling in the heat… I feel hot myself…" Haley uses the voice she rehearsed countless times, the voice people associate her with, the bimbo, the blond one. Today she's claiming it for herself, to get this fat man rutting between her warm thighs at once.
"Haley-" Shane gulps, his eyes burning holes into the satin of her garment, not even pretending to want to avert his gaze, to be a gentleman.
Haley plays with the ice, slowly rubbing her chin, her throat, letting the dripping melting water down her cleavage, falling into a shiver like in a pantomime. "Aren't you hot?" She asks him in nothing but a whisper. The ice cube glides on her skin as she lets it go, both their pair of eyes following it fall to the ground. "Oh, clumsy me!" She laughs, pushing herself off the table, turning her back to Shane to bend over, her hair falling with her, releasing her naked neck, naked back, and more importantly, naked everything.
"F-…, Haley, I, huh…"
"Do you want that lemonade?" Haley continues to play pretend, snapping back up with a majestic flip of her hair, to turn straight to Shane almost trembling, his hands balled up in fists. "I thought you were thirsty…"
Damn, Shane is positively parched. And the tall blond in front of him is outrageously calling his name. He shouldn't be that tough to break.
"I…could do with a drink…yeah…" Finally, a full sentence. Even if it's not what Haley wants to hear.
No matter, she knows men. Slowly approaching Shane, she grabs his hand, unfurling his thick fingers to discover all the cuts and pricks he got while working on her garden.
"You should have told me you got hurt…" She says, bringing his hand to her lips. "I'm always ready to kiss it better…" She softly moans, kissing the skin, smelling the mud and the grass, feeling the heat coming from Shane. "I sure would like you to treat me like those branches."
Shane retrieves his hand and in one swoop carries Haley to the table, his lips drawn to her triumphant smile as she opens her legs to feel his erection stuck in his shorts. She moves her hips up to him, embracing him with her thighs to lock him above her, her hands in his hair pushing him down to her wanting mouth.
"Wait, wait, Haley, wait." Shane removes himself, out of breath, lips already swollen by Haley's ravenous kisses.
"What?" She huffs, pulling her hair out of her face.
"I've been sweatin' like a maniac out there, lemme take a shower first and-"
"Don't you fucking dare." She orders behind gritted teeth as she pulls Shane's shirt to bring him back with her against the table, using his shock of her swearing to bury herself in his sweaty neck, taking him all in. The dirt, the sweat, the beer, the mud, the dizzying musk. "Fuck you're filthy." Haley hisses, pushing Shane deeper and deeper, moving her hips against his hardness with an almost terrifying hunger.
Whatever she's into, Shane can hardly think, he lets himself fall into the many different flowers and vanilla enveloping her, letting his dirty hands all over her body, his thumb caked with mud teasing her hardened nipples under the blue mesh. If that's what she wants, Shane is more than ready to give it to her.
A bit too ready even.
Freeing himself from Haley's grip he grabs the bowl of ice cubes she was using earlier, and quickly kneel in front of the table.
"What are you- Oh…Ooh!"
Shane swirls his cold tongue, pushing ice into her swollen lips. Fuck she even tastes of vanilla. Nose against her blond curls, he lets the ice melt against his mouth, his tongue teasing the throbbing pink bud, until Haley grabs his hair, his name barely leaving her throat. His focus is on the melting ice, the puffy pink lips in front of him, and his painful cock pushing against the elastic of his shorts, as all he wants is to satisfy the beautiful princess who invited him between her warm legs.
"Shane!" Haley screams, Shane's nails digging into her thighs, digging himself into Haley's core, playing with the ice cubes, letting it melt on her pubis, catching it with his working tongue. Haley can hardly fathom his ingenuity, but she will definitely remember it. He'll make sure of that, that each flick of her clit from now on will remind her of the dirty lazy fuck living just outside the town.
Her own nails into Shane's skull, she squirms as he keeps the pace, her eyes rolling back, her hips serving her cunt to Shane on a silver plate, and he was more than happy to lap it all without leaving any crumbs, with the mess of his meal around his mouth, all over his stubble, dripping off his chin like a wet dog. Haley had caught a dirty stray she could not release, until his tongue comes back with so much force that she becomes slave to his hands, to his mouth, shaking, screaming, begging.
And the relief of his parted mouth only lasts a few seconds, Shane's fat cock inviting himself into her plush, wet, lips, in a groan, and a barely muffled scream.
"Fuck…" Shane grabs Haley's thighs, his dry muddy hands caressing the skin to reach her hips he pulls against him, using her like a toy he only needs to push his dick into, watching Haley's eyes roll back. "Fuck!" She feels decadent around his cock, like a royal pillow he was never supposed to touch, or allowed to, without making sure to give her the utmost delicate dedication. And the moans, the voice, leaving her parted pink lips warm his core almost as much as being buried inside her.
"Shane… What are you doing?"
"Wh- huh? what do you mean?" He asks, panting, inside Haley.
"I specifically asked you to treat me like one of those branches." She replies, eyes deep in his, absolutely certain of what she is requesting. "So fuck me Shane. Fuck, hurt me, destroy me, split me into two…" She spits. "Show me what you can do! You can't have a dick so thick and use it like that!"
Taken aback, Shane laughs, grabbing onto Haley's waist. "Don't wanna be treated like a princess no more, blondie?"
"You heard me." She blushes, looking away, almost ashamed at the demand even after such a display.
"Oh, loud and clear." He grins, bending over to softly give her a kiss, preparing her. "Jus'…ask me again."
Haley pouts, her insides quivering around him, her thighs shaking from the earlier release and Shane's own heat. "Fuck me, Shane."
"Won't be pretty."
"I don't care."
A growl rises in his chest, Haley's insides clenching around him, her perfect body laying on the table for him, dressed in blue laces and soft mesh, her blond hair splayed around her head or stuck to her face, little miss perfect begging for him to mess her up. Oh Yoba he knows he won't last long, but if he can make her scream enough for anyone in the mines to hear it'll be a success.
Haley nails scrape the wood of the table as Shane starts pounding into her, a smile for only warning, the rapid squelching of her demanding cunt filling the whole house. And Shane watches her lose herself, her breasts moving at the rhythm of his thrusts, her screams leaving through the open window for the whole town to hear, her praises, the way she tells him how much she's been wanting his cock, his strong filthy dirty forbidden self on top of her.
"Fuck- Shut up!" Shane snarls, finding it hard enough not to explode on the spot, but she tries to match his relentless hips.
"D-don't! Cum inside me now!" She cries, her agency on her own body lost to Shane's movements inside her. "Now! Make me dirty Shane, fill me, make me filthy!" She screams again.
Whatever gets her off Shane thinks again, almost shouts, and he growls, a whimper on his lips, his hips pathetically stuttering into Haley's tightening pussy, shooting his warm loads, his sweaty spent body falling on her clean chemise.
"Fuck…" He says, muffled by her throat, his heart erratically beating against her chest, her own pulse almost visible on the vein in her neck.
Haley raises her arms to the heavy body on top of her, pushing hair away from his damp forehead to apply her lips. "Not a word to my sister." She whispers in between kisses.
fav thing about obey me is that the characters love you regardless of whether you romance them or not. like you are special to them always.
lucifer still lets you chill in his office and listen to classical records with him while he does paperwork. he still makes smug ass comments that will end up with you cursing him out and him laughing about it. he still makes sure that you’re keeping up with everything well enough, that it’s not overwhelming you. he still confides in you about his fears and worries about himself and his brothers. he still looks out for you and checks in your make sure you’re doing alright in RAD.
mammon is still your dumbass best friend who takes you out the casino because he swears you’re the luckiest person he’s ever met. he still whines and complains about stupid shit to you like getting scammed or getting in trouble for another one of his schemes. he still holes up for movie nights in your room every night there’s no work to be done the next day. he still holds pride in the fact that he was the first demon to see how amazing you are and make a pact about it. (don’t bring up how that pact came to be for your own sake. he still sulks like a madman!!)
leviathan still watches shows and plays games with you. he still farms on your accounts for you so you can pull for that one character you really like. he still stays holed up in his room with you counting the clock to midnight, preparing for the next merch drop with plans to clear out the whole shop. he still trusts you with his insecurities and vulnerabilities, enough to be sincere and genuine in his excitement when talking to you. he still opens up to you because you will always be his Henry no matter what.
satan still takes you to cat cafes and holds a two person book club with you. he still helps you study when you need it and even when you don’t. he still barges into your room to bitch about his latest annoyance. he still trusts you with the parts of himself that he still isn’t sure is really him or maybe a remnant of his brother left inside him by mistake. still makes sure not to let anyone disrespect you in class, because if they do they only have three seconds to run.
asmodeus still drags you to his self care nights. slathers a face mask on you and shares the latest gossip and drama. still buys you pretty things that he thought would look nice on you, or reminded him of you. he still makes sure no one’s talking behind your back, makes sure that you’re doing okay. he’s still comfortable enough to vegetate with you, and let down all pretenses and masks; you are always going to be someone he is comfortable baring himself to. he’ll still freak out with you over stupid shit you’re excited about and he’ll still make sure you’re always good with yourself, kind to yourself.
beelzebub still takes you out to eat and clear out buffets with him weekly. he still invites you to his matches personally. he still gets excited when he sees you show up even though you’ve been attending his games consistently for years now. he still tells you about his brothers and his’ time in the celestial realm. he’ll still tell you about his sister and love you enough to feel comfortable to grieve in front of you. he still makes sure you’re always eating enough—he’s gotta make sure you’re taking care of yourself, yknow? he also still eats your leftovers even when you explicitly tell him not too. sorry. :(
belphegor still takes you to the planetarium when things are getting too much. he takes your nightmares away. makes sure you sleep well. he still drags you down for a nap whenever he feels like it. he still tells you about how he misses his sister, about how he misses his brothers sometimes even though they’re still here, just different. he still trusts you enough to admit that sometimes, he misses himself, and who he was before all this. and then after all that, he still flicks you on the nose and calls you annoying because before he is an avatar of sin he is the spoiled baby of the family, and he knows you’ll always be there to snark right back.
sorry it just. moves me. like you truly do become a part of these seven guys’ found family no matter what. even if you reject every single possible romance option they will still love you and protect you and look out for you and snap at you and annoy you and not even be sorry about it. because you are special to them!!! you will always be someone important to them!!!!
A/N: you ever boot up an old game from your childhood and get suddenly hit with the nostalgia of one of your first fandoms ever? Me too! This is entirely self-indulgent, as I've always wanted a deeper look into the past between Jakob and lady Corrin. He was my very first fictional husband and I think it's time I show him some proper appreciation. Enjoy!
No matter how many years pass, Jakob still hates waking up early in the morning. He still does it, of course, because it's his job, but what he wouldn't give for just a few more hours of sweet oblivion! Especially when what awaits him is a full day of chores and running after Lady Skyla.
They've come a long way since the day they met, obviously, but that doesn't change the fact that she is terribly vivacious and sometimes too mischievous for her own good. In all honesty, though, he has become fond of her peculiarities... Maybe a little too fond. He normally wouldn't give it much thought, but recently he's heard some of the other servants talking behind his back (which isn't entirely new) about how taken he is with the young princess and how clearly there is some tenderness brewing between the butler and his liege. How preposterous! Obviously, since he's become quite skilled at his job, the other servants are unable to make fun of his ineptitude anymore, so they've come up with this entirely inaccurate narrative to entertain themselves instead of tending to their duties! There is no tenderness! Jakob is merely grateful for Lady Skyla's generosity and he takes his job very seriously. If it wasn't for her, perhaps he'd be out on the streets by now. She's the only reason he's managed to make it this far as a butler, for he was determined to meet her expectations and become worthy of serving her and standing by her side. That isn't tenderness, it's gratitude. Plain and simple. Besides, a butler falling for his liege is entirely inappropriate, and he is a professional through and through by now.
He grumbles to himself as he finishes braiding his hair, wondering if, perhaps, in some convoluted way, his colleagues might be right. Maybe he's too affectionate? Too close to her? But as soon as he takes the idea into consideration he shakes his head. He's tried being more detached before, and his attempt resulted in Lady Skyla crying her heart out and asking what she'd done to upset him so much. No, he simply cannot do that to her again. His liege is a deeply lonely girl, always left to her own devices by her so called father and only sporadically visited by her siblings to spend time together and sometimes train. He can see how she desperately clings to any semblance of stability and companionship, and for whatever reason still unknown to Jakob, she's picked him to be her most trusted companion. On some days she spends her time with that young knight in training, but she always comes back to him. She shares her thoughts, feelings, hopes and worries with her butler... and that is more precious to him than anything in this world. After all, he has no family he can count on, most of the staff resents him for his prickly nature and pride, and he'd rather die than talk openly with Gunter, so... Lady Skyla is the only person who he feels truly comfortable with. The only one he always looks forward to seeing and spending time with. Not to mention, she's the only individual that seems to have full faith in him, no matter what. She never gave up on him, even when he was rude to her and terrible at his job (Gods, he wishes he could forget those embarrassing days. Being a child is no excuse for such abhorrent behavior-). So, all things considered, he doesn't care about what his colleagues have to say. They don't understand the deep, pure bond that exists between him and the young princess, so they do not get to label it so carelessly. As the best butler in Nohr, Jakob is all his young mistress needs him to be, and they all wish they could be even half as good as he. It's all jealousy, truly.
Having found his peace of mind again, Jakob gets through the morning with a satisfied little smirk plastered on his face, which naturally turns into a much gentler smile whenever Lady Skyla is present. As usual, he accompanies her throughout her day, offering his assistance whenever she requires it and emotional support during the lessons she hates the most. Those rare moments he isn't by her side are spent cleaning and training, as he is expected to be her retainer should the war come knocking at their door. It is only in the afternoon that the princess finally gets a moment of reprieve and asks Jakob to keep her company as she takes a walk through the palace garden.
As they walk, he immediately notices how quiet his ladyship is, but just as he is about to ask, she finally starts talking.
“Jakob, do you think I'll... ever manage to leave this place? Northern Fortress, I mean...” She asks quietly as they pass under one of the oldest trees in the garden. One she's always adored climbing, despite how many times she's been told it's not an activity fit for a princess. Before he can answer, she continues.
“It's just that I thought that by now I would be allowed outside. I've trained hard. Gods, I can hardly remember a time before my training started. I'm pretty much an adult and yet my father still refuses to grant me my freedom. If what it takes is for me to best Xander in battle... I fear I might never be able to leave.” Her voice turns into a barely audible whisper, as if merely speaking those words might bring them to reality. Jakob has seen his liege disheartened before, but never quite this defeated. Among other things, she has a remarkably strong will, so to see her this close to giving up... it unsettles him. He doesn't even have to think about his next words.
“My lady, I can see how this situation is frustrating to you, and I agree it is most unfair to keep you here while your siblings are free to come and go as they please, but putting that aside... I am confident that you have exactly what it takes to obtain the King's approval one day. And, if I may be so bold to say so, I believe the King feels somewhat similarly. If he didn't think you had a chance, why even waste time in training you at all? Clearly he expects you to succeed, and judging by the leaps you've taken in the last few years while training, it is only a matter of time before you finally match the Crown Prince's battle prowess. I have full faith in you, Lady Skyla.”
As she quietly listens to what he has to say, she seems to regain some of her confidence, but the smile she gives him is still sad, and it tugs at his heartstrings terribly.
“Thank you Jakob, I know I probably sound like a whining child, but it's just...” She takes a trembling breath as suddenly her eyes fill with tears, almost sending the poor butler in a panic.
“Sometimes I'm left to wonder about whether or not my family truly wants me around. My siblings always seem happy whenever they come visit me, I can see that, but would they still be happy if they had me around all the time? And why does my father never come here? I'm no orphan, but sometimes I feel like I am not truly part of the family. Shouldn't parents be present and loving? Shouldn't they want their children to be happy? I don't even remember when the last time father showed affection to me was...” She brings a hand up to her mouth as if that would stop the hiccups rising in her throat. On all that is holy, Jakob swears he will never forgive the King for making her feel like this. A bitter taste raises at the back of his throat. He knows a few things about how utterly garbage some parents can be, but his liege shouldn't have to experience it for herself.
“Unfortunately, my lady, not all parents are truly deserving of such title. Bringing a child into this world, after all, doesn't make one a real parent. It pains me to see how much hurt you are feeling, and I wish I could take it from you. Please, forgive this shortcoming of mine.” He bows gracefully as he holds out a handkerchief, sincere in his regret despite how absurd it sounds.
“But there is one thing I know for certain, lady Skyla. You do not need your father's approval to be happy. I am sure you have noticed, but you are deeply loved both by the fortress' inhabitants and your siblings. Lord Xander always looks forward to sparring with you, and he is in a good mood whenever you're around. Lady Camilla would spend all her time doting on you, if she could. Prince Leo is always eager to test your newly acquired knowledge, and I do not think you need me to tell you just how much Lady Elise adores you. She always pouts whenever she is told she may not come visit you. Being unable to leave whenever you please feels stifling and, naturally, even lonely, but you're far from alone and unloved. Even if your family wasn't around at all, you'd still have us by your side, no matter what. You are a wonderful young woman, strong and capable, with the kindest of hearts, and I... we couldn't wish for a better princess to serve.” Jakob clears his throat, bringing his arms behind his back to keep his composure and hopefully ignore the sudden warmth spreading all over his face.
“You are destined for greatness one way or another, I am certain of it.” He concludes, bowing his head slightly again, only now noticing how quiet Lady Skyla has gotten. He takes a peek at her, worried he might have spoken out of line, but all he sees is her soft smile and a reassuring flush to her cheeks as she finishes dabbing the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief.
“You always know what to say to make me feel better, Jakob. I don't know what I would do without you”. She sighs gratefully, her words making his heart flip in his chest.
“I hope you know that I consider all of you as family just as much as my real siblings. You especially. You are right, I am not alone and I am capable to do anything I set my mind on. I will get out of here someday.” She nods confidently to herself, putting her hands on her hips in that way she always does whenever she is ready to face a challenge head on. He can't help but laugh softly at that. There's the princess he knows.
“Certainly, my lady. I am most eager to witness your triumph.” He says solemnly as he follows her deeper into the garden, his attention momentarily grabbed by a peculiar cluster of flowers in one of the bushes. He reaches for the white petals and his fingers unexpectedly collide with hers, making him freeze and snap his gaze towards her. She is looking directly at him as well, her eyes widened and her lips slightly parted in surprise, and neither of them retreats their hand as if ensnared by a time-stopping spell. After a beat, her hand settles more firmly on top of his and her lips curl into a warm smile as she regards him with a twinkling light in her eyes that he doesn't quite know how to properly interpret.
“You will come with me when I do, won't you, Jakob?” She asks eagerly, suddenly standing much closer than usual. Before this very instant, he hadn't noticed he's grown evidently taller than her, and for some reason unknown to him, this makes him realize they are no longer kids. The significance of all these years spent together makes his chest grow warm in a way he's never quite felt before, and the moment of panic triggered by the sudden touching of their hands melts away into a comfortable sense of anticipation and certainty. He lets her hold his hand for a while longer, and he will have time later to worry about his feelings and to chastise himself for this impropriety, but for now the only acceptable course of action is for him to return her smile.
“There is nothing that could ever keep me from your side, my lady. Wherever you go, I will follow”.
brought to us by @shandoratheexplorer, thank you so much!
Gale Dekarios x f!reader, as the prompt suggests: (semi) public setting; inappropriate use of mage hand, insufferably smug Gale
Read on AO3
“Breathe, my love.”
Gale’s voice is velvet threaded with laughter, and the smirk curving his mouth could topple kingdoms. He lifts his wine glass with deliberate elegance, savoring a slow sip before placing it back on the table with infuriating composure.
You wince—your thighs instinctively tightening as a mage hand slips up the inside of your leg, warm and mercilessly slow through the fabric.
Gale only smiles, all warmth and arrogant delight, perfectly at ease in the midnight-blue suit that fits him like a sin. The crisp white shirt beneath makes him look even more composed while your pulse stumbles, your breath shivers, and your whole body threatens to give you away.
“I am breathing,” you hiss, fingers trembling as you raise your glass.
“Are you?” he asks, tone dripping with false innocence. “You seem a touch… rattled.”
“Gale Dekarios—”
Your warning collapses into a sharp inhale as the invisible hand inches higher, brushing dangerously close to where you burn for him. Gale lets out a soft, satisfied laugh—the kind that rubs along your nerves like warm silk and makes everything worse.
Because you haven’t closed your legs.
And Gale knows it.
He revels in the trust of it, the thrill simmering beneath your skin, the way you shake under the table while maintaining perfect civility above it. This—this delicate balance between your restraint and his teasing—is as intoxicating for him as the magic itself.
Heat coils deep in your belly, tension tightening with every glide of that damn invisible hand. Your cheeks flush. Your breathing trembles. A quiet, helpless sound threatens to escape your throat if he pushes even a fraction further.
And Gale?
Gale simply smiles.
His real hand rests casually on the table, fingers brushing the stem of his wine glass, your wedding band glinting in the candlelight like a soft, intimate promise. He looks the picture of innocent elegance while ruthlessly tormenting you beneath linen and shadows.
Occasionally, he flicks a glance your way: eyes molten, lips curved in a subtle, knowing smirk that screams he is enjoying every second of this.
He looks devastating.
Unfairly devastating.
It takes every shred of sanity not to drag him into the nearest alley, shove him up against the stone wall, and take him right there.
And he is aware.
Slipping over your already-soaked undergarments, the magical fingers flatten against you in slow and unforgiving strokes. They apply just the right amount of pressure, the kind that forces your breath to catch and your body to go taut in an instant, poised between restraint and ruin.
“Tell me, my love,” Gale begins, in the most maddeningly casual tone he has ever used, “what did you think of my last recommendation? I know you’re not particularly fond of the necromantic scriptures I pointed out, but The Last Canticle of Myrkul is quite an intriguing read…”
Gale’s eyes fixate on you as he speaks—steady, unblinking, a perfect mask of non-chalance wrapped in arcane theory.
To anyone watching, he looks like a man politely discussing scholarship over wine: relaxed posture, elegant cadence, fingertips resting idly against the stem of his glass as he muses about divine decay and forgotten liturgies.
But beneath the table, he’s destroying you.
Those invisible fingers keep stroking you in that devastating rhythm, and Gale—smug, infuriating, beautiful Gale—pretends nothing at all is happening. His voice is smooth, precise, almost bored.
“…and while the theological implications of Myrkul’s final doctrine are often misunderstood—are you listening, my love?—I find the metaphysical subtleties rather profound.”
His tone doesn’t falter.
His smile doesn’t slip.
His damn hand doesn’t stop.
But his eyes—those deep, dark, warm brown eyes—stay locked on you with wicked intent.
They flicker over your face: the flush in your cheeks, the way your breath hitches, the way you grip your wine glass a little too tightly. Every tiny reaction is a confession he drinks in as greedily as any arcane text.
He knows what he’s doing to you.
He knows you’re struggling to breathe.
He knows you’re fighting to keep your composure.
And he revels in it— smiling ever so slightly, a glimmer of wicked satisfaction hiding behind his scholar’s calm— as if this, you unraveling under his magic, is the finest study he’s ever undertaken.
You swallow hard, fighting for a steady breath.
“I—I am afraid,” you manage, but the words wobble, trembling as badly as your thighs beneath the table. It’s barely a sentence, barely coherent, and it betrays far more than you intend.
“My love,” he murmurs in that velvet-soft chiding tone, “please. Composure. This is a place of civility.”
You glare at him, daggers in your eyes, but he only huffs a quiet laugh. The sound is warm, delighted, far too pleased with himself. His gaze sharpens, not to mock, but to study. To check. To make certain that the trembling in your voice is from pleasure, not distress.
His expression shifts ever so slightly: still smug, still wicked, but softened by care.
Only then does he continue.
Meanwhile, the mage hand does not relent. Not for a heartbeat.
Its pressure stays perfect—steady, deliberate, dragging you towards the edge with merciless patience. The rhythm is maddening: just enough to ruin your thoughts, never enough to push you over. Your body betrays you, hips shifting an inch, knees clenching around the invisible sensation.
Your face contorts, just slightly so. Enough for a choked sound to escape your throat before you catch it. Gale’s eyes brighten instantly.
And gods, the way he smiles, warm and proud. Possessive in the gentlest, most devastating way.
As if your barely-contained unraveling is the loveliest thing he’s ever witnessed.
As if watching you fight for composure, flushed and trembling in candlelight, is a private gift made for him alone.
Your mind is utterly blank—wiped clean by the slow, devastating rhythm of the spell still working you beneath your clothes. Every coherent thought has dissolved into a single, deafening plea you refuse to let pass your lips. You will not beg. You can’t give him that satisfaction, not here, not in public, not with that insufferably knowing smile on his face.
But gods, it’s getting harder.
Every pulse of magic tightens the knot inside you, every stroke steals another scrap of willpower. Your breath is shallow, your pulse a frantic flutter beneath your skin.
“Would you like me to take you home?” Gale asks at last. Softly, politely, utterly aware that you’re one whimper away from shattering.
You can’t speak, you only nod.
He rises immediately, smooth as ever, chair barely scraping. His hand finds the small of your back as he orders your coats from the attendant, his voice perfectly steady, in control. Damn him.
You stand because he guides you to your feet. Someone helps you into your coat. You don’t even remember lifting your arms. Your hand ends up in his, fingers clutching tighter than you intended, and Gale’s thumb brushes your knuckles with quiet amusement.
The cold night air hits you when you step outside.
You gasp, but not from the temperature.
Because the mage hand is still there.
Still touching you.
Still stroking you with obscene tenderness beneath the layers of fabric.
The contrast—icy winter air on your flushed skin, warmth blooming low in your belly from his magic—is enough to make your knees buckle. You stumble half a step, catching yourself only because Gale’s arm tightens around you, guiding you forward as though nothing is amiss.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dipped in honeyed mischief. “It’s quite slippery tonight.”
You shoot him a trembling glare, but the look he gives you in return—dark, intimate, full of promise—nearly robs you of breath entirely.
You barely feel the cold. You barely feel anything except him.
And his spell, still circling you like a whisper against your most sensitive place, coaxing your body towards a breaking point you can no longer escape.
You stop midstep, your boots skidding slightly on the frost-slick cobblestone.
Gale halts with you, brows lifting in mild, amused curiosity.
And then you launch yourself at him.
Your arms hook around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that is all teeth and desperation, your tongue sliding into his mouth with a plea he answers instantly. The moment your tongues meet, his composure snaps like brittle glass.
A sound tears from him—half-moan, half-gasp—barely contained, swallowed into your mouth as his hands dive beneath your coat. Strong fingers grip your waist, dragging you flush against him with a fierceness that steals what little breath you had left.
The mage hand trembles against you in response to his break in focus, a jolt of heat shooting straight through your core. Gale shudders—shudders—into the kiss, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.
You devour him, fingers tangling in his hair, guiding his head exactly where you want him, drinking in his unraveling. He kisses you like a man starved, lips hungry, urgent, matching your intensity beat for beat.
“I need you,” you gasp between kisses, voice raw, trembling. “Now.”
The word lands between you like a spell.
Gale freezes for a fraction of a heartbeat—just long enough for you to see the way it hits him, the way his pupils blow wide, the way something primal and tender and aching flickers across his face.
And then he’s moving.
One hand cups the back of your head, guiding your mouth to his again; the other grips your hip, pulling you even closer, as if he could fuse you together right there in the middle of the street.
“Then take me,” he whispers against your lips. “Wherever you want me.”
The mage hand pulses in agreement, slow and devastating, and the night around you vanishes into nothing but heat, breath, and the man you’re about to completely unravel.
You manage to drag him into the nearest alley, but barely. Every step is a stumble, a tug, a gasp, because your hand is already on him, massaging him through his clothes, and his breath keeps breaking against your mouth in ragged bursts. The mage hand never leaves you, coaxing a low, needy moan from your lips—the first sound you’ve allowed to slip free all evening.
Your back hits the brick wall with a muted thud, cold stone biting through your coat, but you barely feel it. The world narrows, collapses, dissolves into nothing but Gale.
Gale’s taste is the first thing you notice. Whatever wine he chose tonight lingers faintly on his tongue, something subtly sweet, but beneath that sweetness is him: the pure longing, the fierce devotion, the reverent desperation he never hides from you. You kiss him harder, greedier, drinking it all in.
Your fingers work at his pants with absolutely no finesse, shoving, tugging, nearly ripping the fabric. Gale doesn’t complain, doesn’t even pause. He moans into your mouth, his hips jerking reflexively towards your hand, unable and unwilling to stop himself.
Your kisses dissolve into teeth, into heat, into panting, breathless tugs at each other’s lips. He devours every sound you make, and you swallow every broken noise that slips from him. Between the frantic kisses come whispered fragments—“I love you,” “gods, I need you,” “please”—all of them falling from both your mouths, tangled together.
The mage hand falters for a heartbeat as you shove your undergarments down, growling into his mouth at the interruption. It regains its rhythm immediately, stroking you with a precise, devastating pressure as you kick the soaked fabric aside. The moment your legs are free, you’re fumbling with Gale’s clothes again, dragging them down enough for him to spring into your hand.
He hisses sharply against your cheek, the sound half-moan, half-prayer. His lips roam desperately over your face—your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—as if he can’t decide where to kiss first.
Then his moan deepens, vibrating against the shell of your ear, warm and open and utterly unrestrained, as he slides his arms beneath you. Strong hands grip your thighs, lifting you effortlessly.
Your legs wrap around him on instinct, your fingers tightening in his curls, dragging him down into another bruising kiss.
The mage hand strokes you, your hands guide him and he lets you, shuddering hard, breath trembling against your lips as you line him up, the heat of him nudging against you, both of you shaking with need.
When he finally pushes into you, the sound that tears from your throat isn’t even a moan—it’s pure relief, raw and uncontrollable. A shudder runs through your entire body, your back arching off the wall as he opens you, stretches you, slides into you like he was made for this, for you, as if he has always belonged in this exact place, in this exact moment.
He fills you to the very brim, every inch a slow, devastating blessing, and your head drops back against the cold brick with a breathless, disbelieving laugh. You finally draw in a full breath—your first in what feels like hours—your chest rising, trembling, as the relief crashes through you in warm, dizzying waves.
Gale groans at the way you wrap around him, his lips immediately finding the arch of your throat. He drags his mouth along your skin in a desperate glide, his breath breaking over your pulse point as if the sensation of you is undoing him completely.
“Finally,” you manage to gasp, with a shaking voice, the word half-laugh, half-plea.
Gale chuckles against your throat—a low, breathless, utterly wrecked sound—and the vibration of it sends another shiver straight through you. His hands tighten on you, holding you up, pulling you close, as if he’s afraid to let even an inch of distance form between your bodies.
“Gods, yes,” he murmurs against your skin, his smile warm and hungry all at once. “Finally.”
You look at him, fingers sliding into his hair, and Gale’s eyes flutter open. His grin finds you instantly—less smug than before, but no less pleased with himself. There’s a warmth to it now, a softness beneath the satisfaction that makes your breath catch.
You feel him pulse inside you, a sudden, teasing reminder of just how thoroughly he has you, and the gasp that escapes you only deepens his smile. As if summoned by your reaction alone, the mage hand returns, those deft, impossible fingers circling your most sensitive place with exquisite precision. Gale's lips twitch, the picture of delight at your helpless intake of breath.
“You’d better do me good after all that teasing,” you manage, tone sharp with playful threat, even as your voice wavers.
Gale answers with something between a groan and a laugh, his breath stuttering against your cheek. His grip shifts—one arm bracing your back, the other tightening under your thighs—and then he moves.
No warning. No hesitation.
He drives into you with a force that steals every scrap of air from your lungs. It’s not gentle; it’s not meant to be. This is reclamation. His body moves against yours in a relentless, consuming rhythm that has you clutching at his coat, biting into the fabric just to stay grounded as the world tilts around you.
It’s dizzying, perfect, the two of you tangled in shadow as though the alley itself were a sanctuary made for this moment.
There is nothing beyond the heat of him, the strength in his arms, the sheer utter perfection of him inside of you, the desperate way your bodies find each other after a night of deliberate teasing and whispered promises. Nothing but the heady rush of being consensually taken by the man you love, hidden from the world in a sliver of darkness after a romantic dinner celebrating five years together.
It’s wild and unguarded.
It’s reckless and honest.
It’s yours—utterly and entirely.
And Gale, undone and unrestrained, holds you as though this is exactly where you belong.
Would you like some more? This way please....
tags as ordered @faerybella219 @whiskeyskin @asorceresswrites @fireflyeyes
Gale x reader (no gendered pronouns or description given of reader.) Suggestive. Domestic fluff but things get a little heated by the end. Professor Gale. Established relationship. Kissing. Needy Gale. Dick joke.
Study Break
You sat comfortably on the tower's balcony, relaxed, and pleasantly engrossed in the story unfolding between the pages of your book.
Surrounded by home comforts and warmed by the golden glow of a lazy Waterdeep afternoon sun, you could happily remain there forever. The slow, rhythmic clap of the sea lapping at the foundation of the tower was the only measure of the languid passage of time. Sea birds called in the distance, following ships out of the harbor. And somewhere on the streets below a busker strummed a pretty melody on their lyre.
Not even the gentle thud of Gale setting his tome on the stand beside him roused you from your own reading.
It wasn't until you felt the weight of the wizard’s head resting in your lap and his arms winding beneath your knees to hug your legs that you fully registered that he had abandoned his work in favor of seeking your touch.
Your fingers absentmindedly threaded between the soft strands of his hair as you continued reading, determined to reach the end of the page. The afternoon sun made his silver hairs glint so prettily against his brunette, but your eyes were focused on the words before you.
Yet even divided, your attention was enough to make Gale groan contentedly. His eyes closed and his lips curved into a blissful smile. You knew he’d happily stay there as long as he could, until his feet went to sleep and his back was stiff.
“Have you finished planning your lessons?” you asked, finally slipping an embroidered silk bookmark carefully between the pages– a gift from Gale's mother, Morena.
The wizard chuckled, “Not even close. But my eyes were beginning to ache and my heart too. I was starved of your affection.”
“You poor, neglected thing,” you said, the warmth in your voice clear as you stroked the hair back from his temple and tucked it behind his ear. “What has it been? Two? Three hours?”
“Oh, it must have been a tenday at least. But no matter, just a minute of your attention is enough to fill my heart to the brim. There's even more magic to be found here in your lap than between the pages of a book.”
He gazed up at you like you were his very own sunrise, the corners of his warm chestnut eyes adorned with lines deepened by years of happiness. No matter how long you'd been together, the wonder in his eyes when he looked upon you had never once faded. And you were certain he saw that same adoration reflected in yours. He must've. You certainly felt it radiating from you with every breath, every heartbeat.
Gale was yours completely and you were entirely his.
Slowly, your hand drifted down the curve of his cheek, your fingertips rasping through the coarse hair of his beard that the two of you had fought hard against his mother– and even harder against Tara– to keep. A contented hum rumbled from his throat as you cupped his chin, and tilted his face toward your kiss.
Pleasant tingles rolled through you at the warmth of his breath and the gentle graze of his lips against yours. Chaste at first, then hungrier and deeper. And oh, how he kissed you; like you were beyond precious. Like you were sacred.
Soft and slow, his lips parted, welcoming the caress of your tongue. He rewarded you with the sweetest sighs and muted moans that made your toes curl.
Those doting eyes pleaded with you when you drew back; please, more. But he simply rested his brow against your knees and chuckled breathlessly.
“The things you do to me,” he sighed. “I beg that you never stop kissing me like that.”
“I promise. I couldn’t if I tried. But I shouldn’t distract you, not while you’re planning your classes.”
Gale’s eyes sparked with that familiar glint of mischief. “Ah, well, while I appreciate your attempt to keep me on track, I fear I would be remiss to point out the abundance of evidence that a rested mind is an efficient mind, and that it is far, far, far easier to focus on a particularly laborious task, such as lesson planning, when going about it undistracted.”
“Ah,” you said, mirroring his playful tone. “So you’re saying it’s easier for a wizard to focus on his books when he isn't distracted by the whims of his quarterstaff?”
“My love, I can assure you we’re way past a quarter. Suffice to say this particular wizard is wielding a full staff, and quite an achy one at that.”
“Is that so?”
He simply smiled, a little pleased with himself, and gazed up at you with the utmost affection. Warm, careful fingers wound around yours, bringing your hand close enough to his lips to feel the caress of his breath.
His voice was sincered and deliciously honeyed as he finally replied, “It is.”
“Well,” you said, closing the gap between your hand and his lips to trace their shape with your thumb. Your breath shuttered as Gale's eyes closed, bewitched from the slightest touch. He parted his lips to allow your thumb between them, softly caressing the tip with his warm, wet tongue. “I suppose it would be cruel of me to leave you aching…”
A/N: this is my first time writing for Gale and I'm nervous! I hope I did this lovely man justice. Likes, comments, and reblogs are really appreciated 💜
Today I'm thinking back on my old BNHA OC since I haven't written anything about her in a long time, and I need to get back into it, because I adore her dynamic with Shouta. It's good ol' Grumpy x Sunshine, but the sunshine in question is also pure chaos. It reminds me of LeviHan a little.
From the outside it doesn't look like they make much sense together, and yet they work and that's all that matters to them.
Ruby is unapologetically herself and hardly ever tones herself down just to please others. She loves to tease Shouta because of how grumpy he always is, but she admires him deeply and thinks he is much kinder on the inside than what he tends to show on the outside. She genuinely enjoys his company despite the fact that they bicker a lot.
And Shouta also enjoys her presence, even though he never admits it out loud. Her energy is infectious, and, in a way, he feels like he can breathe easier when she's around. He's also impressed with her achievements and her work ethic, so they both admire each other secretly (or not so secretly).
They start off as simple colleagues, but all the time they spend together encourages them to become friends and get closer, until all the teasing and bantering turns into romantic attraction.
I think they both learn to be more vulnerable with each other, and it surprises both of them. For example, Ruby always presents herself as confident and like she doesn't care about what others think, but she does care deep down, and Shouta is likely the first one to know this about her. She worries about going over the line, so to speak, and annoying him with how high energy she is, but all he can think about is how much he likes to see her happy.
Imagine a TADC fic with reader who was literally a therapist in life and they just end up diagnosing everybody in the circus, for example:
Pomni: “I… I don’t know why I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that I can’t leave this place…”
Reader: “Because acceptance requires safety, and you don’t feel safe here. Your brain is still in survival mode - looking for exits, answers, control. Letting go would feel like giving up, and you’re not ready for that yet.”
Pomni: “…So I’m not broken?”
Reader: “No. You’re coping exactly how a trapped mind does.”
-
Ragatha: “Um- I just wanted to check in. If you feel like talking, I mean! No pressure at all, really-”
Reader: “Ragatha, pause. That constant reassurance? That’s people-pleasing. I’m not your mother, and I’m not going to punish you for not keeping me happy every second.”
Ragatha: “…Oh.”
-
Zooble: “Don’t start. I’m fine. I don’t need a talk.”
Reader: “You don’t hate everyone - you’re just exhausted from being uncomfortable in your own body all the time. Anger’s easier than admitting how powerless that feels.”
Zooble: “…That’s not- ”
Reader: “It is. And snapping at people is the only way you get control back.”
Zooble, clicking their mismatched limbs together :“…I hate that you’re right.”
-
Reader: I like your drawings.
Gangle: You do? I feel like they are...stupid
Reader: “Calling them stupid is something you learned to do so it would hurt less when other people did it first. But your drawings aren’t stupid - they’re honest. And honesty takes more courage than practicality ever did.”
Gangle, she blinks, clutching her sketchbook a little tighter: “…Oh.”
-
Jax: “Wow. You really think you can just fix everyone, huh? Just like Ragatha and her sunshine-and-rainbows routine?”
Reader: “I’m not fixing anything. I’m just pointing out patterns. Yours is avoidance through cruelty. You keep things chaotic and shallow so nothing gets close enough to matter.”
Jax: “Oh please-”
Reader: “Because caring is risky. Losing people hurt once, so now you stay in control by making sure no one expects anything real from you. The jokes, the sabotage, the smug act- it’s armor.”
Jax: “…You done?”
Reader: “Almost. Pushing people away doesn’t make the loss hurt less. It just guarantees you’re alone before it happens.”
Jax: “…You really know how to ruin the mood.”
-
Kinger: “I forget things sometimes. Important things. And when they come back… it feels heavier than when they’re gone.”
Reader: “That’s because your mind learned when to hold on and when to let go. Forgetting isn’t failure- it’s protection.”
Kinger: “…Protection?”
Reader: “Yes. You’ve been carrying grief for a very long time. Even when your memories scatter, the care you have for others stays. That kindness didn’t come from nowhere.”
Kinger, soft chuckle: “I like it when you explain things like that.”
-
Caine: “I DON’T HAVE FLAWS!”
Reader: “You display an extreme narcissistic god complex paired with deep insecurity. There are also signs of either unmanaged ADHD or a looming programming collapse - hard to tell which. Additionally, you experience recurring existential crises whenever you realize we don’t enjoy your adventures.”
Most of my free time is spent creating stories, creating alternative versions of myself that live through all these awesome adventures and find love in the most unlikely of places... Summer, my most adored creation, is a fragment of myself, just like farmer Sil, Silvia Miller, Rhianna Trickett and many others I've created through the years and that you have yet to see. I find myself both playing God and unaware subject, creator and creation, person and character, and it's all so damn fun!
This part of myself that creates, writes, draws, weaves stories of love, hardship, happiness and grief with her best friends... she almost feels like a character herself. Or something a bit bigger than that. A facet of myself that's grown into one of the best things in my life. It lets me connect with people and with my emotions, it brings color into my life and it allows me to share that color with the people I love the most. So I thought, why not make something with that?
And here she is. It almost feels like re-introducing myself to you all once again. Sil is me, I am her, and yet we are not quite the same all at once. She is a concept. The concept of this wonderful part of my life that gives me so much joy. I know to most people this is all gonna sound like garbled nonsense, but to those that do understand... I hope you like this interpretation, and that you never stop weaving stories. Keep writing, keep drawing, keep dreaming.
Since I don't trust tumblr, here's what's written in the pictures:
"Sil"
BIRTHDAY: April 24
HEIGHT: 175 cm
WEIGHT: 83kg
AGE: ???
♡ Is immortal and has lived through many lifetimes, each one different from the last.
♡ She is a Storyweaver, which makes her both a creator and its creation. She lives through stories and exists in multiple timelines at once. Aware and unaware all at the same time.
♡ Has taken on various identities. Some she remembers, some she doesn't. Some more unique than others, but at the end of the day all have some things in common.
♡ Her existance is paradoxical, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone.
♡ She holds her many lovers close to her heart, and loves them all equally, often devoting her life to them. In each timeline, she always finds room in her heart for love and passion. Not all timelines end happily though.
When I catch you, Mystra Ch. 2 (Gale of Waterdeep x fem!reader)
Rating: Explicit 18+
Word Count: 4.5k
Summary: The orb inside Gale promises devastation. You are tempted by the ruin of it.
Warnings: Smut
A/N: Alt title: The one where Gale ‘Dangerkink’ Dekarios gets out-dangerkinked.
Masterlist | Series masterlist
The morning light is brighter and more golden than you deem fair - the kind of morning the gods might conjure just to make waking up beside the one you love feel more divine. The kind of morning that would normally inspire you to write another love song.
How wonderful it would have been to wake up today in different circumstances.
You linger at the back of the group, strumming absently on your lute. The same melody loops over and over - low, circling - weaving itself into the rhythm of the march.
Astarion strolls beside you, one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight, coat slung carelessly over his shoulder. When you pause momentarily to adjust your strap and resume playing, he sighs, long and theatrical.
“If I have to hear that song one more time, darling, I may start rooting for the other woman.”
You hit a sour note in surprise, strumming off key with a squeak of fingers on polished wood. “The other woman?”
“The same three chords over and over and over? It’s plainly a song of jealousy, heartbreak… rejection?”
He’s fishing.
“I must be much more talented than I thought if you’re getting all that from three simple chords,” you shrug.
“Or perhaps, I’ve been travelling with the subject long enough to read between the sheet music.”
Your gaze drifts toward the front of the group, where Gale is chatting easily with Karlach, looking perfectly at peace. How could he look so calm, so ordinary, when just last night you were inside his mind? Seeing things that, to you at least, had changed the nature of your relationship. You’d seen yourself inside his tent - the connection between you so vivid that you’d practically felt his hands on your hips, his tongue sliding through your most intimate parts. Surely that meant something.
Unless…
“Do you think he still has feelings for Mystra?” you ask quietly.
Astarion tilts his head, eyes glittering. “Oh, I think it’s more complicated than that. Gale still worships her. And I don’t mean figuratively - he never cast his own religion aside when she discarded him. But romantically? No. Even he’s not that self-destructive.”
Self-destructive. You almost snort at the irony.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I asked him,” Astarion says simply, with a little shrug. “And when have you ever known Gale to lie? The man’s constitutionally incapable of it.”
“He hid the truth of the orb from us,” you remind him.
“For all of five minutes. And that was omission, not deceit. There’s a difference.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” You pluck idly at the strings. “I kissed him last night and he basically said sorry, but no thanks.”
Astarion raises a sculpted brow. “And that’s all you did? Kiss?”
You glance at him, cheeks warming. “Why?”
“Come now, it’s important.”
You sigh. “Well… our minds connected - through the Weave. And I saw that he was… well, thinking about me.”
“Your minds? That was it?”
Trying not to give anything away, you nod.
“Ugh,” he groans. “I do owe Shadowheart twenty gold.”
Your head snaps toward him. “You bet I’d sleep with Gale?”
He waves a hand airily. “Oh, don’t be cross. There’s precious little entertainment around here after dark. Speaking of which, might I feed on you tonight?”
You narrow your eyes. Without breaking his gaze, you start to strum the same song again.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” huffs Astarion.
The others are way ahead now, moving through the sunlight. Gale glances back once at the sound of your lute, brow furrowing faintly. You immediately change your tune, and begin playing The Queen’s High Seas. Gale turns back around.
Astarion follows your gaze, a knowing little smile tugging at his mouth. “Oh, darling,” he murmurs. “You really are a glutton for punishment.”
You don’t answer. You just keep playing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Night settles soft over camp - a quilt of smoke and starlight. The dinner Gale made is long done; the bowls have been scraped clean, the smell of roasted vegetables and herbs still hanging faintly in the air.
Gale sits by the fire, a little apart from the others, hoping the heat will help dry the damp curls sticking stubbornly to his neck. The last traces of blood and dust are gone - washed from his hair, from his hands - as though cleanliness might make him feel whole again.
It had been a hard day. A band of raiders ambushed you on the road north, and he’d watched you fight. For all your self-effacing jokes about being ‘just a bard,’ you moved like someone who had trained their whole life for this. What right did a musician have to swing a sword with such precision? You’d fought with a ferocity that startled him.
No, worse. It stirred something else entirely.
He’d read about it once: how the rush of danger could make one crave other kinds of… stimulation. It had certainly intrigued him but he’d dismissed it as a book written to inflame rather than inform. Now, after watching you cut down man after man with your hair wild and your eyes wilder - he understands it all too well.
He smooths a hand over the scar on his chest and exhales slowly. He’s ready. Or as ready as a man can be when about to risk what little peace he’s built from the scraps of him that still exist.
He rehearses the words in his mind - apology first, closely followed by honesty.
He looks toward you, sitting cross-legged at the entrance of your tent, ink smudged on your fingers as you scribble down lyrics. You pause, bring the quill to your mouth, and absent-mindedly suck the tip.
He stops dead.
Of all the things, it drives him to distraction. The academic in him scolds: a one-way ticket to ink poisoning.
And yet.
He watches your lips close around the nib and his carefully crafted apology scatters like startled birds.
Someone who could listen to this damned work in progress. If only you’d asked the tiefling, Alfira, to join your group when you had last met at the Emerald Grove.
You scribble out your latest lyrics. You hear footsteps. Your quill doesn’t stop moving. You don’t even raise your head.
“If you’re over here to complain about my playing again, you can find another neck to suck on tonight.”
There’s an awkward sort of sigh that makes you glance up.
“Oh! I thought you were -”
“Astarion. Yes.” Gale straightens his robes. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“It’s not the adjective I was thinking of, no,” you mutter, flipping over the piece of parchment to hide what you’ve written. “What do you need, Gale?”
“Could we talk? Privately?”
You glance up from where you’re sitting by the tent flap, your lute resting loosely in your lap. “Now?” you echo, a little surprised.
He hesitates, then nods. “If you don’t mind.”
You scoot backwards inside the tent and pat the space beside you.
Gale ducks under the flap. The tent feels smaller with him inside. He lingers by the entrance for a heartbeat before you shift on your bedroll to make room.
“Sit,” you murmur.
He does. His knee grazes yours as he settles, and he exhales, lifting one hand to trace a series of slow, deliberate sigils in the air. Threads of the Weave shimmer to life, violet light twining through the seams of the tent like bursts of starlight.
“Private Sanctum,” he says with quiet satisfaction.
The noise outside cuts off all at once. Even the fire’s crackle vanishes, leaving the space wrapped in a strange, heavy silence.
“They can’t hear us?” you ask, your voice sounding too loud in the stillness.
Gale shakes his head. “No. I’d… rather they didn’t.” He takes a steadying breath. “Because what I’m about to say is - well, it’s utterly mortifying. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to get through it without interruption.”
You cross your arms, feigning nonchalance. “Go on, then.”
He closes his eyes, as though bracing for impact.
“Tav… I owe you an apology. For the way I handled things last night.” His hands twist together in his lap. “You didn’t deserve my abruptness. I meant to explain, but instead I left you to draw conclusions that couldn’t possibly have been kind.”
He looks down, then back at you - his brown eyes so full of warmth that you dismiss any notion of not hearing him out.
“If the orb in my chest detonates, it will annihilate everything in its wake. I don’t truly know how far the destruction might reach. A mile, perhaps more. Possibly fifty.”
You swallow and nod. You know that.
“However, I haven’t told you about the conditions under which it might trigger.” His voice falters. “For over a year, I have had to exert… extreme restraint. I have denied myself a certain kind of -” he clears his throat and you notice his neck is faintly blotchy, “- physical pleasure. Because should I reach the point of… culmination -”
You blink. “Culmination? Do you mean - ”
“Release,” he confirms weakly. “The orb would react. Catastrophically. And you deserve someone who can give you everything you need, without fear of what it might destroy.”
“Gale,” you sigh, “not a day goes by when we’re not in mortal peril. I don’t care about the danger. If anything -”
You stop yourself, feeling warmth creep up your neck. Gale lifts his head up, alert.
“If anything, what?” he asks.
“I mean… I once read a book on the effects a brush with danger can have on one’s desires -”
“- for other forms of stimulation,” says Gale, finishing the sentence at the exact same time.
The atmosphere shifts. A beat passes - silent, suspended - before you both realise what you’ve just said, and how very in sync you were saying it.
“You’ve… read that book too?” Gale asks at last.
“Well, not intentionally,” you admit, worried he’ll quiz you on its contents. “I was just looking for the diagrams.”
Gale pauses - and then laughs. It’s small at first, startled out of him, and the sound is so unlike his usual careful composure that it pulls a laugh from you too. Within moments, you’re both laughing harder than you should, shoulders shaking.
When the laughter finally ebbs, the quiet that follows feels charged in a different way. You’re still smiling when your eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, neither of you looks away.
“Gale… when I saw inside your mind…” Your breath falters. “Before then, I never imagined someone like you wanting someone like me. You think you don’t deserve me because we can’t - because it isn’t safe. But I don’t care about what you can give me.”
You swallow, voice going soft.
“I just… like being around you. That’s enough.”
He looks at you, almost incredulous, then lets out a breath of disbelief.
“When I met you,” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, “I was drowning in solitude. My only company was Tara and my own mistakes.” A helpless huff of laughter. “And then - you. I fell through darkness and shadowed void only to end up with you under me and the world above us… and for the first time in months, I felt alive.”
You feel warm - you can’t help it - but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for embarrassment. Only want.
“I told myself,” he murmurs, “that wanting you was reckless. That one kiss too deep, one touch too long…” He breathes out shakily. “And I could lose control. The orb could make sure the whole world knows exactly how deeply I want you.”
Your pulse thrums at the base of your throat.
His gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth and back again, like he’s trying to make one final judgement call.
“If wanting you is ruin,” he whispers, “then ruin and I are already well acquainted.”
Then carefully - as though the moment itself were breakable - he cups the back of your head and kisses you.
Slow, deliberate, dangerous.
Everything else disappears. Every self-doubting thought you’ve had in the last day - obliterated.
The world narrows to the warmth of his mouth, the scratch of his beard against your chin, the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.
It’s so loud you almost swear you can hear what it’s saying: He wants you. He wants you. He wants you.
He’s risking everything. His life, your life, the lives of everyone in camp - just for this kiss.
It’s reckless. It’s stupid.
It’s really fucking hot.
The thrill hits you low and sharp, heat twisting tight in your stomach.
He eases you back onto the bedroll, moving over you with reverence and hunger tangled together. His hand finds the laces of your shirt - fingers you’ve watched shape lightning and summon storms are suddenly clumsy, trembling, trying so hard not to be greedy.
He pushes your shirt aside, exposing your chest and his breath hitches - a low sound that makes your pulse jump. You feel his gaze on your skin, and for a moment it’s almost unbearable, the quiet of it.
“Gale,” you whisper. “Are you sure?”
His eyes meet yours - dark, wild, beautifully wrecked
“Please,” he murmurs. “I’m around ninety-nine percent certain I can control myself,” he says, his voice rough at the edges.
“I - I like those odds -” you stammer.
When he flicks his tongue across your nipple it’s careful at first. Then not careful at all.
You almost choke when your breast is enveloped in soft heat as he opens his mouth around your nipple, his tongue sliding over you so devastatingly gently. The tip of his tongue dances around your sensitive skin with no intention of rushing. It’s so wonderful that you let out an impatient little whine, anticipating what his mouth would feel like elsewhere.
“If you keep making sounds like that, our odds will become significantly worse,” says Gale but his expression is playful. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to endure being adored at this rather careful pace.”
Breathing suddenly feels like an impossible task.
He peppers kisses down your jaw, your neck and then your sternum. Each kiss as soft and slow as if you were made of something precious. Your skin prickles, goosebumps rising when his lips meet the new territory of your torso.
When he reaches your lower stomach, he lets out a low hmm that makes your insides clench so violently that your abdominal muscles twitch.
Another kiss, slower, lower. He must sense your impatience because he says; “If I am thorough, it is only because I refuse to miss a single detail.”
Warmth pools between your legs at these words. Gale pauses, hooking his fingers under the waistline of your trousers and pulling them off. He kneels, leaning down to kiss you over your undergarments.
“I know I can’t touch you,” you say quietly, “but… can I at least see you?”
He exhales a laugh, warm and careless, before nodding. He leans back and pulls his purple tunic over his head. Your gaze catches first on the scar, the place where the orb resides - an awe-inspiring reminder of everything he carries. But even that pales beside the sight of his chest.
Gods. Why would a wizard have any reason to look like that? You’ve seen him wield a heavy quarterstaff in battle, yes, but still - you hadn’t expected all that careful muscle beneath the layers of cloth and eloquence.
You forget, for the second time this evening, how to breathe.
Dark hair dusts his chest and traces down over the firm ridges of his stomach, leading down to his waistband. You swallow, unsurprised to find that you’re literally salivating.
He catches your stunned expression. For a moment you expect him to launch into a lecture about the practical benefits of exercise for spellcasters.
Instead, he only gives a small shrug, as though embarrassed to be the focus of your gaze. He knows how he looks, of course - but the faint colour in his cheeks tells you he hasn’t been seen like this - not for a long time.
But Gale doesn’t dawdle on the point. He carefully removes your underthings, pulling them down your knees - you lift your calves so he can take them off. He shifts, adjusting his body to settle between your open legs, catching the backs of your knees and gently pushing them apart.
You suppose you must present quite a pathetic vision - face flushed and an extremely obvious slick between your legs that only seems to feel warmer and wetter, the longer you look at him. You must look completely -
“You really are the most beautiful sight,” he murmurs, running a flat palm across your inner thigh. “I’ve been thinking about seeing you like this every day since we met.”
Oh.
Everything pulses molten hot as he pauses, just taking you in. You look up at the canvas ceiling, feeling your face burning hot - this is deeply personal, the way he gazes at you from between your thighs.
His breath, warm and steady, ghosts over your pussy as his thumbs gently glide over your slick folds, exploratory in their touch. A sound breaks from him, low and fervent, almost a groan of gratitude at being granted this closeness, when the pads of his thumbs part your soaked lips.
“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of knowing what you taste like,” he murmurs.
And then your thoughts are cut off by your breath sucking sharply through your teeth, when a soft, wet heat eagerly envelopes your clit. He hums low in his throat as he tastes you for the first time, readjusting his grip to push himself closer.
The sound that escapes you is shameless, the sort of noise you’d occasionally hear while performing in the seedier taverns - the ones with brothels just upstairs.
It almost burns with how fucking good it feels. Gale’s soft mouth burns hotter than the Grymforge - his velvet tongue slipping between your folds, and swiping over your clit.
You back arches to allow you closer. You’re already too eager, doing too much to chase it - tightening, holding, refusing to let go - until you’re certain his exquisite mouth won’t abandon you, won’t leave you shattered and unfinished, a ruin by yourself.
Your journey since the Nautaloid has hardly been conducive to taking care of your own needs lately - responsibility for saving the world dispelled your attempts of self pleasure. And being in such close proximity to Gale has made your pent up frustration even less bearable.
You needed this. You really fucking needed this.
“Gale…? Oh -” Your words come out more urgent than you’d intended but you need him to understand. “Don’t - don’t stop… Please.”
But then, instead of responding verbally - as quick as a cantrip - Gale just slips two of his thick fingers through your folds, curling deep inside you.
You think you might burst into flames. Your teeth sink hard into your lower lip, the only way to stifle the sound rising in your throat.
Your chest burns and your lungs ache as you rock yourself to try and encourage his pace, but his other hand is wrapped around your thigh, holding you against his face and keeping your hips steady.
Your breath comes shallow and uneven, yet he remains steadfast, his fingers and tongue working in purposeful harmony - a steady drum beat coaxing out pleasure from your deepest parts.
He’s maddening in his patience. It makes something in your chest ache so sharply you could almost weep.
You can feel the thrum of your orgasm, rearing its head deep in your core. Your toes flex and your thighs tighten as if someone has cast chain lightning. The air itself seems to crackle in anticipation.
You risk a glance at his face and immediately wish you hadn’t. Gods, he’s devastating. That strong, angular nose only makes his features more striking while his dark hair, pulled back from his face, draws your eyes to the breadth of his shoulders. His chest is close enough that the heat of him washes over you, dizzying.
His eyes are closed in reverent pleasure as his tongue works across your clit in a way that makes your hip jump involuntarily, almost out of his grip. His hold on you tightens and your release takes you by surprise - a firebolt to a barrel of gunpowder - the second Gale’s wrecked groan meets your ears.
White hot bliss stabs through you, launching you headfirst into ecstasy. You whimper as you writhe hard against Gale’s tongue, feeling his fingers hooking into your deepest pleasure, scorching pleasure quickening through your veins.
You cum. Hard.
It surges through you like uncontrolled arcana, a resonance that drowns out every other sense. It arcs down your spine in blinding currents, brighter and more explosive than any lightning conjured by hand.
It’s overwhelming. Unprecedented in its power. But no… that isn’t true, is it? You’ve seen him before, in battle, wielding magic as though it answered only to him. You should have known he’d be just as devastating between your legs. Your clit is pulsing and swollen, and he keeps you firmly in place as you writhe desperately through the aftershocks on your bedroll.
Gale tilts his chin back to look up at you and the slick sound his tongue makes leaving your clit makes you clench and tighten around his fingers, still pressing against that sweet spot inside you.
“Gods… you’re exquisite,” he breathes, his voice roughened by wonder. “If the world would grant me more indulgence… let it be this.”
Your back arches when his mouth finds you again, sucking and swirling on your clit. His fingers press into you, pulling the orgasm from you just as steadily as the first. Your inner muscles contort around him, gripping and squeezing his index and ring fingers. Your thighs go rigid - when another pulsing, debilitating wave of bliss rises high in your chest, pushing all the air out of your lungs.
And then there’s another drop.
You fall apart again. Your fingers rake through his hair and you let out a sob somewhere between his name and a prayer. You’re glad he cast a ward because you’d never be able to show your face around your other companions if they could hear the way you’re crying out for him.
He lifts his head to look at you again, your pussy still spasming uncontrollably as he slowly wrings the last waves of pleasure from you and withdraws his fingers. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, dark brown eyes almost black with his blown out pupils.
He props himself up on one elbow, his fingers tracing gentle lines across your pussy as he drags your arousal across your clit. “I always say that any experiment must be repeated at least thrice to ensure accuracy. So -” his eyes drink you in, dark with reverence, “- shall we test it again?”
“You don’t - “ you swallow, “- you don’t need to keep doing this just to impress me, Gale.”
“Don’t mistake me, Tav. This isn’t performance. It is indulgence. My own. If you imagine otherwise, you do me a grave disservice.”
You swallow. Gods. He’s taking his pleasure in your pleasure. This is art for art’s sake.
He dips his head again - you’re already on the precipice between overstimulation and raw pleasure. Every nerve pulled taut with anticipation. It coils inside you, sharp and electric, as though you’re standing beneath a stormcloud, waiting for lightning to strike. Your whole body trembles. “Gale, I - I don’t think I can take it,” you plead, breath ragged.
His gaze softens, though his command does not falter. “Just one more, darling. Please.”
Darling.
It’s familiar to your senses. Something triggers in your memory.
Then the vision that you saw in the Weave echoes in your mind.
This is his deepest desire - the one he tried to push back into the corners of his mind. And who are you to deny it now that he has the opportunity to live it with you?
But tonight he has reneged on his word again and again. And again. And again.
“One more, beautiful girl.”
“Please… I have to see you do that again, so I can commit it to memory.”
“I promise after this one, we can rest.”
He loses track of time. His promises are empty words - he changes his mind every time he looks up at you from between your legs.
All of his self restraint is concentrated on not succumbing to his own release - he doesn’t have any spare to tear himself away from you.
He can’t get enough. Every time he thinks about stopping, every time he pulls his fingers out, he ends up slipping them into his mouth to taste you, before returning them back to your dripping cunt just so he can watch you cum for him again.
There’s just something so deliciously hedonistic about making you fall apart so completely. It’s a privilege to be the one who has made you a trembling mess on your bed roll - thighs glistening, hair disheveled, legs so weak that he has to physically readjust them for you.
He can’t remember the last time he experienced this with another mortal being. Was it always this intoxicating? Or is it that the taste of you is particularly addictive?
The time in his tower was the blink of an eye compared to spending these past few weeks wanting to know how you taste everywhere and having to deny himself the opportunity.
Touch, taste, scent, sound are almost overwhelming in their immediacy. This is different to what he’d known before solitude. With his goddess.
You are different.
You are warmth and heartbeat and music. Every sense of his is alive again, every nerve remembering what it means to feel. The nearness of you is almost unbearable in its clarity.
“Gale… Gale…” you gasp. How he adores the sound of his name on your lips. Your pleading stirs more in him than any ballad ever could.
“Shh, I know, my love. I know,” he soothes. “You’re doing beautifully well.”
“No, Gale -” You reach down to cup his face. “I think I see sunlight.”
The dawn.
With effort, Gale gently withdraws his fingers from inside you, sits back on his knees and follows your gaze to gaps at the bottom of your tent. He looks back at you, lying there with your heavy lidded eyes and legs ready to collapse.
“I really didn’t want this to end,” he whispers solemnly.
“It’s not going to end. Now, c’mere.”
He hesitates for half a heartbeat, as if committing every detail of you to memory, then gathers you into his arms. You settle against him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder, his chin resting lightly atop your hair. Your weight is solid, nestled perfectly against him.
He stretches out his legs. “Next time, I’ll conjure up a bed. My knees aren’t what they once were,” he says.
You laugh. “I’d welcome that. Although I do love sleeping under the stars.”
Your hand rests on the scar on his chest.
“I do wish I could return the favour.”
“Your pleasure is more than enough to sate me for a lifetime,” he murmurs, lips against the top of your head. He inhales deeply, taking in the smell of your hair.
The horizon brightens, turning the world a hazy gold. Your breathing slows, evening out against his chest. He doesn’t dare move. The dawn light catches in your hair, turning strands different colours, and for a moment he forgets entirely about the orb, about destiny, about doom.
He finds himself thinking of the chords you were strumming when you were down by the river and then again today. He never caught the words but he can hear those lamenting chords over and over - almost haunting.
He wonders if you’ll play in major key the next time you play your lute.
His arm is numb beneath the weight of you. A tightness blooms in his shoulder from holding so still.
It makes him feel gloriously, painfully human.
Mortal in the best possible way.
No power. No perfection. Just a man bearing a little discomfort to keep joy from slipping away too soon.
He shifts just enough to keep you resting against him. And as the first light spills fully across the countryside, Gale of Waterdeep closes his eyes - not because he’s tired, but because he wants to remember this.
He wants to remember that right now, for the first time, he feels content that he is enough.
Just thinking about flirty (fellow nerd?) tav and Gale...
tav noticing the gaze of one lovesick wizard from across camp... noticing a pair of brown eyes watching their movements
tav making it their goal to fluster this poor man at every turn
tav asking Gale about the book they've seen him flip through (which of course prompts Gale to rant about the book, much to tav's delight, since they now have an excuse to give him bedroom eyes as he explains the text to them)
tav grinning when Gale catches them staring at him, causing him to pause for a moment, then sputter and lose his train of thought
tav using that opportunity to remind him of what he was saying, showing him that yes, they were paying attention, and yes, they'd like to hear more
tav noticing the sparkle in Gale's eyes and the warmth in his expression when he realizes that someone enjoys hearing his ramblings
tav asking to borrow said book so that they can read Gale's favorite sections for themselves
tav watching Gale excitedly retrieve the book and lend it to them, grateful that tav seems to enjoy his company as much as he enjoys theirs
tav flipping through the book and putting a few drops of their perfume/cologne (if they wear any, that is) on some of the pages so it smells like them the next time Gale opens it
tav leaving a pressed flower or leaf in there for Gale to discover
tav writing a little note for Gale and tucking it between the pages for him to read later, complimenting his curiosity and passion for learning (and other things hehe)
tav returning the book to Gale and brushing their hand over his when they hand it over
just tav making an effort to woo wow Gale and make him smile
summary: you weren’t looking for company. he was seeking something he couldn’t name.
pairing: creature x reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, gothic themes, body horror (mild/very vague), grief/loneliness, emotional hurt/comfort, first kiss, slow burn, size difference, first time, piv sex, soft dom undertones (reader), gentle worship, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 9.5k
a/n: she’s back on her behemoth big boy fic shit, let’s go
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The fire has burned low, a slow red heart pulsing in the grate. Sitting on an old, hand-sewn cushion, back pressed against the side of a threadbare armchair, legs tucked beneath a woolen blanket. The book in your lap is a familiar one–your favorite–yet you’ve read the same page three times and could not recount it once. Words seem to blur when you’re this tired.
Your small cottage is quiet, save for the steady crackle of the fire and the faint patter of icy rain on the thatched roof. Evenings are usually a comfort—particularly in winter—when the day finally slows and work is done. Sometimes, though, the silence of it has teeth and gnaws softly at the edges of the room.
Tonight feels like one of those nights, the stillness giving too much space for thought. Memories stir: last winter’s fever, frantic days now gone.
Outside, the wind sifts through the trees like a restless hand and the cottage creaks in reply. It’s familiar–the small groans of the wood and stone holding fast against the bitter cold. Life is quiet now. The few hens you have tend to roost early this time of year, the vegetable garden rests under a blanket of frost, and footsteps have long since vanished from the road.
No one would be fool enough to traverse them until the spring thaw.
The chair at your back sits empty, as it has for a little over a year. Sometimes you still find yourself glancing toward it before remembering that no one’s there, that no one will fill it again. Shaking off the thought, you close your book, and stand to stir the fire. Sparks leap up, quick and bright before fading. You tell yourself that this solitude fits you and you nearly find yourself believing it–until a strange sound from outside catches your attention.
It’s faint–something scraping beyond the door. Not the wind, not an animal’s small rustle. No, it must be something larger–heavier. A noise that has no business in so still a night. Frozen for a second, you grab the lantern from the mantle, ignoring the tremor in your hand as the wick catches.
The second you press open the old wooden door, the cold drives into you like a blade. The storm has thickened–sleet turned to snow, fat flakes dragged sideways by wind. Lantern light shows only swirling white at first, until a shape emerges: hulking, dark, near the edge of the shed.
It moves.
Before you can stop yourself, you call out, “Who’s there?”
No answer, just another gust of wind that rustles the bare branches of nearby trees. The shape turns, hesitates. Against your better judgement, you tighten the woolen blanket around your shoulders and take a few tentative steps forward. The light illuminates the shape just enough for you to see him–taller than any man you’ve ever met, shoulders bent, face half-hidden beneath a curtain of wet hair.
Your heart lurches and you take a step back, the lantern swinging, “Go on, then! I’ve nothing worth stealing!”
He flinches at your voice and lifts his hands–not threateningly, but as if warding you off. You see the raw red of his knuckles, the trembling of his fingers. His clothes are in tatters, soaked through. He looks less like a robber than someone hopelessly lost.
“Please,” you call, quieter now, “What do you want?”
His gaze flicks toward the cottage, the front door still cracked open behind you–letting the warm light from inside spill out into the dark. Again, he says nothing, merely gives a small shake of his head, chest heaving. You notice that he’s barefoot and your heart gives a pitying clench despite the situation.
Words die on your tongue as you take a slow step forward, deliberate and careful–the way one would approach a wounded animal. Shivering, whether from fear or cold, he keeps a cautious watch, glancing toward the treeline as if planning escape.
“I don’t mean you any harm,” the reassurance sounds foolish even as it leaves your mouth. He could overpower you without effort, yet something insists he won’t.
He doesn’t answer, merely gives a fearful grunt and wraps the tattered coat he wears more tightly around himself. Slowly, it dawns on you that perhaps he can’t answer–that he may not understand you at all.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?” The words hang between you, “No one would be out in this weather otherwise, I suppose.” Wind howls, branches scrape, and silence settles again. You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, but you keep your voice steady, “Do you need help?”
Understanding flickers across his eyes. He looks hurt, scarred, pale—patched together in ways that don’t make sense. Yet, no danger radiates from him. Every instinct says to run, but compassion roots you in place.
“Yes? Help?” You try again, cocking your head to the side. He doesn’t nod or offer a word, but doesn’t look away either. After a quick prayer under your breath, you gesture to the open door, “It’s warm in there. You can stay the night, if you’d like–just until the weather clears.”
Wide, dark eyes study you. A gust of wind makes him shiver harder while he looks between you and the light spilling out into the cold. His muscles twitch, wanting desperately to move toward the warmth, but still, he hesitates.
You take a few steps back toward the door and he follows, stumbling forward before stopping–cautious and unsure. The sight of it makes your heart clench tightly in your chest for reasons you don’t quite understand. He moves like a dog who’s been scolded by its master, assessing every step for some unknown danger–expecting pain.
You recognize that look–someone waiting for a mercy that won’t come; you wore it the night your brother died.
“Has someone hurt you?” You question, purposefully soft and slow–meant to soothe. No reply, but his body speaks plainly enough. Hair blows across his face, and in the firelight you glimpse eyes that, for all their strangeness, look kind.
Standing aside, you gesture him in. “I won’t hurt you,” you reassure, just as another icy gust forces a shiver through your blanket. “Come, it’s much too cold.”
He hesitates, then finally steps through, ducking beneath the lintel. The room seems smaller with him inside. Water drips from his clothes onto the boards, but awe softens his expression as he takes in the firelight and the few humble furnishings. When the door closes, he jumps at the sound.
For a long moment, the both of you simply stand there, watching one another. “It isn’t much, I know,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence and carefully stepping around him. Walking over to the hearth, you pick up a poker and adjust the logs until the flames pick up a little more, “You’re welcome to stay until light–or until it’s safe to travel.”
In the light, you can see him more clearly. Your heart thuds in your chest at his strange appearance–scarred and stitched, patched up in ways that don’t quite make sense. The coat he has wrapped around himself is old, faded in spots from the sun. His hair is damp and dirty.
All of it should reasonably frighten you, and yet, as he takes a few more steps into the cottage and stops before the fire, pity wins out. His fingers tug at the edges of his coat, keeping it held tightly around himself like a shield.
Unsure what to say, you manage a small smile and gesture toward the armchair you’d been sitting against earlier. “Sit, please—you must be tired,” moving to the table, you glance at a half-eaten loaf of bread, “Are you hungry?”
He merely looks at the chair for a moment–as if it’s some brand new thing–before finally slowly going over to it. When he finally sits, it creaks under his weight–not exactly meant to hold someone so large. You don’t miss the quiet sigh that leaves him, one of relief.
Slicing the bread, you spread a generous helping of jam–still sweet from the summer’s last batch–onto a few pieces before setting them on a plate and taking it over to him, marveling silently at the strangeness of it. You’ve long since stopped setting a second place at supper but sometimes, out of habit, your hand still reaches for another plate or fork before you can think better of it.
When you reach him, he merely blinks at the food before looking back at you, prominent brow furrowing in confusion. Can he not speak? You think, observing him for a second, Perhaps he’s lost his memory?. He certainly looks as if that could be the case–so scarred and pale, almost sickly.
Miming eating, you make exaggerated “Mmm!” sounds while pretending to chew, laughing softly at the silliness of it. “Hungry?” You try again, pointing to the bread, “Food, for you. Eat, please.”
Hesitantly, he does reach out and take the plate, though he makes no move to eat until you turn away–busying yourself by putting away the remaining bread and jam and wiping off the knife. Out of the corner of your eye, he raises the plate to his face and sniffs at it before grabbing a slice. His movements are uncoordinated–shaky and unsure–but he finally eats, wolfing down the simple meal with the occasional grunt of approval.
Finishing up, you slowly make your way back toward the fire and lower yourself to sit on one of the cushions, grateful for the warmth of the fire when wind whistles through the cracks in the wood. Tilting your head to the side, you study him for a long moment–taking in the way light traces the uneven lines of his face, how exhaustion sits in his posture. Although it must be quite late by now, sleep will be scarce tonight–curiosity and apprehension weighing far too heavily on your mind.
“Do you have a name?” The question drifts across the firelight and he pauses, his head cocked just slightly. Brow furrowed, you point to yourself, repeating your own name slowly. His gaze sharpens, following each sound until recognition flickers in his dark gaze. You repeat it, deliberate, syllable by syllable. “That’s me,” you whisper, “My name.”
His lips part in a rasping attempt. Then, finally, he shapes the word–your name–in a voice rough and uncertain.
Your eyes light up. It feels like the first warmth of spring.
“Yes, that’s exactly right!” The praise drips easily from your lips and you spend the next few moments coaching him, repeating your name again and again and listening as he repeats it with growing confidence, nodding all the while. The gentle encouragement seems to please him and the corners of his lips twitch up into a small smile, making a strange warmth bloom inside you.
You know nothing of this man, and yet your heart stirs in your chest.
“Your turn,” you finally murmur, nodding to him expectantly, “What do I call you?”
The smile on his lips slowly fades at that and gets replaced by a look of confusion. He opens his mouth to speak, lips quivering as if trying to utter a sound his mind has forgotten. A strained breath pushes out instead–frustration, or fear, or both. His brows draw low over his eyes. One trembling hand lifts from his lap and hovers in the space between you, then presses against his chest as if trying to force a word up from somewhere deeper.
Still, nothing–only the flicker of panic.
“Shh,” you soothe quickly, hand raised before he can work himself to distress, “That’s alright, we’ve time.” Even as you reassure him, something inside you seems to break–he truly has nothing. No proper clothes, no name, seemingly not even the surety of some world–some life–waiting for him out there. “You can tell me later,” you continue, smiling softly as you lower your hand, tentatively resting it atop his on the arm of the air, “Whenever you remember.”
His shoulders dip, relief loosening the tension that had crept into his frame. He nods–small and hesitant–seemingly grateful you aren’t pressing him.
A quiet settles over the cottage, the kind that hums around the edges of the fire. Your eyes catch on the damp patches of his coat and you realize how his coat clings to him, heavy with melted snow and ice. “Poor thing, you must be freezing,” you say under your breath, just as another gust of wind pushes against the shutters, punctuating your point, “Wait here.”
He doesn’t understand the words, not fully, but he understands the gesture when you hold up a hand and step away. He stays rooted to the armchair, though his head cranes around as he watches your every move while you retreat to the far side of the cottage.
The small trunk at the foot of your bed hasn’t been opened in months. Your hand hovers over the lid for a heartbeat too long and the iron hinges creak when you finally lift it. Inside, folded with a care only grief can bring, are the last of your brother’s things–his clothing, his oil paints, a tattered old journal of his that you still can’t bring yourself to read.
Cedar. Soap. Faint, fading memories.
Your chest tightens. You force a slow breath through your nose and swallow down the ache working its way up your throat before lifting a shirt and pair of trousers from the neat stack. They’re soft from wear, too big in some places and too small in others, but they’re warm–dry and whole.
You close the trunk firmly before grief has space to bloom.
When you return to him, the firelight paints his face in shifting golds and shadows. His eyes drop to the clothes in your hands and then lift again to your face, searching for instruction.
“These,” you say softly, offering them out against the pain in your chest, “Were my brother’s.” You swallow once more, steadier now. For a second, you think of explaining–of talking through the illness that took him, the stillness that’s haunted you ever since. Deciding against it, you simply give a shake of your head and nod at the ragged coat he wears, “They should fit better than… those. And they’ll be warm.”
He looks down at his tattered rags, fingers brushing over the threadbare fabric with something like shame. Then, he reaches–slowly, cautiously–and takes the bundle from your hands. His palms dwarf the folded clothes, holding them with a strange, reverent care, as though afraid to crease them.
“There,” you try for a smile, “Let’s get you warm.”
You gesture toward the corner of the cottage nearest the hearth, where a simple privacy screen stands next to your wooden wash tub. It’s hardly more than a patched sheet hung on a wooden frame, but it offers the illusion of modesty. He watches you, then looks to the screen, and then back to you–uncertain.
“It’s alright,” you reassure, pointing at the clothes once more and then back to the screen, “You can change there.”
Understanding seems to dawn on him slowly and he stands, still clutching the clothes, and moves behind the screen. Fabric rustles. You poke at the fire once more, busying yourself and giving him space–trying not to imagine the state of the bruises and scars hidden beneath the tatters he wears.
A few moments pass and the rustling finally stops. When he steps out again, the sight nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.
The clothes hang strangely on him–the shirt’s sleeves end too high on his forearms, and the trousers fit awkwardly around his hips–but he looks… human. Softer around the edges and gentler in the glow of the fire. Warmer, somehow.
“Better,” you say quietly, and you mean it.
His fingers pluck at the hem of the shirt, testing the feel of it. He murmurs something low, a rumble you think might be gratitude, but the words are lost in his throat. You offer a small nod anyway.
“Let me make you somewhere to sleep,” you offer, gathering spare cushions–patched, faded, but still soft–and arrange them beside the hearth, “It must be quite late by now.” You leave him the wool blanket you’d dawned before, then place a spare pillow down as well–one that smells faintly of the lavender sachets you’re so fond of. He watches, eyes wide and dark and questioning, while you kneel and shift everything into place, lips parted slightly in something like wonder.
As if no one has ever done him a favor before, as if even this small shred of comfort is entirely foreign.
When you finish, you look up at him with an almost sheepish grin. “It isn’t much,” you admit softly, “But it’s warm, at least.”
He doesn’t move until you do, finally giving him space as you go over to your bed–a simple thing pressed against one of the cottage’s walls. Finally, he lowers himself onto the pallet–slow, as though uncertain the floor will hold him. His hand presses into one of the cushions, testing its give with an odd fascination. Then, he lays down–stiffly at first–and pulls the blanket around himself. His body sinks into the softness, his shoulders relax and a long, shuddering breath leaves him–almost a sigh.
Your heart twists at the vulnerability of it–a wild, feral thing, finally at ease.
Climbing into your own bed, you quickly make yourself comfortable and stare at the dark wooden ceiling, watching the way shadows play on it. Turning your head to the side, you watch him for a long moment–trying desperately to make sense of him. “Goodnight,” you finally murmur, voice quieter than you intend.
He looks up at you, eyes reflecting the firelight. His lips part.
Your name leaves him again–soft and imperfect. Your heart clenches.
Not trusting yourself to answer, you simply lean over and blow out the small lantern on the old table by your bed. The cottage settles around you. Outside, the storm rages on; inside, the only other sound is the quiet rhythm of another breathing within the same four walls.
Sleep comes eventually.
For the first time in a long while, you wonder if you’re truly meant to be alone.
Winter refuses to loosen its grip. Days pass in a slow, snow-choked drift, and he stays because there is nowhere else to go–and because you don’t ask him to leave.
A cautious routine finds its way into the cottage.
In the mornings, you light the fire while he hovers nearby, hands held out toward the warmth with wary curiosity. He copies your motions–awkwardly splitting kindling, mimicking the way you poke at the fire. He’s clumsy at first, but quite determined.
You read to him in the afternoons when the light is best. He sits cross-legged on the floor, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the pages as though trying to devour every word. When you pause to take a breath, he taps the page with a large, scarred finger and murmurs, “Again.”
He learns fast–faster than you expect. Simple words come at first, stilted and halting. Then, slowly, phrases. Sometimes he surprises you–snatching a word you didn’t think he’d been listening for and rolling it around in his mouth like a smooth stone. Before long, he’s reading through your books himself–sometimes aloud, sometimes with quiet whispers.
You speak to him more each day; at first, it was to fill the silence, then because you want to. The cottage no longer feels so hollow.
You catch yourself humming while you cook, or find him watching you with a soft, puzzled fondness, as though trying to understand the way you move through the space–to understand how you’ve taken up so much of his chest in so little time. You start setting two cups at the table without thinking.
A quiet companionship roots itself between you–unexpected, fragile, strangely natural.
Snow keeps the cottage shuttered, the world beyond reduced to white drifts and howling gusts. Days slip into each other, marked only by the crack and sigh of fire and the slow progress of your shared routines.
Still, something in him changes.
He grows quiet in a different way–restless beneath the surface. It starts small: pauses while you read, his gaze drifting toward the window and then beyond it, toward a world he cannot name. Sometimes, you catch him pressing a hand against his chest as though feeling for something missing.
He dreams, you think, occasionally letting out quiet whimpers or gasps in the night–low, broken murmurs. His breath hitches. A few times he’s bolted upright, disoriented and searching for something you cannot see.
One afternoon, when you’re darning a rip in an apron, he stands so long at the window that frost collects in his breath on the glass. His reflection looks back at him, strange and stitched, and questioning. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady.
“I keep… thinking,” his words are careful, soft, “Before this place, before you. There must have been a place, a beginning.” His fingers tap against the window, restless. “I feel it–here,” he murmurs, pressing a hand to his chest, “But I cannot see it clearly.”
Setting your mending aside, you give him your full attention–head tilted with curiosity, “What do you remember? Even the smallest pieces.”
His eyes close and the hand against his ribs tightens. “Cold stone,” he whispers, searching, “Echoes, light so bright it hurt. And… a voice, a name.”
“A name?”
“Victor,” he mutters, speaking the word as though it causes him physical pain, “I think that is where I began.”
You stand then and reach out to him as you approach, gently settling a hand on his arm. “If you feel drawn to it,” you say gently, “Then you should go. You have a right to know where you came from.”
His brows knit and he stays silent for a long moment before finally looking at you with wide, fearful eyes, “And if I find something I wish I hadn’t?”
You swallow, words sticking in your throat. “Then you come home,” the word slips out before you can catch it. His eyes soften–surprised, almost shy.
You don’t take it back.
You hate the way your heart lurches when he leaves the next morning, dawning his old coat once more.
You spend that day listening–to the wind, to your own footsteps, to the hollow quiet left in his absence. The cottage feels wrong without his heavy, deliberate movements, without his curious hums at the fire, without the soft sound of him turning pages too slowly, tracing each line with a careful fingertip.
The storm picks up at dusk. You light the lantern early.
By nightfall, fear sits like a stone in your stomach.
Then–just as you reach for your cloak to go after him–the door slams open.
He stumbles inside–not the careful, cautious creature you’ve come to know, but something unraveling. Snow clings to his hair and lashes and ash streaks his face, remnants of whatever ruin he’d found at last.
He collapses to his knees before you as if his legs have simply given out. “I found it,” he rasps, “The tower.”
You drop beside him, brows furrowed with worry, “What happened?”
He lifts his head, and the devastation in his expression cuts into you like a knife. “I know what I am,” he says, voice breaking, “I saw the place, I read what he wrote.” His chest heaves, breath shaking over a sob, “I was made of… pieces. Scraps. Things torn apart and stitched together. I was not… born, not wanted.” He shakes his head, a miserable and helpless gesture. Tears streak over his cheeks and your stomach drops, “I thought–I hoped–that there might be someone who wished for me, but there was nothing. Only the work of a man who came to fear me.”
More tears fall and he presses a trembling hand to his throat as though steadying something inside himself. “I am a monster,” he whispers.
It hits you like a physical blow.
You reach for his face–gently, carefully–and cradle the sides of his jaw. He flinches, then leans into your touch with a broken exhale. “Look at me,” you say softly, sucking in a breath when his dark eyes look up to you, “You are not a monster.”
His breath shudders and his brows twitch, “How can you say that?”
“Because, monsters do not learn,” you whisper firmly, as if trying to press the words so deep into him that they stick like stone, “They don’t feel, they don’t try. They don’t listen to stories like they matter or help me shovel snow or read words they’ve never seen before. They don’t care.” Exhaling, trembling, your voice drops to a mere breath, “They don’t say my name like it means something.”
Sniffling, you brush a streak of ash from his cheek with your thumb, “You are someone.”
He closes his eyes as if the words hurt, as if they warm him too quickly after too much cold. A moment passes and he lifts his hand, hesitates, and then touches your cheek with the gentlest brush of his fingertips, as though he fears you may break, “I don’t want to be alone, to be nothing.”
“You’re not, you have me,” the words come as a whisper and you sigh when his forehead rests against yours. His hand curls carefully around one of your wrists and the fire crackles, snow still falling outside.
Something new seems to settle in the air between you, different from before. It’s not mere comfort, or gratitude, not even longing–not yet.
You don’t move closer, he doesn’t either.
But neither of you move away.
The storm breaks two days later, as if exhausted by its own violence. Snow still blankets the world, but it begins to shrink under patches of weak sunlight. Icicles drip steadily from the eaves. The road outside remains buried, but icy wind no longer beats against the walls.
“The storm will clear soon,” he says quietly, looking up from the book he’d been reading to you. You look up from his coat, the tattered one he’d come to you in–you’d been determined to fix it up for him and had been slowly mending tears. Almost tentatively, you look at one another, “And when it does… I go…?”
The words land like a cold draft on your skin and you swallow, setting the heap of fabric in your lap to the side. “That was our deal,” you murmur, “When the weather changed.” Turning your gaze to the window, you watch for a moment as the tree branches outside sway in a soft wind, “Do you… want to go?”
He stares at you for a moment, unblinking. He seems to sense the turmoil growing within you, the uncertainty in your voice. His fists clench and unclench in his lap, his throat tight. “...No,” he finally answers, hoarse, hardly more than a whisper, “I don’t, but I thought… I assumed you wanted me to…”
“That was before,” the words come quickly–to quick–and you catch yourself, pausing. That was before you learned about him, before you cared for him. “Before I… I knew you,” you finally say, words settling on a whisper.
An ache swells in your chest and you busy your hands by picking at the fraying edge of your apron, but the feeling doesn’t dissipate. “I don’t want you to go,” you continue before you can talk yourself down from it, “I don’t. I’d been alone here for so long, I… I thought that was what I wanted. But now…” You shake your head, feeling your heart beat up into your throat. “Now it feels… wrong. Empty.”
A flicker of surprise passes across his face, followed by hope and something a bit warmer that he doesn’t quite know how to name.
“I would stay,” he says slowly, “If that is what you truly want.”
“I do,” you whisper and silence settles–not heavy, not like before. It’s more of a relief, something left unsaid now made plain.
From that moment on, things change between the two of you.
He offers to carry firewood in from the sheds now rather than merely helping, brushes snow from your shoulders with a hand so gentle it nearly undoes you. You spend an afternoon teaching him how to mend tears in fabric, guiding his fingers with yours. He reads to you more now–slow, at first, but endlessly determined; the delighted scrunch of his nose when he recognizes a difficult word warms you from the inside out like wine.
And you… find yourself watching him more than before.
He’s becoming familiar in a way that feels alarmingly precious. You expect the way he’ll bow his head ever so slightly when he’s deeply listening, or start expecting the low hum that sounds from his chest when something’s confused him. What you find yourself searching for the most is the way his eyes light up when he makes you laugh–really laugh, not the brittle sound you’d grown used to after your brother passed.
You’d forgotten what it was like to share a space with someone who truly knows you, and who you know in turn–someone who would care if you’re tired or cold or quiet.
He feels the change, too–you see it in the way he goes still for a second after you touch him, the way his breath catches in his throat and he looks to you before quickly averting his gaze.
You don’t rush him, you don’t need to.
You do, however, start leaving out more of the romance books you’d had carefully tucked away; tales of knights and princesses, of desire.
Some nights later, the world feels strangely gentle–the kind that breeds anticipation.
The snow has finally begun to melt in earnest and the air that seeps through the shutters is still cold, but no longer biting. The outside smells of rain and damp earth and new life–a scent you’ve grown to associate with early spring, when endings and beginnings still press too close together.
You’d fallen asleep easily, lulled by the low crackle of the fire and the steady turning of pages from the nearby pallet. Lately, he’s taken to reading long after you’re asleep; your lullaby has become low mumbles while he reads through paragraphs with careful concentration.
Tonight started off no differently, until a sound drags you from sleep–sharp, choked.
Pushing yourself upright, your brows furrow and your heart thuds. The cottage is dim, lit only by the glow of slowly dying embers, just enough light for you to make him out.
He’s sitting upright on the pallet, shoulders curled inward with a hand tangled in his hair. His whole body seems to tremble–not violently as if from cold, but more contained, like he didn’t want to wake you.
“Hey,” you whisper, already across the room before thought catches up to you, “It’s alright, you’re safe.”
He doesn’t flinch from your voice, but his breath stutters as if he’s trying and failing to hold steady. “I… I saw it again,” he manages, voice rough at the edges, “The tower, the fire… him.” His throat tightens around the last word as he stares blankly at the flames dancing in the hearth, “I thought it would fade but… it’s as if he haunts me.”
You kneel beside him atop one of the cushions, your knees nearly touching his. Your hands hover before you dare touch him; he looks lost–truly lost, the way he had been the first night you’d found him. Understanding only seems to have brought a new kind of pain.
Gently, you reach for his arm.
He exhales shakily at the contact, like the simple touch alone is what anchors him to the present. “You don’t have to sit with it alone,” you murmur, “You needn’t wake up alone either.”
His gaze lifts at that–dark, shimmering in the low firelight. Confusion and longing braid together; your meaning is clear to him, as is the knowledge that the ache that’s steadily been building in his chest is present in yours as well.
He swallows hard, shaking his head slightly, “I do not want to frighten you.”
“You could never frighten me.”
“I should,” he mutters quickly–too quickly, it makes him wince. Taking a breath, he turns his head from you, then says again, softer, “I should… I… I’m a monster, I am nothing.”
You shake your head and slide closer, brows furrowed as if his words bring you physical pain. “Come,” you say gently, “Come here.”
His hesitation is visible–shoulders drawn tight, eyes flicking to your bed, then back to your face. You wait, patient. You let him come to you–it matters that it’s his choice.
After a long, trembling moment, he finally shifts toward you.
He leans in carefully, forehead pressing to your shoulder with a drawn out breath, warm against your collarbone. For someone of such large stature, he’s such a fragile thing. You ease your arms around him, pulling him close into a proper embrace for the first time.
He melts.
Bit by bit, piece by piece, the tension leaves him until he’s practically folded into your chest, one hand clutching the fabric of your nightdress as if afraid you might slip away.
“You’re alright,” you whisper into his hair, breath catching as he seems to purr low in his chest, “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”
The two of you stay like that for a long while–the fire’s dim glow painting the room in amber shadows, the only sound the soft stutter of his breathing gradually smoothing into something calmer.
When he does finally speak again, the words are quiet. “Will it always hurt?” He questions, “Remembering?”
“Maybe,” you admit, a sharpness fills your chest as thoughts of your own family flood your mind. It doesn’t take long to soften, though–morphing into something sweeter, nostalgic, “But they may settle, eventually. And when they do come… you don’t need to face them alone, not anymore.”
A breath leaves him, soft and shaky–like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.
You pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes flick toward your bed again, then away just as quickly–as though he’s ashamed for even looking.
Your voice stays calm, even as your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Do you…” you start slowly, taking a deep breath, “Do you want to lie down? With me?”
He stays utterly still in your grasp, seeming to freeze. “Only if you want to,” you add quickly, damning the way your heart sinks, “Only for… comfort. Just warmth and rest.”
His chest rises once, sharply, and his brows pinch. Something like disappointment passes over his gaze before vanishing. “I… want,” he whispers, rough, “But I do not know if I should.”
It feels as though someone pours a bucket of hot water over you when you hear those words–he wants. Your eyes connect with his–only for a second–but the meaning is clear enough, understanding blooming between the two of you. Swallowing thickly, you nod and reach for his hand, threading your fingers with his, “I trust you. I want you there.”
Something inside him breaks open at that–not painfully, but like thawing ice finally cracking to let something gentle through. He nods once.
Standing, you lead him to your bed–humble and somehow holy all at once.
You get in first and shift over to make space beside you before looking at him expectantly. He moves carefully, cautiously, as though afraid he’ll overstep some boundary he doesn’t fully understand. You pull the blankets up as he settles beside you–too large for the narrow mattress, pressed close by necessity. Even still, he keeps a respectful distance at first, rigid with uncertainty.
Under the blankets, you slide your hand toward his, just barely brushing against his fingers. He inhales sharply and then slow, deliberately, closes the distance and lets his hand settle, warm and heavy, over yours.
“Relax,” you whisper, a coy smile playing on your lips.
“I am trying,” he breathes, with a trembling kind of honesty that softens something deep inside you.
You shift closer, offering your warmth without crowding him, and after a moment, he mirrors you. His forehead comes to rest lightly against yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, tentative exhales.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, “For letting me stay.”
Your thumb strokes the back of his hand before you lift it, cupping his cheek instead, “I don’t ever want you to go.”
Some small and aching thing flickers across his face–wonder, disbelief, and want all rolled into one. He lifts his hand, hesitates, and then cups your cheek–mirroring you. He touches you as if you may break and his thumb brushes the corner of your lips.
You don’t know who leans in first, only that you’re drawn together like a magnet–by some pull that’s been slowly gathering strength for days now.
Your lips meet his softly and for a moment, it’s as if the sun’s rays have managed to swallow you completely. There’s a gentle pressure, hesitant at first, but then firmer when he realizes you’re not pulling away. He exhales against your mouth–a tender, trembling sound–and pulls back only an inch, eyes wide while they search yours.
“... Alright?” he swallows, words failing him.
You cradle his jaw, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone once more while you chuckle softly, “Yes,” you nod, grinning, “More than alright.”
Growing more confident, he clings to you like a man drowning, shifting down until he can press his cheek against your chest; the sound of your heartbeat beneath his ear pulls a pleased grumble from him. There are no books or borrowed words grand enough for this feeling–this belonging–so he simply holds to you tighter.
With a contented rumble, he presses another kiss to you, this time to your collarbone. The two of you stay quiet for a long moment, simply basking in the feel of… whatever this new development is. After a while, he tilts his face up to meet your gaze–dark eyes full of quiet wonder. “...Happy,” he murmurs hoarsely, knowing the word alone can’t possibly contain everything he feels.
The sweetness of the simple declaration has you huffing out another breathy laugh, your lips quirking up into a smile. “You make me very happy, too,” you whisper, cupping his cheek before you comb your fingers through his hair once more, “I’m so glad you found me.”
The two of you lay together in a comfortable silence for a while, the steady crackle of the fire in the hearth and the occasional whistle of wind the only sounds keeping you company. Having him pressed against you like this, so solid and strong, has your mind wandering. Trailing your hand down ever so slowly–slow enough for him to stop you if he wishes–you gingerly untie the laces of his tunic.
When he doesn’t stop you, you let your hand wander further. Sucking in a tentative breath, you reach out and slowly trail your fingers over the center of his chest, keeping your eyes on him the whole time.
Beside you, he tenses for just a moment when your fingers brush his bare skin–still unused to touch that isn’t clinical or violent. But then, he melts into it with a shuddering exhale, nuzzling further against your chest, silently marveling at how strange it feels to be seen like this and not recoiled from.
When you pull your hand away–only for a second–he makes a small noise of protest before going perfectly still as you bring your hand back to him once more, your fingers tracing over the lines of his chest where he’d been stitched together. There’s no disgust in your touch, only gentle curiosity, and it steals the breath from his lungs.
“... Ugly,” he murmurs, rough voice muffled against you as he struggles to meet your gaze.
Your brows furrow and your heart clenches as a wild desperation fills you–a need to show him that he’s wrong, to make him understand how lovely he is. “No,” you whisper, giving a slow shake of your head, “Not ugly. Beautiful.”
Gingerly, you press at his shoulder until he shifts a bit on the bed, moving to lie on his back. With an infinite slowness, giving him more than enough time to protest should he wish, you carefully move until you can straddle him–your thighs on either side of his hips. The delicate fabric of your nightgown rides up your legs with the movement and you let out a soft sigh as you finally settle, resting your hands against his chest.
“You are so lovely,” you murmur, gazing down at him while you slowly work his tunic open, “Not ugly, never ugly.”
Below you, his eyes widen as you trail your fingers over his chest once more, as if he can’t quite believe the touch. It’s as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop–for you to stop and pull away in horror at the sight of him. “But…” he says hoarsely, swallowing thickly in a poor attempt to ignore the lump forming at the back of his throat while he watches you.
Quietly shushing him, you slowly lean down and press a kiss against the bare skin of his chest, trailing them up over his neck until you can reach his lips. “Death needn’t be ugly,” you whisper against him, letting your forehead rest against his, “Death can be beautiful, peaceful… like you.”
Giving him a soft smile, you press a series of kisses over his jawline and press yourself further against him, letting him feel the warmth of you, the softness. A little thrill goes through you when he groans underneath you, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Death is not one thing, just as you are not one thing,” you whisper, straightening back up and looking down at him with a soft smile, watching as your words sink into him.
A quiet sound escapes him when you sit back up, desperately wanting to pull you closer but so afraid of hurting you. He knows he’s strong, much more so than you, and infinitely worried he’ll bruise the thing he loves most. But, when you kiss him again, he meets you eagerly–hoping you’ll somehow understand the words he fails to say as they get caught in his throat.
The kiss is languid and sweet, achingly tender even as stark need builds between us. His hands move over your body slowly, tentatively at first but with growing confidence–squeezing gently here and there, trying to see which touches illicit sweet gasps from you.
After a moment, he presses up against you–an instinctive buck of his hips–and you gasp at the unmistakable feel of the hard line of his arousal pressing against you through the thin cotton breeches he wears. A small, surprised laugh claws its way up your throat as you pull away for air and you move against him in return, rolling your hips down against his.
He groans at the feel of it and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs as he moves beneath you again, chasing that same delicious pressure. One large hand cups the back of your head and pulls you down into a kiss. His lips move against yours more surely now, need obscuring uncertainty as he feels every shuddering breath you take, every sweet noise vibrating against his mouth–all of it driving him mad.
Breaking from the kiss, you sit up once more and stare down at him with a half-lidded gaze. Already panting, your jaw sets and you swallow thickly, brows pinching. How much does he know?
“Do you… want more?” You ask, measured and careful, watching him closely. It’s plain to see he longs for something, the way his breaths catch in his throat tells you that much. Reaching out for him, you take one of his hands in yours and mindfully guide it toward the area where your center presses against his length.
His eyes widen slightly and you gather that your question is pointed enough when he nods, bucking up toward you again as understanding quickly dawns within him. He had read about this, about intimacy–in fragmented, flowery prose, yes–but the reality of it is infinitely more overwhelming. “Yes,” he rasps, fingers flexing against your hip. He can’t imagine a world in which he would ever tell you no.
Seeing you atop him like this, though, makes him pause, apprehension flickering across his face. Compared to him, in all his size and stature, you’re so… small, delicate in ways he is not. His free hand comes up and brushes over the curve of your jawline. “... It hurts?” He asks softly, brow furrowed with concern.
He’d never forgive himself if he broke you.
His question gives you pause and for a second, you merely blink, the realization of what he means slowly coming to you. Your heart flutters in your chest, a new, foreign warmth filling your veins. Even after all the weeks you’ve spent with him, his sweetness still takes you by surprise. This is all so new to him, so much, and still, he worries for you.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head reassuringly as a smile creeps over your lips, “No, if done right, it needn’t hurt at all.”
Your movements are measured still as you help him rid himself of his tunic, leaving him shirtless before you. Your eyes widen as they rove over his form, greedy as you take in the various lines and shades decorating his skin. “Beautiful,” you murmur after a moment, finding your voice once more.
He shivers under the intensity of your gaze–exposed in more ways than one as you drink him in. The firelight dances across his patchwork skin, highlighting every scar and seam. When your fingers trace over his chest again, he catches your wrist gently–bringing it to his lips to press a kiss against your pulse. His dark eyes hold yours as he whispers, “Show me.”
His other hand finds the hem of your nightgown, fingers trembling where they brush against the softness of your thigh. You guide his hand up higher, letting it trail over your skin while you nod your head–permission to remove it.
He’s careful with it as he pulls it up and over your head, letting the fabric pool on the floor by the bed to be dealt with later. Your cheeks flush while he looks you over, taking in the bareness of you for the first time, looking you over with something akin to reverence. His hands hover over your waist for a moment before settling there, watching the way your breasts rise and fall with each breath you take.
It only takes a moment before he gets antsy–curious–and his eyes flick up to yours as one hand trails lower, slowly trailing over the thatch of hair between your legs. He makes a quiet sound of wonder at the way you feel–so different from anything he’s read about, yet infinitely more perfect. He stills again, silently seeking permission once more.
Nodding just slightly, you raise up a bit, giving him more room with which to explore you. He tentatively traces lower, until his blunt fingertips graze lightly over your entrance, eyes lighting up when the small touch earns him a sweet whimper from you. “Oh,” he murmurs in amazement, feeling the slickness of you against his own skin, somehow knowing that must be a good thing–some fuzzy memory from a life he no longer remembers telling him as much.
The way he looks at you alone makes you whimper, those dark eyes staring up at you like you’re sunlight in human form. Heart fluttering, you let him explore–let him touch and look–only gasping when his cool fingers brush over your folds, trailing toward your entrance.
Eyes slipping closed, your head tilts back from the pleasure of it. “Yes,” you breathe, voice catching in your throat as you nod, jolting just slightly when he rubs over the aching bud at the apex of your center, “Like that.”
Beneath you, he commits every sound you make to memory, entranced at the way you move and how your voice fractures when you try to speak, the way you arch into his touch. Growing bold, he circles your entrance once more before just barely dipping the tip of a finger inside, marveling at how warm you feel against him. When he withdraws to rub slowly over that pinpoint of nerves that had made you jump a moment ago, he watches intently as you squirm above him–determined to learn exactly what makes you gasp and shudder.
You can feel his length twitch against you and, not wanting to leave him aching, you give him one final look before snaking a hand between your bodies. Working at the laces of his breeches slowly, you gauge his reaction all the while, grinning at how eager he seems. “Can I?” You ask, voice soft while you press the tips of your fingers beneath the fabric.
He nods immediately–eager despite his shyness. His hips jerk slightly and a low groan sounds from him when you tug his breeches down just enough to free his cock, letting it rest against his lower belly. “Please,” he rasps, fingers flexing against your thighs while he watches you with a dark, hungry gaze.
A shudder runs through him when your fingers finally brush against him–his entire body tensing for one breathless moment before melting into the touch with a choked-off sound.
“Shh,” you soothe, gently wrapping your hand around him, stunned at the size. It feels similar to any other man’s–definitely no less magnificent–and seems to work the same as well, a bead of moisture already welling at the tip that you run your thumb through, making him jerk beneath you, “I’ve got you.”
Arching into your touch with a low whine, he feels as if his body is strung as tightly as a bowstring. Every touch sends sparks racing up his spine and when you lean down to press kisses against his neck, it makes him shudder–too much and not enough all at once.
“Y-You… inside?” He manages to pant out between ragged breaths–words failing him as you twist your wrist just so. His hips stutter upward helplessly, chasing the sweet friction of your hand even as he pleads for more. He wants desperately to be closer, to somehow be a part of you.
“Inside?” You echo, needing to be sure. This is so precious for him–to be held this way, touched with a loving hand–you need for it to be good for him, “You know what that means, yes? You understand?” You ask, gently directing his gaze to yours with a hand on his jaw.
Nodding–slower this time, more deliberate–he blinks up at you steadily. “To… become one,” he murmurs, borrowing the words from the various books you’ve shared with him. There’s no fear or apprehension in his eyes now, only aching want and quiet trust as his hands settle on your hips again–guiding but not forcing, “Ready… please?”
Nodding along with his words, you lean down until your forehead rests against his, unable to stop yourself from wanting to be close. Your heart flutters when he eagerly leans into you, practically purring while you press your lips against his.
A moment later, you sit back up with a deep, trembling breath. Sparing him another glance, you reach between your bodies once more and carefully position him at your entrance, angling your hips just enough to notch the head of his cock against your opening.
“O-Ohh,” you breathe, voice catching in your throat while you rest your hands against his chest, slowly sinking down and letting him fill you, relishing the gasps spilling from his lips.
His entire body tenses beneath you at the overwhelming heat and tightness surrounding him. For a moment, he simply stares up at you in stunned silence, dark eyes wide with awe. His hands tighten at your hips, not to thrust or control but simply to hold you, as if he’s terrified this perfect moment might slip away. When he finally finds his voice again, it comes out broken and reverent.
“... Home,” he chokes, because what else could this be? Your warmth around him, your heartbeat syncing with his–perfect. For him, this is much more than the simple joining of bodies; this feels like finally coming home after a lifetime spent wandering.
Caught off guard by the sheer sweetness of him, you huff out a soft, adoring laugh and lean down to press against him, needing to be close. “Gods, you feel so good,” you breathe, chest heaving with soft pants. You stay still for a moment, letting yourself adjust to the stretch of him, before just barely rolling your hips–the small movement enough to elicit gasps from the both of you.
His hands flex against your hips, greedy and needy in equal measure. A low groan rumbles through his chest when you move against him, his head tipping back against the pillows. “Mine,” he thinks deliriously as he starts to move with you, your bodies slotting together like you were made for one another.
His large hands slide up to cradle your ribs–careful now, even in his desperation, as he helps guide your movements. Every little gasp you make, every flutter of your walls around him, sends sparks shooting down his spine until he’s trembling with restraint.
“More?” He says lowly, voice gravelly, half begging, half checking while his thumbs brush over the undersides of your breasts. Please say yes, he thinks, willing you to hear him, Please never stop.
The second he requests it, you find yourself nodding, unable to deny him anything for very long. “More,” you acquiesce, voice morphing to a breathy mewl when he slides his hands up to cup your breasts–his touch worshipping and curious all at once, “I’m yours, all yours.”
He surges up then to capture your lips in a messy, desperate kiss–all restraint gone now that he has those precious words echoing through his mind like church bells. His hips snap upward to meet the next roll of your hips, sheathing himself fully inside you with a choked groan.
Yours, yours, yours, he growls it with every thrust, each time his hips meet yours.
One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip tightly, guiding you to move faster–harder–until the bed creaks beneath you both. His breaths come in ragged pants against your neck, every thrust punctuated with broken whispers of your name.
“Mine,” he groans beneath your ear, unashamed to say it now, and he commits the way you shiver at it to memory. His words dissolve into incoherent sounds as pleasure coils tighter in his belly–his entire body trembling with the effort to hold on just a little longer, “Love you, love you…”
His words seem to make the pleasure flowing through you double, taking your breath away. Gasping in his hold, you let out a broken whimper and eagerly nod your head, words failing you for a moment. “I love you,” you manage, keening as desire threatens to overtake you, “I love you.”
Knowing he’s hardly hanging on, you hastily trail a hand between your bodies, seeking out the bundle of nerves between your thighs. Tensing against him when your fingertips finally come into contact with it, you waste no time circling it with a practiced touch. “Let go,” you pant, hardly able to get the words out as you finally tip over the edge, walls clenching around his length, “Let go for me, my love.”
Beneath you, he shatters. Your touch, your words, your love, all of them blend together and send him reeling. His entire body seizes as pleasure crashes over him like a tidal wave. Burying his face against your chest with a choked cry, he spills inside you, hips stuttering erratically before stilling.
For a long moment afterward, he simply clings to you–trembling and breathless–as if afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. When he finally lifts his head, his dark eyes are shining with something soft and awed as he presses a shaky, gentle kiss to your lips.
“...Stay?” He murmurs against your mouth–the question carrying far more weight than just tonight. Stay forever, he hopes, trying to will it into existence, Be his, always.
The question makes you grin against his lips, a huff of soft laughter escaping you at the notion that you could possibly want him to do anything else–as if you haven’t made your stance perfectly clear a thousand times before now. “Stay,” you echo without pause, giving a slow nod as you rest your forehead against his, “You’re home.”
Something bright and joyous flares in his gaze as he pulls you closer, moving to lie down with you tangled in his embrace. His arms wrap around you, protective and adoring, while he tucks you against his scarred chest. He lets out a quiet, low purr of contentment as he buries his nose against your hair, breathing in your familiar scent.For once, the never-ending thump of his heart doesn’t fill him with dread. It feels steadying, reassuring–content that it has finally found something, someone, to keep beating for.
A/N: oh my God, who knew that I could still write?? Yeah I haven't given up on this hobby yet lmao. Been wanting to write for these two for AGES, so it was about time I actually did something with them. These two are VERY special to me, so they will be appearing again. Enjoy!
The wooden steps creak under his weight as he slowly makes his way upstairs, barely lifting his feet high enough not to stumble. The dark is no issue to him, after thirty years spent in this old shack, and for some reason he can't be bothered to flip the light switch. He doesn't really like the dark, but he's sort of grown accustomed to it at this point, and on nights like this, well... it just feels fitting.
He climbs the last step with a grunt and slowly makes his way to the bedroom, his slipper-clad feet scuffing against the old floor with each step he takes. The squeaking of the door's hinges makes him grumble under his breath. This damn house, with all its damn noises and its damn imperfections always in need of repair...
And somehow it's still the best place he knows. The only one he can call home.
The reflection that greets him in the mirror looks like a perfect representation of how he is feeling. His eyes stare back at him, tired and dull. They don't look like they belong to the same man that was smiling and performing loudly the whole day. His back is hunched over with the weight of the world, and there is absolutely nothing left of the polished, carefully-crafted persona that spent hours entertaining the masses and spinning tales.
Spinning lies.
Mr. Mystery has clocked out for today, and Stanley Pines remains in his place.
With a sigh he takes his fez off and hangs it next to the mirror, ready to be snatched again in the morning, before the first tour begins. It's like shedding the last of his disguise, leaving only the raw, unfiltered truth to stare back at him bleakly.
God, when has he started looking so old? It is not merely about physical age, it's like something deep within his very being has been withering little by little. Have the last thirty years been that taxing on him? Losing his identity, managing the Shack, working on the portal... Or did this start much earlier? If so, when exactly?
And why does it even matter?
His hair has gone fully gray, he's gained weight, his body is littered with scars that tell a story of pain and struggle. Of stupid, bad choices. Sometimes he can't bare to look at them. Most of the time he doesn't care, as if his body was a reality entirely separate from him. Looking back at it, this might be the reason why he's even managed to survive this long, eh?
Here's what he doesn't like about nights like this: he detests how what greets him in the mirror is not his mere reflection, but a monument to his failures. He looks at himself and what he sees is a fuckup. Somebody who can't do any good despite how hard he tries. He lies, cheats, steals and ruins other people's lives, and that's about all he has to offer to the world. He ruined Stanford's life, he ruined his mother's, he ruined-
The light in the room suddenly turns on, halting his ruminations for a moment.
“Stanley? I thought you were in bed.” Sil's light voice breaks the silence, and the gentle flutter of burgundy chiffon catches his eye as she walks towards her vanity, which is tucked in the small space she carved for herself inside his room years ago.
Her hands are still stained with paint, and her long hair is still held up by a couple of paintbrushes haphazardly stuck in it. The contrast between elegance and chaos creates a combination that is uniquely her. Just like him, she's pushing sixty, and yet she is still so full of life...
“Was about to get in it.” He says gruffly as he scratches his right shoulder, turning this way and that in the mirror as if somehow he could find an answer to his questions, or even a solution to his problems, in the cold, reflective surface.
“Well, I'm glad I didn't wake you then...” She pads over to him, her gray-streaked hair now flowing down in gentle waves along her back. Their eyes meet for a moment through the mirror, and then her hand comes up to gently turn his face towards her.
Stanley doesn't immediately meet her gaze, afraid of what he might find if he does. Sometimes he still thinks he doesn't deserve to have her by his side, to call her his. She should be somewhere far away from here, following her dreams, building something meaningful... and yet she stays with him, plays pretend and gets involved in the mess he created in the first place as if it was their shared responsibility. It drives him insane sometimes. She deserves better than this and she must know it. She must.
But when Stanley finally locks eyes with her after a suspiciously long silence, he is met with nothing but warmth and affection. Her smile forms lines at the sides of her mouth, and it makes her eyes crinkle in that way that's always made his heart melt. Her thumb gently strokes his cheek like its done time and time before, and yet he never gets sick of it.
“You are so handsome...” she mutters softly, gazing at him like he's the only thing that matters to her, and suddenly he's looking at the girl that used to ride her bike all over Glass Shard Beach in the Summer, and that would get offended every time he stole fries from her plate. That bright, young girl that was way out of place in that town and yet made it feel like she was exactly where she belonged no matter where she went. He sees her now, as if she never grew a day older than seventeen. The one person that, even if for the briefest moment, made him believe that he deserved to dream, and to want something more from his life. She stands before him, unwavering in her love for him, and he can't help but feel like a boy again, with the sun on his skin and gel in his hair.
The incessant tides of his thoughts finally relent as he leans into her warm touch. His eyes slide closed, and his strong arm wraps around her body to bring her closer.
If, after forty years, she can still look at him like this, like he is the same guy she met long ago, like he is more than enough, like she will always have faith in him no matter what... then surely, for tonight, he can go a bit easier on himself as well, if only to remind himself that maybe, just maybe, he still has something good to offer to this world.
Summary: Harvey’s sad because reader is always running errands and doesn’t spend time with him anymore.
The winter was approaching fast, The leafs on the trees gone and the air getting cooler as each day passes. And given your old houses only source of heat is a fireplace…well, you spend most your time outside chopping wood to ensure you have enough to keep you and your husband warm throughout the winter.
And he hates it, watching you work tirelessly all day from sun up to sundown. You are a hardworking person, always on the go, always up and out of bed before he can even get a good morning from you…
It made him feel down, it made him worry about your health. He especially misses having hearty breakfasts with you, the loving small talk or banter shared back and forth…
So today, Harvey wakes up extra early. He puts on his winter boots, his heavy blue coat and scarf and he goes outside. The sky dark with a faint hue of sun slowly making its way up, a little smile on his face as he grabs the water bucket and fills it by the icy pond, shivering when some of the cold water gets on his hand soaking his glove.
But he’s determined to continue his task, Feed all the animals and bring in the wood and hopefully spend time this morning with you, His darling, his love…
So walking into the barn he fills the watering trough up, getting hay out and spreading it throughout their other trough. One of the cows mooing at him as the other nudges him away to get to the food.
“Oh stop it now! I just washed this coat…” Harvey spoke to the cow as it starts eating the hay, Making his sigh as he looks over where the wet nose had left a unpleasant wet spot on the side of his coat. “I have to be at the clinic today too…” He mumbles as he finishes up in the barn and leaves to the chicken coop. Repeating the process and collecting the eggs before heading back inside, making a fire in the fireplace and bringing more wood inside.
He feels almost giddy when he’s making breakfast, wearing his favorite green sweater you had gotten him last year for his birthday. A apron on as he prepares your favorite breakfast food and a cup of coffee (or tea) just how you like it. The kitchen table set up with the big breakfast.
Harvey smiles to himself, happy with how it all turned out and he knew you’d love it! He’s missed having moments like this with you, you were always on the go and never really had time for these things anymore…
So just as Harvey hums a tune and takes his apron on he smiles when he hears the bedroom door open and your footfalls soon after.
“Hun! Your awake! I made us some break—
“Oh Harvey that’s sweet! But I got to go into the mines today, Clint needs more ore!” You rushed out, already slipping on your boots and coat.
You didn’t even acknowledge your husband who stands like a kicked puppy in the kitchen with a frown.
“It’s 5am…I made breakfast! Early so we can talk like we always do” Harvey says, staying enthusiastic as he pulls your chair out for you.
You go through the chest by the door you keep your tools in, looking for you pickaxe and headlight for the mines.
“Maybe we can have lunch? I just have a bunch of things I need to get done today Harvey” You explained, knowing you had accidentally promised all of pelican town you’d help them with something.
And Harvey hates the mines with a passion, he’s explained multiple times how dangerous it can be. You always reassure him you stay true to the safety rules but it never eases his overprotective mind.
“I’ll be at the clinic then….” His disappointment wasn’t masked like it has been, his shoulders slouched and all the effort he put into the perfect breakfast and taking care of the farm seem pointless…no matter how much work he takes off your shoulders, you’ll always be too busy for him…
You were too caught up in your overwhelming tasks to even acknowledge his disappointment and put your hat on. “I’ll see you tonight! Love you!” You head out the door, the fall air chilling and you lean your pickaxe up against the door and sighed.
“Time to feed the animals…” You grab your bucket and fill it with water by the pond, going to the barn but your surprised to see the cows happily lounging after eating the hay in their trough.
You furrow your brows and head to the chicken coop and the eggs were collected and they had been fed and watered as well…
So putting the bucket down you walk back inside and open your mouth to ask Harvey if he took care of the farm but your words die down when you see Harvey seated at the table, barely even touching the breakfast he made while his glasses were pushed up his head, hands rubbing at his face…
Then you actually take a look at the breakfast he took his time to make, how he woke up extra early just to help you out and make time for him…
Slipping your boots off, you sigh deeply and walk into the kitchen and stand behind where Harvey seats, hugging his shoulders and resting your head on his.
“Thank you, for feeding the animals today…and making this breakfast” You say softly and sincerely, Feeling terrible for neglecting the sweet man.
But Harvey stays there in his same sad position, he felt like you didn’t want to spend time with him. And he didn’t blame you…he was exciting like most…
“No problem, Hun…” He murmured back, putting his glasses back in place before sipping his black coffee. “Go on…I know how busy you can be…” He adds in the same down tone.
Your heart aches at the sound And sight of your husband and you shake your head and sit in the chair he had pulled out previously.
“Everyone else can wait…” You say and sip the warm beverage he made you to perfection, your hand resting on the back of his.
Harvey perks up a little bit, looking at you skeptically. It’s been weeks since you’ve saved time for him, he hated to sound clingy but he does miss these little moments.
“Are you sure?….i-I don’t want—
“And tomorrow we could have a walk?” You say softly and take a bite of breakfast, Knowing a day away from too much work would do you some good. And Harvey loves taking walks, especially to gather mushrooms.
And he looks relieved to know you are willing to have a break from running errands for everyone.
“That sounds wonderful! It is time for the mushrooms to be coming up! And this fall looks beautiful! Everything is orange and red…” He speaks and takes a bite of his own breakfast.
You smiled softly at him and sip your beverage once more, Knowing that you should spend more time with your loving husband and less time always running around doing things for others…
Warnings: MDNI, sex, virginity loss, corruption kink, temple sex, oral (f rec)piv sex, dirty talk, slightly rough sex, god/goddess worship, slight dubcon
A/n: I had to. How could I not? Kinda rushed, not proofread in any way, I'm sorry.
Pairing: goddess! reader x God of Annihilation Zayne
Word count: 3.9k
It was desperation that had driven you to the temple. Your people, your devotees, all kneeling at your feet, begging for their lives, for liberation from their suffering. Your heart ached for them, yet you knew your powers in their current state weren't enough to save them.
An eerie silence settles as you enter, your footsteps echoing off the tall pillars, wondering if you’d made a mistake. You shouldn’t be here. There were simply some gods that shouldn’t be reckoned with. Despite being shielded by divine favor, there were too many variables. No one enters this temple without preparing to make a sacrifice, but it was difficult to imagine what you could offer to the God of Annihilation. His whims and wants varied, but you steadied yourself as you walked into the depths of the temple, a wineskin filled with sweet pear juice secured at your hip. Whether or not this was sufficient was questionable, but it was better than turning up empty-handed.
As you finally reach the inner sanctum, you’re met with wonder as you see a large pool of water sunken into the middle of the floor. The water is deceptively still and calm, as though trying to entice unsuspecting devotees into its depths before making its demands. You hesitantly make your way towards the edge of the pool, unsure how to summon him. Despite being a goddess yourself, no one had taught you the decorum about calling upon another god for favor, especially not one as high-ranked as the God of Annihilation.
Kneeling at the edge of the water, you gaze into the unbroken depths, your reflection staring back at you, wary and suspicious. Keenly aware of the potential endangerment of your current pose, you prostrate, pressing your forehead against the stone rim, your eyes downcast.
“God of Annihilation, Lord of Wondrous Blessing, Traveler of the Dark. I call upon thee to hear my supplication and bestow your favor.”
Your heart races, pounding in your chest, until you hear it in your ears, waiting. For a moment, nothing. Wondering if you had failed, you’re about to try again when you notice a pair of amber green eyes staring at you from the surface of the pool. Taken aback, you nearly stumble as your reflection is replaced by an unknown face, sharp and chiseled as though hewn from marble, as something begins to rise from the water.
All you can do is gape at the sight, as a man emerges from the watery depths, towering over you with his broad frame. His hair was as dark as night, flowing like silk, enmeshed with gold, slipping over his wide shoulders as it cascaded down his back. Those mesmerizing eyes appraised you coolly, smirking at your trembling form. Unwilling to appear daunted, you straighten and train your eyes onto his face, forcing your features into one of determination. When he speaks, your heart nearly stops at the deep calm of his voice.
“Who had called upon the God of Annihilation? Identify yourself, goddess.”
His long fingers reach for your chin, tipping your face upwards as his eyes bore into yours, flickering like droplets of the sun, the markings on his skin tracing forgotten stories of the past into his body. The thumping in your chest grows traitorously louder at this action, causing your cheeks to flush under his gaze, but you remember the desperate calls of your devotees, and sensibility floods back into you.
“It is I, the deity of Niava. I’ve come on behalf of my people,” you say firmly, though you can’t help but want to look away. “I seek an audience to request for power.”
At this, the god releases you, standing at the edge of the pool, droplets of water sliding down his upper torso. He crosses his arms and waits expectantly, and you hasten with your explanation.
“My people need respite. I wish to grant it to them, but in my current state, I cannot.” You look up at him beseechingly. “The wars of the past have weakened me. I require power. Urgently.” Hope fills your veins as the god thoughtfully rubs his chin. His eyes fall upon the skin fastened at your hip.
“You’ve come with an offering, I assume,” he says, and you nod, untying the hide and stretching out your hand.
“If it is not sufficient, then please tell me what else you would require, my lord,” you say as he reaches for the wineskin, uncorks it, and takes a swig. You observe him keenly, watching for signs of displeasure, and are surprised to see his eyes widen slightly, before tipping his head back and drinking deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
Relieved, you continue. “Would it please you then, to grant this favor?”
The god lowers the skin and licks a stray droplet of juice from his lips, and for some odd reason, the gesture sends a skitter of electricity running down your spine. You found yourself wondering how it tasted, both from the wineskin and his mouth. Realizing it was borderline inappropriate, you force yourself to focus.
The god hums, tapping a finger on his scarred and corded forearm before responding. “Is that your only supplication?” he asks, his tone almost melodious, and you nod.
“Goddess, have you ever been part of a power transfer ritual before?” he asks, and you notice the ring of amber starting to darken, swallowed up like misty smoke.
“I have not. There has never been a need for it.” At those words, the god’s demeanor shifts, almost with excitement.
“I see. So you haven’t been prepared, little one.” He rests the wineskin against the base of one of the pillars before moving closer to you. You couldn’t pull away, helpless in his alluring trap as his chest almost touches yours, the heat of his skin searing into your body.
“Don’t patronize me!” you say defensively, offended by his nonchalant proximity. “I might have never needed to, but that does not give you the right to forget my divinity. I am a goddess in my own right. Do not underestimate me.”
“Of course not. All I meant was, you’ve never been taken. You’re naive, untouched.” His fingers thread through your hair, sending tingles rippling through your scalp and neck. “I’m not certain I would want to bestow such power onto someone like this.”
Growing impatient, you pull away, trying to gather some semblance of resolve. The purr in his voice was forbiddingly provocative, a gentle push towards an unknown abyss.
“My lord.” It comes out from between clenched teeth. “If there is something I am missing, please do not mistake my unfamiliarity with inexperience. I am young, but I have successfully guided and won many battles. Please enlighten me, then we can proceed with how I can convince you to grant me this favor.”
You couldn’t understand why he was behaving like this, as though wondering if he should divulge the information or not. His lips have curved into an infuriating smile, and though it softened his features and made him smolderingly handsome, it did nothing to disarm your sense of dread. There was something amiss, but you couldn’t understand what. He seemingly thinks, tapping his fingers against the smooth rock as he does so. After a moment of silence, he explains.
“Goddess, I’m not questioning your abilities, nor am I saying you’re unworthy of seeking my favor. What I’m trying to say is the power ritual involves intimate joining for transference. You come to me, a virgin and unaware of what the ritual entails.” He leans against the base of an altar, watching for your reaction.
You blush at the mention of your virginity, but plough on. “What if I am a virgin? Will the ritual not work?” At this, his expression softens.
“No, little goddess. It will work. But do you understand what I mean by intimate joining?” Amused at your innocent reaction, he explains. “It means we will have to consummate our relationship as god and goddess. Only then will you be able to receive my power and fortify yourself.”
“Con-consummate?” You stutter as you repeat the word. Never, in any book nor conversation, had this come up. You suddenly feel shy to even look at him, averting your gaze back to the water.
“Yes. You must give all of yourself to me. Willingly and freely. If you do not wish to proceed, then I’m afraid you’re at a stalemate. Power rituals require coupling of the parties involved.”
Feeling like you’d been hit by a train, you settle down on the steps that led into the water, feeling exposed even though the god was some distance away. His gaze felt like it could see under your clothes, and your nervousness was steadily peaking.
What were you supposed to do? You remember the desperation of your devotees, their lives crushed and their offerings strewn about at the altar of your temple as they begged you for salvation. Their disappointment was crushing. Isn’t that why you came here in the first place? Leaving without the blessing was not an option.
Squaring your shoulders, you look back at the god who was now lounging leisurely, watching the rays of sun that streaked in through the open slats in the ceiling. “My people are suffering. I made a promise to them. I cannot go back empty-handed.”
You take a deep breath, feeling tension knot in your stomach. “Do as you must.”
At this, the god’s face softens, settling like a mask over the perfect features. He gets to his feet and approaches you, his hand lightly caressing your shoulder.
“Goddess, please don’t look so repulsed. I understand these circumstances are not what you had expected, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find pleasure in it.” He cups your pink cheek, and feeling like fireworks had gone off in the pit of your stomach, you turn to face him, looking at the stern, beautiful face that was your people’s salvation.
“My lord,” you say quiveringly, and he lays a finger on your lips, shaking his head.
“You can drop the titles. Please. Say my name. You’ll be sighing it for the next few hours after all.” He blinks, and you’re startled to see a hint of tenderness growing in the depths of his beautiful eyes. “Zayne.”
The name sounds mysterious coming from his lips, and you swallow as he starts brushing away hair from your neck, tickling you with each movement. “Zayne.” You repeat, and it rolls off your tongue in a strangely intimate manner.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, and he gathers you against his chest, now stroking down the length of your back, your head coming to rest against him. You feel the hardness of his pecs, the rush of his heart as it beats steadily under your ear, like a secret poem being whispered to you.
“Don’t be scared. I promise it only hurts a little.” With that, he tips your face to his and kisses you.
The world stops for a brief second, then starts a slippery descent into the unknown, where all you could feel was Zayne’s body against yours, the heat of skin, and the taste of his lips. The faint flavor of the sweet pear juice lingered, and as his mouth coaxingly brushes against yours, it opens naturally, allowing for the gentle invasion of his tongue. You sipped, fascinated by the smoothness and moisture. A groan escapes Zayne’s mouth at your sweet offering, and his fingers tangle into your hair as he deepens the kiss, greedily sampling everything you gave him.
The air becomes balmy inside the temple as your bodies start to react, the chemistry and tension growing steadily as you kiss him, keenly aware of how your body attunes to his. His scent permeates you, something fresh and minty, while each brush of your clothes against his bare chest ignites something deep within your belly, growing hot and fraught with tension. Zayne breaks free of the kiss and presses his forehead against yours tenderly, the long locks of hair contrasting against yours as he slides his lips down your neck, sucking and nibbling as he reaches your collarbone. Rushes of heat keep shooting through you as you try to comprehend.
This was a ritual? Was it supposed to feel this naughty yet desirable at the same time? A breathy sigh leaves you as your hands anchor themselves on his back to ground yourself. The earth was tipping over, taking you with it, and you had no hope of finding your way back through the tunnel. At this, Zayne buries his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and tickly as he scoops you into his arms. You instinctively hold tight as he carries you over to the altar and settles you on it. From this angle, he looked dominating and powerful, his height dwarfing you as his hands pressed against the altar.
“You smell delicious, goddess,” he growls lowly, nipping your ear and causing you to shiver. Curiosity fills you as you raise your hands and put them on his chest, feeling him tense at the touch. The strong sinew ripples under his skin, and as you stroke him, a grunt of surprise escapes him, making you pause.
“Don’t stop.” He encourages, emboldening you, experimentally resuming your maddening touches. Zayne tries not to fold at the innocence of your exploration, but your soft, small hands are making him melt like snow under the sun. He grits his teeth as he reins in the overwhelming desire to shove you onto your back and take you like a stallion driven with need.
But he stills, knowing he’d regret it if he did, feeling pathetically like a puppet under your touch. How ironic that the God of Annihilation was crumbling into dust under this inexperienced maiden’s fingers. His hands move to your waist, then climb higher to enclose your ribcage, then cup your breasts, drawing a gasp of shock from you. You feel your nipples harden underneath your clothing, responding to him as he strokes them with his thumbs.
You moan lowly, feeling pleasure building in the pebbled peaks, feeling hot as those small touches stoke the fire in your belly. An unexpected throb becomes present between your legs as he works on your nipples, your sex pulsing with each caress, until you’re soft and pliant, your fingers gripping the edges of the altar to keep from going insane.
Noticing your tension, Zayne chuckles, nuzzling your neck. “It’s ok, goddess. Temples are for worship. Your noises are nothing but hymns.”
His lips brush against a sensitive spot on your neck, sucking a mark onto it while his hands begin to undo the intricate laces that held your dress together. You’re vaguely aware of what happens during consummation, but the thought of being naked suddenly makes you shy. Before you can protest, Zayne has loosened all the fastenings, and the bodice slips from your chest, leaving your upper torso stripped.
Zayne’s eyes are like a predator now, pupils dilated and hungry as he takes in your chest rising and falling rapidly, the cute flush that stains your skin, and the way your nipples stood at attention under his care. With a groan, he dips his head and pulls one into his mouth, giving it a gentle suckle, flattered when your hands tangle into his hair. Your breath comes out in shallow pants as desire grows from within, threatening to burst through like a dam. Your core feels heavy and swollen, the labia chafing against your undergarments as you shuffle under Zayne’s skillful mouth.
When he switches to the other breast, Zayne hikes up the skirt of your dress, draping it on the altar as he squeezes the soft, pillowy flesh of your thighs. A lick of fear runs through you, but when all he does is massage your mound, you relax, welcoming the tiny bit of friction felt on your hidden pearl.
“Feeling good?” His voice asks in a seductive growl, and you nod helplessly, feeling your thighs part for him as his hands continue to move towards the junction between your legs. You squirm in alarm when you feel him start pulling your undergarments down, trying to fight, but he holds firm, keeping you seated at the altar.
“There’s no shame here, goddess.” He whispers into your ear, keeping you pressed against his chest. You bury your head to calm yourself, feeling sensitive and tingly everywhere. He parts your thighs and starts to kneel, and you’re unable to look at him, feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“It’s time for you to offer a libation.”
His fingers indent into your thighs as he keeps them open, spreading your moistened sex apart, feeling like a starved man as he catches a whiff of the sweet nectar hidden between. He kisses both your inner thighs, teasing, creating anticipation until finally, his mouth makes contact with your labia. You jolt, the sensation alien and unfamiliar, wondering what he is doing, then feel a smooth, swiping motion on your slit. The sound that leaves your lips is the sweetest psalm, and Zayne is heady from the taste of your cunt. He laps greedily, feeling around inside the velvety channel until his tongue catches onto the little bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex. He licks gently, encouraged when your hips buck, pushing more of you into his mouth. A delicious feast, just for him. He slurps, nudging the little nub until you’re lying back on the altar, sweat dripping from your body as your eyes squeeze closed, unable to process the sensations building inside.
Your voice keens, but Zayne doesn’t show any signs of stopping, his tongue dipping into your entrance to catch the fresh drops of honey before swirling his way back to that spot that makes you quiver like a leaf. Just when you think it couldn’t get better, you feel your sex being pushed into, and cry out as a finger slides smoothly in. It was uncomfortable, but not painful, and you wonder why this is happening, but as the digit crooks and starts pistoning in and out of you, you forget why you questioned it in the first place.
Your sighs fill the temple’s chamber as Zayne now controlled you. He held your pleasure in the palm of your hand, and you were content to remain there. Your cunt was sloppy and leaking moisture onto his fingers, and Zayne feels his erection brushing impatiently against his garments, waiting to be freed. Soon, he thinks to himself as he suckles your bud into his mouth, pulling gently until you cry out, arching desperately towards him as his finger continues to stroke that patch deep inside your gummy walls.
He feels your channel clenching rhythmically around him and redoubles his efforts. You’re so close, he can feel it, and he was desperate to see you fall apart for him.
Your brain is in a haze, body reacting on its own accord when you feel the coil of heat in your belly snap. It was a dizzying feeling, a kaleidoscope of sensation as it exploded from you, tearing the breath from your throat as all your muscles started to spasm pleasurably, wave after wave of delight rippling through your system. As it starts to subside, you’re aware of being pulled against something warm, and when your eyes open again, Zayne is cradling you against his side as he strokes your hair. The gesture was sweet, and his eyes were fixed on your face, watching you for signs of regret, but none were there as you instinctively snuggled into him, feeling content.
“It’s not over yet,” he clarifies, hoping you weren’t under the impression it was done. When you nod, he helps you lie back and frees himself from his clothes. You look curiously as his erection pops up, hard and leaking fluid from its tip. You tense as he positions himself at your entrance, gasping when he starts to push in.
“Ssh.” He soothes you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Calm down. It hurts less.” You whimper as you feel him notch in, and this time, push past the tight ring of muscles into your virgin body.
“Feel this, and remember what I’m giving you,” he murmurs, and then fully sheathes himself. You cry out at the stretch, your walls splitting apart to accommodate him. Unprepared for the sting of pain, you struggle, tears tracking your cheeks. Your hand pushes at his shoulder, trying to free yourself, but he grabs it, along with the other, and holds them above your head, preventing your escape.
“Focus. Let your body accept mine. The ritual won’t end because you want it to. ” Your eyes crack open to find his, locking onto them as he waits for the pain to subside. As it lessens, your struggling stops, and Zayne begins to slowly thrust, his hips meeting yours as he sets up an erotic rhythm that brings a fresh wave of desire in your veins. The pain fades, turning into a sweet ache that has you arching in his embrace as he takes you. Your breathing syncs with his, and the movement starts to feel natural as he drags his cock along your sensitized walls, stirring up delicious feelings deep within.
From lowered lashes, you watch him pant, sweating as he couples with you, then the shadowy room is suddenly cast into light. You stare in awe as the gold patterns on his skin begin to glow, like tales from the past coming alive as he moves. His eyes were also aflame, glittering with power, gazing at you like you were the most precious thing on earth. It was hypnotic, and even as you moan and shiver with pleasure, you fall deeper into the chasm, taking him with you.
As the glow intensifies, you feel it seeping into you, his power burning away the doubts and fears you had about not being able to provide for your people. It strengthens you, and you no longer feel the initial awkwardness of being taken by Zayne. You moan and whimper unsashamedly, wrapping your legs around his waist for support, roused when he grips your upper thighs to keep them locked around him.
His movements grow erratic, hips slamming into you, pushing himself deeper within your soft wetness, as he finally allows himself to claim you wholly. His markings grow blindingly bright as he finishes, teeth gritted, and his nose scrunching up in orgasmic ecstasy as thick ropes of his seed spill into your womb.
You feel him emptying himself, the warm gush of liquid both exciting and confusing. As he pulls out, he carefully lowers your legs and pulls you off the altar. On wobbly legs, he leads you to the pool’s edge and cups his hands, filling them with water and bringing it to your lips. You sip greedily, feeling parched and uncontrollably exhausted. After a few more sips to quench your thirst, you remember nothing.
When you finally come to, you’re wrapped in a silk shawl, head resting on Zayne’s bicep as he leisurely strokes your side. You roll over, observing the amusement on his face when you cup his cheeks.
“Zayne…thank you. I can face my people now and act as the leader they deserve.”
“Thank you?” he huffs and draws you closer. “Goddess, are you aware of what you’ve awakened?”
You look at him, puzzled. “No?” you say honestly, and he chuckles, kissing you deeply.
“We’re caught in a cycle now. Between us…there is nothing but endless taking.”
“Taking?” you ask, but Zayne shakes his head, his hair spilling over his shoulders and onto your waist.
“Don’t worry about it. And goddess…from now on…you’re only to come to me when your power needs replenishing.”
Stan takes you along with him to run an errand. The two of you start talking, and one thing leads to another. Stan/Reader, Smut
Stan was driving. The two of you were lost, but that wasn’t important, because he was pushing a thick finger into your warmth, one hand on the wheel, eyes darting between the road and your body reclined in the passenger seat to give him better access to your heat.
It was the first time he touched you, the first time he made you come, all while driving down a long, secluded, scenic road. Of course he wouldn’t take your directions back to the Mystery Shack. Not when he’d “been all over the world” and had a “fantastic sense of direction.”
You bickered like an old married couple daily, so you probably should’ve seen this coming. The conversation during your little impromptu road trip to collect a large box of Stan-head Pez dispensers took a turn into past relationships, his and yours. He bragged about his experience, while you downcast your eyes with a blush, admitting that no-one had ever been able to make you orgasm.
“Seriously?” he asked. “Man, no wonder.”
You scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“If you got laid, then maybe you wouldn’t act like such a—”
His eyes met yours before he rolled them, biting his tongue when you shot him a look that could kill.
“Yeah, ok. Like you’ve got a lineup ready to fuck you.”
“Could if I didn’t have you with me all the time. People think we’re a thing,” he gestured between you. “Ya don’t hear how the town talks?”
You did. For months people assumed the two of you were a couple, chuckling and teasing big shot Mister Mystery about his new young “sweetie.”
You were simply renting a room in his house during the off-season. He needed the money, and you needed a place to stay.
But you stayed, and it had been over a year of you helping him with his business in exchange for a roof over your head.
You wouldn’t call Stan a friend, per se. But he was something, that was for sure.
“People fake it, y’know,” you countered. “So don’t get cocky thinking you’re actually that good.”
His eyes narrowed in thought, weighing the consequences of his next move, something he didn’t normally do. Still, his decision came quickly.
“Wanna find out?”
You whipped your head to face him, eyes wide. Your heart began beating like a drum. “What—?”
“Undo your shorts and I’ll prove it.”
“But…” you glanced around the vehicle, out the window and back again. “You’re driving. We’d have to pull over if—”
He wondered if you were really going to argue with him about this, too. Or if you just truly lacked the experience. He groaned, “I’m gonna use my hand, dummy. I can multitask.”
“Oh.”
You blinked a couple times. Then you blushed, the weight of the situation suddenly very heavy. You took a moment to think, and Stan let you.
Letting him make you come wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
So you sighed, as though you were doing him the favor. “Ok. Fine.”
“Great. So here’s what I want ya to do.” He began, eyes taking turns landing between the road and you, “lay the seat back…” you did as you were told, looking to him for direction. “Yup, good. And pull down your pants.”
“I don’t want you to look.” You weren’t ready for him to see you yet.
He couldn’t understand why, but this is one thing he wouldn’t argue with you about. “Fine. No looking, just touching. Agreed?”
Relieved, you nodded and reclined, heat pooling quickly in your abdomen when his eyes flicked to your shorts, then back on the road once his fingers found the hem of your underwear. Carefully, he began slipping them in, and when he found your nerves, you let out a shaky breath.
He smiled to himself. “There it is.” He began with slow circles. “Y’ gonna lemme in? Hm?” He asked, working to make you slick.
You wrinkled your nose. “Don’t talk to it!” You couldn’t help but giggle a bit, making Stan smile. “If you did that with any of your hook ups, they were most definitely just being nice when they— oh…”
“Now we’re talkin’” he bragged, feeling triumph in successfully silencing you, your snark replaced with a soft moan.
He tightened his circles, taking his other hand off the wheel briefly to turn down the radio so he could properly hear you, to gauge your response to his craft.
You were trying to hold back to save your pride, but it was growing increasingly difficult. At first, you were skeptical of his bragging. But once he found his groove, he was right. It was really, very good. So good, you spread your legs a little wider, happy to be wearing shorts that provided him enough room to move beneath them.
You were whimpering, head turned away from him as your hips began to buck into the pads of his fingers, and when you reached a pitch, he slowly dragged his middle finger through your folds, to your entrance where he teased a bit before sliding back up and circling once more.
His name slipped passed your lips in a plea. You needed more, and you were about to tell him, but he moved before you could ask— his palm flattening against your mound, slowly pushing his middle finger inside.
You whispered his name, a light gasp of “Stan…”
He could get used to you saying his name like that instead of the annoyed inflection you’d normally lace around the syllable.
He let his eyes wander away from the road to your form, your head turned toward him now, eyes shut with your bottom lip between your teeth.
God, you were gorgeous.
If he weren’t driving he’d touch himself, close his eyes and pretend his finger were his cock inside you. He wanted to thrust. Wanted to fuck you good. But he couldn’t, not for the moment. So he compensated by lifting his palm, giving himself the leverage he needed to allow the motion.
“Shit, fuck.”
That’s how you told him you liked it, and he was totally fine with that. Elated, even.
“Gonna come?” He asked, smug. Eyes on the road, lips curving into a smirk.
You didn’t want to admit it, but—
“Yes!”
You did, pulsating around his digit, hands flying up to grip the head rest as you thrusted your hips the best you could into his skilled hand.
He removed his finger only when he felt your hips slow, giving your nub one last little circle on his way out of your pants, chuckling darkly at your oversensitive yelp.
When he looked at you, you were already staring at him, eyes lidded, smiling softly and totally satisfied.
He grinned, large and proud.
“Yeah,” he laughed, “can’t fake that look.”
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