#a rather blustery day
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wrapped up
pairing; frank castle x fem!reader
summary; after coming back from the bar, frank takes care of you with a hot shower and wrapping you up in blankets.
warnings; fluff, domestic fluff, domestic frank castle, self-indulgent, showering together
notes; hello hello! so this is my day 8 fic for fluffbruary, day 9 is partially written and i have a few ideas for 10 and 11 but i'm back in uni tomorrow so whether i will get anything done is really anyone's guess! but here's day 8. this originally was going to be written differently but since yesterday was really not the one for me, i wrote it more self-indulgently because i needed that frank castle lovin'! so here's domestic frank looking after reader <3
ao3
It was meant to be a fun night out but it had ended in disaster. You were also frozen to the bone. Your jacket did very little to protect you from the blustery winds and despite taking a cab, you were still freezing. By the time that you got into your apartment, your teeth were chattering.
Frank was cooking in the kitchen when you came inside, arms wrapped around yourself. Your eyes were red and teary from the crying at the bar but you were fine now. You were so emotionally strung out that it really didn’t matter anymore.
“Hey,” Your voice was hoarse as you closed the apartment door behind you. Frank glanced back, a smile spreading across his face at your sudden appearance. You hung your jacket up and kicked off your shoes before walking over to him. He was stirring a pot.
“How was it?” He asked. You shrugged, not really in the mood to speak about it.
“Awful,” You admitted. You wrapped your arms around his waist, snuggling into his back. A frown formed on his lips and he shivered at the feeling of your cold skin against his.
“You’re so cold, sweetheart,” He said after a beat. You let out a grunt of agreement but you were honestly more than content to stay here with Frank, pressed up against him. A contented sigh left your lips and he couldn’t help but chuckle softly, “Gotta let this simmer, let’s get you a shower, hm?” He suggested. You let out a grumble of annoyance before pulling your arms away from him. There was a begrudging acceptance but Frank knew you and knew that you would have rather stayed pressed against him for the rest of the evening.
“You’re coming in with me,” You declared as you wandered over to the bathroom. Frank chuckled but nodded his head.
“Yes, ma’am.” A smile couldn’t help but break out across your face and once you had both entered into the bathroom, you stripped down. The cute top and jeans you had been wearing for the night were discarded and Frank warmed the shower up while you wiped your make-up off. The mascara had already smudged and some of it had come off due to your tears in the bar so you were glad to be rid of it.
Frank wrapped his arms around you, naked body pressed against yours as you used a cotton pad to wipe down your eyes. He just watched your reflection, admiring you as you went through your usual routine. It was only when you were done that he let go of you. Then, the two of you stepped into the steamy hot shower.
Frank let you get under the spray first and you tilted your face to be underneath it. The water rushed down your face before you pushed it back into your hair and turned around. Before you had the chance to, Frank’s hands had come up to push the water off your closed eyelids. He then leant forward and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
“Y’so pretty,” He mumbled against your lips. A grin split across your face and you opened your eyes to look into his. There was something so soothing about being here. After tonight, after what had happened at the bar, you wanted to be with him. It made you feel a little more sane. You tugged him under the spray with you, water dripping down both of your bodies as you leant into him. His hand moved to cradle your back, holding you against him.
It took everything in you to stop yourself from sobbing. You knew that he wouldn’t mind but you didn’t want to have to think about it. You just wanted to be happy with him and you wanted to talk about it with Frank but not right now. It would make you angry and you didn’t want to be angry. You just wanted to be here with Frank, with your boyfriend and everything would be okay.
“Where’s your body wash?” You asked against his damp skin. Your head tilted up and he nodded his head towards the edge of the tub where all your products were. A grin spread across your face and you stepped back from him, reaching out towards it.
“What’re you doing, sweetheart?” His eyebrow was raised as he watched you pick it up. You then flicked the cap open and were about to pour some gel into your hand but his stopped you.
“Using your shower gel,” You responded, giving him a cheeky grin. He shook his head and grabbed the bottle from your hand, “Hey,” The frown quickly took over your face and he poured some into his hand. The sting of rejection began to seep back in and you felt the tears begin to prick at your eyes again.
“Turn around,” He instructed. You tilted your head, giving him a curious look before you followed his instructions. You weren’t under the spray of water anymore and then you felt his hands on your shoulders. He spread the shower gel along your shoulders before trailing his hands down your back. You melted. You were pretty sure you would have melted into a puddle if that didn’t defy the laws of the universe.
His fingers dug into your back, massaging your shoulders while lathering the gel up against your back. Your head fell backwards, a soft groan of pleasure escaping your lips. Frank smiled softly and leant forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
“Gotta take care of my baby,” He mumbled in your ear. You grinned and turned your head around so you could capture his lips in a kiss. His hands moved from your shoulders to your hips, letting you decide how long you wanted to stay like this. It was a soft kiss, tender and it made you breathless. You were panting when you broke away and you leant down, pressing a kiss to his chest before you turned back around.
His hands left you and he squirted some more gel onto his hands and then began to spread it across your stomach and up your chest. He ran his hands down your arms, lathering up every inch of your body with all the love and affection you needed in that moment. He was able to read you perfectly and by the time he was done, you felt so relaxed. All the tension, anxiety and anger had slipped away into happiness.
You slipped back under the spray and Frank let you wash away the gel as he began to apply some to himself. You frowned, ready to argue with him but before you could even get a word in, he told you to just wash yourself off. You wanted to help him, you wanted to give him all the attention that he had given you. But Frank was a selfless lover, sometimes.
Once you had both washed up, he wrapped you up in a fluffy towel. You both dried off before walking to the bedroom and changing into your comfortable pyjamas.
“When is dinner ready?” You asked as you followed Frank back into the main room of the apartment. He glanced at the clock.
“Not long, just relax f’me, yeah?” You nodded in response to his words. There was no way you could argue with that tone and so you plopped yourself down on the sofa. The shower had significantly warmed you up and the emotions from tonight had been washed down the drain with sudsy water. But you were still cold.
As you curled up on the sofa, Frank could hear you shivering every few minutes. So, once he had checked on the sauce that still needed a minute or so to finish simmering, he headed back to the bedroom and brought out a stack of blankets. You glanced up at him as he walked over, fluffy stack in hand.
“Sit up f’me, sweetheart,” He requested and you followed. He then began to wrap you up in layers of blankets. You couldn’t help but chuckle as he made sure they were all wrapped securely around you. It was a warm cocoon and seeing Frank smile at you made it feel more loving than silly. Though you still felt silly.
“How am I supposed to eat?” You muttered. He rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss against your head.
“Stick your arms out, shit, I dunno, but I gotta keep you warm,” He retorted. You couldn’t help but bark a laugh at his response. You adjusted your position slightly and were able to get your hands to stick out from the cocoon of blankets. The air was so cold but you grabbed onto Frank’s hips and pulled him down into you.
“I love you,” You whispered against his lips before capturing them in a kiss. It was soft at first, closed-mouth kisses against each other before you ran your tongue along his bottom lip. He let your tongue slip into his mouth and you moved your hands to dig into his hair. The smell of him was surrounding you and you felt at peace for the first time since you had left for work that morning. Frank made everything so much better and you didn’t want to stop kissing him.
But then he pulled back, “I wanna keep kissin’ you, baby, but dinner’s gonna burn.” You pouted up at him but he gave you one last kiss to placate you before he walked back over to the kitchen. You switched the TV on and curled up under the mountains of blankets as you watched the crappy reality show on the TV and listened to the sound of Frank cooking.
Frank always seemed to know exactly what he needed to be and despite everything, despite everything, he was there for you. It made you love him so much.
<3
#frank castle#frank castle x reader#the punisher#frank castle x you#frank castle fluff#frank castle x fem!reader#frank castle x female reader#the punisher fluff#the punisher x reader#fluffbruary#reader-insert
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they're-both-so-helpless
Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader
Word Count: ~600
CW: explicit language, mild sexual content
Author’s Note: starting 2024 off w/ Kyojuro❣️ Began writing this while at work… winter makes for slow days when selling ice cream. 😆 Pt 2 coming ~soon aka prob within the next 24 hrs since my shift’s almost over lol.
emphasis-on-helpless, helplessly-in-love
Missing your boyfriend is tough… especially when he isn’t actually your boyfriend.
“He might as well be!” Mitsuri says whenever she’s with you, “I swear you check your phone at least twice as often ever since you became friends.”
The tips of your ears warm, eyes glued to the newest Snap of Kyojuro’s cheerful face.
“Will you at least show me?” Mitsuri huffs, head tilting to catch a glance, “Aww, he’s so cute!”
“But he’s not my boyfriend,” you mutter, quickly snapping a blurry photo of your melting ice cream.
Eyes gleaming, Mitsuri hums knowingly, slinging a giddy arm around you without another word. You silently thank her gesture of respecting your privacy—something your other friend, Shinobu, rarely does—hurriedly eating a spoonful of your dessert as he snaps back: You got ice cream without me?! ☹️ I fear I am mortally wounded. 💔 You appease him with a Snap of your own frown, promising him i’ll bring u next time 🥺🍦 pointedly ignoring Mitsuri’s smooching noises when Kyojuro fires back with It’s a date! 😁😋
Sooo maybe nobody respects your privacy.
You’ve never considered yourself shy, but you have resigned yourself to being perpetually friendzoned, a bit too person-next-door in a would-never-date-their-neighbor way rather than a person-next-door who also is-totally-down-to-date-their-handsome-neighbor way. Like puffing out your chest while walking on the sidewalk to convey confidence and get people out of your path, you’ve mastered the art of giving off don’t-fuck-with-me vibes — despite desperately wanting to fuck.
And therein lies the problem-not-actually-a-problem with one Rengoku Kyojuro. Also known as, Mitsuri’s favorite barista. Also known as, immediately flirted with you when Mitsuri finally took you to his cafe for brunch, writing his number on your cup and everything. Also known as, might not have been flirting with you and in fact was just being nice because he has yet to properly-not-jokingly ask you on a real-official-non-platonic date. You’ve survived a blustery autumn of pumpkin spice lattes and too many free muffins, persevered through a surprisingly snug winter of It’s my special recipe hot chocolates and ice skating with the gang (Mitsuri, Shinobu, Kyojuro, and his insufferable friend Tengen), and felt wistfully hopeful as spring came and went, having your voice compared to blossoming flowers and your smile to tender sunshine… only to dream alone, his contagious grin and addictingly cozy hugs lingering even as you woke with the sensation of tears in your eyes.
—
“You should tell him how you feel!” Shinobu sighs, an exasperated, endeared sound as she watches you bemoan your adoration.
“Oh yeah, because he definitely feels the same after a year of literally zero signs!”
“He called your ice cream plans last week a date,” Mitsuri chimes in, rubbing your shoulders as she exchanges a they’re-both-so-helpless look with Shinobu.
“Platonically,” you shoot back, sagging into Mitsuri’s touch, “He’s so gentlemanly and sweet, I never know whether we’re flirting or he’s simply being polite! Friendly! A friend!”
“I repeat,” Shinobu deadpans, “Tell him how you feel.”
You pout, chewing on your upper lip as you mumble, “And if he doesn’t like me?”
“Nonsense!” Mitsuri declares brightly, squeezing you—Owww—a little too hard, “He doesn’t talk to anyone else like he talks to you.”
“I talk to you differently than I talk to Shinobu. Doesn’t mean anything,” you grumble.
“I’m trying to uplift you,” Mitsuri huffs, playfully pulling on your earlobe, “Trust us. Okay? He would absolutely date you if he knew you were interested in dating.”
“Since when have I said I’m not interested?!” you wail in dismay.
“You’ve never said you are interested,” Shinobu quips.
You scowl at her as she tosses a good natured pillow at you, Mitsuri clicking her tongue as you squish the pillow against your sternum, heart aching when your phone lights up Rengoku Kyojuro sent you a Snap • 🔥.
#kyojuro rengoku#rengoku kyojuro#kyojuro x reader#rengoku x reader#flame hashira#drabble#modern au#kimetsu no yaiba#demon slayer
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hello !! may i ask lost with solomon 😔💍
Hi there, anon!
Okay, so it's fluffy Solomon hours on my blog again with this one. Just in case anyone wasn't already aware, I am in love with him. I always write him in the Nightbringer timeline, too. I think it's because there's more opportunity for fluff when MC lives with him lol.
Thanks for the request!
GN!MC x Solomon with prompt Lost
Warnings: none!
It was a cold day in the Devildom, the wind thrashing against the windows, the cloudy sky threatening rain. Solomon didn't want to go out in that weather, of course, but he really saw no way around it. He needed some potion ingredients and he really couldn't delay getting them.
Well, if he was going to go out, he had better dress warmly. He made sure to wear his trench coat, long and thick enough to help with the wind, as well as a thick pair of socks. He tucked some gloves in his pocket just in case, though he might not need them. Then he rummaged around the coat closet, looking for his scarf.
Solomon pushed aside various jackets and things, looking for the scarf that normally sat on the high shelf in the closet. It wasn't there. Had he lost it?
Solomon thought about it for a minute and found he couldn't even remember when he last wore it. You had complained about its hideous pattern, so he made sure not to wear it around you too much. But it still had to be in Cocytus Hall somewhere, right?
He sighed and cast a little tracer spell. If the scarf was in the house, he would be able to locate it this way.
The spell manifested for only a brief moment before dying out. It did not lead him anywhere, indicating that his scarf was not actually in the hall anywhere.
Well, he had tried. He wondered briefly if you had tossed it because you thought it was so ugly. The thought made him chuckle. Either that or it was lost for good. It didn't matter too much. He could always buy himself a new one. Perhaps he had better let you pick it out for him, just so he didn't have to worry about accidentally choosing a pattern you didn't like.
Solomon set out into the blustery weather, the wind pushing his silver hair all over the place. He managed to get everything he needed fairly quickly. Checking the time, he realized it was about when you normally started home for Cocytus Hall. He decided to surprise you by waiting for you outside the House of Lamentation.
Solomon watched as you waved goodbye to the demon brothers on your way out the door. You pulled your own jacket closer to yourself in the chill, the wind clearly making it slightly difficult for you to walk.
As you got closer to where he stood, you saw him and smiled. Solomon smiled back, but then he noticed something. A hint of color around your neck… was that…?
"What are you doing out here?" you asked him.
He focused his gaze back on your eyes. "I happened to be out already and I thought I'd stop by to pick you up."
You shivered a little. "You came out in this weather? It's going to rain soon, I think."
Solomon cocked his head, his smile becoming teasing as he looked at you. "Is that why you stole my horrible scarf? I was looking everywhere for it."
Solomon was rewarded by the blush that rushed to your cheeks. Your fingers brushed the fabric of the scarf that was tied around your neck and tucked into your jacket. "I couldn't find mine," you said, frowning.
Solomon chuckled. "And here I thought maybe you finally threw it away when I wasn't looking. How did you describe it again? Ghastly?"
You folded your arms. "I stand by it. This thing is truly offensive. But it was the only option."
Solomon couldn't resist tugging it out of your jacket, revealing the bright clashing colors of it, a sort of argyle combined with paisley that he had to admit was rather unsightly. He used it to pull you closer to him. "It's all right, MC. You're welcome to use my scarf any time, though I think I'll do a better job of keeping you warm myself."
Solomon laughed gently as the expression on your face revealed just how silly you thought this line was. You laughed, too, and let him pull you into his arms. "You're welcome to try, magic man."
Solomon couldn't keep the grin off his face and both of you laughed into the kiss you shared before starting off toward home.
the original prompt list
masterlist | Thank you for reading!
#obey me#obey me shall we date#obey me nightbringer#obey me fluff#obey me fanfiction#obey me fanfic#obey me solomon#obey me solomon x reader#obey me solomon x mc#solomon x reader#solomon x mc#anon request#misc writes
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bleak midwinter
(this is the first thing I've written in ages pls pls be nice! Also, I know that it is neither cold nor snowing in London right now but I simply don't care!! this is literally just domestic cuteness because that is what I have brain power for <333 goodnight)
It’s biting cold. So cold they’ve said on the news that the dogs shouldn’t go out for any longer than it takes them to pee. So cold that your dad is texting you from home that you should buy a space heater for the basement so the pipes don’t freeze.
“Tell your dad if I’m buying a space heater it’s to shove up my own arse so I don’t turn into an icicle in my own living room.” Matty enters the room as you read him the message, clutching a blanket shawl around his bare shoulders.
“Have you thought about starting with a shirt, sunshine?” You ask, tugging the fleece fabric tighter to his chest.
“I did, but then I thought you’d rather stare at my ripped man muscles all day,” He jokes, flexing under the blanket. His hair is unbrushed and falling in competing angles across his face.
“Ugh, you know me so well,” you laugh, pinching his arms, “Thank God for my big strong man and his big strong man muscles.”
His voice deepens to a grunt, “Big strong man hunt mammoth throw spear light fire.”
“Yeah, could you actually? It’s worse than the North Pole in here.”
“Should we walk the boys first? That way we don’t yunno… burn the house down.”
“We’re ignoring the weathermen’s advisory?” You ask, waving your phone screen at his face to reiterate.
He sighs, “Okay, well then you get to tell them that they’re only allowed out for five seconds and deal with them looking at you like you ran over their friend for the rest of the day.”
As if on cue, Mayhem and Allan lumber into the kitchen, jowls quivering at the prospect of the word “out.” Ever since you moved in with Matt, the dogs have become as much yours as they are his. Matty swears they love you more than him. And it’s true. You can’t resist their droopy faces and old man frowns.
“Okay, fine,” you relent, huffing, “But they have to wear their blankets and their boots and possibly even a scarf.”
“Right, that can be sorted.”
He runs off upstairs to pull on something for the blustery weather while you root through the baskets by the front door to find the dogs’ blankets and winter boots. Matty made relentless fun of you for buying them, saying that no way would it ever get cold enough in London for them to use them. And then he’d seen the awkward, baby giraffe prance the two creatures did when the boots went on. He was so entertained he began searching for excuses to put them on.
You pull each dog into your lap, cooing apologies and encouragement at their stiff limbs and whale eyes.
“You’re going to look so handsome in your boots!” You remind them, to no avail, “All your neighborhood friends will be so jealous.”
Neither animal seems convinced. Next are the blankets: green for Mayhem, red for Allan. You scrounge up a couple of crochet neck warmers you made back during lockdown that have become the dogs’ (your first designs were too rudimentary for human use). The two stand blankly in the entryway, staring up at you, a pair of disheveled and disdainful babushkas.
“Right love, I brought you an extra jumper because that one’s not nearly warm enough, and I think you should wear these.” Matty rounds the corner, fully dressed now and very much resembling Joey Tribiani a la “The One Where No One is Ready.” He’s holding the sweater of his that you love to steal, and a pair of NorthFace snow pants that you haven’t touched since going home to visit your parents last Christmas.
“Wearing enough clothes there, gorgeous?” You pull lightly at his two turtlenecks.
“Time will tell, darling,” he quips, pulling a balaclava over his unruly curls, “Get your pants on then, would you.”
“I’m going to look like a stuffed turkey in these,” you protest.
He looks at you, “Love, we’re the only ones dumb enough to be outside right now, who are you worried about seeing you?” You purse your lips which he takes as invitation to steal a kiss, “C’mon, you’ll be the cutest stuffed turkey on the block.”
You pull the snowpants on in a rustle of movement and fabric. He turns to the dogs who are still frozen in position by the door, unwilling to move a toe in their boots.
“And who are these dashing gentlemen!?” Matty coos, rushing over to the dogs to tug gently at their ears, “Are you boys ready?”
You love the voice he uses for the dogs, a high pitched, horse squeak that seems so uncharacteristic coming from a man who dresses in leather and cowboy boots on the daily. In the morning, while he’s feeding them before coming back to bed, you’ll lie awake and listen to the monologue running in the kitchen — asking if the doggies had sweet dreams, asking why Allan was whimpering in the middle of the night, asking where they should go walking today, quipping “the usual boys?” as he sets the dishes down.
“They were born ready!” You say, straightening up from pulling on your fleece lined boots.
“Right, then let’s go!”
You open the door and the wind hits your little group like a cement wall. Within the first five seconds of exposure, your eyes are watering and your nose is dripping ferociously. Over the howling gusts, you can hear your boyfriend’s indignant complaints.
“This is by far the most ridiculous idea we’ve ever had, I mean what are we doing, it’s literally cold enough to castrate me.”
“Okay, okay,” you gasp, “We’re walking two blocks and turning around.”
“And then is it Virgin River time?”
“Virgin River and fire time, very much so.”
“That’s all you had to say.”
And he’s off, pulling Allan down the stairs and through the front gate. You and Mayhem can only stiffly follow in their footsteps, Mayhem taking each step as if stepping down into the Grand Canyon. Allan has stopped to pee on a tree and Matty is hoping up and down next to him.
“I didn’t wear enough clothes,” he moans as you get closer to him.
“Oh, poor man,” you pout, looping your arms and running a mittened hand up and down his bicep, “Is this helping?”
He closes his eyes, scrunching his nose dramatically, “Emotionally yes, physically, not really.”
“Oh dear, well let’s keep it moving,” you stick your hand in the jacket of his puffy coat and find his, “We’ll think warm thoughts.”
He nods, “Sahara Desert, I am in the Sahara Desert and it is so hot.”
The four of you walk as quickly as you can down the sidewalk. In a way, the silence of the cold is sort of pretty. It hasn’t snowed in a while and the remaining piles of snow are frozen into the concrete, glittering menacingly in the steely sunshine. There are rarely cabs or cars in your neighborhood, but today there isn’t even one. You can hear the window panes rattling in your neighbors' homes. You understand what they’re singing about in “In the Bleak Midwinter,” that silent frost that hangs over your head, a threatening promise, an empty maw.
You’ve barely made it three house fronts when Matty suddenly announces,
“Right lads, have you both pissed? Can we go back?”
The dogs peer up at him as best they can from beneath their shawls. Allan does a full body shake.
“Taking that as yes,” he turns the two of you in a half moon and sets off again at a brisk pace, a horse going back to stable, “I’m going to drink so much tea when we get back, you’re not even going to believe it.”
“I’ll join you in that,” you mutter, tucking your chin further into your favorite wool scarf.
You tumble back through the front door, a cascade of static electricity and shivering limbs. Matty hurries off in one direction to start the fire, and you in the other to turn the kettle on. You’re rolling the sleeves of his sweater up and over your hands and debating turning the oven on just so you can stick your freezing hands in when you feel a pair of hands on your shoulder.
“How’s it coming?” Matty mutters in your ear.
“It’s not going half as fast as I need it to,” your teeth chatter around the words, a full body shiver pulsing through your body.
“You know what they say about watched pots.”
“I know, but I don’t know where else to look.”
“How about at me?” He asks with a hint of indignation.
“Oh, okay,” you giggle as he spins you around so that your hands can loop behind his neck. His curls are rough from the cold and goosebumps rise across his rosy skin.
“Let’s never go back outside,” he mutters, burying his face in your neck. His hands wind themselves in the excess fabric of your sweater, his thumbs brush the bare skin at the base of your spine.
You sigh, “But what if we need something?”
He grumbles a laugh, “I have half a Sainsbury’s worth of tea, Jack and Mel, the dogs, the fire, and you. I don’t know what else I could possibly need.”
You smile, inhaling. He smells of the wood stove, tobacco smoke and the vanilla lotion that he keeps swearing he isn’t stealing from you.
“You’re right. There's nothing else.”
#matty healy#matty healy x reader#matty healy fic#the 1975 fic#I'm genuinely so nervous to be writing again oh no#hope you enjoy !!
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I Hate You
Nick Amaro x Reader Oneshot
WC: 1091
A/N: Self Indulge fic. I like winter but damn it’s cold this year! The snow and chemicals are leaving me a mess and my floors a mess and I’d rather not deal with it at all. Only thing to make it better would be Nick. Enjoy! Please let me know what you think with likes/comments/reblogs whatever.
It was another blustery and frigid cold day in NYC as you stepped out of your building only to be met with a large puddle of melted snow so deep it got into your ankle boot soaking your socks and growl in frustration.
“Son of a bitch.” You continued to grumble.
You had grown tired of the New York winters long ago after Nick had moved off to California leaving you both in a long distance relationship but you without someone to share the house with, share a romantic stroll in Central Park through the snow with, or a cuddle on the sofa with. Now it’s just dull, grey, and incredibly cold…and currently very wet and annoying.
Looking to your watch you didn’t even have time to go back upstairs to change your sock and shoes or you’d be late for work.
Olivia had called and told you to be at the prescient promptly at eight so there was no time to hesitate.
Heading off you walked on, your boot sloshing and freezing before someone drove too close to the curb in the drain and splashed a mix of chemicals and slushy snow all over you taking your breath away at the blast of cold.
“F-fu-fuck.” You stuttered and gasped before turning and flipping your middle finger at the driver.
Finally arriving at the prescient, soaked, frozen and a sloshing boot, you put your case down at your desk with a huff and yanked off your scarf and jacket before spying Olivia coming over.
“You’re two minutes late.” She teased, not that she cared about two minutes.
“I had some trouble, okay?” You replied sharply, not really meaning to but you were throughly annoyed.
“Woah…alright. I can take a hint. I just thought you’d like to know we caught your perp you’ve been chasing. He’s in two.” Olivia tilted her head towards the room.
“Thanks Liv.” You said with an apologetic tone before rushing off towards the interrogation room not even bothering to take care of your boot or anything yet.
Opening the door you quickly walked in.
“Couldn’t hide forever…” you started before you looked up and straight to Nick’s hazelnut eyes. “N-Nick…”
“You’re right, I couldn’t stay hidden forever.” He flashed his famous smirk before opening his arms and you began to tear up coming to him, flinging yourself into his chest and burying your face into his neck taking a deep shuttering breath.
“I h-hate you.” You mumbled as tears dropped to his shoulder and he chuckled.
“What? Hey…hey what did I do? Hermosa why do you hate me and why are you crying huh?” He pulled you back just enough to cup your face gently in your hands, glancing over your face with concern.
“Because here you are…sun kissed skin, glowing even more than usual and you get to go home to Southern California while I get to stay here in crumby freaking New York City with forty more years of winter.” You took a deep breath and gathered yourself.
Nick laughed before leaning in and capturing your lips in a tender kiss. “I missed you…I actually came here to spend the week with you but I have a better idea.” You furrowed your brows wondering just what your boyfriend could be up to.
“You’re soaked mi amor.” He purred as he got a look at you. “Come on, you’re going home and changing then we’re going to cuddle and get you thawed out.” He flashed his knee weakening smile.
Later after arriving back at your place you had curled up with Nick and some cocoa under a cozy blanket.
“So I wanted to ask you something baby.” Nick asked softly breaking the comfortable silence.
“Yeah? You didn’t come across the country to sit with me under a blanket did you?” You hummed cuddling into his side feeling his lips press a kiss to your head.
“Mm no, not exactly but it’s a nice benefit. I get to warm my baby up.” He hummed wrapping his arm around you bringing you closer if it were possible. “I came to ask if you’d consider moving in with me.” He asked hesitantly, worried he’d be rejected. It wasn’t often something worked out for Nick Amaro and he had hoped after three years together and a year of long distance that this relationship worked out, that you’d live with him, move across the country with him.
You turned sat up a bit, looking to him, eyes searching his for any hint that he could be joking but found none. “Y-you’re….you're serious?”
“I…I mean…well yeah I was hoping so.” He said with a little waver in his voice worried he pressed too fast. “You hate winter. I miss you so much. Like really miss you. I want you to be with me and the kids. They miss you too. There’s nothing like having you in bed beside me every night and waking up with you in the morning. The sun shining on your hair and how cute you look with your mouth open and a little bit of drool.” He chuckled when you shoved him.
“I don’t drool, Amaro!” You shot back.
“You do! I can’t help it. I wipe it off with my thumb and you mumble before snuggling to my chest. It’s the most precious thing.” He laughed but looked over you with the most loving tender smile. “Amor…hermosa, I miss you so fucking much. Please? Will you come to California with me?”
You never thought about leaving NYC for real, but the opportunity never had presented itself, well never a real opportunity. It wasn’t an opportunity for Nick to come back to live here, his family and career had him there now and he loved it but the only piece missing was you. He just needed you.
You hated winter, if you wanted to see snow it wasn’t that far to go and see it to play for a day or two and ski but you wouldn’t have to deal with it daily, endlessly.
“Yes. Yes I’d love to. There’s nothing else I’d love to do more.” You cuddled back to Nick but kissed him deeply as he held your face and kept his forehead close.
“I love you so much. I can’t wait to have you with me daily again. To start our lives together in a whole new chapter.” He smirked against your lips knowing he had an even bigger question in store for you once you had moved in and settled in California with him.
#nick amaro#nick amaro x reader#winter#writer#fanfic#law and order svu#law and order special victims unit#danny pino#law and order svu fanfic#fanfic writer#fanfiction#nick amaro fanfic#Oneshot#nick amaro Oneshot
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Happy Mermay! To start things off, here is Chapter Eight of Laces for a Lady.
For those who may have missed this over on Tumblr, it is a polyamorous (m/m/f) romance set in 18th-century Cornwall, at the height of the era of smugglers and excise men. It features twenty-five year old Eleanor 'Nel' Bywater, who travels alone from Sussex to Cornwall to take up the position of 'companion' to a young widow at Heath Top House, situated just outside the fishing village of Polgarrack.
There Nel meets Edmund Nancarrow, the reserved and dark-eyed tailor's assistant, and Locryn Trevethan, a wild, grizzled, older man who keeps to himself on the outskirts of even Polgarrack society. She finds herself falling in love with the rugged coastline and its fierce and hardy people, and is quickly drawn to both Ned and Locryn, who seem equally taken with her wild spirit and quick smile.
You can catch up with the story on Tumblr here, and this post will go public here on Patreon next week. Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), (bonus Locryn & Ned chapter post Chpt3, sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (sfw), Part Seven (sfw)
I highly recommend listening to this ambient soundtrack on YouTube from Poldark while you read this, if combining music with reading is your thing... :). I always play this when I'm working on this story.
Contents: a wild, winter storm stirs up frightening memories for Winnie, Nel learns a little about the folklore of the region from old Aggie, Blackthorn the mare is her usual wilful self, Edmund reveals a bit about his past and how he came by his injury, and Nel comes upon something on the shore on her way home that sends her tumbling from Blackthorn's saddle...
Wordcount: 5615
(long) preview:
The dreams started up again with startling clarity after her visit from Edmund, and Nel began to question her sanity.
Sometimes she lay tangled on mounds of silken sand or a bed of soft kelp while something silver brushed against her outer thigh, and other times she lay deep beneath the waves, able to breathe in the dream, and found herself coiled around and around by the thick muscle of a creature’s tail. Always though, it remained at the periphery of her mind; just out of reach of the grasping fingers of perception.
Sometimes Nel was lifted up by strong, rough hands that reminded her of Locryn’s when he’d spun her around in the country dance, but these hands ended in black claws and the skin was a dark, greenish brown, and as they breached the surface of the waves together and sent water sparkling up in a shattered spray, something in her would shatter too, and she would wake gasping and dewy-damp with sweat and desire.
She wondered if perhaps exercise would tire her out to the point where she no longer dreamed, and so whenever Winnie had no immediate need of her, Nel took to walking around the estates and riding Blackthorn relentlessly up and down the roads both inland and along the coast for the remainder of a rather blustery October.
The weather in November turned out to be such a mix that Nel and Winnie couldn’t make any sort of plans from one day to the next. Some days, when Winnie was caught up with running the business of the mine or writing to the Board, the weather was lamentably clear and fresh, while on days when they’d hoped to ride together or walk into Polgarrack for some exercise, the heavens unleashed torrents of rain from morning to night.
One night, when it had been blowing constantly in off the sea in ugly squalls that had kept all but the hardiest or most desperate at their hearths, a terrible crash was heard above the racket of the storm. It woke everyone in the house and rattled the windowpanes and Nel heard Winnie’s scream of terror from three rooms away.
She jolted out of bed and flew into the corridor in only her night shift. She navigated her way by touch and memory alone and fumbled her way to Winnie’s room to find her sitting up in bed and shaking all over.
“Winnie,” she called, having to keep her voice loud above the storm outside even as she rushed to the bed and took up her friend’s hands. They were ice cold and trembling.
“The tunnel,” Winnie breathed, wild-eyed and unseeing. “James…”
“Hush, it was the storm outside,” Nel said, sitting down and turning her face with slightly callused fingers to Winnie’s delicate jawline so that she was looking directly at Nel, though there was hardly enough light in the room to make out the pinpricks of reflection in her wild eyes. “And that crash was probably the big beech tree near the gate coming down, or a branch or two of it at least. You know how beech trees drop their limbs in high wind.”
Winnie sat shaking with the blankets pooled around her hips. For a long time she didn’t speak, though she seemed a little more present than she had a few minutes before.
Nel rose and crossed to the window, knowing that Winnie’s room overlooked the entrance to the house, but although she peered out into the night, she couldn’t make anything out. “We’ll have to see in the morning,” she said, but she heard shouts from outside and the whinnying of horses. “It’s being taken care of though, don’t worry.”
“I should… I should go down…” Winnie murmured and there came the sound of blankets shuffling.
Nel shook her head and crossed back to her. “I’ll go. You stay here and I’ll see what’s happening. If you’re needed, I’ll fetch you, I promise.”
“Thank you, Nel,” she croaked, and she drew her knees up under her chin. “Take my dressing gown or you’ll scandalise the staff in just your shift,” she added, and at that Nel barked a laugh of relief that was almost as loud as the tree falling outside.
She shot Winnie a look over her shoulder at the door and unhooked the robe. “Don’t you think they’ll be more scandalised that I was in your bedroom at this hour to have such swift access to it?” she said, and slipped it on. She left the room without waiting for an answer, but she could hear Winnie chuckling behind her still, and relaxed.
Below in the entrance hall, she spotted Winnie’s father-in-law speaking by lantern light to Joe, the head groom, and both men twitched around when they saw her coming down the stairs like a ghost.
“Miss Bywater, really, this doesn’t concern you,” Lord Edgar Penrose scowled, eyeing his daughter in law’s dressing gown pointedly. “You should return to your room.”
“Forgive me. Winnie was concerned and wanted to make sure nothing serious was wrong and that no one was hurt. Joe, I trust the tree didn’t come down on the barn?” It was bold of her indeed to address the man in Lord Edgar’s employ instead of the lord himself, but she had little time for that kind of nonsense, and she’d struck up a good rapport with Joe in all the weeks she’d been taking Blackthorn out.
“No, Miss Nel,” he said, ducking his head and lowering his eyes respectfully to the puddle accumulating on the chequered marble floor around his muddy boots. “Missed it by a whisker, though the roof’s taken a bit of damage from the wind. Once it blows through, we can fix that no problem. Tree’ll take some work to shift though. We’ll have to borrow a couple of the bigger horses from Mister Angove’s farm. Blackthorn’s not up to moving that lot by herself.”
“Even the stubbornness of that mare has its bounds, I suppose,” Nel smirked, and she found it answered in a poorly-hidden snort of agreement from Joe. “Well, thank you. Winnie will be relieved to know that no one was injured, and that the horses are safe too. Goodnight, gentlemen,” she said, and left them to it.
Winnie sagged as she blew out the breath she seemed to have been holding since Nel had left the room, and she deflated into the pillows behind her with a tiny whimper of relief. “You must think me such a wallflower,” she groaned. “I used to be so much bolder… with James around.”
Nel hung up the dressing gown on the back of the door and crossed to Winnie’s bed while her friend shuffled over without a word and drew back the warm covers for her. Nel brushed off her bare feet before slipping in, and lay curled on her side while Winnie did the same on the other pillows, facing her.
“I think you’re still very brave and bold, Winnie,” she said. “You run the Penrose Workings with the Board, and oversee the management of the mine every bit as well as James did, and you’re doing it while still grieving for him.”
In the near-complete darkness of Winnie’s room, she heard a sniffle and felt the movement as Winnie dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her night shift. After a long pause, Winnie exhaled shakily and fumbled for Nel’s hands, and when she found them, she gripped her fingers hard and kissed her knuckles. “I’m so glad you came to live here, Nel. I’m so glad I have you now, to call my very dear friend.”
-
Read the whole thing right now over on Patreon, and get access to my upcoming, Patreon-exclusive story for Mermay, which will feature (as voted for by patrons) a deep sea merman and a gender neutral reader. You'll also get access to my entire backlog of Patreon-only stories, plus you can join our chilled out Discord server, and you'll be able to read all future free stories a week early!
#laces for a lady#polyamory#polyamorous romance#poly romance#poly shifter romance#poly monsterfucker#monster romance#monster lover#exophilia#selkie#bucca#18th century romance#historical fantasy romance#historical romance
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A MAN WITHOUT LOVE . STEVEN GRANT
Pairing: Steven Grant x Gender neutral!Reader
Summary: Your path crosses Steven Grant's an unexpectedly amount of times.
Word count: 2.6k
Notes: This is a repost, since I deleted my old blog! So, I tried something different when it comes to the first interaction between the characters. I feel that everytime I write something that involves a first interaction between the characters, it follows the same script, so I tried to make it rather awkward and confusing for both of them. Keep in mind that English isn’t my first language. Sorry in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy!
If you prefer to read on AO3, here it is!
If you want to take a look at my other writings, here they are!
The first time you became aware of Steven Grant’s existence was on the morning bus to work. Reminiscences of the stormy night rested scattered throughout London. During the walk to the bus station, the damp sidewalks bore leaves, twigs, and puddles, and during the ride, the bus vast windows were slightly foggy. A breath of fresh air invaded the bus when its double door opened, and, along with it, three people hopped on. Steven Grant, hurriedly crossing the street, was the last one. Nearly missing the bus, he breathlessly climbed the steps and awkwardly thanked the driver before maneuvering himself inside the crowded bus. He firmly grasped a blue vacuum bottle in his right hand, and a Rubik’s cube in his left one. An intrigued expression rose to your features. A Rubik’s cube. When was the last time you had seen one?
Accompanying his movements amongst the standing people, your eyes wandered from the colorful object to his shabby grey jacket, to his left shoulder, to his brown bag, to his neck, to his jawline, to his rather disheveled jet-black hair, and to his features. Steven Grant looked exhausted. In fact, he looked distinctly careworn. And, of course, late to wherever he was heading. Well, he was particularly late on that dull, blustery, and cloudy morning. Donna Kraft would not be happy. But… When was she? The same callous speech tumbled from her lips ever since Steven set foot in the National Art Gallery.
Routine.
And, at the end of the day, Steven would run Staying Awake on his smartphone – “Hello, and welcome to Staying Awake!” –, dive in books, solve the Rubik’s cube, teach himself Hieroglyphs, enjoy French poems, and, when his organism collapsed in tiredness, he would tie his ankle to the bed, and close his eyes only to open them on the following morning feeling like he had been hit by a bus. Everyday. Dazzled by daylight and dogged by confusion, he would suspiciously scrutinize his surroundings for, yet again, his sleep had been disturbed by far-fetched experiences. Then, it would dawn on him that he hadn’t been woken up by any alarm, and he would desperately search for the digital clock, which registered that he was, well, late, and that the alarm had gone off earlier. On that dull, blustery, and cloudy morning, Steven Grant was later than ever, and out of luck.
His organism refused to function, and he kept drowsing on people’s shoulders, receiving nonplussed glares and obnoxious shoves. He was much too prim to get his own back on people, so he muttered “good morning” and, although useless, sipped the coffee inside the blue vacuum bottle in a desperate attempt to force his organism to function properly. The dewy-eyed innocence Steven Grant bore stirred a sensation of embarrassment towards him.
The second time you became aware of Steven Grant’s existence was on the walk home from The London Library. Three books were clutched against your right hipbone, and you fumbled with them as you hurriedly piled them up descending the stony steps to the sidewalk. The wind blew silently, digging its way through leaves, branches, and trunks. A crack of sky was visible between the thin leaves above. It was the navy-blue of the ocean, and the din of the traffic annoyingly ringed inside your skull. Nonetheless, the walk home was reinvigorating.
Turning into a relatively silent street, the soft buzz of conversation replaced the din of the traffic. The sidewalk ahead was tinted in the usual pink lightning coming from the pink lit restaurant that marked three quarters of the walk home. As usual, the tables placed outside the restaurant were occupied by couples, except for one of them. It was occupied by a hunched lone man. His features slid in and out of sight as the branches of overhanging trees broke the moonlight. The other tables were laden with food and wine bottles, but his was nearly empty. As you approached the restaurant, your eyesight registered missed details.
A pink heart-shaped box and a bouquet of flowers rested on the white tablecloth. Uh, cheesy. Your eyes wandered from the box to his black jacket, to his fidgety hands, to his pursed lips, to his frowned features, to his combed jet-black hair, to – Wait. Steven Grant sat alone, listlessly staring at a steak in his plate. A leaden sensation was settling in the pit of his stomach. He looked a forlorn figure sitting at a table originally destined for a couple. Wait. How… Hm, well, what were the odds?
He nervously gulped and unwillingly grasped the silver fork resting on the tablecloth. The table in front of him was occupied by two women who were deeply chatting while two boys played nearby, laughing mirthfully. They ran towards his table and the women calling after them pulled Steven out of his misery. He abashedly blinked, exchanging an apologetic look with them, which prompted him to hurriedly pull the heart-shaped box to his lap, underneath the tablecloth. He seemed not to register the bouquet of flowers, since he didn’t try to hide it.
Your feet were rooted to the sidewalk and your features bore a rapt expression observing the events unfolding before your eyes. The pink lightning created a pathetic aura around him. A sudden, almost desperate compassion for Steven Grant burnt inside your vessels. Your fingers dig into the books, painfully pressing them against your hipbone.
The third time you became aware of Steven Grant’s existence was on a visit to the National Art Gallery. The Egyptian exhibition had been inaugurated weeks prior, and, even though everything you knew about its culture had been absorbed from Rick Riordan’s The Kane Chronicles when you were, hm, 14 years old, the propaganda bearing Egyptian deities convinced you to pay a visit. The vast museum rooms were way too packed for a Saturday evening, but you managed to find your way amongst the crowd. The exhibition was impressive. Its details completely enthralled you, to the point where the robotic voice announcing the museum closure in an hour revealed that you spent way too much time appreciating the exhibition pieces for someone who had been educated solely by The Kane Chronicles.
“And this is the last room of the day. We’ll be done in a minute, I promise! I know my voice is quite annoying.” An excited voice echoed in the room, catching people’s attention, including yours. Oh…
There was Steven Grant. He wore a crumpled blue jacket, to which a silver tag had been attached. From where you stood, it was impossible to read it, but you presumed it identified him as a museum employee. So, he was a tour guide. That was, in fact, lovely. He accompanied five visitors, to whom he gesticulated expansively. His eyes gleamed in genuine joyousness, his hands carefully yet firmly pointed to artifacts, and his feet glided throughout the room in an adorable choreography.
He seemed completely fulfilled spilling his excitement regarding Ancient Egypt to those visitors. Other people’s ears prickled at Steven’s explanations, and so did yours. Well, you read the tags attached to each exhibition piece, but, honestly, it was endearing to observe him, to listen to him, to become aware of his existence. It was odd to observe him in such contrasting situations. You could hardly believe the man before your eyes was the same man that kept drowsing on people’s shoulders on the morning bus to work or the same man that sat alone with a pink heart-shaped box and a bouquet of flowers at a pink lit restaurant.
Steps echoed at the room entrance. A blonde woman in a blue suit appeared and glared at Steven. A pink chewing gum rolled inside her mouth.
“Oh, Donna, hello!” Steven waved at her, but she expressed no intention to answer him. “Meet Donna Kraft, my boss! Excuse me for a second, yeah? I hope none of the exhibition pieces has come to life!” He turned to the visitors gathered around him, who laughed at the Night at the Museum reference, and, with a polite gesture, excused himself.
Beaming with delight at his, uh, joke, your eyes followed his figure, which shamefacedly gesticulated with the blonde woman. She seemed determined to sustain her argument, and, for a millisecond, Steven was the same man that kept drowsing on people’s shoulders on the morning bus to work or the same man that sat alone with a pink heart-shaped box and a bouquet of flowers at a pink lit restaurant. His genuine joyousness seemed to have been nonchalantly crumpled and carelessly thrown into the nearest bin. Donna Kraft simpered and traipsed from the room.
“Right, where were we?” Steven muttered more to himself than to the people still gathered around ancient, tarnished garden tools.
Something seemed to tauten in his face, and it became stony, but he managed to give a wan smile towards the crowd. He had resumed speaking, and you registered his mouth moving, but not the words leaving it. For a brief second, his voice got mixed with the robotic voice announcing the museum closure in thirty minutes. There the almost desperate compassion for Steven Grant was. Again. It was too much mistreatment to witness. What was the Universe’s intention forcing your path to cross his not one, but three times? An urge to leave the room – and, well, to ignore Steven Grant’s existence – burnt inside your vessels, but your feet remained rooted to the marble floor.
“Steven”. The silver tag attached to the crumpled jacket read “Steven”. It shone under the spotlights strategically lightning the exhibition pieces. “Steven”. The name almost involuntarily rolled from your lips. Well, the man that kept drowsing on people’s shoulders on the morning bus to work, sat alone with a pink heart-shaped box and a bouquet of flowers at a pink lit restaurant and spilled his excitement regarding the Egyptian culture was not a stranger anymore.
He waved at the people gathered around them, and the movement caught your attention. “Uh, thank you so much for sticking around. It’s been wonderful to accompany you through the exhibition. I hope it was entertaining!” A timid smile accompanied the mirthful words. The robotic voice announced the museum closure in fifteen minutes. “Well, the museum closes shortly, but feel free to explore this room or other rooms for a bit longer. And if you have any questions, find me in the gift shop in the entrance hall.” Then, he left the room. The gift shop. In the entrance hall. Well, you had a question. Not about the exhibition. And, for the first time, you knew where to find Steven Grant to ask it.
You made a beeline for the museum entrance hall. Visitors, parents mostly, waited in line to buy stuffed animals for their children. When you approached the gift shop, two employees hurriedly talked to visitors in an attempt to extinguish the line, but Steven peaceably paced around. He leaned over the showcase counter with a stuffed hippopotamus in hand and talked to a girl through the toy in a goofy manner. She laughed, reached for it, and ran away. Then, Steven turned to, apparently, the girl’s mother, laughed at something she uttered and pushed a card machine towards her. The delightful sound accompanied by crinkles around his eyes brought a grin to your lips, and you could not help but stare at his adorable being. Oh, heaven.
Absentmindedly circling the model of the Great Pyramid of Giza and other exhibition pieces, you patiently waited for the people to leave, but, as the movement in the entrance hall diminished, you considered remaining anonymous. Why the urge to ask him how he was? And… How awkward would it be to approach a stranger and suddenly ask how he was? Where did the question come from? Well, you were certainly not revealing that you had kept an eye on him on the morning bus to work, on the walk home from the library, on a visit to the National Art Gallery. It would be even more awkward, right? You stared at your faint reflection in the protective glass surrounding a sarcophagus. Yeah, how awkward would it be? Your eyes wandered from the top of your head to the tip of your shoes. And it dawned on you.
Suddenly.
Unexpectedly.
Shamefully.
Oh…
You wanted him to know that you were aware of his existence. You wanted him to know that you felt sorry for him. You wanted him to know that you cared for him. Breathe. You stared at your own eyes. Because you were infatuated with him. With a stranger.
No, wait.
Not a stranger. With a man who was particularly late to wherever he was heading on that dull, blustery, and cloudy morning. With a man who was unexpectedly alone at a pink lit restaurant. With a man who was completely fulfilled spilling his excitement regarding Ancient Egypt. Not a stranger.
“Uh, excuse me.”
There was Steven Grant. Your eyes focused on the sarcophagus. Then, on his reflection. Beside yours.
“Steven,” Startled by the sudden appearance, the name slipped from your lips. An unknown warmth burnt inside his vessels. His name. What a luxury inside a place in which Steven Grant was invisible except to receive the same callous speech tumbling from Donna Kraft’s lips. “I read the silver tag during the tour. Sorry.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thank you,” Steven earnestly mumbled in an attempt to indirectly argue you were needlessly apologizing. “And I’m deeply sorry to interrupt, but we’re closing.”
You nodded. “By the way, thank you for the tour.”
“Yeah,” He awkwardly laughed. A puzzled expression rose to your features. “I, uh… I actually work on the gift shop.”
“Oh–”
“Yeah, Donna, my boss, the blonde woman, was not supposed to discover–”
“Scotty.”
Your attention was captured by the voice echoing around the nearly empty room. So was Steven’s. A security guard paced towards your direction, and you noticed he was, well, actually talking to the man beside you. The puzzled expression returned to your features, and your eyes wandered from the security guard to Steven.
“Steven, J.B., with a ‘V’.”
“Yeah,” He brazenly dismissed the correction to tap the digital clock attached to his wrist with the end of a black lantern.
“I believe that will be on me. I had a question about this piece.” You politely smiled to the security guard. “Sorry for the disturbance.”
J.B. suspiciously nodded, scrutinizing your figure from the top of your head to the tip of your shoes, and returned to the chair behind the large televisions playing innumerous live footages of diverse museum locations.
“Thank you,” Steven, again, awkwardly laughed. “I’m staying the night for escaping the gift shop. I certainly did not want to stay another one. I hope none of the exhibition pieces comes to life!”
“Yeah, no problem.” You faintly smiled at the repeated joke. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because it masked utter sadness. You were right. Steven seemed completely fulfilled spilling his excitement regarding Ancient Egypt to visitors, because he definitely wasn’t. Stay the night? For touring with visitors? He was strangely treated as a child who needed severe punishment for, uh, accidentally knocking crayons when drawing. Your eyes overflowed pity. “I’m sorry, Steven.”
And you were. You were sorry for him. You were sorry for the unfairness. You were sorry for the mistreatment. You were sorry for the sadness. You were sorry for the loneliness. You were sorry.
“Don’t, yeah? I don’t need your pity.”
And he was right. He was right. You looked at him in rueful regret and gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
“I-I-I did not mean to be rude, I–”
“I know, Steven.” You reassured him. He was not rude at all. He was right. He didn’t need your pity. Or anyone else’s. He needed a hand. He needed a friend. “I should leave, or else J.B. is arresting me for trespassing. Goodbye.”
For now.
PLEASE, CONSIDER REBLOGGING THIS AND/OR GIVING ME FEEDBACK, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT A LOT!
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💙💞Survivor: bonus scene💞💙
Read Survivor on AO3, my cop au where Quaritch is a high ranking police officer who finally works out the street kid he's had multiple run-ins with is his son.
For everyone who wanted a scene from Quaritch's point of view! Here's the moment he worked out Spider is his ✨ (I changed it from the main story so that Spider told the precinct his full name the last time he was arrested, instead of telling the hospital the day Q found him. It's not a huge change, just run with it).
It was grey, blustery Thursday morning in downtown St Mark’s, the wind whipping against the windscreen of the PD’s Ford Explorer as Miles Quaritch patrolled down another empty street. At 6am, no one was out yet. The world was quiet apart from himself and his partner sitting in the passenger seat.
“She was a beauty,” Lyle Wainfleet reminisced, vastly overestimating how much Miles actually cared. “That was the one that got away, I’m telling you.”
“Is that so?”
“I should message her again.”
Quaritch rolled his eyes without looking at his partner. He’d known Lyle for a long time and there was no one more reliable he’d rather be on shift with. However, their differing attitudes towards Lyle’s hunt for a woman was sometimes a point of contention between them. “Should you now?”
“You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“It seems to me she made her feelings pretty clear.”
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today? Come on, Colonel, I’m trying not to get my heart broken, here!”
Miles shrugged, surveying the bleak street ahead of them. It had been an uneventful night shift, which is exactly the kind that Miles should have hoped for. However, he couldn’t deny that a huge part of him still missed the action and danger of the marines. Rain had just started to spit from the overcast sky, forcing him to turn on the wipers. This part of town was known for its drug involvement, most of which Miles himself had uncovered. Now though, the street was empty, not a single sign of life in the dawn light. There was nothing amiss here.
“You wanna get a coffee?” Lyle’s bored voice drifted over from the passenger seat. He’d already switched off for the shift.
Miles sighed, thinking they may as well, but then he saw it. A shapeless lump on the floor in one of the archways that lined the shopfronts. “Hold up,” he said. “Let’s deal with this first.”
Unfortunately, the homeless were nothing new to the pair. They had time to check one more over. Miles pulled the car over to the curb, gently bringing it to a stop a few feet away from the sleeping figure. Now that they were closer, the Colonel could make out that it was someone small, maybe young, but their face was hidden in the concrete. Miles frowned as he realised that the person wasn’t huddled up in a blanket or sleeping bag like usual, but instead they were lying almost completely exposed to the wind and the cold, limp and seemingly lifeless.
“Oh, shit,” Lyle articulated as he too clocked that this could be something serious.
Without wasting time, Miles opened the door and cautiously approached where the person lay. “Hello, there,” he called loudly, as per protocol. “Are you alright?”
As he knew there wouldn’t be, there came no response. Lyle joined him and they stepped closer, Miles’s heart thudding at the expectation of finding a body. Since joining the police force, it had happened once before to Miles. It was nothing like the death he’d seen in the warzone, but it was almost… sadder. These people had nobody with them, no one waiting for them at home and possibly no one that would miss them when they went. At least there was honour in dying in combat.
He grasped the young person’s upper arm and shook firmly. “Hello? This is the police, do you need help?” In doing so, he finally caught sight of the person’s face. It was a teenager - and one he recognised at that. The boy had a young face, dirty blonde curls that covered most of his head and a peaceful expression that remained unresponsive. He remembered the teen from a couple of run-ins they’d had over the past few months. Once for underage drinking and then again for stealing. He was a runaway foster kid, barely sixteen if he remembered correctly. “Shit,” he murmured, a pang of something anxious striking his insides at the thought that he’d had the chance to help this boy and he might now be dead. “We know this kid. Wake up!” He pulled the boy by his arm and the teenager rolled over limply, completely out of it. His lips were blue and there was dried vomit on the side of his face. Ignoring the smell, Miles put his ear to the boy’s mouth, checking for breathing. He couldn’t see or hear anything for several torturous seconds. Lyle was already radioing for an ambulance.
Suddenly, a gurgled cough escaped the boy’s lips. “There, we go,” Miles murmured, trying to rub the kid’s back as he racked his brains for the alias the kid had given them. “Can you wake up, kid? It’s the police, we’re gonna get you some help.”
He knew the boy couldn’t hear him, but he kept speaking anyway. Once he was confident the kid was taking semi-regular breaths, he cast around the scene for the drugs packet he knew he’d find somewhere. “Here,” he said, handing the tiny bag to Lyle, who got the drugs kit out. A few seconds later, they had their answer. “Cocaine,” Lyle confirmed. “Isn’t this the kid we picked up a while back for stealing?”
“That’s the one.” The boy was cold to the touch. “What’s the ETA?”
“Four minutes,” Lyle responded. “There’s a camera up there. That could be interesting,” he nodded towards the CCTV placed not too far away. It was pointing in their direction and would have covered the boy while he slept.
Miles nodded, pulling the boy’s thin blanket over his frame while they waited for the ambulance to arrive. “Kid, can you wake up? You’re in a bit of a rough state.” He raised his voice as if he was speaking to someone who was deaf. “Kid? Can you hear me? Try and wake up.”
He could tell he’d broken through by the wince in the boy’s features, his body seeming to spasm for a moment before his chest heaved and vomit spluttered from his mouth.
“Easy, tiger…” He rubbed the kid’s shoulders, making sure he was on his side. “At least he’s alive,” he glanced up at Lyle.
Eventually, the ambulance arrived with flashing lights. It couldn’t have come soon enough, as far as Miles was concerned. Every second felt like the kid was slipping further away from them. “What’s happening, then?” a kind woman with brown hair asked as she and another paramedic hurried over, bags over their shoulders.
“Sixteen year old boy, found unresponsive. Cocaine on his person.”
“Okay,” the paramedic nodded her understanding. “My name’s Janine, this is Sarah. We’ll get him on board as soon as we can. Do you have a name?”
“Spider.” It came to Miles like a flash of lightning, the strange nickname finally illuminated in his brain. “We’ve met before.”
“Spider?” Janine asked, taking Miles’s place at Spider’s side. “Can you hear me? We’re here to help you. I’m just going to put this Pulse Ox on your finger…”
Miles stepped back to allow the medics to assess Spider. He was a marine, he was used to chaos and stressful situations, normally the picture of calm as he navigated the safest and most efficient way back to safety. But he had to admit this one had thrown him. He was glad that someone else was here to take charge because his concern for Spider was growing by the minute. It somehow felt like his fault the boy had ended up here, and he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. As he watched them work, it struck him that he felt responsible.
Which was ridiculous, of course. This wasn’t his responsibility in the slightest. He’d done his job the previous times they’d met. He’d tried to help the kid as much as he could. But something deep inside was nagging at him. It wasn’t enough.
He didn’t like it. He looked at Lyle, hoping for one of his usual unfunny quips to take his mind off the feeling. His partner was speaking to the other medic and it was all Miles could do to help Janine heave Spider off the cold concrete.
“Get off me!” Spider suddenly burst out, surprising everyone. His eyes were still closed, but at least he was gaining consciousness.
“Spider? I’m trying to help you,” Janine continued. “You’re okay… Let’s get you into the ambulance. I need you to stand up. I’ll help you.” She glanced at Miles for support, and he quickly pulled one of Spider’s arms over his own shoulder in tandem with Janine. The boy was extremely weak, relying totally on their support. It would have been easier if they’d just left him sleeping, because like this Spider could lash out at them in his disorientation. Together, they heaved him onto the ambulance and the gurney. He groaned and angry tears began to slip from under his closed eyelids. “Fuck!” he slurred as he curled up on the bed.
“He’ll be alright,” Janine said, slightly out of breath as she turned to Miles. “He’s dehydrated and has a high blood pressure, but I’m more worried about his temperature. He should be frozen, but he’s burning up. He might have taken something else.”
Miles took this in, thinking what the procedure was for this kind of thing. This was a minor with no known relatives, so he knew they’d have to accompany him to the hospital. At least until they could contact CPS.
“Okay, we’ll meet you at the ER. You going to St Mark’s?”
She nodded, holding the back of the ambulance open for Miles to exit. “We’ll do our best to hold him until you guys get there, my guess is that you’ve got a few hours at least until he’s lucid.”
Miles thanked her and pressed his radio as she pulled the heavy ambulance door closed. “Fike, can you get me any info on that kid we bought in a few weeks ago?” He retreated to the car as the ambulance sped off down the empty street. He watched it go, feeling like it was carrying precious cargo. Then he realised how ridiculous that feeling was and shook himself.
“Which one? Can you be more specific, Colonel?” Fike’s voice came crackling back over the radio.
Lyle slid back into the passenger seat. “Good spot, Colonel. Now can we get coffee on the way?”
Miles let his annoyance settle quietly in his stomach, ignoring his partner in favour of the radio. “Kid bought in for stealing an iPad from the Apple store. Sixteen.”
“Copy that, I’ll check for you.”
“There’s no way the kid told them anything,” Lyle commented, listening to the exchange. “It’s real sad, but he's on a one track road and it’s going nowhere good.”
“And that’s okay is it?” Miles surprised himself for his response. He was never normally this invested in a case. “We should just let it be?”
Lyle had the decency to look abashed. “What are we supposed to do, Colonel?”
Miles shook his head. He knew it wasn’t their individual responsibility to take in every lovable stray, but it still felt like a failure of the police department that a kid like Spider had been allowed to deteriorate to such an extent. “I don’t know,” he relented.
Thankfully, Fike was quick. “Miles Socorro, ward of the state.”
Miles’s heart stopped.
For a moment he thought… but it must have been radio static. “Can you repeat that, officer?”
A few seconds of confused silence went by as Lyle stared at him and they waited for Fike to get back to them. “Copy, Miles Socorro, ward of the state.”
Dread filled his stomach.
Vile nausea rose in his throat and he needed air… he needed to step out… Miles Socorro. She’d called the baby after him?
This couldn’t be right. This was a mistake, a coincidence. It had to be a common name.
“Colonel, you alright?” Lyle's voice was far away.
He was outside again, leaning against the car door, his head in his hands. He just needed some deep breaths. Miles Socorro. Miles Socorro. Miles Socorro. Miles Socorro. Miles Socorro.
It wouldn’t stop.
The name swirled around his brain incessantly, each time with more veracity and more vengeance, over and over again until he realised it would never let him go. The baby. The baby.
It was him.
Of course it was. He’d known it from their first meeting when the kid had squinted at him against the blinding sunset with an empty cider bottle in his hand.
“Holy shit.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder and vaguely registered that Lyle was concerned about him.
“I fucked up,” he said. “I fucked up. I messed it all up.”
Of course it was Miles. His son. Suddenly he thought of nothing else, gaining a sense of clarity for just long enough to press his radio once more. “Can you look up Paz Socorro?”
He didn’t care what anybody was thinking right now.
“Is this a relation, Colonel?”
“Just look her up!”
“She’s not on our system… Hang on, let me search…”
Miles held his breath, the nausea hot at the back of his throat, burning him from the inside out.
“Paz Socorro, deceased. Died in 2013.”
Miles couldn't stem the surge that retched its way up his throat. He bent double over the sidewalk, vomiting feet away from where they’d found Spider.
She was dead? Why hadn’t they contacted him? His son… the baby he’d made… had ended up here!
“Colonel, steady!” That was Lyle.
“Everything okay over there?” That was Fike.
Miles’s chest was imploding. He’d failed. He’d failed. How had he not been made aware? How could he have not bothered to check? They’d agreed it was for the best they had no contact, but Miles could never, never have imagined…
Suddenly all he wanted was to be by Miles’s side. His son’s side. Spider.
He didn't bother replying to either man, instead wiping his mouth roughly on his cuff and slamming the door behind as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. Lyle quickly followed him back inside the car but seemed too stunned to address anything. “Er, Colonel…”
“We’re going to the hospital.”
A moment of silence passed. “Who’s the kid?” Lyle asked in a low voice.
Miles gripped the steering wheel tighter than he had in his life, his knuckles turning white. He couldn't say it. He couldn't say it out loud. Then it would make his failure real. His life’s failure, real. “I think you know,” he said in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.
Lyle sat back in the seat and allowed Miles to drive the short distance without pressing any further. “All good here,” his partner replied when Fike radioed back.
Miles’s voice had stopped working. He wasn’t sure any of him was working any more.
#miles spider socorro#miles quaritch#recom quaritch#spider socorro#avatar 2#avatar the way of water#atwow#avatar modern au#lyle wainfleet#my stuff: survivor#bonus scene#quaritch pov
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Ψ M is for Maraclea: Chapter Two
M is for Maraclea: Following an accident you had over summer break, you find yourself in limbo after being legally dead for several minutes. Now an outcast at boarding school, you end up finding comfort in a strange boy named Nigel. As winter draws near and tragedy strikes, your only reprieve from madness comes from a mind much like your own.
Warnings: NOT EDITED.
To Note: Nigel Colbie x Fem!Reader, NAMED Reader for Plot Reasons, There Are A Lot of DARK Themes.
Word Count: ~2.4k
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It was lunch time, but rather than join the other girls for the mid day meal, you donned your coat and wrapped your scarf around your neck before venturing out to the lake. It was a blustery day outside, cold winds after a rainy night made the walk bitter and uncomfortable… but to you it was a peace you had longed for since the summer. So as you trekked towards the lake, you made sure to walk slowly and enjoy every bit of the cold you could.
A strong wind blew across the lake, rippling the water and making your scarf fly about. Your cheeks burned from the punishing gales but it only made you feel more alive. As much as you liked Susan, you hated not being able to keep your room window open at night. Eyes drifting to the surface of the lake, you watched the water ripple and fan out from the strong gusts of wind. You paused at the halfway point between academy’s and chose to take a seat at the bench.
Sitting in relative silence, you reflected on your summer and how it had affected your school life. Well, you didn’t have a school life anymore. Very few girls were nice to you so you devoted most of your attention to your schoolwork. That pleased your father to a certain extend, but clearly he was displeased by your lack of progress in ‘getting better’ as the doctor had directed you to do. Perhaps it was time to make up a friend, surely he would hound you less over your social isolation if he thought you were conversing with others girls. There were quite a few common names in your school so no one would really know which Alice or which Elizabeth you were referring to.
Yes. You’d do that, and if asked, feign ignorance to the last name because your father would gloss over that. He’d just be happy that you had made another friend and weren’t wallowing in a lonesome state as you were so often found doing. Lonesomeness was so nice at times though… Your mind lingered on that thought. No one harping on you. No one telling you what to do. It was a paradise.
Off in the distance, you heard the bell to the boys school chime from the grand church bell high atop the stone and brick building. You should continue your walk before your hour of lunch was up. So you rose from your seat and continued your walk, further enjoying the cold nipping at your cheeks. Halfway around the lake, boys streamed out of the nearby buildings and milled around, joking and shoving each other.
Oh to be a boy. Would your life be different? More carefree?
“An envy, surely,” You murmured to yourself, fingers picking at your striped scarf. “To be born a boy…” Following the curved path, you minded your own business, off in your own macabre thoughts. You were thinking about what would be served at dinner, and if the same horrid desert would be served afterwards. The headmistress always expected the girls to finish the desert, as it was her favorite when she had attended the academy. It was a lemon pudding, stodgy and tasting heavily of sourness as if the cook had forgotten to add sugar.
“Mary!” The calling of your name drew you from your thoughts. Pausing in step, you turned to see Alex approaching with Josh and Raj following him close behind. You blinked at him, wondering what he wanted to speak with you about. Alex reached you. “You saved me a trip across the pond, father wants to over for dinner tonight.”
“We haven’t had a family dinner in months.” You commented in confusion, wondering what your father wanted this time. Alex was a loose cannon he had yet to get control of and you were often off in your own world. One rogue and the other inattentive. Your family was falling apart at the seams and he was desperately trying to correct the image of perfection. “Why?” Alex shrugged his shoulders, clearly disinterested in the why.
“Who am I to know or care? I’m just the messenger.” He replied, mind now elsewhere. “It’s at six, don’t be late.”
“I’m never late,” You rebutted, mind already thinking of the trip you’d have to make to the headmistress to explain why you couldn’t attend dinner. At least you got out of eating the horrid lemon pudding. “Very well, but do try to hold you temper.” You stated before continuing on your way. You couldn’t be late for your religious studies class.
“And what temper is that?” Alex called after you. You didn’t respond, but you did wonder how long your father would let Alex push the boundaries before he snapped. The rest of your walk back to your academy was spent in peace and you arrived at your classroom with ten minutes to spare. That lead you to flipping through your history book and reading up on the latest topic. Templar Knights.
It was an interesting topic to you, history always had, but the Templars especially. Your academy was very religious, multiple prayer sessions were held each day. Catholicism influenced every part of your life, you were even named after the great mother of Jesus, the Virgin Mary. The Knights Templar expressed a particular adoration for her, and it was a quest of yours to find out why.
She gave birth of Jesus, but what reverence did she hold other than that of a woman who bore a child? Or was that simply all she was seen as? Someone whose worth was entirely dependent on her ability to grow a child? That explanation was ubiquitous no matter what book or text you read. A vexing ideation. You’d rather have adoration for anything else but your ability to procreate. Even if it were something so simple as the color of your hair or the way your smiled would be better. Not that you smiled much in the first place.
Susan was writing in her diary as you finished up your homework before dinner. You’d noticed as of late she had spent more time writing than usual and thought perhaps something had happened in her life that made her especially happy. It certainly seemed to be the case when she giggled softly to herself or brushed her hair out extra before bed. Several times you thought to ask her what had her so giddy, but you’d refrained from speaking up, not wishing to pry.
“You are going out tonight?” Susan questioned as you rose from your seat and grabbed your blazer from where it was draped on your neatly made bed. You put your arms through the arms and buttoned the blazer while you nodded.
“My father has requested a family dinner tonight,” You explained, looking at your roommate. “I don’t know how long I shall be out so do not be worried for my absence.”
“Try not to stay out too late,” Susan fretted to you, always remaining the faithful and caring friend and roommate she was. What trouble would you find yourself in simply walking from one academy to the other? Other than being the target of the girls from your academy, no one would intentionally cause you trouble.
“If the hour grows late, I shall seek company to walk me back,” You informed her, reassuring Susan’s frets and fears. Walking to the door of your dorm room, you grabbed your jacket and scarf, and donned them. “You needn’t worry, Susan.”
“Do be careful,” She tutted regardless. You bid her a final goodbye and departed your dorm. Walking briskly down the hall, you ignored the whispers and giggles of the other girls, all giving you looks of distaste and scrutiny. Upon reaching the door to the stairs, something caught you ankle and you tripped. Just barely catching yourself on the doorframe, you ignored the burst of snickers that came from behind you.
“Mind your feet, fish girl,” Marie, one of the girls that liked to torment you the most, sneered. “You’re walking like a zombie.” Her name calling should have hurt you, and perhaps if they had teased you before your accident you might have burst into tears and ran away, but now you felt nothing. So you just continued on your way, walking down the stairs to the ground floor. Swiftly leaving the dorm building, you strode across the campus of your academy and reached the path leading to the boys academy.
As you walked, you questioned why you father wanted to have a family dinner now. You were more active in the school activities, and he was under the impression that you had more friends than just Susan. As far as he was concerned, you were continuing to heal from your accident. Alex however… Perhaps Alex had done something to anger him again. Your father was the chancellor of the boys academy, so Alex could get away with a lot of mischief and rule breaking. But was there ever going to be a point where he was on grounds to be expelled? The wasn’t something that could be swept under the rug.
You frowned in concern for your brother, turning down the path to the building where your father lived. Alex smart, incredibly so, but he was also impulsive and a bit of a hot head. Walking into the warm building, you followed the halls that lead to your father’s rooms, and knocked on the heavy antique door. You only waited for a moment or two before your father opened the door.
“At least one of my children seems to conscious of their future,” He spoke with an indentured sigh. “Come in, we need to talk.”
“Is there a problem?” You asked, entering and following him to the table you rarely ate at. Alex was already sitting there, slouching in his seat with a very petulant look upon his face.
“Your brother is trying to ruin his future,” Your father grunted, taking a seat and staring at the food on the plate in front of him. “I have worked hard to provide you both what you need and for a future of success.”
“And yet you don’t see to want to listen to what we have to say,” Alex quipped back, a curl in his lip.
“I don’t recall speaking of such rebuke,” You interjected, eyeing your brother. “Don’t bring me into such arguments.”
“Of course not, you’re just content in being belittled by the girls at your school. What is it they call you? Zombie fish girl? At this rate that exactly what you’ll turn into.” Your eyes sharpened at your brother, a clear warning in them. A genuine surprise for Alex as you had been so dulled of emotion since returning.
“I think what goes on with me and my peers is my business and my business alone. Don’t meddle.” You warned him, poking at the roast on your plate before cutting a piece off and placing it into your mouth.
“Meddle?” Alex countered with a snort. “You’re my sister, Mary. You’re business will always be a concern of mine. Stop letting them treat you like you’re a sheep and bite back.”
“Not all of us like to use our teeth,”
“I didn’t realize that yours were falling out.” Alex monotoned, eyes staring at you.
“Presumptuous of you to assume that I am a carnivore.” You retorted, pausing in cutting your roast.
“No, you’re more a reflection of a hare.”
“I’m pescatarian actually,” You fired back moments before your father slammed his fists onto the tale.
“That’s enough!” He barked out, looking between you and Alex. “I raised you both better than this! What has gotten into you!?”
“This is ridiculous,” Alex scoffed, pushing back from the table and striding away from the table. You stared at your plate, even as the echo of Alex slamming the door shut echoed. Your father went back to his dinner and you returned to moving food around on your plate.
“You never mentioned being bullied, Mary,” There was a tone of displeasement within his voice, certainly he was angry to hear about such a topic after thinking everything was getting better. “Care to explain that?”
“It is just girl being girls, nothing more,” You told him, attempting to divert the conversation from that topic. “Rumors are just rumors. I am perfectly fine and Susan is an excellent roommate to have,” He stared hard at you, trying to see if the same rebelliousness that had bloomed in Alex was emerging within you. Your stare was steady, almost empty even.
“You will inform me if you are troubled by any further incidents.” He ordered sternly, gripping the knife tightly. “You are still attending rehearsals?”
“Yes,” You answered, placing your fork and knife on the plate in front of you. Your appetite had disappeared.
“And your appointments with Dr. Shriver? How are they going?”
“Fine,” A short answer for a loaded question. You knew that he wouldn’t understand what you were feeling, what you were experiencing. No one around you did. It was best that you just kept it to yourself. “I should return to my dorm, Susan is worried about me being out in the dark.”
Your father made a sound of approval, pleased that you roommate was proactive in keeping watch.
“Very well, stay out of trouble, your brother already gives me enough as it is.”
“What trouble is there for me to have?” You murmured, rising from your seat and gathering your jacket and scarf. As you departed, your father’s eyes watched you, knowing that since you had returned from the countryside after your accident, something wasn’t quite right with you.
“I am loosing my children,” He muttered to himself, your presence departing his living space.
It was dark as you walked through darkened halls. You’d spent far more time with your father than you thought. Susan was going to be a fussy mess… but nothing would happen to you on your way back to the dorm. Walking down stone steps to the yard by the lake, you blinked in confusion upon seeing your brother and Josh dragging along a boy between them. They were heading away from the academy, and at this time of night? You followed out of curiosity, certainly with how rebellious your brother had been as of late. It was already dark, what was a few more minutes of being out in the night?
Date Published: 8/14/23
Last Edit: 8/14/23
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An excerpt from my little word doc of half-written fics. This is one of the more finished pieces, thought it does still end rather abruptly. Apologies ; w ; I also haven’t written in a while, so this is rusty and very self-indulgent. Basically just written word flânerie. Enjoy!
GN!WoL/Reader x Haurchefant
The soft sound of crunching snow alerted you to his presence before he even uttered a word. This was becoming the norm, it seems—a cold and blustery Coerthan day, the muted chatter of the camp from below, two mugs of hot chocolate, and the unlikely pair of them—the Commander of Camp Dragonhead and Eorzea’s Champion.
“You needn’t have troubled yourself, my lord.” You said, your words belying the truth as you graciously accepted the warm mug from the Elezen knight. “T’would be remiss of me to use up the camp’s supplies. Pray however will your men fare without your lovely hot chocolate?”
His boyish laughter filled your heart fit to burst with unadulterated fondness. Haurchefant took his place beside you, the steel of his chainmail clinking against the cold stone wall as he leaned back.
“Perish the thought, my friend! You are the camp’s most esteemed guest, and as such, I will personally attend to the long and arduous expedition of replenishing the necessary provisions if it pleases you.”
Though his tone was overtly joking, both of you knew the underlying truth to the jest. As scandalously flirtatious as the man was, no one could deny the special attention he lavished upon you at any opportunity.
You craned your neck to look up at him, a soft smile forming on your lips to which his gaze unabashedly lowered to. You felt your chest swell with an emotion so strong and unbidden, the beating of your heart loud and fast in your ears that you were certain the other could hear it too.
Haurchefant’s lips held a smile of his own, his gaze lifting briefly to meet yours before allowing them to drift back down. A silent plea. The air around you two seemed to thicken, further blocking off the din of noise below you. You two were in your own little world, free from the demands of your stations. Free to just…
“Haurche..” His smile widened at the breathy way you said his name, at the way your body seemed to tremble naught from the cold as his one hand found its way to your hip, just barely touching.
You were so close, just mere ilms apart, all he’s ever wanted within arms’ reach. Finally. Finally.
“Commander, ser, a missive from Ishgard.”
And just like that, you were pulled back to the rest of the world, the intimate moment slipping through your fingers as Eorzea beckons her champion and her knight to its aid once more.
#ffxiv#ffxiv heavensward#wol x haurchefant#reader x haurchefant#wolchefant#ffxiv wol#ffxiv haurchefant#haurchefant greystone#haurchefant x wol#haurchefant de fortemps#haurchewol#ffxiv fic#eek#be gentle im fragile#i hope this is enjoyable at least#i just love the man so much
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Admit It...
Pairing: Fili x female reader
Words: 2,044
Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Oral sex (female receiving). Masturbation (male). Unprotected intercourse.
Summary: After being away on Royal duties for a fortnight, Fili returns home later than promised to find you busy in the kitchen, and you make up for lost time on a meaningful day.
A/N: Surprise! I did my best to bang out something short for one more contribution for the Deano Bingo, so I hope you enjoy! My final fic will be posted tomorrow evening.
Prompts used were Kitchen Sex and "Admit it, you missed me."
(In this fic Fili and reader live in a small cabin just outside Erebor, cause you know, why not.)
---
Dough and flour coated your hands as you listlessly kneaded the forming pastry on the wooden countertop, your thoughts not at all focused on the favourite dinner you were carefully constructing, but rather on the dwarf you craved who loved it.
Having not clapped hungry eyes or needy hands on Fili in a fortnight now, your heart ached for him, missing him wholly and with every part of you that lived and breathed, and although today was not necessarily a monumental anniversary, you longed for him impossibly more.
A faint smile tugged at your lips as you recalled the day that was not all that long ago; his fingers weaving your hair into a courting braid, each passing of your strands signifying his love and devotion to you, claiming you as his One with the mark of the sigil on his bead that secured it but not more than the way his body proved so time and time again.
Sighing as you wiped your brow to try to erase the flush that was quickly reducing you into an inferno, you glanced out the window to see the quickly approaching darkness, and you wondered if you would get to see Fili at all today as had been intended when he left.
Knowing that discussions of contracts and settling on agreements took time and his royal duties were both grueling at times and chiefly necessary, you took a deep breath and prayed for patience to grace you, aware that he would be eager to return home and never purposefully neglect a day that meant so much to you.
Night soon took over what was left of the day, and after having meticulously cleaned the kitchen and did your best to keep dinner warm with still no sign of your love, hope drained from you as much as the fire had that you worked at stoking, the embers coming to life again slowly to lick at the new logs set upon them.
Wind howled against the walls of your small home, the protection of the Lonely Mountain not able to shield it from the direction it blasted, and you wondered if Fili would be caught sleeping out in the elements for another blustery night.
Heavy footsteps tread hurriedly up to the door, and in an instant his wind-burnt, reddened cheeks and tousled blond hair burst through, his smile warming you despite the cold that followed him in.
"You're late," you chided, the seriousness in your tone dampened by the grin that pulled the corners of your mouth upward, your eyebrow hooking high on your forehead to aid in selling your feigned disappointment.
Fili gave you a playful look of warning, his own eyebrows raising on his head to show his amusement in your audacious greeting. His boots and coat remained on him as he strode through to you, capturing you in a heated kiss that forced your back against the countertop and made you arch into him. Finding your face with his chilled hands, he deepened your kiss, effectively stealing your breath while making your legs feel weak, and in turn you pawed at the layers of leather that hid him from you.
With a low growl he broke the seal of your lips, his eyes dark as he looked at how he had already made your lips swell from his kiss and the roughness of his beard, your body clearly forgetting how to handle him.
"What am I late for?" he asked, squinting at you with exaggerated curiosity.
"Oh, nothing, I suppose," you drawled, shrugging your shoulders as you shifted your eyes to the left where his dinner sat waiting under a towel.
Fili tucked his lip in his teeth as he removed his hands from your face and lifted the covering to reveal what made his mouth instantly water and stomach growl with forgotten hunger.
"You made this for me?"
"I had, yes, but seeing as you were late…"
He gave a hearty laugh that made your heart leap in your chest, the realization of just how much you missed him settling heavily in your bones.
"Would you care to know why I was late?"
His head tipped to the side as he looked at you with a playfulness in his eyes, and you knew even if you were truly upset with him, that feeling would be impossible to hold on to.
Fili reached into the pack that he had carelessly discarded on the floor beside him, retrieving a fair-sized package wrapped in a material you immediately recognized that was sealed with a twine bow.
You took the parcel from him as he held it out for you, not missing the prideful, and partially smug look on his face as you carefully unwrapped it; the sight and scent of your favourite dessert awakening your senses.
"So, am I forgiven?" Fili asked, his pupils dilating as he watched you swipe your finger through the sticky topping and bring it to your mouth where you sucked it clean with an appreciative moan and closed eyes that no doubt mimicked something else.
Opening your eyes, you slowly licked your lips, seeing how your display made Fili's pulse hammer in his neck and blush rise up his chest that was visible where his tunic sat open at the top.
"I'll have to think about it," you quipped, your grin stretching across your face as he shook his head and started to remove his jacket while kicking off his boots.
Wearing just his trousers that he had already opened the laces on, Fili stalked toward you again, his hands bracing on the countertop to cage your body between his, his lips ghosting beside your ear.
"Do I need to remind you how much I love you?" His lips pressed against your neck and made you shudder, your breath hitching and heat rising through you at his proximity, and yet you stayed determined to keep your hands to yourself for now. Nuzzling your soft skin with his nose, he inhaled your scent before continuing in a raspy voice that displayed his vibrant lust for you. "...How much I missed you?"
You squirmed when he rubbed his hardened front against your core, and pulling his head away from you slightly, he peered at you with a look in his eyes you could no longer resist.
Giving him a nod that made him chuckle with amusement, you took the opportunity to soak in the sight of him, feasting your eyes on the hairy chest you could never forget, how his belly rounded out slightly just above where his trousers hung loose, able to see down them now that his cock stretched them out to reveal the hairs that darkened the further south they went.
His dimples flashed beneath his beard before he placed a quick kiss on your lips, doing his best to coax you out of your pretend bitterness.
"Admit it, you missed me," he purred, his eyes flickering over your features, effectively making you crack. You gripped his face and pulled him against you, crashing your mouth onto his where he eagerly matched your fervor, and before long you were naked and lifted up to sit on the counter. Dishes and jars of spices were knocked over as he carelessly swiped them out of the way to make room for you, the one he was truly ravenous for, making a point to kiss, suck and lick at every portion of your body from your mouth down to your center that was spread before him.
Looking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes as he reached your aching core, Fili kissed your bud gently, then slowly pulled it into his hot mouth, his tongue joining in to alternate swirling licks and agonizing sucks that made you fly your hands back to find anything to help ground you.
More items were tossed about as you were forced to lay back on the counter, including the dinner that crashed to the floor, neither you or Fili paying it any mind as he pressed his face into you even more and feasted on your slick flesh appreciatively.
You rocked your hips against his mouth desperately, your high bubbling up through you wildly due to his talent and the amount of time since you were last given such pleasure.
Fili dove his hand into his pants that were now loosened so much they were being held up only by his stiff member, and taking it out, he let them fall to pool around his feet, a loud groan resounding through you as he pumped himself and smeared the oozing precum over his sensitive head.
With a few more strokes of his expertly working tongue, your orgasm ripped through you, coating his beard with your abundant wetness, causing Fili to cry against you as your release edged him closer to his own, his hand beating his cock furiously but stopping just before he came undone.
He growled ferociously as he emerged from between your legs and licked his lips, his expression feral and unabashed while his chest heaved with panting breaths. Clasping his strong hands under both of your thighs, he dragged you off the counter, your hands sweeping a mug and plate off with you, the sound of ceramic smashing against the wood floor mixing with your laughter.
Your feet carefully landed on the planks between bits of broken items, and you smiled against Fili's lips as he crashed against you in a heated kiss, his arms snaking around your back to hold you as close to his needy body as he could get you.
"Turn around," he whispered roughly, helping to guide you to a spot that was clear of your accidental destruction, his cock bouncing against your bum when he kicked a bowl out of the way with his foot.
He bent to line up with you as you leaned forward to give him better access, his hands spreading your cheeks to make you whine longingly. His cock slammed into you, stretching your tight, temporarily unused walls in one fluid motion, wasting no time in starting a mind-numbing rhythm with his sharp thrusts.
Your breasts bounced and your whole body jostled from his force, the smile on your lips changing into an open gape that allowed your unhinged cries to pour out, the assault he put on your deepest parts building another blissful peak within you.
Fili's hands roamed your body as he bucked into you, smoothing and massaging the parts of you he had missed so much in loving caresses before finding a place on your hips to settle on hanging onto as he set to finish his barrage.
Pulling you back onto him with as much power as he slammed forward into you, he wrecked you both, sending you into screaming bliss at the same time he filled you to the brim with his reserved seed, his unbridled cries muffling against your back as he collapsed forward to cover you with his weight.
He was quick to pull out of you and spin you back to face him, lifting your legs up around his waist to seat you back on his cock that remained hard, and stumbled over to one of the chairs beside the fire.
Collapsing in it with you still encasing him, he buried his face in your neck, peppering you with kisses that spoke his silent words of desperation; the vacancy he had felt in being apart from you for too long replaced by an overwhelming sense of fullness.
"I did miss you," you admitted genuinely, carding your hands across his warm back while placing tender kisses upon his crown.
"I knew it," he chuckled, rubbing his face back and forth against your neck to tickle you until you joined him with your own sated laugh.
You turned your head to glance over at the state of the kitchen and ruined dinner with a wince, and looked back at Fili apologectically.
"I'm sorry!"
He continued to laugh, and placing a kiss on the tip of your nose and then your lips, he hummed. "I think the dessert was spared. I'll be more than happy to share that with you…but it must be in our bed and you must stay naked."
---
Taglist:
Everything: @guardianofrivendell @midearthwritings @cassiabaggins @lilith15000 @trishthedishofreis @linasofia @unbeatablecurlgirl @the-poldarkian @lathalea @enchantzz @blairsanne @legolaslovely @middleearthpixie @i-did-not-mean-to @sketch-and-write-lover @jotink78 @medusas-hairband @feeweeeee @missihart23 @fortheloveofdurin @i-am-still-bb @roobear68 @ichoosechoasandbeingqueer @legolasbadass
Fili: @shethereadinghobbit @ragsweas @faeriefics
#deanobingo2022#deano bingo#fili#fili x female reader#fili smut#fili durin#the hobbit#the hobbit fili#dean o'gorman
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The Forest
First, there was a forest with no clearings.
Then there was a man with an axe; he selected the most promising trees, hacked them down, broke them into shapes he could use. There was a clearing.
In that clearing was a small house, made of fresh logs. It didn't take very long to warp, letting in cold air where there should have been snug joins, but the man didn't mind.
At some point the window got curtains hung in it, and a woman moved in to the small house. The man kept chopping down trees to add to the small house, and some he sold. A second small house appeared near the first. It, too, twisted and warped. It took a couple of winters before it lay desolate.
On a blustery winter night, a third person came to inhabit the house; a rather small, purple sort of person, who yelled until his lungs were tired. The woman would rock him in a makeshift cradle for hours at a time.
Time passed, and nobody came to join them in the forest. The small person grew up, and one day when he was tall and strong for his age he had a terrible argument with his mother. The small house quaked and trembled at his rage, and then he turned about and left, never noticing the way the house seemed to shimmer and curl around her.
The boy went to the city. But after a short time he found himself growing unaccountably weak unless he was in the park, with the trees. At last his anger cooled and he went back to the forest, growing stronger at every step.
Instead of finding his parents there, he found the house boarded up, except when he looked at it more closely, it seemed that the logs had no gap for door or windows. The boy frowned. He wondered where his parents had gone. He had not known they would ever leave the forest.
The boy broke into the house. It was untouched, just like it had been when he left, even to the spot of jam his mother had dropped on the floor. It looked sticky and fresh.
He cleaned things up, put them in order and settled into living there on his own. He did not notice the way the leaves whispered when he started the fire. Nor did he notice the trees shifting uneasily behind him.
One day he found the door was no longer there. Nor was the window. The boy did not panic; instead he brainstormed. This time he heard the rustling leaves. He sat in the corner and thought deeply about how to escape the building, and did not notice a fresh young shoot coming in the warped corner, slowly and carefully.
Then, there was a forest with no clearings.
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The Gävle Goat
Official 2023 Youtube Stream
The birds are Jackdaws (Corvus monedula) and the occasional duck. They show up promptly at first light (usually around 8:25-8:20 am local time, you can see the time in the upper-left hand corner of the stream) and leave after 10-20 minutes.
The straw used to make the goat was unusually full of seeds this year.
In Honor of The Eaten
Oh the guards were guarding grumbly,
And the birds were flocking hungrily,
And it seems: that the flames will fail to be,
Sounds: like the car won't ram you see,
Looks: like the end of the Goat will be,
Food. For. Birds.
It seems: that security can't prevent.
Looks: that the fence's of no event.
Seems: Gävle Goat will be food for birbs!
(To the tune of "A Rather Blustery Day")
#Gävle#2023#arson#birbs#birds#christmas#corvids#destruction#europe#farm#fun#funny#gävle#galve#goat#goats#guards#hay#jackdaws#ribbons#seeds#story#straw#sweden#sweeden#tradition#xmas#yule#gavle#aggriculture
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A
Act English
The Age of Not Believing
Are We Dancing
B
Beautiful Beulah
The Beautiful Briny
The Best Time of Your Life
The Bombie Samba
The Boogie Woogie Bakery Man
Bright and Shiny (song)
C
Chim Chim Cher-ee
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (song)
Christmas in Los Angeles
Chu-Chi Face
Colonel Hathi's March (The Elephant Song)
Come to the Funfair
D
Dakota (1968 song)
Detroit (1967 song)
Doll on a Music Box
Drummin' Drummin' Drummin'
F
Feed the Birds
Fidelity Fiduciary Bank
For Now, For Always
Fortuosity
G
The Glorious Fourth
H
The Happiest Girl Alive
He Danced With Me/She Danced With Me
Heffalumps and Woozles
Hip Hip Pooh-Ray!
Hushabye Mountain
I
I Believe In This Country
I Hum to Myself
I Love to Laugh
I Wan'na Be Like You (The Monkey Song)
I'll Always Be Irish
It's a Small World (After All)
J
Jo Jo the Dog Faced Boy (song)
Jolly Holiday
K
Kiddy-Widdy-Winkies
L
Let's Get Together (Hayley Mills song)
Let's Go Fly a Kite
Let's Put It Over with Grover
The Life I Lead
Little Black Rain Cloud
Lovely Lonely Man
M
Mad Madam Mim
Magic Journeys (song)
Makin' Memories (song)
A Man Has Dreams
Me Ol' Bamboo
Mind over Matter (Sherman Brothers song)
Miracles from Molecules
Mr. Piano Man, Please!
My Own Home
O
Oh, Benjamin Harrison
The One and Only, Genuine, Original Family Band (song)
One Little Spark
Over Here! (song)
P
The Parent Trap (song)
The Perfect Nanny (song)
Pineapple Princess
Portobello Road (song)
Posh!
R
A Rather Blustery Day
The Rain Rain Rain Came Down Down Down
The Right Side
River Song (Sherman)
The Roses of Success
Rumbly in My Tumbly
The Rutabaga Rag
S
Sister Suffragette
Someone Like Me (Sherman Brothers song)
The Spectrum Song
A Spoonful of Sugar
Stay Awake (Mary Poppins song)
A Step in the Right Direction
Step in Time
Strummin’ Song
Summer Magic (1963 song)
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
T
Tall Paul (song)
Teamwork (song)
Ten Feet off the Ground
That's What Friends Are For (The Vulture Song)
There Are Those
There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow
Think Vulgar
The Tiki Tiki Tiki Room
Truly Scrumptious (song)
Trust in Me (The Python's Song)
Try a Little Something New
U
The Ugly Bug Ball
Up, Down and Touch the Ground
V
Valentine Candy
Vulgarian National Anthem
W
West o' the Wide Missouri
What's Wrong with That?
Winnie the Pooh (song)
The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers
The World Showcase March
Y
You Two
You're Sixteen
You're the Only You
Your Heart Will Lead You Home
Thank you for everything Sherman Brothers. I’m so glad that I sent Robert that letter before he passed. I’m going to believe that he read it.
#disney#disney legends#sherman brothers#richard sherman#robert sherman#rest in peace#rest in paradise#thank you
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Let’s Get Physical (Part 4)
Viktor/F!Reader || 6k || Modern!AU + Gym!AU || SFW (for now!)
You do crimes and your punishment is to fall, hard. Viktor shows his true colors—some of them, at least. And unlike you, Rio can be a very good listener.
Part 1 → Part 2 → Part 3 → Part 4 (Ao3 Link)
Asphalt to concrete. Concrete to grass.
In a heart pounding, mind racing, miserable little frenzy, you aren’t paying much attention. All you do is run and run and hope your chafing legs will keep you upright, keep carrying you forward, despite the constant terrain shifts.
You are jolted out of that hope.
But your footing holds. You find it after a sudden, soggy stumble in the front yard of a very beige house. The mesh on your brand new sneaker will never be the same—stained dingy brown with mud, unlikely to lift. At least it’s still on your foot, not stuck behind in the sludgy ground as you clench your jaw and charge forward on your fourth act of trespass.
Two more and you just might come out on their street.
You only hope you can recognize it without a street sign in this sea of cookie-cutter houses—stucco siding in shades of neutral wherever you look, each mailbox the same, no cars in the street. Yes, you know the way to Jayce’s house like the back of your hand by now, but this alternate route is so different, disorienting. You never expected to find yourself on a mad sprint between houses, through the backyards of his neighbors.
The path of most resistance, sure, but it’s the fastest way back to the house.
The fastest way back to Viktor.
He’d been short on the phone when he asked you to come back, but you heard the restraint. He chose his words carefully, measured his seething tone, but oh could you sense the resentment brewing in him. His accent had a bite when he was angry that made your heart do funny little palpitations, but that was just because it was struggling against the way you held your breath, trying not to pant into the phone.
“Oh, fuck,” you’d hissed, more at yourself than him, “You—You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
He sounded rather exhausted with your nonsense. He said, each syllable clipped, “Well, yes, but—”
“I’ll turn around right now, I’m so, so sorry—”
“I don’t need an apology from you,” he’d said crystal clear into the receiver, no mistaking it, and you’d stopped listening entirely after that, in an anxious freefall where sorry couldn’t save you. You simply promised to be quick and hung up; cut off whatever he’d been saying at the time and started to run.
You can only imagine his face, impatient and sour, the twist of his mouth, those hateful honeyed eyes. The fraught sound of his voice echos amongst the rush in your ears as you run fast as your legs can carry you.
You, wind-whipped and blustery, are suddenly thwacked in the cheek by an outstretched branch when you round a tight corner. No skin broken, bloodied or bruised, but it stings as much as you imagine the things he must be thinking about you right now.
What a coincidence—they sound an awful lot like the things you tell yourself on your worst days, when your confidence curdles and your more tumultuous emotions slip their leash. Days like today, when nothing could go right from the very beginning. Waking up this morning? Failed. Work this afternoon? Trainwreck. And now this, just a simple run? Disaster.
You tried to be better than your worst impulses, but maybe you should’ve let them win. Should’ve gone home. Should’ve had that ice cream in the cocoon of your downy duvet, digging yourself a miserable hole until it melted to sludge beneath the heat of your hands. Should’ve fallen asleep to a show on your laptop feeling sad, sorry and sugar-comatose—guilty when you woke up, but not because you’d fucked up someone else’s evening too.
But instead you’re running at top speed, stopping and groaning and cursing when you hit a house with a fence and have to backtrack, wondering why you’d been so fucking thoughtless as to shove your car key into your pocket along with your phone. All of this could’ve been avoided if you’d simply left it in your bag, but no. That would’ve required a brain cell, when you apparently have none on offer.
Well… Maybe you’re being a little too self-deprecating? A little too dramatic?
But the situation calls for it when you’re hauling ass into the next backyard over, only to see a hill slick with mud rising like a grassy wave, the house built into it looming above. If you had the lung capacity to scream your frustration, you might’ve done it at that point.
At least, up until you spy the wooden stairs built into the side—then you would’ve been embarrassed.
Soft with rot, you bound up them two at a time and wind up back on the concrete slab of someone’s driveway, ready to keel over from the effort. Ready to give up, and walk the rest of the way.
But the house across the street is very, very familiar. The cars in the driveway too, when you look closer.
A sweaty, gelatinous sense of triumph goes to war with the dread hiding out in your gut as your legs carry you forward on autopilot and you see Viktor in the driveway, leaned up against his driver’s side door.
When the sound of your shoes scraping the asphalt grows loud enough that he looks over, surprise written plainly on his face, you take that as a well-needed win for your pride. You slow down to a wobbly-legged jog as you cross the street, satisfied with yourself that you’ve beat his expectations; perhaps even proved that you are, in fact, sorry. He probably hadn’t thought to see you for another fifteen minutes after you told him the street you’d started on when he asked where you were.
One hand in your pocket fishes out the key, and with the other you wave sheepishly to him on approach.
You expect nothing, but he waves back and you almost feel relieved.
Almost, because that feeling doesn’t have time to settle in.
Your foot hooks the lip of the driveway, that muddy fucking shoe, and all you can feel is split-second weightlessness, empty shock as the world falls out from under you. You barely register Viktor’s face collapse as the vestibular panic of falling so swiftly, head over heels, with no hope of righting your balance, kicks in and forces your hands out. Saved from face-planting, but in exchange you feel the sharp, bloody bite of concrete scraping into both knees. The heel of the palm that braces the impact—soft, tender flesh—skids against the ground with the force of your weight. The other is spared from the teeth of your key puncturing into your closed fist, but not those poor knuckles. They graze the grimey cement, some given more grace than others, all welling red regardless.
As much as you try to hold it back between gritted teeth, a pitiful, gasping noise rips from your throat.
You hate that vulnerable sound, born of shock and shredded skin, just as much as you hate hearing the strike of Viktor’s cane down the driveway as he hastens to you. You, so pathetic and crumpled on your hands and knees, trying to parse your body’s pain signals, numbed faintly by adrenaline but fading fast into full blown hurt. You aren’t yet sure how to move, how to peel your raw wounds away, scared to assess the damage.
As it turns out, you aren’t being all that dramatic. It’s a bad fucking day—an understatement, truly—growing worse by the minute. And as much as misery loves company, you do not want that company to be Viktor. Not when you’re so fed up with never getting it right around him, with having your confidence rattled and raised and being powerless to it.
On instinct, your eyes well and burn hot with the prickling threat of tears, your throat seizing up—but no, absolutely not, he won’t see you cry today. You have that power, if nothing else. Your pride need not be wounded too.
Head hung, you stare intently at the dirty ground beneath your hands, gathering resolve to move, willing yourself not to make more of a scene than you already have. But your eyes slowly focus on a pair of ratty, once-white sneakers where they step into your field of view. Then a hand extending down. He probably can’t crouch comfortably, but he tries.
“Let me help you,” he urges, and like hell you will.
All you’d do by taking his hand would be to drag him down with you, and that won’t accomplish anything. He’s in such a hurry to go anyways, better not to waste his precious time on you.
And so, careful not to bleed on him, you slap your key into the clammy palm of Viktor’s hand. Summon the very last of your strength and composure to rock back on your heels and stagger to your feet, dodging him artlessly as he tries to scoop a helping hand under your bicep. Hiss with more spite than you realized yourself capable of, “Move it yourself and go.”
You haul your burnt-out, battered body inside, and do not hear him follow.
Good.
—
Granite presses smooth and cool into the backs of your thighs; water from the tap runs in dirty, lukewarm rivers from your knees down over your calves. Stings like hell, slow to soothe, but you have to rinse the debris and those nasty granules of stone out of your raw wounds, oozing anew each time you move and the skin shifts over your joints.
It won’t cleanse the embarrassment, though. And more than anything, you are so, so embarrassed.
Jayce wouldn’t have judged you for this. So why did it have to be him instead?
You want a good, long, cathartic cry about it all, the weight of the world dragging you down, but there’s something too vulnerable about sitting out in the open and losing it in at someone else’s house. In a kitchen sink, no less.
Stiff upper lip, but a few hot little tears slip out regardless. You allow yourself as much—that natural response to bodily pain. Even as a child, no stranger to falling off, bikes, scooters, skateboards on those infinite summer afternoons, you cried for the trauma of your skin and bones every single time you hit the ground. Adult you is no different—only human, and nobody likes to bleed.
Across the house, the garage door shuts forcefully—a warning, a declaration of presence. There is a long pause that comes before his discordant footsteps start across the hardwoods. Leaves you enough time to furiously swipe at your faintly streaky cheeks with the sleeve of your jacket before Viktor rounds the corner.
You see him approach stiffly out of the corner of your eye. That grace period has lasted just long enough for you to decide that you won’t look at him and stick with it, unlike last time. But you don’t have the cruel heart to ignore him entirely. That isn’t you.
“You’re still here,” you observe dully, inspecting your fingers as if anything has changed. Still bleeding. Still dirty.
He stops on the other side of the island, and you can feel his prying eyes on you. Clears his throat and says, “Yes. I, ah, wondered if you’d be alright. It looked—looks painful…”
Are you wrong to be so bitter? So contemptuous? He sounds… concerned. Genuinely so.
“I’ll live. Just a scratch or two,” you dismiss, hunched over the stainless steel basin, but he doesn't budge. “Seriously, don’t you have somewhere to be? Or did I run all that way for nothing?”
“I only asked that you come back. It was your decision to do it quickly,” he simply points out. Infuriating, given the way he spoke to you earlier; moreso when he adds, “I was not in that much of a hurry.”
Your head snaps up, body pivoting with you to blanch at him: “Why didn’t you lead with that?!”
At least he has the decency to look somewhat apologetic, eying the hand cradled in your lap with pursed lips that betray a lingering hint of annoyance. It’s in his voice too. “I tried to tell you. You hung up on me.”
Your voice notches up an octave in distress. “Yes, because you wouldn’t even let me apologize! I figured you’d like it more if I showed you I was sorry—I didn’t know what else to do!” You don’t want a fight, hate feeling trapped—hate most that you sound desperate to be understood more than angry.
Exasperated, he asks, “Did you listen? To anything I said?”
“Yes,” you scoff, like a liar. Have to hold your head high and defiant, but perhaps that makes you easier to see right through.
And he does see right through you. He silently stares, disappointment palpable, and waits for you to correct yourself.
Which is all it takes for you to fold.
“Okay, no, but you were basically, I don’t know, yelling at me,” you say, trying desperately to cover your own ass. All you have is that childish accusation to throw at him, and it isn’t going to hold water when you’re full of shit. You know it. He knows it.
And as if to prove the point: “I’m sure I did not raise my voice with you,” he gently insists. “Let me reiterate, now that you are listening: I don’t need an apology from you, because I spoke to Jayce. He…” Viktor’s face twitches, a flash of agitation there and gone, “Forgot that I had somewhere to be, and misdirected you as a result. This was never your fault.”
Perhaps it hurts more, the throbbing in your hands and knees, knowing that you can’t blame anyone but yourself for not hearing him out; for letting your rancid mood get the better of you. “Still, your tone was very misleading,” you sniff, sore but steadily coming around.
He considers for a moment and you can’t help but stare. You notice it then, an interesting feature of his: To watch the way his eyes shift, never quite settling, is to watch him think. And he thinks hard, considering the right response.
Finally, he quietly says: “Perhaps I was, eh, somewhat abrasive…” It’s a level of self-awareness you weren’t sure he possessed up until this moment; a softness you want to be more familiar with. “I admit to being frustrated, but that wasn’t directed toward you. I… I apologize, if it sounded that way,” he says. It’s earnest—not what you expected, and yet exactly what you want. But perhaps it’s all spoken out of pity, if you look as miserable as you feel.
“It did,” you agree, pushing for more. “You should’ve saved it for Jayce.”
“Ah, no, that was more of a residual from Jayce,” he sighs, shifting his weight uncomfortably, almost like he regrets admitting that in front of you. Viktor clears his throat and continues, “So, as I said, I’m sorry.”
You deflate from the sudden absence of tension, your stiff shoulders dropping; the only anxiety left is that of being alone with a very cute, if slightly awkward, man. Not that you want to think about the pain, but it might be better if you do to distract from that warm, jittery feeling rising in your chest.
“It’s… fine. Thank you for saying so,” you say. That’s the truth entirely from your dry mouth, growing worse by the minute. “I’ll park in the street next time and save us all the trouble.”
“Then Jayce also forgot to mention that the HOA will have your car towed if you do.”
“Oh,” you frown, at a bit of a loss, “That’s… stupid.” And it is, yes, realizing that no matter what you’’d done, you would have been fucked either way.
“Very,” he agrees easily, and that’s that.
Not sure what comes next, you circle back to what landed you here in the first place. “You should, um, probably go, right?” you ask, an awkward little nudge in the right direction. That is: Away from you. Not that you want him to leave—you’ve come a long way from rejecting him in the driveway—but you wouldn’t know how to feel if he stayed either. At least you’re slowly feeling better than when you first came inside and crawled onto the countertop. A lot less like ugly crying, that’s for sure.
“I should,” he nods. Except instead of going back from whence he came, Viktor starts walking around the island, away toward his dark little corner of the house as he tells you to, “Stay put,” before you can question him.
You have every intention to, for as long as it takes to recover yourself, but you’re struck by just how alone together you are in this big, quiet house. It makes you want to scuttle away to the safety of your car; to be long gone by the time he comes back. But you won’t fall prey to that instinct. Not today.
Because, damnit, you’re going to be confident! You’re just going to be yourself.
And also because you can’t leave anyways.
He definitely still has your keys.
—
Just as you finish chugging water from the tap and sending a reassuring text to Jayce—yes, everything is fine and just focus on having fun tonight—Viktor reemerges with two boxes of bandaids, topical ointment and that dreaded brown bottle of peroxide tucked into the crook of his arm. You fully expect him to dump them in a hasty pile on the counter and leave, and in part, he does.
He deposits the supplies with a satisfied hum and sets to dragging a stool around to the kitchen sink, right beside you.
“…What are you doing?” you ask, though you know the answer.
“Helping,” he says simply, pulling out a drawer and hooking his cane on it. “Talking, if you might like.” Those warm, amber eyes tick over your face—too searching, and you have to pretend the raw skin on your palm is far more interesting. “Unless… You’re uncomfortable?” he asks in that soft lilt, and you can hear ‘with me’ implied at the end.
“No!” you say quickly, the strings of your heart given a gentle tug. “No, please don’t think that. I’m not.” You manage a small, reassuring smile, mostly in the crinkle of your eyes, and he takes his turn to avert his own.
Viktor reaches for the paper towels, busying himself; tears one off and begins folding it into a small square, then another. “That’s… good,” he says slowly, palpably awkward.
You look down at him, really look at him, then, and find none of that piercing antipathy you keep expecting. No, there’s concern in the curve of his focused little frown as he wets the square with peroxide. His face, gaunt and angular and always some degree of tried, perhaps it just coes off as angry unless you actually know how to read him?
Which is all to kindly assume that he must have a chronic case of resting bitch face.
And when you look even harder, you finally think to find his crappy sneakers and sweatpants get-up strange when he looked so put together before. You figure: Can’t get to know someone if you don’t pry just a little, right?
So you shove hesitation aside and ask, “Where are you supposed to be going again?”
“Nowhere, now,” he says, sounding oddly pleased about it. “You gave me a good enough excuse to reschedule, though not enough to cancel entirely. It was physical therapy. I did not want to go, so thank you, I suppose.”
“Oh… So you used my suffering for your gain?” you ask, your accusation all in good humor. You finally shut off the water, your toes in the sink starting to prune.
“I did.”
“How is someone else’s skinned knee enough to reschedule an appointment like that so short notice?”
“Mm, and without a fee too,” he adds smugly, clearly some experience with this. “I may have… embellished the extent of your injuries.”
“Embellished, as in we’re supposed to be driving to the hospital right now?”
“Well, in a sense, your hand is broken,” he shrugs.
You scoff and hold out your worst hand for inspection; wiggle the fingers as if you need to prove they’re intact and functional, if a bit roughed up.
He eyes it curiously but doesn’t venture to touch. “Ehh… Not that broken, though. Nothing peroxide and a few bandaids won’t fix, I think.”
“I’d prefer to skip to the bandaid part, please,” you cringe. “That stuff stings. So bad.”
“You may not. It’s necessary.” He holds out one of the peroxide soaked paper towels to you as you pout unconvincingly. “Now would you like to, or…?”
“I think I can handle it,” you nod and take it gingerly from him, your fingers spared from brushing. “Besides, I have a strategy.”
“Oh?”
“Here, give me another one.” As requested, he presses another wet paper towel into your grabby little hand, groping blindly as you curl over in the sink. “If I do it like this, it’ll be three big stings, and four smaller ones—watch.”
He does as you press one into each straightened knee, your scraped palm firmly over top of one. Three birds, two stones?
Those metaphorical stones really fucking hurt. You hiss through your teeth, looking for catharsis as the peroxide bubbles fizzy and painful in your wounds.
“Very brave,” he coos, “very strong.”
And given the note of sarcasm in his voice, you tell him to, “Shut the fuck up.”
He has a sense of humor, that much is clear, since he laughs quietly beside you. Distracts you from the pain, bless him, with a realization that has the world shifting on its axis ever slightly.
For all that you have built him up in your mind to be something he isn’t—harsh and unkind and dismissive—he is shockingly easy to talk to. You can’t find it in yourself to be surprised anymore that he and Jayce are such good friends, strange and reclusive as he is.
“That’s probably enough,” he advises after a moment.
You peel the patches off; discard the double-sided dirty one on the counter beside you, and use the one with a clean side to dab at your knuckles, finding they sting slightly less. Enough so that you have it in you to ask, conversationally, “So when do you have to go instead? To the new appointment?”
“Tomorrow evening… Unless another accident crops up,” he says, and you don’t miss the suggestion of conspiracy in his tone.
You snort a little laugh, but don’t fall for the misdirection—don’t offer to stage another one or pretend to be scandalized about aiding and abetting this truancy. Instead, you ask point blank, digging your fingers into a soft, personal spot, “What’s so bad about it?”
“I never said…” He quiets beneath the knowing, skeptical look you level him with.
“Yeah, but you implied it. Several times.” You tilt your head, a little lighthearted conspiracy of your own as you ask: “You skip regularly, dont’cha?”
Viktor narrows his eyes at you, confirmation in its own right, but won’t define what regularly entails. “Fine… Fine,” he mutters. Says slowly, as if to taste the sour words on his tongue, “I do not like going…” He stalls out, searching for the answer and comes up short—can’t find it fast enough.
“Because…?” you prompt. Unhelpfully.
He sharpens as you push over much; it isn’t just his face this time.
Viktor looks up at you from beneath heavy, furrowed brows, but doesn’t shut down or retreat. If anything, it makes him choose his words less carefully—makes him more emotional. “Because I find it uncomfortable, and it’s nothing like what you and Jayce and Violet choose to do. It is not… not fun,” he says bitterly, gesturing in the vague direction of the garage before he picks up the antibiotic cream and hands it to you next.
You nod; let his words settle as you unscrew the lid and set to smearing your cuts in smooth, white—now with pain reliever, thank god—ointment.
“Part of why it’s fun is because I get to hang out with my friends the whole time. It was lonely, though, before I started coming here, and that made finding motivation harder sometimes,” you say, shrugging off the vulnerable note in that statement. “I understand that working out and physical therapy aren’t exactly the same, but either way, going it alone is tough. Maybe it’ll never be fun, but it can get a little easier with the right support.”
“You do understand that it’s not a group activity, yes?”
“You’re missing the point,” you say with a sigh, grabbing for the extra large bandaids just out of your reach.
Viktor nudges them closer.
“A good support system doesn’t mean that anyone has to go with you or be doing the same thing. It can just be someone who checks in, to keep you accountable and encouraged, if that’s helpful,” you say, fiddling with the box you’ve picked up. Going out on a limb, you guess, “Doesn’t Jayce do that?” because he’s exactly the kind of guy that would.
But Viktor shakes his head pensively. “We… do not talk about it much.”
Weird.
But ultimately none of your business. That’s a boundary you won’t push. Not with Viktor.
You’re far caught up on the fact that he doesn’t seem to have anyone in his corner. It isn’t a complicated feeling—the thought leaves you sad on his behalf. Leaves you feeling like you have to do something, like how Caitlyn had once advocated for you; like how Jayce had brought you in and changed your trajectory for the better.
You can do that for Viktor.
You should do that for Viktor—it would be the right thing.
Deep breath. Approach it naturally. And put the bandaid on, for fuck’s sake! You’ve had it in your hand, toying with the edges of the wrapping, for far too long.
“I won’t pretend to understand your whole thing,” you say, gesturing loosely to him, and mean many things by it, “but if you want some positive peer pressure or someone to keep you accountable, I’m willing to be that person. If you want.”
He looks at you for a long moment, perplexed. Like he’s waiting for you to say, ‘Just kidding!’ or to reveal your ulterior motives. There are none, other than to show him that it matters that he takes care of himself. More and more, it’s increasingly clear that he struggles to do so. What could be more important than that, you didn’t know. Not yet.
“No,” he says slowly. Hesitant, as he begins rummaging around in the other box of bandaids for the right size. “I, ah—Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
You’re careful to ask, “Are you sure?” just in case he wants to change his mind. “Speaking from experience: Worrying about disappointing other people can be very motivational,” you tease, trying to make him comfortable at your own expense.
“Positive. Although, I appreciate your intentions.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I guess you have my number now.” You try to be flippant, casual, cool about the way you acknowledge that, though secretly it makes you feel a little giddy.
“About that…” he starts, drawing himself up into better posture, and at once, you realize how much he’d shrunken into himself before. He hands you another bandaid, mostly unwrapped but for the sanitary bits of paper protecting the pad. “I would appreciate if we could speak more directly. To, ah, avoid future conflicts with you coming and going,” he quickly tacks on, offering up one last bandaid for the palm of your hand. “Jayce doesn’t always relay things to me. Or to you, it seems.”
“I thought that might be a better idea, but I just wasn’t sure, um, how to…” You gesture between the two of you, as if that might fill in the blank.
He doesn’t understand. “How to…?”
You sigh and sum it up as concisely as you know how. “You haven’t been very approachable. Not like Jayce.”
That strikes something in him, that truth too harsh. You didn’t mean it to be.
He strains to say, “I understand,” and his voice sounds distant. Before you can assure him that your opinion has changed, he clears his throat and, with an air of finality, says: “Is there anything else you need? I have other things to get back to.”
You try to smile, but it’s a wispy thing that falters—doesn’t want to stay put. Part of you wants him to stay. All of you knows there’s no reason for him to. So you say, “No, I think I’m sufficiently patched up,” as he stands and fishes your car keys out of his pocket, leaving them on the counter.
You swing your legs over the side of the island. Hop down with the full force of your weight and feel the impact sharply, pins and needles, in the soles of your feet. You wobble, expecting to catch your balance this time and quickly, but, full of surprises, Viktor takes no chances.
He catches you up by the elbow, blunt tips of his fingers digging into your jacket. You instinctively reach back. Steading yourself, you take hold of his forearm—wiry, corded with lithe muscle you never noticed until you feel it for the first time. Not all skin and bone, apparently.
You have to laugh it off like you don’t feel stupid and embarrassed all over again, releasing him slowly. “Thanks, I’ve got it from here.”
“Mmhm.” His tone is flat, not remotely as flustered as you. “I would hope so.”
You’re still vaguely sweaty, growing worse by the second. With him so close, you’re hyper aware of it. Oh no… What if he’s been tolerating that strange, adrenaline sweat stench of yours this whole time? Fuck. You totter back, feet still wet from the sink, to give him space.
He gives you plenty, pivoting to leave.
But you can’t leave it like that.
“Seriously, thank you,” you stress, cradling your bandaged hands. “I mean it.”
Viktor nods tritely; pauses a second and looks like he might say more by the thoughtful flit of his eyes. But he simply tells you, “Have a nice evening,” and disappears down the hall to his bedroom, leaving you to clean up the little mess you’ve created together, a bigger one made of your feelings still to parse.
—
This is not a good idea.
Good evening.
No.
Sorry to contact you so late.
Still wrong.
Hello.
That’s it. Simple. Concise. Just a greeting.
Why is this so difficult?
The cursor blinks back at him on the screen of his phone, dimming out as he stares and considers what comes next. Not quick enough, it cuts to black, locks him out and shows him a very haggard reflection.
He lets it slip from his hand. It clatters onto the leaf litter of papers and notes and books left open covering his desk, and he cradles his head in his hands. The press of his fingertips into his temples is familiar in these frustrated moments. The ache of his back too, protesting his poor posture—it hurts worse today than it has in months, but he weathers it, just barely.
Something moves out of the corner of his eye. Just Rio, ambling out of her rocky little shelter, toasty in her painstakingly tended terrarium that spans the low bookshelf beside his desk. She’s always nearby to keep him company; responsive as ever.
“Ah, promiň, můj malý příteli,” he coos, scooting over for a visit. “That was loud, my mistake.”
Her little tongue flicks out. He likes to think she accepts his apology.
“Perhaps you can help me, hm? You can be very charming when you choose. What do I say to her?”
Rio blinks slowly, sagely; forgets to put her tongue back in her mouth, it seems.
“No. No, I never did apologize for that. I’d rather not revisit that incident—you remember.” He sighs and tries not to replay it, but there it came.
The awkwardness of putting his advisory meeting on hold, enraged at Jayce’s inconsiderate behavior, only to storm into the garage and encounter you instead. He’s doing worse and worse with surprises, and first encounters have historically been a toss up. That one had been primed to fail from the beginning.
Nothing had gone right that day, starting with his car breaking down on campus again, climaxing with another funding rejection, and ending with you. He hates to think of it: his stilted words, the hurt and horrified look on your face, the smattering of guilt it all brought him that night, even after he concluded that blowing it was for the best anyways, all things considered.
And there are many, many other things of far more importance he should be considering right now. There’s the notebook of calculations demanding corrections. The one hundred and fourteen page document leering at him from his laptop. Multiple emails from department members and a voicemail from Jayce, probably drunk and nonsensical and apologetic after that near shouting match in the driveway earlier today. None of which are you.
And yet.
“I should not be doing this,” he mutters to Rio on her slow, steady clamber to the shallow water dish—due for a refill soon. “Agree with me, please.”
But she simply blinks twice, and he swears beneath his breath.
Viktor reaches for his phone again. Taps 7-4-6-6 in quick succession and unlocks it to his single word disaster in progress.
Think. What would Jayce say in this situation? Jayce, with all his success in relationships, romantic or otherwise—he can charm anyone regardless of whether or not he’s actually trying to. Jayce is approachable, that was the word you’d used to cast him further into his friend’s shadow. You clearly like Jayce better, as things stand. Not that he can blame you; not that he’s surprised.
But… How much better?
Viktor clenches his teeth and tries to channel Jayce.
Hello. I’m sorry. I hope that you are feeling better!
No, no, no.
Too vague, yet also too personal. And worse, Jayce is far too liberal with his exclamation points to be emulated. Despite that you’ve saved him from—or rather, delayed—a miserable hour of his life, he didn’t actually like that you’d fallen. No need to sound excited when referencing the incident.
Once more now.
Hello. Please remember to change the bandages in the morning.
Much better. Uncomplicated with a touch of friendly concern. Nothing you can misconstrue.
But his thumb hesitates over the send message button all the same.
‘What is the point?’ he wants to ask Rio, now sitting in her water dish, but she won’t know any more than he does. What is the point, truly? What does he hope to accomplish, reaching out like this?
Indulging a silly, pointless whim. Hurting himself in the process. That’s what.
He should’ve let things lie; should’ve let you believe him angry and left you alone to tend to yourself earlier. Should not have gotten so familiar speaking to you, that was the biggest mistake, because now he has to live with the knowledge that you're so very easy to talk to—with the urge to talk to you again.
Which makes no sense, really. You aren’t like him—nothing deeper to connect to—so why Jayce insists that you’d make a good match, he can’t understand. Not when your interests clearly couldn’t be more divergent—yours physical, his intellectual. Yes, you are far kinder to him than he likely deserves, but kindness can only get you so far; it can’t make you compatible beyond… baser thoughts he may or may not have entertained.
Fine, just once—entirely on accident.
But so what if you’re… you’re attractive? That admission matters little, knowing nothing will come of it. Nothing, when casual hookups have long since lost their novelty. Nothing, when he can’t afford to give of himself to something serious. Nothing, when you probably see someone like Jayce as your ideal partner anyways.
…If not Jayce himself.
He lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head—shaking it off—as he scoots back to his desk.
This is not a good idea. There is no point.
And so, indeed, nothing will come of it.
Because Viktor clears the message, and gets back to work.
#viktor#arcane#viktor x reader#viktor x f!reader#arcane viktor#arcane fanfiction#reader insert#my writing#awesome!! now i can go be normal for a few days#before i descend back into madness about this
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Text
He didn’t need it.
That’s what he kept telling himself.
Doc strode the length of the perimeter several times over each day, firmly arguing with himself that he was a simple redstoner and tomato dad now, he did not need that in his life.
It became harder to resist when he received a letter in the mail. Well, he didn’t own a mailbox, so Bdubs came to the perimeter with the letter, addressed to Doc in dramatic, loopy handwriting. The letter was a statement of the new kingdom of the server, and the rules Doc would have to follow under Ren the King. Doc knew of Ren’s new position already- he liked to keep an eye on such things.
“Absolutely not.” Doc said promptly, ripping up the letter in Bdubs’ face. “I’d rather die then live by another man’s rules. The perimeter will be an independent state.”
“King Ren won’t be happy about this.” Bdubs warned him. “He’ll request a meeting with you.”
“Let him come. He can’t take me.” Doc said, grinning and flexing his abs. His rational brain then took over, and he stopped flexing. “Gah! What am I saying? No, I have sworn off homoerotic enemies this season. No. I do not wish to talk to Ren.”
“Sorry, did I just hear that right?” Bdubs asked incredulously, with a huge grin on his face. “Did you just say that if you go talk to Ren, you two will instantly fall into a homoerotic rivalry? Could you just simply not do that?”
Doc sighed. “Bdubs, think of who you’re talking about.”
“You two and your intricate rituals!” Bdubs said, laughing. “Alright, I’ll just tell the king you’re seceding. Have fun with your… tomatoes, I guess.”
And life was fine, for a time. Doc occasionally heard about life under the king from the hermits who came by to look at the perimeter. Scar, his closest neighbor, took particular pleasure in sniping him under “the king’s orders”. But Ren did not come by for many weeks.
Until, of course, he did. It was a blustery day, and Doc had seen the glimmering shape long before it touched down in front of him.
“Doc.”
“Ren.”
“It’s been too long.”
Doc opened his mouth to give a sneering reply, but remembered his promise and sighed. “Yep. Nice to see you, Ren. Nice crown.”
“You may think you have escaped my attention, but believe me, I’ve thought about you and your big hole often.” Ren sneered. “You will be under my rule, DocM.”
Doc sighed again, gritting his teeth. He looked at the motivational note he kept in his labcoat pocket for these very occasions.
“Don’t start a rivalry.”
“No, I’m just an independent state, thanks though.” Doc muttered.
“Hey, dude, are you okay?” Ren dropped the kingly act at once, putting a hand on Doc’s shoulder. “You haven’t made a single dick joke yet, I’m really worried about you.”
“Ah, well, to be honest with you Ren, as you are my best friend, I have sworn off any and all homoerotic rivalries this season.”
Ren put a hand over his mouth. “You’re so brave for that.”
“It’s been really hard.” Doc said gravely, nodding.
“I mean, I can leave if you want me to.” Ren said. “I support you no matter what, DocM my bestest friend.”
Doc looked at the motivational paper, then up at Ren. “You know what? Screw it! What am I without rivalries? I am nothing! So, no, Ren, I will never be under you and your rule! I will make you kneel before me, Ren the Dog!”
Ren grinned happily, resuming his kingly stature. “Oh DocM, you’ll rue the day you messed with me!” He took off, but not before giving Doc a big hug and a wink. Doc watched him go, grinning, and dashed off to start planning how he was going to properly rival the hell out of Ren.
#October 15 2022#fic#hc9#docm77#rendog#hermitshipping#I guess?#it’s rendoc they’re just like that idk#suggestive#also I guess#long post
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